Part 5

“‘Hold on a minute, Pete,’ calls a voice from the door. There stands Shorty, grinnin’ pleasant like. ‘Put up that gun and listen fer a spell while we talks sense. Killin’ Fox won’t git yuh nothin’ but a hangin’ bee. But you and me, barrin’ accidents and good shootin’ on the part uh the LF polecats, kin git them cattle back. Say we throws our hulls on yore top-water hosses, swims that crick and kinda give them gents a su’prise party?’”

Hank’s hands went out in a gesture of helplessness. Tad nodded understandingly.

“Shorty’s jest plumb fool enough tuh win out, too,” he mused aloud.

“Pete ’lowed that the swimmin’ was a cinch,” admitted Hank. “But then, mebbeso he was jest lyin’ tuh make me and Ma feel easy. Say, what’s come over Joe Kipp? He acts plumb queer. Yuh don’t reckon the ol’ feller’s losin’ his mind, do yuh?”

“Noooo. Don’t know as I’d go so fur as tuh say Kipp was gittin’ weedy. Fact is, I think he’s jest kinda pullin’ hisse’f together. Yeah. Supposin’ we eases ourselves over to the house, Hank? My belly’s so empty that the chaw uh terbaccer I swallered tuh keep from goin’ tuh sleep, is rattlin’ around in my stummick like a bronc in a corral.”

On the way to the cabin, Hank told Tad how Shorty had excused his partner’s absence.

“The wust of it is, Tad, she believes it. Said I was a kinderd spirit and a whisky soak when I tries tuh explain that Shorty was jest funnin’. I thought fer a minute that she was goin’ tuh haze me into the blacksmith shop again, dang it.”

Hank grinned twistedly.

“I’ll wring that danged li’l’ rooster’s neck when I ketches him,” grinned Tad.

“He ’lowed he was breakin’ even fer that windy yuh told Ma about a hoss throwin’ him and givin’ him the black eye.”

During breakfast, Tad caught Ma Basset’s gaze fixed on him, and he felt his ears growing red. No doubt the woman thought that bringing Kipp back with him was some sort of drunken whim. Moreover, Kipp’s odd behavior did much to convince Ma that the sheriff was also under the influence of liquor. Tad breathed a sigh of relief when they were safely back at the corral and Kipp had caught a fresh horse.

“I’d like tuh go along, Joe,” said Hank. “Them’s my cattle, yuh know and it’s no more’n right that I should be goin’.”

“It’s a one-man job, Hank. There’ll like as not be some powder burnt. Yuh don’t want tuh leave no widder behind yuh. In case I don’t come back, here’s the combination to my safe.”

He handed Hank a slip of paper on which were some penciled figures.

“In the safe is a sealed envelope addressed to you. It has some papers which will be uh use to yuh. But it ain’t tuh be opened till I’m dead, savvy?”

Hank nodded, then looked at Tad. “Reckon I’d best tell Joe about Pete?” Tad pondered this a moment, then: “Might as well. Can’t do no harm, Hank.”

“Pete’s aimin’ tuh swim the river from yon side uh the Narrers and come into the Pocket, Joe.”

“——!” Kipp’s eyes filled with pain.

“He’ll never make it, Hank. Even if he crosses, there’s a man watching the trail from the river. He’ll be killed, shore.”

“Then I reckon I’ll be goin’ along with yuh, Kipp,” said Tad. “Shorty went with Pete. If Shorty gits killed, all —— can’t stop me till I downs every last man that’s mixed up in this. All of them, _sabe_?” Tad’s eyes had gone hard as ice. The good-natured expression had given way to hard, grim lines.

“I reckon,” said Kipp slowly, meeting Tad’s gaze without flinching, “that I _sabe_, Ladd. That bein’ the case, I want that you should come along with me.”

They saddled in silence. Tadd slipped a Winchester into the saddle scabbard and emptied a box of 30–40 shells into his pocket.

“I told Fox I’d meet him at the lone cottonwood to deliver those cattle, Hank,” said Tad with a grimness that gave the statement the tone of a threat. “That’ll be Sunday noon. I reckon you’ll be there. So-long till then.”

“Remember the paper in the safe,” Kipp reminded Hank. “It’ll explain a heap that I reckon yo’re a big enough man tuh understand, Hank.”

Without another word, Tad and Kipp rode away, leaving Hank standing in the gateway, scratching his head in a puzzled manner.

“Hank Basset,” called Ma from the doorway, some time later. “Whatever in the world are yuh standin’ there in the road fer? A person ’ud think you’d jest said good-by to yore last friend, a standin’ around like a hoot owl with yore hat in yore hand, gawkin’.”

