Silvertip's Strike (11 page)

The stock of the Winchester that protruded out of the saddle holster was another comfort like the face of a friend. He pulled the gun out, and after handling it a moment, he put it back inside the cover.

If he had had any sense, he would have spent time every day practicing. He would have known that, sooner or later, his life might depend upon his marksmanship. He would have known that it was better to waste a few cartridges for half an hour a day than it was to come to a moment like this. He told himself that therein lay the difference, in part, between himself and men who got on in the world. Fellows like Delgas and Rutherford, for instance, were willing to practice their card tricks and their gun work for hours every free day. That meant that they were prepared when the pinches came, the golden opportunities which so often went hand in hand with terrible dangers.

But as for himself, what was he, and what had he done? He was merely a growth from the soil and attached to it by a blind affection and yearning. He was a thing all root and no tree, like the twisted mesquite. And his labors had been given to riding herd, building fences, doctoring sick cows, tailing them out of mud-holes, keeping the night watch, singing to the dogies, breaking mean, down-headed horses, patching sheds. Why, when he died and went over the rim of things into the other world, the ghosts of real men would laugh at him when he tried to describe the still, strange beauty of the desert and the way the three mountains climbed up the northern sky.

He sighed, and then went up to the top of the hummock from which he could look out to the desert. It was just the same with some difference that he could not spot, some small difference.

Then, his mind clearing, he knew what the change was. The sheen of desert dust under the moon was no longer a low, thin streak. It rose much higher, as though a wind were blowing straight up the valley. But something more than the wind might cause the dust to rise.

He looked up at the sky and studied the thin patches of clouds for a moment. No, there was no wind.

So he hurried to his horse, with his heart beating very fast. Still, he must not merely guess, in this fashion. He must not call to Silver with an entirely false alarm.

He threw himself down on the ground and pressed his ear to it. At first he thought that he could hear a distant sound, but finally he knew that it was only the rushing of the blood through the arteries of his head. That noise grew dim, disappeared. Then he could really listen and make out a subdued murmuring. No, it was a rhythm, a pulse, and nothing more. He lay there still, holding his breath, and strained every nerve.

Then he distinguished it clearly — the noise of many, many hoofs trampling.

He was on the back of the mustang in a moment, staring under the shadow of both hands. Now, clearly, he could see the rising of the dust. He thought that he could even make out the twistings of the upper layers of it as the herd entered the mouth of the valley. Perhaps, if the men riding point had sent out a scout well ahead, the puncher in the lead might not be far from him at that moment.

But he gave only a casual glance to the floor of the valley about him. Anger such as he could hardly believe in himself was surging and rising in him. He cast a glance toward the mountains, and marked the jet-black, zigzag traceries of the innumerable canyons against the brightness of the smoother slopes. Once the herd reached that hole-in-the-wall country, pursuit would simply be ridiculous. And therefore, all the early work of his life would be wiped out. It would more than be wiped out. It would be cast into the hands of the two scoundrels, Delgas and Harry Rutherford.

The heat of his anger dissolved all fear. He put the mustang at the slope, and the little horse went up the rough and graveled surface with perfect certainty, straining, throwing itself into its labor as though it perfectly understood.

Right up toward the top they went until they reached that high rock which the glance of Farrel had picked out before this. There was plenty of brush for the kindling of a fire. However, he did not want a great deal. Even the smallest eye of red was likely to meet not only the eye of Silver, in the valley beneath, but also the attention of the men handling the herd, and on a night like this they would be on edge with nervous suspicions.

The brush was tough sage. He tore up some small bushes. The wood resisted his hands when he stripped off the branches. However, he rapidly made a small pile. The leaves which he had shaken off he swept together in a heap, and put a match to them. The flame caught in them. There was a crinkling sound. The red of the fire disappeared. A thickening white smoke went up. The breath of it was pungent and sweet to him. It reminded him of a thousand open camp fires that he had kindled before this, but never had he struck a match that might lead to what would follow now!

