Tinhorn's Daughter (2 page)

A half-hour's work rid them of the tree and four hours of torturous mountain roads brought them into Puma Pass' one unpainted street.

Yellow squares from the windows fell into the restless thoroughfare. Doors swung outward when the word swept along the row of
false-front
buildings. Cowboy boots rapped lightly and miner's boots thumped solidly as a crowd gathered to watch the stage come in.

Tom braked to a halt before the California Saloon. Bat stood up in the glow of his box lanterns and half dismounted, shouting to the crowd:

“We lost a dame out and we been robbed! Where's Slim Trotwood, the
yaller pup
?”

The crowd was astounded at the first part of the news. They were silent until Bat hit dust and then they swarmed in upon him with a roar of questions.

“I tell you that's all I know,” protested Bat. “We lost her out
slick as a whistle
. Where's Slim Trotwood?”

A thin, dark-haired man in a black frock coat was hastily let through the press. He came to a halt in the ring of light spread by the stage lanterns.

Slim Trotwood was dressed in the height of fashion. His black knee boots had a white ring around each top. His hat was a fifty-dollar
John B.
and his shirt was made of the finest of linen. He had a thin white face and he wore upon it a twisted smile which showed his great superiority. He spoke with a cultured Boston drawl.

“Who wanted me?”

“I did,” said Bat. “We brung your daughter as far as the foothills and then all of a sudden she disappeared.”

“My daughter?” said Trotwood, almost showing his surprise. “You must be mistaken, Connor. My daughter is in Boston.”

“She ought to a stayed in Boston,” said Bat. “You didn't have no business lettin' a cute little trick like her come all the way out to Montana.”

“Be quick, man,” Trotwood snapped. “Where did you lose her?”

“Now ain't that intelligent,” scoffed Bat. “If I knowed where I lost her I wouldn't a lost her.”

Trotwood was annoyed. “I'll have my men make a search immediately if you'll tell me the approximate location.”

“Up by Sioux Canyon,” said Bat. “You'll find the tree alongside the road. Yeah. I forget to tell you. We was held up.”

“You mean we didn't get our money again?” said a hard voice out in the crowd.

A thick-shouldered hunched man of great height, who had the appearance of never being able to straighten up because he'd hit his head against the sky, shuffled to Trotwood's side. His red-rimmed eyes were angry.

Trotwood faced him with contempt. “You'll get your pay soon enough. The Great Western would hardly fail to pay its bills.”

“I been stalled long enough,” said the tall man.

“Simpson,” said Trotwood, severely, “I'll have no more nonsense, if you please. You have my word.…”

“Your word,” mocked Simpson.

Trotwood's action did not seem to be enough to warrant Simpson's hasty change in tone. Trotwood merely thrust his hand slowly into his frock coat in a Napoleonic gesture.

“Get your horses and the rest of the men,” said Trotwood carefully, as though controlling himself only with great effort. “Sunset Maloney is responsible for this. This time, we are going to make him answer.”

Simpson backed off, turned and shuffled toward a
livery stable
down the street, collecting a small knot of men as he went.

Trotwood turned to Bat. “You seem to have great difficulty in defending your charge, Connor.”

“I'm brave enough,” said Bat. “If that Sunset hadn't
got the drop on
me, I'd a blowed him fuller a holes than a Swiss cheese. Next time I meet him, he'll have a fight on his hands!”

Somebody in the crowd cried, “Wildcat Connor.”

Bat turned to face the unseen attacker. “Yeah? You wouldn't a done any different.”

“Wildcat Connor!”

“Yeah?” bellowed Bat. “Look here, from Texas to Oregon, I'm knowed as a lead slinger and I ain't goin' to let no sucklin' pig laugh at me without …”

Simpson was coming up the street with the men and Bat forgot what he was saying for the moment as he watched them.

Trotwood mounted his well-groomed horse, putting his polished toes daintily into the stirrups of his postage-stamp English saddle.

Simpson and his five hard-faced companions closed up around Trotwood, who glanced at them to see that they were all there and well armed.

“We shall proceed to Sioux Canyon,” Trotwood told them, “and attempt to track him from there. I trust that we have ropes enough to do our work tomorrow.”

He raised his arm and dug spur. The cavalcade rolled up the street, lights from windows flashing on bits and guns as they raced by.

The sound of hoofs faded slowly and Bat turned to tromp up the steps of the Palace Saloon, ignoring questions from the curious. He went into the smoky interior and walked down the bar, still refusing to further discuss the holdup. Men drifted away from him and he finally stood alone, pouring a drink of red liquor into a smudged glass.

