PPRESENTLY Barry gently held her from him, surveyed her with a mock frown of sternness. “Now, young lady, another doctor is takin’ over your case. Dr. Barry Q. Weston, the Q standin’ for quick recovery. We’re goin’ to have you up and about in no time; a bed room is no place for a lady of your tender years. Now lean back and relax while Dr. Weston gets a chair. Here; let me wrap that quilt about you.”
He tucked the cover beneath her shoulders and quickly drew up a chair.
“Speak on, lady, and let the doctor have—what do you call it? the medical history.”
Her cheeks were wet, but Barry noticed that a little color had crept into them, and she was smiling.
“Land sakes, I do believe I’m going to like my new doctor.”
“Hm-m-m. Well, confidence is half the cure. Speak on, lady.”
Haltingly she told him. Immediately after his flight things began to go bad. Although she tried to shield him, Barry gathered that the fault lay with his step-father. Lewis began to neglect the ranch, to drink, and to remain away for days at a stretch. His mother was unable to run the spread and take care of the many household duties at the same time. She had a breakdown which sent her to bed for a long while. About a year before his return, Chet Lewis began urging her to sell; but the ranch had been built up by the efforts of Barry’s father, and she steadfastly refused to let it go.
“Horace Moley came out to see me, but I stood firm against selling. Chet didn’t like it a bit. We began to lose stock, breeders mostly. I hired more men and kept them riding the north line, but it didn’t do any good; stock kept disappearing in bunches so small that you’d hardly notice it. With the worry and—and everything, I got worse; and one day I just tumbled over. I woke up in bed with my left side paralyzed. But I’m getting better. I can move around a bit if I do it slow; and now that you’re back—”
“Of course,” said Barry quickly. Not for the world would he let her see how disturbed he was. “A very simple case, lady. I can foresee a complete and rapid recovery. You need fresh air, sunshine, and mild exercise. Tomorrow you and the doctor are goin’ to take a little walk in the sun, and afterwards you’re goin’ to be moved to the gallery in the softest rockin’ chair I can rig up. Right now the doctor will so far forget his dignity as to make the bed.”
He got up and walked over to the four-poster. His mother turned her head to watch him anxiously.
“It’s in terrible shape, Barry. Seems like I ain’t got the strength to make it right. And the feather mattress and pillows need airing.”
“So I see.” Barry went to a spare room and stripped the bed of its accessories. He was angry clear through. His step-father could at least have tried to make her comfortable.
Swiftly he changed mattresses and pillows, found fresh sheets and covers.
“There! Fit for a queen, even if it was made up by an amateur. Come; I’ll help you.”
She was smiling happily as he tenderly tucked her in. “It feels—so good,” she whispered; then, “Oh, Barry!”
“Now, now! No cryin’! That ain’t part of the cure a-tall. Kiss me goodnight and go to sleep. Remember, you have a walk scheduled for tomorrow.”
When he returned to the living room Chet Lewis had gone. It was just as well that he was out of Barry’s reach. Barry prowled about the ranch house, finding everywhere dust and dirt and disorder. Lewis had not washed the dishes for several meals.
Barry found some food and prepared it, adding his used dishes to the stack standing in the sink. “Let the lazy bum do them too,” he said savagely, and went out to care for his horse. There was a light in the bunkhouse, but he did not go near the place. His step-father would be there, and Barry had no desire to encounter him now.
He found his own room just as he had left it, and knew that his mother had kept it ready against his return. The bed was neatly made up, and the covers thrown back for airing. He opened the windows and turned in.
It was some time before he slept. He had left Mescal Basin a placid community where the days slipped peacefully by in the even routine of breeding and raising and selling cattle. He had returned on the heels of a murder to find its people uneasy and harassed and disturbed. Drought and disease had weakened their herds, rustling had further depleted them. The Slash B had been closed out by the bank, and the Moleys had gone land crazy.
