The Sheriff of Hangman's Gulch. Matt Rand

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СКАЧАТЬ a second bottle joined the first on the table with a lighted candle in its neck.

      “If yuh’re headin’ for town,” said Evans briefly, “we can ride in together.”

      “Sure,” agreed Farrell. “Say, I don’t know how to thank yuh. Hey pard—yuh’re bleedin’.”

      The double-barreled candles threw light on a deepening red patch high up on the Texan’s left arm.

      “I reckon I be,” murmured Evans. He had felt a slight stab of pain at the time of the shooting, but had forgotten it in the ensuing scene.

      Ed Farrell grabbed up a bucket near the door. “I’ll get some water from the stream.” He turned. “Say, if yuh’re Matt Evans’ brother, yuh must be an Evans, too?”

      “Good guess, Farrell,” said the redheaded Texan, smiling faintly. “The handle’s Bide Evans.” He might have added: “Recently sheriff of Holman County, town of Dudley, Texas,” but did not.

      Evans took his shirt off. The wound, still bleeding slightly, he saw, was a two-inch gash across the fleshy part of his arm.

      Then Ed Farrell came in, visibly excited, slogging water over the top of the bucket.

      “I been a dumb fool,” he cried. “That must’ve been Black Henry and the Hounds. I been warned against ’em.”

      “Hounds?” said Bide Evans. “Who are they?”

      “Heard tell,” replied Farrell, “they was chased out of Sacramento for killin’s, startin’ fires, and robbin’ stores.” He had torn a clean cloth into strips and was washing Evans’ gash.

      “And Black Henry?”

      “He got the reputation,” answered the oldster, fixing the bandage, “of bein’ the slickest article this side of Truckee Pass.” He frowned. “That’s what worries me.”

      “What?” Evans asked, slipping into his shirt, and then vest.

      “Maybe Black Henry,” said Farrell slowly, “did enter a claim for yore brother?”

      “Don’t yuh fret, Farrell,” Evans said. “If it was entered in Matt’s name, I promise yuh’ll get it back.” A thin smile cracked through the grim look his face held. “Is it worth gettin’ back, Ed?”

      In answer, the oldster brought out the little leather pouch Black Henry had thrown him and tossed onto the table. It struck solidly.

      “Two days,” he cried, excitement eating through his voice like acid. “And we ain’t begun to take it out yet.” He hesitated a moment. “If it weren’t for yuh, Evans—I was thinkin’ when I went down to the stream—that I’d like yuh to—become our pardner. Ming would sure say yes.”

      “Thanks, Ed,” Evans said, shaking his head. “But I didn’t come to California for gold. ’Sides, I expect to pull out of here in a couple of days.”

      The oldster’s face fell. “If yuh should change yore mind,” he said earnestly, “the offer remains open. Well, let’s go. I’m gettin’ worried about Ming.”

      A big, early moon split the night darkness and polished the earth’s surface with frost-like silver. The two men followed the water-course westward, the oldster up behind Evans.

      “Think we’ll meet up with our ‘friends’ in town?” asked Evans.

      “ ’Tain’t likely,” replied Farrell. “Sam Larson told me there’s a kind of war goin’ on ’tween the Hounds and the Vigilante Committee—”

      “Vigilantes? Ain’t there no law in the Gulch?”

      “Yuh mean a sheriff?” demanded the gray-haired man. “Not for the past two weeks. Last one was found hangin’; one before that, shot. By the great horn spoon!” He slapped his thigh. “I clean forgot. There’s an election tonight—for a new sheriff.”

      Like a cold gust of wind, a premonition scraped the warmth from Bide Evans’ lean face. The memory of laughing, black-clad men suddenly weighed heavily on him.

      “Who’s runnin’?” His voice rustled with the sharpness of stiff paper rubbed together.

      “Don’t recollect,” answered Farrell. “Brother expectin’ yuh?” he asked after a pause.

      Evans half-twisted in saddle, stiffening.

      “No,” he said. But he knew that his tension had escaped through his voice, for Farrell said quickly:

      “Sorry, Bide. Didn’t mean to—”

      “That’s all right, Ed,” Evans said. “It’s a kind of surprise—family affair.”

      A bitter, ironic smile rolled unchecked across Bide Evans’ face. If only it had been a family affair!

      Perhaps it would have been better if he had never found Matt? Perhaps his pride of family was wrong? Then giving up his sheriff’s badge because of what had happened was also wrong. But he knew it went beyond that. A man had to bear the responsibility for his deeds. A man had to give, and take back what he gave. And a man had to pay for what he got. Those were the lessons the hard, tough years had beaten into him. Lessons that showed up in his thin, half-smile, in the quickness of his eyes, in the faint scar whose track traced a small, wicked pattern across the side of his neck.

      “There she be, Bide,” suddenly cried Ed Farrell, a tinge of excitement riding his voice. “Hangman’s Gulch.”

      “She’s sure salty-lookin’,” murmured Evans.

      Loud noise and clamor rode the crowded main stem. Flares stuck into the earth on either side, and brilliantly lighted stores and buildings made the street a solid octaggonal block of yellow light.

      “Plenty of rot-gut spilled tonight,” cried Farrell, the town’s mood hooking onto his voice. He flung his arm up. “Them must be the election banners, yonder. But can’t make out what they say.”

      Toward the center of the town, Evans saw several white streamers strung overhead, across the street. But like Farrell, was unable to discern what was lettered on them. A cool down-draught from the surrounding hills kept tugging and pitching the banners.

      They dismounted and the loose, swirling ends of the milling stream of men lapped out at them and sucked them in. Evans used his elbows and shoulders to wedge his way through. Farrell, behind, lifted his voice to make himself heard.

      “If we get separated,” he cried, “I’ll meet yuh later at the Palace Saloon. I’m goin’ to be lookin’ for Ming.”

      Progress was slow and difficult, then Farrell tugged at his sleeve.

      “Look!” yelled the oldster.

      The redheaded Texan followed Farrell’s pointing finger—then froze suddenly in his tracks. The warm light faded from his eyes, and his shoulders hunched up, as if a chill had struck him.

      “ ‘Matt Evans for Sheriff’!” cried Farrell, reading the bold black letters on the waving streamer СКАЧАТЬ