Chapter VIII
The Fight
Half a dozen cowboys cantered up the main street of Los Portales in acloud of dust. One of them, older than the rest, let out the wild yell hehad known in the days when he rode with Quantrell's guerrillas on theinfamous raids of that bandit. A second flung into the blue sky threerapid revolver shots. Plainly they were advertising the fact that theyhad come to paint the town red and did not care who knew it.
The riders pulled up abruptly in front of Tolleson's Gaming Palace &Saloon, swung from their horses, and trailed with jingling spurs intothat oasis of refreshment. Each of them carried in his hand a rope. Theother end of the rawhide was tied to the horn of a saddle.
A heavy-set, bow-legged man led the procession to the bar. He straddledforward with a swagger. The bartender was busy dusting his stock. Beforethe man had a chance to turn, the butt of a revolver hammered thecounter.
"Get busy here! Set 'em up, Mike. And jump!" snarled the heavy man.
The barkeeper took one look at him and filed no demurrer. "Bad man" waswrit on every line of the sullen, dissipated face of the bully. It was asafe bet that he was used to having his own way, or failing that wasready to fight at the drop of the hat.
Swiftly the drinks were prepared.
"Here 'show!"
"How!"
Every glass was tilted and emptied.
It was high noon by the sun and Tolleson's was practically deserted. Nodevotees sat round the faro, roulette, and keno tables. The dealers wereasleep in bed after their labors. So too were the dance girls. The pokerrooms upstairs held only the stale odor of tobacco and whiskey. Exceptfor a sleepy negro roustabout attendant and two young fellows at a tablewell back from the bar, the cowboys had the big hall all to themselves.
The bay was near the front of the barnlike room and to the right. To theleft, along the wall, were small tables. Farther back were those used forgaming. In the rear one corner of the floor held a rostrum with seats formusicians. The center of the hall was kept clear for dancing. Three stepsled to a door halfway back on the left-hand side of the building. Theycommunicated with an outer stairway by means of which one could reach thepoker rooms.
The older of the two young men at the table nodded toward the roisterersand murmured information. "Some of the Snaith-McRobert crowd."
His companion was seated with his back to the bar. He had riot turned hishead to look at those lined up in front of the mirrors for drinks, but acurious change had come over him. The relaxed body had grown rigid. Nolonger was he lounging against the back of his chair. From his eyes thelaughter had been wiped out, as a wet sponge obliterates writing on aslate. All his forces were gathered as if for instant action. He wastense as a coiled spring. His friend noticed that the boy was listeningintently, every faculty concentrated at attention.
A man leaning against the other end of the bar was speaking. He had ashock of long red hair and a squint to his eyes.
"Sure you're right. A bunch of Webb's gunmen got Ranse--caught him outalone and riddled him. When Webb drove through here two days ago witha herd, his killers bragged of it. Ask Harsha up at the Buffalo Corral ifyouse don't believe me. Sure as hell's hot we got to go on the war-path.Here, you Mike! Set 'em up again."
The boy at the table had drawn back his lips so that the canine teethstood out like tusks. There was something wolfish about the face, fromwhich all the color had been driven. It expressed something so deadly, somenacing, that the young man across from him felt a shock almost of fear."We'd better get out of here," he said, glancing toward the group nearthe front door.
The other young man did not answer, but he made no move to leave. He wasstill taking in every syllable of what the drinkers were saying.
The ex-guerrilla was talking. "Tha's sure sayin' something, Hugh. Thereain't room in New Mexico for Webb's outfit an' ours too."
"Better go slow, boys," advised another. He was a thick-set man in thelate thirties, tight-lipped and heavy-jawed. His eyes were set so closetogether that it gave him a sinister expression. "Talkin' don't get usanywhere. If we're goin' to sit in a game with Homer Webb an' hispunchers we got to play our hand close."
"Buck Sanders, segundo of the Lazy S M ranches," explained again theyoung man at the table in a low voice. "Say, kid, let's beat it whilethe goin' is good."
The big bow-legged man answered the foreman. "You're right, Buck. So'sHugh. So's the old rebel. I'm jus' servin' notice that no bunch ofshorthorn punchers can kill a brother of mine an' get away with it.Un'erstand? I'll meet up with them some day an' I'll sure fog 'em to afare-you-well." He interlarded his speech with oaths and foul language.
"I'll bet you do, Dave," chipped in the man next him, who had had arun-in with the Texas Rangers and was on the outskirts of civilizationbecause the Lone Star State did not suit his health. "I would certainlyhate to be one of them when yore old six-gun begins to pop. It sure willbe Glory-hallelujah for some one."
Dave Roush ordered another drink on the strength of the Texan'sadmiration. "Mind, I don't say Ranse wasn't a good man. Mebbe I'm aleetle mite better 'n him with a hogleg. Mebbe--"
"Ranse was good with a revolver all right, but sho! you make him looklike a plugged nickel when you go to makin' smoke, Dave," interrupted thetoady.
"Well, mebbe I do. Say I do. I ain't yet met up with a man can beat mewhen I'm right. But at that Ranse was a mighty good man. They bushwhackedhim, I'll bet a stack of blues. I aim to git busy soon as I find out whodone it."
The red-headed man raised his voice a trifle. "Say, you kid--there at thetable--come here an' hold these ropes! See you don't let the hawses atthe other end of 'em git away!"
Slowly the boy turned, pushing his chair round so that he half-faced thegroup before the bar. He neither rose nor answered.
"Cayn't you-all hear?" demanded the man with the shock of unkempt, redhair.
"I hear, but I'm not comin' right away. When I do, you'll wish I hadn't."