It was about the latter that he puzzled most. Why were Horace and his son so anxious to acquire the Flying W and the Cinchbuckle? Horace Moley was no cattleman, and Steve would have his hands full with the Slash B; yet the latter had descended to forgery to gain control of the ranch Barry’s mother would not sell. Where did Slater fit in? What was a saddle bum doing with five thousand dollars? The whole thing was a riddle which would require time to solve.
Early in the morning he arose and went out to care for his horse. Chet Lewis and two men had just come from the bunkhouse.
“Is this all the crew?” asked Barry.
“Yeah, Barry, it is. Lately we ain’t done so well; things—”
“Things are goin’ to be a heap different from now on. You got your orders, boys?”
“Chet says to work on the north fence,” drawled one of them.
“Good enough. Hop to it. From now on I’m runnin’ the spread and signin’ the pay checks. Lewis, you come with me.”
The man reluctantly followed him into the house, and stood in the kitchen looking helplessly about him.
“You can start right here,” Barry told him. “Pump some water and use lots of soap. The mop’s there in the corner. When you get the place clean—and I mean clean—you can wash up the dishes. Then you tackle the rest of the house.”
Lewis protested. “Looky here, Barry, you ain’t got no right to make me do things like that. I ain’t no hired girl.”
“You’re sure goin’ to give a good imitation of one until this place is clean. Lewis, I got enough against you to wring your neck and win a vote of thanks from the community. You get busy rustlin’ that mop. When I get back you’d better have this kitchen straightened out.”
While Lewis sullenly pumped water, Barry prepared breakfast for his mother. When he carried it to her room, he found her trying to make the bed.
“Ma!” he said reproachfully, and placed the tray on a chair.
“But I can do it, Barry. I feel lots better.”
“No bed makin’. Doctor’s orders. Now sit down here and eat your breakfast; then dress in somethin’ not too hard to get into, and if you need help, holler.”
Half an hour later he assisted her from her room. Walking very slowly, supporting her frail body, he led her to the big gallery and into the sunshine. Slowly they made a circuit of the house, stopping occasionally to look at some feeble shrub or flower which, even though neglected, strove to thrive and blossom.
“See, ma?” he said. “Just like you. A little care and they’ll be liftin’ their faces to the sun as good as ever.”
He filled a big rocker with cushions and saw her comfortably installed in it. When he left her she was smiling and her eyes were very bright.
The kitchen was clean. Not as spotless as his mother had kept it, but quite a creditable job, considering who had done it. He sent Lewis into the living room with broom and dust pan. “I’m goin’ to look over the range,” he told his step-father. “Mother is out on the gallery. Fella, you’d better treat her right polite, and if she calls for anything, you hop. Savvy?”
Lewis nodded surlily, and Barry went for his horse. All morning he rode over the Flying W, noting sadly the effect of indifference and neglect. Even the appallingly few cattle remaining seemed apathetic and thin. At noon he returned to the ranch house to prepare his mother’s dinner and move her chair to a better location. She seemed quite bright and cheerful.
“Chet’s cleanin’ house,” she confided in an awestruck whisper. “Barry, what’s come over him?”
“He’s atonin’ for his sins likely. But don’t get all stirred up, ma; he’ll be backslidin’ before long I reckon.”
That afternoon he rode to the north boundary and found the two cowboys listlessly working on the fence which had been built in an effort to keep down rustling. He questioned them closely, deciding that they were worthless and under the domination of Chet Lewis. They could not—or would not—shed any light on the rustling problem, and Barry left them with the determination to get rid of them as soon as he could find others to replace them.
Pride kept him from the Cinchbuckle. Time had not changed his feelings towards Barbara Dawn, but on that eventful evening five years before she had ordered him off the spread, saying that she did not want to see him again. By this time she had probably relented; but Barry felt that she herself must remove the ban before he could feel free to set foot on the Cinchbuckle again.
When he helped his mother to her room that evening, he noticed with satisfaction the distinct signs of improvement in her condition. Cooped up in that east bed room, she had received the benefit of the sun for only a short period each day; to have remained there much longer must surely have killed her.
