Part 2

“What’s the use?” said English Ed coldly. “That half-breed Conley went out to get him.”

Roaring Rigby squinted closely at English Ed for a moment before turning to the crowd.

“Git out of here,” he ordered. “No, you stay here, Ed.”

He moved them all out, closed the door tightly and turned to the gambler.

“What about Pete Conley?”

In a few words the gambler told him about the trouble, but made no mention of his trouble with Jimmy Moran. Roaring listened closely.

“Did Mallette steal that card, English?” he asked.

The gambler shrugged his shoulders.

“I didn’t see the play. Jimmy Moran saw the play, but wasn’t sure. He was the one who was supposed to have discarded that king of hearts. Mallette was drinking and--”

“Had a right to steal a card, I suppose.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You meant it. Did Mallette carry a gun?”

“I’ve never seen him with one. He had none on him when we found him. Conley murdered him.”

Roaring Rigby took a deep breath, rather a jerky one.

“Murder? Yeah, I reckon that’s right,” softly.

“The damn half-breed!” exclaimed English Ed under his breath.

“Blood don’t make no difference,” said Roaring quickly. “The law don’t draw no color line, English.”

“The law be damned! Mallette was murdered. Mallette was a gambler--one of my men. Judge Beal would turn Conley loose. He’d never hang a man for killing a gambler.”

“Old Judge Beal is a square-shooter, English. Nobody can say he ain’t honest. But he ain’t hangin’ nobody unless they need it.”

“Well, he better keep his nose out of my business.”

“Yeah, I s’pose. You better send somebody for a doctor. Old Doc Shelley is the coroner; so you better get him, not that he can do Mallette any good, but to make it legal.”

They opened the door and walked out into the saloon. Business was at a standstill. A knot of girls stood near the honkatonk platform, talking in subdued voices, and a crowd of cowboys and gamblers were at the bar. For once, the _whirr_ of the roulette-wheel and the clatter of chips were stilled.

Roaring Rigby walked past the long bar, and a cowboy called to him:

“If you want to save that half-breed for trial, you better start travelin’, Rigby.”

It was Mark Clayton, of the Big 4 outfit. Roaring turned and looked at Clayton.

“And you better sober up and go home,” said Roaring. “This is a man’s job--and you ain’t dry behind the ears.”

Roaring walked straight across the street to a general store. He knew the crowd in the Black Horse would watch to see what he would do. Straight through the store he went, opened a back door and headed around to his stable, which was behind the sheriff’s office.

He knew the crowd in the saloon was planning either to go out to the Hot Creek ranch after Pete Conley, or to take Pete away from him when he brought him to jail. Roaring saddled his sorrel gelding, circled the town and headed for the Conley ranch, riding swiftly.

* * * * *

Jimmy Moran rode away from Turquoise City, a grin on his lips. His right hand ached a little, but he minded it not. He could still see the vacant stare in English Ed’s eyes; he chuckled to himself. There had been a certain satisfaction in hitting the big gambler.

“Mebby I can save a little money, if I get in bad with all the gamblers and rum sellers,” he told his horse.

He had championed the cause of the son of his father’s ancient enemy, and he wondered what his father would say if he knew about it. He realized that he had put himself in bad with English Ed and his gang, which meant that he would be none too safe in Turquoise City.

He forded the river that ran near the Hot Creek ranch and traveled along Moses Conley’s barbed-wire fence. About half-way along this side of the fence the road forked, turning to the left to Jimmy’s ranch. Only a short distance beyond the forks was Conley’s gate, where cottonwoods lined the road and grew along the fence.

As Jimmy turned into his road, he caught the flash of a white dress in the moonlight near the gate. He turned his horse back to the main road, and went slowly up to the gate. The wearer of the white dress was Dawn Conley. She was holding the reins of her horse and had swung the gate partly open.

“Well, bless my soul!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Dawn!”

“Hello, Jimmy,” said the girl simply.

Jimmy dismounted and dropped his reins, knowing that the chunky bay would stand as long as the reins hung down. Jimmy went close to her, his hat in his hand.

“I was waiting for Dad,” she said. “I--I thought it was him. He went over to the 7AL this afternoon.”

The 7AL was located about five miles east of Turquoise City.

“I see,” said Jimmy. “You--you don’t think anythin’ has happened to him, do you, Dawn?”

“Oh, no; but I--I--”

“Uh-huh.”

Jimmy swallowed heavily; he shifted uneasily. He wanted to put out a hand and touch her. Whenever he saw her he forgot that she was part Indian and daughter of his father’s enemy. Standing there in the moonlight, within half an arm’s reach of her, Jimmy hooked his thumbs over his belt and stared at her face.