“Last friend?” muttered Hank, as he turned to the house. “I don’t know but what she done guessed it right. The hull danged business has got beyond me, dad gum it.”

“If you bin hittin’ that bottle,” warned Ma, her voice firm with determination, “you’ll put in the rest of the week at the blacksmith shop. I’ll have no drunken rowdies set foot over my door sill.”

Ten feet from the cabin, Hank halted. He saw Ma Basset holding the bottle of snake-bite medicine to the light. Memory of Shorty’s healthy-sized drinks came to Hank’s mind.

“A good three inches below my last mark,” he heard his wife mutter. “I suspected as much.”

With a groan, Hank turned and with dragging steps, entered the blacksmith shop.

“Beat her to it that time,” he muttered, seating himself on a keg of horse shoes and biting off a corner of plug tobacco.

VIII

“As well marked as a prize-winnin’ white-face, and as quick actin’ as a top-cuttin’ hoss,” was Shorty Carroway’s mental summing up of young Pete Basset. “He’d orter act plumb purty in a scrap, be it six-gun er knock down and drag out.”

Nor was Shorty far from being wrong in his estimation of his companion. Straight-featured, clean-limbed, his clear eyes honest and alight with the fire of unspoiled youth, the son of Hank Basset sat his horse with a careless grace that marked him a born horseman. Even college had left him unspoiled by the flattery and idolatry that is the unmaking of many a crack athlete.

“I don’t much like the idea of you getting mixed up in this mess, Carroway,” he said in a troubled tone. “It’s really not your scrap, you know, and there’s going to be some nasty battling before it’s over. It sure is white of you, and darn few men would do what you’re doing now, even friends of long standing. Hang it all, we’re little more than strangers to you and it’s not fair to——”

“Fergit it, Pete,” grinned Shorty, reddening. “Strangers? I reckon not. There’s some folks that I’ve knowed since I was hock high to a cotton-tail rabbit, that’s more strangers tuh me than yore paw and mammy. They done took me and my Tad pardner into the house like we was kin folks. Dang it, I ain’t et such grub since I was a yearlin’.

“Anyhow, my reasons fer takin’ chips in this here game is sorter vary and sundry, as the feller says. Tad’s bin abusin’ me scan’lous and I aim tuh git even. That’s one reason. Then, this here Fox hombre is nacherally goin’ tuh rear up and fall over backward on hisse’f when we brings out this herd. Thirdly and mostly, I’m sp’ilin’ tuh lay hands on this here gent which goes by the handle uh Black Jack, thereby completin’ a job uh manhandlin’ which I was forced tuh quit sudden like onct at the LF wagon.

“Again, I’m honin’ fer tuh show yore daddy that there’s one human besides his son which kin bust that Missouri wide open. All uh which, _amigo_, downs ary argument on yore part. Ain’t it about time we was gittin’ to that place acrost from the Narrers? We bin ridin’ right along since we crossed on the ferry and she’s nigh dark.”

“We’re about opposite the upper end now, Shorty. See that high-cut bank below the first little bend? That’s her. That lighter brown strip is their trail where they water the stock. We’re a mile above, rough figuring. That means we’ll drift to that trail nicely, starting here. We’ll angle it as much as we can. Current’s swift and the channel lays full against the cut back on the other side.

“See that sharp pinnacle? Well that’s the point we’ll head for. It’ll show plain against the sky when the moon rises. Barring undercurrents and snags, we stand a fighting chance of hitting it. If we don’t, it’s thumbs down for us. That cliff is ten miles to the lower end and not six inches toe-hold in the ten miles. I wish you wouldn’t tackle it, pardner.”

Shorty shook his head and, following Pete’s actions, dismounted and unsaddled. Hobbles were adjusted and the two partook of a meager repast of jerky and canned tomatoes. Brush screened them from the opposite bank as they squatted beneath a big cottonwood and waited for darkness and a rising moon.

Already, the approaching danger was fast cementing a strong friendship between these two. As men will do on such occasions, they exchanged confidences, swapped stories and lighted their cigarets from the same match.

Pete’s quick movements and the dancing light in his gray eyes betrayed the nervous tension within. Shorty showed not a trace of whatever emotion lay behind his soft-spoken banter. Though a scant ten years older than his companion, Shorty had been well tutored in the school of hard knocks. Like his partner, Tad, he was an orphan, range-reared and self reliant. The only living thing that he was afraid of was a woman. The more beautiful, the more fear she instilled in the heart of the little cowpuncher. Danger merely quickened his pulse as strong drink affects a man unused to it. Yet he masked his feelings as effectively as the seasoned gambler hides four aces. It was as if risking his life was an everyday occurrence, all in a day’s work.

