The Fugitive (26 page)

For the thousandth time in his wild young life, Speedy wished that there were a gun under his coat. But that wish was one that he would never gratify. He knew his own nature too well, and the temptations that come from carrying human lives within the crook of a forefinger.

The sheriff had not spoken a word, had made no move that was audible, when Fenton, as it seemed, became conscious of an unseen danger. With a stifled exclamation, he whirled about, saw the man and the gun, and reached for his own weapon.

“Stop!” shouted Speedy.

That unexpected, ringing call out of the woods caused both the sheriff and Fenton to glance to the side. They saw nothing. Speedy had flattened himself out close to the ground, behind a small, spreading shrub that sheltered him fairly well from view while it enabled him to peer out at the pair in the clearing.

“I've got you covered, Hollis,” said Speedy. “And I'll put a rifle bullet through the middle of you, if you try to pot him. Fenton, don't be a fool. Keep your hand off your gun. Don't you see that he has the drop on you?”

Oliver Fenton, there was no doubt, would never have submitted to the silent pressure of that leveled gun. He had risked his life too many times in the past three years to surrender himself to the law without a fight, no matter against what desperate odds.

But now that voice that called from the near distance, and seemed to come from a friend, stopped him, because it gave him another hope.

“Whoever you be that's layin' up back in there, you're interferin' with the law,” said the sheriff. “D'you know that? Or do you think that I'm a holdup artist, maybe?”

“You're Sheriff Sam Hollis and a good man with your hands,” said Speedy. “But the point is that you've come for the wrong man.”

“I've come for Oliver Fenton, and this is him,” said the sheriff.

“Steady, Fenton,” cautioned Speedy as the big man seemed about to go for a gun again. “Steady, there, partner, and we'll work this out without any gunplay.”

 

The sheriff had come, without question, to a full halt, and stood in an utter quandary while Speedy commanded briefly: “All right, Fenton. Back up into the woods, will you, and keep going for a while. I'll take care of the sheriff.”

Fenton nodded, and, stepping back, his face still toward the man of the law, he found sanctuary within the forest.

“Now, partner,” said the sheriff, “what's the end of your play? You've got the drop on me, and I ain't fool enough to play ducks and drakes with a rifle that I can't even see.”

“Wait a minute,” urged Speedy. “I've got to think it over for a moment.”

Even as he spoke, he was drifting away to the left, and, once behind the trunk of one of the great pines, he worked rapidly and silently away through the forest gloom, making a swift semicircle that had a radius of a furlong, at least.

Behind him, he heard the sheriff speak again, but, now that he was away from the place, the sheriff, for an instant, was out of his picture and he wanted to see Sam Hollis no more. What was of a keener interest to him was the shadowy form that presently he spotted before him, moving quietly forward among he trees. That was big Oliver Fenton, and, coming close up behind, Speedy spoke.

Fenton whirled, with gun ready, hip-high; Speedy raised his hands obediently in the air.

“It's all right, Fenton,” he said. “You don't need a gun for me.”

A change came in the savage face of Fenton. “You're the fellow that covered the sheriff,” he muttered. “And a good thing for me that you were there, but what brought you? Where's your rifle?”

“My rifle was a bit of bluff. It was dirty work that brought me, Fenton.”

“Whose work?”

“That of Ben Thomas.”

Fenton scowled. “You've done me a good turn, lad,” he said. “Don't be undoing it by running down the whitest man on earth. He's as true as steel.”

His eyes burned as he brought out his confession of faith, but the boy shook his head.

“Listen to facts, Fenton. I was lying up in a pine tree, yonder, when you and your girl and Thomas were talking together.”

“You were what?” exclaimed Fenton.

“You try to believe me. I met the two of 'em at Council Flat, and I didn't like the look of Ben Thomas. It was intuition, if you want to call it that. I talked to him, and my ears liked him even less than my intuition.”

“I don't understand what you're driving at,” said Fenton, “but, man, Ben Thomas has been the best friend and the truest man that ever . . .”

