第 18 页

“Not any.”

“So I figgers when I seen you open the door. Seein’ as you’ve took charge, I’d take it as mighty fine of you if you’d call this here solitary confinement off.”

“You’re free as the air, Cass.”

“Damn if you don’t mean it!” declared Cass, after a long look at the other.

“Sure,” smiled Gawne. He watched while the other stepped to the door. When Cass reached the step, Gawne called to him. “Keep away from Haskell, Cass. He’s my meat. He’s leaving town by sundown.”

“Meanin’?

“That it’s a clean-up. This town goes straight from now on.”

“Bozzam, too?” breathed Cass, from the doorway, his tone venomously vindictive.

Gawne nodded.

“Damn if I ain’t runnin’ with you from now on!” he declared, and slipped out of sight.

Gawne locked the jail door and stepped out into the street. A search of the saloons brought him into contact with several men whom he knew to be on the side of law and order. He talked at length with these and they offered him their enthusiastic cooperation. Yet these conferences took a long time. He ate dinner in the Palace, and was walking down the street, planning his campaign against Bozzam, when, passing a small frame dwelling, he heard his name whispered. He turned, to see Blanche Le Claire, standing in a doorway, waving a hand to him. He was only a few feet from the doorway, and, turning, he greeted her unsmilingly, and continued on his way. He had not taken more than two or three steps when he felt her hand on his shoulder, and her voice in his ear:

“Come in a minute, Jeff; I want to talk with you.”

“It’s no use.”

“You think I want you?” she laughed, shortly. “I have given you up. It’s something else, Jeff—something you ought to know.” She was eagerly insistent. He turned, faced her, saw the appeal in her eyes, and frowned.

“There is nothing I want to know,” he said, coldly.

“Not even about Hame Bozzam—or Kathleen Harkless?” she said, watching him keenly. She smiled—bitterly—when she saw his eyes flash; and when she seized his arm and began to walk toward the doorway he went with her without protesting.

She shoved him in through the doorway ahead of her, closed the door behind her and stood against it, breathing fast, her face flushed.

“What has she done, Jeff?”

“Is that what you brought me in here for?” he said, gruffly, starting for the door.

“No—no,” she laughed, excitedly, aware of her error; “I understand. I haven’t any hope—of you. You made me understand that when we had that talk with no kinks in it.” Her eyes gleamed maliciously, yet she sheathed the malice with a smile that went no deeper than her lips. “She has gone to Hame Bozzam, hasn’t she? I could have told you she would; she had him in view all the time—while she was stringing you. I could have told you—she’s that kind. You didn’t see it, of course—you were so deeply in love with her. Women of her type are—”

“They are all alike,” he sneered; “it isn’t a matter of type.”

“Then you know she has gone with Hame Bozzam?”

“I know she went to Bozzam’s house,” he said.

“Ah!” she breathed; and noted from his corded jaw muscles that he knew more. “Do you know that she shot at Jess Cass in defense of Bozzam?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“From Cass, himself—through one of the jail windows. Why, the whole town knows it, Jeff—Bozzam has boasted of it!” His face whitened, and he stepped toward the door. But she seized his shoulders. “Listen, Jeff.” She spoke rapidly and earnestly. “After we had that kinkless talk I rode over to the Colonel’s ranch. Kathleen was there. After I saw you didn’t want me, I thought I would have a talk with her—to warn her against Bozzam. I—I pumped her, Jeff. I cork-screwed it out of her! She told me that she had been playing with you—amusing herself, she put it. She said she was after Hame Bozzam. Her father had told her that he was a member of Bozzam’s gang, that Bozzam had threatened him, and that she was going to sacrifice herself to save her father!”

He swung her around, seized her by the shoulders and thrust his face close to hers, his eyes blazing.

“Are you lying to me?” he demanded, hoarsely.

She could feel his muscles quivering; the terrible pressure of his fingers on her shoulders sent lightning darts of agonizing pain to her brain; but she met the flame of his eyes steadily, with desperate calmness. “I am telling you God’s truth,” she said.

She saw the fire go out of his eyes—saw it turn to smoldering contempt; and knew her acting had not been in vain. “Yes,” he said, with a bitter, vibrant laugh; “I guess you are telling the truth. I saw her in Bozzam’s arms.”

“I thought Hame was lying about that,” she said, her eyes quickening.

“You knew it?”

“Hame told me—the next—the same day. So you saw it!” She wriggled out of his grasp, threw one arm around his neck, slipping close to him, patting his hair, whispering consolingly.

