THE blood drained away from Little Bill’s cheeks as he stood without moving even his eyes. Luther’s attention was riveted on him. They were brothers, but for the moment that had exactly no importance at all. The others watched breathlessly. Tascosa and the Sawbuck men had no thought of interfering; Luther had made his play, and he would have to see it through; but to a man, they expected to see Little Bill suddenly spring into the air and come down with his guns popping. The advantage would be all with Luther, and it was in the rules of the game that he would do something about it.
To their amazement, however, Little Bill half-raised his hands.
“All right, Luther,” he said. “I guess it’ll have to be your way.” He spoke without anger.
“I’m right glad you had a flash of sense,” his brother drawled. He took possession of Little Bill’s guns and turned them over to Tascosa. The old man’s hands trembled slightly as he took them.
Beaudry was relieved too.
“Much obliged to you, Luther.” He grinned in a vain attempt to hide his agitation. “Bill will thank you too when he gets a chance to think things over. It’s all right to be hot-headed, but there’s no use lettin’ a little misunderstandin’ make a fool of yuh. Now—”
“Beaudry—it’s the horses you want, ain’t it?” Luther cut him off sharply. “Well, there they are. You get your saddles on ’em and be on your way. Nobody here is interested in hearing you exercise your jaw. You’re overdue to leave right now.”
Cash bristled wrathfully at this fresh affront.
“That’s more than plenty out of you,” he sneered. “I aim to remember a few things that happened here tonight.”
“You won’t be the only one,” Little Bill muttered cryptically.
The few minutes of darkness following the long twilight were giving way to the silvery radiance of the moon. In the short while it took Beaudry and his deputies to saddle the commandeered horses it grew appreciably lighter, until it was possible to see distinctly for long distances. The sheriff had some trouble mounting the gelding. He got up at last. His men were already in their saddles.
“See you in Bowie tomorrow!” he called to Tascosa.
“Yeh, and you see that them horses is returned as is!” the old man shouted back.
The little cavalcade began to move down the valley, setting a course well out from the black smudge of trees that lined the river bottom. Tascosa and his men gathered about the wagon and stared after them.
“A lot of hell to raise over a horse,” the old man grumbled. “I told you them claybanks is bad luck, Bill.”
“Bad luck for some people, you mean,” the red-haired one answered, his tone ominous. “I’ll thank you for my guns now.”
Tascosa handed them over.
“We ain’t seen the end of this,” he said. “He’ll make us plenty trouble from now on.”
“I figure that’s true,” Little Bill admitted. “I hate to get a man in a jam on my account, but I couldn’t help it this once. If I thought anythin’ was to be gained by walkin’ wide of him now I’d let him get away with his play; but I know better. I said no man was takin’ Six-gun. I meant it, and I mean it now. Luther stopped me once. Don’t none of you-all try it a second time. I’m warnin’ you I’m on my own. I’ve got an ace up my sleeve and I’m playin’ it I”
As they gazed at him, wondering just what he meant, they saw him put his fingers to his mouth. A long-drawn, piercing whistle rang out. It carried down the river to the little group of horsemen, by now upwards of two hundred yards away. It bore instant result, for Six-gun reared up on its hind legs and pawed the air wildly. Beaudry was hard put to stay in his saddle. Little Bill whistled again, and the horse rose until it seemed it must topple over on its back.
“There goes Beaudry!” Link cried. “Six-gun has thrown him off! Boy, look at that horse! He’ll kill that fool if he don’t let go of the bridle rein!”
It was true. The big gelding seemed intent on pawing the life out of the man on the ground. Beaudry’s companions seemed not to know what to do. Little Bill whistled a third time.
“That fetched him!” Scotty exclaimed excitedly. “Mr. Sheriff has let go I”
Six-gun had whirled around and was racing back to the wagon now, its mane and tail flattened out. Suddenly a gun barked. Beaudry, beside himself with rage, had fired from where he lay.
“Damn him, ain’t that a skunk for yuh!” Little Bill cried, expecting to see the horse go down.
