by John Long
He dipped his hand. His gun was out, was raised, was levelled, and yet – yet Symes’ attention was only just returning. Smily gasped; he had won; he had him. Symes was still stupidly waiting. It all happened in seconds. Smily’s gun exploded – and yet…. Why, it was like a miracle!
A thunderous roar of gunfire, a stream of repeated shots ripped from the hands of Mister Symes. At that same instant, arising from Symes’ interior, came a laugh whose ringing, fiendish quality chilled the blood. Now his guns, empty, breathing smoke, were again snugly holstered, seeming innocent. So swift, so sudden had been his action, that it was barely credible. But there lay the evidence of it – sudden death.
The men stood petrified. None could believe it had happened; none could grasp immediately that yonder lay – not Symes as was finally expected – but Smily Merrick. His face was just – just horrible, ripped brutally out of recognition!
‘Good God!’ someone exclaimed, the trembling voice, raised in genuine prayer, adding fresh awe and dread to the tragedy.
Jeff Rand stood dumbstricken, his face drawn and sickly. His hands were white and lean as he clenched at the doorpost. Wide-eyed he peered at Symes who leered victoriously back at him. Then, with a horrified expression, Rand stared at Smily’s dead body.
Natural rebellion surged up within Rand, knowing Symes had killed from spite to strike at him. All too late Jeff realised what had been his true feelings for Smily Merrick: the young fellow had been his friend, the only one he had in this wretched gang. The knowledge engulfed Rand in an unknown fear, because he felt he should do something about it. But more shocking than anything else, came the understanding that, only a few moments ago, he had dared to goad Symes, to play tough with a devil-assisted killer, a gunfighter whose speed was – was simply indescribable, stunning. He, Rand, would have been that poor bleeding corpse. The thought sent a cold shudder through his heart.
For perhaps the first time in his lonesome life, Jeff became a victim of complete fear. A queer haze kept blurring his vision; a choking sensation in the throat set his chest heaving: and the men looked at him and waited, all expecting him to do something. Passionately he yearned to kill Symes at that moment; but no, he could not. Thought of it set him quaking and recoiling inwardly. Trance-like he continued to stare at the body and the killer.
‘Hi there! Hi, you mad fools!’ a voice hailed them, shrill with fury. ‘What the shooting about? Do you boys think this a fine time to celebrate or something?’
Big Bruce rushed over with two men from the corral. His face was puffed with anger, though it deflated and its colour drained away on noticing the body.
‘Say, what’s that?’ he breathed with characteristic stupidity. Next moment his eyes flashed upon Rand at whom he roared like a bull in a prairie fire. ‘You! Drat you, Rand, what in tarnation you recken this is? So we have more of your handy shooting, huh? Another good man gone west. Now you’re for it. I’m just waiting to find yuh without them guns, Mister, and then you’re finished.’
A long jocular chuckle caused Bruce to whip round. Whereat he found Symes calmly thumbing cartridges into the chambers of his Forty-fives.
‘Drew his gun fust; jest a crazy kid,’ Symes explained, very regretful, in a very lazy manner. ‘Can’t noways figure what got into the fella; touch o’ the sun, I guess. Lucky I’m alive, Bruce. Ain’t that so, Rand?’
An answer to that question was more than Rand fancied to try at the moment. He deliberately fixed his attention on his boots, knowing it to be the safest thing to do, even if Symes did find it highly entertaining. Rand knew that neither himself, nor any man he had ever encountered in action, could equal Symes’ gun-speed. It was a bitter admission, but Mister Symes was a slick-practised streak of lightning.
The boss had quickly mastered his rising anger, and summoned an unconvincing grin to meet the situation, all the while trying to appear unaware of Symes’ sidelong look of challenging inquiry.
‘Whose bundle o’ rotten bones is it then?’ Bruce asked, seeking to hide his fear under brutal words.
‘It’s Smily Jack Merrick,’ Tom revealed in a gentle graveside voice.
‘Oh, just Merrick! Well, that’s different. I thought mebbe it was somebody. Serves him right. Caught a gunslinger’s disease from Rand, I wager.’ Bruce posted Rand a foreboding look. ‘Tom and Mex, get the thing buried, won’t yuh? We can’t stand looking at this mess all night, there’s a job to do, remember. As for you, Symes, don’t let the matter worry you none. You’re not a fella to waste lead for nothing. Mount up and lead your boys into Flintstone.’
