Part 5

Sales, stripping off his shirts, flashed Blaze a look of gratitude. It gave him a chance against this ape-man. Men threw chairs and tables aside, clearing a large space. Word of the battle traveled fast, and in a few moments there was a steady stream of men trying to claw their way inside to see the fight.

A man offered big odds on Mora, but there were no takers. Nobody considered that Sales had a chance.

“He can’t reach Mora’s head!” yelled a voice.

“Put Chuck on a chair!” yelled another. “We want to see what he looks like.”

The men stripped quickly. Mora was even more ape-like, stripped. His body was corded with muscles and his skin was a deep bronze. Sales was broad of shoulder, narrow of waist and hip and his muscles were small compared with those of his antagonist, but Blaze noticed that Sales’ muscles were long and supple, while Mora’s were corded.

There was no time lost in preliminaries. Mora was ready first, moving to the center of the cleared space. His head was hunched forward on his short neck, his big hands opening and shutting as he waited for a chance to wipe out the insult.

Sales sized Mora up and then shot a glance around the room.

“Come on!” growled Mora, like a hungry bear.

Sales laughed and stepped forward, slightly crouched, both arms swinging easily, hands half-open. His long muscles rippled easily with the swing of his arms. Mora stepped to meet him and quick as a flash Sales slapped him across the mouth with his open hand. The blow had been cat-like in its speed and it cut Mora’s lips. Before Mora could recover, Sales slapped him across the bare chest. It was as if Sales was playing tag with him.

Mora cursed and launched a mighty blow at Sales, but it passed over Sales’ head, cleverly ducked. Men crowded closer, muttering. This was not according to their calculations, but there was no cheering.

The two men were circling each other now. Blaze noticed that Sales kept a perfect balance, while Mora seemed more clumsy, top-heavy. Mora swung again, a wide sweeping smash. Sales blocked it with the point of his elbow, catching Mora’s swinging arm between elbow and wrist. It seemed to take all the power from Mora’s arm for a moment, and Sales shot a straight right to his mouth.

Mora retreated slowly, his face contorted with rage. Then he sprang forward like a tiger, seeking to circle Sales with his long arms. Instead of evading them, Sales lunged forward to meet the attack. Sales’ right hand flashed forward and upward, with the weight of his body behind it, and buried itself at the point of Mora’s breastbone.

The circling arms slithered weakly off his shoulders, as Mora lopped forward from the waist, staggering blindly. By superhuman effort he kept his feet, but his swaying face was a green mask of agony, his mouth stretched wide for air.

Sales moved swiftly, uppercutting with both hands to Mora’s face. Measuring his distance, keeping pace with the backward moving Mora, he smashed in short-arm uppercuts, with the regularity of a machine; uppercuts which did not paralyze, but cut and bruised. Sales was marking Mora for life.

He drove Mora through the crowd until he backed him against the wall. Then Sales set himself for the final punch, while Mora, sobbing, slobbering, tried to cover his face with helpless arms.

But the final blow was never struck. As Sales swung forward, a heavy bottle whizzed across the room and crashed against his head. Sales dropped like a log and over him fell Mora, blubbering for mercy.

For a moment there was silence; then the crash of a pistol shot. One of the men who had been standing on the bar went backward, clawing for support. He had thrown the bottle and some one in the crowd had seen the deed.

Came the crash of breaking glassware, as he plunged behind the bar and the tense crowd went hog-wild. Sales’ men were out for blood and Mora’s men were willing to accommodate them, but the pistol was of little use in that close-packed place.

Men drew their guns and swung them overhanded, clubbing the barrels against anything which might come before them. Bottles flew crashing against the walls; sometimes against heads. The wide doors were not wide enough to accommodate the stampede, so windows were smashed to make exits. Blaze had flung himself across Sales, shielding him from the trampling feet, while Mora’s men strove to fight their way to Mora’s side.

Blaze managed to get to his feet, holding Sales’ limp body, but was buffeted aside by weight of numbers. He clung to the inert body with one hand, while he clubbed his way through the crowd with his heavy six-shooter. Above the roar of the tumult came Frenchy’s voice.

“Hol’ on, you ---- fools! Hol’ on! De sheriff say stop!”

But that crowd knew no authority. Blaze fought his way to the front door, while Mora’s men managed to get their leader and half-drag him out the back door. Bullets began to fly as soon as the clans were separated sufficiently to tell which was which. Mora’s men got him out of the door, but they had paid toll.

