CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE GUNFIGHTERS
Crack! Crack! Crack! the voices of the Winchesters drifted faintly down wind to the ears of Billy and Dawson. Billy, fearful that some one else had seen their quarry first, swore frankly.
"Cheer up," said Dawson. "It may be just the chance we're lookin' for. They've stopped shootin'."
Billy remained pessimistic. He had been disappointed so often. But it was the chance they were looking for, after all.
Five minutes later from the edge of a flat-topped hill, they were looking down upon a scene that has had many counterparts in the history of the West.
Below the flat-topped hill a wide stretch of rolling ground reached away to a semi-circle of low hills. A quarter-mile out from the base of the hills a tiny fire smoked fitfully. Beyond the fire lay a hog-tied calf. Beyond the calf, a man sprawled behind the body of a pony. He was aiming a rifle at another man ensconced below a cutbank bordering a small creek that meandered with many windings across the rolling country. This second man was not blatantly visible. Even with the glasses it was difficult to make him out. For cottonwoods grew above the cutbank and the man lay in deep shadow.
Between this man and the man behind the pony were three hundred yards of ground as flat as a floor. Billy swept the background of the cutbank man with his glasses. "There are two horses tied behind a windfall alongside those rocks. Where's the other man?"
"There's the other man," said Dawson, pointing toward a gap in the cottonwoods alongside the creek fifty yards down stream from the cutbank. "What's he doing—drinking?"
Billy turned his glasses on the spot indicated. "He ain't drinking," he said soberly. "His head's under water."
"I'm sure hoping he ain't Dan Slike," Dawson said matter-of-factly.
"Me too. What——"
For the man behind the cutbank was climbing up among the cottonwoods—climbing up and walking out into plain sight of the man behind the pony. Not only that, but, the rifle across the crook of his elbow, nursing the butt with his right hand, he began to walk directly toward him. Still the man behind the pony did not fire.
"He's cashed all right," Billy remarked suddenly. "He looked so natural he fooled me for a minute. Let's go down across the creek. We're in luck to-day."
They ran down the reverse slope of the flat-topped hill, cut across the creek and approached the horses tied behind the windfall.
"I'm afraid we'll just naturally have to kill Dan, after all," grieved Billy. "He won't ever surrender. I——"
"Tell you," said Dawson, "loosen the cinches; then no matter which horse he tops he'll jerk himself down. Then maybe while he's all tangled up with himself and the saddle——"
"Catchem-alivoes ourselves," said Billy, with a hard grin, and tossed up the near fender of one of the saddles.
When both saddles had been carefully doctored, Billy and his friend retired modestly behind some red willows.
Soon they heard a scramble and a splash in the creek. Dan Slike was coming back. Through the screen of leaves they watched him coming toward them. They heard his voice. He was swearing a great string of oaths. Billy crouched a trifle lower. His six-shooter was out, but not cocked. Dawson had followed his example.
Slike jammed his Winchester into one of the empty scabbards and untied the bridle reins of the horses. Holding the reins in one hand, he gripped a saddle horn and simultaneously stuck toe in stirrup. Ensued then a mighty creak of saddle leather, a snort, a plunge, and Slike found himself on his back on the ground with one foot higher than his head. A gun barrel appeared from nowhere and smote him smartly over the ear. Oh, ye sun, moon and stars! Total darkness.
Billy sprang to the heads of the capering horses. "Take his hat off, Johnny!" he cried. "See what you find under the sweatband!"
When Slike emerged into the full possession of his senses, he was the most disgusted man in the territory.
"You gave us quite a run," Billy observed smilelessly.
Slike damned everybody. "You needn't have tied my hands too," he added.
"We can't afford to take chances. Do you feel like admitting that the district attorney helped you break jail?"
Slike glared defiantly. "Nothin' to say," declared Dan Slike, the unrepentant.
"That's your privilege. Suppose now we heave him up on his horse and go see what happened."
They freed his feet, mounted him on the horse that was not packing the rifle and proceeded. Behind the gap in the cottonwoods, fifty yards below the spot under the cutbank where Slike had lain, they found the body of the man with his face in the water. Billy dragged out the body and turned it on its back.
"What you cussin' for?" inquired Dawson.
"This feller ain't Jack Murray," cried the perplexed Mr. Wingo. "It's Skinny Shindle."