‘Leave that corpse alone!’
Mister Sturdy gravely strode from the rear of the gathering. Whether or not he had witnessed the incident, none could say, and none could calculate what his feelings were from his poker-face. He bent down and lifted Smily Merrick with a peculiar father-like tenderness, somewhat disturbing to Merrick’s one-time buddies who coughed and bowed their heads. Sturdy called back over his shoulder, saying:
‘Rand, come along with me. Ain’t it about time you were riding, Symes? Like Bruce told yuh, we’ll hit town about an hour after you and your party. Are you coming, Rand?’
It was with a cheerful wave and chuckle that Symes swung away, leapt into the saddle, and herded his boys away.
As the first party of riders galloped down the gulch and into the onrushing night, Bruce and the remainder of his gang re-entered the main cabin. Simple and superstitious as many of them were, this second visit of death had temporarily quelled the heartening prospect of a rich raid. Many accepted the killing as a forewarning of worse disaster.
The drumming of hoof-beats faded into the distance. Mister Sturdy, with Smily Merrick’s bleeding body still cradled in his arms, stood immobile; and beside him, with outward signs of a person still suffering from shock, stood Jeff Rand. Both men stared down Grapevine Gulch.
CHAPTER TEN
Flintstone was well ahead for a two-year-old city. It originated when Jacob Rispin discovered gold where the creeks merged into Wawa river. But now Jacob’s lucky strike had passed out of the placer stage into lode mining; now quartz mills were arriving at the diggings and now Flintstone was receiving hundreds of emigrants a week, so that any drifting saddle-tramp would scarcely recognize the place from month to month. Solid and substantial buildings, magnificent saloons with long mirrors and paintings, great storehouses loaded with tons of provisions, weekly trains of prairie freighters, everything that conduces to a rapid growth of wealth – such was Flintstone: and next to the largest saloon the most frequented place was Bulmer’s Bank.
Upon the particular day under consideration, the dawn found Flintstone a right down peaceful and inviting town. It was only five a.m., however, and as usual the place had been turned into bedlam until two a.m. Admittedly the bedlam had not been so outright bad with the new sheriff in town, yet sufficient crime had been committed as could only be expected in a full-blown capital city. Nonetheless the shooting, so it was said, was hardly considered dangerous unless there had been intent to kill, and unless a fellow could prove his mind had not been unbalanced by liquor or good-luck at the time. Still, it was really marvellous just how many fellows had been getting lucky lately, were becoming strike-happy, and loosing high-spirits through their gun-barrels.
Six a.m. Now the main street was gradually giving signs of life. It was strange but the town was usually fully half-alive by this hour. Maybe there was nothing wrong, though; maybe in another hour or so the place would become the usual milling mass of miners, villains, women, kids, dogs, horses and wagons. Soon the bull-whackers would be cursing, oxen bawling, whips cracking, saws rasping, hammers rapping, and all the busy confusion of a Southwest town in painful growth would be a-loading that peaceful landscape. The minutes dragged by. Nothing seemed to happen. The still air seemed to be waiting to carry the customary hullabaloo, but it did not come. It was now exactly six-thirty a.m. This was getting serious. In actual fact it was already alarming.
The su
n had risen vividly, too vividly, and a blistering heat had seeped at once into the already hard-baked earth. Under the slanting rays the town became a straggling mass of bright sides and glum shadows, shimmering and painful to the head: the customary touch of early morning freshness was absent. No dew, just ankle-deep dust awaited the breeze. Business was opening up lazily; citizens began to come abroad tiredly. The uproar slowly began, yet it reached nowhere near its accustomed peak. What was more astounding the tumult started to decline again. The heat, the energy-sapping heat grew more intense. It was unbelievable that there was any place so hot and airless this side of Hades. By noon an uncommon lethargy had gripped that booming gold-mining town of Flintstone.