Twilight deepened into night and a white moon pushed itself over the ragged skyline. A horned owl hoo-hooed in the cottonwoods. The timid white-tail deer bedded down in their red willow thicket. Back in the brakes, a wolf gave voice to a long-drawn howl. A ripple showed on the smooth surface of the water as a muskrat swam from its hole in the clay bank. Plunk! A beaver tail slapped the water with such abruptness that Shorty’s hand dropped to his gun.

“I reckon we might as well tackle it,” said Pete quietly, getting to his feet.

They saddled in silence, with great care. Cinches were left loose. Hackamores took the place of bridles. Boots and chaps were rolled in a neat bundle and tied to the backs of the saddles. Shorty bit off a large chew of plug and swung into the saddle.

“There’s no way of keeping you from coming along, Shorty?”

“Not nary, Pete. I done hired out fer a tough hand and I plays my string out. Chaw?”

He held out the gnawed plug.

“Thanks, but I never chaw, pardner.”

“Then don’t never learn. I gotta own up though, that there’s nothin’ quite so plumb downright soothin’ as a man-size hunk uh plug at a time like this. It’s as intoxicatin’ as a shot uh tea is to a ol’ maid school-marm. Take the lead, pard. I’m follerin’ clost behind. The sooner yuh starts, the better. These dad-gummed mosquiters is shore a-eatin’ off me fierce.”

Pete in the lead rode out on a sand bar and his horse waded out into the stream. The swift-flowing water swirled and eddied about the animal’s legs.

“That high peak yonder, Shorty,” he called softly as his horse hit swimming water. “Right yuh are, Peter.”

No further word was spoken. Shorty set his jaws as the swift current swept his horse downstream. Easily, he slipped from the saddle and with a hand holding to his horse’s mane, swam alongside. The water was cool enough to freshen his tired nerves. He grinned to himself and jerked his hat down on his head with his free hand. Ahead of him he could see Pete and his horse. Both horses swam high in the water.

Suddenly, like a bobbing cork pulled by a string, Pete and his mount were sucked beneath the surface.

“Undercurrent,” muttered Shorty as he filled his lungs with a deep breath of air.

Then he and his horse went under as if drawn by an invisible hand. In reality but a moment, yet it seemed an hour to the cowpuncher, and they again came to the top.

“All right?” called a voice from ahead.

“Settin’ purty,” he called back.

The horses were blowing softly with a rattling noise. Unexcited, swimming stoutly, they battled against the current. Shorty splashed water against the side of his horse’s head to guide the animal a point downstream. Once more he was heading straight for the sharp point that loomed black against the sky.

A dark, misshapen object bobbed up ahead. It was a big tree, half submerged, floating downstream. With swift, sure movements, Shorty swung his swimming horse to face straight up-stream against the current.

“Easy now, ol’ hoss,” he murmured soothingly. “Jest kinda mark time fer a minute till yon snag drifts on to St. Louis. That’s the idee. Now she’s gone.”

And they were under way once more. Ahead, Pete was watching for snags and had worked his way back until he now clung to his horse’s tail. Behind him, Shorty was doing the same. A scant hundred feet ahead the black shadow of the bank rose ominously. Pete scanned the unbroken shadow for a trace of the trail.

Momentary panic clutched Pete. Where the trail should be, only a perpendicular wall showed. Either he was above or below the trail that meant escape from the treacherous river. Then the panic passed, giving way to dogged, unyielding determination. He dared not call out to his companion for fear of being overheard by the men they sought. He swung his horse to breast the current and waited for the coming of Shorty.

A moment and the little puncher was alongside, careful to keep his distance lest the horses paw each other. The animals were breathing hard now. It had been a desperately hard swim. How long their strength and courage would hold out was a problem that might easily mean death to men and beasts.

“Missed ’er,” whispered Pete hoarsely. “We got to chance it downstream, I reckon.”

Swimming squarely against the current, their horses had been losing ground slowly. Shorty nodded and, gripping his floating saddle strings, pulled himself alongside the neck of his horse. He deftly slipped free his rope strap and flipped the end of his lariat to Pete. Pete caught it and with a nod, slipped the end under his armpits and knotted it. Shorty passed his loop over his head and under his arms, then drew it tight. Now, if one of them should find footing along that treacherous bank, he could save his companion. On the other hand, if one of them went under, the other would meet the same fate.

