The Rangeland Avenger

  24

  With the spurt of flame, Sinclair leaped back until his shouldersgrazed the wall. He crouched beside the massive chest of drawers. Itmight partially shelter him from fire from the window.

  There fell one of those deadly breathing spaces of silence--silence,except for the chattering of the lamp, as it steadied on the table andfinally was still. There was a light crunching noise from the oppositeside of the room. Cartwright had moved and put his foot on a fragmentof the shattered chimney.

  Sinclair studied the window. It was a rectangle of dim light, butnothing showed in that frame. He who had fired the shot must havecrouched at once, or else have drawn to one side. He waited with hisgun poised. Steps were sounding far away in the building, steps whichapproached rapidly. Voices were calling. Somewhere on the farther sideof the room Cartwright must have found the best shelter he could, andSinclair shrewdly guessed that it would be on the far side of the chestof drawers which faced him.

  In the meantime he studied the blank rectangle of the window. Sooner orlater the man who stood on the ledge would risk a look into the darkinterior; otherwise, he would not be human. And, sure enough, presentlythe faintest shadow of an outline encroached on the solid rectangle offaint light. Sinclair aimed just to the right and fired. At once therewas a splash of red flame and a thundering report from the other sideof the room. Cartwright had fired at the flash of Sinclair's gun, andthe bullet smashed into the chest beside Sinclair. As for Sinclair'sown bullet, it brought only a stifled curse from the window.

  "No good, Riley," sang out the voice. "This wall's too thick for aColt."

  Sinclair had flung himself softly forward on his stomach, his gun inreadiness and leveled in the direction of Cartwright. There was theprime necessity. Now heavy footfalls rushed down the hall, and a stormof voices broke in upon him.

  At the same time Cartwright's gun spat fire again. The bullet buzzedangrily above Sinclair's head. His own brought a yell of pain, sharp asthe yelp of a coyote.

  "Keep quiet, Cartwright," ordered the man at the window. "You'll getyourself killed if you keep risking it. Sheriff!"

  His voice rose and rang.

  "Blow the lock off'n that door. We got him!"

  There was an instant reply in the explosion of a gun, the crash ofbroken metal, the door swung slowly in, admitting a dim twilight intothe room. The light showed Sinclair one thing--the dull outlines ofCartwright. He whipped up his gun and then hesitated. It would bemurder. He had killed before, but never save in fair fight, standing ina clear light before his enemy. He knew that he could not kill this rathe detested. He thought of the wrecked life of the girl and set histeeth. Still he could not fire.

  "Cartwright," he said softly, "I got you covered. Your right hand's onthe floor with your gun. Don't raise that hand!"

  In the shadow against the wall Cartwright moved, but he obeyed. Therevolver still glimmered on the floor.

  A new and desperate thought came to Sinclair--to rush straight for thewindow, shoot down the man on the ledge, and risk the leap to theground. "Scatter back!" called the man on the ledge.

  That settled the last chance of Sinclair. There were guards on theground, scattered about the house. He could never get out that way.

  "Keep out of the light by the door," commanded the man at the window."And start shooting for the chest of drawers on the left-hand side ofthe room--and aim low down. It may take time, but we'll get him!"

  Obviously the truth of that statement was too clear for Sinclair todeny it. He reviewed his situation with the swift calm of an oldgambler. He had tried his desperate coup and had failed. There wasnothing to do but accept the failure, or else make a still moredesperate effort to rectify his position, risking everything on a finalplay.

  He must get out of the room. The window was hopelessly blocked. Thereremained the open door, but the hall beyond the door was crowded withmen.

  Perhaps their very numbers would work against them. Even now they couldbe heard cautiously maneuvering. They would shoot through the door inhis general direction, unaimed shots, with the hope of a chance hit,and eventually they would strike him down. Suppose he were to stealclose to the door, leap over the bed, and plunge out among them, hisColt spitting lead and fire.

  That unexpected attack would cleave a passage for him. The more hethought of it, the more clearly he saw that the chances of escape tothe street were at least one in three. And yet he hesitated. If he madethat break two or three innocent men would go down before his bullets,as he sprang out, shooting to kill. He shrank from the thought. He wasamazed at himself. Never before had he been so tender of expedients. Hehad always fought to win--cleanly, but to win. Why was he suddenlyremembering that to these men he was an outlaw, fit meat for the firstbullet they could send home? Had he been one of them, he would havetaken up a position in that very hall just as they were doing.

  Slowly, reluctantly, fighting himself as he did it, he shoved hisrevolver back into his holster and determined to take the chance ofthat surprise attack, with his empty hands against their guns. If theydid not drop him the instant he leaped out, he would be among them, tooclose for gunplay unless they took the chance of killing their own men.