When he had downed it he saw that a stranger stood beside him. The man wore range clothes much out of place upon his round, awkward body. He was unused to such clothes. His face was burned red by wind and looked soft.

“Set him up another, barkeep,” said the stranger.

“Don't care if I do,” said Bat.

The bartender set up several more and finally Bat found himself at a quiet table in the corner facing the stranger, who said his name was Smith.

“Who is this Sunset Maloney?” said Smith.

“Good kid,” said Bat tipsily. “None better. Sure death when he's mad but easygoin' most always. Red hair makes him that way.”

“Other shipments come through untouched,” said Smith. “What's Sunset Maloney got against Trotwood?”

“What's everybody got against Trotwood, you mean,” snapped Bat, grabbing the neck of the bottle and slopping his drink as he poured it, so great was his sudden heat.

“Well, what?”

“It's that Great Western Railroad,” said Bat, tongue well greased by now. “They got to have this pass. They can't get across the Rockies at this point unless they get this pass. Puma Pass means plenty. But it's all owned. Mining claims, small ranches,
truck farms
to feed the miners that keep crossing back and forth here. This is the best way through the whole
dadblamed
Continental Divide and the Great Western's got to have it.”

“What's that make Trotwood?”

“A
polecat
,” said Bat. “He come in here and sized it up and then shows his papers as agent of the Great Western. Everybody wants the railroad but there ain't nobody wants to sell any land, that being valuable right here. So Trotwood hires a Texas gun-toter named Simpson and some of his friends. Five settlers had disappeared. There ain't nobody else willin' to argue it with Trotwood. So he's buyin' all land at fifty percent of its value. Sell or get killed, that's the situation. And everybody's afraid to touch him.”

“Can't you organize?”

“Like them
vigilantes
they got over at Virginia City? We tried it and the ringleader disappeared and now everybody's scared to name hisself a leader.”

“Where's Sunset Maloney fit into this?” said the persistent stranger, who said his name was Smith.

“Sunset?” said Bat, settling himself and pouring another drink. “Like I tell you, he's redheaded and easygoin' most of the time, but he gets mad suddenlike and nothin' can stop him when he's mad.

“He come in here right after the government reopened the Bozeman trail. He's up from Wyoming, just a kid, fresh as paint but broke. So old Ten-Sleep Thompson takes him under his wing and they get along on small strikes. Pretty soon they got enough together for a spread and for the past ten years, they run it. It's right in the middle of this valley below here. The
longhorns
was doin' well and everything was goin' fine and Sunset grows up to his present manhood of twenty-three, all grin or all fight, either way.

“And then Sunset goes to trail a herd up from Wyomin' and when he gets back, Trotwood has moved into Puma Pass. That's bad, but what Sunset finds is worse. Ten-Sleep Thompson has signed over the spread to Trotwood for cash nobody ain't seen yet, though Trotwood says it's comin'. Ten-Sleep is dead and buried when the kid arrives home.

“So he hits the trail and starts layin' for Trotwood. He stops all stages to take off any Trotwood money. He pops up unexpected when Trotwood gets too persuasive with some miner. An' if it wasn't for Sunset, this whole place would have been sold out to Trotwood a long time ago. So far, Sunset has got all the gold Trotwood tried to import, and as long as he keeps out of Trotwood's … Say, gabbin' around like this plumb made me fergit something mighty important. See you later, stranger.”

Bat wobbled to the door and went out into the street. He made his way to his cabin but he did not enter. He went around back and began to saddle his mustang.

“Damn it to hell,” muttered Bat, wrestling with the saddle and seeing three horses when he knew he only owned one, “I was goin' to take just one drink to make it look less suspicious and I get to gabbin' like an old hen at a tea party and plumb fergit Sunset. If he swings, I'll never draw another easy breath!”

The saddle slid off on the other side and Bat lurched under the mount's neck to get it. He put it up again and it slid off on the
nigh
side.

Swearing at the three shimmering mustangs, Bat tried to concentrate on what he was doing.

CHAPTER TWO

Outlaw's Captive

F
ROM
the moment Betsy Trotwood had lost her consciousness in the falling trunk until she awoke in the dimness of an old trapper's cabin was a complete blank.

She lay looking disinterestedly at the pattern of shadows the rafters made, trying to clear her wits and think. The last thing she had seen had been a tall man in stained leather standing on a fallen tree with a gun in each hand. Somehow that did not connect up with this.

Gradually she became aware of someone seated beside her. Slowly she turned her head to behold a man silhouetted against the flickering light given out by a piece of rag stuck into a cup of bear grease on the table across the rough room.

Even then she did not know what it was all about. Her head ached dully and the man meant nothing to her, for the moment, less than the rafter shadows.

