THE FIGHT AT THE CABIN
When Red King struck the river trail he was traveling as strongly as when he began his long race. The miles that had stretched between him and the destination at which his rider aimed had been mere play for him. By the time he reached the river trail he was warmed to his work and his giant, spurning stride carried him along in the shade of the fringing trees at a speed that made the wind whine and moan in Lawler’s ears.
But Lawler did not offer to check Red King’s speed. The big horse was traveling at a pace that was all too slow for Lawler, now in the clutch of that passion which for many months had been smoldering within him. He was leaning a little forward in the saddle, riding the red horse as he had ridden few times; and then only in sport.
In Lawler’s eyes was still that intense light that had been in them when he had been watching Shorty as the latter had been relating what had happened during the night and the morning.
And yet Lawler betrayed no sign of excitement. His face was pale, and his lips were stiff and white; but his muscles were tense, steady, and his brain clear.
He knew what to expect from Antrim. If Antrim expected him to come to his cabin, Antrim would be ready for him. He might expect craft and cunning from the outlaw—an ambuscade, a trap—anything but the cold, sheer courage that would be required for him to face an enemy upon equal terms. And so as Lawler rode he kept an alert eye upon the coverts and the shelters, upon the huge rocks that littered the sides of the trail, upon the big trees that Red King flashed past.
Nothing happened. And Red King thundered down the trail where it doubled half a mile from the Dickman cabin, and swept out upon the level that surrounded the place, his speed unslackened, his rider still urging him.
Lawler had forgotten Shorty. Half a mile behind him the giant’s horse labored, making better time on the level river trail than he had made over the plains. But Lawler did not even think of Shorty. His brain was upon the work that was before him, his thoughts were definitely centered upon Antrim and the Circle L men that Antrim and his men had killed. It was concentration of a sinister character that had seized Lawler, and in it was a single purpose, a single determination—to kill Antrim.
He saw the cabin as he crossed the level—a patch of bare, sandy earth surrounding it; and the other buildings, with no sign of life near them. His gaze swept the corral, and he saw no horse in it. As he guided Red King toward the cabin he peered vainly for sight of Antrim’s horse.
Not a living thing was in sight. The buildings were silent, seemingly deserted. And the atmosphere of the place seemed to be pregnant with a lurking threat, a hint of hidden danger.
He grinned as he plunged Red King to the door of the cabin—a grin which meant that he expected Antrim would be waiting for him, but which expressed his contempt of ambuscades and traps.
As he slipped from Red King he drew his pistol and lunged forward, bringing up against the cabin door and sending it crashing inward, against the wall.
He halted just inside the door, his pistol rigid in his right hand, which was pressed tightly to his side; for directly in front of him, standing, his arms folded over his chest, was Antrim, a huge, venomous grin on his face.
“Well, you got here, Lawler,” he said, huskily. “You come a-runnin’, didn’t you? Well, I had your cattle run off, an’ I burned your buildin’s. What are you aimin’ to do about it?”
Lawler did not move. He might have killed Antrim, for the man’s weapon was in the holster at his hip—Lawler could see the stock sticking above the leather. He had expected Antrim would be in the cabin when he opened the door; he anticipated that the outlaw would shoot on sight, and he had been prepared to do the same.
But there was something in the outlaw’s manner, in the cold, measured tone of his voice, in his nonchalant disregard of the pistol in Lawler’s hand that brought a swift suspicion into Lawler’s mind. It was a presentiment that the outlaw was not alone in the cabin; that he had carefully laid his plans, and that they did not include a gun fight in which he would have to face Lawler upon equal terms.
Lawler did not look around. He kept his gaze unwaveringly upon the outlaw, knowing that if other men were in the cabin with him they were waiting for Antrim to give the word to shoot him. Otherwise they would have shot him down when he had entered.
“Not sayin’ anything, eh?” jeered Antrim. “Well, come a-shootin’. You bust in here, seein’ red, with a gun in your hand; an’ then stand there, like you was wonderin’ if you was welcome.” He peered close at Lawler, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, and then, finally, with savage amusement.