“Both or neither,” explained Shorty in a grim whisper, then swung his horse downstream. “Here goes nothin’.”

Two pairs of bloodshot, straining eyes swept the bank that slipped past so swiftly. Shorty now was in the lead, Pete ten feet behind, the slack of the rope coiled in his hand to keep from tangling. Both men were taking it with deadly calm as they fought their battle against the death that lurked in the muddy, swirling water.

Suddenly Shorty’s horse ceased swimming. The animal’s legs were swept downstream and he floated.

“Gone belly-up, Pete,” Shorty grunted.

“Look out!” called Pete in a hoarse whisper, as his horse lunged forward in the water in an effort to climb on top of the floating horse.

Now indeed, the situation was critical. Shorty ducked beneath the striking forefeet of Pete’s horse and with every ounce of his strength, jerked at his hackamore rope. Pete did likewise. The melee of struggling horses and men drifted apart. To the left, a narrow ribbon of light cut the dark wall of the bank.

“The trail, thank ——,” muttered Pete and, with a jerk that seemed to tear the ligaments in his arm, wrenched at the hackamore rope. An agonizing moment, then his horse lunged shoreward and found footing.

The weight of Shorty’s horse, swimming once more, hindered the puncher greatly as he fought the current, his eyes fixed on that strip of light that meant safety. Loath to let loose his horse, he fought off the temptation to turn the animal loose. The horse was becoming panicky now, snorting and lunging, pawing at the man ahead of him in the water. Flinty, steel-shod hoofs broke the water a scant two feet behind Shorty’s head.

Pete, in the saddle now, dallied the slack rope around his saddle horn. His stockinged heels pressed the heaving sides of his tired horse.

Back in the water, Shorty felt the rope beneath his arms go tight. Both his hands grasped the hackamore rope of his struggling horse. The noose beneath his arms tightened till it seemed to be cutting him in two. He clamped his jaws and gripped the hackamore rope. His arms seemed to be stretching until they loosened in the sockets. Seconds seemed eternity. Then he felt himself being dragged along the clay bank of the trail that led upward. He dimly saw his horse flounder ashore and stand with wide-spread legs and lowered head on the bank. With a grunt of utter relief he let go the hackamore rope.

* * * * *

“Stick ’em up!” bawled a hoarse voice from above.

A spurt of flame and the roar of a gun, then Pete’s voice, trembling a bit.

“Got him, Shorty. Are you all right?”

A violent choking, gasping sound from Shorty and Pete, gun in hand, cast off the rope and, leaping to the ground, slid down the trail to his companion’s side.

“Good gosh, man! What’s wrong?” he whispered, loosening the rope and peering into Shorty’s writhing features.

Shorty scrambled to his feet, reaching for his gun.

“My chaw. Swallered ’er. Let’s go,” he gasped, and lunged forward to throw himself upon a dark blot that moved along the bank.

The dull thud of a gun barrel sounded as it struck something.

“Your shot jest winged him, Pete. He’s out fer a spell now. Gimme the rope and we’ll hog-tie him. Then let’s git outa here.”

“Yo’re covered, —— yuh!” called a hidden voice. “Plug ’em if they make a move, Bill. “Stick them —— hands in the air.”

Two rapid shots cut the darkness and Shorty felt the air of a lead slug pass his cheek.

“Whupped!” he grunted and raised his hands. “I’ve laid down my hand, feller,” he called. “Foller suit, Pete, they got us foul.”

IX

A killer is, with mighty few exceptions, a killer because of his own desires. Black Jack, foreman for the LF, was no exception. He did not even, secretly or openly, offer the plea that he was a victim of circumstance. He had killed men. He would kill more men. His past was a sealed book, his future a gamble and thus he met each day as it came. Making no prayer, he branded as weak any man who believed in a God. A half-breed, and the blend was dangerously bad for he had inherited the baser traits of both races.

Now, as he looked along the barrel of his Winchester to find Pete Basset at the end of it, his white teeth flashed in a smile that was unpleasant to see. The bushy black beard hid the cruel lines about his mouth, but the narrow slits of black that were his eyes, glittered as the moonlight struck them. A brown finger pressed the trigger, then paused uncertainly.

The taint in his mixed blood, thrown back to some breech-clouted ancestor, now stayed his hand. He hated Pete Basset and a bullet between the boy’s eyes would be too mercifully quick an end. His trigger finger eased off.

