Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  “I’m givin’ you my word you won’t be harmed while you’re under arrest,” answered Corcoran.

  “That’s enough for me,” said McBride promptly, extending his pistol.

  Corcoran took it and thrust it into his waistband. “It’s damned foolishness, takin’ an honest man’s gun,” he grunted. “But accordin’ to Middleton that’s the law. Give me your word that you won’t skip, till you’ve been properly acquitted, and I won’t lock you up.”

  “I’d rather go to jail,” said McBride. “I wouldn’t skip. But I’ll be safer in jail, with you guardin’ me, than I would be walkin’ around loose for some of Brent’s friends to shoot me in the back. After I’ve been cleared by due process of law, they won’t dare to lynch me, and I ain’t afraid of ’em when it comes to gunfightin’, in the open.”

  “All right.” Corcoran stooped and picked up the dead gambler’s gun, and thrust it into his belt. The crowd surging about the door gave way as he led his prisoner out.

  “There the skunk is!” bawled a rough voice. “He murdered Ace Brent!”

  McBride turned pale with anger and glared into the crowd, but Corcoran urged him along, and the miner grinned as other voices rose: “A damned good thing, too!” “Brent was crooked!” “He was a Vulture!” bawled somebody, and for a space a tense silence held. That charge was too sinister to bring openly against even a dead man. Frightened by his own indiscretion the man who had shouted slunk away, hoping none had identified his voice.

  “I’ve been gamblin’ too much,” growled McBride, as he strode along beside Corcoran. “Afraid to try to take my gold out, though, and didn’t know what else to do with it. Brent won thousands of dollars worth of dust from me; poker, mostly.

  “This mornin’ I was talkin’ to Middleton, and he showed a card he said a gambler dropped in his cabin last night. He showed me it was marked, in a way I’d never have suspected. I recognized it as one of the same brand Brent always uses, though Middleton wouldn’t tell me who the gambler was. But later I learned that Brent slept off a drunk in Middleton’s cabin. Damned poor business for a gambler to get drunk.

  “I went to the King of Diamonds awhile ago, and started playin’ poker with Brent and a couple of miners. As soon as he raked in the first pot, I called him — flashed the card I got from Middleton and started to show the boys where it was marked. Then Brent pulled his gun; it snapped, and I killed him before he could cock it again. He knew I had the goods on him. He didn’t even give me time to tell where I’d gotten the card.”

  Corcoran made no reply. He locked McBride in the jail, called the jailer from his nearby shack and told him to furnish the prisoner with food, liquor and anything else he needed, and then hurried to his own cabin. Sitting on his bunk in the room behind the sheriff’s office, he ejected the cartridge on which Brent’s pistol had snapped. The cap was dented, but had not detonated the powder. Looking closely he saw faint abrasions on both the bullet and brass case. They were such as might have been made by the jaws of iron pinchers and a vise.

  Securing a wire-cutter with pincher jaws, he began to work at the bullet. It slipped out with unusual ease, and the contents of the case spilled into his hand. He did not need to use a match to prove that it was not powder. He knew what the stuff was at first glance — iron filings, to give the proper weight to the cartridge from which the powder had been removed.

  At that moment he heard someone enter the outer room, and recognized the firm, easy tread of Sheriff Middleton. Corcoran went into the office and Middleton turned, hung his white hat on a nail.

  “McNab tells me McBride killed Ace Brent!”

  “You ought to know!” Corcoran grinned. He tossed the bullet and empty case on the table, dumped the tiny pile of iron dust beside them.

  “Brent spent the night with you. You got him drunk, and stole one of his cards to show to McBride. You knew how his cards were marked. You took a cartridge out of Brent’s gun and put that one in place. One would be enough. You knew there’d be gunplay between him and McBride, when you showed McBride that marked card, and you wanted to be sure it was Brent who stopped lead.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Middleton. “I haven’t seen you since early yesterday morning. I was going to tell you about the frame I’d ribbed, as soon as I saw you. I didn’t know McBride would go after Brent as quickly as he did.

  “Brent got too ambitious. He acted as if he were suspicious of us both, lately. Maybe, though, it was just jealousy as far as you were concerned. He liked Glory Bland, and she could never see him. It gouged him to see her falling for you.