"Looks like we must have missed a bet somewhere," said Dawson. "Plugged him plumb center, didn't he?" he added, alluding to the red-and-blue bullet hole squarely between the staring eyes.
"I got the other sport," snarled Slike.
"Where's Jack Murray?" demanded Billy.
"What difference does that make?" flung back Dan Slike.
It was evident that Slike was not in a confiding mood.
Nobody said anything further. They left Skinny Shindle lying beside the little creek and went on to where the other dead man lay beside the embers of the branding fire.
"That's a TU horse," said Dawson, glancing at the brand on the pony's hip.
Billy turned the dead man face upward. He whistled. "Here's an odd number, Johnny. This feller is Simon Reelfoot's foreman. You've heard me speak of that low-lived persimmon, Simon Reelfoot. This boy is named Conley. Been with Reelfoot for years. I'd sure like to know why he's riding for the T.U."
Came then a puncher riding on his occasions. At sight of the three men and the calf and the fire, he spurred toward them. A hundred yards away he suddenly pulled up and slipped to the far side of his horse.
"I know him," said Dawson. "Used to ride for Tasker once. C'mon, Tommy, what you scared of? It's me, Johnny Dawson."
Tommy at once remounted and rode in to them. "'Lo, Johnny," he said, with a straight mouth. "Did that man with his arms tied kill Daley?"
"Is that his name?" asked Billy, flicking his thumb toward the dead man.
"Jim Daley," said Tommy. "Did he?"
"Sure, I killed him," Slike truculently answered the question. "What about it?"
At that instant Billy demonstrated that the hand is sometimes quicker than the eye.
"He'll die anyway," he said mildly. "You better let us do it."
"I pass," surrendered Tommy, removing his hand from the butt of his six-shooter.
"Daley got one before he went," said Billy, returning his six-shooter whence it came. "He's back there on the bank of the creek if you want to look."
"This is sure hard on Daley," observed Tommy, dismounting to turn loose the calf. "He told me he came north for his health."
"North?"
"Yeah, couldn't stand the climate in Arizona, he said," amplified Tommy, loosening the knot. "Git up, feller, pull your freight. Life's sure funny. I'll bet that calf's the first Daley ran our iron on. He only joined the outfit last week. Let's go see if I know the other feller."
Since the place where the dead man lay was on their back trail, they went with Tommy, the TU boy.
"Sure, I know him," declared Tommy, after one look at the dead face. "He's named Brindley—been with the Horseshoe since February."
Which simple statement explained the presence of Skinny Shindle, but left Jack Murray completely to the imagination. After all, decided Billy, Jack Murray did not matter, and promptly forgot him. Had he known how important a place the slippery Mr. Murray actually held in the scheme of things, he, Billy Wingo, would not have been so casual.
"We gotta make a heap of trail," said Dawson to Billy, when Tommy had departed in suspicious haste. "That damn Tommy is going to the ranch for the rest of his bunch. First thing we know we'll lose our prisoner."
"Don't hurry on my account," said the sardonic Slike. "If I gotta be hung, lemme be hung and no fuss about it. I don't want to ride all the way north again."
"We need you, Dan," said Billy briefly. "No hanging goes yet a while."
Forthwith they began to "make a heap of trail." It may as well be said at once that they saw no further signs of Tommy or any other of the TU boys.
Toward dawn next day the horses showed signs of tiring. "Mine won't last another five miles," said Johnny Dawson.
"This is as good a place as any," said Billy briefly. "We'll stop here."
They dismounted Slike and stripped and hobbled the horses. Slike had not enjoyed the long night ride. He was disposed to be peevish. "I want a smoke," he demanded.
Billy ceased pounding coffee and fixed him with a hard eye. "You won't get it," he said shortly.
"Helluva way to treat a prisoner," snarled Slike. "You done better by me when I was in jail."
"Lots of things have happened since. But don't you fret. I'll give you what you deserve in about five minutes. I missed out on it yesterday, but I'll try to see you don't lose anything by the delay."
"Huh?" puzzled Slike.
"You remember going to Miss Walton's ranch," elaborated Billy in a cold, monotonous tone. "You beat her."
"Hell, nothin' to that. I only pulled her hair a few times and slammed her once or twice."
"You kicked her, too."
"Not hard, though. Besides, I had to. She was stubborn. My Gawd, you wouldn't begin to believe how stubborn that girl was!"
Billy laid aside the rock with which he had been pounding coffee. "I guess the coffee can wait better than I can."
