The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider (71 page)

Wade had now reached his objective point. He was some eighty paces from the cabin, in line with an open aisle down which he could see into the cleared space before the door. On his left were thick, small spruces, with low-spreading branches, and they extended all the way to the cabin on that side, and in fact screened two walls of it. Wade knew exactly what he was going to do. No longer did he hesitate. Laying down his rifle, he tied the hound to a little spruce, patting him and whispering for him to stay there and be still.

Then Wade's action in looking to his belt-guns was that of a man who expected to have recourse to them speedily and by whom the necessity was neither regretted nor feared. Stooping low, he entered the thicket of spruces. The soft, spruce-matted ground, devoid of brush or twig, did not give forth the slightest sound of step, nor did the brushing of the branches against his body. In some cases he had to bend the boughs. Thus, swiftly and silently, with the gliding steps of an Indian, he approached the cabin till the brown-barked logs loomed before him, shutting off the clearer light.

He smelled a mingling of wood and tobacco smoke; he heard low, deep voices of men; the shuffling and patting of cards; the musical click of gold. Resting on his knees a moment the hunter deliberated. All was exactly as he had expected. Luck favored him. These gamblers would be absorbed in their game. The door of the cabin was just around the corner, and he could glide noiselessly to it or gain it in a few leaps. Either method would serve. But which he must try depended upon the position of the men inside and that of their weapons.

Rising silently, Wade stepped up to the wall and peeped through a chink between the logs. The sunshine streamed through windows and door. Jack Belllounds sat on the ground, full in its light, back to the wall. He was in his shirt-sleeves. The gambling fever and the grievous soreness of a loser shone upon his pale face. Smith sat with back to Wade, opposite Belllounds. The other men completed the square. All were close enough together to reach comfortably for the cards and gold before them. Wade's keen eyes took this in at a single glance, and then steadied searchingly for smaller features of the scene. Belllounds had no weapon. Smith's belt and gun lay in the sunlight on the hard, clay floor, out of reach except by violent effort. The other two rustlers both wore their weapons. Wade gave a long scrutiny to the faces of these comrades of Smith, and evidently satisfied himself as to what he had to expect from them.

Wade hesitated; then stooping low, he softly swept aside the intervening boughs of spruce, glided out of the thicket into the open. Two noiseless bounds! Another, and he was inside the door!

“Howdy, rustlers! Don't move!” he called.

The surprise of his appearance, or his voice, or both, stunned the four men. Belllounds dropped his cards, and his jaw dropped at the same instant. These were absolutely the only visible movements.

“I'm in talkin' humor, an' the longer you listen the longer you'll have to live,” said Wade. “But don't move!”

“We ain't movin',” burst out Smith. “Who're you, an' what d'ye want?”

It was singular that the rustler leader had not had a look at Wade, whose movements had been swift and who now stood directly behind him. Also it was obvious that Smith was sitting very stiff-necked and straight. Not improbably he had encountered such situations before.

“Who're you?” he shouted, hoarsely.

“You ought to know me.” The voice was Wade's, gentle, cold, with depth and ring in it.

“I've heerd your voice somewhars—I'll gamble on thet.”

“Sure. You ought to recognize my voice, Cap,” returned Wade.

The rustler gave a violent start—a start that he controlled instantly.

“Cap! You callin' me thet?”

“Sure. We're old friends—
Cap Folsom!
”

In the silence, then, the rustler's hard breathing could be heard; his neck bulged red; only the eyes of his two comrades moved; Belllounds began to recover somewhat from his consternation. Fear had clamped him also, but not fear of personal harm or peril. His mind had not yet awakened to that.

“You've got me pat! But who're you?” said Folsom, huskily.

Wade kept silent.

“Who 'n hell is thet man?” yelled the rustler. It was not a query to his comrades any more than to the four winds. It was a furious questioning of a memory that stirred and haunted, and as well a passionate and fearful denial.

“His name's Wade,” put in Belllounds, harshly. “He's the friend of Wils Moore. He's the hunter I told you about—worked for my father last winter.”

“Wade?… What?
Wade!
You never told me his name. It ain't—it ain't—”

“Yes, it is, Cap,” interrupted Wade. “It's the old boy that spoiled your handsome mug—long ago.”