  “And he wanted my place as leader of the Vultures. If there was one man in the gang that could have kept us from skipping with the loot, it was Ace Brent.

  “But I think I’ve worked it neatly. No one can accuse me of having him murdered, because McBride isn’t in the gang. I have no control over him. But Brent’s friends will want revenge.”

  “A miners’ court will acquit McBride on the first ballot.”

  “That’s true. Maybe we’d better let him get shot, trying to escape!”

  “We will like hell!” rapped Corcoran. “I swore he wouldn’t be harmed while he was under arrest. His part of the deal was on the level. He didn’t know Brent had a blank in his gun, any more than Brent did. If Brent’s friends want his scalp, let ’em go after McBride, like white men ought to, when he’s in a position to defend himself.”

  “But after he’s acquitted,” argued Middleton, “they won’t dare gang up on him in the street, and he’ll be too sharp to give them a chance at him in the hills.”

  “What the hell do I care?” snarled Corcoran. “What difference does it make to me whether Brent’s friends get even or not? Far as I’m concerned, he got what was comin’ to him. If they ain’t got the guts to give McBride an even break, I sure ain’t goin’ to fix it so they can murder him without riskin’ their own hides. If I catch ’em sneakin’ around the jail for a shot at him, I’ll fill ’em full of hot lead.

  “If I’d thought the miners would be crazy enough to do anything to him for killin’ Brent, I’d never arrested him. They won’t. They’ll acquit him. Until they do, I’m responsible for him, and I’ve give my word. And anybody that tries to lynch him while he’s in my charge better be damned sure they’re quicker with a gun than I am.”

  “There’s nobody of that nature in Wahpeton,” admitted Middleton with a wry smile. “All right, if you feel your personal honor is involved. But I’ll have to find a way to placate Brent’s friends, or they’ll be accusing me of being indifferent about what happened to him.”

  * * *

  6. VULTURES’ COURT

  NEXT morning Corcoran was awakened by a wild shouting in the street. He had slept in the jail that night, not trusting Brent’s friends, but there had been no attempt at violence. He jerked on his boots, and went out into the street, followed by McBride, to learn what the shouting was about.

  Men milled about in the street, even at that early hour — for the sun was not yet up — surging about a man in the garb of a miner. This man was astride a horse whose coat was dark with sweat; the man was wild eyed, bareheaded, and he held his hat in his hands, holding it down for the shouting, cursing throng to see.

  “Look at ‘em!” he yelled. “Nuggets as big as hen eggs! I took ’em out in an hour, with a pick, diggin’ in the wet sand by the creek! And there’s plenty more! It’s the richest strike these hills ever seen!”

  “Where?” roared a hundred voices.

  “Well, I got my claim staked out, all I need,” said the man, “so I don’t mind tellin’ you. It ain’t twenty miles from here, in a little canyon everybody’s overlooked and passed over — Jackrabbit Gorge! The creek’s buttered with dust, and the banks are crammed with pockets of nuggets!”

  An exuberant whoop greeted this information, and the crowd broke up suddenly as men raced for their shacks.

  “New strike,” sighed McBride enviously. “The whole town will be surgin’ down Jack
rabbit Gorge. Wish I could go.”

  “Gimme your word you’ll come back and stand trial, and you can go,” promptly offered Corcoran. McBride stubbornly shook his head.

  “No, not till I’ve been cleared legally. Anyway, only a handful of men will get anything. The rest will be pullin’ back into their claims in Wahpeton Gulch tomorrow. Hell, I’ve been in plenty of them rushes. Only a few ever get anything.”

  Colonel Hopkins and his partner Dick Bisley hurried past. Hopkins shouted: “We’ll have to postpone your trial until this rush is over, Jack! We were going to hold it today, but in an hour there won’t be enough men in Wahpeton to impanel a jury! Sorry you can’t make the rush. If we can, Dick and I will stake out a claim for you!”

  “Thanks, Colonel!”

  “No thanks! The camp owes you something for ridding it of that scoundrel Brent. Corcoran, we’ll do the same for you, if you like.”

  “No, thanks,” drawled Corcoran. “Minin’s too hard work. I’ve got a gold mine right here in Wahpeton that don’t take so much labor!”

