第 20 页

The cavalcade that wound a serpentine way over the plains toward the Bozzam ranch was ominously noiseless. A less-determined company would have chattered its enthusiasm, one man to reassure another, every man to convince himself of his courage. Whatever communication was held between the members of this band was carried on in whispers. Yet had they known that the two Bozzam men had already apprised their fellows of the coming of the Vigilance Committee they need not have been so careful. For in the Bozzam bunkhouse the Bozzam outfit, getting ready for a night raid on a distant ranch, was grimly preparing to receive the Bozzam City deputation.

There was little talk in the bunkhouse, though the men were leaderless. Hame Bozzam had ridden away an hour or so before, taking Nigger Paisley with him; Jess Cass, the foreman, upon whom fell the mantle of leadership during Hame Bozzam’s absences, had not come in, though the two Bozzam men had reported that he had been released from the jail; and among the men was a feeling of panicky indecision.

The men of the outfit, though, were self-reliant and cool. There was much hurry and turmoil in the bunkhouse. Rifles were loaded, pistols examined, belts were laden with bristling cartridges; outside in the corral men and horses were in a swirl of action. But amid the confusion there was definite aim and sure accomplishment, and in a brief time the turmoil ceased, lights were put out, and a silence, quite as ominous as that which surrounded the Bozzam City men, reigned in the vicinity of the Bozzam bunkhouse.

It was Ted Lowery, a keen-visaged man of the Bozzam outfit, who first glimpsed the Bozzam City men as they reached the timber grove beyond the big level on the other side of the ranchhouse.

The seventeen Bozzam men, grouped in the shadows near the bunkhouse door, heard Lowery draw his breath sharply.

“There’s a bunch of them,” he said. “Twenty-five, mebbe. It’s a clean-up!” he cursed, profanely. While the other men peered intently toward the timber grove, where in the moonlight they could discern a number of horsemen, massed, as though they were conferring before making the attack they meditated, Lowery sought out the two men who had brought the news from town.

He glared suspiciously at the taller of the two—a dark man with a set cynicism in the curve of his lips, and a mocking, devil-may-care glint in his eyes. This was Baldy Ferguson, whose recklessness and nonchalant disregard for the property rights of cattlemen typified the spirit of Bozzam’s men more accurately than did Hame Bozzam himself. Hame Bozzam was a subtle worker; Baldy Ferguson was frankly a stealer and a killer.

“You say Bozzam was in town today?” demanded Lowery of this man. “You an’ Lippy tumbles to what’s goin’ on, an’ Bozzam’s fizzles it! It looks mighty suspicious! You say you couldn’t tip Bozzam off. Why?”

Baldy grinned. “Mebbe you’ve noticed, lately, that Hame’s been sorta offish. In society, Hame is. I’ve never seen Hame more offisher than he was today. Couldn’t git within ridin’ distance of him. Twice, when he seen me bowin’ an’ scrapin’ at him, a mile an’ a half down the street, he taps his gun significant an’ tender, like he was yearnin’ to use it, an’ makes faces at me that’d scare a coyote from the warm carcass of a lost doggy. Hame was puttin’ in a heap of his time rushin’ the Colonel’s girl—which I don’t blame him—an’ I reckon he didn’t want her to know I was travelin’ in his class. I don’t rush in promiscus, rememberin’ what Hame done to Cass.”

“Well; he’s got us into a hell of a scrape!” growled Lowery.

“ ‘Women is the downfall of them that wants her’,” sagely observed Baldy, unruffled. “Which I wish it was me instead of Hame which was doin’ the fallin’. You reckon we’re a lot of children which can’t take care of ourselves when our maw ain’t around?” he jibed at Lowery’s back as the latter moved away. “Hame’s gone a-lovin’, an’ we stay to do the fightin’, which shows that things ain’t right in the world, seein’ as the Colonel’s girl ought to have picked me—or Lowery!”

“Shut your damn mouth!” sneered Lowery.

“Which we’d all better be doin’—an’ keepin’ one eye on them vigilance fellers,” advised Baldy. “For they’re comin’!”

The Vigilance Committee had left the edge of the timber grove. Spreading, the horsemen rode rapidly toward the bunkhouse—until they were within perhaps a hundred yards of it. At that distance they halted and grouped again.

“Somebody’s got mighty sharp eyes,” muttered Baldy.

“Or ears,” growled Lowery. “They heard you yappin’.”

“Which my music they’ll appreciate pronto,” said Baldy, lightly. A horseman had left the group and was riding forward. “Here’s where I bust up a riddle,” added Baldy. He settled himself and threw a rifle to his shoulder, covering the horseman deliberately, his cheek swung against the stock of the weapon. Lowery lunged against him and forced the muzzle downward.

