The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  "You sound downright set an' positive," countered Number Two with unconcealed suspicion.

  "Shore I do, because I'm right. He don't know nothin' about us huntin' for him."

  "Hell of a lot of huntin' you'll be doin'," said Number One.

  "Now you hombres shut up, an' listen to me," said Number Two, earnestly. "I got an idear."

  "So has a jackass, but it don't amount to nothin'," said Number One, politely.

  "Shut up!" growled Number Two. "I've heard a lot about this Corson coyote. So've you. He's Injun-trained. I was plumb willin' to go after him, locate him in some saloon, wait for him to step through th' door, an' then drop him. This is different."

  "A hell of a lot different," said Number Three with fervor.

  "Shut up!" snapped Number Two. "You don't have to tell me that: I just told it to you. Now, then: where's Black Jack, with a tough job like this to be done? Shut up! I'm tellin' you, ain't I? All right, then. Black Jack's passin' th' time playin' stud-hoss, with his three gun-fightin' —— backin' him up. An' who are th' three gun-fighters? His boys. An' where are they? Watchin' their old man play stud-hoss. Here's th' pint: Black Jack can play his stud-hoss, an' his three boys watch him do it. Nope, that wasn't th' pint: not quite. It's comin' now: Now then—you want to know what I'm goin' to do? Why, just what yo're goin' to do if you've got th' sense of a cow tick, I'm goin' to get me a big drink, mebby two of 'em, an' then hunt my room, roll up in my blankets, an' go to sleep. That's what I'm goin' to do!"

  "But you can't do it!" expostulated Number One. "We don't have to go pokin' round in th' dark an' run ag'in no slugs. We can watch th' hotel, front, side, an' back. He'll show up plain ag'in th' lights, an' it'll be plumb easy."

  "Will it?" sneered Number Two.

  "Shore it will!" said Number One with vast confidence.

  "Will it?" again sneered Number Two. "Shore it will: if he shows up ag'in th' lights. But if he should get to go crawlin' around on his belly, out behind us, it would be us that would show up plain ag'in th' lights. I've been tryin' to tell you somethin'; he's Injun-trained. An' he's so damn' well trained that he's gone an' holed hisself up. An' why? Why does a man hole up? Because he reckons he oughta. An' when does he figger that way? When he don't like th' looks of things. Every one of them windows in th' Palace was wide open. He's got eyes an' he's got ears. Now I'm all set an' ready to call you hombres heroes; but to do that, I've got to be alive afterward, ain't I? I've got to know about it. Somebody's got to, an' I'm damn' shore it won't be neither one of you fellers: you'll be th' heroes, an' deader than hell. I'm gettin' them drinks an' I'm gettin' 'em now. There ain't no tellin' how soon he'll be crawlin' around like a damn' Apache, with a gun in his hand, an' a hos-tile intent. Adiós!"

  "Well, I dunno," growled Number Three, his shifty eyes searching the darkness in vain. "I know he's Injun-trained: heard all about it. There ain't nobody hereabouts that can touch him readin' sign or trackin'. But if we quit, an' go home, what'll we say to Black Jack?"

  "Use yore head!" snapped Number Two. "We'll say that we hunted to hell an' gone an' couldn't find him. Th' only place that we didn't look was in th' jail, an' I'm dead shore he ain't a-visitin' th' marshal. An' we did hunt; an' we didn't find him."

  "Somebody shore tipped off th' play to him: I'll help you drink that liquor," said Number Three, his shifty eyes still shifting. His favorite targets were shoulder blades.

  "Well, I won't help you do any drinkin'," said Number One, angrily. "I can't do all th' huntin' myself, but I shore can watch th' hotel!" He drew in his stomach spasmodically as a gun muzzle jammed against it. "What you doin'?" he grunted savagely.

  "Just tellin' you to remember that th' two of us left you th' hotel end of it, while we went huntin' for him in th' darkness. You savvy that?" demanded Number Two.

  "Yeah: you savvy that?" echoed Number Three, grimly.

  "Shucks, yes! I don't blame you, but I want to get this hombre before he gets me. It'll be a showdown sooner or later, an' right now I'm figgerin' to run in a cold deck on him."

