Clattering Hoofs. William MacLeod Raine

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СКАЧАТЬ It gave him no pleasure to know that he had killed a man, and particularly as inoffensive a man as Sim Jones. Wryly, by inference at least, he justified himself. “That’s what bad company does for a man,” he said. “If he hadn’t thrown in with Scarface he would have gone straight enough. Sim was trifling, but there was no harm in him.”

      Ranger swung his horse round and guided it into a sunken channel that had been cut by floods from the ridge above to the park. At the summit he dismounted and tied the pony, then moved forward cautiously to the edge of the precipice. The trapped man was kneeling back of a boulder, revolver in hand. Other rocks protected his flanks.

      The cattleman took careful aim and fired at the flat plane of one of the rocks. Startled at this attack from the air, the man below looked up. The face turned toward Ranger was bearded but young.

      “Throw up your hands and walk out of there,” ordered Ranger.

      The man with the revolver knew he was beaten. His forty-five would not carry accurately to any of his foes. Ranger was quite safe on the bluff, but from where he stood he could send bullets tearing into the body of the other.

      “What’s all the shooting about?” demanded the stranger. “Why should you fellows jump me when I’m riding peaceably about my business?”

      “Don’t talk. Drop that gun and get going.”

      “All right. Call off yore wolves and I’ll go out.”

      Ranger shouted to the others that the fellow in the rocks was surrendering. Hands up, the man walked out from the boulder field. Two rifles covered him as he moved forward. When he was eight or ten paces from the men carrying them he dropped his arms. He was a slim young fellow, coffee brown, in cowboy boots, levis, and well-worn Stetson. His blue-grey eyes were hard and frosty. In his motions there was a catlike litheness. The muscles of his legs and shoulders rippled like those of a panther.

      “I’ll listen to yore apologies,” he drawled.

      Pete McNulty tittered, his small eyes gloating. “He’s gettin’ fixed to saw off a whopper on us. I’ll bet it’s good.”

      “What is this—a sheriff’s posse?” The prisoner snapped.

      “If any questions are necessary, we’ll ask them,” Hart answered harshly. He did not like the job they had agreed to do, and he was hardening his heart to it.

      The man in levis was a stranger to them, but that meant nothing. Drifters came and went. That Scarface had picked up some scalawag on the dodge to help on the raid was very likely.

      “I think we finish this now.” The man who had been behind the log shuffled around the end of it and joined the others. He moved ponderously, his short heavy legs supporting an enormous torso. Leathery folds hung loose on cheek and jaw. His deepset, peering little eyes looked shortsighted. Altogether, he resembled a rhinoceros. Though his name was Hans Uhlmann, his intimates called him Rhino. “Nice and quick, then get started with the cattle.”

      The cornered man tightened his stomach muscles. He braced himself to meet what might be coming, deep-set eyes fierce as those of a trapped wolf. For he knew Uhlmann of old, and that knowledge set a passionate hatred churning in his heart. He owed the man a deep and lasting grudge, one he had waited long years to satisfy. That the ranchman did not recognize him was understandable. The big man had seen him last a pink-cheeked boy of nineteen, smooth-faced, thin as a rail. Now he was bearded. His body had filled out. The bitter intervening years had etched harsh lines in his face, given it an edge of lean sternness. Even a casual observer could not have missed the steely hardness, the defiant challenge of one at war with the world.

      “You’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I’m not the man you want.”

      Uhlmann showed bad teeth in a cruel grin. “You’re the man we’ll hang. Right now. Do the job and get on our way.”

      The brutal ruthlessness of the man’s words angered the captive. They had made up their minds. They were not going to pay any attention to his story.

      “What am I supposed to have done?” he asked.

      Hart spoke, ignoring the question. “I reckon Scarface met up with you recently. You’re a stranger here.”

      “Right. My name is Cape Sloan. Never heard of this Scarface.”

      McNulty laughed, with heavy sarcasm. “He doesn’t know Scarface—wasn’t rustling stock with him. He was just riding along peaceable when we went gunning for him.”

      “Get yore rope, Pete,” Uhlmann said.

      Sloan could read in the faces of McNulty and Uhlmann nothing that gave him hope. That of the former was full of cruel mirth. The German’s was set as an iron mask. Toward Hart and Ranger he pointed his appeal.

      “You haven’t told me yet what my crime is,” he said quietly.

      “You know damned well what it is,” McNulty broke out. “No sense in talking more. Let’s get this business done.”

      “I started this morning from Redrock,” the stranger said. “Last night I stayed at the road house there. That I can prove. All day I have traveled alone.”

      McNulty showed his yellow teeth in an ugly grin. “Didn’t I tell you boys he would spread the mustard good?”

      “I stopped at a Chink restaurant on Congress Street in Tucson for breakfast. A deputy sheriff named Mosely sat opposite me at the table. We talked about the Apache Kid.”

      “So you say,” jeered McNulty. “Why don’t you claim you sat opposite John L. Sullivan?”

      Sloan kept his eyes on Ranger and Hart. McNulty he ignored completely. “If you write to the road house at Redrock or to Mosely you’ll find that what I say is true.”

      “We ain’t gonna write anywhere. We’re gonna string you to a tree.”

      “Don’t push on the reins, Pete,” Hart counseled quietly. “We’ll listen to what this man has to say.”

      “Where do you hail from?” Ranger asked.

      For a half a second Sloan hesitated. “From Holbrook, I drifted west from Vegas.”

      “Cowboy?”

      “Yes.”

      “With what outfits have you ridden?”

      “I’ve worked for the Bar B B near Holbrook and for the A T O in New Mexico.”

      “When did you work for the A T O?” Ranger inquired.

      “Couple of years ago.”

      “The A T O has been out of business for four years,” McNulty shouted jubilantly. “That cooks his goose.”

      The stranger knotted his brows in thought. “That’s right. Time jumps away so fast you can’t keep up with it. I drew my last pay check from Tidwell ’most five years ago.”

      “What does Tidwell look like?” Hart queried.

      “He’s a fat bald man with СКАЧАТЬ