“Dawn,” he said hoarsely, “Dawn, you’re beautiful.”

“Jimmy Moran, you--why say that?” She moved slightly away.

“Don’t go away,” he said slowly. “It’s all right, Dawn; I had to say that. It ain’t wrong to say what you think. No, I’m not drunk; I never was more sober in my life. I’ve never seen you in my life when I didn’t think you was the most beautiful girl I ever seen.”

“You mustn’t say that, Jimmy.”

“Why not? It may not mean anythin’ to you, but it does to me. Standin’ here like a danged idiot, tellin’ you things like that is like drinkin’ liquor. It kinda makes me dizzy. Funny, ain’t it? I’m scared to tell you things like that, and still I’m doin’ it. It’s like doin’ things when you’re drunk--mebby you hadn’t ought to, but you do it just the same.”

“Well,” said Dawn vaguely, “I don’t know.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Jimmy softly. “You’ve got to love to feel that way, Dawn.”

“To love?”

“Yes, Dawn--I love you.”

“You love me?” slowly.

Neither of them saw Roaring Rigby. He came riding up the dusty road, his horse still dripping from the water of the ford, his horse’s hoofs muffled in the dust. But he saw them, and turned his horse into the shadow of the cottonwood. He dismounted and came ahead on foot, keeping close to the trees.

“I swear I love you, Dawn,” said Jimmy. “I’ve never had a chance to tell you before. Oh, I know our fathers hate each other; but what has that to do with us?”

“I’m Injun,” she said.

“I’m Irish.”

He did not try to go closer to her, and for a long time neither of them spoke. Then:

“I heard that you might marry Roarin’ Rigby,” said Jimmy. “They say he’s been comin’ out to see you, Dawn.”

“He’s a friend of Dad’s.”

“But comin’ out to see you, Dawn.”

“Perhaps; but he’s too old, Jimmy. Dad likes him.”

“Do you like him, Dawn?”

“He’s a nice man, but he is so homely, Jimmy--and old. No, I never could marry him. He looks funny.”

Jimmy was silent for several moments. A breeze rattled the dry leaves of the cottonwoods.

“Dawn, why were you anxious to meet your father?”

“It was Peter,” she said anxiously. “He came home awhile ago. He had been fighting, Jimmy. His lips are bleeding and he looks awful. He wouldn’t tell me what had happened, and I was afraid. I wanted to have Dad go to town and find out. Oh, I hope it isn’t anything serious. You know how they feel about--half-breeds.”

Jimmy laughed softly.

“Don’t worry, Dawn. I can tell you what happened.”

Without giving himself any credit, he told her about the poker game and about the stolen king of hearts.

“Oh, Jimmy, I’m glad you took his gun!” she exclaimed. “It would go hard with him if he used that gun. I’m glad that’s all there is to it.”

“That’s all, Dawn. Pete was right. Mallette stole that card.”

“English Ed came out here a few days ago,” she said.

“He did, eh?” Jimmy’s tone was belligerent. “What’d he want?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“Nothin’?”

Dawn laughed.

“I didn’t meet him. Dad talked to him. He asked Dad about me. And he told Dad that you were almost broke.”

“What did your dad say, Dawn?”

“He said that was good.”

Jimmy laughed softly.

“I suppose they talked a lot about me, eh?”

“Quite a lot, Jimmy. Dad said that for a college-educated man, you were the biggest fool in the world; he said it was in your blood and that college brought it out.”

Jimmy laughed chokingly.

“College!” he exclaimed. “Good Lord, that’s a long time back, it seems. I’ve even forgotten how to talk English. I’m as much a part of this country as if I had been born and raised here. I think like a cowboy, Dawn. Mebby I am goin’ broke. I know now that English Ed’s games are crooked. That knowledge will save me money. I’ve been a fool, but I hope to outgrow it. I owe money, gosh! I owe money to the Turquoise City Bank and I owe money to English Ed; but I can pay it all back some day. Your father hates me, because I’m a son of my father. That’s a foolish hate, Dawn. He hates the Big 4. That’s nothin’--so do I. Dad owns the Big 4, and I ought to be loyal to the darned place, but I can’t. I don’t like Slim Regan, the foreman. Dad thinks he’s a wonder. And there you are. Will you marry me, Dawn?”

But before Dawn could answer they heard the _plop-plop-plop_ of horse’s hoofs, and turned to see the dark bulk of a horse and rider coming up to the gate. It was Roaring Rigby.

