CHAPTER XVIII
THE GUNFIGHTER
Red Owen, foreman of the Flying W in place of Tom Chavis, resigned, wasstretched out on his blanket, his head propped up with an arm, looking atthe lazy, licking flames of the campfire. He was whispering to BudTaylor, named by Randerson to do duty as straw boss in place of thedeparted Pickett, and he was referring to a new man of the outfit who hadbeen hired by Randerson about two weeks before because the work seemed torequire the services of another man, and he had been the only applicant.
The new man was reclining on the other side of the fire, smoking, payingno attention to any of the others around him. He was listening, though,to the talk, with a sort of detached interest, a half smile on his face,as though his interest were that of scornful amusement.
He was of medium height, slender, dark. He was taciturn to the point ofmonosyllabic conversation, and the perpetual, smiling sneer on his facehad gotten on Red Owen's nerves.
"Since he's joined the outfit, he's opened his yap about three times aday--usual at grub time, when if a man loosens up at all, he'll loosen upthen," Red told Taylor, glaring his disapproval. "I've got an idea thatI've seen the cuss somewheres before, but I ain't able to place him."
"His mug looks like he was soured on the world--especial himself. If Ihad a twistin' upper lip like that, I'd sure plant some whiskers on it. Amustache, now, would hide a lot of the hyena in him."
Owen stared meditatively at the new man through the flames. "Yes," hesaid expressionlessly, "a mustache would make him look a whole lotdifferent." He was straining his mental faculties in an effort toremember a man of his acquaintance who possessed a lower lip like that ofthe man opposite him, eyes with the same expression in them, and a nosethat was similar. He did not succeed, for memory was laggard, or hisimagination was playing him a trick. He had worried over the man's facesince the first time he had seen it.
He heaved a deep breath now, and looked perplexedly into the flames."It's like a word that gits onto the end of your tongue when yourbrain-box ain't got sense enough to shuck it out," he remarked, lowly."But I'll git it, some time--if I don't go loco frettin' about it."
"What you figger on gettin'--a new job?" asked Taylor, who had beensinking into a nap.
"Snakes!" sneered Owen.
"Thank yu', I don't want 'em," grinned Taylor with ineffable gentleness,as he again closed his eyes.
Owen surveyed him with cold scorn. Owen's temper, because of hisinability to make his memory do his bidding, was sadly out of order. Hehad been longing for days to make the new man talk, that he might beenabled to sharpen his memory on the man's words.
He studied the man again. He had been studying him all day, while he andsome more of the men had worked the cattle out of some timber near thefoothills, to the edge of the basin--where they were now camped. But theface was still elusive. If he could only get the man to talking, to watchthe working of that lower lip!
His glance roved around the fire. Seven men, besides the cook--asleepunder the wagon--and Randerson, were lying around the fire in positionssimilar to his own. Randerson, the one exception, was seated on the edgeof the chuck box, its canvas cover pushed aside, one leg dangling, hiselbow resting on the other.
Randerson had been rather silent for the past few days--since he hadridden in to the ranchhouse, and he had been silent tonight, gazingthoughtfully at the fire. Owen's gaze finally centered on the range boss.It rested there for a time, and then roved to the face of the newman--Dorgan, he called himself. Owen started, and his chin went forward,his lips straightening. For he saw Dorgan watching Randerson with abitter sneer on his lips, his eyes glittering coldly and balefully!
Evil intent was written largely here--evil intent without apparent reasonfor it. For the man was a stranger here; Randerson had done nothing--toOwen's knowledge--to earn Dorgan's enmity; Randerson did not deliberatelymake enemies. Owen wondered if Dorgan were one of those misguided personswho take offense at a look unknowingly given, or a word, spoken duringmomentary abstraction.
Owen had disliked Dorgan before; he hated him now. For Owen had formed adeep attachment for Randerson. There was a determination in his mind toacquaint the range boss with his suspicions concerning Dorgan'sexpression, and he got up, after a while, and took a turn around thecampfire in the hope of attracting Randerson's attention.