The flame burst up through the center of the leaves in a small volcanic eruption of red. He put on little branches of the sage. It burned with a greasy crackling. He put on the larger brush. He stood back and watched the red flower bloom in the shadow of the rock.

He had built it right on the farther edge of this little shoulder, yet it seemed to him that the feeble glow of the flame could not possibly walk so far through the moonlight as to come to the eyes of Jim Silver, in the valley beneath.

He could see that valley. Yes, and now he thought that he could see Silver, far away. A moment later, he was certain. He could not spot man and horse so well, but he was sure of the shadows which they cast on the ground.

Now, as he watched, the man mounted, and began to move straight up the slope toward him. Relief in a warm wave swept through the body and the brain of Dan Farrel. To be alone on such a night was terrible, but to be with such a man as Jim Silver would be exciting, almost glorious, perhaps.

He knew, as he stared down at the climbing form, that he had made no mistake — that he would never regret having ridden out on this night to fight for the herd. Then he thought of Esther and how she had let him go, willingly enough. People like Esther, he felt, always are right. They know how to pick between the easy way and the way of honor and duty and just pride.

After that, he muttered aloud: “Good old Jim Silver.”

Something jammed into the small of his back as he stood shaking his head with a new-found affection.

“Yeah,” said the voice of Delgas. “He'll be good and old, before very long. Come here, Red. Fan this bird and get his guns. We're goin' to be a reception committee, son. Because that's Jim Silver that's climbin' his horse up the way!”

Farrel was backed up from the edge of the little plateau. If they could see Silver, it was just possible that Silver might be able to spot them. Red stood in front of Farrel and laughed.

“What a simp you are, Danny!” said he. “Why didn't you turn around and look behind you, a couple of times?”

It was strange to Farrel that he felt neither fear nor shame. There had been only a blinding moment of terror when the voice first spoke behind him, but now he could look steadily into the eyes of Red. He had always known the fellow was little good.

“I'm not clever at this sort of work,” said Farrel. “I've never spent much time with crooks.”

Red had just taken Farrel's Colt. Now he laid the barrel suddenly along the head of Farrel and knocked him staggering.

“Quit that, you fool!” exclaimed Delgas. “We don't want any noise up here. The first thing you know, Silver will hear something. He's got ears like a cat. That's what he is — a cat!”

Delgas was tying the hands of Farrel behind his back. Red, tying a double knot in a big silk bandanna that he folded across, suddenly thrust it between the teeth of Farrel. It made an efficient gag.

“He won't do any yelling to warn Silver. Not just now,” said Red.

“Good work,” answered Delgas. “You've got a brain, kid. We can use you, maybe — Rutherford and me.”

“Jake with me,” answered Red. “You know how it is. There ain't any use in punching cows. Ever seen an old cow-puncher? What becomes of 'em, then? They fade away, I tell you.”

“They do,” agreed Delgas. “The way of it is like this: Those that have got the coin keep it. The poor stiffs that try to work up, they're just playin' into the hands of the millionaire. There's something in the Bible, even, about that. About them that have the goods are going to get the extras, too.”

“Yeah, and I've seen it, and I've read it,” said Red.

He stepped cautiously across the face of the rock to peer down at the progress of Silver.

“It'll take him a minute,” muttered Red. “It's a steep path, and even Parade can't fly that slope. They gotta zigzag up the face of it.”

“Sit down,” ordered Delgas. “Sit down and rest yourself, kid.”

Farrel sat down with his back to the rock.

“What about putting the fire out?” asked Red.

“Sure,” agreed Delgas. “That'll make Silver think that Farrel sees him comin'.”

Red kicked the fire over the ground. The flames stopped dancing; a broader smudge arose.

The two sat on their heels and waited.

Delgas began to utter his philosophy. “A gent with a bean,” he said, “is a gent that knows how to make the easy money. Anybody knows that. And where does the easy money lie? Why, it lies in the other fellow's pocket. And how are you goin' to get it out? By talkin', by turnin' a key, or by usin' a gun. Those are the three ways. There ain't any others. A kid like you, Red, could learn a lot. You could learn to crack a safe, do some confidence steerin', and pack a gun for the pinches.”