“That’s Gawne, you damned fool! Down him, an’ that gang will wipe us out, complete!”

“You always was a far-seein’ guy,” jibed Baldy. But he lowered the rifle.

Gawne rode within a dozen paces of the Bozzam men and pulled Meteor to a halt. He had held one hand up, the palm toward the Bozzam men, as an indication of the peacefulness of his intentions, and when he saw that the Bozzam men were to respect the sign, he dropped the hand, resting it on the pommel of the saddle. The Bozzam men moved, restlessly, away from the shadow of the bunkhouse, stepping out into the moonlight toward Gawne—for they were not eager to precipitate the fight which they knew was being carried to them.

It was not so with Baldy. He did not change his position as Gawne approached, except to lean against a corner of the bunkhouse, where he watched, with a smile of half-humorous contempt, the crowding of the other men around the visitor. His gaze never left Gawne’s face, after the latter drew his horse to a halt—the contempt in his eyes grew more pronounced; the curve of his lips grew cruel and truculent.

“Is Hame Bozzam around, boys?”

It was Gawne who asked the question. The sound of his voice broke the tension that the men had been laboring under since the appearance of the Bozzam City men at the edge of the timber; there was a concerted shifting of bodies and a general relaxing of strained muscles. Lowery answered the question:

“Bozzam ain’t home to company tonight,” he said, drawling. “We’re the reception committee,” he added. “We got word of your comin’ from Baldy Ferguson an’ Lippy Weiss.”

“That saves me from explaining,” said Gawne. “But I wanted to talk with Hame Bozzam. You say he isn’t here?”

“I’m yappin’ what I said previous,” said Lowery.

“All right.” Gawne’s voice was abrupt and businesslike. “Cass isn’t here either?”

“Cass is scared to show himself since you turned him loose,” laughed Lowery, harshly.

“Who is next in authority?”

“I seem to be doin’ the gassin’,” said Lowery.

“Well,” said Gawne; “here’s the situation. I’m not going to quibble. You know what has been going on; and you know that Bozzam City knows it—and knows who has been doing it. Bozzam City has been ready to end its acquaintance with the Bozzam outfit all along. The opportunity didn’t come until today—when Reb Haskell resigned. A town like Bozzam City can’t be without regularly recognized legal representation, and so, when Haskell left us, some of the boys formed a vigilance committee. The Committee has decided that Bozzam City can get along without the Bozzam outfit. Not being in a hurry, though, the Committee”—and here Gawne grinned slightly, coldly, and sarcastically—“has decided to give you boys plenty of time to get out of the country.”

“How long?” asked Lowery, slowly.

“An hour,” said Gawne, steadily.

The bodies of the men in the group stiffened again. Looking from one to the other, Gawne saw the faces of the men harden and grow bitter with hatred. He did not attempt to add anything to what he had just said, desiring to give them time to fight down the retaliatory impulse he knew they must feel—which might take the shape of violence. A shot now, a single hostile movement, and there would follow a maelstrom of murder that would set the country a-tingle with the story of it.

A word or a look on his part might precipitate it, and he was careful to keep his gaze, as it roved from one man to another, impersonal and expressionless.

He saw tense, grim, malevolence on the faces that were turned to his; he saw personal blame and hatred in some glances; cold appraisal in others—he knew some of the men were wondering what success would attend the effort of a quick pull and a snap shot.

They took a long time for consideration of his ultimatum; and not a word was spoken. Yet by that mental telepathy which is sometimes more eloquent than words, the men had communicated to their spokesman the result of their deliberations. Lowery scanned every face in the group. All were grimly-grave with the exception of Baldy’s. That saturnine individual, silent and apart, was still leaning against the corner of the bunkhouse—his face still wore its expression of humorous contempt. Over Lowery’s face a shadow flitted as he looked at Baldy. Catching Lowery’s glance, Gawne looked furtively at Baldy, and his lips straightened. Baldy intended to dissent from the popular decision. And when Lowery finally spoke, Gawne turned his face to him, but out of the corners of his eyes he watched Baldy.

“An hour ain’t a hell of a long time,” finally said Lowery.

“You’re ready to move now,” smiled Gawne. “But well stretch it—half an hour. We’ve no wish to be hard on you.”

“Well,” said Lowery; “we ain’t tied to Hame Bozzam, I reckon. An’ Bozzam City ain’t the only town in the country!”

It was plain that he was trying to strengthen the impulse of passiveness that he saw reflected on the faces of the men. By deprecating Bozzam City he was preparing them for complete surrender to the edict of the Vigilance Committee.

But there came a discordant interruption.

“Bozzam City’s good enough for me,” drawled Baldy, from the corner of the bunkhouse.