But the gelding came on with unabated speed. Little Bill ran to the wagon. It took him only a second to get his rifle out of his bedroll and fill his shirt with cartridges.
“You, Six-gun!” he shouted as the trembling horse dashed in among them. The animal trotted over to him. The sheriff and his posse were returning; Cash riding double.
“Bill, what are you goin’ to do?” It was Luther. His voice was a hoarse croak.
For answer, Little Bill threw his gun to his shoulder and began to pump it. The posse pulled up short. If none of them pitched out of their saddles it was only because he was purposely shooting low.
“Luther, jerk that saddle off and put mine on!” he whipped out. “I’ll hold ’em off!”
“You’re makin’ a mistake!” his brother cried.
“It’s me that’s makin’ it! Did that skunk mark Six-gun?”
“Just burned him a little on the right leg.”
Tascosa and the others would have rushed up, but Little Bill warned them back.
“No need of you gettin’ mixed up in this,” he said. “It’s my funeral—if it is a funeral!”
He blazed away in the direction of the posse again.
“There’s your horse,” Luther told him a moment later. “You wait a minute and I’ll go with you.”
“You’re stayin’ right here,” Bill insisted. “You tell Beaudry if he comes after me to come a smokin’; I ain’t shootin’ to miss from now on.”
He sailed into his saddle without effort and raced away. A few minutes later the sound of water being lashed into spray told them he was crossing the Cimarron.
Beaudry and his deputies dashed after him, emptying their guns as they rode. Once across the river, however, they pulled up in a hurry, for well up the slope, Little Bill’s rifle had begun to flash. The little puffs of dust that his slugs kicked up were dangerously close, proving that he was quickly getting the range.
Tascosa and the others saw the posse confer briefly, and after sending a futile volley up the slope, jog back to the wagon. Beaudry soon had the air blue with his cursing.
“Damn his hide, I’ll make one horrible example of him!” he thundered. “I can’t waste no time on him tonight, but I’ll sure fetch him for this!”
“I wouldn’t take on too much about it,” Tascosa counseled. “He had a lot on his side, Cash. The horse is the apple of his eye. We had another bronc here that you could have had without any fuss.”
“And you call that an excuse for defyin’ the law?” The sheriff’s face was purple with wrath.
“I won’t call it an excuse,” Tascosa drawled with provoking deliberation, “but there’s often what is known as extenuatin’ circumstances. For one thing, your reputation with a horse ain’t of the best—and you more’n lived up to it tonight. I can stand for most anythin’, but it kinda rubs me the wrong way to see a man use a gun on horseflesh. This majesty of the law that seems to be troublin’ you so much don’t cover anythin’ like that.”
“Is that so?” Cash ground out contemptuously. “You sound to me like you’re lookin’ for trouble. Maybe I can make you a little.”
“Well, suppose you do then!” old Tas flared back, suddenly angry. “I ain’t askin’ no favors of you. Jest be sure if you start somethin’ that there’ll be a showdown ‘fore I git through. Now if you’ve got any outlaws to look up tonight you better take Scotty’s pony and be on your way.”
Breathing vengeance, Beaudry led his posse away. For an hour and more after they had gone, Tascosa and the others conversed in low tones about the fire, now burned down to a few coals. All were of the opinion that it would be the part of wisdom for Little Bill to avoid Bowie for the present.
“But I’m afraid he won’t listen to that,” said Luther. “You know how he feels about Doc Southard’s girl. He ain’t seen her in over two months, and he’s got his heart set on it. I don’t know whether it’s him or Paint Johnson who’s got the inside track with Martha. But it don’t matter; you know how Bill is when he gits any-thin’ into his head.”
“Wal, Paint’s just a kid yet, but he’s a mighty nice boy,” Tascosa declared weightily. “If Bill’s worryin’ at all about him he better stay out of Bowie until this thing blows over. He won’t be beatin’ anybody’s time if he gits hisself tossed into jail. Mebbe you’d best take one of these broncs they left us and see if you can’t locate the little varmint. He’ll be safe here at the wagon tonight.”
