by Grey, Zane
Then the slow step of a spurred boot sent a combined fire and ice over Molly. Slinger came into view, crossed the porch to confront Traft.
"Did you send thet kid in heah," and Slinger jerked his left hand backward. His right hung significantly free and low, "askin' me out if I wasn't afeard?"
"Howdy, Slinger. Yes, I did," replied Jim, and he stepped up the last step. After a keen, fearless glance straight into Slinger's eyes, he extinguished the cigarette he carried and dropped it off the porch. It was noticeable that he wore gloves.
"Wal, you want to be careful aboot sendin' fer me thet way."
"No offence. I just wanted you outside."
"An' what fer, Mister Traft?"
"Several things, Slinger, and for that reason I'm glad some of your friends and town folks are present," replied Traft. A small group of men had followed Dunn out of the saloon, but did not come up on the porch. In fact, they edged out toward the hitching-rail.
"What you want?" demanded Dunn, in mingled anger and amaze.
"First I want to tell you I'm sorry my outfit suspected you of cutting our drift fence. We found out who did it, and, though we never said it was you, we think we owe you an apology. So I'm apologizing for myself and the Diamond--to you, publicly."
"Wal, it wasn't necessary fer nobody to apologize to me," returned Dunn, with a grim laugh. "All the same, I hadn't nuthin' to do with cuttin' your drift fence."
"Well, that settles that. Now you settle this. There's talk going around about your sister and me. Some of it is credited to you. Did you tell Hack Jocelyn and Seth Haverly that you not only heard I had insulted Molly--mistreated her, but you believed it?"
"I reckon I did, Mister Traft," replied Slinger, not shorn of his personality, because nothing could have done that, but plainly staggered.
"Thanks," said Traft, raising his voice. "Now listen. You are dead wrong.
I fell in love with Molly--pretty pronto, I admit. And I asked her to marry me. Twice!... Was that an insult? I shall ask her again. Will that be an insult?"
"I cain't see it thet way."
"I did--well, embrace her before I asked her. But I meant no insult. I was just excited--out of my head. Could that be held against me by any fair-minded person--knowing I followed it up with an offer of marriage?"
"No, it couldn't be," declared Dunn.
"Thanks again... Well, Molly refused me. And one of the reasons she gave me was that she was Slinger Dunn's sister." Molly saw Arch flinch, and, tremendously agitated as she was, she felt a pang for him. This Jim Traft had a tongue as deadly as a bullet.
"Now, Slinger Dunn, listen," added Traft, his voice rising to a ring.
"You're going to hear something. If you were half the man you think you are you'd quit this lazy, drinking, gun-slinging life for your sister's sake. She's a fine little girl--good as gold, damn your stupid heart! And she deserves a better fate than to be disgraced and degraded by a rotten two-bit of a desperado brother... But you've not got sense enough to see what she's worth. And as for your talk about her--well, you are a dirty, low-down skunk. You're a yellow dog. You're a liar, and a suspicious, miserable Cibeque blood-spiller. Now, I'm not much on guns, but if you're not a coward--a coward--you'll lay off that gun-belt. And I'll swear, if I don't beat you as you deserve, I'll borrow a gun from somebody here, and fight you your own way."
Without the slightest hesitation Slinger unbuckled his belt, containing the heavy gun, and handed it shakily over to someone. He sailed his sombrero off the porch, exposing a livid face. He made a gesture, eloquent of supreme fury, and added to it with incoherent speech. Then like a panther he leaped at Traft.
Molly saw Jim move as quickly, just as Slinger reached him, and appeared to strike at the same instant. The blow cracked. Its force, added to Slinger's momentum, sent him off the porch, where only a remarkable agility kept him on his feet. But he thumped solidly against the hitching-rail, which broke. Horses snorted and jumped. The crowd let out a whoop. Fights were mostly as common as meals in the Cibeque and infinitely more amusing. People inside the store crowded out, and joining the men cut off Molly's view. She edged out, back to the wall, fearful, yet tremendously impelled. She had gloried in Jim's brave front, but she felt he would be helpless in a fight with Slinger. Bumping against a bench, Molly stepped up on it.