“Yeah,” said Red. “A fellow just has to learn his line. That's all. I guess Rutherford has a line, eh?”

“Thing to listen to,” said Delgas, “is that smooth little devil talkin' his way into the confidence of a female. That's where he shines. With a flower in his buttonhole and a hard hat on his head, and with a walkin' stick in his hand and a shine of his shoes, doggone me if it don't do your heart good to see the way he walks right into the heart of a girl. He's slick, is what he is. Understand? He's as slick as they make 'em!”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Red eagerly. “Wouldn't I like to hear him work, though? Maybe I could do something with the ladies myself. I ain't such a bad hand.”

“It's the way he's got of saying the simple things. That's what counts with the females,” said Delgas. “You take a woman, they ain't never got more'n the half of a brain in their head. Kind of nutty and foolish. You can't argue with 'em none. You gotta let 'em have their own way or else just sock 'em and let 'em drop. Or else you gotta make love to 'em. That's where Harry shines. He's gotta brain, is what he's got.”

“Yeah, he's got a brain,” agreed Red, grinning and gaping with admiration.

“Lemme tell you another thing,” said Delgas. “A great dodge of Harry's is bein' a recovered consumptive. A lunger that's gone and got well, and he's a millionaire, you see, and he wants to contribute a lot of money to make a big resort where other lungers can go and get well. That's the line he uses in some small town in the Southwest. Anywhere in the Southwest. He gets the whole town all boiled up. He's goin' to build a great big hotel. He's goin' to bring business and lungers on the jump into the place.

“The storekeepers and the ranchers and everybody chips in and raises a nice lot of money. All they gotta do is to deposit as much as the check that Harry puts into the hands of the treasurer of the company, and while Harry's just put in a check, the rest of 'em put in cash. Y'understand? They put in cash and when they've got in the fifteen or twenty thousand dollars which is to show that the town is behind the big idea and willing to help on the street improvements and all of that, then one night the treasurer and Harry disappear, and the town has to sit on its heels and cuss.”

Red chuckled softly. “You been the treasurer?” he asked.

“Yeah. I been the treasurer,” said Delgas. “Doggone me if I don't laugh till I cry, when I think about some of Harry's stunts. He's gotta brain, is what he's got.”

“Look here,” said Red. “Whatcha mean by talkin' all these things over in front of Danny?”

“Why,” said Delgas, “I got an idea that maybe Danny ain't goin' to live to talk. I got an idea that maybe he'll be lyin' out here mum as a stone, before very long. I just want Harry's O.K. on the job.”

Even Red winced a little at this suggestion.

“You're going to — knock him right over the head?” he asked huskily.

“Yeah, and what difference would that make to you? Is he your long-lost brother, or something like that?” asked Delgas, sneering.

“No, no,” muttered Red. “Only — well, what Rutherford decides is all right with me.”

“He don't go in for the red-handed stuff,” agreed Delgas. “Harry is gentle — except when he makes up his mind to be the other thing. What Harry says is that it's a dumb play to go and collect scalps when what you want is wallets. If somebody's gotta be sunk, he'll lay 'em colder'n a stone, all right. But he dodges the trouble. He's that way. He dodges the blood. And I don't blame him. It gets people stirred up when they find blood on the trail. They don't like it. They begin to raise posses. Posses ain't so hard to handle but sometimes they make a little trouble.”

“It was a posse that grabbed me and threw me in the can,” observed Red thoughtfully.

“You were only a kid and didn't know how to handle yourself,” suggested Delgas.

“Yeah. I was only a kid. I hadn't gone to college, at that time. But now that I'm a graduate from the pen, you can bet that I'm wiser. Only, I took a whirl at trying to go straight, till you and Harry come along and showed me that I was making a fool of myself.”

“Gents like Rutherford and me, that uses the bean, we don't sit down and take a kick in the face,” declared Delgas. “We stand up and kick somebody else.”