Chapter XX
Exit Mysterious Pete
In the cold, gray dawn of the morning after, Mysterious Pete straddleddown the main street of Los Portales with a dark-brown taste in hismouth. He was feeling ugly. For he had imbibed a large quantity ofliquor. He had gambled and lost. He had boasted of what he intended to doto one James Clanton, now generally known as "Go-Get-'Em Jim,"
This last in particular was a mistake. Moreover, it was quite out ofaccord with the usual custom of Mr. Champa. When he made up his mind toincrease by one the number of permanent residents upon Boot Hill he bidedhis time, waited till the suspicions of his victim were lulled, and shotdown his man without warning. The one fixed rule of his life was never totake an unnecessary chance. Now he was taking one.
Every chain has its weakest link. Mr. Champa drunk was a rock upon whichMr. Champa sober had more than once come to shipwreck. No doubt somebusybody, seeking to curry favor with him, had run to this Clanton withthe tale of how Mysterious Pete had sworn to kill him on sight.
The bad man was sour on the world this morning. He prided himself onbeing always a dead shot, but such a night as he had spent would not helphis chances. There could be no doubt that his nerves were jumpy. What heneeded was a few hours' sleep.
He would have taken a back street if he had dared, but to do so wouldhave been a confession of doubt. The killer can afford to let nobodyguess that he is afraid. When such a suspicion becomes current he mightas well order his coffin. The men whom he holds in the subjection of fearwill all be taking a chance with him.
So Mysterious Pete, bad man and murderer, coward at heart to the marrow,strutted toward his rooming-house with a heart full of hate to everybody.The pleasant morning sunshine was an offense to him. A care-free laugh onthe breeze made him grit his teeth irritably. Particularly he hated DaveRoush. For Roush had led him into this cunningly by bribery and flattery.He had fed the jealousy of Pete, who could not brook the thought of arival bad man in his own territory. He had hinted that perhaps Champa hadbetter steer clear of this youth, whose reputation as a killer had grownso amazingly. Ever since Clanton had killed Warren the bad man hadintended to "get him." But he had meant to do it without taking any risk.His idea was to pretend to be his friend, push a gun into his stomach,and down him before he could move. Now by his folly he had to take afighting chance. Dave Roush, to save his own skin, had pushed him intodanger. All this was quite clear to him now, and he raged at theknowledge.
Champa, too, was at another disadvantage. He was not sure that he wouldknow Clanton when he saw him. He had set eyes on the young fellow once,on that occasion when he had gone with Warren to demand an inspection ofthe Flying V Y herd. But he had seen him only as one of a group ofcowpunchers and not as an individual enemy, whereas it was quite certainthat Go-Get-'Em Jim would recognize him.
From out of a doorway stepped a young fellow with his hand on his hip.Pete's six-gun flashed upward in a quarter curve even as the bulletcrashed on its way. The youth staggered against the wall and sanktogether into a heap. Champa, every sense alert, fired again, then waitedwarily to make sure this was not a ruse of his victim.
Some one--a woman--darted from a building opposite, flew across thestreet, and dropped beside the crumpled figure. Her white skirt coveredthe body like a protecting flag.
The dark eyes in the white face lifted toward Champa were full of horror,"You murderer! You've killed little Bud Proctor!" cried the young woman.
He took an uncertain step or two toward her. Mysterious Pete knew that ifthis were true, his race was run.
"Goddlemighty, Miss Snaith! I swear I thought it was Clanton. He wasdrawing a gun on me."
Lee drew the boy to her bosom so that her body was between the killer andhis victim. A swift, up-blazing, maternal fury seemed to leap from herface.
"Don't come any nearer! Don't you dare!" she cried.
The man's covert glance swept round. Already men were peering out ofdoors and windows to see what the shooting was about. Soon the streetwould be full of them, all full of deadly fury at him. He backed away,snarling, cut across a vacant lot, and ran to his room. The bolt in hisdoor was no sooner closed than he knew it could not protect him. Therecomes a time in the career of a large percentage of bad men when someother hard citizen on behalf of the public puts a period to it. He iswiped out, not for what he has done only, but for fear also of what hemay do. The only safety for him now was to get out of the country as fastas a house could carry him. Instinctively Mysterious Pete recognized thisnow and cursed his folly for not going straight to a corral.
If he hurried he might still make his get-away, He reloaded his revolver,opened the door of his room, and listened. Cautiously he stole downstairsand out the back door of the building. A little girl was playing atkeeping house in a corner of the yard. Scarcely more than a baby herself,she was vigorously spanking a doll.
"Be dood. You better had be dood," she admonished.
A crafty idea came into the cunning brain of the outlaw. She would serveas a protection against the bullets of his enemies. He caught her up andcarried her, kicking and screaming, while he ran to the Elephant Corral.
"Saddle me a horse. Jump!" ordered the fugitive, his revolver out.
The trembling wrangler obeyed. He did not know the cause of MysteriousPete's urgency fact was enough. He knew that this man with the bad recordwas flying in fear of his life. Tiny sweat beads stood out on hisforehead. The fellow was in a blue funk and would shoot at the leastpretext.
The saddle that the wrangler flung on the horse he had roped was a Texasone with double cinches. In desperate haste to be gone, Champa releasedthe child a moment to tighten one of the bands.
A voice called to her. "Run, Kittie."
To the casual eye the child was all knobby legs and hair ribbons. Shescudded for the stable, sobbing as she ran.
At sound of that voice Mysterious Pete leaped to the saddle and whirledhis horse. He was too late. The man who had called to Kittie slammed shutthe gate of the corral and laughed tauntingly.
"Better 'light, Mr. Champa. That caballo you're on happens to be mine."
Pete needed no introduction. This slight, devil-may-care young fellow atthe gate was Clanton. He was here to fight. The only road of escape wasover his body.
The gunman slid from the saddle. His instinct for safety still servedhim, for he came to the ground with the horse as a shield between him andhis foe. The nine-inch barrel of his revolver rested on the back of thebronco as he blazed away. A chip flew from the cross-bar of the corralgate.
Clanton took no chances. The first shot from his forty-four dropped thecowpony. Pete backed away, firing as he moved. He flung bullet afterbullet at the figure behind the gate. In his panic he began to think thathis enemy bore a charmed life. Three times his lead struck the woodworkof the gate.
The retreating man whirled and dropped, his weapon falling to the dust.Clanton fired once more to make sure that his work was done, then movedslowly forward, his eyes focused on the body. A thin wisp of smoke rosefrom the revolver lying close to the still hand.
Mysterious Pete had died with his boots on after the manner of his kind.