The Rangeland Avenger by Max Brand
11
"Laugh and be hanged," declared Sinclair. "I'm going outside. And don'ttry no funny breaks while I'm gone," he said. "I'll be watching andwaiting when you ain't expecting." With that he was gone.
At the door of the house a gust of hot wind struck him, for the day wasverging on noon, and there seemed more heat than light in the sun. Evento that hot gust Sinclair jerked his bandanna knot aside and opened histhroat gratefully. He felt as if he had been under a hard nervousstrain for some time past. Cold Feet, the craven, the weak of hand andthe frail of spirit, had tested him in a new way. He had beenconfronting a novel and unaccountable thing. He felt very oddly as ifsomeone had been prodding into corners of his nature yet unknown evento himself. He tingled from the rapier touches of that last laughter.
Now his eyes roamed with relief across the valley. Heat waves blurredthe hollow and pushed Sour Creek away until it seemed a river ofmist--yellow mist. He raised his attention out of that swelteringhollow to the cool, blue, mighty mountains--his country!
Presently he had forgotten all this. He settled his hat on the back ofhis head and began to kick a stone before him, following it aimlessly.
Someone was humming close to him, and he turned sharply to see SallyBent go by, carrying a bucket. She smiled generously, and though heknew that she doubtless hated him in her heart and smiled for apurpose, he had to reply with a perfunctory grin. He stalked after herto the little leaping creek and dipped out a full bucket.
"Thanks," said Sally, wantonly meeting his eye.
As well try to soften a sphinx. Sinclair carried the dripping bucket onthe side nearest the girl and thereby gained valuable distance. "I'mmighty glad it's you and not one of the rest," confided Sally, stillsmiling firmly up to him.
He avoided that appeal with a grunt.
"Like Sandersen, say," went on the girl.
"Why not him?"
"He's a bad hombre," said the girl. "Hate to have Jig in his hands.With you it's different."
Sinclair waited until he had put down the bucket in the kitchen. Thenhe faced Sally thoughtfully.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you're reasonable."
"Did Jig tell you that?"
"And a pile more. Jig says you're a pretty fine sort. That's hiswords."
The cowpuncher caressed the butt of his gun with his fingertips, hishabitual gesture when in doubt.
"Lady," he said at length, "suppose I cut this short? You think I ain'tgoing to keep Cold Feet here till the sheriff comes for him?"
"You see what it would mean?" she asked eagerly. "It wouldn't be a fairtrial. You couldn't get a fair jury for Jig around Sour Creek andWoodville. They hate him--all the young men do. D'you know why? Simplybecause he's different! Simply because--"
"Because all the girls are pretty fond of him, eh?"
"You can put it that way if you want," she answered steadily enough,though she flushed under his stare. Then: "you'll keep that in mind,and you're man enough to do what you think is right, ain't you, Mr.Sinclair?"
He shifted away from the hand which was moving toward him.
"I'll tell you what," he answered. "I'm man enough to be afraid of agirl like you, Sally Bent."
Then he saw her head fall in despair, as he turned away. When hereached the shimmering heat of the outdoors again, he was feeling likea murderer. His reason told him that Cold Feet was "yaller," not worthsaving. His reason told him that he could save Jig only by a confessionthat would drive him, Sinclair, away from Sour Creek and his destinedvictim, Sandersen. Or he could save Jig by violating the law, and thatalso would drive him from Sour Creek and Sandersen.
Suddenly he halted in the midst of his pacing to and fro. Why was heturning these alternatives back and forth in his mind? Because, heunderstood all at once, he had subconsciously determined that Cold Feetmust not die!
The face of his brother rose up and looked into his eyes. That was thefriend of whom he would not speak to Jig, brother and friend at once.And as surely as ever ghost called to living man, that face demandedthe death of Sandersen. He blinked the vision away.
"I _am_ going nutty," muttered Sinclair. "Whether Sandersen lives ordies, Jig ain't going to dance at a rope's end!"
