The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

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СКАЧАТЬ the top of the bluff. Passing the house, Linderman raised his voice. "Mamma, git a snack on the table in a hurry for a couple of outlaws."

      Mrs. Linderman peered through the door, smiled, and disappeared. Linderman took the partners to the barn and indicated a pair of ponies. "Both stout. Both a little wild. But they'll do. Bring 'em back in your own good time. Now let's go get that snack."

      Ten minutes later Chaffee and Moran were in the saddle.

      "Well, kid," said Mack, "be good. Where yuh goin'?"

      "Think I'll cross Thirty-four Pass into Miles Valley. Won't be gone long. I hate to run away."

      "Nothin' else to do," replied Mack. "We got that all figgered. They got you on a nail, for the time bein'. Best to clear out so's we boys won't be all complicated. That gang ain't got nothin' but a little general hell raisin' against us. Won't dare get too hostile about it. Locklear can't force his hand that strong. But they'll go the limit to get you. So beat it, and don't worry. We're all safe. Stay away till the fire burns down, and Luis stubs his toe."

      "It ain't Luis altogether," said Chaffee, wistfully studying the horizons. "It's somebody else. Woolfridge, I'm pretty sure, though I don't get all his ideas. And maybe it won't blow over so soon. Well, I'll drift across the pass and write a letter from Bannock City. You keep me posted. I ain't going to stay away forever. May be back in a week or so. Meanwhile, you watch."

      "They ain't got nothin' on me," reassured Mack. "I'm hittin' home. We'll take care of Stirrup S."

      "I hate to go," repeated Jim Chaffee.

      "Yeah, I know."'

      "Well—so long, kid. Take care of yourself."

      "So long, Jim. Be good."

      Chaffee turned and galloped eastward. Some yards along he turned and Mack raised his hand, shouting: "We shore made history." Then Chaffee was beyond earshot, and Mack swung down the bluff and crossed to the south bank on the ferry. Hank Linderman returned to his hides, still marveling. Sometime later he heard a faint gunshot report come over the south bluff, but he thought nothing about it.

      "All the way from Lee's," he muttered. "Goram my soul!"

      Chaffee went arrow straight for the bench. The sentinel peaks glittered brightly in the morning light, and snow covered the slopes well below the timber line. Storm caps hovered along the summits. Veering away from the canyon, he reached Gorman's Lodge at a thousand feet above the desert's level early in the afternoon. He bought a couple days' supplies and pushed upward. The trail stiffened, the first trace of snow appeared on the ground, and the wind grew shriller. The pass, he knew, would be deeply banked, but he had made this trip previously as late as Christmas and he never doubted his ability to reach the summit by night and sleep in the cabin there. From the summit it was another day's ride into Bannock City.

      The sap was drained out of him. For three days he had been fighting and riding continually; twice in that time he had seen his very existence trembling in the balance. The stampede was bad enough, but the ride through Devils Boil had scattered his nerves beyond belief. So he rode the trail slackly. The snow grew heavier; the wind grew whiter with the thickening flakes. His horse shied at something and Chaffee fought the animal back to the path. Dusk found them a steep and rugged mile short of the cabin, breasting the powdered drifts. And of a sudden, from the distance, there floated a weird call, borne abreast the rising gale. The pony, just recovered from one spell of skittishness, leaped aside. Chaffee was sitting loose and the unexpected maneuver threw him clear of the saddle. He struck half on one arm and half on his heels, the weight of his body checked by a boulder rising above the snow crust. The pony wheeled and galloped down the trail, soon lost in the shadows.

      Chaffee's first thought was to rise and follow back. Pushing himself upright, he braced his body by the rock; as the pressure shifted to his feet a stab of pain ran him through. He fell to the ground, realizing one ankle was either broken or so badly twisted that walking was beyond question. The rising wind in that short time had molded fine drifts of snow on his shoulders and in the wrinkles of his coat.

      XIII. SURRENDER

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      Miz Satterlee sat at one end of the table, pushing the contract of sale, the deed, and the conveyance of all Stirrup S brands and marks down to William Wells Woolfridge, who sat at the other end. Josiah Craib from his place at the side took the legal instruments and scanned them with a severe glance. He signed as witness, and Mark Eagle likewise affixed his signature. Then Eagle retired from Craib's office, and Woolfridge accepted the papers, in turn passing a check to Miz Satterlee. And by that gesture all the wide-flung range land that was the dream and the pride of old Dad Satterlee passed out of the name and into alien hands. Persistence had finally won—persistence and subterfuge and pressure; the property now belonged to Woolfridge.

      Miz Satterlee accepted the check, hardly looking at it. She sat very straight in the chair. Her mouth was tightly pursed, and her eyes, still the vigorous and expressive eyes of her youth, fell squarely upon Woolfridge.

      "I have given in, sir."

      Woolfridge bowed. "In my life, Mrs. Satterlee, I have found that everybody has a price. It is only a matter of finding that price. You must admit, madam that in this case I have not tried to haggle. You must admit I have paid a just sum."

      "I never argue," replied Miz Satterlee, and for once the weariness showed through. Yet she was too proud to reveal the resentment. "I only say that I sell to you in order to avoid further shedding of blood. I will not stand by and see my boys killed and driven away and ambushed. Nothing is worth that."

      "Surely, Mrs. Satterlee, you are not laying all that to my door—"

      "I detest a liar. Do you deny driving Jim Chaffee out of the country?"

      Woolfridge's chubby cheeks flushed until the freckles were buried in color. The formal politeness congealed. "The man was a murderer. He was escaping from justice—"

      "Do you deny having Mack Moran shot down in the road and nearly killed?"

      "I regret that. I had nothing to do with it. You must realize that he was instrumental in Chaffee's escape and that the posse, disappointed in not bagging him, might have gone beyond reason in shooting Moran. And Moran was really an accessory."

      "Do you deny ordering my cattle stampeded over the bluffs?"

      Woolfridge raised his hand. And at once his face hardened, the autocratic and arbitrary mandarin spirit slanted out beneath his slightly drooping lids. "I owe you all respect, madam, but in fairness—"

      "Fairness, Mr. Woolfridge? I detest a hyprocnte. You have won. Why not be proud of your weapons, since you do so well with them?"

      "I have never denied that I wanted Stirrup S badly, Mrs. Satterlee," was Woolfridge's sharp rejoinder. "Nor have I ever hesitated about the price to be paid. If you desire honesty, I will add that the price includes other items besides that check I have handed you. Now if I can be of any assistance in helping you move—"

      "I require no help. I will remain in the hotel."

      Woolfridge permitted himself a thin smile. "I do not wish to take any further advantage. Knowing that you certainly would not wish to remain under my hospitality I might say that I own СКАЧАТЬ