Three Trails to Triangle

by Robert J. Horton

  “Well, he won’t draw on me!” Buck exclaimed, his gun whipping out of his holster with such speed that Davitt was startled.

  “Why, you’re a long way from being slow with your gun, Buck,” Davitt drawled. “I didn’t know they got that fast, just in range work.”

  “I practice,” Buck growled, putting back his weapon.

  “Handy thing, a fast draw,” Davitt observed, “and just as dangerous. I suppose you can shoot straight in the bargain.”

  “Straight enough,” was the answer. “If it comes to guns …”

  “If it comes to guns,” Davitt interrupted sternly, “let me take the lead … if there’s time. If it slants that way when you’re alone, be sure and be certain, both as to cause and aim. A miss as to cause, Buck, is a whole lot worse than a miss as to aim. There’s more to that than it sounds, just hearing me say it.”

  Buck looked him in the eyes and whatever he saw there satisfied him. “Let’s get supper,” he said. “The sun’s going down and we’ll want to start when dusk comes.”

  * * * * *

  While they ate and during the hour after sunset, when the soft, rosy haze drifted over the green hills and the golden billows of plain, Davitt talked on with Buck, and Buck mostly listened. Davitt told him of adventures he had had in the years after he had broken away from straight ranch work. He dwelt on activities as an Association agent in tracking down rustlers, breaking up bands of horse thieves, and of a few experiences in capturing robbers and bolder outlaws. He passed lightly, and distastefully, over a killing or two, and explained at length how he had once let a youthful offender go free and had covered up his trail. These adventures had been packed into the short space of five years, and of the time before that he told practically nothing.

  “It’s a lonesome job,” he said, with a wistful note in his voice, “and I mix in a good time whenever I have a chance. The prized possession that saves me is a sense of humor.” He looked at Buck and grinned at him, and from that moment Buck knew he liked him.

  As the twilight fell and dusk deepened in the high hills, Davitt kept the fire burning. “We’ll let ’em see that spark of red till it’s almost dark,” he told Buck. “Then we’ll put it out before we leave. But those that have seen it won’t forget it, and the impression that it is here will burn on long into the night. That’s what I call a ghost fire. It’s fed by the flames of imagination. They’ll think we’re still here.”

  “When you said there was something in an outlaw always being liable to make a slip, did you mean you think the Crow will slip?” Buck asked.

  “Not in performance, but in mental alertness,” Davitt said, smiling. “There’s a chance that he may be so wrapped up in his desire for revenge on Sylvester Graham for the names he was called, and in the big haul he might make, that he’ll overlook something … us, for instance.”

  “He won’t overlook you, if he knows you,” Buck said grimly. “As for me, I’m only a poor cowpuncher … spare me!” He chuckled.

  “Let’s get going,” said Davitt suddenly, scooping a handful of fresh earth from the pile he had turned, and throwing it on the fire.

  Chapter Eight

  The night was two hours old when Davitt and Buck emerged from the last clump of trees dividing the foothills from the flowing plain, alive with shadows under the dancing stars. They drew rein on a knoll at the extremity of the rough finger that reached out into the prairie, two miles north of the stream which marked the trail by which they had entered the hills, and five miles west of Mink Coulee.

  As they looked out over the vast domain, Buck straightened in his saddle. “There!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “See it? A racing shadow! A rider streaking from the hills toward Mink. It’s probably that fellow who rode in on us this morning.”

  Davitt had descried the fleet, bobbing blot of shadow before Buck had ceased speaking. He nodded. “The messenger with the word that everything is in order,” he said in a satisfied tone. “You picked the right spot, Buck. The Crow is more than likely going to strike with a hard ride from the coulee to town. I can’t figure why any other rider would be speeding across the prairie at such a rate.”