There were lizards gasping in the cart-ruts and chasing flies along veranda rails. There were hardly any patrons in the twin lines of stores, except the saloons, whose bars were lined with silent groups of panting, gulping miners. Just a few drooping knots of horses were tied up at the hitching racks, with sunshine gleaming glossily over their quivering hides. Now scarcely any citizens appeared down that sweltering shimmering channel of hell called a street. Even the justice courts had closed down; even the over-crowded jail was silent like a forgotten church. Finally, the newly-arrived miners of last night, and the first hopeful early-risers of today, came straggling back into town, saying the diggings had hung-fire, beaten down by the heat.
‘Hot enough to shrivel snakes,’ commented the barkeep at the First Class Saloon. He dabbed his brow and surveyed his slim line of customers, all dusty, red and haggard. ‘Yeah, I recollect last year when it got so derned hot, fellas, that rocks split like roasted nuts, and yella ore oozed out like likker.’
‘You don’t say!’ exclaimed the tallest patron, hitching up a broad gunbelt as he added a boisterous laugh. ‘Me and my boys here are used to hot places, pard.’
‘Then you must be tough,’ chuckled the barkeep.
‘Real fire-eaters, Mister,’ added the tall stranger, winking at his companions then leering challengingly at the astounded bartender.
Certainly the heat was fraying everybody’s temper. Even the usually amiable old-timer in the hardware store across the street, next to Bulmer’s Bank, was irritable.
‘So it’s high quality leather you want, young fella?’ The old man scowled at his darkly-clad customer who, stretching a piece of leather and minutely inspecting it, kept a maddeningly blank face. ‘Well, that’s the best leather in town.’
‘Are you really sure? Its derned important that I get the very best,’ murmured the customer, limping slightly as he examined other sheets of hide hanging from the rafters.
‘Look you here, I knows my bisness. What do you reckon you’re a-holding, a piece of steak?’
‘Shucks, don’t get sore, Grandpa,’ soothed the stranger, grinning. ‘This piece feels strong and pliable, sure enough.’
‘What did I tell yuh?’ snapped the old fellow. ‘Why, you couldn’t jab a fork into gravy off it.’
‘Good. Give me a square foot of the stuff, Grandpa.’ said the customer.
‘What? Is that all!’ The old fellow grew red with indignation.
‘Yeah, that’s all. I don’t fancy big dinners on hot days. They put me in a killing mood.’
The old-timer looked staggered. Hastily he completed the sale, slicing the leather with fearful eagerness after the stranger had measured it across his holsters.
‘Hot! Why, it’s blood heat, boiling blood heat; tornado atmosphere. Do you know what? You bunch o’ boys are my fust arrivals today.’ So complained the owner of the general goods store, at the other side of Bulmer’s Bank. ‘You’d think a doggone plague had hit town, and half the folk were laid low with itchy-back or summat.’
‘Is that the best chewing baccy you stock, Mister?’ asked the foremost customer, adjusting the cuffs of his black lawyer-like suit.
‘None better, friend, none better any place. Try some, it’s the rarest shipment we’ve had.’
‘Reckon you’re right,’ agreed the buyer, biting at a piece and spitting it out in terror. ‘Good Lord Harry! It’s a wonder it doesn’t rear up, stagger out, and spread fever!’
A roar of laughter came from the speaker’s buddies who, grinning at the amazed storekeeper, slowly filed by the counter, making small purchases.
It was shortly after noon when a large and well-dressed gentleman issued from the best hotel in town. Similar to other such persons occasionally seen in Flintstone, he gave the impression of a rich speculator arrived from the east, who doubtless owned and managed scores of rich mining properties. He was sleek, smoked a costly cigar, fanned his beefy red face with a silk handkerchief, kept wiping the inside brim of his expensive hat with same, and grinned magnanimously at the world as he swaggered along the plank sidewalk. Behind him, carefully keeping at a respectful distance, came four subservient associates neatly dressed like a set of aspiring undertakers, and carrying extraordinary weighty-looking saddle-bags. As the party passed the First Class Saloon it aroused the accustomed curiosity inside, and loud remarks that some greedy easterners would stay trading in any weather, and even go to hell to exploit Old Mischief.