“Hell-Bent Wade!”
gasped Folsom, in terrible accents. He shook all over. An ashen paleness crept into his face. Instinctively his right hand jerked toward his gun; then, as in his former motion, froze in the very act.

“Careful, Cap!” warned Wade. “It'd be a shame not to hear me talk a little.… Turn around now an' greet an old pard of the Gunnison days.”

Folsom turned as if a resistless, heavy force was revolving his head.

“By Gawd!… Wade!” he ejaculated. The tone of his voice, the light in his eyes, must have been a spiritual acceptance of a dreadful and irrefutable fact—perhaps the proximity of death. But he was no coward. Despite the hunter's order, given as he stood there, gun drawn and ready, Folsom wheeled back again, savagely to throw the deck of cards in Belllounds's face. He cursed horribly.… “You spoiled brat of a rich rancher! Why 'n hell didn't you tell me thet varmint-hunter was Wade.”

“I did tell you,” shouted Belllounds, flaming of face.

“You're a liar! You never said Wade—W-a-d-e, right out, so I'd hear it. An' I'd never passed by Hell-Bent Wade.”

“Aw, that name made me tired,” replied Belllounds, contemptuously.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” bawled the rustler. “Made you tired, hey? Think you're funny? Wal, if you knowed how many men thet name's made tired—an' tired fer keeps—you'd not think it so damn funny.”

“Say, what're you giving me? That Sheriff Burley tried to tell me and dad a lot of rot about this Wade. Why, he's only a little, bow-legged, big-nosed meddler—a man with a woman's voice—a sneaking cook and campdoctor and cow-milker, and God only knows what else.”

“Boy, you're correct. God only knows what else!… It's the
else
you've got to learn. An' I'll gamble you'll learn it.… Wade, have you changed or grown old thet you let a pup like this yap such talk?”

“Well, Cap, he's very amusin' just now, an' I want you-all to enjoy him. Because, if you don't force my hand I'm goin' to tell you some interestin' stuff about this Buster Jack.… Now, will you be quiet an' listen—an' answer for your pards?”

“Wade, I answer fer no man. But, so far as I've noticed, my pards ain't hankerin' to make any loud noise,” Folsom replied, indicating his comrades, with sarcasm.

The red-bearded one, a man of large frame and gaunt face, wicked and wild-looking, spoke out, “Say, Smith, or whatever the hell's yore right handle—is this hyar a game we're playin'?”

“I reckon. An' if you turn a trick you'll be damn lucky,” growled Folsom.

The other rustler did not speak. He was small, swarthy-faced, with sloe-black eyes and matted hair, evidently a white man with Mexican blood. Keen, strung, furtive, he kept motionless, awaiting events.

“Buster Jack, these new pards of yours are low-down rustlers, an' one of them's worse, as I could prove,” said Wade, “but compared with you they're all gentlemen.”

Belllounds leered. But he was losing his bravado. Something began to dawn upon his obtuse consciousness.

“What do I care for you or your gabby talk?” he flashed, sullenly.

“You'll care when I tell these rustlers how you double-crossed them.”

Belllounds made a spring, like that of a wolf in a trap; but when half-way up he slipped. The rustler on his right kicked him, and he sprawled down again, back to the wall.

“Buster, look into this!” called Wade, and he leveled the gun that quivered momentarily, like a compass needle, and then crashed fire and smoke. The bullet spat into a log. But it had cut the lobe of Belllounds's ear, bringing blood. His face turned a ghastly, livid hue. All in a second terror possessed him—shuddering, primitive terror of death.

Folsom haw-hawed derisively and in crude delight. “Say, Buster Jack, don't get any idee thet my ole pard Wade was shootin' at your head. Aw, no!”

The other rustlers understood then, if Belllounds had not, that the situation was in control of a man not in any sense ordinary.

“Cap, did you know Buster Jack accused my friend, Wils Moore, of stealin' these cattle you're sellin'?” asked Wade, deliberately.

“What cattle did you say?” asked the rustler, as if he had not heard aright.

“The cattle Buster Jack stole from his father an' sold to you.”

“Wal, now! Bent Wade at his old tricks! I might have knowed it, once I seen you.… Naw, I'd no idee Belllounds blamed thet stealin' on to any one.”

“He did.”

“Ahuh! Wal, who's this Wils Moore?”

