Six Feet Four

by Jackson Gregory

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE GENTLEMAN FROM NEW MEXICO

  Thornton returned rather early that night to the ranch cabin. That hecame in at all, instead of remaining far out upon the range border ashis men were doing, was because tomorrow he planned on riding to DryTown where he would raise the four thousand five hundred dollars forHenry Pollard, and he wanted to make an early start.

  He left his horse at the barn, passed the bunk house and was crossingthe little footbridge which spanned Big Little River, going straight tohis cabin upon the knoll, when he saw that while the bunk house was darkthere shone a light from his cabin window. Wondering who his guest mightprove to be he strode up the knoll. The cabin door was open, he couldsee his lamp burning upon the table, and sitting upon his chair, handsclasped behind head and cigar smoking lazily, was a man he had neverseen before.

  He came on, still wondering, until his tall form passed through thedoorway and stood over the smoker. The man turned a little, watching himas he drew near.

  "Howdy, Stranger," Thornton said quietly.

  "Mr. Thornton?" smiled the other. "You see I've been making myself athome."

  He rose and put out a hand, a small, hard, brown hand which the cowboyaccepted carelessly and released marvelling. Its grip was as strong ashis own, the muscles like rock.

  The man was of medium stature, looking small beside the towering form ofhis host. He was dressed quietly and well, trousers still preserving thelines left by the tailor's iron, his coat fitting closely about thecompact muscular shoulders, his soft shirt white and clean. He was asandy haired man of forty, perhaps, clean shaven, square jawed, withvery bright, very clear brown eyes.

  All this Thornton saw at one swift glance. He tossed his hat to thetable, pulled another chair toward him, and sat down.

  "Glad you made yourself at home," he said then, "Find anything to eat?"

  The stranger nodded.

  "I've been here three hours, and I was hungry. So I raided the bunkhouse."

  "That's right." He brought out his paper and tobacco, making hiscigarette slowly, his eyes alone asking the other his business.

  "I want a little talk with you, Mr. Thornton. But maybe I'd better waituntil you've eaten?"

  "Had my supper an hour ago," Thornton replied. "Made camp with the boysbefore I came in. Fire away, Stranger."

  "All right. First thing, my name's Comstock."

  The keen eyes which had measured the cowboy as he came through the doorwere very bright upon him now. Thornton nodded. The name meant nothingto him.

  "Don't get me?" laughed Comstock. "Well, well, it's a shock to vanity,but after all one's fame is a poor crippled bird that doesn't fly far."He paused a moment, then added quietly, as though this other informationmight help his bird "to fly." "My stamping ground's New Mexico."

  Thornton's look showed nothing beyond a faint curiosity; one would havesaid that he was as little interested in this man's stamping ground asin his name.

  "One more try," laughed Comstock easily, "and I'll give up. Two-HandBilly Comstock.... Aha, I get you now!"

  For now Buck Thornton started and his eyes did show interest and asudden flash of surprise. For fifteen years Two-Hand Billy Comstock,United States Deputy Marshal, had been widely known throughout the greatSouth-west, a man who asked no odds and gave no quarter, one whose namesent as chill a shiver through the hard hearts of the lawless as a sightof the gallows would have done. And this man, small, well dressed, quietmannered, as dapper as a tailor's dummy....

  "If you are Billy Comstock," grunted Thornton, "well, I'm damn' glad toknow you, sir!"

  "If I am?" grinned Comstock. "And why should I lie to you?"

  "I'm not saying that you are lying," returned the cowboy coolly. "ButI'm getting in the habit these days of being suspicious, I guess. But ifyou are that Comstock and want to see me, I'd come mighty close toguessing what you want. But before I do any talking I want to know."

  "Sure," Comstock nodded. And then, smiling again "Only, Mr. Thornton,I'm not in the habit of carrying around a trunk full ofidentifications."

  "You don't need them."

  Billy Comstock's name he had made himself, and it had carried far. Therewere few men in half a dozen States in this corner of the country whodid not know why he was called "Two-Hand Billy" and how he had earnedhis right to the nickname. His fame was that of a man who was absolutelyfearless, and who carried the law where other men could not or would notcarry it. To him had come the dangers, the sharp fights against oddsthat had seemed overwhelming, and always he had shot his way out with agun in each hand, and no waste lead.

  "I never saw the man who could beat me to my gun," went on Thorntonquietly, no boastfulness in his tone, merely the plain statement of afact. "If you are 'Two-Hand Billy Comstock' you ought to do it."

  The two men were sitting loosely in their chairs at opposite sides ofthe room, the table with the lamp between them. Comstock's hands wereagain clasped behind his head. Thornton lifted his arms, clasping hisown hands behind his head.

