The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

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СКАЧАТЬ the scene he ran toward the station, calling back, "Dann held me in there—and that condemned key's been tappin' for half an hour!"

      Going by the shanty, Steve saw Dann's horse also crowded inside. He led it out and left it beside his own. Automatically he reached up for his tobacco and then remembered he had flung it down beside the corner of the corral. He went back; it had been a full square sack once, but there was nothing left now but a few shreds of fabric and a ball of tobacco bearing his finger marks. He kicked it away and walked into the station. The agent's nerves were jerking him around in a sort of St. Vitus's dance. "I'm quittin'," he told Steve. "Feel bad? Of course I feel bad. You'd feel bad, too, if you lived in a joint where nothin' moved except your pulse—then all of a sudden something like this hit you in the face. I'm through! Here—this just came over the wire. You goin' to Sundown? Well, take it in. Save waitin' three hours for the stage. It's to Ed Storm at the bank. He'll want to know. Pay-day money shipment comin' to him."

      Steve looked at the shaky symbols on the open sheet of paper. There were only four of them, reading as follows:

      ABACUS SIN EULOGIZE HAROLD

      "How do yuh know?" inquired Steve.

      "Because I know. Now, what about that fellow—Dann?"

      "Here's somethin' I want yuh to send over the wire for me," said Steve. "I wrote it down."

      "Listen—I won't stay around here with that body out there! I won't touch him!"

      "There's the message," said Steve, laying it on the agent's table. "Here's two dollars. And if a thing like that upsets yuh, friend, Yellow Hill is sure no place for you."

      "Ain't you got any nerves?"

      "Nerves?" grunted Steve. His voice began to grow thin on him. "Yeah, but I ain't proud of 'em. They don't help atall. A man in this country with nerves ain't got no more chance than a snowball in hell."

      "I almost went bughouse," said the agent, squirming in his chair. "Him a pushin' me against the wall of that shanty with his gun! Say, he was a cold cucumber! I heard you, and there I was, not able to do a single thing but listen for you to die!"

      "Well," said Steve, "it's pretty simple. You die or he dies. And there ain't no great amount of time decidin' who is who. If yuh live there's nothin' to worry about. Otherwise yuh can't worry. Say, you got a drink around here, a drink of hard liquor? No? All right, I reckon I can stagger home without it. I'm leavin' Dann's pony. If the wild bunch don't come along tonight the sheriff will. Send the message through."

      He rolled out to his horse and turned north across the prairie, eyes half closed to the glare of the sun. Unconsciously, he began to sway in the saddle, moving his arm from side to side, screwing up his face, touching the butt of his gun. Not until his dragging spurs set the pony to curvetting did Steve realize what he was doing; he quelled himself sternly.

      "Here, here. This is all over with. Why fight the battle again? He's dead. I'm alive. He missed me with twelve slugs, and I killed him with one, which I never expected to do. He could beat me to the play any day in the week, any hour in the day. If he'd stood right out to plain sight, announced himself, and walked forward on even ground, I'd be dead now. But no. He had to make a sure thing out of it. He had to foller his sneakin', treacherous nature. And so here I am, safe and sound—and a million years old."

      Lassitude crept through his body, he sat in the saddle like a half-filled sack of meal. His cigarette had no taste to it, and his senses refused to reach out into the world as they were wont to do. Never in the twenty-five years of his life had he felt more weary. "Gettin' a touch of the grippe," he surmised, not knowing that in the few minutes of action by Ysabel Junction he had used up the energy of a week's hard labor. And so sluggish were his thoughts that he had passed Mogul Canyon before they broke out of this furrow of reasoning into another.

      "I never thought," he mused, "I could ever stand over a man and find pleasure in watchin' him die. Never thought I'd ever reach the point of holdin' a gun on him for a second shot in case the first wasn't enough. Starin' at him with no more feelin' than 'sif he was a snake. Glad to see him go—and tellin' him so. Man's got to be pretty far along to do a thing like that. I reckon I must be different than I figgered I was. Worse or better—the Lord knows. But I'll never ride as light and easy. Not no more." And long afterward, as he entered the first lip of the hills and felt the shadow of the pines fall on him, he added, "What difference does it make? What good have I gone an' done? Denver's no more. Redmain still rides—and here I am."

      He pulled himself from these dismal reflections with effort. He was approaching Starlight, approaching a horseman who jogged out of the timbered slopes of the canyon. The horseman stopped on the road and turned, waiting. Steve considered this suspiciously but kept his gait. Presently he discovered it was Lyle Bonnet. Lyle lifted a hand and swept forward, reining abreast. Enormous relief registered on his face.

      "Yuh feather-footed, sword-swallerin' brush jumper. Where yuh been? Where ain't yuh been? I been pokin' into every prairie-dog hole, bear den, and holler stump in the country. I been lookin' for yuh. Tell a man!"

      "Here I am," said Steve and sat silent.

      Lyle Bonnet looked at the man more closely. This was not the same Steve. No flicker of harum-scarum humor moved in the pale blue eyes, no drawling melody played through the answer. This fellow who rested woodenly in the saddle and stared back mirthlessly, mouth pinched together, was an uncomfortable stranger; and Lyle Bonnet had the queer sensation of seeing somebody who was Steve's counterpart.

      "Yeah, there yuh are," grumbled Bonnet, "and I reckon it don't mean nothin' to yuh that I've just naturally trotted the hocks off six horses tryin' to locate yuh. Looks to me like yuh ain't had no sleep since the Fourth of July, 1887. Where was yuh?"

      "Doin' a chore," said Steve and again let the silence fall.

      "My, my," observed Bonnet. "Talkative cuss. Well, come on to the ranch."

      "What for?"

      "There's been some developments," was Bonnet's evasive answer. "In fact, there's a sorta meetin' to discuss topics of mutual benefit and interest."

      Steve considered it and nodded. "Let's go, then," was all he said.

      Bonnet led him up Starlight at a rapid clip. Once he drew away from Steve and turned to discover the man lagging beside the canyon, head lifted as if scanning the far ridge. But Steve came on, and presently they arrived at the crest overlooking the D Slash yard. Right beside the trail was the fresh rectangle of earth marking Denver's false grave. Steve passed it hurriedly, cheeks like stone, and trotted up to the house porch.

      "Who's at this meetin'?" he wanted to know.

      Bonnet indicated the house negligently. "Go on in."

      Steve pushed the door open, started to cross the sill, and stopped like a man shot through the heart. Denver stood in the center of the room, supporting himself with a cane; and Denver attacked him instantly, bluntly, severely.

      "Where in the name of common sense have you been? What business have you got ridin' like a wild man through the country, challengin' all the tough eggs as if you were Wild Bill in person? Don't leer at me like that. It's a fine situation when a man can't find his friends in time of need without sending a posse out. Come in and shut the door."

      Bonnet was directly behind Steve. Steve swung on his heels, pushed Bonnet aside with a curse, and walked to the far end of the porch. Bonnet went inside.

      "It СКАЧАТЬ