“Well, if it ain’t Jimmy Moran and Dawn Conley,” he exclaimed.

“Hello, Roarin’,” said Jimmy quickly.

“Good evening, Mr. Rigby,” said Dawn.

“Nice night,” said Roaring. His voice sounded as if he had a bad cold. He cleared his throat harshly.

“Is Pete at home, Dawn?” he asked thickly.

“Pete? Why, yes, he’s at home, Mr. Rigby.”

“Uh-huh.” He appeared miserable.

Roaring turned in his saddle and looked back toward the ford. He felt that it wouldn’t be long before some of the Black Horse gang would be riding out that way.

“If it’s any of my business--what do you want Pete for?” asked Jimmy.

“It’s kinda tough,” said Roaring slowly. “You know that I’m sheriff now, don’tcha?”

“I know Randall resigned,” said Jimmy.

“And I’m sheriff now, Jimmy. You was in that poker game in the Black Horse tonight, wasn’t you?”

“I was. If you mean the trouble between Pete and Mallette, I know all about it, Roaring.”

“Mebby not, Jimmy. A while ago they found Mallette over near the end of redlight row, with a bullet square between his eyes.”

“My God!” exclaimed Dawn.

Jimmy remained silent. He had seen Pete Conley go out the back door of the saloon, carrying that big Colt gun in his hand. Only a few moments before that, Mallette had gone out through the same door.

“So you see,” said Roaring slowly, “you might not know it all, Jimmy.”

“Mallette robbed him,” declared Jimmy.

“English Ed said you wasn’t sure about it, Jimmy.”

“English Ed said that; but I’m sure, Roarin’. Right at the time I hesitated. You hate to be sure of a thing like that. I was confused, excited; but, as soon as I had a chance to think about it, I remembered turnin’ my cards toward Pete, and I had that king of hearts. I threw my cards over toward Mallette. Mebbe one of ’em turned so he saw what it was. I remember he dealt one-handed, dropping the cards several inches, and one kinda skidded away. It was his way of gettin’ that king. And he upsets his chips. That was done to draw our attention away while he got that card.”

“I know,” sighed Roaring, “it was crooked work; but Mallette didn’t have a gun on him tonight.”

“You mean they’ll call it murder, Roarin’?”

“Looks that way, Jimmy. And Mallette was one of English Ed’s men. That means they’ll try to take the law in their own hands.”

“Well, what’s to be done, Roarin’?”

“Let’s go and see Pete.”

“Will you put him in jail?” asked Dawn anxiously.

“I wish I had him there now,” said Roaring. “He’d be safe in jail. Let’s go and have a talk with him. Where’s your pa, Dawn?”

“He went to the 7AL this afternoon and hasn’t come home yet.”

“All right; let’s see Pete.”

* * * * *

Dawn and Jimmy mounted, and they rode to the ranch-house. Pete met them in the living-room. He had covered his split lips with court-plaster. He seemed to realize that something was wrong, and stepped back toward the entrance to the kitchen, as if preparing for a quick retreat.

“Better stay here, Pete,” said the sheriff warningly, as he closed the door behind him.

“What do you want?” asked Pete warily.

“Mallette was shot and killed tonight. What do you know about it, Pete?”

Pete stiffened slightly and his eyes shifted from face to face.

“Mallette shot, eh?” He smiled crookedly. “I don’t care; he was a thief. Jimmy Moran knows; he saw him steal.”

“What do you know about the killin’ of Mallette?” asked Roaring coldly.

“Not a damned thing!”

“Not a thing, eh?”

“How would I know?” demanded Pete.

“They told me you went out to get him.”

Pete’s left hand went to his sore lips and he scowled heavily.

“You come to get me for shootin’ Mallette?”

Roaring nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry, Pete. They think you done it, you know.”

Pete leaned back against the wall, his right hand swinging close to the butt of his gun. Roaring knew that Pete was fast with a gun. There was something of the trapped animal about this swarthy, bright-eyed young man.

“Peter!” said Dawn sharply. “Don’t be foolish.”

“You think I want go to jail?” he asked harshly.

“If English Ed and his gang get you, you’ll wish you was in jail,” warned Roaring.

Pete flashed a snarling grin.

“They come too, eh?”

Jimmy Moran stepped back and opened the door. The hills were bathed in moonlight, making it possible to distinguish objects at quite a distance. He leaned forward for a moment, jerked back and closed the door.

“They’re comin’!” he snapped. “I saw two riders cuttin’ east down there. They’ve broken the fence, I’ll bet.”

