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

by Robert E. Howard

  “It’s him!” a voice hissed fiercely, as the blur merged with the bulkier shadow that was the cabin.

  In the stillness a door rasped across a sill. A yellow light sprang up, streaming through the door, blocking out a small window high up in the wall. The man inside did not cross the lighted doorway, and the window was too high to see through into the cabin.

  The light went out after a few minutes.

  “Come on!” The three men rose and went stealthily toward the cabin. Their bare feet made no sound, for they had discarded their boots. Coats too had been discarded, any garment that might swing loosely and rustle, or catch on projections. Cocked guns were in their hands, they could have been no more wary had they been approaching the lair of a lion. And each man’s heart pounded suffocatingly, for the prey they stalked was far more dangerous than any lion.

  When one spoke it was so low that his companions hardly heard him with their ears a matter of inches from his bearded lips.

  “We’ll take our places like we planned, Joel. You’ll go to the door and call him, like we told you. He knows Middleton trusts you. He don’t know you’d be helpin’ Gorman’s friends. He’ll recognize your voice, and he won’t suspect nothin’. When he comes to the door and opens it, step back into the shadows and fall flat. We’ll do the rest from where we’ll be layin’.”

  His voice shook slightly as he spoke, and the other man shuddered; his face was a pallid oval in the darkness.

  “I’ll do it, but I bet he kills some of us. I bet he kills me, anyway. I must have been crazy when I said I’d help you fellows.”

  “You can’t back out now!” hissed the other. They stole forward, their guns advanced, their hearts in their mouths. Then the foremost man caught at the arms of his companions.

  “Wait! Look there! He’s left the door open!”

  The open doorway was a blacker shadow in the shadow of the wall.

  “He knows we’re after him!” There was a catch of hysteria in the babbling whisper. “It’s a trap!”

  “Don’t be a fool! How could he know? He’s asleep. I hear him snorin’. We won’t wake him. We’ll step into the cabin and let him have it! We’ll have enough light from the window to locate the bunk, and we’ll rake it with lead before he can move. He’ll wake up in Hell. Come on, and for God’s sake, don’t make no noise!”

  The last advice was unnecessary. Each man, as he set his bare foot down, felt as if he were setting it into the lair of a diamond-backed rattler.

  As they glided, one after another, across the threshold, they made less noise than the wind blowing through the black branches. They crouched by the door, straining their eyes across the room, whence came the rhythmic snoring. Enough light sifted through the small window to show them a vague outline that was a bunk, with a shapeless mass upon it.

  A man caught his breath in a short, uncontrollable gasp. Then the cabin was shaken by a thunderous volley, three guns roaring together. Lead swept the bunk in a devastating storm, thudding into flesh and bone, smacking into wood. A wild cry broke in a gagging gasp. Limbs thrashed wildly and a heavy body tumbled to the floor. From the darkness on the floor beside the bunk welled up hideous sounds, choking gurgles and a convulsive flopping and thumping. The men crouching near the door poured lead blindly at the sounds. There was fear and panic in the haste and number of their shots. They did not cease jerking their triggers until their guns were empty, and the noises on the floor had ceased.

  “Out of here, quick!” gasped one.

  “No! Here’s the table, and a candle on it. I felt it in the dark. I’ve got to know that he’s dead before I leave this cabin. I’ve got to see him lyin’ dead if I’m goin’ to sleep easy. We’ve got plenty of time to get away. Folks down the gulch must have heard the shots, but it’ll take time for them to get here. No danger. I’m goin’ to light the candle—”

  There was a rasping sound, and a yellow light sprang up, etching three staring, bearded faces. Wisps of blue smoke blurred the light as the candle wick ignited from the fumbling match, but the men saw a huddled shape crumpled near the bunk, from which streams of dark crimson radiated in every direction.

  “Ahhh!”

  They whirled at the sound of running footsteps.

  “Oh, God!” shrieked one of the men, falling to his knees, his hands lifted to shut out a terrible sight. The other ruffians staggered with the shock of what they saw. They stood gaping, livid, helpless, empty guns sagging in their hands.

  For in the doorway, glaring in dangerous amazement, with a gun in each hand, stood the man whose lifeless body they thought lay over there by the splintered bunk!