He laughed, pushed her from him, and opened the door. Standing in it, she leaning against one of the jambs, he turned.

“I’ve this to say for you,” he said. “You play the game straight. If there is any honor in that, it’s yours. A man knows what to expect from you. It’s the virtuous sneaks that—”

He broke off abruptly and straightened. Miss Le Claire saw his face redden, than pale quickly, and his eyes chill. Following his gaze, the woman saw on the street, not more than twenty-five or thirty feet from the house, Hame Bozzam and Miss Harkless. Their horses were loping slowly, and at the instant Miss Le Claire saw them, both Bozzam and Miss Harkless, as though by prearrangement, looked directly at the couple in the doorway.

Miss Le Claire, quick to seize this opportunity to confound her rival, smiled brazenly, and deliberately winked at Miss Harkless. The girl on the horse blushed furiously, for that telegraphic look bore a guilty significance. Then Miss Harkless’ lips went into straight, scornful lines. The contempt in her glance; the crooked, derisive smile on Hame Bozzam’s face, maddened Gawne. Miss Le Claire heard him laugh recklessly, with discordant mirthlessness. He made little resistance when she threw an arm around him, pressed him to her and kissed him—it seemed to Miss Harkless that he yielded willingly.

Miss Harkless’ horse leaped, clattering, down the street; Bozzam, grinning widely, urging his animal after the other.

Miss Le Claire’s triumph endured only an instant. Gawne released himself so suddenly that she staggered, almost falling. She heard Gawne curse, profanely; and then she saw him striding down the street toward the Palace. She saw him enter the saloon, and then her gaze went down the street to where Hame Bozzam was helping Miss Harkless off her horse. Miss Le Claire’s smile was full of amused malice.

Gawne emerged from the front door of the Palace shortly before sundown. Word of the ultimatum he had delivered to Reb Haskell had reached the ears of Bozzam City’s inhabitants hours before, and because it was known that Haskell did not purpose to obey Gawne’s mandate there were many eyes on Gawne when he stepped into the street He stepped out cautiously, not knowing from which direction Haskell’s bullet might come—if the man had not heeded the warning.

He stood for some minutes in front of the Palace, keeping a keen lookout for Haskell. The street was deserted. He smiled grimly. The citizens of Bozzam were taking no chances.

He meant to kill Haskell. He owed Haskell much. Haskell had meditated killing him, that day in front of the Diamond Bar bunkhouse, and for no other reason than having been told to do so by Hame Bozzam. Haskell might make another attempt any time, for he was a tool of his enemy; though an important member of the organization that had preyed long on the country. Yet in seeking Haskell’s death he felt no particular venom. Haskell was the weapon through which Hame Bozzam struck when he wanted to strike in a legal way; he also was a barrier behind which Hame Bozzam might hide when the press of suspicion was directed too heavily against him. Therefore, if Gawne, in his determination to rid the vicinity of the Bozzam outfit was to succeed, he must strike first at the sheriff.

Haskell did not have to stay in Bozzam City and be killed. If he hesitated to take his chance he could obey Gawne’s instructions, and get out. Gawne was convinced that Haskell would go. And yet there was a chance that he would not. So when the sun began to swim low over the peaks of the mountains in the northwest, Gawne left the front of the Palace and made his way slowly down the street.

He had an idea that if Haskell had decided not to leave town he would be found somewhere in the vicinity of the sheriff’s office. Gawne walked in that direction, but when he got within a hundred feet of the building he saw two horses standing in an open space beside it. He halted, glowering at the horses. They belonged to Hame Bozzam and Kathleen Harkless. Retreating, Gawne slipped around the corner of a building near him, making his way through a litter of backyard refuse.

He came, after a time, to the rear door of the sheriff’s office. It was closed, and he approached it cautiously, and leaned, for an instant, against it, listening. There was no window in the rear of the building, and Gawne suspected, if Haskell were still in town, he would be hidden somewhere in the office, waiting. Most likely, he would watch the front door the more carefully, since from there he could see the street.

A shadow fell at Gawne’s feet, and he saw that the sun had set. Coldly, alertly, watching the corners of the buildings near him, he gently pushed on the door, discovering that it was not locked.

He drew his six-shooter, stepped to the door sill, lunged against the door, sending it crashing back, and loomed in the opening, crouching, a vision of sinister aspect.