“I reckon I ketch on,” he sneered. “You know there’s some one here with me, an’ that they’ve got you covered. I know you, an’ I knowed you’d come rushin’ in here, just like you did, killin’ mad. Bah! Did you think I’d give you a chance, you short-horned maverick! There’s Selden behind that curtain, there—back of the cupboard. An’ Krell watchin’ you from the door of that room, on the side. They’ve got you between them, an’ if you bat an eyewinker they’ll down you. I’m goin’ to gas to you—I’m goin’ to tell you what I think of you for ropin’ me an’ draggin’ me back to Willets, to show to the damned yaps on the station platform. An’ after that I’m goin’ to hog-tie you an’—Ah!”
Antrim’s exclamation was a mere gasp. It escaped his lips as Lawler jumped backward, landing outside the door, overbalanced, trying to stand upright while he snapped a shot at Antrim.
Antrim, however, had reached for his gun. It came out before Lawler could steady himself, and Lawler saw it. Lawler saw the weapon belch smoke and fire as it cleared Antrim’s hip; he felt a shock as the bullet struck him; felt still another sear his flesh near the arm as he let his own pistol off. He saw the outlaw plunge forward and fall prone, his arms outstretched. He was motionless, inert.
From inside the cabin came the sounds of steps—Antrim’s confederates, Lawler supposed. He heard them approach the door and he leaped, swaying a little, toward the corner of the cabin nearest him. He had reached it, had just dodged behind it, when Selden and Krell rushed out. At the same instant Shorty thundered up, slipped out of the saddle and ran toward Lawler, drawing his guns.
Shorty had approached the cabin from the rear, having cut across the space behind the bunkhouses when he heard the shooting. He could not be seen by Selden and Krell as they plunged out of the door; but he had seen Lawler when the latter dodged behind the corner of the cabin, and as he ran toward Lawler he drew his guns.
As yet Shorty had seen no one but Lawler. He supposed Antrim and Lawler had exchanged shots and he knew Lawler had been hit—his swaying as he came around the corner of the cabin proved it. Knowing something of the terrible rage that had seized the man, he suspected Lawler had burst into the cabin, recklessly exposing himself to Antrim’s fire.
And as Shorty ran toward the spot where Lawler was standing, he expected to see Antrim follow, to complete his work.
Within a dozen feet of Lawler he halted, facing the corner. He had not long to wait. For Selden and Krell, guns in hand, appeared almost instantly—their faces hideous with passion. As they rushed around the corner they saw Shorty. They saw Shorty first, because Shorty dominated the scene. A gun in each hand, he made a terrible figure. His eyes were blazing with the cold rage that had seized him at sight of Lawler, wounded—for Lawler was now leaning against the wall of the cabin, and his gun had dropped from his hand.
The unexpected appearance of Shorty startled Krell and Selden. Surprise showed in their faces as they paused for an infinitesimal space and looked at him.
And then their guns roared.
Shorty, however, had anticipated them. His guns went off simultaneously, slightly in advance of theirs, belching fire and smoke in a continuous stream.
Shorty did not seem to be hit by the bullets from the guns of the outlaws; he seemed to pay no attention to them whatever.
But the outlaws ceased shooting. Krell staggered, his guns dropped from his hands, and he stood, for
an instant, looking foolishly at Shorty, his face becoming ashen. Then, without uttering a word, he lunged gently forward, his legs doubling at the knees, and sank into the dust in a huddled heap.
Selden had been hit hard, too. The shock of Shorty’s first bullet striking him had turned him partially around, so that his left side was toward Shorty. He had lurched forward a little; and was turning, trying to use the gun in his left hand, when another bullet struck him. He grunted, stood slowly erect, and then fell backward stiffly.
Shorty ran to him and to Krell, scanning their faces with savage intentness. When he saw that neither of them would bother him again, he leaped around the corner of the cabin and cautiously peered into the doorway. He saw Antrim stretched out on the floor of the cabin, face down and motionless. He stepped into the cabin, turned the outlaw over, grinned saturninely, and then went out to where Lawler stood. His eyes were aglow with concern.
When he reached the corner he saw Lawler bending over, picking up the pistol that had dropped from his hand a few seconds before. Lawler’s face was pale, but he grinned broadly at Shorty as the latter came up to him.