  “Drop them guns!” Corcoran rasped. They clattered on the floor as the hands of their owner mechanically reached skyward. The man on the floor staggered up, his hands empty; he retched, shaken by the nausea of fear.

  “Joel Miller!” said Corcoran evenly; his surprise was passed, as he realized what had happened. “Didn’t know you run with Gorman’s crowd. Reckon Middleton’ll be some surprised, too.”

  “You’re a devil!” gasped Miller. “You can’t be killed! We killed you — heard you roll off your bunk and die on the floor, in the dark. We kept shooting after we knew you were dead. But you’re alive!”

  “You didn’t shoot me,” grunted Corcoran. “You shot a man you thought was me. I was comin’ up the road when I heard the shots. You killed Joe Willoughby! He was drunk and I reckon he staggered in here and fell in my bunk, like he’s done before.”

  The men went whiter yet under their bushy beards, with rage and chagrin and fear.

  “Willoughby!” babbled Miller. “The camp will never stand for this! Let us go, Corcoran! Hopkins and his crowd will hang us! It’ll mean the end of the Vultures! Your end, too, Corcoran! If they hang us, we’ll talk first! They’ll find out that you’re one of us!”

  “In that case,” muttered Corcoran, his eyes narrowing, “I’d better kill the three of you. That’s the sensible solution. You killed Willoughby, tryin’ to get me; I kill you, in self-defense.”

  “Don’t do it, Corcoran!” screamed Miller, frantic with terror.

  “Shut up, you dog,” growled one of the other men, glaring balefully at their captor. “Corcoran wouldn’t shoot down unarmed men.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” said Corcoran. “Not unless you made some kind of a break. I’m peculiar that way, which I see is a handicap in this country. But it’s the way I was raised, and I can’t get over it. No, I ain’t goin’ to beef you cold, though you’ve just tried to get me that way.

  “But I’ll be damned if I’m goin’ to let you sneak off, to come back here and try it again the minute you get your nerve bucked up. I’d about as soon be hanged by the vigilantes as shot in the back by a passle of rats like you-all. Vultures, hell! You ain’t even got the guts to be good buzzards.

  “I’m goin’ to take you down the gulch and throw you in jail. It’ll be up to Middleton to decide what to do with you. He’ll probably work out some scheme that’ll swindle everybody except himself; but I warn you — one yap about the Vultures to anybody, and I’ll forget my raisin’ and send you to Hell with your belts empty and your boots on.”

  The noise in the King of Diamonds was hushed suddenly as a man rushed in and bawled: “The Vultures have murdered Joe Willoughby! Steve Corcoran caught three of ‘em, and has just locked ’em up! This time we’ve got some live Vultures to work on!”

  A roar answered him and the gambling hall emptied itself as men rushed yelling into the street. John Middleton laid down his hand of cards, donned his white hat with a hand that was steady as a rock, and strode after them.

  Already a crowd was surging and roaring around the jail. The miners were lashed into a murderous frenzy and were restrained from shattering the door and dragging forth the cowering prisoners only by the presence of Corcoran, who faced them on the jail-porch. McNab, Richardson and Stark were there, also. McNab was pale under his whiskers, and Stark seemed nervous and ill at ease, but Richardson,
as always, was cold as ice.

  “Hang ‘em!” roared the mob. “Let us have ‘em, Steve! You’ve done your part! This camp’s put up with enough! Let us have ‘em!”

  Middleton climbed up on the porch, and was greeted by loud cheers, but his efforts to quiet the throng proved futile. Somebody brandished a rope with a noose in it. Resentment, long smoldering, was bursting into flame, fanned by hysterical fear and hate. The mob had no wish to harm either Corcoran or Middleton — did not intend to harm them. But they were determined to drag out the prisoners and string them up.

  Colonel Hopkins forced his way through the crowd, mounted the step, and waved his hands until he obtained a certain amount of silence.

  “Listen, men!” he roared, “this is the beginning of a new era for Wahpeton! This camp has been terrorized long enough. We’re beginning a rule of law and order, right now! But don’t spoil it at the very beginning! These men shall hang — I swear it! But let’s do it legally, and with the sanction of law. Another thing: if you hang them out of hand, we’ll never learn who their companions and leaders are.