Three of his men did not get to the door and as many more were stretched on the floor, downed by pistol barrels or thrown bottles. Four other men, whether Sales’ men or otherwise, were also _hors de combat_. The shooting stopped when Mora’s men disappeared.

Disheveled men staggered around in the street, clothes half-torn from their bodies, bruised and bleeding. The saloon was a shambles, furniture wrecked, mirrors shattered. Blaze staggered across to the office carrying Sales, while behind him limped Frenchy, talking French so fast that he fairly spat words as a machine gun spits bullets. Frenchy’s hat and shirt were gone and his hair seemed to rise up like the roach on an angry grizzly bear.

Blaze placed Sales on a cot and dashed a dipper of water into his face. Sales blinked painfully and opened his eyes. A man, bruised about the face and minus one sleeve of his shirt, came into the door and looked at Sales. He spat out through the aperture of missing teeth and tried to grin. Sales looked up at Blaze and then sat up on the cot, feeling tenderly of the swollen cut on his head.

“How do you feel, Chuck?” asked the man.

Sales squinted up past his crooked nose at the questioner.

“That’s a ---- of a question to ask,” grunted Sales and then looked up at Blaze and asked--“Did I lick him, Carlin?”

“Yuh did, Sales--yuh sure did and yuh licked him fair. Where did yuh learn to fight like that?”

“Back East. I was a prize-fighter once. That’s where I got this lop-sided nose. What happened after somebody hit me?”

“I got the bottle-thrower,” said the man. “He was a friend of Mora. This here Carlin saved yuh from bein’ tramped to death, Chuck. I tried to git yuh but I couldn’t go no place in that millin’ herd. I seen him pick yuh up and fight his way through. McCarty, Simpson, and Franklyn got hammered up a lot and Micky Shannon stopped a bullet, but I think they’ll all pull through.”

Sales held out his hand to Blaze.

“I reckon you went out of your way to do this fer me, Carlin, and I thank yuh to beat ----.”

“I ain’t thanked yuh for what yuh done for me over in the Eureka,” smiled Blaze.

“Just came out even,” sighed Sales. “’Pears like I can’t never git nobody indebted to me, ---- the luck.”

Doctor Brenton worked swiftly probing for bullets and binding up cuts and bruises. There was not enough left of the Square Deal Saloon for the owner even to promise an opening within a week, so the regular habitués shifted their affections to the Eureka, the Double Cinch or the High Card gambling-houses.

* * * * *

The fight was the subject of conversation and only seemed to add zest to the business of the night. Chuck Sales was a hero. He had accomplished the impossible. It was gossip that Chuck was formerly a prize-fighter, of the then “bare-knuckle” school and he was favored of men; but Chuck wore his honors with the crooked smile and a bandage around his head.

Fights were started over the merits of the punch which had made Black Mora as helpless as a child. Men loaded with bad whisky demonstrated it upon their acquaintances, which caused many upset stomachs and not a little spilling of angry blood. Few men cared for fighting with their hands, preferring the more rapid methods which seldom ended in a draw decision.

Four of Mora’s men had been patched up and went home, but two of them would never ride the ranges again. Only one of Sales’ men, Micky Shannon, was unable to partake of the festivities and he would be riding again in a few days. Several others had been slightly injured in the melee. Luckily the fight was held at short range, which made it impossible to shoot without danger of hitting friend as well as foe, otherwise the toll would have been very much greater.

Blaze and Frenchy did not mix with the crowd, but stayed in the office. Both of them had received superficial cuts and bruises. There was no doubt that Black Mora would make reprisals if possible. He would have to do something desperate to wipe out the disgrace of that whipping, and his followers were likely in a mood to follow him on any undertaking.

Frenchy had talked so much during the day that his throat was weary. It was the first time that Blaze had ever seen Frenchy tired of talking. He lay stretched out on a cot, puffing slowly on his old pipe and staring at the ceiling. Blaze walked slowly up and down the small room.

On the table was a pile of weapons which Frenchy had collected that day and surmounting the pile was Black Mora’s belt and gun. Blaze took it from the holster and looked it over. It was a single-action .44 Colt, with carved bone handle, depicting a running wolf. The figure of the animal was in relief. Below the animal was carved the initials, J. L. H.

“Black Mora packs another man’s gun,” observed Blaze, handing the weapon to Frenchy.

Frenchy exhaled a cloud of smoke and examined the gun, peering at the delicate carving.