“That ever cut a friend's throat, eh?” finished off Speedy. “When I heard that they were heading for

Trout Lake, I came here ahead of 'em. . . . I was waiting for 'em, and I trailed 'em out of the town. I worked up the valley behind them, and, when I got their line from the black rocks, I cut ahead and spotted you in the clearing. It was no trick to slide up the back side of a pine tree and lie out on a branch over your head.”

“No trick for a wildcat . . . I never saw the man that could do it, though,” answered Fenton. “But go ahead.”

“Why, I saw the evil in the face of Thomas, when he got the gold out of the pan. He looked up, and I looked down, and there was murder in him, plain to see. But you and your girl were too much taken up with one another to watch him. I followed them back to town. I stole the claim papers out of the pocket of Thomas and watched him go down the street and turn in at the office of Sheriff Sam Hollis.”

“Ha?” cried Fenton. His face turned gray as he listened, and his eyes stared.

“That's what I saw him do,” said the boy, “and any child could have guessed, from that point, why he wanted the sheriff. He had left the girl in the hotel. He'd send the sheriff for you and he'd file the claims in his own name. Consequences could go hang. Is that a clear story?”

“If there's no truth and loyalty in Ben Thomas,” said the other, “there's no loyalty or truth in the whole world.”

“There's not much of it, I suppose,” said Speedy. “When a fellow's down, everybody takes a kick at his face.”

“Ben Thomas,” muttered Fenton. “I've bunked with him, ridden herd with him, nursed his children, lent him money, fought his enemies, loved his friends, and now you try to tell me that he's a crooked hound. I won't believe you.”

“Then, why else am I here?” Speedy asked.

“I don't know. You're a demon, for all I can make out.”

“It was gunplay, back there in the clearing,” pointed out Speedy. “You were going for your gun while Hollis had the drop on you, and he's not the man to miss that sort of a shot.”

“I'd be on my back, dead,” agreed the other. “Yes, and I know it. But what was it that dragged you into

this?”

“That doesn't matter,” said Speedy. “It's a game that I like. That's all that I can say. But here's another point. When I saw Thomas go into the sheriff's office, I went to the hotel again, persuaded your daughter that Thomas had sent me back there after her because he had to be busy elsewhere, and got her to the bureau to file the claim in her own name alone.” He shrugged his shoulders as he added: “I left her waiting in line while I came sloping up the valley and found you here.”

“You did all this for your own pleasure?” demanded the other grimly.

“Never mind why I'm doing it. I've told the yarn for you up to date. How'll you play it from this point on?”

“I'll get to Ben Thomas if I have to walk through fire every step of the way. When I see him, I'll get the truth out of him, or . . .”

“Or kill him, eh?” asked the boy, pressing the point.

“If he's done what you say, he's a Judas.”

“You'd kill him, eh?” Speedy repeated his question.

“What else is he fit for but killing?”

“That puts two ropes around your neck,” said Speedy. “Listen to me, will you?”

“Of course, I'll listen,” said Fenton.

“You're to keep your hands from Ben Thomas. If you meet him, as you're likely to before long, you're to smile in his face. Will you do as I ask?”

“I'd rather tear out his heart.”

“And hang for it,” the youngster reminded him.

“I'm to hang for one man already. What's the difference if I hang for two?”

“Because you didn't kill Dodson,” said the boy.

“Ah, didn't I?” muttered the other. “And who was it did kill him, then?”

“Slade Bennett.”

“Slade Bennett!” cried Fenton, throwing up one hand before his face as though a light had blinded him with the words. “Slade Bennett? That scoundrel?

Was it him?”

“It was Bennett, I think,” said the boy. “I remember the story of that killing, now. Dodson was a neighbor of yours. There was bad blood between you. He was going downhill, losing money, mortgaged up to the eyes. He'd been drinking and threatening you in a saloon in town. When you heard of that, you saddled your horse and rode away from your place, with your wife and your girl begging you to stay at home. That's the story that was told, at least. You came back late that night. The next morning, you were arrested. Dodson had been found dead inside his house, from a knife wound in the throat. The sign of your horse was traced straight up to Dodson's door. Besides, Slade Bennett swore that he'd ridden by, heard voices shouting in the cabin, then a quick silence and the noise of a horse galloping away. That was what made the case against you.”