She saw Jim go down off the steps to meet Slinger. Then began a fierce exchange of blows, with Slinger slowly forced backward in front of Mace's saloon. Something was wrong, or unusual, Molly vaguely gathered from the exclamations and whispers of the villagers. Slinger Dunn had the reputation of being able to whip his weight in wildcats. But evidently he was slow in getting started here. Suddenly a blow upset him, and he plumped down ridiculously. The crowd, warming to the fight, greeted that with yells.
Slinger bounced up, only to be knocked down again. Then pandemonium broke loose. The young man from the Diamond might not be going to get mauled into a pulp. He might be cordially hated, but that had nothing to do with the surprise and glee of the West Forkers. Molly could no longer distinguish the shouts, the jeers, the egging on of the contestants, the riotous advice.
Bounding up with the agility he was noted for, Slinger took a couple of nasty digs in order to get hold of Traft. He clinched and plainly sought to trip his antagonist or wrestle him down. But Jim was the heavier and stronger, for with a whirl and a fling he sent Slinger sprawling. This occasioned a sudden silence. Was it possible for Slinger Dunn to be worsted?
"Stand up and fight--you Indian!" yelled Traft. And indeed Dunn had the look and the suppleness of an Indian.
Dunn, now bloody and dirty, responded as if he had no control over himself, as if this taunting voice could drive him to anything. He crouched and bored in, fighting low, until Traft swung up under his guard. Dunn's head jerked up. Another blow sent it back, and a third, square on the nose, making the blood fly, landed him on his back.
This time Slinger did not bounce up. Something was being battered into his consciousness--something that had already dawned upon the crowd. He slowly and cautiously rose, a stream of red running from his nose, down across his tight lips and protruding chin. Again he changed his tactics, proving that a fury of confidence had succeeded to grim realization, and that where an ordinary fighter would have been whipped he still had resource to spirit and energy. He tried a square stand up, give and take.
It grew evident that had he adopted this style in the beginning he would at least have done better, for he hit Traft now and then. But the latter could take punishment. If it hurt he gave no sign. His method grew clear to the bystanders, and wagers were shouted out, backing him to win.
Molly, in a fit of wild joy at Jim's unexpected and wonderful ability, jumped up and down on the bench, and it was not certain that she did not cry out.
Soon down went Slinger again. The blow that prostrated him was from Traft's right, and was a swing, coming at the end of a succession of short blows, delivered fast and closely, no doubt to beat his antagonist back and out of balance. Anyway, Molly saw her brother go piling into the dust.
"Reckon now Slinger will rooster him, an' it's shore aboot time," declared a young fellow in front of Molly.
"Yep. An' I'm damn curious," replied his companion.
Other remarks were not wanting. Evidently Slinger Dunn was not yet beaten. Molly had heard of the "rooster" trick in fighting, but had never seen it. And her lot had been to see many an encounter between boys of the Cibeque. She had seen more than one dance interrupted, with the dancers fleeing to the walls, while a fierce battle ensued in the middle of the floor.
But fear for Jim had fled from Molly. He could meet any of Slinger's backwoods tricks.
Slinger slowly circled Traft, keeping well away. Undoubtedly Traft was ready for a new attack. When he got rather close to the wall he divined that Dunn was trying to back him into such a position, whereupon he stood stock-still and waited. Suddenly Slinger dived down with incredible swiftness, on the back of his head and neck and
elevated his feet even higher than his arms had been.
His boots were armed with long spurs. He began to kick at Jim. He actually appeared to stand on the back of his neck and his elbows.
"Rooster him, Slinger!" bawled a lusty-lunged lout. And the crowd of West Forkers roared.
Molly saw Jim back from this amazing onslaught, and that was what he should not have done. For Slinger, hunching himself on his elbows, quick as a cat, forced Jim to the wall. He dodged one vicious kick that raked the wall. Another caught him on his extended arm, tearing his sleeve from wrist to shoulder. Molly saw a glimpse of red. Then a cruel spur cut open Jim's chin. At this Molly screamed at her brother, but her voice was lost in the din. If Slinger did not kill Jim he would surely disfigure him for life. She leaped off the bench and darted here and there to get through the circle of men. Suddenly a louder yell, hoarse and thrilling, made Molly desperate. She squeezed into the front.