  "All right: run it in," growled Number Two. "Shore wish you luck!"

  "Yeah: wish you luck," grunted Number Three, and faded into the darkness, following closely on the heels of his companion.

  Their friend watched them disappear, and slowly turned toward the hotel. There was a pile of boxes on the south side of it. They made good cover—in fact, the only cover close enough to the building to assure good shooting after dark.

  "First one is far enough," said Number Three, pulling his companion toward the open, hospitable door of the nearest saloon.

  "What'd that bar hog tell us th' last time we was in there?" demanded Number Two, holding back.

  "That's right," growled his companion. "Told us to clean our slate or stay out. You got any money?"

  "No; not enough. How about you?"

  "Same as you. Well, we can go back where we started from, an' get our drinks: back to th' Palace."

  "Yeah? An' what do you reckon Black Jack'll ask us?" demanded Number Two, with deep scorn.

  "I don't know what he'll ask; but I shore know what I'll tell him; an' that is that we're gettin' a little drink before startin' out ag'in."

  "All right: come on!" urged Number Two, starting toward the street.

  "Not that way!" expostulated his companion hurriedly. "Th' street's too light!"

  "Gawd, yes! Come on: we'll slip along th' back of th' buildin's, an' go in th' rear door."

  "Wait a minute! This here Corson coyote ain't no fool, an' I'm bettin' he's layin' out behind that buildin', waitin' to see what busts. I'm takin' th' other side of th' street, behind them other buildin's."

  "Then you'll have to cross th' street," expostulated Number Two with feeling.

  "Well, what of it? That'll be all right, if he's layin' behind th' Palace."

  "Look here!" said Number Two, hastily. "There's too damn' much guessin' in this to suit me." A brilliant thought registered in his brain. "Are you awful thirsty?"

  "No: are you?"

  "Not near as much as I thought I was. Let's go turn in, pronto."

  "All right: come on."

  They roomed in a building on the northwest side of the town, and they were anxious to gain its shelter. To walk along the side street leading to it would make them feel as prominent as a parade; and parades and prominence did not please them. They had a further choice: they could cut across lots, slipping from one building to the next, from one corral to another, after short periods of intensive looking and listening. They did not seem to realize that in this they would be trading a two-bit piece for a quarter; but on the other hand, they had to make some choice, take some course of action. They hoped, luckily, to choose the least of the evils. They wanted to get under cover, and as soon and as directly as was compatible with safety. Therefore, proceeding warily and slowly and furtively, either one of which would make them interest any person who might see them, they headed away from the ghostly light of the street and began to seek the protecting sides of the building. And they at once loomed up against that ghostly light-haze like a hilltop tree against a summer night's sky.

  Everything might have been all right except for the marshal, who liked to make the rounds of the town several times after dark. It so happened that he was returning from the northwestern part of the town and that he, also, was taking a short cut. He saw the two figures outlined against the distant light-haze of the street, and their actions awakened suspicion in his yeasty mind. He struck straight for the corral behind the building next to the one which the sheriff had so recently favored, and he did so without thinking of a whitewashed adobe structure which stood some twenty paces behind him, and against which he was faintly silhouetted. Himself being on the stalk, he, too, was moving warily; and in the minds of Numbers Two and Three, he was someone to be avoided.

  "Betcha that's him!" whispered Number Three, thinking of the sheriff. His sibilation of the letter "s" was like a whistle. "We got th' light behind us!" he war
ned, and ran swiftly toward the next corral, his companion threatening to step on his spurs. Then they stopped with a jerk as a dark figure mysteriously arose from the base of the corral wall. They jerked out their guns.

  There came two vivid flashes from the corral wall, two spurting stabs of flame, and Number Two twisted sideways and bumped into his companion's gun-hand as he slid to the ground. Number Three's shot went skyward, and as he jerked his hand down to try again, another jet of fire leaped from the wall. Number Three fell forward, flat on his face.

  From another direction there suddenly roared the voice of authority.

  "What's this? Put up them guns!"

  "Don't shoot!" called out the sheriff. "It's Corson!"

  "All right," came the answer in a grunt as the vague figure of the marshal loomed up at the corner of the corral wall. "What's th' trouble?"