“I saw what was happening but I couldn’t throw in with you. I reckon Antrim hit me mighty hard. In my right shoulder. I was trying to change my gun to the other hand, when I dropped it. I didn’t seem to be able to get it again—just then.” He grinned. “Lucky you came, Shorty,” he added jocosely.
Shorty’s lips grimmed. “I reckon it’s lucky I’m here right now!” he said shortly. “You’re hit bad, Lawler!”
He led Lawler into the cabin, where he tore away the latter’s shirt and exposed the wound—high up on the shoulder.
After a swift examination, Shorty exclaimed with relief.
“It ain’t so bad, after all. She bored through that big muscle. Must have struck like a batterin’ ram. No wonder you was weak an’ dizzy for a minute or so. There’s a hole big enough to stick your hand through. But she ain’t dangerous, Boss!”
Shorty had not been touched by the bullets the outlaws had sent at him. He was energy, personified. He got water, bathed the wound in Lawler’s shoulder; bandaged it, and at last grinned widely as Lawler got up, saying he felt better.
A little later they went out and mounted their horses. Lawler was pale, though he sat steadily in the saddle; and Shorty, big, exuding elation, grinned broadly as he glanced at the cabin as they rode away from it.
They rode up the river trail; Shorty expressing his elation by emitting low chuckles of grim mirth; Lawler silent, riding steadily, his gaze straight ahead.
It took them long to reach the point on the plains where the trails diverged. And then Lawler spoke. “Shorty, you go back to Hamlin’s and tell mother I killed Antrim. You needn’t mention this scratch I’ve got.”
“Where you goin’?” demanded Shorty.
“Shorty,” said Lawler evenly; “you do as I say.”
“I’ll be damned if I do!” declared Shorty, his face flushing. “That’s the kind of palaver Blackburn handed me when he sent me after Caldwell’s outfit, makin’ me miss the big scrap. I ain’t missin’ nothin’ else. If this thing is to be a clean-up I’m goin’ to be right close when the cleanin’ is bein’ done!
“I’m stayin’ right here, as long as you stay! An’ when you get goin’, little Shorty will be taggin’ along, achin’ to salivate some more of the scum that’s been makin’ things howl in these parts. Get goin’ where you’re goin’, Lawler!”
Shorty had not told Lawler all he knew of the wound in Lawler’s shoulder. He knew that Lawler had lost much blood, and that he was losing more constantly; and that nothing but the man’s implacable courage was keeping him up. And he did not intend to desert him.
Lawler laughed. But he said nothing as he urged Red King over the Willets trail, riding at a fair pace, not so steady in the saddle as he had been. His face was chalk white, but there was a set to his lips and a glow in his eyes that told Shorty there was no use in arguing.
Shorty permitted Lawler to hold the lead he had taken when they reached the Willets’ trail. But Shorty kept a vigilant eye upon the big horse and his rider as they went over the plains toward town. Twice Shorty saw Lawler reel in the saddle, and both times Shorty urged his horse forward to be close to him when he fell. But each time Lawler stiffened and rode onward—silent, grimly determined, with Shorty riding behind him, watching him with awed admiration.
Lawler had not mentioned the purpose of his ride to town, and Shorty was lost in a maze of futile conjecture. Shorty knew, however, that a man in Lawler’s condition would not ride to town to gratify a whim; and the longer he watched Lawler the deeper became his conviction that another tragedy was imminent. For there was something in Lawler’s manner, in the steady, unflagging way he rode; in the set of his head and the cold gleam of his eyes, that suggested more of the kind of violence in which both had participated at the Dickman cabin.
The sun was low when Lawler and Shorty rode into town—Lawler riding ahead, as he had ridden all along; Shorty a few yards behind him, keenly watching him.
There were many men on the street; for word had been brought in regarding the big fight between the Circle L outfit and the rustlers—and a doctor had gone, summoned to the Hamlin cabin by a wild rider on a jaded horse—and Willets’ citizens were eagerly curious. And when they saw Lawler coming, swaying in the saddle as he rode, they began to run toward him.
However, they were brought to a halt by Shorty—who waved a hand savagely at them, his face expressing a cold intolerance that warned them away. And so they retreated to the sidewalk, wonderingly, to watch Lawler and Shorty as they rode down the street—Lawler looking neither to the right nor left, but keeping his gaze straight ahead as though in that direction lay what he had come to seek.