Randerson paid no attention to him. But through the corners of his eyes,as he passed Dorgan, Owen noted that the man flashed a quick, speculativeglance at him. But Owen's determination had not lessened. "If he'ssuspicious of me, he's figgerin' on doin' some dog's trick to Wrecks. I'mputtin' Wrecks wise a few, an' if Dorgan don't like it, he c'n go toblazes!"
He walked to the rear of the chuck box and stood within half a dozen feetof Randerson.
"Figger we've got 'em all out of the timber?" he asked.
There was no answer from Randerson. He seemed absorbed in contemplationof the fire.
"W-r-e-c-k-s!" bawled Owen, in a voice that brought every man of thecircle upright, to look wildly around. Taylor was on his feet, his hairbristling, the pallor of mingled fear, astonishment, and disgust on hisface. Owen grinned sardonically at him. "Lay down an' turn over, youwall-eyed gorilla!" admonished Owen. He turned his grin on the others."Can't a man gas to the boss without all you yaps buttin' in?" hedemanded.
"What for are you-all a-yowlin' that-a-way for?" questioned agentle-voiced Southerner reproachfully. "I was just a-dreamin' of rakin'in a big pot in a cyard game. An' now you've done busted it up." He sankdisgustedly to his blanket.
"He thinks he's a damned coyote," said a voice.
"You're thinkin' it's a yowl," said another. "But you've got him wrong.He's a jackass, come a-courtin'."
"A man can't get no sleep at all, scarcely," grumbled another.
But Owen had accomplished his purpose. For during the exchange ofamenities Randerson had answered him--without turning, though:
"What you wantin', Red?" he said.
"You figger we've got 'em all out of the timber?" repeated Owen.
"Shucks." Randerson's voice was rich with mirth. "Why, I reckon. Unlessyou was figgerin' to use a fine-toothed comb. Why, the boys was alla-nappin', Red," he added gently.
He did not look around, so that Owen might give him the warning wink thatwould have put him on his guard. Owen would have tapped him on theshoulder, but glancing sidelong, he saw Dorgan watching him, and he didnot. A ripple of scornful laughter greeted Randerson's reply, and with asneering glance around, Owen again sought his blanket.
The reception that had been accorded his effort had made him appearridiculous, he knew. It would be days before the outfit would ceasereferring to it.
He stretched himself out on the blanket, but after a few moments ofreflection, he sat up, doggedly. He had been imagining all sorts of direthings that Dorgan might have in mind. He had a presentiment of impendingtrouble, and so deep was it that his forehead was damp with perspiration.
Several of the men, disturbed by Owen, had sat up, and were smoking andtalking, and when he heard one of the men, named Blair, refer to agunman, Watt Kelso, who had formerly graced Lazette with his presence, alight leaped into Owen's eyes, his teeth came together with a snap, hislips formed into straight lines, and he drew a slow, deep breath. Forthat was the word that had eluded him--Kelso! And Kelso--how plain andsimple it seemed to him now--Kelso was Dorgan, sitting opposite him now!Kelso minus his mustache, looking much different than when he had seenhim last, but Kelso, just the same--undeniably Kelso!
So great was Owen's excitement over this discovery that he was forced tolie down and turn his back to the fire for fear that Kelso might look athim and thus discover that he was recognized.
As he lay there, his brain yielded to a riot of speculation. What wasKelso doing here? Why had he come, minus the mustache, assuming the name,Dorgan? What meant his glances at Randerson?
He provided an explanation presently. Memory drew a vivid pict
ure forhim. It showed him a saloon in Lazette, some card tables, with men seatedaround them. Among the men were Kelso and Randerson. Randerson had been amere youth. Kelso and Randerson were seated opposite each other, at thesame table. Kelso had been losing--was in bad temper. He had chargedRanderson with cheating. There had been words, and then Kelso had essayedto draw his pistol. There was a scuffle, a shot, and Kelso had been ledaway with a broken arm, broken by Randerson's bullet--blaspheming, andshouting threats at Randerson. And now, after years of waiting, Kelso hadcome to carry out his threats. It was all plain to Owen, now. And withthe knowledge, Owen's excitement abated and he sat up, coldly observant,alert, to watch and listen.