“Yes—good enough for you. But Bozzam City’s getting mighty particular.”

Gawne spoke just in time. In the odd silence that had followed Baldy’s words, Gawne had noted a return of the tension that had gripped the men previously. At his words a man, quicker of perception than his fellows, snickered. A ripple of other snickers followed. Baldy’s attempt to sway the sentiment of the men had failed, and his face paled with anger.

“Not over-particular, I reckon,” he sneered. “Bozzam City stands for you!”

Gawne grinned coldly. He had not wanted to force a fight He would have preferred to have the men leave peaceably. They would have accepted the inevitable had it not been for Baldy. Baldy had determined to force a fight. Gawne’s eyes began to smolder with the cold fire that had shriveled the courage of more than one man of the Bozzam outfit—the luminous reflection of wanton passions, which, coupled with the lazy carelessness of his attitude, had earned him the sobriquet, “Riddle”.

His gaze was sweeping the entire crowd now; but to many of them it seemed his eyes never left Baldy.

“You don’t like to travel—is that it, Baldy?” said Gawne.

“I ain’t lettin’ you tell me when!” declared the other, sneeringly.

“Well,” said Gawne, gently; “the others have agreed to go within an hour and a half. But since you object we’ll make a different arrangement for you.”

“I reckoned you would,” said Baldy, a note of satirical triumph in his voice. “There ain’t no damned vigilance committee makin’ me pull my freight!”

“Yes—different arrangements,” said Gawne, still more gently, his voice cutting off mutterings that arose here and there among the men. “We’ve given the others an hour and a half, you’ll go—now!”

A second or two dragged while Baldy grasped at the significance of Gawne’s words. They had caught him off his mental balance. He had been elated with the prospect of victory; he was facing the specter of defeat and sudden death. His face blanched; his right hand dropped to his pistol holster. He had long yearned for an opportunity to test the traditional quickness of Gawne; mentally, and sometimes verbally, he had scoffed at men of the Bozzam outfit who had been ridiculously slow with their weapons when confronted by Gawne. Now, with his right hand gripping the stock of the pistol at his hip, he saw the barrel of Gawne’s gun glinting over Meteor’s mane. A paralysis seized him, a ghastly, cringing dread; and like Jess Cass, on the day of Kathleen Harkless’ coming to Bozzam City, he could not have drawn his weapon for the riches of the world, it was a physical impossibility.

“Pull it, Baldy!” came Gawne’s voice, mockingly; urging him to hazard his life on that slender thread of chance. “No?” he said, still gently, as Baldy’s hand came up—higher and higher—until it was above his shoulder. “Well, then—slope!”

He sat quietly in the saddle, watching, while Baldy, his forehead clammy with sweat, his face still a ghastly white, mounted his horse and raced toward the desert. Then he grinned at the others.

“I think Baldy wanted to go all the time, gentlemen. But he wanted, like some women, to have the last word. Do you men want to go now, or do you want to wait and see the fireworks?” he added, as he saw the members of the Vigilance Committee approaching.

“Fireworks?” queried Lowery.

“We’re wiping the Bozzam ranch off the map,” said Gawne.

“Goin’ to burn it?” gasped Lowery.

“The Committee insists,” said Gawne.

Baldy did not ride far. Once he was screened from sight by the gnarled chaparral growth fringing the pasture he pulled his horse to a slow lope, skirted the chaparral, and made his way deep into the timber where Lowery had seen the Vigilance Committee. Concealed there, he watched the burning of the buildings, drawing farther back so that the fierce light of the flames might not betray him to the eyes of his enemies. And when, by the dying glow, he saw the other members of the Bozzam outfit depart, riding southwestward, he sneered at them and the members of the Committee, jammed the spurs into his horse and rode in the opposite direction, blaspheming.

CHAPTER XXIII

FANGS ARE BARED

Hame Bozzam had heard nothing suspicious in town. Baldy, who might have told him, had been warned off; the two or three merchants with whom he had spoken were friendly to Gawne, and could not have been induced to tell Hame Bozzam anything that would put him on his guard. Gawne’s persecution of Reb Haskell he attributed to the personal bitterness between the two. And even then, when he had seen Haskell, the sheriff had declared he would “Stay in town an’ call Gawne’s bluff”. Haskell had changed his mind, later; though Hame Bozzam had no inkling of his departure until, in the office at sundown, he had seen Gawne, gun in hand, searching for Haskell.

Leaving Miss Harkless, Bozzam had veered from the Harkless trail, cutting off over the plains at a tangent in order to avoid riding through town. That impulse kept him from discovering the preparations that were being made by the Vigilance Committee; as it had also left him in complete ignorance of the fact that several Diamond Bar men, led by Billings, had reached town.