Robber's Roost (1989) (2 page)

"How'd you figure me?" demanded Hays, a little more gruffly than humorously.

"I don't want to flatter you on such short acquaintance."

"Humph!--Wal, here we air," replied the robber, halting before a red stone building.

"What do you suppose became of the fat fellow you relieved of cash?" inquired Wall, who kept this personage in mind.

"I reckon he's gone on his way to Moab," replied Hays. "Thet's a Mormon settlement down on the Green. An' there's a Mormon ranch out here a ways. We won't run into thet geezer here, I'll gamble."

"Quiet town," murmured Wall, as if talking to himself.

A red-bewhiskered man appeared in the doorway that led into a saloon and lodging-house. A rude sign in letters, faded and indistinct, attested to this.

"Howdy, Red!"

"Howdy, Hank!"

"See anythin' of a fat party, sort of puffy in the face? He was ridin' a roan an' leadin' two packs."

"Oh, him? Sure. He rode through town yellin' he'd been robbed," returned the man called Red, grinning.

"Hell he did? Who was he, Red?"

"I dunno. Mormon, most likely. Leastways thet's what Happy said.

He was standin' out here, an' when the feller stopped bellerin' thet he wanted the sheriff 'cause he'd been robbed, why, Happy up an' says, 'Hey, my Latter Day friend, did he leave anythin' on you?' Then the feller up an' rode off to beat hell."

It was this pregnant speech of Red's that decided several things for Jim Wall.

"I want to look after my horse," was all he said.

"Take him round back to the barn. If Jake ain't there, you can find water, feed, an' beddin' yourself."

Hays dismounted laboriously, indicating that he had ridden far that day.

"Wal, I'm dog-tired. Send thet lazy Jake after my hoss."

This edifice was the last one on the street. Wall made note of the grove of cottonwoods just down the slope a few hundred yards. The barn mentioned was some distance back, at the end of a pole fence.

Upon turning a corner to enter the corral he encountered a loose- jointed young man.

"Say, are you Jake?" he asked.

"You bet. Want your hoss looked after?" returned the other. His protruding teeth were his salient feature.

"Yes. But I'll take care of him. There's a man out in front who calls himself Hank Hays. He wants you to come get his horse. Do you know him?"

The stable-boy's reply to that was to rush off, his boots thudding.

"Enough said," muttered Wall to himself as he looked round the place for what he required. "Mr. Hays stands well in Green River, as far as THIS outfit is concerned."

Wall's mind was active while he ministered to his horse. It had long been a familiar thing for him to ride into a strange camp or town; and judging men quickly had become a matter of habit, if not self-preservation. Utah, however, was far west and a wilder country than that he had roamed for years. He liked the looks of it, the long reaches of wasteland, the vast bulge and heave of the ranges, the colored walls of stone, the buttes standing alone, and the red and black mystery of the mountains.

"Bay, old boy, you haven't had a stall for a coon's age," he said to his horse. "Enjoy it while you can, for it may not be long."

When Wall sauntered back the whole west was one magnificent blaze of red and gold. He would have enjoyed being high up on the cliffs behind, just to gaze out toward those Henry Mountains he had seen all day. But the houses and trees blocked that view. Eastward across the river he could discern the speckled slope of yellow that climbed up to the book-cliff wall, now fading in the dusk.

Jim Wall never turned street corners without knowing what was ahead of him. So that before Hank Hays and the two individuals with whom he was talking were aware of his presence he had seen them. They turned at his slow clinking step. Neither of the two with Hays was the man called Red.

"Hullo! here you air," spoke up Hays. "I was speakin' of you.

Meet Happy Jack an' Brad Lincoln. . . . Fellers, this stranger to Green River answers to the handle Jim Wall."

Greetings were exchanged, but not one of the three offered a hand.

