The Killer

by Stewart Edward White

  CHAPTER XV

  They had no tender feelings about me, however. Nobody cared whether Iever ate or not. I was led into the little ranch office and catechizedto a fare-ye-well. They sat and roosted and squatted about, emittingsolemn puffs of smoke and speaking never a word; and the sun went downin shafts of light through the murk, and the old shadows of former dayscrept from the corners. When I had finished my story it was dusk.

  And on the heels of my recital came the sound of hoofs in a hurry; andpresently loomed in the doorway the gigantic figure of Tom Thorne, thesheriff. He peered, seeing nothing through the smoke and the twilight;and the old timers sat tight and smoked.

  "Buck Johnson here?" asked Thorne in his big voice.

  "Here," replied the senor.

  "I am told," said Thorne, directly, "that there is here an assembly forunlawful purposes. If so, I call on you in the name of the law to keepthe peace."

  "Tom," rejoined Buck Johnson, "I want you to make me your deputy."

  "For what purpose?"

  "There is a dispossession notice to be served hereabouts; a trespasserwho must be put off from property that is not his."

  "You men are after Hooper, and I know it. Now you can't run yourneighbours' quarrels with a gun, not anymore. This is a country of lawnow."

  "Tom," repeated Buck in a reasoning tone, "come in. Strike a light ifyou want to: and take a look around. There's a lot of your friends here.There's Jim Carson over in the corner, and Donald Macomber, and MarcusMalley, and Dan Watkins."

  At this slow telling of the most prominent names in the southwest cattleindustry Tom Thorne took a step into the room and lighted a match. Thelittle flame, held high above his head, burned down to his fingers whilehe stared at the impassive faces surrounding him. Probably he hadthought to interfere dutifully in a local affair of considerableseriousness; and there is no doubt that Tom Thorne was never afraid ofhis duty. But here was Arizona itself gathered for purposes of its own.He hardly noticed when the flame scorched his fingers.

  "Tom," said Buck Johnson after a moment, "I heerd tell of a desperatecriminal headed for Grant's Pass, and I figure you can just about catchup with him if you start right now and keep on riding. Only you'd bettermake me your deputy first. It'll sort of leave things in good legalresponsible hands, as you can always easy point out if asked."

  Tom gulped.

  "Raise your right hand," he commanded, curtly, and administered theoath. "Now I leave it in your hands to preserve the peace," heconcluded. "I call you all to witness."

  "That's all right, Tom," said Buck, still in his crooning tones, takingthe big sheriff by the elbow and gently propelling him toward the door,"now as to this yere criminal over toward Grant's Pass, he was a littlebit of a runt about six foot three tall; heavy set, weight about ahundred and ten; light complected with black hair and eyes. You can'thelp but find him. Tom's a good sort," he observed, coming back, "buthe's young. He don't realize yet that when things get real serious thissheriff foolishness just nat'rally bogs down. Now I reckon we'd bettertalk to the girl."

  I made a beeline for the cook house while they did that and filled upfor three. By the time I had finished, the conference was raised, andmen were catching and saddling their mounts. I did not intend to getleft out, you may be sure, so I rustled around and borrowed me a saddleand a horse, and was ready to start with the rest.

  We jogged up the road in a rough sort of column, the old timers ridingahead in a group of their own. No injunction had been laid as to keepingquiet; nevertheless, conversation was sparse and low voiced. The menmostly rode in silence smoking their cigarettes. About half way theleaders summoned me, and I trotted up to join them.

  They wanted to know about the situation of the ranch as I had observedit. I could not encourage them much. My recollection made of the place athoroughly protected walled fortress, capable of resisting aconsiderable assault.

  "Of course with this gang we could sail right over them," observed Buck,thoughtfully, "but we'd lose a considerable of men doing it."

  "Ain't no chance of sneaking somebody inside?" suggested Watkins.

  "Got to give Old Man Hooper credit for some sense," replied the senor,shortly.

  "We can starve 'em out," suggested somebody.

  "Unless I miss the old man a mile he's already got a messenger headedfor the troops at Fort Huachuca," interposed Macomber. "He ain't foolenough to take chances on a local sheriff."

  "You're tooting he ain't," approved Buck Johnson. "It's got to be quickwork."

  "Burn him out," said Watkins.

  "It's the young lady's property," hesitated my boss. "I kind of hate todestroy it unless we have to."

  At this moment the Morgan stallion, which I had not noticed before, wasreined back to join our little group. Atop him rode the diminutive formof Artie Brower whom I had thought down and out. He had evidently hadhis evening's dose of hop and under the excitation of the first effecthad joined the party. His derby hat was flattened down to his ears.Somehow it exasperated me.

  "For heaven's sake why don't you get you a decent hat!" I muttered, butto myself. He was carrying that precious black bag.

  "Blow a hole in his old walls!" he suggested, cheerfully. "That old fortwas built against Injins. A man could sneak up in the shadow and set heroff. It wouldn't take but a dash of soup to stick a hole you could ridethrough a-horseback."

  "Soup?" echoed Buck.

  "Nitroglycerine," explained Watkins, who had once been a miner.