“Surroundin’ us, eh?” said Roaring quickly. “Pete, you’ve got one chance. If they get you they’ll lynch you quick. Git out through the kitchen! C’mon, Jimmy!”

They ran outside. Their horses were on the dark side of the house. They saw a rider on a light-colored horse, moving along a ridge north of the stables.

It was evident that English Ed’s gang was intending to surround the place. Roaring doubted if they knew that he was there.

“Is your bronc still saddled, Pete?” asked Roaring.

“Yeah,” said Pete quickly. “I think I might go back to town tonight.”

“You probably will,” said Roaring dryly. “There’s one chance in a dozen that you will--and we’ll take that one chance.”

* * * * *

English Ed had no trouble in getting up a lynching party. Slim Regan and three of his men were there from the Big 4; Kent Cutter, foreman of the 7AL, and two of his men, showed up in time to join the crowd. There was always a goodly crew of hangers-on at the Black Horse Saloon; always they would willingly ride to a killing.

English Ed did not go with them. He engineered the deal and then stayed at home. At least a dozen armed men rode out of Turquoise City with the avowed intention of making Pete Conley pay for his misdeeds. They rode fast, because they knew Roaring Rigby’s horse was gone from his stable, and they knew Roaring had been courting Dawn Conley. They figured that Roaring might tip off Pete and give the half-breed a running start to freedom.

Old Moses Conley had ridden as far as the edge of town with Cutter and his men from the 7AL. They knew he would ride slowly to his ranch; so they rode swiftly to overtake the old man, because he was reputed to be a dangerous man with a Winchester and that he might, if things broke badly for the posse, cause them considerable suffering with that same gun.

They overtook the old man just at the ford of Black Horse river. Cutter knew that Conley was unarmed, so he did not hesitate to tell him what they were coming out there for. He did not tell the old man that they suspected Pete of the killing, but stated Pete’s guilt as a fact.

The old man said nothing. The riders hemmed him in, as they crossed the ford. At the corner of the fence they stopped, while two of the men cut the fence wires. There they received their orders for circling the ranch.

“He’ll be lookin’ for us,” said Slim Regan. “We’ve got to stop him from makin’ a getaway. Four of you better go. Head for a point due east of the ranch-house. Some of us will go through the gate and hold the south line and kinda string around to the west and north. Move in fairly close and wait until I whistle. I don’t look for the breed to make a break, but you never can tell.”

“Where’s the sheriff?” asked Moses Conley. “It seems to me that this is his affair.”

“Oh, that damn fool!” snorted a cowboy.

“This don’t require any law,” said Regan coldly.

“It shore don’t require the services of Judge Beal,” laughed another.

“Stop all that noise!” snapped Regan. “Do you want to tell him we’re comin’?”

“It seems to me it takes a lot of brave men to capture one half-breed,” said the old man bitterly.

“It takes twelve men to hang one,” retorted Cutter. “We want to make this thing legal.”

“Stop talkin’!” warned Regan again.

They opened the gate and rode through, following along the cottonwoods until they came in sight of the house. Cutter took four of the men with him and headed north, with the intention of blocking all chance of escape to the north and west, while Regan led the rest of the men straight toward the ranch-house, where they could block the way to the south.

Regan rode knee to knee with Moses Conley.

Suddenly a shot rang out beyond the ranch-house, and the men jerked up their horses. There was no further need of concealment. They whirled and galloped straight toward the house. Another rifle shot rattled through the hills.

Regan caught a glimpse of a gray horse heading in their general direction, and he thought it was one of his own men, coming back from Cutter’s crowd; but the horse swung further to the north and then headed straight for the gate. The light was not so good, but he seemed to remember that none of them was riding a gray horse.

“There he goes!” yelled a cowboy. “That gray horse! It’s the one Pete rides! He’s heading for the gate!”

There was no chance for Regan and his men to head off this running horse. In some way Pete had luckily ridden between Cutter’s men and Regan’s detachment. Regan threw up his revolver and emptied it at the horse and rider, knowing that the gun would not be effective at that distance. One of his men carried a rifle, but his horse was a little gun-shy, and the fusilade from Regan’s gun had made the horse too jumpy for the rider to hope to hit anything. Cutter’s men were coming back, riding swiftly, but the man on the gray horse reached the gate. Riders were coming from all directions and they joined Regan near the gate. Old Moses Conley was forgotten now.

“Damn it, he must have seen us comin’!” panted a cowboy. “He broke for the east, but I took a shot at him, and he cut back this way. How did he get past you, Regan?”