Their glances meant infinitely more than the casual few words. To Wall the man called Happy Jack fitted his name. The only contradictory feature lay in his guns, which it was not possible to overlook. Like Hank Hays, he packed two. This, however, signified little to Wall. The other, Lincoln, was some one to look at twice-- a swarthy, dark, restless-eyed man, who, like Hays and his companion, had nothing of the cowboy stripe in his make-up.

"Let's have a drink," suggested Hays.

"Don't care if I do," responded Wall. "But I haven't had anything to eat for two days."

"Red's havin' supper cooked for us," said Hays, pushing open the door.

The interior, bright with lamplight, proved to be more pretentious than the outside of the saloon. It had a flagstone floor, a bar with garish display of mirrors, paintings of nude women, bottles and glasses. Several roughly clad men were drinking, and ceased talking as Hays and his companion approached. In the back of the big room three cowboys lounged before an open fireplace where some fagots burned. There were several tables, unoccupied except for a man who lay face down on one. From an open door came the savory odor of fried bacon.

The men lined up at the bar, to be served drinks by Red, who was evidently bartender as well as proprietor. Wall missed nothing.

Hays took his whisky straight and at a gulp; Happy Jack said, "Here's lookin' at you," and Lincoln sipped lingeringly. Whisky was not one of Wall's weaknesses; in fact, he could not afford to have any weakness. But he drank on politic occasions, of which this was more than usually one.

"Cow-puncher?" queried Lincoln, who stood next to Wall.

"Yes. But I've not ridden the range much of late years," replied Wall.

"You've the cut of it. Where you from?"

"Wyoming."

"Long ways. Don't know thet country. Where you aimin' for?"

"No place in particular," replied Wall, guardedly. "Might try riding here, if I can get on some outfit."

"On the dodge?" queried Lincoln, after a pause.

Wall set down his glass and turned to his interrogator. Their glances locked.

"Are you getting personal?" returned Wall, coldly.

"Not at all. I ain't curious, neither. Just askin' you."

"Ahuh. Well, what might you mean by 'on the dodge'?"

"Anybody particular lookin' for you?"

"I dare say. More than one man."

"Are you movin' along, dodgin' them?"

"Not them," retorted Wall, contemptuously.

"So I thought. Friend, you have the cut, the eye, the movement, the hand of a gun-fighter. I happen to know the brand."

"Yes? Well, if that's so, I hope it isn't against me in Utah."

Here Hays, who had heard this bit of dialogue, interposed both with personal speech.

"Wall, thet's ag'in' a man anywhere in the West, generally. So many damn fools wantin' to try you out! But I reckon it's a ticket for my outfit."

"Your outfit," declared, rather than questioned Wall, as if to corroborate the robber's direct statement of something definite.

"Shore. Don't mind Brad. He's a curious, blunt sort of cuss.

Let's go an' eat. . . . Feller's, we'll see you later."

Wall followed Hays into a back room, where a buxom woman greeted them heartily and waved them to seats at a table.

"Red's woman, an' she shore can cook," said Hays. "Wal, fall to."

No more was said during the meal. At its conclusion Jim Wall had to guard himself against the feeling of well-being, resulting from a full stomach.

"Have a cigar?" offered Hays. "They shore come high and scarce out here."

"Don't care if I do."

"Wal, let's go out an' talk before we join the other fellers," suggested Hays. They returned to the big room. It was empty except for Red, who was filling a lamp.

"They've all gone down to meet the stage. It's overdue now."

"Stage!--From where?"

"West, so set easy," laughed Hays. "Thet one from East won't git in till--wal, now, let me see what day this is."

"Saturday."

"Wal, so it is. THEN NEXT WEDNESDAY. By thet time you won't be here."

"No? Where will I be, since you seem to know?"

"You may be in the Garden of Eden, eatin' peaches," retorted Hays.

"See here, Wall, you're a testy cuss. Any reason why you can't be a good feller?"

"Come to think of thet, yes, there is," returned Wall, thoughtfully.

"All right. Thanks for thet much. I reckon I understand you better. An' I don't want to know why," he said, with deliberation.