Presently Sally called him in to lunch, and Riley ate halfheartedly.All during the meal neither Sally nor John Gaspar had more than a wordfor him, while they talked steadily together. They seemed to understandeach other so well that he felt a hidden insult in it.
Once or twice he made a heavy attempt to enter the conversation, alwaysaddressing his remarks to Sally Bent. He was received graciously, buthis remarks always fell dead, and a moment later Cold Feet had pickedup the frayed ends of his own talk and won the entire attention ofSally. Riley was beginning to understand why the youth of that districtdetested Cold Feet.
"Always takes some soft-handed dude to make a winning with a foolgirl," he comforted himself.
He expected the arrival of Jerry Bent before nightfall, and with thatarrival, perhaps, there would be a new sort of attack on him. Sally andCold Feet were trying persuasion, but they might encourage Jerry Bentto attempt physical force. With all his heart Riley Sinclair hoped so.He had a peculiar desire to do something significant for the eyes ofboth Sally and Jig.
But nightfall came, and then supper, and still no Jerry appeared.Afterward, Sinclair made ready to sleep in Jig's room. Cold Feetoffered him the couch.
"Beds and me don't hitch" declared Riley, throwing two or three of therugs together. "I ain't particular partial to a floor, neither, butthese here rugs will give it a sort of a ground softness."
He sat cross-legged on the low pile of rugs, while he pulled off hisboots and smoked his good-night cigarette. Jig coiled up in a bigchair, while he studied his jailer.
"But how can you go to bed so early?" he asked.
"Early? It ain't early. Sun's down, ain't it? Why do they bring onnight, except for folks to go to sleep?"
"For my part the best part of the day generally begins when the sungoes down."
With patient contempt Riley considered John Gaspar. "You look kind ofthat way," he decided aloud. "Pale and not much good with yourshoulders. Now, what d'you most generally do with your time in theevening?"
"Why--talk."
"Talk? Huh! A fine way of wasting time for a growed-up man."
"And I read, you know."
"I can see by the looks of them shelves that you do. How many of thembooks might you have read, Jig?"
"All of them."
"I ask you, man to man, ain't they mostly somebody's idea of what lifeis?"
"I suppose that's a short way of putting it."
"And I ask you ag'in, what's better to take a secondhand hunch out ofwhat somebody else thinks life might be, or to go out and do someliving on your own hook?"
Cold Feet had been smiling faintly up to this point, as though he hadmany things in reserve which might be said at need. Now his smiledisappeared.
"Perhaps you're right."
"And maybe I ain't." Sinclair brushed the entire argument away into athin mist of smoke. "Now, look here, Cold Feet, I'm about to go tosleep, and when I sleep, I sure sleep sound, taking it by and large.They's times when I don't more'n close one eye all night, and they'stimes when you'd have to pull my eyes open, one by one, to wake me up.Understand? I'm going to sleep the second way tonight. About eighthours of the soundest sleep you ever heard tell of."
Jig considered him gravely.
"I'm afraid," he answered, "that I won't sleep nearly as well."
Riley Sinclair smiled. "Wouldn't be no ways nacheral for you to do muchsleeping," he agreed. "Take a gent that's in danger of having his neckstretched, like you, and most generally he don't do much sleeping. Helies around awake, cussing his luck, I s'pose. Take you, now, ColdFeet, and I s'pose you'll be figuring on how far a hoss could carry youin the eight hours that I'll be sleeping. Eh?"
There was a suggestive lift of the eyebrows, as he spoke, but beforeJig had a chance to study his face
Outside, a door slammed heavily; Cold Feet heard the heavy voice ofJerry Bent and the beat of his heels across the floor. In spite ofthose noises Riley Sinclair was presently sound asleep, as he hadpromised. Gaspar knew it by the rise and fall of the arm which layalong Sinclair's side, also by the sound of his breathing.