If a bomb had exploded at his feet Hugh Roush could not have been moresurprised. He was a big, rough man, muscular and sinewy, and he had beenthe victor of many a rough-and-tumble fight. On account of his reputationfor quarrelsomeness men chose their words carefully when they spoke tohim. That this little fellow with the smooth, girlish face and the small,almost womanish hands and feet should defy him was hard to believe.
"Come a-runnin', kid, or I'll whale the life out of you!" he roared.
"You didn't get me right," answered the boy in a low, clear voice. "I'mnot comin' till I get ready, Hugh Roush."
The wolf snap of the boy's jaw, the cold glitter in his eyes, might havewarned Roush and perhaps did. He wondered, too, how this stranger knewhis name so well.
"Where are you from?" he demanded.
"From anywhere but here,"
"Meanin' that you're here to stay?"
"Meanin' that I'm here to stay."
"Even if I tell you to git out of the country?"
"You won't be alive to tell me unless you talk right sudden."
They watched each other, the man and the boy. Neither as yet made anymotion to draw his gun, the younger one because he was not ready, Roushbecause he did not want to show any premature alarm before the men takingin the scene. Nor could he yet convince himself, in spite of thechallenge that rang in the words of the boy, of serious danger from sounlikely a source.
Dave Roush had been watching the boy closely. A likeness to someone whomhe could not place stirred faintly his memory.
"Who are you? What's yore name?" he snapped out.
The boy had risen from the chair. His hand rested on his hip as ifcasually. But Dave had observed the sureness of his motions and heaccepted nothing as of chance. The experience of Roush was that a gunmanlives longer if he is cautious. His fingers closed on the butt of therevolver at his side.
"My name is James Clanton."
Roush let fall a surprised oath. "It's 'Lindy Clanton you look like!You're her brother--the kid, Jimmie."
"You've guessed it, De
vil Dave."
The eyes of the two crossed like rapiers.
"Howcome you here? Whad you want?" asked Roush thickly.
Already he had made up his mind to kill, but he wanted to choose his ownmoment. The instinct of the killer is always to take his enemy atadvantage. Clanton, with that sixth sense which serves the fighter, readhis purpose as if he had printed it on a sign.
"You know why I'm here--to stomp the life out of you an' yore brother forwhat you done to my sister. I've listened to yore brags about what youwould do when you met up with them that killed Ranse Roush. Fine! Nowlet's see you make good. I'm the man that ran him down an' put an end tohim. Go through, you four-flushin' coward! Come a-shootin' wheneveryou're ready."
The young Southerner had a definite motive in his jeering. He wanted todrive his enemies to attack him before they could come at him from twosides.
"You--you killed Ranse?"
"You heard me say it once." The eyes of the boy flashed for a moment tothe red-headed man. "Whyfor are you dodgin' back of the bar, HughRoush? Ain't odds of two to one good enough for you--an' that one only akid--without you runnin' to cover like the coyote you are? Looks likeyou'll soon be whinin' for me not to shoot, just like Ranse did."
If any one had cared to notice, the colored roust-about might have beenseen at that moment vanishing out of the back door to a zone of safety.He showed no evidence whatever of being sleepy.
The silence that followed the words of the boy was broken by Quantrell'sold grayback. Dave Roush was a bad man--a killer. He had three notches onhis gun. Perhaps he had killed others before coming West. At any rate, hewas no fair match for this undersized boy.
"He's a kid, Dave. You don't want to gun a kid. You, Clanton--whateveryou call yourself--light a shuck pronto--git out!"
It is the habit of the killer to look for easy game. Out of the corner ofhis eye the man who had betrayed 'Lindy Clanton saw that Hugh was edgingback of the bar and dragging out his gun. This boy could be killed safelynow, since they were two to one, both of them experts with the revolver.To let him escape would be to live in constant danger for the future.
"He's askin' for it, Reb. He's goin' to get it."
Dave Roush pulled his gun, but before he could use it two shots rang outalmost simultaneously. The man at the corner of the bar had theadvantage. His revolver was in the clear before that of Clanton, but Jimfired from the hip without apparent aim. The bullet was flung from thebarrel an imperceptible second before that of Roush. The gunman, hit inthe wrist of the right hand, gave a grunt and took shelter back of thebar.
The bystanders scurried for safety while explosion followed explosion.Young Clanton, light-footed as a cat, side-stepped and danced about ashe fired. The first shot of the red-headed man had hit him and the shockof it interfered with his accuracy. Hugh had disappeared, but above thesmoke the youngster still saw the cruel face of Devil Dave leeringtriumphantly at him behind the pumping gun.
The boy kept moving, so that his body did not offer a static target. Heconcentrated his attention on Dave, throwing shot after shot at him. Thathe would kill his enemy Clanton never had a doubt. It was firmly fixed inhis mind that he had been sent as the appointed executioner of the man.
It was no surprise to Jim when the face of his sister's betrayer lurchedforward into the smoke. He heard Roush fall heavily to the floor and sawthe weapon hurled out of reach. The fellow lay limp and still.
Clanton did not waste a second look at the fallen man. He knew that theother Roush, crouched behind the bar, had been firing at him through thewoodwork. Now a bullet struck the wall back of his head. The red-headedman had fired looking through a knot-hole.
The boy's weapon covered a spot three inches above this. He firedinstantly. A splinter flew from a second hole just above the first.Three long, noiseless strides brought Clanton to the end of the bar. Thered-headed man lay dead on the floor. The bullet had struck him justabove and between the eyes.
"I reckon that ends the job."
It was Jim's voice that said the words, though he hardly recognized it.Overcome by a sudden nausea, he leaned against the bar for support. Hefelt sick through and through.