  Keeping his gaze fixed on Cartwright across the room--for the moment heshowed his intention, Cartwright would shoot--he maneuvered softlytoward the bed. Cartwright turned his head, but made no move to lifthis gun. There was a reason. The light from the door fell nearer to therancher than it did to Sinclair. To Cartwright he must be no more thana shapeless blur.

  A gun exploded from the doorway, with only a glint of steel, as themuzzle was shoved around the jamb. The bullet crashed harmlessly intothe wall behind him. Another try. The sharp, stifling odor of burnedpowder began to fill the room, stinging the nostrils of Sinclair.Cartwright was coughing in a stifled fashion on the far side of theroom, as if he feared a loud noise would draw a bullet his way.

  All at once there was no sound in the hotel, and, as the wave ofsilence spread, Sinclair was aware that the whole little town waslistening, waiting, watching. Not a whisper in the hall, not a stirfrom Cartwright across the room. The quiet made the drama seem unreal.

  Then that voice outside the window, which seemed to be Sinclair'sNemesis, cried: "Steady, boys. Something's going to happen. He'sgetting ready. Buck up, boys!"

  In a moment of madness Sinclair decided to rush that window and disposeof the cool-minded speaker at all costs before he died. There, atleast, was the one man he wished to kill. He followed that impulse longenough to throw himself sidling along the floor, so as not to betrayhis real strategic position to those at the door, and he splashed twobullets into the wall, trimming the side of the window.

  Only clear, deep-throated laughter came in response.

  "I told you, boys. I read his mind, and he's mad at me, eh?"

  But Riley Sinclair hardly heard the mocking answer. He had glided backbehind the bed, the instant the shots were fired. As he moved, two gunsappeared for a flickering instant around the edge of the doorway, oneon each side. Their muzzles kicked up rapidly, one, two, three, four,five, six, and each, as he fired, spread the shots carefully from sideto side. Sinclair heard the bullets bite and splinter the woodworkclose to the floor. The chest of drawers staggered with the impact.

  He raised his own gun, watched one of the jumping muzzles for aninstant, and then tried a snap shot. The report of his revolver wasbitten off short by the clang of metal; there was a shouted curse fromthe hallway. He had blown the gun cleanly out of the sharpshooter'shand.

  Before the amazed rumble from the hall died away, Sinclair had acted.He shoved his weapon back in its holster, and cleared the bed with aflying leap. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cartwright snatch uphis gun and take a chance shot that whistled close to his head, andthen Sinclair plunged into the hall.

  One glimmering chance of success remained. On the side of the doortoward which he drove there were only three men in the hall; behind himwere more, far more, but their weapons were neutralize
d. They could notfire without risking a miss that would be certain to lodge a bullet inthe body of one of the men before Sinclair.

  Those men were kneeling, for they had been reaching out and firing lowaround the door to rake the floor of the room. At the appearance ofSinclair they started up. He saw a gun jerk high for a snap shot, and,swerving as he leaped, he drove out with all his weight behind hisfist. The knuckles bit through flesh to the bone. There was a jarringimpact, and now only two men were before him. One of them dropped hisgun--it was he who had just emptied his weapon into the room--and flunghimself at Sinclair, with outspread arms. The cowpuncher snapped up hisknee, and the blow crumpled the other back and to the side. He sprangon toward the last man who barred his way. And all this in the splitpart of a second.

  Chance took a hand against him. In the very act of striking, his footlodged on the first senseless body, and he catapulted forward on hishands. He struck the legs of the third man as he fell.

  Down they went together, and Sinclair lurched up from under the weightonly to be overtaken by many reaching hands from behind. That instantof delay had lost the battle for him; and, as he strove to whirl andfight himself clear, an arm curled around his neck, shutting off hisbreath. A great weight jarred between his shoulders. And he pitcheddown to the floor.

  He stopped fighting. He felt his gun slipped from the holster. Deft,strong hands jerked his arms behind him and tied the wrists firmlytogether. Then he was drawn to his feet.

  All this without a word spoken, only the pant and struggle ofhard-drawn breaths. Not until he stood on his feet again, with ableeding-faced fellow rising with dazed eyes, and another clambering upunsteadily, with both hands pressed against his head, did the captorsgive voice. And their voice was a yell of triumph that was taken up intwo directions outside the hotel.

  They became suddenly excited, riotously happy. In the overflowing oftheir joy they were good-natured. Some one caught up Sinclair's hat andjammed it on his head. Another slapped him on the shoulder.