He kicked the smoldering fire, and picking up a chip, he lighted his cigar, puffing clouds of smoke. "Aahh! Makes me think of a store I used to run in West Virginia, years ago. . . . What were you, Wall, once upon a time?"

Wall laughed musingly. "A country-school teacher once, for a while, before I was twenty."

"Wal, I'll be dog-goned! You ain't serious?" ejaculated Hays, incredulously.

"Yes, I am. It's funny. I wouldn't have remembered that before supper."

"It do beat hell what a man can be, at different times in his life.

But I'm concerned with now. An' I'd like to ask you some questions."

"Fire away."

"You didn't hold it ag'in' me thet I held up the old geezer at the ferry?"

"No. He was about the stingiest man I ever ran across."

"All right. Would you have done thet yourself?"

"Possibly."

"All right. I'd have done it without provocation. Does thet make any particular difference to you?"

"Not any--in particular. It's none of my business."

"Wal, make it your business."

"Hays, you're beating around the bush," returned Wall, deliberately. "Come clean with it."

"I reckoned so," mused Hays, eying his cigar and flicking off the ashes with a slow finger. Then he veered his gaze to the brightening embers in the fire.

Wall felt that this was the first really unguarded moment Hays had shown, although he had appeared nothing if not sincere. It somehow defined his status, if not his caliber.

"You said you was broke?" Hays began again.

"I will be when I pay for this night's lodging."

"Thet's on me. I'll stake you to some money. You'll want to set in the game with us?"

"Any strings on a loan?"

"Hardly thet. With me, it's come easy, go easy."

"Thanks then. I'll take fifty dollars. That'll do me until I can get located."

"Wal, friend, the string is thet I want to locate you."

Chapter
2

"Bend over here, so I can get your ear," went on Hays, confidentially, and when Wall had complied he said: "I run true to form today when I held up thet Mormon. But it was a blunder, considerin' the iron I have in the fire. If he wasn't a Mormon, I'd feel uncomfortable about thet. . . . Now listen. Lately I've got in with a rancher over here in the Henry Mountains. He's an Englishman with more money than sense. Fact is, he's rich an' crazy as a bedbug. It's beautiful country an' he got stuck on it.

Bought ten thousand head of cattle an' a lot of hosses. There's some tough cowboy outfits over there, an' more'n one real rustler outfit. Wal, this Englishman--his name is Herrick--got the idee of hirin' all the hands available, cow-punchers, range-riders, gun- toters, an' plain out-an'-out bad men. An' to throw this select outfit ag'in' the whole country. What do you think of the idee?"

"Original, to say the least. But not practical, unless he can reform bad men," replied Wall, much interested.

"Wal, exactly. But I'm not concerned with the practicability of it. Herrick took a shine to me, made me what he calls his superintendent, an' sent me off all over, lookin' for hard- shootin', hard-ridin' men. An' thet's how you happened to run into me. I call it good luck for us both."

"You've taken me for one of the hard-shooting, hard-riding kind, eh?"

"Shore. I only need to clap eyes on a man. . . . An' don't overlook, Wall, thet I'm not askin' questions."

"I haven't missed that. Go on."

"Wal, I want you in my outfit," resumed Hays. "Brad didn't cotton to you, I seen first off. But he's a gun-thrower himself, a suspicious, jealous, queer sort, as more of them fellers air. He's done for I don't know how many ambitious-to-be killers. All the same he's in my outfit an' I reckon you might get along. It's Heeseman who sticks in my craw."

"Heeseman? Who's he?"

"You'll take this as confidence, in case you don't want to throw in with me?" queried Hays, earnestly.

"Yes. I'll regard it all that way."

"Wal, Heeseman is the rustler of Dragon Canyon. None of the ranchers even round here know thet, but _I_ know it. He's got a small outfit, but shore enough bad. An' in some way he got wind of Herrick's scheme. Damn me if he didn't pack over to Henrys with his outfit an' start ridin' fer Herrick."