  Comstock smiled suddenly, brightly, seeming to understand and to be aspleased as a child with anew game.

  "I'll count three," said Thornton. "We'll both go for our guns. If I getthe drop on you first," with a smile which reflected the other's, "I'vea notion to shoot you up for an impostor!"

  "If you get the drop on me first," grinned Comstock, "and don't shoot meup, I'll make you a present of the best gun you ever saw."

  Thornton counted slowly, with regular intervals between the words."One," and neither man moved, both sitting in seeming carelessness,their hands behind their heads. "Two," and only their eyes showed thatevery lax muscle in each body grew taut. "Three," and then they moved,the two men like two pieces of the same machine driven unerringly by thesame motive power.

  Not the hands alone but the entire bodies, every muscle leaping intoaction in a swiftness too great, too accurate for it to have been fullyappreciated had there been a third man to see. Thornton slipped sidewaysfrom his chair, dropping to his knees upon the floor, and his two handsflashed downward. The left hand sped to the opening at the left hip ofhis chaps, and to the pocket beneath; the right hand into the loose bandat his stomach. And the hands seemed not to have disappeared for afraction of a second when they were flung out in front of him, and twoheavy double action revolvers looked squarely into Comstock's smilingface.

  Comstock had scarcely seemed to move. He still sat loosely in his chair,its front legs tilted back supported by his heels. But his hands hadgone their swift, unerring way to the pockets of his coat, and into thebarrels of the revolvers looked the blue steel barrels of two bigautomatics. And both men knew that, had this been no play, but deadlyearnest, there would not have been the tenth of a second between thepistol shots.

  "Pretty nearly an even break," laughed Comstock, dropping his guns backinto his pockets.

  Thornton rose and stood frowning down into the uplifted eyes of hisvisitor.

  "It doesn't take a bullet long to go ten feet," he said a littlesternly. "One man doesn't have to get his gun working half an hourbefore the other fellow." He came around the table and put out his hand."Shake," he said. "You could have got me. And I guess you're Two-HandBilly, all right."

  Comstock's eyes were bright with frank admiration.

  "I don't know so well about getting you," he answered. "I played you toslip out on the other side of your chair. And," with his frank laugh, "Iwouldn't care for the job of going out for you, Mr. Thornton."

  "Real name, Buck," laughed the cowboy. "And now, let's talk."

  "First name, Billy," returned Comstock. "And we'll talk in a minute.First thing though, there's some mail for you!"

  Thornton's eyes went the way of Comstock's, and saw a piece of foldednotepaper upon the table, held in place by the lamp. He took it up,wondering, and read the few words swiftly. As he read the blood raced upinto his face and Comstock smiled.

  "I must see you," were the hastily written words. "I have wronged youall along. I haven
't time to write, I am afraid to put it on paper. Butthere is great danger to you. Come tonight. I will be under the peartrees in the front yard, at twelve o'clock.

  "WINIFRED WAVERLY."

  Thornton whirled about, confronting Comstock.

  "Where'd this come from?" he demanded sharply.

  "Special delivery," smiled Comstock. "A young fellow, calling himselfBud King from the Bar X, brought it."

  "When?"

  "About an hour ago. He said he couldn't wait and couldn't take time tolook you up, and I told him that I'd see that you got it."

  Thornton read the short note again, frowning. This girl, only a fewnights ago, had called him a liar, had angered him as thoroughly as sheknew how, had sent him from her vowing that he was a fool to have everthought of her, and that he'd die before he'd be fool to seek again tosee the niece of Henry Pollard. And now this note, speaking of havingwronged him, telling him that she was afraid to write all that shewanted to tell him, warning him of danger to him, asking him to meet herin Hill's Corners ... at her uncle's house ... at midnight!

  He knew nothing of the danger to which she referred, but he did knowthat for him there was danger in going into Dead Man's Alley even inbroad daylight. There came to him a swift suspicion that this note hadnever been written by the girl whose signature it bore, that it had beendictated by a man who sought to lure him to a spot where it would be aneasy matter to put a bullet in him in safe, cowardly fashion. Supposethat he went, that he entered Pollard's place, and at such an hour?Pollard, himself, could kill him, admit the deed and claim that he wasbut protecting his own premises. Any one of the Bedloe boys could shoothim and who would know?

  Another suspicion, allied to this one, came and darkened the frown inhis eyes. Was it possible that Winifred Waverly had written it, actingat Pollard's command? that she was but doing the sort of thing he shouldlook to one of Pollard's blood to do?

  Comstock, saying nothing further, now seemed entirely engrossed in hiscigar. Thornton, the note in his fingers, hesitated. A third time heread the pencilled words. Then he folded the paper and slipped it intohis pocket.