“Didn’t see him in time,” growled Regan. “That gray horse wasn’t visible. Which way did he go from the gate?”

“North,” said Cutter. “C’mon!”

They strung out through the gate and galloped north, spreading out like a skirmish line, driving their horses as fast as possible. But every man knew how impossible it would be to catch Pete Conley now. The half-breed knew every angle of the country better than any one else, and with that almost invisible gray horse he could ride into a clump of brush, wait until the riders passed him and then double back.

For thirty minutes they rode straight ahead, searching the country. Regan was about to call the men in and wait until morning, when they saw their quarry silhouetted against the sky on a narrow ridge. He seemed to be waiting for them. Then he dropped off the ridge, seemingly unhurried.

All the men of the posse had seen him. But their horses were getting winded, the traveling was mostly up-hill. They reached the ridge and drew rein. Regan called them together and they held a parley. On the next ridge, not over two hundred yards away, appeared the rider again. He stopped and appeared to be watching them. Cutter borrowed a rifle and fired two shots, but neither seemed to have any effect.

“You can’t hit anythin’ in this light,” growled Cutter, giving back the rifle.

“That half-breed shore has a lot of gall,” snorted Regan. “If he wants to play hide-and-seek with us, we’ll play.

Let’s split up and see if we can’t get around him.”

The rider moved slowly off the ridge, as the dozen riders spurred ahead, circling from both ends of the line. They passed the ridge, with the end riders swinging farther out all the time.

They had gone about a mile beyond the spot where they had last seen their quarry, when the gray horse moved slowly out of a clump of brush near the crest of the ridge. The horse was led by its rider. They crossed the ridge beside a tangle of brush and rocks, where the man mounted and rode swiftly back toward Turquoise City.

It was Roaring Rigby, the sheriff of Black Horse, riding Pete Conley’s gray horse. He came in along the fence and followed it to where the posse had cut the wire near the corner; and there he found his own horse.

He dismounted, tied up the reins on the gray horse, gave it a slap with his hat; it went trotting back toward the Hot Creek ranch. Then he untied his own horse, mounted and rode on toward town.

“I may be old as hell, and funny to look at,” he said bitterly, “but I’m smarter ’n all the gamblers and horsethieves around here.”

It was about eight o’clock in the morning when the tired man hunters came back to Turquoise City, empty-handed. Regan had taken his men back to the Big 4, but Cutter brought his men to town for breakfast. All night they had combed the hills, hoping for another glimpse of Pete Conley. They were in a vile humor when they came back.

Cutter rode down to the sheriff’s office and found Roaring Rigby just getting ready to go to breakfast.

“When are you goin’ to git Pete Conley?” demanded Cutter.

“When?”

Roaring shut one eye and looked curiously at Cutter with the other. Cutter was a small man, slightly gray, with a ferret-like face and a none too pleasant disposition.

“Yeah--when?” snapped Cutter.

Roaring shook his head slowly.

“I ain’t goin’,” he said slowly.

“You ain’t, eh? I suppose murder don’t mean anythin’ to you, Rigby.”

“I dunno--” lazily--“never gave it much thought.”

“Oh, you haven’t!”

“No-o-o-o.”

“Then yo’re not goin’ out after Pete Conley, eh?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s already in jail.”

Cutter’s jaw dropped and he looked at Roaring, with his mouth open, gasping.

“In jail!” he exploded. “When did you put him im jail?”

“Last night.”

“Last night? Why, we--we--” Cutter spluttered helplessly. “Why, we chased him half the night.”

“You did like hell,” drawled Roaring. “You started out to foller a gray horse, but the gray horse doubled back on yuh. You’re a hell of a man-hunter, you are.”

Cutter was speechless. Roaring locked the door, put the key in his pocket and started up the street toward a restaurant, paying no attention to Cutter, who jerked his horse around and rode straight to the Chinese restaurant, where the posse had gone for breakfast.

A tall cowboy riding a bay horse swung into the upper end of the street, and rode toward the Black Horse Saloon, but he saw Roaring on the sidewalk and went over to him. It was “Wind River” Jim, one of Jimmy Moran’s men.

He did not know what his right name was. The Arapaho Indians had raised him, his parentage being obscure; and they had named him Wind River Jim. He was tall, tow-headed, lean-faced, addicted to chewing tobacco and profanity, but withal possessed of a certain sense of humor.

“Hyah, Roarin’,” he grinned, “Jimmy said fer me to come in and tell you he sent me. He kinda had the idea that you’d need a good deputy, so he picks me.”