  “Sure I’m right,” said Buck in some excitement. “Listen, Mel,”—he used Davitt’s first name quite naturally for the first time—“we’ve got a piece of riding of our own to do. That fellow’s out of sight almost right now and he can’t see us. He didn’t have time to spot us on the trail and get out that far from the hills ahead of us. He was waiting till he was sure no one had left the hills and it was dark enough for him to cut loose across the open. He’s got rolling country to the coulee. We’ll cut down southeast and beat it toward town and take a chance on spotting ’em when they come in. We can ride our horses for all they’re worth because we won’t have to chase out of town afterward, while they’ll have to save theirs going in. Let’s get going.”

  He glanced quickly at Davitt, who flashed a smile, and they were off. If the cowpuncher could have read Davitt’s thoughts, he would have felt complimented, for Davitt was pleased with Buck’s enthusiasm, his quickness in spotting the lone rider, and his immediate decision as to their plan of action. Buck was no ordinary cowpuncher in Davitt’s mind.

  For going on an hour, they swung at a fast pace around the southern boundary of the rolling prairie land in which was the deep gash known as Mink Coulee. Then they came to a few cottonwoods, alders, and willows which grew about a spring between the coulee and town. At Buck’s word of warning they approached this spot, cautiously prepared for a possible blaze of guns. But it would have been impossible for riders to cover the distance between the coulee and the spring without being seen by Buck and Davitt and they reached the shadows of the trees without sign of hostility or ambush.

  “Now we’re ahead of ’em,” Buck told Davitt. “We can streak for town with these trees between us and the coulee and get far enough out so they couldn’t spot us even from here. There’s the chance that that rider cut straight through and met up with the Crow here, but …”

  “We’ll assume that he didn’t,” Davitt broke in. “The Crow would hardly wait in this comparatively open spot, for he would have had to have been here before dark if he was to wait for his messenger here. He would have had to get here while he knew no one was here, I mean. We’ve gone this far on headwork, now we’ll have to go on close to town where you can wait for sign of ’em while I go in.”

  “You going ahead?” asked Buck, surprised.

  “To make sure the Crow isn’t there already, for one thing,” replied Davitt, “and to be near Graham’s house, for another. You’ll have to bring the word, Buck. And I’m not sure we’ve got the Crow’s movements down pat. I’m still looking for complications. It dreams too easy. Maybe we’re just riding to get the night air.”

  “No, we’re not,” said Buck in a hoarse whisper. “Here they come.”

  Davitt had to strain his eyes to catch sight of the rapidly moving dots in the direction of the coulee. Without a word he shook out his reins and Buck followed him as he galloped around the trees and straightened out for the race to town.

  Buck caught sight of his companion’s eyes in the starlight and was struck by the look in them. Davitt’s gaze was a brilliant steel-blue flame, the cowpuncher thought; the cold, piercing scrutiny of the man hunter racing to the kill. Davitt seemed transformed into another person entirely, and Buck sensed at once that here was a match for any outlaw. The next moves would call for quick thinking, cool nerves, lightning action. And Buck shivered with the thrill of it.

  They pushed their mounts at racing speed across the shadowy plain. Buck felt like crying out with admiration as he watched Davitt’s horse perform. Davitt had to hold the animal, or he would have left Buck behind, even though Buck was riding one of the best horses ever bred on the Payne Ranch. But Buck felt no great chagrin. It was to be expected, he reflected, that a man like Davitt, whose life at times had depen
ded on his mount, would have a superb horse. It seemed as though they literally ticked off the miles as they sped toward the slowly forming blot upon the plain that was Milton.

  They came upon cattle as they neared the town and circled the herd, knowing that the riders behind would have to follow their example or be seen if cowpunchers were standing guard. When clear of the cattle, they straightened out again and a last spurt brought them to the trees along the stream that flowed through Milton. Here Davitt reined in his horse and they stopped.

  “How many riders did you make out back there, Buck?” Davitt asked.

  “I was thinking there were two, but we didn’t take any too long a look,” replied the cowpuncher.