“I’ve got to ride to Mescal for supplies,” he told her. “We’re short in everything. You mind my leavin’ you alone?”
“Land sakes, no, Barry. You run right along. I’m sort of used to being alone. And you—”
“Yes’m,” he grinned. “I’ll be a good boy.”
He rode directly to Bascomb’s store, ordered what he wanted, and asked that it be sent out to the ranch the next morning; then, having some time on his hands, walked down to the Silver Palace and entered the saloon.
For a moment he stood looking curiously about him. He hardly knew the place. It was well lighted and roomy, with a fifty-foot bar along the west wall. Down the middle of the room was a double row of tables, and paralleling the east wall were the games. At the far end of the place a platform had been built for dancing and for the show put on by Ace Palmateer’s girls. Beyond that he caught sight of a door which evidently led to a small room for private parties.
Leaning indolently against one end of the bar was Ace Palmateer, dark of hair and eye, with the well-groomed mustache and the white, delicate hands of the professional gambler. Seeming to sense Barry’s gaze, he turned his head to stare. His expression did not change, but his cool nod told Barry he had been recognized. Weston stepped to the bar and ordered a glass of beer. When he had finished drinking it, he found Polmateer beside him.
“Fill it up again, Joe,” Ace ordered the bartender. “I’ll take a short one.... Well, Barry, back again, eh?”
“Yes.” Barry had never liked Palmateer overmuch.
“Staying long?”
“Depends. I see you’ve fixed up the Palace. That back bar mirror must have cost a small fortune. Sure must be bullet-proof.”
“Practically.” Palmateer jerked his head towards two men who sat at a table near the end of the bar. They were hard-visaged, keen-eyed characters with gunmen stamped all over them. “Bouncers; only they do their bouncing with lead. No promiscuous shooting inside the Palace, Weston.”
“I see. What are the lives of a few drunken punchers beside that mirror, eh?”
“That’s the idea. This is a well conducted place. The games are on the square and there is no rough-house. Remember that, Weston.”
“Meanin’ what?”
Ace shrugged. “You left town after a shooting scrape. Before that you had the reputation of being a buck-wild young hombre. I’m not saying you were at fault in that fight with Steve Moley, but he swears you shot him when he stepped into the light and before he had even drawn his gun.”
“That’s a lie!”
Palmateer shrugged again. “Perhaps. There were no witnesses, and your word is as good as his; but there are plenty around Mescal who believe Steve, and your reputation is against you.... Here’s regards.” He downed his drink and turned away.
Barry did not touch the drink Polmateer had bought. Face white with suppressed anger, he rolled a cigarette and was lighting it when two cowboys stepped to the bar beside him. They ordered drinks, and one of them addressed the bartender.
“Seen anything of Clay Dawn, Joe?”
The bartender nodded towards the room at the back. “Poker game.”
“That’s bad, Tuck,” the puncher told his companion in a low voice. “The kid’s got no right playin’ poker with all that dinero on him.... Hey, Joe! How long has he been playin’?”
“Five, six hours.”
“Who’s sittin’ in with him?”
“Steve Moley and a couple fellas from the Slash B.” The bartender moved away in answer to a summons from Palmateer.
“That’s all we’ll get out of him,” said the cowboy. “Tuck, what are we goin’ to do about it?”
“Git drunk like we started out to. I ain’t goin’ to waste my time on Clay Dawn. Clay! They oughta called him Putty.”
Barry moved away, glancing at the cowboys as he did so. He did not know them. Thoughts busy with what he had overheard, he passed through the doorway to the street. So Clay Dawn was in Mescal, and with a considerable sum of money. Barry had not known Clay intimately, but he remembered him as a boy who was rather weak of character. And when a weakling with a wad gets into a poker game—
He turned abruptly and passed around a corner into the passageway which led to the alley. Through the open windows came the sound of a piano and the nasal voice of the entertainers. The end window had its shade drawn down to the sill, so Barry moved to the rear of the place, sidestepped a pile of tin cans, and brought up outside a back window. The shade of this, too, was lowered, but a band of yellow light showed between its edge and the window sash. Through this space Barry peered.