This particular sally from the barkeep pleased his line of patrons, though in his enthusiasm to make his wit famous he had spoken just a little too loud. The gentleman outside halted abruptly, seemed to bloat hotly with indignation, then turned to scowl aggressively over the batwing doors. Everybody pretended to be unaware, especially the bartender who polished industriously at the counter. The man outside recollected himself and marched onward with an air of supreme disdain for the lower class. On passing a dry-goods store he gave a dollar to a squaw, who stood hungrily regarding certain melons and bunches of corn. Glowingly conscious of his own generous nature, the man then relit his cigar with a pompous flourish and swaggered across the street. He glanced over his shoulder and crooked a fat finger at his solemn followers. They entered the bank.
The main saloon disgorged a number of its patrons who strolled idly across the street, joking together. Two kids in bare feet and shirts ran out of the livery-stable, carrying a jar with a lizard in it, and followed by a stream of angry language. Ten seconds later a lanky rider walked his horse in the shadows while tying a roll of something to his saddle. The broad brim of his hat flapped up and down at each step he took, so he removed it and pinned the brim back as he passed the general store. There was a baby crying forlornly somewhere among the cabins by the creek. A group of tobacco-chewing customers sauntered forth from the store and headed up the street.
‘Never seen the like o’ this town today,’ an old prospector mused to himself as he sprawled in the shade of a woodpile. ‘There jest ain’t nothing doing. And no blamed wonder,’ he went on, watching the resin bubbling from the logs. ‘If heat like this kills Flintstone, makes it gorgeous peaceful, then I’ll go to hell.’ He flicked his hat back over his face, and went to sleep.
Bulmer’s Bank was the most substantial building in town, and its appearance with iron-clad doors and barred windows, was more suited to a prison. Inside everything was highly polished and smart, with horsehair couches along the walls, and a good-sized spittoon at every footrest beneath the counters, so that no fellow had any excuse whatsoever. Just to enter the place made one feel downright respectable, even nervously good-mannered, and keen to tie-up business quickly so as to relax and be natural again outside. The central counter supported a huge glass frame, curved, and holding the letters ‘GOLD DUST.’ Behind this stood a massive set of scales, behind which crouched a spruce clerk with waxed moustache, who kept calling out figures to a studious cashier away in a corner. Other learned fellows were visible bobbing up and down over ledgers in the Express Office. Such was Bulmer’s Bank, most famous in the territory. A man felt ashamed to enter with less than fifty dollars, and sorry to come out empty-handed if luck was low at the diggings. Comparatively speaking, today the place was dead.
The big and dignified easterner had swaggered inside with his four attendants, waited u
ntil two or three sad-faced miners had finished their business at the Gold Dust counter, then approached with a wide grin. He rapped with strange loudness on the glass. Other visitors appeared stealthily. The Express Office doorway became blocked by a party of men who argued softly about the output of ore at the creek, while a tall fellow with a broad gunbelt kept shaking his head in contempt of their argument. The main doorway seemed to have become suddenly obstructed by a legal-looking man who instructively read aloud a notice of law-and-order pasted on the window. But the small side entrance contained one tall and sombre rider whose face looked dead as he lounged against the wall. The long anticipated hold-up was in operation. Bulmer’s Bank was unconsciously in the clutches of the Bruce Gang.
Jeff Rand looked shocked and pale, as if he had just now realised the truth, that he was an accomplice in a bank raid which, if it succeeded, would go down in history as the biggest crime of its sort in the Southwest, and be talked of long after the raiders were buried and forgotten.
‘Hi there, sir! Weigh me in for this load of ore, please. I’m a-fixing on opening an account here. The name’s Bruce Crater.’
It was the boss speaking, and his voice thrilled every other man who made a pretence of being disinterested.
Big Bruce made a significant flourish with his cigar. His four followers tramped forward, sweating and panting. They emptied the saddle-bags on the counter. The amount and super quality of the gold widened the clerk’s eyes. But the tall rider standing at the side-entrance was the most impressed. Everybody heard him gasp and brace himself, with a creaking of leather and a jingling of spurs. What was wrong with Rand? Was he going to ruin everything? Was he sick? Had he seen a ghost. But no; Rand only saw those sacks of ore, and each sack bore the initials J.M. Here at last and all too late, Jeff Rand had found Jim Miller’s gold.