The Rangeland Avenger

  12

  With the first brightness of dawn, Sinclair wakened even more suddenlythat he had fallen asleep. There was no slow adjusting of himself tothe requirements of the day. One prodigious stretching of the longarms, one great yawn, and he was as wide awake as he would be at noon.He jerked on his boots and rose, and not until he stood up, did he seeJohn Gaspar asleep in the big chair, his head inclining to one side,the book half-fallen from his hand, and the lamp sputtering its lastbeside him. But instead of viewing the weary face with pity, Sinclairburst into sudden and amazed profanity.

  The first jarring note brought Gaspar up and awake with a start, and hestared in astonishment at the uninterrupted flood which rippled fromthe lips of the cowpuncher. It concluded: "Still here! Of all theshorthorned fatheads that I ever seen, the worst is this Gaspar--thisJig--this Cold Feet. Say, man, ain't you got no spirit at all?"

  "What do you mean?" asked Gaspar. "Still here? Of course I'm stillhere! Did you expect me to escape?"

  Sinclair flung himself into a chair, speechless with rage and disgust.

  "Did you think I was joking when I told you I was going to sleep eighthours without waking up?"

  "It might very well have been a trap, you know."

  Sinclair groaned. "Son, they ain't any man in the world that'll tellyou that Riley Sinclair sets his traps for birds that ain't got theirstiff feathers growed yet. Trap for you? What in thunder should I wantyou for, eh?"

  He strode to the window, still groaning.

  "There's where you'd ought to be, over yonder behind them mule ears.They'd never catch you in a thousand years with that start. Eight hoursstart! As good as have eight years, kid--just as good. And you'vethrowed that chance away!"

  He turned and stared mournfully at the schoolteacher.

  "It ain't no use," he said sadly. "I see it all now. You was cut out toend in a rope collar."

  Not another word could be pried from his set lips during breakfast, agloomy meal to which Sally Bent came with red eyes, and Jerry Bentsullenly, with black looks at Sinclair. Jig was the cheeriest one ofthe party. That cheer at last brought another explosion from Sinclair.They stood in front of the house, watching a horseman wind his way upthe road through the hills.

  "It's Sheriff Kern," said Jerry Bent. "I can tell by the way he rides,sort of slanting. It's Kern, right enough."

  Sally Bent choked, but Jig continued to hum softly.

  "Singin'?" asked Riley Sinclair suddenly. "Ain't you no more worriedthan that?"

  The voice of the schoolteacher in reply was as smooth as running water."I think you'll bring me out of the trouble safely enough, Mr.Sinclair."

  "Mr. Sinclair'll see you damned before he lifts a hand for you!" Rileyretorted savagely.

  He strode to his horse and expended his wrath by viciously jerking atthe cinches, until the mustang groaned. Sheriff Kern came suddenly intoclear view around the last turn and rode quickly up to them, a veryshort man, muscular, sweaty. He always gave the impression that he hadbeen working ceaselessly for a week, and certainly he found time toshave only once in ten days. Dense bristle clouded the lower featuresof his face. He was a taciturn man. His greetings took the form of asingle grunt. He took possession of John Gaspar with a single glancethat sent the latter nervously toward his saddle horse.

  "I see you got this party all ready for me," said the sheriff moreamiably to Riley Sinclair, who was watching in disgust the clumsymethod of Jig's mounting. "You're Sinclair, I guess?"

  "I'm Sinclair, sheriff."

  They shook hands.

  "Nice bit of work you done for me, Sinclair, keeping the boys fromstringing up Jig, yonder. These here lynchings don't set none too wellon the reputation of a sheriff. I guess we're ready to start. S'longSally--Jerry. Are you riding our way, Sinclair?"

  "I thought I'd happen along. Ain't never seen Woodville yet."

  "Glad to have you. But they ain't much to see unless you look twice atthe same thing."

  They started down the trail three abreast.

  "Ride on ahead," commanded Sinclair to Jig. "We don't want you ridingin the same line with men. Git on ahead!"