  "A fine, game fight!" said the latter. It was the man with the smearedface. He was grinning through his wounds. "Hardest punch I ever got.But I don't blame you, partner!"

  Presently he saw Sheriff Kern. The latter was perfectly cool, perfectlygrave. It was his arm that had coiled around the neck of Sinclair andthrottled him into submission.

  "You didn't come out to kill, Sinclair. Why?"

  "I ain't used to slaughterhouse work," said Sinclair with equal calm,although he was panting. "Besides, it wasn't worth it. Murder neveris."

  "Kind of late to come to that idea, son. Now just trot along with me,will you?" He paused. "Where's Arizona?"

  Cartwright lurched out of the room with his naked gun in his hand. Reddripped from the shallow wound where Sinclair's bullet had nicked him.He plunged at the captive, yelling.

  "Stop that fool!" snapped the sheriff.

  Half a dozen men put themselves between the outlaw and the avenger.Cartwright straggled vainly.

  "Between you and me," said Sinclair coldly to the sheriff, "I thinkthat skunk would plug me while I got my hands tied."

  The sheriff flashed a knowing glance up at his tall prisoner's face.

  "I dunno, Sinclair. Kind of looks that way."

  Although Cartwright had been persuaded to restore his gun to its cover,he passed through the crowd until he confronted Sinclair.

  "Now, the tables is turned, eh? I'll take the high hand from now on,Sinclair!"

  "It's no good," said Sinclair dryly. "The gent that shot out the lighthad a chance to see something before he done the shooting. And what heseen must have showed that you're yaller, Cartwright--yaller as ayaller dog!"

  Cartwright flung his fist with a curse into the face of the cowpuncher.The weight of the blow jarred him back against the wall, but he met theglare of Cartwright with a steady eye, a thin trickle of crimsonrunning down his cut lips. The sheriff rushed in between and masteredCartwright's arms.

  "One more little trick like that, stranger, and I'll turn you over tothe boys. They got ways of teaching gents manners. How was you raised,anyway?"

  Suddenly sobered, Cartwright drew back from dark glances on every side.

  "Fellows," he said, in a shaken voice, "I forgot his hands was tied.But I'm kind of wrought up. He tried to murder me!"

  "It's all right, partner," drawled Red Chalmers, and he laid a stronghand on the shoulder of Cartwright. "It's all right. We all allow forone break. But don't do something like that twice--not in these parts!"

  Sinclair walked beside the sheriff, while the crowd poured past him anddown the hall. When they reached the head of the stairs they found thelighted room below filled with excited, upturned faces; at the sight ofthe sheriff and his prisoner they roared their applause. The faces wereblotted and blurred by a veil of rapidly, widely waving sombreros.

  The sheriff paused halfway down the stairs and held up his hand.Sinclair halted beside him looking disdainfully over the crowd.Instantly noise and movement ceased. It was a spectacular picture, thestubby little sheriff and the tall, lean, wolflike man he had captured.It seemed a vivid illustration of the power of the law over thelawbreaker. Sinclair glanced down in wonder at Kern. It was incharacter for the sheriff to make a speech. A moment later thesheriff's own words had explained his reason for the impromptu address.

  "Boys," he said, "I figure some of you has got an almighty big wish tosee Sinclair on the end of a rope, eh?"

  A deep growl answered him.

  "Speaking personal," went on the sheriff smoothly, "I don't see howhe's done a thing worth hanging. He took a prisoner away from me, andhe's resisted arrest. That's all. Sinclair has got a name as a killer.Maybe he is. But I know he ain't done no killing around these partsthat's come to light yet. I'll tell you another thing. A minute ago hecould have sent three men to death and maybe come off with a free skin.But he chose to take his chance without shooting to kill. He tried tofight his way out with his hands sooner'n blow the heads off of gentsthat never done him no harm except to get in his way. Well, boys,that's something you don't often see. And I tell you this right now: Ifthey's any lynch talk around this here town, you can lay to it thatyou'll have to shoot your way to Sinclair through me. And I'll be adead one before you reach to him."

  He paused. Someone hissed from the back of the crowd, but the majoritymurmured in appreciation.

  "One more thing," went on the sheriff. "Some of you may think it wasgreat guns to take Sinclair. It _was_ a pretty good job, but they ain'tno credit coming to me. I'm up here saying that all the praise goes toa fat friend of mine by name Arizona. If you got any free drinks, let'em drift the way of Arizona. Hey, Arizona, step out and make a bow,will you?"

  But no Arizona appeared. The crowd cheered him, and then cheered thegenerous sheriff. Kern had won more by his frankness than he couldpossibly have won in half a dozen spectacular exploits with a gun.