  "If a man wants to know anything real bad," he said at last, "it's upto him to go and find out, huh, Billy Comstock?"

  Comstock, turning his cigar thoughtfully, answered:

  "That's right, Buck."

  Thornton glanced at his little alarm clock. It was not yet half pasteight.

  "I've got to be in the Corners by twelve o'clock," he said as he wentback to his chair. "I'll ride Comet, though, and can make it handily intwo hours. Now, what's the line of talk?"

  Comstock's look trailed back to his cigar.

  "I'm after a man," he volunteered.

  "That's a safe bet. What man?"

  "Not poor little Jimmie Clayton," smiled Comstock. "He's only a weaklittle fool at the worst, and wouldn't be a bad sort if he had somebodyaround all the time to steer him right."

  "Who is he?" retorted Thornton steadily ... remembering.

  "He's the man you owe a debt of gratitude to," laughed Comstock. "He putsome bullets through you one night down Texas way, found that he'dslipped up and that you'd put your money into a check, and then playedsafe by nursing you through it! The man who broke jail a month or soago, and beat it up here to you to see him through. I'm _not_ afterhim."

  "You seem to know a whole lot," answered Thornton noncommittally neithervoice nor face nor eye showing a hint of surprise or other emotion. Andyet he was thinking swiftly, that if this man spoke the truth he had ascore to settle with Jimmie Clayton.

  "Oh, it's my business to know a whole lot," resumed Comstock, answeringthe look in Thornton's eyes. "I just say that I'm not after JimmieClayton as I don't want you to think that you'll be giving away anythingon a friend. The man I want," and he tilted his chair back a littlefarther, drew up his carefully creased trousers with thumb andforefinger and crossed one leg over the other, "is a man who got awayfrom me seven years ago. Down in New Mexico."

  "Name?" asked Thornton bluntly.

  "His name doesn't matter, I guess. He had three during the time that Iknew him, and I suppose he's had half a dozen since."

  "Before you go any further," interrupted Thornton, "tell me why you cameto me at all?"

  "Banker Templeton of Dry Town is a friend of mine. We went to schooltogether. He's the man who led me to believe, to hope," he added softly,"that the man I want is working this country now. I told Templeton thatI wanted to make a little visit to this neck of the woods. And he gaveme your name."

  "I see. Now, about your man?"

  "I'm going to ask you a string of questions, Thornton. We haven't overmuch time and any way there wouldn't be any use now in my stopping toexplain just what I'm driving at and why I want to know this and that.If you'll just answer what I ask..."

  "Fire away."

  For a little they smoked on in silence, Two-Hand Billy Comstock'sexpression suggesting that he was planning precisely the course hisinquiries were to take before beginning.

  "Let's start in this way!" he said at last. "What men around here do youknow real well, well enough to call friends?"

  "I've been here only a year," Thornton told him. "I don't know many menhere real well. Friends? Outside Bud King and the boys working for me Idon't know any I'd call friend."

  "Then," placidly suggested, "how about enemies? A man can make a goodmany enemies in a year and not half try."

  "If you'll change that to men I know pretty well and don't like, and whodon't like me, I can name a name or two."

  "Let's have 'em."

  "There's Henry Pollard, to begin with."

  "The man you're buying from. First, how old a man is he and what does helook like? Next, what do you know about him?"

  Thornton described the man, guessed at his age, and told what he knew of"Rattlesnake" Pollard. Comstock seemed interested in a mild sort of away, but neither now nor later, as Thornton spoke of other men, did hegive any sign of more than mild interest.

  "Who are Pollard's friends?" was the next question.

  Thornton named Ben Broderick, two other men who do not come into thestory, and Cole Dalton, the sheriff. And as he named them, Comstockasked him to give an estimate at their ages, to tell what he knew ofthem and to give as close a personal description as he could.

  Having finished with Pollard and his friends he spoke of the Bedloeboys. And United States Deputy Marshal Comstock listened throughout withthe same mild interest, merely asking questions, offering no opinions.

  "One last question," he said finally. "If you had a guess who'd you saywas the bad man this county wants?"

  "If any stock's missing from my range," was the blunt answer, "I'd lookup the Bedloe outfit."

  Comstock, offering no opinion, smiled and sank into a thoughtfulsilence.

  At half past nine o'clock Thornton got to his feet and took up his hat.

  "I'd better be riding," he said, putting out his hand. "Make yourself athome."

  But Comstock came to the door with him.

  "If you don't mind I'll ride along," he offered carelessly. "I think mytrail runs into Dead Man's, too. And by the way, Thornton," he added alittle sharply, "my name's just plain Richard Hampton for the present.And my business right now is ... my business!"

  Thornton nodded that he understood and together they left the cabin.