“He's a cowboy, as fine a youngster as ever straddled a horse. Buster Jack hates him. He licked Jack a couple of times an' won the love of a girl that Jack wants.”

“Ho! Ho! Quite romantic, I declare.… Say, thar's some damn queer notions I'm gettin' about you, Buster Jack.”

Belllounds lay propped against the wall, sagging there, laboring of chest, sweating of face. The boldness of brow held, because it was fixed, but that of his eyes had gone; and his mouth and chin showed craven weakness. He stared in dread suspense at Wade.

“Listen. An' all of you sit tight,” went on Wade, swiftly. “Jack stole the cattle from his father. He's a thief at heart. But he had a double motive. He left a trail—he left tracks behind. He made a crooked horseshoe, like that Wils Moore's horse wears, an' he put that on his own horse. An' he made a contraption—a little iron ring with a dot in it, an' he left the crooked shoe tracks, an' he left the little ring tracks—”

“By Gawd! I seen them funny tracks!” ejaculated Folsom. “At the water-hole an' right hyar in front of the cabin. I seen them. I knowed Jack made them, somehow, but I didn't think. His white hoss has a crooked left front shoe.”

“Yes, he has, when Jack takes off the regular shoe an' nails on the crooked one.… Men, I followed those tracks. They lead up here to your cabin. Belllounds made them with a purpose.… An' he went to Kremmlin' to get Sheriff Burley. An' he put him wise to the rustlin' of cattle to Elgeria. An' he fetched him up to White Slides to accuse Wils Moore. An' he trailed his own tracks up here, showin' Burley the crooked horse track an' the little circle—that was supposed to be made by the end of Moore's crutch—an' he led Burley with his men right to this cabin an' to the trail where you drove the cattle over the divide.… An' then he had Burley dig out some cakes of mud holdin' these tracks, an' they fetched them down to White Slides. Buster Jack blamed the stealin' on to Moore. An' Burley arrested Moore. The trial comes off next week at Kremmlin'.”

“Damn me!” exclaimed Folsom, wonderingly. “A man's never too old to learn! I knowed this pup was stealin' from his own father, but I reckoned he was jest a natural-born, honest rustler, with a hunch fer drink an' cards.”

“Well, he's double-crossed you, Cap. An' if I hadn't rounded you up your chances would have been good for swingin'.”

“Ahuh! Wade, I'd sure preferred them chances of swingin' to your over-kind interferin' in my bizness. Allus interferin', Wade, thet's your weakness!… But gimme a gun!”

“I reckon not, Cap.”

“Gimme a gun!” roared the rustler. “Lemme sit hyar an' shoot the eyes outen this—lyin' pup of a Belllounds!… Wade, put a gun in my hand—a gun with two shells—or only one. You can stand with your gun at my head.… Let me kill this skunk!”

For all Belllounds could tell, death was indeed close. No trace of a Belllounds was apparent about him then, and his face was a horrid spectacle for a man to be forced to see. A froth foamed over his hanging lower lip.

“Cap, I ain't trustin' you with a gun just this particular minute,” said Wade.

Folsom then bawled his curses to his comrades.

“———! Kill him! Throw your guns an' bore him—right in them bulgin' eyes!… I'm tellin' you—we've gotta fight, anyhow. We're agoin' to cash right hyar. But kill him first!”

Neither of Folsom's lieutenants yielded to the fierce exhortation of their leader or to their own evilly expressed passions. It was Wade who dominated them. Then ensued a silence fraught with suspense, growing more charged every long instant. The balance here seemed about to be struck.

“Wade, I've been a gambler all my life, an' a damn smart one, if I do say it myself,” declared the rustler leader, his voice inharmonious with the facetiousness of his words. “An' I'll make a last bet.”

“Go ahead, Cap. What'll you bet?” answered the cold voice, still gentle, but different now in its inflection.

“By Gawd! I'll bet all the gold hyar that Hell-Bent Wade wouldn't shoot any man in the back!”

“You win!”

Slowly and stiffly the rustler rose to his feet. When he reached his height he deliberately swung his leg to kick Belllounds in the face.

“Thar! I'd like to have a reckonin' with you, Buster Jack,” he said. “I ain't dealin' the cards hyar. But somethin' tells me thet, shaky as I am in my boots, I'd liefer be in mine than yours.”