“Somebody she’s do plenty work on de handle,” he observed, handing it back to Blaze, who replaced it in the holster.

“I’m t’ink any man’s fool to put name on de gun.”

Came a timid knock on the door, barely audible. Frenchy got off the cot and stretched his arms. From across the street came the sounds of dancing, singing, voices raised in shrill argument.

Frenchy stepped to one side of the door while Blaze lifted the bar, drawing the door to him. A woman stepped quickly inside and Blaze shut the door behind her. Blaze dropped the bar into place and faced the woman. It was the one who had laughed when he hit Black Mora, the woman who had turned away when he had lifted his hat to her on the Eureka balcony.

Blaze bowed to her and indicated a chair.

“Won’t yuh set down, ma’am?”

The woman shook her head.

“No, I’ve got to get back quick, but I had to ask you something--something----”

She glanced quickly around the room as if afraid to talk. She was less than thirty years of age, but hardened and haggard from her profession; yet she appeared embarrassed. Beauty parlors were as yet unknown in the West and the women of the dance-halls had little time for more than a daub of paint, smeared in a grotesque imitation of the bloom of youth; their hair frizzed with curling-irons which were heated in the chimney of an oil-lamp, and decorated according to their own standards.

This woman’s dress was sparkling with cheap bangles and reeking with perfume, which is supposed to dull the senses of uncouth men and lead them to believe that this “rag, bone and a hank of hair” is perfection personified.

“Ma’am,” said Blaze, “I’m glad to answer a question if I can.”

She hesitated for a moment as if thinking deeply.

“I heard a man talking about you today. I think he runs one of the stores. He said that you found a man who--who had been hung.”

“Yes’m,” nodded Blaze, “we did find one man thataway.”

“At a little cabin in the gulch which leads to Cinnamon Creek?”

“Is Cinnamon Creek where Black Mora’s ranch is?” asked Blaze.

The woman nodded and compressed her lips.

“I can try to describe the old man,” volunteered Blaze. But the woman got to her feet with a gesture of dissent. She leaned on the table for a moment and then turned, with her back to the table, her hands behind her and looked at Blaze.

“You heard what happened to Jack Wheeler?” she asked slowly.

Blaze nodded.

“Ma’am, it was awful--it sure was.”

She bit her lips as if to keep back the tears and walked back to the door.

“I want to thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for answering my question, and--and for taking off your hat to me.”

She lifted the bar before Blaze could assist her and slipped out into the street. Blaze dropped the bar back into place and looked at Frenchy who had never spoken while the woman was in the room.

“Whatcha know about that?” wondered Blaze.

Frenchy whittled some tobacco from his plug and filled his pipe. He tamped the tobacco carefully and lit a sulfur match.

“Can’t yuh talk?” asked Blaze.

Frenchy nodded his head.

“Sure, I’m mak’ talk, Blaze, but first I’m mak’ t’ink. W’at you suppose she’s tak’ Black Mora’s gun for, eh?”

“Black Mora’s gun?” parroted Blaze and stepped over to the table. The holster was empty.

“She’s tak’ it when she’s back against de table,” explained Frenchy.

“Why didn’t you stop her?”

Frenchy puffed thoughtfully.

“Blaze, de woman no steal for de value of de gun, ba gosh. De woman know some-t’ing. Mebbe she’s need gun. Mebbe she’s tak’ Black Mora’s gun biccause his gun be de handies’, eh?”

“Suppose he comes after his gun, Frenchy? We ain’t got no right to keep his gun.”

Frenchy shook his head.

“_Non_. We got no right, Blaze, but I’m not worry. When Black Mora come for de gun, I’m mak’ t’ink I’m kill Black Mora. Chuck Sales she’s wort’ while for de fight; Beel McKeever she’s suppose to be big man, but I’m got not’ing against dem two out-law. I’m----”

A heavy hand banged against the door. There was nothing timid about this knock.

“Who’s out there?” asked Blaze.

A voice answered, saying something about Delaney, the rest of it being drowned by the noise from the dance-hall. Blaze cautiously opened the door. A man was standing there, his face shaded from the light. The light was behind Blaze and Frenchy, which left their faces in the shadow.

“What was it?” asked Blaze.

“Delaney wants yuh to come to his house,” stated the man. “The Wheeler woman wants to talk to yuh.”