  “Tomorrow, I promise you, a court of inquiry will sit on their case. They’ll be questioned and forced to reveal the men above and behind them. This camp is going to be cleaned up! Let’s clean it up lawfully and in order!”

  “Colonel’s right!” bawled a bearded giant. “Ain’t no use to hang the little rats till we find out who’s the big ‘uns!”

  A roar of approbation rose as the temper of the mob changed. It began to break up, as the men scattered to hasten back to the bars and indulge in their passion to discuss the new development.

  Hopkins shook Corcoran’s hand heartily.

  “Congratulations, sir! I’ve seen poor Joe’s body. A terrible sight. The fiends fairly shot the poor fellow to ribbons. Middleton, I told you the vigilantes wouldn’t usurp your authority in Wahpeton. I keep my word. We’ll leave these murderers in your jail, guarded by your deputies. Tomorrow the vigilante court will sit in session, and I hope we’ll come to the bottom of this filthy mess.”

  And so saying he strode off, followed by a dozen or so steely-eyed men whom Middleton knew formed the nucleus of the Colonel’s organization.

  When they were out of hearing, Middleton stepped to the door and spoke quickly to the prisoners: “Keep your mouths shut. You fools have gotten us all in a jam, but I’ll snake you out of it, somehow.” To McNab he spoke: “Watch the jail. Don’t let anybody come near it. Corcoran and I have got to talk this over.” Lowering his voice so the prisoners could not hear, he added: “If anybody does come, that you can’t order off, and these fools start shooting off their heads, close their mouths with lead.”

  Corcoran followed Middleton into the shadow of the gulch wall. Out of earshot of the nearest cabin, Middleton turned. “Just what happened?”

  “Gorman’s friends tried to get me. They killed Joe Willoughby by mistake. I hauled them in. That’s all.”

  “That’s not all,” muttered Middleton. “There’ll be hell to pay if they come to trial. Miller’s yellow. He’ll talk, sure. I’ve been afraid Gorman’s friends would try to kill you — wondering how it would work out. It’s worked out just about the worst way it possibly could. You should either have killed them or let them go. Yet I appreciate your attitude. You have scruples against cold-blooded murder; and if you’d turned them loose, they’d have been back potting at you the next night.”

  “I couldn’t have turned them loose if I’d wanted to. Men had heard the shots; they came runnin’; found me there holdin’ a gun on those devils, and Joe Willoughby’s body layin’ on the floor, shot to pieces.”

  “I know. But we can’t keep members of our own gang in jail, and we can’t hand them over to the vigilantes. I’ve got to delay that trial, somehow. If I were ready, we’d jump tonight, and to hell with it. But I’m not ready. After all, perhaps it’s as well this happened. It may give us our chance to skip. We’re one jump ahead of the vigilantes and the gang, too. We know the vigilantes have formed and are ready to strike, and the rest of the gang don’t. I’ve told no one but you what Hopkins told me early in the evening.

  “Listen, Corcoran, we’ve got to move tomorrow night! I wanted to pull one last job, the biggest of all — the looting of Hopkins and Bisley’s private cache. I believe I could have done it, in spite of all their guards and precautions. But we’ll have to let that slide. I’ll persuade Hopkins to put off the trial another day. I think I know how. Tomorrow night I’ll have the vigilantes and the Vultures at each others’ throats! We’ll load the mules and pull out while they’re fighting. Once let us get a good start, and they’re welcome to chase us if they want to.

  “I’m going to find Hopkins now. You get back to the jail. If McNab talks to Miller or the others, be sure you listen to what’s said.”

  Middleton found Hopkins in the Golden Eagle Saloon.

  “I’ve come to ask a favor of you, Colonel,” he began directly. “I want you, if it’s possible, to put off the investigating trial until day after tomorrow. I’ve been talking to Joel Miller. He’s cracking. If I can get him away from Barlow and Letcher, and talk to him, I believe he’ll tell me everything I want to know. It’ll be better to get his confession, signed and sworn to, before we bring the matter into court. Before a judge, with all eyes on him, and his friends in the crowd, he might stiffen and refuse to incriminate anyone. I don’t believe the others will talk. But talking to me, alone, I believe Miller will spill the whole works. But it’s going to take time to wear him down. I believe that by tomorrow night I’ll have a full confession from him.”