Four men sat around a circular table, above which hung a ship’s lantern. Stacks of chips and money told of a poker game, but at the moment play was suspended. One of the four—he with his right side towards Barry—had slumped over on the table, head pillowed on one arm. His hat had fallen off and lay on the floor. Across from him sat Steve Moley, who, together with the other two players, stared intently at the sleeper.
The one facing the window glanced furtively at Moley, received a nod of encouragement, and reached for the sleeper’s coat. As he drew it carefully to one side, Clay Dawn—for Barry decided that the helpless one was he—raised his head and brushed an arm across his eyes. Mumbling something which Barry could not hear, he pushed back his chair and struggled to his feet. For a moment he stood swaying, arms working jerkily in time to the words he spoke in a voice now pitched high enough to carry through the closed window.
“Dam’ crooks, tha’s what you are! Wanna get my money. Well, you ain’t gonna. I’m gettin’ outside—” He turned towards the door which opened on the saloon, lurched forward a few paces.
The man facing the window got to his feet, and swift as thought raised an empty whiskey bottle and brought it down on Dawn’s head. The young fellow pitched forward on his face and lay still.
Barry drew his Colt and smashed the lower pane with one clean swipe. Almost before the glass had ceased tinkling, he jerked the shade from its roller and thrust the gun through the opening.
The three stared at him, immovable, the one who had downed Clay Dawn crouching over his prostrate form.
“Get ’em up, all three of you,” commanded Barry.
For an instant they remained hesitant, then reluctantly elevated their hands to the level of their shoulders. Keeping them covered, Barry reached through the opening and unfastened the window catch. Carefully he raised the sash until a click told him the pin had sprung into the top stop. Leaping upward, he lay for a moment balanced across the sill, then wiggled through the opening.
Inside the room, he backed to a corner where he could command every entrance. Somebody was thumping on the door, and Barry could hear the thud of boots rounding the alley corner. He addressed the man nearest the door.
“Let Ace Palmateer in.”
Palmateer entered and closed the door behind him. “What are you up to now, Weston?”
“Helpin’ you keep the Palace pure and unstained,” drawled Barry. “I think you said somethin’ about square games and no rough-house. Well, I looked through the window in time to see that jigger over there sock Clay over the head with a bottle. Knowin’ you run a square joint, I horned in.”
The two men measured each other, Barry’s look challenging, Ace’s calculating; then the door opened and a bouncer announced the arrival of the sheriff. Sam Hodge strode into the room and glanced about him importantly. “You, huh?” he grunted at sight of Barry. “What you done now?”
“Started where he left off five years ago,” said Palmateer. “A few minutes ago I told him Steve’s story of that old shooting, and he swore it was a lie. He broke in here, probably to get Steve.”
“You’re a bigger liar than Moley,” said Barry flatly. “I was lookin’ through the window and saw that jigger hit Clay with a bottle.”
“What do you say about it, Steve?” asked Palmateer.
“He busted the window and poked his gun through it, orderin’ us to put up our hands. Hop Finch grabbed a bottle, and Clay Dawn tried to take it from him. Hop hit Clay over the head. I figure it was a holdup.”
“That settles it,” said Hodge. “Give me your gun, Weston.”
Barry stared at the sheriff, fighting the rage within him. “If you want this gun you’ll have to come and take it.”
“Better hand it over,” came a slow voice from his right. Barry jerked his head around to see the face of one of Palmateer’s gunmen grinning at him through the window. The fellow’s gun rested on the sill, its unwavering muzzle pointed directly at Barry.
Resistance was out of the question. Steve Moley, after his humiliation at Barry’s hands, would give much to see him under six feet of sod; Palmateer had no liking for Weston; Sam Hodge was sheriff by virtue of Horace Moley’s money and influence. The cards were neatly stacked against him.
Barry holstered his gun. “Let’s go over and see the judge. I’ll pay the fine and get it over with.”