The man half-turned his head toward the dance-hall as he finished his message. Without a sound, Frenchy sprang through the doorway into the man, and both of them crashed to the ground. For a moment Blaze was stunned at the suddenness of Frenchy’s actions, but sprang to his assistance. The man twisted and cursed, but the little Frenchman had pinned his arms.

Blaze removed the man’s gun and they dragged him inside and closed the door. The man sat on the floor and stared at them. Blaze let the full light of the lamp fall upon the man’s face. It was the man whom Frenchy had booted at Cinnamon Creek; the man with mouse-colored hair and empty eye-socket. He stared at them, wonderingly, his eye wide open with fright. It suddenly occurred to Blaze that Mex Free had been killed before telling Mora that the two men had not been burned in the ranch-house fire, and that this man did not know until now.

The man’s forehead had come in contact with the ground, and a trickle of blood was running into his remaining eye, but he made no move to wipe it away. He seemed bereft of motion or understanding.

“I’m never forget de man I’m kick,” stated Frenchy. “She’s plant de trap, Blaze.”

“Delaney wants to see me, eh?” asked Blaze.

The man looked at Blaze, but did not affirm nor deny the question. Frenchy leaned over the man, shoving his bearded face close and peering into the one eye.

“Who sent you to lie?” asked Frenchy harshly, but the man was dumb. His eye stared straight ahead, as if visioning the punishment he expected.

Frenchy stood up and looked at Blaze.

“W’at you t’ink, Blaze? Dis is Black Mora’s man for sure. She’s bring de message to come and see Delaney. Delaney never send him, ba gosh!”

Frenchy snapped his words as if anxious to get into action again. Blaze lifted a coiled rope from under the table and proceeded to hog-tie the one-eyed man, who made no move to prevent it. Blaze roped him as only a cowboy can do the job and when he was finished the one-eyed outlaw was as secure as knots could make him. Not a word would the man speak, not even a curse. He was taking no chances.

“Where you go?” asked Frenchy.

“Delaney’s place. Know where it is?”

“No. Mebbe somebody show us.”

* * * * *

They closed the door behind them and went across the street. The closed Square Deal Saloon made a dark spot in the otherwise lighted street. Two men met them as they reached the sidewalk, and Blaze recognized one of them as being the stable-man.

“Know where Delaney lives?” asked Blaze.

The man had recognized Blaze and Frenchy and gave them the directions in a few words. Delaney lived a short distance from the business section, back on the slope of a hill. Blaze and Frenchy did not go cautiously, for the reason that Blaze believed that if it was an ambush, the outlaws might mistake Frenchy for their messenger in the dark and give them a chance to find out what they were up against. A dim light was burning in Delaney’s front window. They were almost to the door when a voice said--

“Good work, Blue.”

Men rose up from behind them, men who were unseen in the shadows of the fence and who ringed Frenchy and Blaze from every avenue of escape except into the house.

“The house,” whispered Blaze. “Smash the window if the door is blocked.”

“---- yuh, I’ve got yuh where yuh won’t kick fer a while,” gritted Black Mora’s voice.

Blaze whirled and fired at the figure which he thought was Black Mora, while Frenchy’s pistol spat flame in the other direction. The bushwhackers were taken by surprise; supposing that one of the two was their messenger, Al Blue. Blaze swung his gun from figure to figure, firing as fast as possible, while Frenchy emptied his gun into the bulk of the men who were only a few feet from him.

Oaths and cries of pain mingled with the crashing of pistols. Blaze felt a bullet tear through the flesh of his left forearm, while another bit deeply across his shoulder. His gun was empty. Frenchy had ceased to fire for the same reason. Straight for the door they ran, crashing into it together and splintering the cheap latch. It was a narrow hallway, opening each way into larger rooms.

Blaze bounded back from the wall and threw himself against the door. Frenchy went to his knees and skidded almost into the right-hand room. For a moment Blaze held the door with his shoulder, but he immediately dropped flat, braced his feet against the bottom of it, while he calmly shoved cartridges into his empty gun.

Bullets splintered the door, waist high to a man, but none of them came low enough to injure Blaze. Frenchy reloaded as fast as possible and crouched against the wall out of line with the door, cursing softly.

“Didja get hit, Frenchy?” asked Blaze.

“I’m los’ piece from my ear and git bullet in de leg; I’m t’ink one boot she’s get irrigate from de blood. How you come?”

“Got a slug through my left arm and one through my left shoulder, I think. Can’t shut my hand very good. We kinda busted up the meetin’, Frenchy.”