  “That would make our work a great deal easier,” admitted Hopkins.

  “And another thing: these men ought to be represented by proper counsel. You’ll prosecute them, of course; and the only other lawyer within reach is Judge Bixby, at Yankton. We’re doing this thing in as close accordance to regular legal procedure as possible. Therefore we can’t refuse the prisoner the right to be defended by an attorney. I’ve sent a man after Bixby. It will be late tomorrow evening before he can get back with the Judge, even if he has no trouble in locating him.

  “Considering all these things, I feel it would be better to postpone the trial until we can get Bixby here, and until I can get Miller’s confession.”

  “What will the camp think?”

  “Most of them are men of reason. The few hotheads who might want to take matters into their own hands can’t do any harm.”

  “All right,” agreed Hopkins. “After all, they’re your prisoners, since your deputy captured them, and the attempted murder of an officer of the law is one of the charges for which they’ll have to stand trial. We’ll set the trial for day after tomorrow. Meanwhile, work on Joel Miller. If we have his signed confession, naming the leaders of the gang, it will expedite matters a great deal at the trial.”

  * * *

  10. THE BLOOD ON THE GOLD

  WHAPETON learned of the postponement of the trial and reacted in various ways. The air was surcharged with tension. Little work was done that day. Men gathering in heated, gesticulating groups, crowded in at the bars. Voices rose in hot altercation, fists pounded on the bars. Unfamiliar faces were observed, men who were seldom seen in the gulch — miners from claims in distant canyons, or more sinister figures from the hills, whose business was less obvious.

  Lines of cleavage were noticed. Here and there clumps of men gathered, keeping to themselves and talking in low tones. In certain dives the ruffian element of the camp gathered, and these saloons were shunned by honest men. But still the great mass of the people milled about, suspicious and uncertain. The status of too many men was still in doubt. Certain men were known to be above suspicion, certain others were known to be ruffians and criminals; but between these two extremes there were possibilities for all shades of distrust and suspicion.

  So most men wandered aimlessly to and fro, with their weapons ready to their hands, glancing at their fellows out of the corners of their eyes.


  To the surprise of all, Steve Corcoran was noticed at several bars, drinking heavily, though the liquor did not seem to affect him in any way.

  The men in the jail were suffering from nerves. Somehow the word had gotten out that the vigilante organization was a reality, and that they were to be tried before a vigilante court. Joel Miller, hysterical, accused Middleton of double-crossing his men.

  “Shut up, you fool!” snarled the sheriff, showing the strain under which he was laboring merely by the irascible edge on his voice. “Haven’t you seen your friends drifting by the jail? I’ve gathered the men in from the hills. They’re all here. Forty-odd men, every Vulture in the gang, is here in Wahpeton.

  “Now, get this: and McNab, listen closely: we’ll stage the break just before daylight, when everybody is asleep. Just before dawn is the best time, because that’s about the only time in the whole twenty-four hours that the camp isn’t going full blast.

  “Some of the boys, with masks on, will swoop down and overpower you deputies. There’ll be no shots fired until they’ve gotten the prisoners and started off. Then start yelling and shooting after them — in the air, of course. That’ll bring everybody on the run to hear how you were overpowered by a gang of masked riders.

  “Miller, you and Letcher and Barlow will put up a fight—”

  “Why?”

  “Why, you fool, to make it look like it’s a mob that’s capturing you, instead of friends rescuing you. That’ll explain why none of the deputies are hurt. Men wanting to lynch you wouldn’t want to hurt the officers. You’ll yell and scream blue murder, and the men in the masks will drag you out, tie you and throw you across horses and ride off. Somebody is bound to see them riding away. It’ll look like a capture, not a rescue.”

  Bearded lips gaped in admiring grins at the strategy.

  “All right. Don’t make a botch of it. There’ll be hell to pay, but I’ll convince Hopkins that it was the work of a mob, and we’ll search the hills to find your bodies hanging from trees. We won’t find any bodies, naturally, but maybe we’ll contrive to find a mass of ashes where a log hut had been burned to the ground, and a few hats and belt buckles easy to identify.”