Cold Feet went to the window and looked out on the mountains, black andhuge, with a faint shimmer of snow on the farthest summits. At the verythought of trying to escape into that wilderness and wandering aloneamong the peaks, he shuddered. He came back and studied the sleeper.Something about the nonchalance with which Sinclair had gone to sleepunder the very eye of his prisoner affected John Gaspar strangely.Doubtless it was sheer contempt for the man he was guarding. And,indeed, something assured Jig that, no matter how well he employed thenext eight hours in putting a great distance between himself and SourCreek, the tireless riding of Sinclair would more than make up thedistance.
Gaspar went to the door, then turned sharply and glanced over hisshoulder at the sleeper; but the eyes of Sinclair were still closed,and his regular breathing continued. Jig turned the knob cautiously andslipped out into the living room.
Jerry and Sally beckoned instantly to him from the far side of theroom. The beauty of the family had descended upon Sally alone. Jerrywas a swart-skinned, squat, bow-legged, efficient cowpuncher. He nowambled awkwardly to meet John Gaspar.
"Are you all set?" he asked.
"For what?"
"To start on the trail!" exclaimed Jerry. "What else? Ain't Sinclairasleep?"
"How d'you know?"
"I listened at the door and heard his breathing a long time ago.Thought you'd never come out."
Sally Bent was already on the other side of Gaspar, drawing him towardthe door.
"You can have my hoss, Jig," she offered. "Meg is sure as sin in themountains. You won't have nothing to fear on the worst trail they is."
"Not a thing," asserted Jerry.
They half led and half dragged Cold Feet to the door.
"I'll show you the best way. You see them two peaks yonder, like a pairof mule's ears? You start--"
"I don't know," said Jig. "It seems very difficult, even to think ofriding alone through those mountains."
Sally was white with fear. "You ain't going to throw away this chance,Jig? It'll mean hanging sure, if you don't run now. Ask Jerry whatthey're saying in Sour Creek tonight?"
Jerry volunteered the information. "They're all wondering why youwasn't strung up today, when they got so much evidence agin' you. Alsothey're thinking that the boys played plumb foolish in turning you overto this stranger, Sinclair, to guard. But they're waiting for SheriffKern to come over from Woodville an' nab you in the morning. They'ssome that says that they won't wait, if it looks like the law is goingto take too long to hang you. They'll get up a necktie party and breakthe jail and do their own hanging. I heard all them things and more,Jig."
John Gaspar looked uncertainly from one to the other of his friends.
"You've _got_ to go!" cried Sally.
"I've got to go," admitted Cold Feet in a whisper.
"I've got Meg saddled for you already. She's plumb gentle."
"Just a minute. I've forgotten something."
"You don't mean you're going back into that room where Sinclair is?"
"I won't waken him. He's sleeping like the dead."
Jig turned away from them and hurried back to his room. Having openedand closed the door softly, he went to a chest of drawers near thewindow and fumbled in the half-light of the low-burning lamp. Heslipped a small leather case into the breast pocket of his coat, andthen stole back toward the door, as softly as before. With his hand onthe knob, he paused and looked back. For all he knew, Sinclair might bereally awake now, watching his quarry from beneath those heavy lashes,waiting until his prisoner should have made a definite attempt toescape.
And then the big man would rise to his feet as soon as the door wasclosed. The picture became startlingly real to John Gaspar. Sinclairwould slip out that window, no doubt, and circle around toward thehorse shed. There he would wait until his prisoner came out on Meg, andthen without warning would come a shot, and there would be an end ofSinclair's trouble with his prisoner. Gaspar could easily attributesuch cunning cruelty to Sinclair. And yet there was something untested,unprobed, different about the rangy fellow.
Whatever it was, it kept Gaspar staring down into the lean face ofSinclair for a long moment. Then he went resolutely back into theliving room and faced Sally Bent; Jerry was already waiting outdoors.
"I'm not going," said Gaspar slowly. "I'll stay."
Sally cried out. "Oh, Jig, have you lost your nerve ag'in? Ain't yougot _no_ courage?"
The schoolteacher sighed. "I'm afraid not, Sally. I guess my onlycourage comes in waiting and seeing how things turn out."
He turned and went gloomily back to his room.