“Ho, ho, ho! I’m have de gran’ time latelee. I’m never know dere be so much good time in de worl’, Blaze. Where you suppose everybodee she’s be? Where’s Delaney and de female wimmin’, eh?”

Blaze crawled away from the door, which swung ajar for a few inches. Into the other room went Blaze, crawling softly in the dark. One room was partly lighted with the smoking oil-lamp, but this one was in darkness. Blaze crawled slowly, reaching ahead as much as possible; crawling like a three-legged animal.

Suddenly his hand touched flesh. Like a flash his pistol barrel bored into it but there was no movement. Blaze reached out with his injured hand, not daring to take away the pistol, and felt tight ropes.

“Frenchy,” he called softly. “Come here, Frenchy.”

“Ba gosh, I’m come,” whispered Frenchy, and came limping softly into the room.

“Light a match,” whispered Blaze.

Frenchy lighted a match, shading it with his hands. On the floor lay Delaney, trussed with ropes, gagged with a dirty rag and with a hangman’s noose around his neck. He had been bruised about the head, but his eyes were open.

Blaze cut his bonds and ripped away the gag. For a moment Delaney was unable to move, but he struggled to a sitting position as the match flared out.

“Where are the women?” asked Blaze softly.

Delaney seemed unable to talk and when he did regain speech it was barely a weak whisper.

“Gone. They stole them. Said they’d hang me as soon as they got you, Carlin.”

“Shake yourself,” ordered Blaze. “Where have the women gone? Why did Mora’s gang come here?”

“Mrs. Wheeler,” whispered Delaney. “Black Mora wanted her. Those were Mora’s men in the store when she came there. She knew it was Mora’s gang that killed Jack. Mora killed him to get her. He knew she’d tell me who got Jack and Mora was afraid.

“I heard him send the message to you. Mora’s face is cut to ribbons, where Sales beat him. He said he was going to hang us both to the same limb.”

“He’s got your wife, ain’t he?” asked Blaze.

“We were all here when they broke in,” whispered Delaney. “Mora grabbed Mrs. Wheeler.”

Delaney got to his feet, mumbling to himself. Blaze moved back toward the front door, his footsteps muffled in the heavy rag-carpet. The oil-lamp was guttering in the other room, casting a yellow light over the walls.

The half-open door began to squeak, as some one shoved it gently from the outside. The sound of a husky whisper came to Blaze’s ears. Blaze covered the edge of the door with his pistol. Suddenly a man’s body moved into view, but before Blaze could shoot a streak of flame shot from Frenchy’s gun and the man dropped to the floor.

“Ba gosh, you mebbe wait too long sometime, Blaze,” said Frenchy softly.

They listened, waited. Outside came a shrill whistle and a moment later the sound of galloping horses. Blaze took a chance. He hurdled the man in the doorway and sprang into the yard.

By the dim light from the moon he could see men riding away. Two horsemen swung past him, coming from the rear of the house. Blaze emptied his pistol as the horses thundered past. One of the men cursed and fired back. Fifty feet beyond, the horses seemed to crash together and go down.

Frenchy and Delaney joined him. Blaze had watched, but could not tell whether the horsemen had gone to town or not.

“Mora gave up trying to get us,” said Blaze. “He’s taken the women with him, I think. He’s lost too many men already, and he knows we are still alive. Look out for them two out there by the horses. They may have some fight left.”

They separated and started for the spot where the horses had fallen. A few feet away, Blaze stumbled over the body of a man, which proved that Mora’s surprize party had not worked out as he had planned. They found the horses--one dead, the other crippled, but there was no sign of the two men.

The three men stood there, undecided. Far away they could hear the music from the dance-halls, soft and as indefinite as the light from the fleece-covered moon. The saddle creaked on the crippled horse, as the animal started to move away. Far back in the hills a coyote lifted its voice in lamentation.

“Ba gosh, she’s de peaceful night,” breathed Frenchy. “I’m lak’ to go to sleep, Blaze.”

“How does the leg feel, Frenchy?”

“Not feel much. I’m not t’ink she’s belong to me. My boot squash, squash all de time. How’s de arm?”

“Can’t lift it,” said Blaze. “Weighs a ton. Buck up, Frenchy; we’ve got to get Black Mora tonight.”

“She’s a fact,” said Frenchy. “We got t’ree good leg and t’ree good hand left, which mak’ plenty fun, ba gosh!”