For, while Owen had been thinking, Blair had continued to talk of WattKelso, of his deeds and his personality. And Owen saw that for the firsttime since joining the outfit, Kelso seemed interested in the talk aroundhim. He was watching Blair with narrowed, glittering eyes, in which Owencould see suspicion. It was as though he were wondering if Blair knewthat the man of whom he spoke now was at that minute sitting close tohim, listening. But presently, Owen became convinced that Kelso thoughtnot, for the suspicion in the gunman's eyes changed to cold, secretamusement.
"Kelso's pulled his freight from Lazette," declared Blair, during thecourse of his talk. "It's likely he'll drift somewhere where he ain't sowell known. It got to be pretty hard pickin' for him around here--folksfight shy of him. But he was sure a killer!"
Blair paused. "I reckon I might mention a man that he didn't kill," saida man who lay near Blair. "An' he wanted to, mighty bad."
"We're wantin' to know," returned Blair. "He must have been a high-gradegun-slinger."
The man nodded toward Randerson, who apparently was not listening to thisconversation. There was a subdued chuckle from the man, and grunts ofadmiration or skepticism from the others. Owen's gaze was fixed on Kelso;he saw the latter's eyes gleam wickedly. Yes, that was it, Owen saw now;the recollection of his defeat at Randerson's hands still rankled in thegunman's mind. Owen saw him glance covertly at Randerson, observed hislips curl.
One of the other men saw the glance also. Not having the knowledgepossessed by Owen, the man guffawed loudly, indicating the gunman.
"Dorgan ain't swallerin' your yarn about Randerson puttin' a kink inKelso," he said to Blair.
Randerson turned, a mild grin on his face. "You fellows quit yoursoft-soapin' about that run-in with Kelso," he said. "There ain't anycompliments due me. I was pretty lucky to get out of that scrape with awhole hide. They told me Kelso's gun got snagged when he was tryin' todraw it."
So then, Randerson _had_ been listening, despite his apparentabstraction. And Owen sat rigid when he saw the gunman look coldly atRanderson and clear his throat.
Plainly, if Kelso had been awaiting an opportunity to take issue withRanderson, it was now!
"Yes," he said, "you was mighty lucky."
There was a sneer in the words, and malevolence in the twist of his lipsas his voice came through them.
A flat, dead silence followed the speech. Every man held the position inwhich he had been when the gunman had spoken; nothing but their eyesmoved, and these were directed from Randerson to the gunman and backagain, questioningly, expectantly. For in the hearts of the men who hadbeen talking until now there had been no thought of discord; they hadspoken without rancor. But hostility, cold, premeditated, had been in thenew man's speech.
Randerson moved his head slightly, and he was looking straight intoKelso's eyes. Kelso had moved a little; he was now sitting on his saddle,having shifted his position when Blair had begun to talk, and the thumbof his right hand was hooked in his cartridge belt just above the holsterof his pistol.
Randerson's face was expressionless. Only his eyes, squinted a little,with a queer, hard glint in them, revealed any emotion that might haveaffected him over Kelso's words.
"Yes, Dorgan," he said gently, "I was mighty lucky."
Kelso's lips curved into a slow, contemptuous smile.
"I reckon you've always been lucky," he said.
"Meanin'?"
"Meanin' that you've fell into a soft place here, that you ain't fit tofill!"
Again a silence fell, dread, premonitory. It was plain to every man ofthe outfit, awake and listening, that Dorgan had a grievance--whetherreal or imaginary, it made little difference--and that he was determinedto force trouble. Only Owen, apparently, knowing the real state ofaffairs, knew that the reference to Randerson's inefficiency was a merepretext. But that violence, open, deadly, was imminent, foreshadowed byDorgan's word, every man knew, and all sat tense and pale, awaitingRanderson's reply.