  John Gaspar obeyed that brutal order with bowed head. He rodelistlessly, with loose rein, letting the pony pick its own way. OnceSinclair looked back to Sally Bent, weeping in the arms of her brother.Again his face grew black.

  "And yet," confided the sheriff softly, "I ain't never heard no troubleabout this Gaspar before."

  "He's poison," declared Sinclair bitterly, and he raised his voice thatit would unmistakably carry to the shrinking figure before them. "He'ssuch a yaller-hearted skunk, sheriff, that it makes me ashamed of bein'a man!"

  "They's only one thing I misdoubt," said the sheriff. "How'd that sortof a gent ever get the nerve to murder a man like Quade? Quade wasn'tno tenderfoot, and he could shoot a bit, besides."

  "Speaking personal, sheriff, I don't think he done it, now I've had achance to go over the evidence."

  "Maybe he didn't, but most like he'll hang for it. The boys is dead setagin' him. First, he's a dude; second, he's a coward. Sour Creek andWoodville wasn't never cut out for that sort. They ain't wantedaround."

  That speech made Riley Sinclair profoundly thoughtful. He had knownwell enough before this that there were small chances of Jig escapingfrom the damning judgment of twelve of these cowpunchers. The statementof the sheriff made the belief a fact. The death sentence of Jig waspronounced the moment the doors of the jail at Woodville clanged uponhim.

  They struck the trail to Sour Creek and almost immediately swung off ona branch which led south and west, in the opposite direction from thecreek. It was a day of high-driving clouds, thin and fleecy, so thatthey merely filtered the sunlight and turned it into a haze withoutdecreasing the heat perceptibly, and that heat grew until it becamedifficult to look down at the blazing sand.

  Now the trail climbed among broken hills until they reached a summit.From that point on, now and again the road elbowed into view of a wideplain, and in the center of the plain there was a diminutive dump ofbuildings.

  "Woodville," said the sheriff. "Hey, you, Jig, hustle that hoss along!"

  Obediently the drooping Gaspar spurred his horse. The animal broke intoa gallop that set Gaspar jolting in the seat, with wildly floppingelbows.

  "Look at that," said Sinclair. "Would you ever think that men could beborn as awkward as that? Would you ever think that men would be bornthat didn't have no use in the world?"

  "He ain't altogether useless," decided the sheriff. "Seems as how he'sdone noble in the school. Takes on with the little boys and girls mostamazing, and he knows how to keep even the eighth graders interested.But what can you expect of a gent that ain't got no more pride than tobe a schoolteacher, eh?"

  Sinclair shook his head.

  The trail drifted downward now less brokenly, and Woodville came intoview. It was a wretched town in a wretched landscape, far differentfrom the wild hills and the rich plowed grounds around Sour Creek. Allthat came to life in the brief spring, the long summer had long sinceburned away to drab yellows and browns. A horrible place to die in,Sinclair thought.

  "Speaking of hosses, that's a wise-looking hoss you got, sheriff."

  "Rode him for five years," said the sheriff. "Raised him and busted himand trained him all by myself. Ain't nobody but me ever rode him. Hecan go so soft-footed he wouldn't bust eggs, sir, and he can turn looseand run like the wind. They ain't no better hoss than this that's comeunder my eye, Sinclair. Are you much on the points of a hoss?"

  "I use hosses--I don't love 'em," said Sinclair gloomily. "But I canread the points tolerable."

  The sheriff eyed Sinclair coldly. "So you don't love hosses, eh?" hesaid, returning distantly to the subject. It was easy to see where hisown heart lay by the way his roan picked up its head whenever itsmaster spoke.

  "Sheriff," explained Sinclair, "I'm a single-shot gent. I don't aim tohave no scatter fire in what I like. They's only one man that I evercalled friend, they's only one plac
e that I ever called home--themountains, yonder--and they's only one hoss that I ever took to much. Iraised Molly up by hand, you might say. She was ugly as sin, but theywasn't nothing she couldn't do--nothing!" He paused. "Sheriff, I usedto talk to that hoss!"

  The sheriff was greatly moved. "What became of her?" he asked softly.

  "I took after a gent once. He couldn't hit me, but he put a slugthrough Molly."