“Gee, ma'am,” said Sunset with a gusty sigh of relief, “you shore had me worried for a while. How do you feel?”

This soft drawl was not the clear and deadly voice of the road agent. She studied the silhouette curiously.

Sunset got up. “Let me get you a cup of tea,” he said eagerly. “You'll be ready to fight a buzz saw before you know it.”

He crossed the room to the fireplace and her eyes followed him. He stood for an instant against the light of brightly glowing coals and abruptly she knew him.

She recoiled, pressing herself against the logs at the back of the bunk, gripping the edge of a blanket with her small hand.

Sunset, all unknowing, came back with the tin cup full of steaming tea. “Here, ma'am. Drink this.”

He saw how she stared at him then. The terror in those wide blue eyes came as a shock to him. He set the cup on a three-legged stool and looked at her. “What's the matter?”

She found her voice, fought the tremble out of it. Her mother's people had given her a legacy of spirit and poise. “Thief!”

“Thief?” said Sunset. “Oh, now, see here, ma'am, don't go judging things so fast. I'm no more thief than you are, beggin' your pardon.”

“I'll thank you to take me to my father instantly,” said Betsy.

Sunset looked at her in hurt amazement. Her tone cut into him cruelly. But he was conscious of a lingering amusement too. She was so small and delicate that he could have lifted her with one hand but she was showing more fight than a shoulder-shot grizzly.

“See here, ma'am. I'm sorry about this. But I was just as surprised as you were. I feel pretty bad kicking you out of the stage that way, but how was I to know? And I tell you, ma'am, when I opened that trunk of yours and saw you in it, all white, I was plenty scared. I thought you were dead. You're safe, honest you are. I wouldn't hurt you. If I could I'd do anything in the world for you. You can believe that, ma'am.”

She was inching further away from him than ever, cold contempt in her gesture and expression. He could feel the intensity of her growing rage.

Clumsily he sought to quiet her. “Whatever made you get into Trotwood's trunk? That was plumb careless of you, ma'am. Somebody ought to have told you that anybody that runs up against anything belongin' to that skunk runs into sure trouble.”

“Are you referring to my father?” she said frostily.

“Your father?” said Sunset. “No, ma'am. I'm talkin' about
Double-Deck
Trotwood, or Slim Trotwood, or any other name he goes by.” In sudden wonder, seeing the way the words affected her, he said, “Say, you ain't tied up with that ornery, two-bit tinhorn, are you?”

“Sir, I'll have you know that Jonathan Trotwood is my father.”

“Your
father
?” gaped Sunset. “Oh, now, see here, ma'am, that isn't anything to joke about.”

“It is certainly no joke.”

“You're dead right. Not if it's a fact.” Sunset sat down weakly on the edge of the bunk. “Tell me straight now, ma'am. Is that weasel-faced back-stabber your dad, honest-to-God?”

“You must realize that your language is most offensive,” said Betsy.

“No more offensive than your news,” said Sunset wearily. He got up and tried to give her the tea again but she would have none of it. He crossed the room and threw some wood on the fire and then sat on his heels before the blaze, pulling a frying pan disconsolately toward him. She heard him mutter, “If that don't beat hell …”

Now that his presence was more remote, she sank back on the pillow he had made from a
buffalo robe
and looked steadily at him from the protecting darkness of the bunk.

She was very afraid, as she had every right to be. Everything about this country had filled her with uneasy awe and she had begun to understand how little she knew about the world.

The dizziness passed slowly from her and she began to consider her problem. She thought of escape but knew instantly that she was somewhere far from any habitations or towns. The way must be far and the trails alive with danger.

She wondered how much harm she could expect from this tall bandit and fell to studying his profile against the now-leaping flames.

He was young, probably in his early twenties. His face was lean and hard but there was a reckless strength to it which might have been fascinating to her in other circumstances, so different was it from the weak, white visages of the men she had danced with so lately.

His costume was strange to her. She had never seen a man dressed wholly in soft white leather before. His spurs were bright and she decided they were silver. Two pendants hung from each and clinked together, making music as he moved at his work.

Bat had called him “Sunset” and she decided that it must be because of his auburn hair.

There was a certain grace to his movements, a freedom of carriage which was suggestive of the wide free world in which he dwelt. He smelled of clean woodsmoke and pines and sage, and the effect of all this combined lulled her fears which became more subdued as her interest grew.

At last her glance strayed about the cabin. Wild animal skins were nailed on the walls. Two rifles hung from pegs over the door. Buffalo robes covered the floor. A saddle and a small bundle of clothing seemed to be Sunset's only possessions outside of his guns and frying pan.

She glimpsed the messenger box under the table and suddenly she was angry again.