He stood up limberly and unbuckled his cartridge belt and dropped it beside Johnny Dawson, who was slicing bacon. Then he crossed to Slike and untied the knots of the rope that bound him. Slike stretched his arms and legs but made no offer to rise. Billy nudged him in the ribs with the toe of his boot.
"What's that for?" roared Slike, scrambling to his feet.
"I'm going to give you the best licking you ever got. You've had it coming a long time, and now you're going to get it."
"Is that so?" sneered Slike. "Is that so? You expecting to do all this without help?"
Fists doubled, Billy started for Slike. The latter side-stepped and feinted Billy into a position between himself and Dawson. Slike crouched. His right hand flashed downward. The fingers fumbled at his bootleg. Billy ran in, expecting to beat Slike flat.
"Look out!" cried Dawson, as Slike's hand shot up and out, accompanied by the vicious twinkle of steel.
But Billy, coming in with the speed of a springing wildcat, slipped a bootsole on a rock and fell. Slike's thrust sped past his head so close that Slike's knuckles brushed his ear.
Billy got one foot under himself and threw up an arm in time to catch on the turn the wrist of Slike's knife hand. Slike promptly changed hands. But Billy caught the other wrist, not, however, before the knife had narrowly missed slicing the flesh on his floating ribs. Slike's head dipped forward and he sank his teeth in Billy's shoulder. Billy drove a knee into Slike's stomach and Slike unclamped his teeth with a gasp. Over he went. Billy stayed with him.
Dawson, who had dropped bacon and frying-pan at the first blow, saw his opportunity and lunged down to wrench away Slike's knife. Which was not at all to Billy's mind.
"Let it alone!" gasped the warrior. "He ain't giving me a bit o' trouble."
The reluctant Dawson obeyed.
Slike, his body writhing like that of a scotched snake, could not budge his pinned-down knife hand. Inch by inch Billy dragged his own body forward and upward until he was resting on his knees with Slike between his legs.
"Leggo that knife!" he directed.
Slike's reaction was humanly natural. At least, there were no hobbles on his tongue.
"Well, all right, if you say so," Billy told him, and rejoiced to perceive the top of a small rock not six inches from Slike's knife hand.
He forced the knife hand inward toward the rock. Then he proceeded, with all his might, to batter the back of Slike's hand against the pointed top of the rock. Slike's face changed at the first blow; at the second he involuntarily groaned; at the third his fingers unclosed. The knife tinkled on the rock.
Billy pounced on the knife, threw it yards away and scrambled to his feet. "Get up, Slike! Stand on your feet! Come and get it!"
Whatever other thing Slike was, he was certainly no coward. Instead he was a glutton for punishment. He jerked himself to his feet and ran headlong into a straight-arm blow that made his nose bleed and his neck ache. As has been said, Slike had no science. Neither had Billy. In which respect the fight was equal. But Slike was only fighting for himself. Billy was fighting not only for himself but to revenge Slike's treatment of the girl he loved.
When he flattened Slike's nose, pleasure ensued—for Billy. It was joy to his heart when the next blow landed on Slike's right eye and laid him all along the grass. Three times Billy knocked Slike down, and three times the killer hopped to his feet and came back for more. But after the third knockdown it was noticeable that Slike was appreciably slower and considerably more cautious. His face was a sight. One eye was completely closed. His nose was broken, his lips cut and two teeth were missing.
Slike came to a halt in front of Billy, blew a bubble of blood from his lips and wiped his good eye with the back of his hand. He swayed on his legs. But this display of weakness was more apparent than genuine. Billy, watching Slike's one good eye, was not misled thereby. There was no hint of weakness in Slike's eye. Indeed, there was strength and hatred a-plenty.
Accordingly, when Slike suddenly lowered his head and dodged in under Billy's guard with the evident intention of starting another "snatch and wrastle," Billy was ready, very ready. His uplifted knee met Slike full in the face. Slike straightened instantly, and Billy hooked his right to the point of the chin. Slike didn't need that last blow. The knee blow had already given him a clean knockout.
He took the ground limply and lay motionless. Billy stood and looked at him and blew upon his skinned knuckles and suddenly realized that it was a good old world, after all. There might be some mean citizens scattered here and there. But they always got their come-uppances in the end.
Dawson joined him. "Sure looked like a mule had kicked in his dashboard. I dunno when I ever saw a more complete job. That face don't look genuine a-tall."