Jim, in bent position, had both arms round Slinger's legs. The terrible spurs stuck up, but they scarcely moved. Jim threw Slinger from him with such force that he turned clear over, his head and shoulders acting as a pivot. He fell with a flop. Jim made one jump and landed square on him with both heavy boots. This overbalanced Jim, who went down, but he went down kicking. Rolling over, he was up and at Slinger just as that hideous blood-and-dirt-begrimed individual tried to rise.
Jim fastened both hands in his neck and lifted him and flung him sheer against the wall, where his head rang like a bone on wood. But Jim did not stop. As Slinger, eyes rolling, tongue hanging out, was sinking down, Jim banged him against the wall again, and finished with a terrific sodden blow. Slinger sank down limp and senseless.
The crowd grew silent. Molly had sense enough left to hide behind someone. Jim gazed down a long moment at his beaten antagonist, and then with scarf he wiped the blood and sweat and dirt from his face. He turned sidewise, so that Molly saw a pale, tense cheek.
"See here--you fellows," panted Jim, "I come down--here--to lick him--and to offer him--a job... Reckon he's not worth it... But I'll go through with my part... Tell him--when he comes to--that if he can play square--there's a place on the Diamond for him."
Then Jim parted the crowd and disappeared. Molly slipped back up on the porch into the store, and, never even thinking of her mother, she hurried through to the other corner store and went out the side entrance.
Sobbing, and in a terrible condition of mind, she ran home.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
It did not help much for Molly to be home, safely hidden in her loft, except that presently she could breathe freely and would not be seen. Her world of the Cibeque had come to an end. She had been publicly championed, in a royal way that left no peg for the poison-mongers of West Fork to hang calumny upon. Jim Traft had beaten her brother half to death. He had proclaimed his love in the street, for those who ran to hear. He had blazoned abroad the incredible fact that twice Molly Dunn had refused to marry him and that he meant to ask her again. He had called Slinger Dunn all the dastardly names he could lay his tongue to, had banged and pounded and kicked him to insensibility, and then he had told the crowd Slinger could have a place on the Diamond, if he were man enough to take it.
Not one of the romances Jim had sent her in book form could reach up to the heights of this true happening in West Fork. How impossible to believe! Yet Molly knew her eyes and ears were to be trusted, if not her heart. Jim Traft had done a marvellous thing. It was breath-taking. He had a noble spirit that might not be wholly realized in the valley, but his ability to whip the wildcat of the Cibeque and then offer him a job on the greatest outfit of the range would be appreciated. That kind of language was understood down in the brakes.
Molly began to divine that Jim was invincible. He had brought brains and brawn with him, and the West had taken stock of it. He had given his enemies a hard row to hoe. Molly had spent so many hours dreaming and thinking about Jim that now in the light of his decisive and open stand she could understand him. And she summed up her reaction to it all in a tragic whisper: "My land! If he comes heah I--I'll fall at his feet!"
Her mother's return warned Molly that she was liable to have a bad half-hour, and she tried to fortify herself.
"Molly, you up there?" came a trenchant call.
"Yes, ma."
"Come down pronto."
Molly started promptly, but lagged slower and slower, and she thought she would drop off the last steps of the ladder. Her mother stood there, arms akimbo, gazing at her with an entirely new and astounding expression.
"Why'd you run home?" she demanded.
"There was a fight--an'--an' it scared me."
"It needn't have--since it was in your honour... Molly Dunn, did you hear what that young Traft told the crowd?"
"Yes, ma. I was there."
"And it's the truth? He did ask you to marry him?"
Molly nodded mournfully. Presently she would be treated to a terrible harangue, and she had already stood enough for one day.
"It's all over town. Crowds on the corners talking. I was told by ten or a dozen people. But I couldn't believe it. You're sure it's no trick? I ran everywhere, hunting you."
"Mother, it's the bitter truth," said Molly, steadily.
"Bitter! Are you crazy, girl?... It tastes pretty sweet to me... Did you say 'No' to young Traft?"
"Of course I did."
