White Wolf's Law. Dunning Hal

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СКАЧАТЬ know why he refused,” he grumbled. “Yuh know darn well Jim Allen is an outlaw and hasn’t a Chinaman’s chance of being pardoned. He’d be a hell of a fellow if he came to see a girl like yuh. But I’ll tell yuh this: He talked a heap about yuh and made me promise I’d tell yuh he was no good, an’ that he thought yuh was only a fool romantic gal what thinks yuh like him’ cause he’s the famous ‘White Wolf.’”

      “That’s not true, Toothpick,” she said quietly.

      “Sure, I knows,” he told her.

      “It’s not the Wolf I like, but – ”

      “Sure, you and me and Dutchy is the same. We likes the kid, Jim Allen, what blubbers about his hosses.” Toothpick twirled his hat to hide his emotion.

      “It’s a damned shame!” he exploded. “Just the same, kid, yuh want to forget yuh ever see him and marry some nice tame gent.”

      “Like you, Toothpick?” she asked, smiling.

      “Me?” Toothpick grunted. “Not any! I knows yuh too well. Yuhr tongue is too darned sharp. It keeps a man hoppin’ all the time. Come on! Here’s the train.”

      The Limited rose from a far murmur to a rasping, grinding rush of sound and roared to a stop, grumbling, sputtering, like some great steel animal suddenly foiled in its rush through the prairie night. Within the lighted cars, passengers turned in casual curiosity to look at the station throng. But, contrary to its usual custom, that throng did not return the stares. For once interest was not centered on the Limited itself; all eyes were turned toward one man as he descended alone, slowly, with dignity. He faced the curious eyes calmly as he greeted his wife and daughter.

      Erect, distinguished with his white goatee and the broad black hat that shaded sincere gray eyes, by no gesture did he betray excitement. And yet he knew that, of that crowd, almost every one knew his difficulties, knew why he had gone to the capitol, were avidly curious about the outcome of the visit, and were even more on edge concerning the trial to-morrow.

      Cannondale knew that the judge had been in financial straits ever since the Lava Gang had stolen two hundred of his steers. He had tried unsuccessfully to get his notes renewed at the local bank; finally, he had made this trip to the capitol, where he had friends. But there, also, failure stalked him. His ranch was in debt, and it was hinted that his political position was none too secure.

      Rumor said the judge had incurred the antagonism of the Mexican vote and would not be re-elected. How this story had reached Washington he did not know. But of the two banks where he was best known, one refused outright to make a loan and the other postponed it until the judge was forced to leave for Cannondale to preside at the murder trial. Vaguely he suspected that the tentacles of the Lava Gang stretched even into the furthermost political and financial centers. As he boarded the train for home he resolved to fight the gang to the end, whatever that end might be.

      No trace of emotion, beyond pleasure at seeing her, tinctured the greeting kiss he gave his wife; no hint of the sword above their heads. Yet one glance at his eyes told the kindly, white-haired little woman that their difficulties were still unsolved. She pressed his hand in the comforting reassurance of her own courage and understanding.

      His daughter Mary gave him a resounding kiss and a cheery “Hello, dad.” The family troubles had as yet only vaguely affected Mary; they had not toned down her treble giggle nor her natural nineteen-year-old interest in the arrangement of her blond curls. Snippets, though a year younger, was far more seriously concerned than Mary, because she understood better the gravity of the judge’s situation.

      The conductor waved his lantern, the engine snorted response, and the Limited slid majestically past the spectators. At its rear there trailed a smoking car. As this drew abreast of the station platform, the door banged open and a husky brakeman appeared, dragging a small man by the scruff of the neck. The brakeman seized his victim by the collar and, catching him by the seat of the pants, he heaved him outward.

      The small man rolled head over heels, to the spectators’ howls of mirth. He fetched up at the feet of the judge and his friends.

      “You darned drunken hobo, it takes money to ride on this train,” the brakeman bawled as he shook his fist at the forlorn figure.

      The little man stumbled to his feet and disclosed a dirty face largely obscured by blue glasses. His trousers were too large and bagged at the waist. His threadbare coat hung in tatters. A battered bit of felt draped his head in the semblance of a hat, and one toe protruded from an overlarge shoe. He clinched a grimy fist and shook it after the jeering brakeman.

      “You mutton face! Just you dare come back here, and I’ll give you a licking so your mother won’t know you!” he cried shrilly.

      His futile rage, his puny fists, brought another gale of mirth from the onlookers.

      As if stirred by the laughter, his rage mounted, and he lapsed into shrill abuse mixed with oaths. Toothpick seized him by the shoulder and shook him.

      “Hey, you little runt, there’s ladies present,” he warned sharply. “Get out of here, pronto!”

      He gave the hobo a rough shove that sent him staggering. The small man gave one glance at the tall Toothpick and limped forlornly up the platform.

      “Poor fellow!” Mrs. Ransom fluttered after the tattered figure. Even in her own troubles she pitied this scarecrow of a man. “Why did they throw you off the train?”

      He paused, then drew down his mouth and whined to gain her sympathy.

      “I bought me a ticket to Chi – that’s Chicago – where I live, ma’am. Me muvver is sick. That feller stole my ticket and guv it to a friend, then threw me off.”

      Mrs. Ransom struggled between the contrary emotions of pity and common sense. She knew the story was not true, yet he was so forlorn and hungry looking. Pity won.

      “Here’s a dollar. Go buy yourself some food,” she said. Then, struck with an idea, she added sternly: “Promise you won’t drink it up.”

      The tramp straightened up.

      “Me, ma’am?” He was all injured innocence. “Why, ma’am, I never touch the stuff.”

      The crowd chuckled. Tom Powers snorted disgust. He seized the man’s arm.

      “What’s yuhr name?” he snapped.

      The hobo glanced at the star on the sheriff’s coat and tried to slink away. Pinioned by the heavy hand, he cowered as if he expected a blow.

      “Mister, I ain’t done nothin’. I’ll get out of town on the first train,” he pleaded.

      “You got until to-morrow afternoon to do it,” warned the sheriff.

      As the hobo slunk away the three Frying Pan riders looked after him longingly. He was an ideal mark for their humor. Sam Hogg sensed their longing.

      “It’s all right, boys,” he said. “You can go along now. Looks like they ain’t goin’ to be no trouble here, after all. Not right now, leastways.”

      As one man the three humorists started after the scarecrow. Mrs. Ransom bristled to his protection.

      “You bullies!” She shook a warning finger. “If I hear of you tormenting that poor little fellow, I’ll – well, I’ll be angry.”

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