  "Oh, sure!" agreed Buck, sarcastically. "And where'd we get it?"

  "I always carry a little with me just for emergencies," asserted Brower,calmly, and patted his black bag.

  There was a sudden and unanimous edging away.

  "For the love of Pete!" I cried. "Was there some of that stuff in thereall the time I've been carrying it around?"

  "It's packed good: it can't go off," Artie reassured us. "I know mybiz."

  "What in God's name do you want such stuff for!" cried Judson.

  "Oh, just emergencies," answered Brower, vaguely, but I remembered hisuncanny skill in opening the combination of the safe. Possibly thatcontract between Emory and Hooper had come into his hands throughprofessional activities. However, that did not matter.

  "I can make a drop of soup go farther than other men a pint," boastedArtie. "I'll show you: and I'll show that old----"

  "You'll probably get shot," observed Buck, watching him closely.

  "W'at t'hell," observed Artie with an airy gesture.

  "It's the dope he takes," I told Johnson aside. "It only lasts about solong. Get him going before it dies on him."

  "I see. Trot right along," Buck commanded.

  Taking this as permission Brower clapped heels to the stallion and shotaway like an arrow.

  "Hold on! Stop! Oh, damn!" ejaculated the senor. "He'll gum the wholegame!" He spurred forward in pursuit, realized the hopelessness oftrying to catch the Morgan, and reined down again to a brisk travellingcanter. We surmounted the long, slow rise this side of Hooper's in timeto see a man stand out in the brush, evidently for the purpose ofchallenging the horseman. Artie paid him not the slightest attention,but swept by magnificently, the great stallion leaping high in hisrestrained vitality. The outpost promptly levelled his rifle. We saw thevivid flash in the half light. Brower reeled in his saddle, half fell,caught himself by the stallion's mane and clung, swinging to and fro.The horse, freed of control, tossed his head, laid back his ears, andran straight as an arrow for the great doors of the ranch.

  We uttered a simultaneous groan of dismay. Then with one accord westruck spurs and charged at full speed, grimly and silently. Against thegathering hush of evening rose only the drum-roll of our horses' hoofsand the dust cloud of their going. Except that Buck Johnson, rising inhis stirrups, let off three shots in the air; and at the signal from allpoints around the beleagured ranch men arose from the brush and mountedconcealed horses, and rode out into the open with rifles poised.

  The stallion thundered o
n; and the little jockey managed to cling to thesaddle, though how he did it none of us could tell. In the bottomlandnear the ranch he ran out of the deeper dusk into a band of the strange,luminous after-glow that follows erratically sunset in wide spaces. Thenwe could see that he was not only holding his seat, but was trying to dosomething, just what we could not make out. The reins were flying free,so there was no question of regaining control.

  A shot flashed at him from the ranch; then a second; after which, asthough at command, the firing ceased. Probably the condition of affairshad been recognized.

  All this we saw from a distance. The immensity of the Arizona country,especially at dusk when the mountains withdraw behind their veils andmystery flows into the bottomlands, has always a panoramic quality thatthrows small any human-sized activities. The ranch houses and theirattendant trees look like toys; the bands of cattle and the men workingthem are as though viewed through the reverse lenses of a glass; and thevery details of mesquite or _sacatone_ flats, of alkali shallow or ofoak grove are blended into broad washes of tone. But now the distant,galloping horse with its swaying mannikin charging on the ranch seemedto fill our world. The great forces of portent that hover aloof in thedusk of the desert stooped as with a rush of wings. The peaceful, widespaces and the veiled hills and the brooding skies were swept clear.Crisis filled our souls: crisis laid her hand on every living movingthing in the world, stopping it in its tracks so that the veryinfinities for a brief, weird period seemed poised over the runninghorse and the swaying, fumbling man.

  At least that is the way it affected me; and subsequent talk leads me tobelieve that that it is how it affected every man jack of us. We all haddifferent ways of expressing it. Windy Bill subsequently remarked: "Ifelt like some old Injun He-God had just told me to crawl in my hole andgive them that knew how a chanct."

  But I know we all stopped short, frozen in our tracks, and stared, and Idon't believe man, _or_ horse, drew a deep breath.

  Nearer and nearer the stallion drew to the ranch. Now he was within afew yards. In another moment he would crash head on, at tremendousspeed, into the closed massive doors. The rider seemed to have regainedsomewhat of his strength. He was sitting straight in the saddle, was nolonger clinging. But apparently he was making no effort to regaincontrol. His head was bent and he was still fumbling at something. Thedistance was too great for us to make out what, but that much we couldsee.

  On flew the stallion at undiminished speed. He was running blind; andseemingly nothing could save him from a crash. But at almost the lastmoment the great doors swung back. Those within had indeed realized thesituation and were meeting it. At the same instant Brower rose in hisstirrups and brought his arm forward in a wide, free swing. A blindingglare flashed across the world. We felt the thud and heave of atremendous explosion. Dust obliterated everything.

  "Charge, you coyotes! Charge!" shrieked Buck Johnson.

  And at full speed, shrieking like fiends, we swept across flats.