  "What became of the gent?" asked the sheriff still more softly.

  "He died just a little later. Just how I ain't prepared to state."

  "Good!" said the sheriff. He actually smiled in the pleasure ofnewfound kinship. "You and me would get on proper, Sinclair."

  "Most like."

  "This hoss of mine, now, has sense enough to take me home without metouching a rein. Knows direction like a wolf."

  "Could you guide her with your knees?"

  "Sure."

  "And she's plumb safe with you?"

  "Sure."

  "I know a gent once that said he'd trust himself tied hand and foot onhis hoss."

  "That goes for me and my hoss, too, Sinclair."

  "Well, then, just shove up them hands, sheriff!"

  The sheriff blinked, as the sun flashed on the revolver in the steadyhand of Sinclair. There was a significant little jerking up of therevolver. Each time the muzzle stirred, the hands of the sheriff jumpedhigher and higher until his arms were stiffly stretched. Gaspar hadhalted his horse and looked back in amazement.

  "I hate to do it," declared Sinclair. "Right off I sort of took to you,sheriff. But this has got to be done."

  "Sinclair, have you done much thinking before you figured this allout?"

  "Enough! If I knowed you one shade better, sheriff, I'd take your wordthat you'd ride on into Woodville, good and slow, and not start nopursuit. But I don't know you that well. I got to tie you on the backof that steady old hoss of yours and turn you loose. We need that muchstart."

  He dismounted, still keeping careful aim, took the rope coiled besidethe sheriff's own saddle horn and began a swift and sure process oftying. He worked deftly, without undue fear or haste, and Gaspar cameback to look on with scared eyes.

  "You're a fool, Sinclair," murmured the sheriff. "You'll never get shutof me. I'll foller you till I drop dead. I'll never forget you. Changeyour mind now, and we'll say nothing has happened. But if you keep on,you're done for as sure as my name is Kern. Take you by yourself, andyou'd be a handful to catch. But two is easier than one, and, when oneof them two is a deadweight like Gaspar, they ain't nothing to it."

  He finished his appeal completely trussed.

  "I ain't tied you on the hoss," said Sinclair. "Take note of that. AlsoI'm leaving you your guns, sheriff."

  "I hope you'll have a chance to see 'em come out of the holster lateron, Sinclair."

  The cowpuncher took no notice of this bitterness. Gaspar, who lookedon, was astonished by a certain deferential politeness on the part ofthe big cowpuncher.

  "Speaking personal, I hope I don't never have no trouble with you,sheriff. I like you, understand?"

  "Have your little joke, Sinclair!"

  "I mean it. I know I'm usin' you like a skunk. But I got a specialneed, and I can't take no chances. Sheriff, I tell you out of my heartthat I'm sorry! Will you believe me?"

  The sheriff smiled. "The same as you'll believe me when we changeparts, Sinclair."

  The big man sighed. "I s'pose it's got to be that way," he said. "Butif you come for me, Kern, come all primed for action. It'll be a hardtrail."

  "That's my specialty."

  "Well, sheriff, s'long--and good luck!"

  The sheriff nodded. "Thanks!"

  Pressing his horse with his knees, Kern started down the trail at aslow canter. Sinclair followed the retiring figure, nodding withadmiration at the skill with which the sheriff kept his mount undercontrol, merely by power of voice. Presently the latter turned a cornerof the trail and was out of sight.

  "But--I knew--I knew!" exclaimed John Gaspar. "Only, why did you lethim go on into town?" The cold glance of Sinclair rested on hiscompanion. "What would you have done?"

  "Tied him up and left him here."

  "I think you would--to die in the sun!" He swung up into his saddle."Now, Gaspar, we've started on what's like to prove the last trail forboth of us, understand? By night we'll both be outlawed. They'll have aprice on us, and long before night, Kern will be after us. For thefirst time in your soft-hearted life you've got to work, and you've gotto fight."

  "I'll do it, Mr. Sinclair!"

  "Bah! Save your talk. Talk's dirt cheap."

  "I only ask one thing. Why have you done it?"

  "Because, you fool, I killed Quade!"