She looked further and beheld two other boxes, identical to the first. Three checks she had sent to a certain bank at her father's direction. These three boxes must contain seventy-five thousand dollars—half of her mother's fortune.

When Sunset finished his cooking he approached her bunk once more. The smell of the savory steak was almost too much for her to bear.

Sunset shrugged and set the plate down on the stool beside her. He filled the cup with fresh tea and then, without a glance at her, buckled on his guns and went outside.

After he had closed the door she stared at it for a long time. She had led a very closely guarded life up to now. Her emotions had been limited to joy and sorrow. But now she was amazed at the depths of anger and disappointment and fear which she found in herself.

She tried to keep the upper hand of control. But a traitor within her disclosed the fact that his disregard of her had added as much to her rage as the messenger boxes.

She lay back and became quiet. The steak beside her sent its appealing aroma over the edge of the bunk. She was hungry but she refused to eat. And then in sudden panic she was afraid the steak would get cold and sat up instantly.

In vain she looked for a fork or spoon. Only a harsh-looking bowie knife was there. She picked it up gingerly and turned it over, wondering what to do with it.

Baffled, she looked longingly at the steak. Not even as a child had she eaten with her fingers. Her well-served table had always been graced with a multitude of bright spoons and forks.

Again she remembered that the steak would get cold. Almost in tears she cautiously extended a small white hand to touch the warm, moist meat. She sat up and propped the pillow back of her.

She ate.

And when she had finished she looked helplessly about her for a napkin and, finding none, was forced to use her outraged Bostonian tongue to clean her fingertips.

She had no more than finished when she heard a far-off shot. She sat up in wide-eyed terror, wanting to go to the window but afraid to move.

Tensely she waited. The fire died down. The rag in the cup spluttered out. A beam of moonlight fell bluely to the rough floor.

Would he never come back?

She moved off the bunk hesitantly at last and crept to the window to look out. The hillside above the cabin was dotted with shaggy pines, silver green by moonlight. A stream tinkled nearby and a slow wind sighed mysteriously through the trees at hand.

Far off, thin in distance, a coyote yip-yapped at the moon and ended with a high, gradually sinking howl more awful than death itself. Another coyote answered and then the two sent their mournful voices together across the shivery night. A wolf's bass threat moaned down the scale and the coyotes howled no more.

The pines soughed softly in a cold rush of wind. The brook made its light sound against the somber breeze.

The hillside was filled with mysteriously moving shadows. Two limbs creaked dolefully together, chilling Betsy until she could not move away from the spot where she stood.

Would he
never
come back?

She heard a thump at the back of the cabin. Slow footfalls sounded. Metal clinked and the door flew open.

She whirled, pressing herself back against the logs, trembling.

It was Sunset. He looked at her strangely for a moment and then carelessly walked to the fire and began to load a pipe. He hooked a glowing coal toward him and turned part way toward her.

“Mind if I smoke?”

“No,” she whispered.

He puffed thoughtfully for a moment and then began to lay limbs on the coals and fan them into a blaze. The light was warm and the strength of the man kneeling there was reassuring. Gradually the cold went away from her heart and she moved slowly sideways to sit down on the edge of the bunk.

“Got a deer at a pool below here,” said Sunset carelessly. “Hung him up on a peg behind the cabin. He ought to make good eating.”

For the first time in her life it occurred to her that the meat she ate had once been alive. It came as a shock.

Unreasonably then, she was once more angry with him. “How long do you expect to keep me here?”

“Until I can send you to Puma Pass, I reckon,” said Sunset, watching the fire. “Of course it's taking a chance to let you go and I hadn't ought to do it. They'll spot this place when you tell them and it's been a safe retreat until now.”

“I'm sure,” she said bitterly, “that I am a great deal of trouble to you.”

“You sure are,” said Sunset.

She glared at his fire-outlined profile.

“What about my reputation?” she said. “Have you thought of that?”

“What's the matter with it?” said Sunset.

With cool contempt she said, “Do you expect me to sleep in the same room with you?”

“Oh,” said Sunset in a way which told her he was hurt.

He got up deliberately and knocked the ashes from his pipe. He went to the door and jerked a buffalo robe from the wall.

Suddenly she remembered the howling coyotes, the wolf, the soughing pines and the awful loneliness of the moonlight. “No! Don't leave me!”

“Make up your mind,” said Sunset. “Do I stay or do I go?”

Meekly, but amazed at her meekness, she whispered, “You'd better stay. I'm … I'm afraid.”

Compassion was deep in his light blue eyes. He almost moved toward her. Instead he tossed the robe on the floor and sat down upon it, facing the fire.

She climbed into the bunk and turned her face to the wall, crying silently.