It didn’t take Luther long to find his brother.
“So there you are, eh?” old Tas called out banteringly as the two rode up. “You sure gave quite an account of yourself, Bill.”
“Yeh, I was sure shootin’ at them there for a minute,” the red-haired one grinned sheepishly. “I told him he couldn’t have my horse and I kept my word. I wasn’t takin’ no chance of havin’ him show up tomorrow with a story that the geldin’ had been shot out from under him or that the Sontags had lifted him. I’d likely never have seen Six-gun again. Beaudry would give me an order against the county for fifty dollars, and I could like it or leave it.”
“Nobody is sayin’ you didn’t have your way, you little fightin’ runt,” Maverick Williams remarked. “Now all you got to do is pay for it.”
“I don’t mind payin’ for value received,” said Little Bill, “but I ain’t givin’ myself up until I know what the charge is.”
“Then you agree you shouldn’t go into Bowie tomorrow?” Tascosa asked with frank surprise.
“I admit I shouldn’t, but I’m goin’ just the same.”
“Why be a fool, Bill?” the old man demanded heatedly.
“I can’t help it; I got to go. I’ve been countin’ on it for weeks. I’ll ride in early in the mornin’ and stay just a few minutes. With any luck at all I’ll be on my way before Beaudry gets back.”
“Where’ll you go then?” asked Luther.
“I’ll head for the Panhandle. You’ll be down next month. I’ll meet up with you all right.”
“Be a lot better if you started back right now,” Tascosa insisted. “I could get the lay of things for you and send word down by somebody. But I ain’t goin’ to argue,” he added as Little Bill would have interrupted. “I know there’s no chance of changin’ your mind. You’re as stubborn as your old man. I could see him in everythin’ you did tonight. The old fightin’ fool—” Tascosa shook his head at some ancient memory of Waco Stillings and himself. “When his joints got so full of rheumatiz he couldn’t fork a horse no more he gits himself a job as a express messenger so he can keep on packin’ a gun on his hip! You aimin’ to see your father tomorrow, Bill?”
“I will if he’s in from his run. He may not be on tonight.”
“I’m hopin’ he ain’t,” Luther remarked moodily.
“Why do you say that?” his brother asked.
“Just a hunch maybe.” Luther tossed away his cigarette and watched it die out in the grass. “That bunch on the Skull, movin’ east, and Beaudry’s talk about goin’ as far as the railroad sounds to me like the Rock Island’s night express might run into some trouble.”
“Pop knows how to take care of himself,” Little Bill declared.
“That’s just the trouble; he won’t give up as long as he can raise a gun. He thinks he’s as good as ever. We know better. It ain’t no trick to fade him now.”
For some reason, Little Bill’s mood was as sombre as his brother’s. The others felt it.
“Aw shucks,” Link chided them, “why borrow trouble ? There’s ten banks hoisted to every train that’s stuck up.”
“And jest because it’s ten times as easy,” Tascosa declared with a chuckle. “I didn’t figger when I mentioned Waco’s name that it would bring on anything like this. I was afraid he might go gunnin’ for the sheriff when he heard about tonight.” He got to his feet and stretched preparatory to rolling up in his blanket. “I’ll see him tomorrow, Bill, and tell him what’s what. You better roll in now.”
Little Bill looked after his horse before he turned in. By the time he had washed out the crease Beaudry’s bullet had made and smeared it with axle-grease, the camp was asleep. He got his bedroll then and stretched out beside the wagon. The train of thought Luther had started was still with him and he could not throw it off. He recalled Tascosa’s words about a claybank being unlucky.
“Can’t be anythin’ to that,” he brooded. “Pop’s never even seen the horse.”
When sleep came finally it brought dreams of a train rushing through the night; of the ghostly shrieking of a locomotive’s whistle; of an old, spindle-shanked man dozing in his chair in an express-car.