  The men burst into laughter at this conceit, and Bisley shouted back as they hurried on: “That’s right! Your salary looks like an assay from the Comstock lode! But you earn it, all right!”

  Joe Willoughby came rolling by, leading a seedy-looking burro on which illy-hung pick and shovel banged against skillet and kettle. Willoughby grasped a jug in one hand, and that he had already been sampling it was proved by his wide-legged gait.

  “H’ray for the new diggin’s!” he whooped, brandishing the jug at Corcoran and McBride. “Git along, jackass! I’ll be scoopin’ out nuggets bigger’n this jug before night — if the licker don’t git in my legs before I git there!”

  “And if it does, he’ll fall into a ravine and wake up in the mornin’ with a fifty pound nugget in each hand,” said McBride. “He’s the luckiest son of a gun in the camp; and the best natured.”

  “I’m goin’ and get some ham-and-eggs,” said Corcoran. “You want to come and eat with me, or let Pete Daley fix your breakfast here?”

  “I’ll eat in the jail,” decided McBride. “I want to stay in jail till I’m acquitted. Then nobody can accuse me of tryin’ to beat the law in any way.”

  “All right.” With a shout to the jailer, Corcoran swung across the road and headed for the camp’s most pretentious restaurant, whose proprietor was growing rich, in spite of the terrific prices he had to pay for vegetables and food of all kinds — prices he passed on to his customers.

  While Corcoran was eating, Middleton entered hurriedly, and bending over him, with a hand on his shoulder, spoke softly in his ear.

  “I’ve just got wind that that old miner, Joe Brockman, is trying to sneak his gold out on a pack mule, under the pretense of making this rush. I don’t know whether it’s so or not, but some of the boys up in the hills think it is, and are planning to waylay him and kill him. If he intends getting away, he’ll leave the trail to Jackrabbit Gorge a few miles out of town, and swing back toward Yankton, taking the trail over Grizzly Ridge — you know where the thickets are so close. The boys will be laying for him either on the ridge or just beyond.

  “He hasn’t enough dust to make it worth our while to take it. If they hold him up they’ll have to kill him, and we want as few murders as possible. Vigilante sentiment is growing, in spite of the people’s trust in you and me. Get on your horse and ride to Grizzly Ridge and see that the old man gets away safe. Tell the boys Middleton said to lay off. If they won’t listen — but they will. They wouldn’t buck you, even without my word to back you. I’ll follow the old man, and try to catch up with him before he leaves the Jackrabbit Gorge road.

  “I’ve sent McNab up to watch the jail, just as a formality. I know McBride won’t try to escape, but we mustn’t be accused of carelessness.”

  “Let McNab be mighty careful with his shootin’ irons,” warned Corcoran. “No ‘shot while attemptin’ to escape’, Middleton. I don’t trust McNab. If he lays a hand on McBride, I’ll kill him as sure as I’m sittin’ here.”

  “Don’t worry. McNab hated Brent. Better get going. Take the short cut through the hills to Grizzly Ridge.”

  “Sure.” Corcoran rose and hurried out in the street which was all but deserted. Far down toward the other end of the gulch rose the dust of the rearguard of the army which was surging toward the new strike. Wahpeton looked almost like a deserted town in the early morning light, foreshadowing its ultimate destiny.

  Corcoran went to the corral beside the sheriff’s cabin and saddled a fast horse, glancing cryptically at the powerful pack mules whose numbers were steadily increasing. He smiled grimly as he remembered Middleton telling Colonel Hopkins that pack mules were a good investment. As he led his horse out of the corral his gaze fell on a man sprawling under the trees across the road, lazily whittling. Day and night, in one way or another, the gang kept an eye on the cabin which hid the cache of their gold. Corcoran doubted if they actually suspected Middleton’s intentions. But they wanted to be sure that no stranger did any snooping about.

  Corcoran rode into a ravine that straggled away from the gulch, and a few minutes later he followed a narrow path to its rim, and headed through the mountains toward the spot, miles away, where a trail crossed Grizzly Ridge, a long, steep backbone, thickly timbered.

  He had not left the ravine far behind him when a quick rattle of hoofs brought him around, in time to see a horse slide recklessly down a low bluff amid a shower of shale. He swore at the sight of its rider.

