The man-killers

by Dane Coolidge

He rode down to the feed corral and looked it over closely, then summoned the proprietor from his office.

"Put this horse in a box stall," he directed, "and don't let any person go near him. I want to leave him saddled—and I'll hold you personally responsible if he isn't right here when I want him."

"All right, pardner," answered the livery-stable keeper, "I suppose the horse is yours?"

"Yes, and here's the bill of sale."

Hall took out the bill of sale which he had carefully preserved and showed it to the worldly-wise proprietor, who nodded and passed it back.

"Kee-reck," he remarked. "'Be sure you're right,' sez I, 'and then go ahead.' Your horse will be here when you call for him."

The Texans had disappeared when Hall returned to the main street, but he sat with his back to the wall. It was a habit he had acquired in just such towns as this, when the clans had gathered for court-day. But here all was different, the air was furnace-hot and strange birds fluttered about through the palms; there was the smell of desert greasewood, the rank tang of arrow-weed and the fragrance of sun-ripened hay. Heavy wagons dragged past, loaded with wheat for the flour mill which stood at the edge of the river-bottom; long-haired Indians strode by, their bare feet whispering along the sidewalk, and Mexicans sat smoking on their heels. There were ranchers in sweaty shirts and faded-out overalls, and the usual collection of bums; but the Texans were gone and as evening came on Hall retired to his room above the saloon.

Here was a new problem, new conditions, a conspiracy on foot to draw him into a quarrel; and he wondered rather wearily if it would not be better to withdraw and come in again. Isham Scarborough had rented a ranch several miles out of town and was reported to be harvesting his wheat; he was forewarned now and if Hall rode to his ranch he would expose his hand to no purpose. And then the hired gunmen, who even now were dogging his footsteps, would find the opportunity they sought. He would be shot down from ambush, somewhere along the road, and Isham would escape unscathed. Every circumstance was against him, but now he could not flee, for they would hunt him down like a rabbit. All he could do was to stand pat and wait.

In towns like Geronimo there is but one place to wait and Hall found himself back in the saloon. The Keno was the largest by far in the city and there he would find company and friends. It was a protection, in a way, to mingle with the crowd that gathered to gamble and drink; and if the Texans came to gang him these men of the valley would see that he had fair play. So as the evening came on, making the darkened streets dangerous, he drifted back into the Keno; and to pass away the time he ventured small sums at roulette, always keeping one eye on the door. And then they came in, not eight or ten of them, but fifteen or twenty armed Texans; and a hush settled over the room.

The skitter of the roulette balls sounded with painful distinctness; and drunken men, wrangling in an uproar, heard their voices break through and rise high in the sudden silence. Texans were rare in Geronimo, they almost never came there, and especially in the heat of summer; and these swashbucklers from Tonto were known for what they were, though their purpose that night was still a mystery. All the Arizonans knew was that they were out to make trouble—Hall knew they had come to get him. They called for the drinks and then scattered through the room, some watching the crap-games, others losing a dollar at roulette, but gradually closing in. A hand, coming from nowhere, reached out to steal his pistol; another man jostled him from behind, but as the gang surged towards him Hall slipped between two tables and stood with his back to the wall.