Shorty’s eyes gleamed with understanding when he saw Lawler halt Red King in front of the building in which was Warden’s office. He was out of the saddle before Lawler clambered slowly out of his, and he stood near as Lawler walked to the door of the building and began to mount the stairs—going up slowly, swaying from side to side and placing his hands against the wall on either side of him for support. And when Lawler finally reached the top of the stairs and threw open the door of Warden’s office, Shorty was so close to him that he might have touched his shoulder.
Warden was sitting at his desk when Lawler opened the door, and he continued to sit there—staring hard at Lawler as the latter swayed across the room to bring up with a lurch against Warden’s desk, his hands grasping its edge.
“Warden,” said Lawler—and Shorty marveled at the cold steadiness of his voice; “I have just killed Antrim. Antrim’s men ran off three thousand head of my cattle and killed about twenty of my men—five at the Circle L and the rest in a fight on the plains not far from the Two Bar. Antrim burned my buildings. Twenty-five thousand dollars for the buildings, and ninety thousand for the cattle not to mention my men.
“I’ve got no proof that you were implicated in the deal; but I am convinced that you planned it—that you got Antrim and his gang to do the work. That evidence doesn’t go in law, though, Warden—and you know it. But it’s enough for the kind of law that I am representing right now. It’s this!”
He drew his gun with his left hand, taking it from the waistband of his trousers—where he had placed it when he had picked it up at the Dickman cabin—and held it on the desk top, so that its dark muzzle gaped at Warden.
For an instant Warden sat, staring in dread fascination into the muzzle of the weapon, his face dead white, his eyes wide with fear, naked, cringing. Then he spoke, his voice hoarse and quavering.
“This is murder, Lawler!”
“Murder, Warden?” jeered Lawler. “One of my men was worth a dozen of you!”
Lawler laughed—a sound that brought an ashen pallor to Warden’s face; then he straightened, and turned, to face Shorty.
He lurched to Shorty’s side, drew out one of the latter’s big guns, and tossed it upon the desk within reac
h of Warden’s hand.
“I gave Antrim the first shot, Warden,” he said; “I gave him his chance. I didn’t murder him, and I won’t murder you. Take that gun and follow me to the street. There’s people there. They’ll see that it’s a square deal. You’re a sneaking polecat, Warden; but you—I’m going to give you—”
Lawler paused; he sagged. He tried to straighten, failed. And while both men watched him—Shorty with eyes that were terrible in their ineffable sympathy and impotent wrath; Warden in a paralysis of cold terror—Lawler lurched heavily against the desk and slid gently to the floor, where he leaned, his eyes closed, against the desk, motionless, unconscious.
Silently, his eyes aflame with passion, Shorty leaped to the desk and snatched the gun that Lawler had placed at Warden’s hand. With almost the same movement he pulled Warden out of his chair and threw him against the rear wall of the room. He was after the man like a giant panther; catching him by the throat with his left hand as he reached him, crushing him against the wall so that the impact jarred the building; while he savagely jammed the muzzle of the pistol deep into the man’s stomach, holding it there with venomous pressure, while his blazing eyes bored into Warden’s with a ferocious malignance. “Damn you, Warden,” he said hoarsely; “I ought to kill you!” He shook Warden with his left hand, as though the man were a child in his grasp, sinking his fingers into the flesh of his neck until Warden’s eyes popped out and his face grew purple. Then he released him so suddenly that Warden sank to his knees on the floor, coughing, laboring, straining to draw his breath.
He stood, huge and menacing, until Warden swayed to his feet and staggered weakly to the chair in which he had been sitting when Lawler entered; and then he leaned over the desk and peered into Warden’s face.
“This ain’t my game, Warden! If it was, I’d choke the gizzard out of you and chuck you out of a window! I reckon I’ve got to save you for Lawler—if he gets over this. If he don’t, I’m comin’ for you!”
He holstered his gun, stooped, lifted Lawler and gently swung him over his shoulder; and without glancing back at Warden strode to the stairs, out into the street and made his way to the Willets Hotel, a crowd of curious citizens at his heels.
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 108