  “Glory! What the hell?”

  “Steve!” She reined up breathlessly beside him. “Go back! It’s a trick! I heard Buck Gorman talking to Conchita; he’s sweet on her. He’s a friend of Brent’s — a Vulture! She twists all his secrets out of him. Her room is next to mine, she thought I was out. I overheard them talking. Gorman said a trick had been played on you to get you out of town. He didn’t say how. Said you’d go to Grizzly Ridge on a wild-goose chase. While you’re gone they’re going to assemble a ‘miners’ court,’ out of the riff-raff left in town. They’re going to appoint a ‘judge’ and ‘jury,’ take McBride out of jail, try him for killing Ace Brent — and hang him!”

  A lurid oath ripped through Steve Corcoran’s lips, and for an instant the tiger flashed into view, eyes blazing, fangs bared. Then his dark face was an inscrutable mask again. He wrenched his horse around.

  “Much obliged, Glory. I’ll be dustin’ back into town. You circle around and come in another way. I don’t want folks to know you told me.”

  “Neither do I!” she shuddered. “I knew Ace Brent was a Vulture. He boasted of it to me, once when he was drunk. But I never dared tell anyone. He told me what he’d do to me if I did. I’m glad he’s dead. I didn’t know Gorman was a Vulture, but I might have guessed it. He was Brent’s closest friend. If they ever find out I told you—”

  “They won’t,” Corcoran assured her. It was natural for a girl to fear such black-hearted rogues as the Vultures, but the thought of them actually harming her never entered his mind. He came from a country where not even the worst of scoundrels would ever dream of hurting a woman.

  He drove his horse at a reckless gallop back the way he had come, but not all the way. Before he reached the Gulch he swung wide of the ravine he had followed out, and plunged into another, that would bring him into the Gulch at the end of town where the jail stood. As he rode down it he heard a deep, awesome roar he recognized — the roar of the man-pack, hunting its own kind.

  A band of men surged up the dusty street, roaring, cursing. One man waved a rope. Pale faces of bartenders, store clerks and dance hall girls peered timidly out of doorways as the unsavory mob roared past. Corcoran knew them, by sight or reputation: plug-uglies, barroom loafers, skulkers — many were Vultures, as he knew; others were riff-raff, ready for any sort of deviltry that required neither courage nor intelligence — the scum that gathers in any mining camp.

  Dismounting, Corcoran glided through the straggling trees that g
rew behind the jail, and heard McNab challenge the mob.

  “What do you want?”

  “We aim to try your prisoner!” shouted the leader. “We come in the due process of law. We’ve app’inted a jedge and paneled a jury, and we demands that you hand over the prisoner to be tried in miners’ court, accordin’ to legal precedent!”

  “How do I know you’re representative of the camp?” parried McNab.

  “‘Cause we’re the only body of men in camp right now!” yelled someone, and this was greeted by a roar of laughter.

  “We come empowered with the proper authority—” began the leader, and broke off suddenly: “Grab him, boys!”

  There was the sound of a brief scuffle, McNab swore vigorously, and the leader’s voice rose triumphantly: “Let go of him, boys, but don’t give him his gun. McNab, you ought to know better’n to try to oppose legal procedure, and you a upholder of law and order!”

  Again a roar of sardonic laughter, and McNab growled: “All right; go ahead with the trial. But you do it over my protests. I don’t believe this is a representative assembly.”

  “Yes, it is,” averred the leader, and then his voice thickened with blood- lust. “Now, Daley, gimme that key and bring out the prisoner.”

  The mob surged toward the door of the jail, and at that instant Corcoran stepped around the corner of the cabin and leaped up on the low porch it boasted. There was a hissing intake of breath. Men halted suddenly, digging their heels against the pressure behind them. The surging line wavered backward, leaving two figures isolated — McNab, scowling, disarmed, and a hairy giant whose huge belly was girt with a broad belt bristling with gun butts and knife hilts. He held a noose in one hand, and his bearded lips gaped as he glared at the unexpected apparition.

  For a breathless instant Corcoran did not speak. He did not look at McBride’s pallid countenance peering through the barred door behind him. He stood facing the mob, his head slightly bent, a somber, immobile figure, sinister with menace.