Silvertip's Strike (20 page)

The girl's voice began to protest, but Farrel could be heard to say:

“Whatever he says is good enough for me. Come on. We'll ride when Silver tells us to.”

“I dunno what the gag is,” said Delgas, agape.

Waring had closed his eyes. The motion of his lower jaw against his chest made his head sway up and down.

“They're going to have it out, first,” he said. “They're going to shoot it out, brother. Those two hombres ain't made to live and circulate. Not on one little earth like this. The continents is too frequent, and the oceans is just wet places to step across, for birds like them.”

“I guess we can agree, Harry,” Silver said.

“I guess we can,” said Rutherford. “I'll sign if you'll fight for it afterward, Silver.”

“I'll fight for it,” said Jim Silver.

He sat down to write, once more, and completed the second paper, by which Mr. Harry Rutherford legally transferred his rights to the Wycombe ranch to Daniel Farrel. When he had ended, he took two revolvers, laid one at each end of the table, and set Rutherford free from the ropes. He kept a gun in his hand until Rutherford had signed his name.

“Funny thing,” said Waring, as he looked on. “Now you've done the job for him, he could let the daylight into you, Harry.”

“He's an honorable man, though,” answered Rutherford. His malice twisted his smile as he flung the pen down on the floor.

“What happens?” he asked.

“Go back to that opposite wall,” said Silver.

Rutherford went back to the opposite wall. Silver faced him. The table was exactly between them, and in front of each, a stride away, was a loaded gun.

“Stand a few inches away from the wall,” said Silver.

Rutherford obeyed.

“That's to even things up,” said Silver. “I'm taller than you are and I could reach farther. Now, Harry, I'll just toss this gun aside, and when I do that, we'll both go for the guns. Is that right?”

“Right!” said Rutherford.

He looked aside at Waring, and then he said: “Silver, killing you is going to be the sweetest thing in my life!” He had put so much passion into the words that his breath was exhausted. He drew it in again with a drinking sound. And his eyes devoured Silver. His head was back. The eyelids were half lowered. He had almost the look of a man staring at a thing of surpassing beauty. There was the same sort of a smile on his face.

“Are you ready?” asked Silver.

“Ready,” said Rutherford.

“Are you on edge?”

“On edge!”

“Then go!” said Silver, and threw his gun aside.

He leaped for the other weapon at the same instant, and saw the flash of Rutherford's hand, bright with speed like a bit of metal.

Then, before Silver's eyes, he saw the table heel over and the Colt spill off to the side. It was Waring, who with his long leg had managed to reach the foot of the table and hook it suddenly toward him, spilling both weapons at Rutherford and away from Silver.

He saw Rutherford bending, picking a falling gun out of the air. But Silver did not dodge. He went straight on, and with the lift of his shoulder caught the edge of the table, hurling it before him right at Harry Rutherford.

Catching the gun from the air with unfailing hand, Rutherford had tried a snap shot even before he straightened his body. The bullet slit open the shirt along Silver's left side. Then, with his bulk behind it, the table crashed against Rutherford.

The gun spoke again, but there was no whir of a bullet in the air. Waring was up, kicking at Silver with his spurs, using them as a game-cock fights. But Silver, bare-footed and swift as a cat, was on the other side of the table in an instant and had caught up a fallen Colt — his own. One gesture with that gun sent Waring crowding back into a corner.

Most of the body of Rutherford was hidden under the table, but his head and shoulders, jammed up against the wall, were visible. He had both arms pinned down, and he was not struggling to get free. Something about the eyes of the man told Silver just what had happened.

He jerked the table away and saw on the breast of Rutherford the spreading red stain of the blood. As the table struck him, a bullet from his own gun had penetrated his body. No doctor on earth would be able to heal that wound. Still, with a nerveless hand, he was trying to pick up the fallen revolver from the floor, but the weight of it slid through his fingers.

Rutherford began to smile.

“Poor Steve Wycombe thought he could make it three for one,” said he huskily. “But the poor devil was out of luck. He only got an even break. He only got — me!”

He seemed to nod a confirmation of his last words, but Silver knew that the head would never lift again. He picked up the body. It was hardly more heavy than the body of a child. Silver laid it straight on the floor and closed the eyes. He stood up and turned to Waring. Delgas, all this while, had sat entranced. Events had moved a little too fast for his comprehension.

“I ought to put you there beside him on the floor,” said Silver to Waring. “But you've a little too old. Besides, I need you for a witness, on both those little documents. But the law will do the rest of the talking to you, partner. You're old enough to need a rest, and the state will take care of you free of charge.”

That was how Steve Wycombe finished off his deal. He had, most surely, put a hand from the grave and taken one living man from the face of the earth. Delgas, a discredited man among his own kind, was turned loose; and Waring went up for a long term.

As for Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Farrel, they wanted Jim Silver to stay on with them indefinitely because, as Farrel said, he would never consider that two thirds of the ranch really belonged to him. He was really holding it merely in trust for Silver. They followed Silver as far as the corner of the corral and watched him saddle Parade and mount, and still they poured out arguments.

Silver looked down at them and smiled. He had said good-by before.

“I can't stay,” he said. “I'm awash with cash that needs spending. Besides, it's not the sort of a place for me.”

“Why not?” asked Farrel. “You stay here for a while, Jim, and you'll love it the way I do. Those three mountains will be like three friendly faces to you, every day of your life. What's wrong?”

“It's the air,” said Jim Silver. “There's too much honesty in it, now, and not enough action.” He smiled, and added: “You see, when I came here, it was simply as a prospector in a land of trouble, with the chance of a rich strike of danger straight ahead.”

“Well, Jim,” said Farrel, “you surely made a big strike of what you were looking for. So I suppose you're satisfied.”

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