  “I figured two myself,” said Davitt. “That would account for the Crow and the spy we think we saw in the hills. There should be a man in town. We’ll leave our horses in the trees and go in afoot. If there is a man in town, we’ll have to watch out that he doesn’t see us, for the Crow is smart enough to make sure that he’s all right before he starts operations.”

  “Sure.” Buck nodded. “He’ll post his two men outside the bank.”

  “Now, listen,” said Davitt, keeping his tone low. “This man here may have been watching for two riders. If he was, he’ll probably think we are the men he was looking for …”

  “Not a chance,” Buck put in. “The Crow makes a small figure in the saddle and we’re tall men.”

  “But did you notice the way I rode the last distance?” Davitt smiled. “I hugged my horse’s neck till it would take an expert in broad daylight to tell how tall I was. People are easy fooled in this light. Chances are, if someone was watching, he’ll give some kind of a signal. But the Crow is too crafty to take his horses right into the street to attract attention. He wants time to do this job. If you could move their horses … no! You’ve got to watch the outside of the bank, too.” Davitt frowned in thought.

  “I propose to be right in there at headquarters,” Buck said stoutly. “Three is too many for you to tackle alone, in the first place, and I’m in on the play all the way through for the second and last place. If anybody had been going to signal, they would have done it by now.”

  “All right,” said Davitt slowly. “Buck, I’m going to let my personal feelings have their run in this. I’m going to get into the bank with the Crow and Graham, if the Crow works that way, and if he tries it the other way, we’ll just naturally have to shoot ’em down in the act. You hide out near the bank. I’m going to Graham’s house. I still believe I figured it out right.”

  It was shortly afterward that Davitt stole noiselessly under the trees and among the shrubs of Sylvester Graham’s front lawn. There still were lights in the house although it was midnight. Davitt crept to a window and looked into the front room. He saw the banker in a deep arm chair by the table, reading. No one else was in the room. The next moment Davitt nearly cried out in astonishment at what he saw. The Crow had stepped lightly into the room from the hall!

  Davitt drew back from the window instantly, having caught one good look at the narrowed, cruel eyes of the outlaw, and the gun in his hand. The thought flashed through Davitt’s mind that the bandit had come to town ahead of his two men; that he had set the hour of midnight for his infamous work and had depended on his men to warn him if all was not well before that time; that one of the men had been in town and had ridden to Mink Coulee to tell of the departure of the sheriff and had waited there for the other accomplice while the Crow came in.

  “Don’t make a sound.” The hissing of the Crow’s voice barely reached Davitt’s ear. “Get up and come with me, or I’ll put a slug in your heart. Squawk or come.” The threat from the outlaw’s tongue seemed to vibrate on the still air.

  Davitt drew his weapon and peered stealthily inside. There was no time for a fleeting doubt as to the wisdom of his decision to get the Crow in Graham’s presence. One reason for his being there was that he was afraid the banker might refuse to obey the bandit’s orders. Davitt now could shoot the Crow down without warning and be justified. But some innate sense of fair play, warped and out of place in this instance, held him back. In another few moments Graham had risen and was between Davitt and the outlaw. The Crow backed out the door, his gun almost touching the banker’s chest, as Graham walked with him, his hands in the air. They disappeared, and the scuffle of hurried feet came to Davitt’s ears. It had happened so quickly and smoothly that Davitt was almost incredulous and caught himself looking at the empty arm chair and the paper on the floor.

  Then Davitt dashed around the end of the porch. But the outlaw and his prey were not in sight. They had left by another way? Davitt ran lightly up the steps and opened the screen door. As he entered the hall, Virginia Graham, a lovely vision in a white negligee, appeared at its farther end. For a space Davitt stood, stunned by the girl’s beauty.

  “Why, Mister Davitt!” Virginia exclaimed in surprise.

  “Did anyone pass out that way?” Davitt asked quickly.

  “No. Father is in the living room, if you wish to see him.”

  He reached her in three long, rapid strides. “The Crow was just here,” he told her in a tense voice. “He took your father out at the point of his gun. Which way could they have gone to get to the bank quickly? Tell me, for I don’t know these locations. Show me the shortcut to the bank.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said the girl, her eyes glowing suspiciously. “Father!” she called loudly.

