The Sheriff of Hangman's Gulch. Matt Rand

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СКАЧАТЬ paw. “And shut up! And yuh, mister, if yuh want to keep yore nose clean, stay out of someone else’s business.” His glance flared bellicosely at the armed man confronting him.

      Bide Evans’ skin tightened around his lips, and his gray eyes, flecked with queer lights, glinted oddly. Yet when he spoke, it was in the same deceptively mild voice.

      “Yuh’re a stubborn gent,” he said evenly. “But I’m kind of patient myself. Matter of fact, I’m goin’ to count all the way up to three. If yuh don’t let go of Mr. Farrell’s arm when I get up there—I’m goin’ to put a bullet through yore right knee cap. I saw a man once who couldn’t use his leg for four years after that happened to him—”

      With a baffled cry of rage, the leader released Farrell, thrust him forward and sent him sprawling on his face into the dirt.

      A pulse high up in Evans’ temple began to pound. But he relaxed as he watched the gray-haired man pick himself up. Then he put a question to him.

      “What was that yuh were diggin’ there, Farrell?”

      “My grave!” cried the latter, hoarsely. “Them claim-jumpers rode into my camp ten minutes ago, stole my gold and told me to start shovelin’ dirt—”

      “Yuh lyin’ son!” roared the heavy-set leader. “Yuh’re the one who jumped this claim. It’s registered in the name of a friend of mine.” He gave vent to a short laugh, incomprehensible to the Texan.

      “That ain’t true,” declared Farrell hoarsely, appealing to Evans. “Me and my pard been prospectin’ Dutch Diggin’s two weeks now—since the Gulch’s sheriff got himself stretched. Yesterday we located this claim, and Ming Foy—that’s my pard—went to register it at the Claims Office in Hangman’s Gulch.”

      The fox-eyed man sneered and laughed sarcastically.

      “Farrell’s talkin’ through his hat,” he said, addressing Evans. “Don’t know why I have to explain this to yuh. But this claim was worked three weeks ago. Then Matt had to go to Frisco, so he asked me to register it for him. Wal—I clean forgot to do it till yesterday. Then I decided to come out here to make sure everythin’ was all right—when I run into this windbag, Farrell. The whole town knows he’s a liar. Bet there ain’t even no Ming Foy. Who ever heard of makin’ a Chinaman a pardner? So the boys and me figgered on throwin’ a little scare into him.”

      “It ain’t so,” cried Farrell, desperately, again to Evans. “Ming Foy’s my pardner and as good as any white man. And I am a stranger in these parts. They don’t know me in town—’cept Larson. He owns the general store. I don’t even know how this hombre here learned my name. Never seen him before in my life.” He hesitated a fraction as a thought semed to strike him. “By the great horn spoon, I do. Ming went to town to enter the claim. If someone else’s name is on this piece of diggin’, it’s—it’s because they stole the information from Ming and entered it themselves. That’s why Ming didn’t get back this mornin’ like he was supposed to. And they weren’t foolin—” he pointed to the five men. “They were goin’ to fill that grave with Ed Farrell’s body.”

      “Yuh’re loco,” declared the leader. “The claims clerk wouldn’t register the same claim twice—would he?” His manner suddenly became friendly. He fetched a small, leather bag from his pocket and tossed it to Farrell. “Tell yuh what, Farrell. That’s the gold I took from yuh ’cause it rightfully belongs to my friend Matt. Wal—yuh go to town, and if yuh don’t find Matt Evans’ name down on the record—”

      “Whose name?” A breath seemed to stir the leaves over the Texan’s head—although no wind blew.

      The big man squinted hard, trying again to make out the face of the man under the tree. But the dusk had deepened, and if it was difficult before, it became impossible now.

      “Matt Evans—” he answered.

      “Be back from Frisco tomorrer,” put in the lank, scar-faced member of the band.

      “Shut-up!” roared the leader, turning. Then with surprising agility, he suddenly leaped aside, shouting, “Gut-shoot him, Lem.”

      The man called Lem had spoken to get his leader’s attention. While the latter had been talking, Lem had cautiously drawn his gun, being partially out of direct vision of the Texan. Now, he fired.

      The redheaded Texan was a veteran of many gun battles, yet this once they almost caught him off guard. Still his movement was but a heart-tick behind the big man’s. He lunged backward and sideward in the same motion and snapped a shot with either gun. He crashed to his knees, went down on an elbow—then leaped to his feet, leveled guns smoking.

      “Freeze, hombres!” The command in his voice nailed their moving arms and shifting legs to the spot. All except the scarred, black-clad man named Lem.

      He had fired once, and then two bullets blasted his chest. He cried out in brief torment, and the gun slipped from his twitching hands. His knees buckled, then he sagged suddenly in the middle, caved and pitched forward on his face into the ditch.

      “Farrell,” ordered the Texan. “Remove their hoglegs, then take the rifles out of their saddle boots.”

      The gray-haired miner did the job with alacrity, despite the glowering, hostile looks cast at him.

      “I ain’t never been crossed but once,” cried the heavy, thick-set leader, grimly. “And that hombre wasn’t happy long. I ain’t seen yore face clear, mister, but I heard yore voice—and I’ll be listenin’ for it.”

      “Pick up yore amigo and get movin’,” ordered the Texan. “That was a mighty interestin’ story yuh told, hombre. Almost believed yuh. Better go before yuh tell another—maybe that this Matt Evans not only staked this here claim, but also is sheriff of Hangman’s Gulch.”

      The gang’s leader, astride his horse by now, looked incredulous a moment, then suddenly threw his head back and roared with laughter. His men joined in as they rode out of the clearing. The body of the dead man, hitched to the saddle of his horse, trailed after them.

      For a short time nothing was heard but the receding sound of men laughing. Then it mingled with roil of the river, and faded. The Texan listened, eyes intent, puzzled. Then he shrugged his shoulders and holstered his guns.

      “Do yuh know Matt Evans?” he asked Farrell.

      “No,” replied the gray-haired man. “Wait—’pears to me I heard the name in Hangman’s Gulch. Matt Evans? He—he ain’t a friend of yores, is he?” he asked hurriedly.

      For a moment the Texan was silent, seemed to be turning something over in his mind. Finally he spoke.

      “No,” he said softly, almost to himself. “He ain’t a friend of mine—he’s my brother.” The knuckles on his clenched fists were white. And a strange light blazed in his eyes.

      “Found him,” he murmured. “Found him.”

       4. Election Night

      THE SUN had already set and darkness saddled the clearing. Yet distant peaks still shone faintly in memory of the just-faded sun. But the memory was brief and fast-vanishing in face of the avalanche-in-reverse of shadows that swifted up the slopes, СКАЧАТЬ