“That was the case.” The rancher nodded. “And what makes you think that I didn't kill Dodson, when killing was just what he needed?”

“Nobody needs killing,” Speedy said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“What makes you sure that I didn't kill Dodson?” insisted the rancher.

“The look of you tells me that,” said the boy. “You're ready and handy enough with a gun, but you wouldn't use a knife on another man.”

“And what makes you think that Slade Bennett did the job?”

“Because Slade would use a knife. He'd used one before. And because he was the man who swears that he heard Dodson name you as the killer. Did Bennett have anything against you before that?”

“Not that I know of.”

“He was waiting to see Dodson about something or other,” said the boy. “He listened while you and Dodson had your talk and your quarrel. When you rode away, he stepped in, finished his man, and gave you the credit. That's the story, as I see it.”

Fenton, breathing hard, stared for a long moment at the smaller man before he answered, with a nodding of his head: “Seems to me like I see it all lined out. And you're right. You're dead right. Slade Bennett did the trick.”

“You can be freed from any crime that you didn't commit,” said the boy. “But if you kill Ben Thomas, it's murder, no matter what the provocation. You have something besides yourself to think about. You have Jessica, eh?”

“What's she to you?” asked Fenton with a start.

“A fine girl, a straight shooter, and a thoroughbred,” said Speedy calmly, “and nothing else in the world.”

“Nothing else?” asked Fenton, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing else,” Speedy answered deliberately. “Now, I want to know what you'll do. Will you go to Trout Lake and make a fool of yourself on the trail of Ben Thomas, or will you stay somewhere up here in the woods?”

“I'll stay here,” said the fugitive. “That is, I'll stay

here if I can. But Hollis will have out a hundred men to comb the woods for me.”

“A thousand couldn't find you, if you take to the trees, or to the ground. Stay where I can find you.”

Fenton rubbed his knuckles across his forehead. “Man,” he said, “you seem to have me in your pocket. I'd like to know your name.”

“I have a lot of names,” said the boy. “More names than suits of clothes. But a good many people call me Speedy.”

“Speedy?” exclaimed the other. And then he threw back his head and laughed softly. “I might have guessed, by the wildcat ways of you,” he said. “I've heard of you, Speedy. Mostly I've thought that the yarns they tell about you are just fireside lies. But now I guess they're true. Only, you must be his younger brother, not Speedy himself. The Speedy I've heard about must be forty years old. You haven't lived enough years to do all the things that Speedy has done.”

“Why, man,” said Speedy, “I haven't done a great deal. But when a fellow gets gossiped about, the gossip multiplies everything by ten. It's fixed, then, Fenton? You stay put, up here.”

“I stay put,” agreed Fenton. “If you'd told me your name at first, I wouldn't have argued so much. Speedy, eh?” He stared with increasing wonder at the youth.

Speedy brushed this complimentary wonder away, remarking: “If you see Ben Thomas, be friendly with him?”

“I'll do that, if it breaks my heart.”

“It won't break your heart. Trust Ben Thomas like a snake in the grass, watch him every second he may be with you, but don't lift a hand.”

Fenton nodded. “You're gospel for me, Speedy,” he said. “But what of Jessica? She's in the hands of that hound?”

“She's not in his hands,” answered Speedy.

“Why, she's in Trout Lake, with him acting uncle to her.”

“She's with him, but I think that she's in my hands,” said Speedy. “Stay here. Don't worry. But keep your eyes open, and we'll find the best way out of this trouble.”

 

Speedy hurried rapidly down the hillside. When he came to the spot where he had left his horse, he walked more slowly, cast a half circle about the place like a beast of prey that studies the wind on three sides of a victim before venturing on to the attack. Then he stepped up to the tree where the mustang was tethered.

He had unknotted the reins, when something caused him to stop short. This something was the mark of a heel print, dimly seen on the ground where it had not been trampled over by the restless yellow mustang. He looked up with a jerk of his head and stared into the black muzzle and along the steel-blue barrel of a gun held by Sam Hollis.