  Davitt seized her by her shoulders and shook her. “I tell you the Crow caught your father alone in front and made him go out with him,” he said fiercely. “I happen to know that outlaw is taking him to the bank to make him open the safe. Which way have they gone?”

  “Impossible,” cried the girl angrily. “Father said you were a crazy …”

  “Virginia, tell me how your father gets to the bank quick when he’s in a hurry,” Davitt commanded sternly. “If you don’t, I’ll have to run around by way of the main street and I may get there too late. It’s an even chance this minute that your dad doesn’t get back alive.”

  The deadly seriousness of his tone and the look in his eyes convinced her just as he flung her away from him with a snort of disgust and started for the front door. She caught him before he could leave.

  “This way.” She turned him into a room opposite the living room—a small parlor—and pointed to partly opened French windows. He hurried through them and found himself on a small side porch with the star-filled sky showing through a lane in the trees.

  “Through the grounds to a street, one block from the bank …”

  Davitt waited for no more but leaped down the few steps and ran through the trees. He came to the street and turned in the direction of the center intersection. No one was in sight. He crept along the shadows until he could see the rear of the bank. A faint light showed in a window which he surmised was that of Graham’s private office. Surely the Crow’s companions hadn’t reached the bank. And this time Davitt felt he had an assistant upon whom he could depend. He crossed the street, slipped to the rear door of the bank, and found it unlocked. He opened the door noiselessly and let himself in. He could hear the low tone of the Crow’s sinister voice in the private office.

  “You called me names, you penny-pinching, fat-faced toad,” the Crow was purring, “and now I’ve come to collect for them. It’ll hurt you more to pay in cash and get a slap and a laugh for a receipt than for me to kill you. But you must be careful, toad, or you’ll pay two ways.” The outlaw’s evil laugh shivered in the room.

  Chapter Nine

  Buck had reckoned closely on his time and had not followed Davitt’s instructions, brief and hurried as they had been, to the letter. While Davitt was making his way to the Graham house, having secured directions from Buck, the latter had made a swift reconnaissance in the vicinity of the bank and had hurried back to where he could glimpse the riders when they entered town. For
Buck had decided that instead of keeping an eye on the bank, it would be wiser, and more productive of results to watch the Crow. He could not know that the Crow already was in town. When trouble started, the Crow was bound to be in the center of it.

  Thus, Buck succeeded in catching sight of the two riders before they gained the shelter of the trees along the stream at the edge of town. A smothered exclamation escaped his lips as he noted that the two horsemen were of much larger build than was attributed to the Crow. As he saw them come galloping in, he became convinced that neither of them was the notorious outlaw.

  With this conviction he hurried back through the darkened street toward the bank. Suddenly a lithe figure darted from the trees around the corner and started across the street. As Buck was near the corner, and about to cross, the two men nearly collided. Buck caught the glint of starlight on dull metal and leaped aside, whipping out his own gun.

  “Oh, it’s you!” exclaimed a voice, which Buck recognized instantly as belonging to Chester Wessel. “Where you been all day, Buck? Back to the ranch? Come here a minute.”

  Buck quickly followed Wessel into the deeper shadows. The youth appeared greatly excited and Buck was at once keenly alert with more than mere curiosity. “Take it easy,” he warned. “What’s the idea of the gun, Chet?”

  Wessel grasped him by the arm and his words came swiftly in a low, hoarse tone. “You know that fellow Davitt who was here last night? Virginia told me about him and I got more out of Old Man Payne. He’s a fake, Graham thinks. Said he was here to catch the Crow, but he’s probably in with him. He’s been hiding all day and when I left the Graham house a while ago, I saw him sneaking through the trees. If he was going there for any decent purpose, he wouldn’t be sneaking, would he? I watched and later I saw two shadows slip out the side door and I think he’s taking Graham to the bank.”