  "Couple of fellers lookin' for me," explained the sheriff. "How they found out where I was, I don't know; but they headed straight for me on a run. When I stood up they went for their guns. They had more nerve than good sense. Let's take a look at 'em."

  "All right," grunted the marshal, stepping forward. He bent down, struck a match, one opened hand between it and his eyes. "Denver Joe," he muttered. "You got him on th' side of th' head. He's a long way from bein' dead, worse luck. Now," he said, standing up and moving again, "let's see th' other coyote. He'll either be Squinty, or Long Bill." Again he dropped to his knees and again a match flared. "Squinty. His chips are cashed in. Where's Long Bill? They usually went together."

  "Layin' low, near th' hotel, waitin' to dry-gulch me when I showed up," answered the sheriff.

  "That so?" asked the marshal, slowly. "How come they went gunnin' for you?"

  "Black Jack Meadows' orders. I'll tell you about it later, after I locate Long Bill."

  "That'll be easy," said the marshal, thoughtfully. "You head for th' hotel, but don't get close to it, or in no light. I'll tell a couple of th' boys to tote Denver Joe over to th' doctor's, an' a couple more to move Squinty. Then we'll see what Long Bill's got to say about it."

  "There's a pile of boxes an' stuff near th' south wall of th' hotel," said Corson speculatively. "I got a good notion to rake it with my left-hand gun, an' see what busts out of 'em."

  "You wait for me. I know what'll bust out of 'em," said the marshal. "Meanwhile, you get scarce. It's dark, out here; an' some of th' boys will be friendly to these fellers. Can't watch gun hands very well in this kinda light."

  He walked toward the street, where a crowd had gathered, and he called out to establish his identity. Then he answered questions as he neared the thoroughfare. The crowd moved forward, passed him, and streamed to the scene of action.

  The marshal kept on going, moving slowly and deliberately toward the hotel, his nickelplated badge shining in the lamplight of the open door. He went in and spoke a few words to the night clerk, and then turned and faced the side wall so that the lights of the room would clearly reveal him to the watcher outside. He had no wish to walk around the corner of the building, without warning, and be mistaken for the sheriff. After a moment he walked deliberately toward the door, through it, and loafed around the corner, whistling softly. When opposite the pile of boxes he stopped, carelessly hooked his thumbs to the arm holes of his vest, and smiled broadly.

  "It'd be a good idear to come on out," he said, conversationally, addressing the boxes. "Sheriff Corson has just worked around on th' dark side of you, an' figgers to empty one gun at th' pile, keepin' th' other ready. There's been enough shootin' tonight. Squinty's dead, an' Denver Joe will be laid up for a few days. You come on out, Bill, with yore hands in plain sight, an' empty."

  There was no answering voice, and the peace officer smiled grimly and leaned back against the wall, dropping his hands to his gun belts, where he hooked them to the leather by their thumbs. He spoke again, this time in a louder voice.

  "I'm tellin' you once more to come on out, Bill," he said, and waited for an answer. It did not come. Then he raised his voice. "You might try a couple of shots, Corson, if yo're ready; but don't hit me. Take th' east end of th' pile."

  There came a double roar from the south, and two spitting tongues of flame flared vividly into the darkness, and died swiftly. The pile of boxes heaved suddenly.

  "Don't shoot!" shouted an angry voice. "I'm a-comin' out!"

  "Don't shoot no more, sheriff," called the marshal loudly. "He's a-comin' out, with his hands empty."

  Long Bill crawled out from the heaving pile, cleared it, and stood up. His right hand hung down against the holster, and he was glaring at the lazy man who was leaning against the wall.

  The corner of the building was two jumps away and, once around it, Long Bill could get to his horse and ride off before anyone could stop him. Squinty had been killed, Denver Joe wounded; and he, Long Bill, had been a party in the attempt to kill the sheriff. A long prison term was staring him in the face. If he made a break for it the sheriff might get in one shot, but the light was poor, and Long Bill would be moving swiftly. He would try it, first dissembling to throw the marshal off his guard.