They knew, these men, that it was not Randerson's way to forcetrouble--that he would avoid it if he could do so without dishonor. Butcould he avoid it now? The eyes that watched him saw that he meant totry, for a slow, tolerant smile appeared on his lips.
"I reckon you're plumb excited--Owen wakin' you up out of your sleep likehe did," said Randerson. "But," he added, the smile chilling a little, "Iain't askin' no man to work for me, if he ain't satisfied. You can drawyour time tomorrow, if it don't suit you here."
"I'm drawin' it now!" sneered the gunman. "I ain't workin' for nopussy-kitten specimen which spends his time gallivantin' around thecountry with a girl, makin' believe he's bossin', when--" Here he addedsomething that made the outfit gasp and stiffen.
As he neared the conclusion of the speech, his right hand fell to hisgun-holster. Owen had been watching him, and at the beginning of themovement he shouted a warning:
"Look out, Wrecks!"
He had been afraid to tell Randerson that it was Kelso who was facinghim, for fear that the information, bursting upon Randerson quickly,would disconcert him.
But Randerson had been watching, understanding the drift of the gunman'swords. And when he saw the shoulder of his gun-arm move, his own righthand dropped, surely, swiftly. Kelso's gun had snagged in its holsteryears before. It came freely enough now. But its glitter at his side wasmet by the roar and flame spurt of Randerson's heavy six, the thumb snapon the hammer telling of the lack of a trigger spring, the position ofthe weapon indicating that it had not been drawn from its holster.
Apparently not a man in the outfit had noticed this odd performance,though they had been held with dumb astonishment over the rapidity withwhich it had been executed. But they saw the red, venomous streak splitthe night; they heard the gunman's gurgling gasp of amazement, and theywatched, with ashen faces, while he dropped his weapon, sagged oddlyforward and tumbled headlong into the sand near the fire. Then several ofthem sprang forward to drag him back.
It had seemed that none of the men had noticed that Randerson had seemedto shoot his pistol while it was still in the holster. One, however, hadnoticed. It was Red Owen. And while the other men were pulling the gunmanback from the fire, Owen stepped close to Randerson, lifted the holster,and examined it quickly. He dropped it, with a low exclamation ofastonishment.
"I was wonderin'--Holy smoke! It's a phony holster, fixed on the gun tolook like the real thing! An' swung from the belt by the trigger guard!Lord, man! Did you know?"
"That Dorgan was Kelso?" said Randerson, with a cold smile. "I reckon. Iknowed him the day he asked for a job. An' I knowed what he comefor--figurin' on settlin' that grudge."
Randerson and Owen started toward the gunman, to determine how badly hehad been hit; they were met by Blair. There was amazement and incredulityin the man's eyes.
"He's goin' to cash in--quick," he said. "You got him, pretty nearlyproper--just over the heart. But, but, he says he's Watt Kelso! An' thatthat eastern dude, Masten, sent him over here--payin' him five hundredcold, to perforate you!"
Randerson ran to where Kelso lay, gasping and panting for breath. Heknelt beside him.
"You talkin' straight, Kelso?" he asked. "Did Masten hire you to put meout of business?"
"Sure," whispered Kelso.
"Where's Masten stayin'?"
"With Chavis--in the shack. He's been there righ
t along, except," hefinished, with a grim attempt at humor, "when he's been rushin' thatbiscuit-shooter in Lazette."
Five minutes later, standing near one of the wheels of the chuck-wagon,gazing somberly at the men, who were carrying Kelso away, Randerson spokegrimly to Owen, who was standing beside him.
"Pickett an' then Kelso! Both of them was sure bad enough. But I reckonMasten's got them both roped an' hog-tied for natural meanness." Heturned to Owen. "I reckon I had to do it, old man," he said, a quaver inhis voice.
"Buck up, Wrecks!" Owen slapped him on the shoulder, and turned towardthe men.
Randerson watched him, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "I reckon she'dhave wanted it different," he said to himself.