The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

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      XIII. DEATH AMONG THE PINES

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      San Saba came into Deadwood that night for the first time, though he and Lispenard had been camped just outside the town more than a week, watching its lights by night and edging around the hills by day. That was the ex-foreman's wary way. He didn't believe anybody in Deadwood knew him, but he had no desire to expose himself for identification. San Saba well understood his was a figure to attract a certain amount of attention. Somebody would be sure to mark and remember him.

      In the back of that little nutshell head was a crafty scheme; a scheme that amounted to nothing less than a guerrilla warfare on the roving miners. There were many such men already in operation around the hills—in fact, San Saba had established a kind of informal partnership with the group led by Hazel. Yet nearly all of these renegades operated with a certain degree of openness; most of them were known and suspected, and San Saba's plan was never to reveal himself. He knew the temper a mining camp could reach, he had experienced mob justice before, and from this experience he drew his profits. So he would never have entered Deadwood if the supply of grub hadn't been exhausted and if Lispenard, an apt pupil but an unruly and sullen one, hadn't grown restless for whisky. That was the extent of his mission.

      He had bought his supplies and his whisky and was on the point of leaving when he saw Tom Gillette coming out of the stable. It was only a fraction of a glance; Gillette's head swept his way and then turned about. San Saba moved like a cat, a single retreating lunge carried him out of the light; thus, when Gillette looked a second time, the ex-foreman was concealed in the shadows along the building fronts. San Saba's narrow-set red eyes watched Gillette move off. For a considerable length of time he stood absolutely still, the thoughts flashing across his brain. Had Gillette recognized him? Well, it didn't seem likely, for Gillette would have stopped and closed in. San Saba was under no illusions as to Tom Gillette's courage or to his state of mind. Only one thing could have brought the Circle G owner to this place.

      "On my trail, by Judas," muttered San Saba. A party of miners filed past him, and he retreated farther into the darkness. "He's caught wind o' me somehow."

      His impulse was to follow. Caution stayed him. Gillette was already out of sight, and there was a remote possibility of a trap. Time enough to handle this—to-morrow was another day. So he turned and quickly put Deadwood behind him. Up the slope and on foot—a rare thing for San Saba—he carried the gunnysack of provisions; on through the trees and to the edge of a small clearing where a fire pricked the darkness. Lispenard crouched by the blaze, a slovenly figure from all this riding and camping out. The Easterner's hair had grown down over his shoulders, and there was a thick stubble of whiskers on his gross face. San Saba paused a moment, and his lips curled in plain contempt. No matter how hard he lived or how little he valued the Commandments, San Saba possessed a measure of fastidiousness. He had a grain to him, a cold self-possession and a certain pride. Lispenard seemed without any of these elements; he grew more unkempt each day, and his appetites rode him like a scourge; he was sullen and spiteful by turns and San Saba in a very short space of time had grown disgusted with the man. Only Lispenard's possible usefulness kept him from severing the partnership. Even so the ex-foreman saw the day when Lispenard would pass a certain mark and try to kill him. When that time came he must kill Lispenard.

      "All right," he drawled, as a warning of his approach.

      Lispenard half rose from his seat, hand falling to gun butt. "Who's it?" he snapped.

      "Me," murmured San Saba and advanced. Lispenard swore querulously. "Next time I go to town, old-timer. By God, I'm weary of living up here like a rat."

      San Saba said nothing. Lispenard's eyes followed the ex- foreman's hand as it dropped inside the gunnysack, and he reached for the produced whisky bottle with plain greediness. San Saba watched the man gouge out the cork and tip the stuff down his throat. He drank himself, on occasion he got drunk, yet only by degrees. This avid guzzling added to his sardonic contempt.

      Lispenard let the bottle fall. "That's better. Where's the rest of it?"

      "Only one bottle," grunted San Saba. "Figgerin' on takin' a bath in it?"

      "Hell, I told you to get three or four. Have I got to go back there to-night myself?"

      "Yo' won't," was San Saba's short answer.

      Lispenard glowered at him. "Don't tell me what I won't do, you dam' scoundrel. I'll go if I choose."

      "Yo' won't go," repeated San Saba.

      Lispenard's yellow eyes rolled in a fit of uncontrollable anger. He was about to rise and start away; but there was something so cold and so grisly on San Saba's face СКАЧАТЬ