"But you're in love with him. That's what has ailed you ever since you went to Flag. Anybody could see you were lovesick. Aren't you?"
"Ma, I'm shore sick aboot somethin'," replied Molly. "For Heaven's sake, then, why didn't you accept him?"
"Because I'm Molly Dunn of the Cibeque."
Then indeed the storm broke over Molly, though it was so vastly different from what she had anticipated that instead of casting her down it began to do the opposite. In fact her mother presented a most interesting and amusing study, after the first tirade about Molly's lack of family pride.
Molly learned learned that she was a grand-daughter of Rose Hillyard of Virginia, and had bluer blood than any Traft who ever lived.
"Didn't I always try to keep these West Fork louts away from you?" demanded Mrs. Dunn, in protest at the outrageous way she had been foiled.
"Didn't I bring you up different? You always were somebody, Molly Dunn.
And that's where your father and me split. Now it's proved. You're courted by a fine young chap. He must be mad about you--to tell it in the street. They said his being a tenderfoot didn't make him any the less a fighter from way back... He damn near killed your brother, and folks weren't backward about saying that'd have been a good thing... Molly, this young fellow will go far out here in the West. He's got stuff in him.
He's nephew to old Jim Traft, they tell me, who owns ranches all over, and eighty thousand head of stock... You can't refuse to marry him. Why, it'll be our salvation!"
Molly had to listen and she dared not voice her protest. Moreover, she was as much amazed as her mother was indignant. She could not understand this sudden right-about-face in regard to her admirers. Temporary relief, however, came with an interruption in shape of the arrival of several young men, bringing Slinger home.
For once her mother's tongue stopped its wagging. Arch Dunn was a spectacle to behold. He could walk, but that was about all, and he rewarded the kindly offices of those who had escorted him by driving them off. Both Mrs. Dunn and Molly stood back, afraid to approach or speak, and almost afraid to look. Slinger dragged himself around to the back porch, where he sagged to his bed.
"Arch--can I do anythin'?" faltered Molly.
"Wal, I reckon, since I cain't do for myself," was the surprising answer.
Molly hastened to get a pan of water, soap and bandages and salve, and hurried to his side. She divined that by this incident she would either gain or lose a brother. She unbuckled the long spurs, shuddering at the bloodstains on one of them. Arch had got what he deserved. The imprint of hobnails on his face appeared to be a brand. He had been
treated to a dose of his own medicine. But the fatal issue might be now that he would kill Jim Traft. Molly prayed and hoped. Could not the same thing, almost, that had happened to her, happen to Arch? She pulled off his boots, and then his wet and torn shirt. The mixture of blood, sweat, and dirt actually made it heavy.
It was not pleasant to look into her brother's visage. Yet pity and tenderness came to her aid.
"Much obliged, Molly," he said, when she had finished what little she could do. "Was you in town when the cyclone hit?"
"Yes, Arch. I--I saw it," she replied, thrilled that he would talk to her in such wise. She prayed for something to make the moment helpful for this wayward brother.
"Did you see him lick me?"
She murmured an affirmative.
"My Gawd! who'd ever thunk it? A Missourie tenderfoot! But, Molly, he had it on me. I never was so hurted in all my fights. He must have binged my nose a thousand times. I could have bellared out."
"Arch, you must have--have hurt him very much, too," said Molly. "He was all bloody."
"Shore. I reckon so. I'd have cut him to pieces--I was thet mad... Molly, I got too mad. An' at thet he hurt me vuss with his sharp tongue."
"It'd not have been so--so bad if you hadn't tried to 'rooster' him."
"Wal, all's fair in thet kind of a fight. I don't care aboot thet any more'n I care aboot his lickin' me. He's simply a better man. I told them so... But I reckon there's another way."
"Arch, you--you'll meet Jim--force him to draw?"
"Thet'd be natural-like, wouldn't it?"
"From the stand of the Cibeque, yes. But there's a bigger way to meet it.
If you forced him to draw, you'd kill him!"
"Huh! I'm not so damn shore of thet. Mister Jim Traft is a surprisin' hombre."
"Arch, I shan't beg you again," went on Molly, eloquently, "but I'll pray."