Pete Basset, shocked and not a little disappointed at Shorty’s easy surrender, hesitated uncertainly, gun lowered, making no move to raise his hands nor return the fire. He realized with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, that Black Jack and his men were well hidden and on higher ground that prevented a rush. He and Shorty, on the other hand, stood in plain view. Resistance meant death. Shorty had shown judgment, not a yellow streak. He dropped his gun and raised his hands.

Shorty, the lariat still in his hands, elevated his arms skyward and grinned weakly. The soft drip-drip of water from their soaked clothes on to the hard clay was the only sound that broke the quiet of the night.

Behind the willow clump, Black Jack lay aside his Winchester and drew his .45.

“The little ’un brung a rope, Bill,” he announced in a jeering tone as he stepped into the open. “Mebbeso it’ll come in right handy to string ’em up. Ketch ropes is scarce and hangin’ a man spoils a rope fer use. Bad luck to use one that’s snaked a man tuh ——.”

Followed by another man, he stepped carefully down the incline.

“Howdy, Black Whiskers,” said Shorty glibly. “When yuh go through my pockets after you’ve made a corpse outa me, yuh’ll find four bits in my off flank pocket. Buy yorese’f a shave with it.”

Holding his gun in careless readiness, Black Jack stepped closer, still on the incline. Shorty noticed that the single action gun was not cocked but that the breed’s thumb was on the hammer.

“If yuh got ary more comical sayin’s in yore system,” he sneered, git shet of ’em. I understand as how hangin’ kinda interferes with a man’s voice. Bill, tie Basset up. I’ll tend to this mouthy one.”

Black Jack’s hand slipped hipward and produced a pair of steel handcuffs. He was clear of the incline now and on a level with Shorty, standing but a couple of feet distant.

“Jest lay aside yore hangin’ rope, little man, and hold yore lily white paws out fer a nice pair uh bracelets.”

Shorty’s right hand flicked forward from the wrist with a deft, swift movement. The round noose shot out, settled, and tightened with such abruptness that Black Jack was caught off his guard. Shorty hurled himself backward, jerking the breed from his feet. The .45 exploded harmlessly.

Pete threw himself forward as Bill shot. The youth’s hand clutched the gun on the ground and, rolling over with a catlike twist, he fired at the shadowy form that came through the air at him like a mountain lion springing on its prey. His shot missed Bill by inches and their bodies met in a thudding crash to writhe and twist in locked embrace.

Shorty’s wet socks slipped on the water-soaked clay bank as he jerked the rope. Black Jack, the shining handcuffs now a nasty weapon, was upon him, the steel manacles crashing full into Shorty’s face. A grunt of pain and the little puncher’s hand gripped the black whiskers and jerked. His other fist swung at the man’s jaw.

Again and again the steel cuffs clinked and clashed against the cowpuncher’s face. They came away each time speckled with blood. Shorty, on his back underneath the breed, pulled the harder on the black whiskers and his free arm went around the sinewy brown neck. Muscles flexed and tightened like a steel-jawed trap and the blows from the handcuffs became less effective as Shorty slowly pulled the breed down to him.

Then, with a writhing, twisting movement used by professional wrestlers, the little puncher slid from under the other’s bulk, still holding the black head in the crook of his arm. A short arm jab, vicious and effective, caught Black Jack’s jaw, bringing a grunt of pain from the breed.

From the shelter of the high bank moved the man whom Shorty had knocked out with his gun. The man was crawling toward Shorty and Black Jack, his eyes on Shorty’s gun that lay close by. His hand closed over the weapon and he sprang forward, his right arm dangling awkwardly at his side, the gun in his left hand.

Shorty saw him and with a terrific effort rolled over, dragging the striking, snarling half-breed with him. The wounded man, cursing methodically to fight off pain and dizziness, stumbled forward and flung himself on top the two. His gun thudded against Shorty’s head. Once, twice, three times. Shorty’s grip on the black-bearded head relaxed and he went limp, his bleeding, mangled features ghastly in the light of the white moon.

Pete and Bill, panting and fighting like wild beasts, fought without rules nor thought of fair tactics. Not a word passed their clamped jaws as they rolled to the water’s edge and under the feet of Shorty’s horse.

The horse, frightened, lashed out at the struggling forms. A shod hoof struck Bill in the ribs and with a groan, he relaxed his grip. Rolling free of the horse’s flying hoofs, Pete staggered to his feet, aiming a kick at Bill’s face. The stocking-clad heel caught Bill on the cheek. With a last effort, the outlaw clutched Pete’s leg and wrapped his arms about it, jerking Pete off balance and bringing him to the ground.