“It begins with a J, but it ain’t judge. It’s the inside of the jug you’re goin’ to see. Come along.”
Hodge took his gun and ordered him to lead the way through the Palace. The crowd of drinkers and gamblers stared at him, their occupations for the moment forgotten, and six gaudily dressed and painted ladies whispered excitedly among themselves. Barry’s unwilling attention was attracted by one of them. She was small and dark and undeniably beautiful, of Mexican extraction. As his gaze met hers he saw the lovely eyes widen slightly, the red lips part as a little Spanish exclamation escaped them. She came forward quickly, stood before Barry, forcing him to halt.
She addressed the sheriff. “W’ere ees eet you take heem?”
“To the calaboose. Move aside, Lola.”
“W’at you take heem for?”
“Bustin’ up a poker game—disturbin’ the peace—attempted robbery.”
“One man do all these! He mus’ be ver’ brave.”
Steve Moley pushed forward and took her by an arm. “Come on, Lola; you’re holdin’ up the parade.”
For an instant her eyes flamed as she looked up into his face. Steve was smiling, but Barry saw his strong fingers tighten about her arm, saw the girl wince slightly at the pain. Her lashes drooped and she permitted him to turn her aside.
Barry resumed his walk to the door, passed through the entrance to the street. One of Ace’s gunmen fell in beside him, and with the sheriff following he strode down the plank sidewalk to the jail. Here he was thoroughly searched and locked in a cell.
Half an hour later, Hodge and the gunman reappeared carrying between them the limp form of Clay Dawn. Barry watched by the light of the single lantern which hung in the corridor as they went through Dawn’s clothes, then dropped him in the adjoining cell and locked the door.
The jolting he received partly revived young Dawn. As the two left the jail, Barry saw him sit straight up and look about him with wild, unseeing eyes.
“Crooks!” he mumbled thickly. “Tha’s what you are—crooks! But you won’t get it. Need it for Clement. Need it—to get him—outa—jail.”
His eyes clouded and the words became a mumble which Barry could not understand. Finally Clay sank back to the floor and in a few seconds was snoring.
Barry seated himself on the edge of the bunk and ran his fingers through his hair. George Brent had told him that Clement had escaped; the wild words of this sodden youth would indicate that he had been apprehended. If Clement were brought back to Mescal they would hang him; the Moleys would see to that. Greatly disturbed, Barry tossed about until nearly dawn before falling asleep.
He was awakened by the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor. A rough and surly individual had entered, bearing a pail of water and a bunch of keys. With one of the latter he unlocked the adjoining cell, and with the former thoroughly doused the still sleeping Clay Dawn, who awoke choking and swearing.
“Clear out,” ordered the jailer. “Sleep it off somewhere else.”
Clay sat stupidly gazing about him, then, upon being jerked to his feet, stumbled through the doorway and down the corridor to disappear from view. An hour later the jailer reentered the corridor and unlocked the door to Barry’s cell.
“Front office,” he said. “Somebody to see you.”
Barry entered the room to find Sam Hodge and Horace Moley awaiting him. His belt and six-gun lay on the officer’s desk. Hodge motioned towards it.
“Put it on and git out. Mr. Maley says to let you go.”
The lawyer spoke crisply. “He also says not to come back. Weston, you left here under a cloud. You’re no sooner back than you create a disturbance. We don’t want you in Mescal. Get on your horse and ride—and keep riding.”
“Suppose I don’t want to leave?”
Moley’s long face was very cold. “In that case you must suffer the consequences. You are a disagreeable person, Weston, with an unsavory past. I assure you we can make it very difficult for you.”
Barry reached for his gun belt and buckled it about him ; then he drew the weapon and examined it critically. Replacing it, he eyed them grimly.
“Mescal happens to be my home. If I ever leave it, it will be on a shutter.”
“Even that,” said the lawyer softly, “is quite conceivable.”
He grinned, and it suddenly struck Barry that the long eye teeth of the man resembled greatly the fangs of a predatory wolf.