A figure in Haskell’s chair gave a startled jump at sight of him, and a half-suppressed scream issued from its lips. Then the figure sat down again, very stiff and straight and scornful—chin held high; eyes cold and hostile—and contemptuous. But the voice had the very slightest tremor in it—as though her fright were not yet over. And her face was white, except in the cheeks, where two bright red spots were growing.

“Were you trying to scare somebody?” she said.

“Not you,” declared Gawne, shortly. “This is the last place I should expect to find Miss Harkless—unattended.” It cheered him to see her writhe under the cold blame in his voice.

“I go where I please,” she stated, stiffly; “and with whom I please.” She turned her back to him and appeared to gaze stonily out of the window, but in reality she was shivering inwardly, and her eyes were filled with a haunting terror, for she thought he was seeking Hame Bozzam, to kill him. He was entirely capable of doing that, she knew.

“Have you seen Reb Haskell?” came Gawne’s voice, behind her.

She had decided she would not speak again, but so great was her relief at discovering that he was not looking for Hame Bozzam, that her voice seemed to leap in answer:

“There is a note for you on the desk, here.”

When she heard him step toward the desk; when she felt him reach out to take the note—in an envelope—she clenched her hands and gritted her teeth in an attempt to keep back the thrill that ran over her. For his sleeve had brushed her arm. And had there been no Blanche Le Claire—if she had not heard what she had heard, and seen what she had seen an hour or so before, she could not have resisted the wild, overpowering impulse that whitened her cheeks, blotting out the red spots. For she knew, now, that if Gawne was not for her, no other man could take the place she had reserved for him.

Hame Bozzam had attracted her: it was a superficial fascination that could not endure through closer acquaintance. She had suspected that; she knew it, now. She hated the man, at this instant; hated him because, in harboring Blanche Le Claire—even if there had been nothing between them—he had made it possible for the woman to follow Gawne to the Diamond Bar. She hated him for his pretentions; his self-sufficient attitude; his air of proprietorship over her; because he was Hame Bozzam; because she had heard that Gawne hated him. She was in a fury of desperate rage over her hatred, and over her inability to forgive Gawne for his relations with the Le Claire woman, when she saw Hame Bozzam step into the office. He had gone into a store to make some purchases, telling her he would join her in the sheriff’s office.

He was well inside before he caught sight of Gawne. Then, watching him closely, Kathleen saw his face blanch, noted the quick glint of terror that came into his eyes as he saw Gawne’s heavy pistol in hand.

The significance of his emotion smote the girl with a cold, clear understanding that left her feeling clammy. Hame Bozzam was afraid of Gawne. What difference there was between them; what had caused their hatred for each other, she did not know. But Bozzam’s fear was unmistakable; it lay, sheer and stark, in his eyes, in the involuntary cringing of his muscles; in his loose lips, that seemed ready to pout. She watched, breathless, looking from one to the other.

Gawne was smiling now; the girl saw his hate as clearly as she saw Bozzam’s. Yet there was something else in it—rage, deep, and bitter. She saw, too, that Gawne was aware of Bozzam’s terror; she saw the contempt in Gawne’s eyes; the derisive curl of his lips as they wreathed into a cold smile.

Yet he waited for Bozzam to speak; the girl could see the sardonic amusement that lurked deep in his eyes as he watched Bozzam’s lips, twitching curiously.

Where, now, was that confidence—big, brave, and bold, that radiated from the man when he was in the presence of women? She watched him with a half breathless wonder. For the man who confronted Jefferson Gawne at this moment was not the man she had known—the man with the great, vibrant voice and all-conquering air. This man was a pale, shrinking craven; a human bubble, pricked by the sharp eye of man-hate and courage, shriveling to a husk of miserable aspect.

Some women might not have seen what Kathleen saw. For Bozzam made some pretense of courage. He straightened, and squared his shoulders. But the girl, who had seen Gawne in a crisis, had a standard to measure Bozzam by; she had seen other men in moments of peril; and her clear, probing eyes took no note of his pose—she looked through his eyes and into his soul and saw the shriveled manhood of him.

When he spoke, there was a trace of the old strength in his voice; but to the girl it had ceased to be strength; it was now merely bombast. He spoke to Gawne:

“I’ve just heard that you gave Haskell until sundown to leave town. You’d better be careful. You can carry this bluff too far. Haskell—”

“You taking Haskell’s end of this?” said Gawne, his voice snapping.

Bozzam cleared his throat. “Haskell is a friend of mine.” He looked at Gawne’s gun, which was still in his hand. “You’re heeled,” he said, and significantly patted the holster at his side, which yawned emptily.