  "Hell, marshal: I ain't done nothin'," he said. "There ain't no reason—" His hand jerked up and curled around the handles of his gun. The marshal slipped sideways, his own hand moving, sudden smoke enwrapping him. Then the peace officer again leaned back against the wall. Smoke churned and rolled along the ground in front of him. Long Bill stumbled, slumped, and lay quiet on the ground.

  "Come on, sheriff," said the town officer as he pushed from the wall and waited for his friend to join him. He turned on his heel. "I knowed Long Bill wouldn't come to no good end." He gently scratched his head. "He toted a pearl-handled gun, silver-plated," he explained, with contempt. The terse sentence well could have served as Long Bill's epitaph.

  Corson fell in step with him, and they turned the corner of the hotel side by side. Opposite the front door the marshal slowed and stopped, expecting his companion to say good-night and turn in; but the sheriff kept on walking. The marshal joined step again, nodding his head in gentle commendation. It was always well to strike while the iron was hot. He knew where they were going, and knew it without a word being said.

  They entered the Palace side by side, the two little doors swinging to and fro behind them. The marshal stopped near the bar, facing the rear of the room, and felt for the rail with one groping foot. His face was placid and expressionless; but just let somebody's hand slip toward a gun—

  Corson kept on down the room. He moved sideways between two tables and followed along the north wall, and stopped to lean against it at exactly the place where he had leaned against it earlier in the evening. Black Jack's gun-fighting sons watched every move he made, and one of them spoke softly to his father.

  Black Jack looked up quickly, the expression on his face betraying surprise, and saw the sheriff carelessly regarding him. While one might count a dozen the two men coldly studied each other in grave silence. Then Corson's cold face broke into a flinty smile.

  "Huntin' in th' dark is right uncertain," he said, casually, as casually as he might have predicted the morrow's weather. "Right uncertain. Squinty's dead. Long Bill's dead. Denver Joe lost part of his face. There's plenty of light in here, an' I'm stayin' for about five minutes. That oughta give you plenty of time to make up yore mind. Then, if nothin' excitin' happens, I aim to walk over to th' hotel, an' turn in."

  "What you want me to do?" barked Black Jack angrily. "Throw my arms around yore neck an' kiss you?"

  "Anythin' you want to do," answered the sheriff, "except that." He glanced over Black Jack's head and smiled provocatively at the three-man bodyguard. "An' that goes for you hombres," he added.

  There was a moment's silence, and then Black Jack's voice broke it. He was looking down at the cards on the table. "Where th' hell was we at? Who's bet is it?" he demanded.

  Time slipped past. At the end of the stated five minutes the sheriff pushed from the wall, saw that the marshal was wat
ching the three-man bodyguard, and turned on his heel. He moved slowly toward the door, nodded to the marshal and the man behind the counter, and let the double doors swing shut behind him. The marshal waited a few moments and then, pushing his hat a little to one side, smiled significantly at the discomfited bodyguard, turned his back on them, and left the building.

  Alice Meadows stirred restlessly and slowly awakened. The darkness outside was turning gray. She heard movements and low voices in the next room, where her stepfather and stepbrothers were getting ready for bed.

  She sighed and then clenched her hands as a little burst of anger seized her. If they would only stop this everlasting night riding! Nothing good could come of it, and it made her life no better than a dog's. Not that she worried much for their sakes: the bitterness of her own existence, shut off up here in the hills, without companions of her own sex, working for men who steadily grew to mean less to her—all this had killed any real affection which she once might have felt for them. She was nothing more nor less than a slave, and they did not even have the decency to try to conceal it from her. All four of them had taken pains at odd times, as they said, to put her in her place. She could cook and mend and wash and scrub and iron, and even go out to gather her own firewood, without thanks or appreciation. It was rapidly becoming intolerable.

  One voice raised above the others, and she found herself listening because she had nothing else to do. Many nights she had been awakened by the low rumble of indistinguishable conversation, but tonight the words were intelligible, due, perhaps, to sharpened tempers. Evidently something had gone wrong.

  "He's got th' brains of a coyote, an' that means that he's damn' cunnin'," said Black Jack's voice, edged like a knife. "Them three fools shoulda got him tonight, but they bungled it like a lot of boys. An' they missed him at th' old 'dobe tradin' post, an' he was too smart to start trailin' 'em."