"I'm sure ashamed of myself," muttered Billy.
"Whyfor? You did just right. I'd have done the same in your place. You got no call to be ashamed."
"Not for licking him. That was all right. But I searched him and let him hide out a butcher knife on me in his bootleg—in his bootleg."
"That handle was down inside the leather. You couldn't see it. I didn't."
"I should have found it alla same," fretted Billy. "There's no excuse for such carelessness—none."
He went across to where he had thrown the knife and picked it up. He caught his breath. On the handle of the butcher knife the letters TW were cut deep into the wood.
When, for the second time that day, Slike recovered consciousness, Billy showed him the butcher knife.
"How many butcher knives did you take from Walton's?" he demanded.
"One," replied Slike.
"And is this the one?"
"Sure it is. Why not?"
"Why, hells bells!" exclaimed Billy, "then you didn't kill Rafe Tuckleton."
"First I knew he was dead," Slike said thoughtfully. "As a rule, I don't kill my customers," he added, with a grin rendered more horrible by his battered and bloody features. "I can't afford to. Maybe you killed him yourself. How about it? Aw, right! Go to hell then! And I want to say right here you tied my arms and legs too tight! There ain't no feelin' in any of 'em!"
Billy paid Slike no further attention. His brain seemed to find it difficult to function. "She said he only took one knife," he told himself stupidly and sat down to think it over.
He had caught Slike. But he was no nearer the solution of the Tuckleton murder than he was in the beginning. His theory that Slike had killed Tuckleton was smashed to smithereens by the discovery of the Walton butcher knife in Slike's bootleg. Unless Slike had taken two knives. But Slike had not taken two knives. According to Hazel's testimony, he had taken only one.
It was then that Billy suddenly realized that he should have known better in the first place than to connect Slike with the murder of Tuckleton. Dan Slike was too experienced a longhorn to leave incriminating evidence behind him if he could help it. And if he had killed Tuckleton, he would at least have taken away the handle of the knife. But the handle had been left beside the body for any one to pick up. Manifestly, then, it had been left there with the design to throw suspicion upon a person other than the murderer,—for instance, a person intimately connected with the Walton ranch.
Obviously the Tuckleton murder and the O'Gorman murder were parallel cases. In both, clues had been left to manufacture circumstantial evidence against the wrong person. While it did not necessarily follow that the same brain and hands had planned and carried out both murders, yet the point was worth considering. For it was absolutely necessary to lay at least Tuckleton's murderer by the heels. There were no two ways about that. Because if he were not caught, it would only be a matter of time before Rale, by reason of his peculiar temperament, would recover from his fright, decide to risk the wrath to come, and once more turn the cold light of suspicion upon Hazel Walton. And that would entail her arrest sooner or later. Indeed, to Billy Wingo the future bore the appearance of a mighty boggy ford.
Mechanically he began to play mumbletypeg with the butcher knife—palm of hand, back of hand, right fist, left fist, and had progressed as far as his left pinky in the movement known as off fingers of each hand when he sat back and stared at the knife quivering in the turf. He thought he saw a gleam of light. The very fact of the two knives, each a match of the other, was as obvious a contrariety as any that ever delighted the soul of Mr. William Noy. Attaching to the demise of Rafe Tuckleton was another contrariety, several others in fact. Billy checked off the various contrarieties on his fingers. The gleam of light became a ray, the ray broadened to the bright light of complete understanding.
He hugged his knees and smiled the pleasant self-satisfied smile of the proverbial cat that has just received the canary into its midst. "I got him! I got him where the hair is short. It's one complete cinch."
Early one morning several days later the sheriff pro tem. of Crocker County was roused by rappings on the office door. Being an experienced man, Shotgun Shillman did not open the front door. He went round the back way with his gun in his hand. But his caution was needless. For, on circling the house, he found no one at the front door but Dan Slike—a hatless Dan Slike flat on his back in the dust, tied hand and foot, and with a gag in his mouth. Looped around Dan's ankles was one end of a lariat. At the other end of the lariat stood Hazel Walton's riding horse.
Later in the day Guerilla Melody called on Nate Samson, asked the storekeeper several apparently aimless questions and leafed through the cutlery pages of Nate's hardware catalogue. Still later in the day Johnny Dawson rode out of Golden Bar. Only two people besides himself knew that he was bound for the railroad and a telegraph line.