The Rangeland Avenger

  25

  The crowd swirled out of the hotel before the sheriff and his prisoner,and then swirled back again. No use following the sheriff if they hopedfor details. They knew his silence of old. Instead they picked off themembers who had taken part in some phase of the fight, and drew themaside. As Sinclair went on down the street, the populace of Sour Creekwas left pooled behind him. Various orators were giving accounts of howthe whole thing had happened.

  Sinclair had neither eye nor ear for them. But he looked back and up tothe western sky, with a flat-topped mountain clearly outlined againstit. There was his country, and in his country he had left Jig alone andhelpless. A feeling of utter desolation and failure came over him. Hehad started with a double-goal--Sandersen or Cartwright, or both. Hehad failed lamentably of reaching either one. He looked back to thesheriff, squat, insignificant, gray-headed. What a man to have blockedhim!

  "But who's this Arizona?" he asked.

  "I dunno. Seems to have known you somewhere. Maybe a friend of yours,Sinclair?"

  "H'm," said the cowpuncher. "Maybe! Tell me: Was it him that wasoutside the window and trimmed the light on me?"

  "You got him right, Sinclair. That was the gent. Nice play he made,eh?"

  "Very pretty, sheriff. I thought I knowed his voice."

  "He seems to have made himself pretty infrequent. Didn't know Arizonawas so darned modest."

  "Maybe he's got other reasons," said Sinclair. "What's his full name?"

  "Ain't that curious! I ain't heard of anybody else that knows it. He'sa cool head, this Arizona. Seemed to read your mind and know jest howyou'd jump, Sinclair. I would have been off combing the trails, but heseemed to know that you'd come into town."

  "I'll sure keep him in mind if I ever meet up with him," murmuredSinclair. "Is this where I bunk?"

  The sheriff had paused before a squat, dumpy building and was workingnoisily at the lock with a big key. Now that his back was necessarilytoward his prisoner, two of the posse stepped up close beside Sinclair.They had none of the sheriff's nonchalance. One of them was the manwhose head had made the acquaintance of Sinclair's knee, and both wereready for instant action of any description.

  "I'm Rhinehart," said one softly. "Keep me in mind, Sinclair. I'm himthat you smashed with your knee. Dirty work! I'll see you when you getout of the lockup--if that ever happens!"

  The voice of Sinclair was not so soft. "I'll meet you in jail or out,"he answered, "on foot or on horseback, with fists or knife or gun. Andyou can lay to this, Rhinehart: I'll remember you a pile better'nyou'll remember me!"

  All the repressed savagery of his nature came quivering into his voiceas he spoke, and the other shrank instinctively a pace. In the meantimethe sheriff had succeeded in turning the rusted lock, which squeakedback. The door grumbled on its heavy hinges. Sinclair stepped into themusty, close atmosphere within.

  "Don't look like you had much use for this here outfit," he said to thesheriff.

  The latter lighted a lantern.

  "Nope," he said. "It sure beats all how the luck runs, Sinclair. We'dhad a pretty bad time with crooks around these parts, and them that wasnabbed in Sour Creek got away; about two out of three, before they wasbrought to me at Woodville. So the boys got together and ponied up forthis little jail, and it's as neat a pile of mud and steel as ever yousee. Look at them bars. Kind of rusty, they look, but inside they'retoolproof. Oh, it's an up-to-date outfit, this jail. It's been acomfort to me, and it's a credit to Sour Creek. But the trouble is thatsince it was built they ain't been more'n one or two to put in it.Maybe you can make out here for the night. Have you over to Woodvillein a couple of days, Sinclair."

  He brought his prisoner into a cagelike cell, heavily guarded with barson all sides. The adobe walls had been trusted in no direction. Thesteel lining was the strength of the Sour Creek jail. The sheriffhimself set about shaking out the blankets. When this was done, he badehis two companions draw their guns and stand guard at the steel door tothe cell.

  "Not that I don't trust you a good deal, Sinclair," he said, "but Iknow that a gent sometimes takes big chances."

  So saying, he cut the bonds of his prisoner, but instead of making aplunge at the door, Sinclair merely stretched his long arms luxuriouslyabove his head. The sheriff slipped out of the door and closed it afterhim. A heavy and prolonged clangor followed, as steel jarred homeagainst steel.

  "Don't go sheriff," said Sinclair. "I need a chat with you."

  "I'm in no hurry. And here's the gent we was talking about. Here'sArizona!"

  The sheriff had waved his two companions out of the jail, as soon asthe prisoner was securely lodged, and no sooner was this done, and theyhad departed through the doorway, than the heavy figure of Arizonahimself appeared. He came slowly into the circle of the lantern light,an oddly changed man.

  His swaggering gait, with heels that pounded heavily, was gone. Heslunk forward, soft-footed. His head, usually so buoyantly erect, wasnow sunk lower and forward. His high color had faded to a drab olive.In fact, from a free-swinging, jovial, somewhat overbearing demeanor,Arizona had changed to a mien of malicious and rather frightenedcunning. In this wise he advanced, heedless of the curious andastonished sheriff, until his face was literally pressed against thebars. He peered steadily at Sinclair.

  On the face of the latter there had been at first blank surprise, thena gradually dawning recognition. Finally he walked slowly to the bars.As Sinclair approached, the fat cowpuncher drew back, with lingeringcatlike steps, as if he grudged every inch of his retreat and yet darednot remain to meet Sinclair.

  "By the Eternal," said Sinclair, "it's Dago!"

  Arizona halted, quivering with emotions which the sheriff could notidentify, save for a blind, intense malice. The tall man turned to thesheriff, smiling: "Dago Lansing, eh?"

  "Never heard that name," said the sheriff.

  "Maybe not," replied Sinclair, "but that's the man I--"

  "You lie!" cried Arizona huskily, and his fat, swift hand flutterednervously around the butt of the revolver. "Sheriff, they ain't nothingbut lies stocked up in him. Don't believe nothing he says!"

  "Huh!" chuckled Sinclair. "Why, Kern, he's a man about eight years agothat I--"

  Pausing, he looked into the convulsed face of Arizona, who wasapparently tortured with apprehension.

  "I won't go on, Dago," said Sinclair mildly. "But--so you've carriedthis grudge all these days, eh?"

  Arizona tossed up his head. For a moment he was the Arizona the sheriffhad known, but his laughter was too strident, and it was easy to seethat he was at a point of hysterically high tension.

  "Well, I'd have carried it eighty years as easy as eight," declaredArizona. "I been waiting all this time, and now I got you, Sinclair.You'll rot behind the bars the best part of the life that's left toyou. And when you come out--I'll meet you ag'in!"

  Sinclair smiled in a singular fashion. "Sorry to disappoint you, Dago.But I'm not coming out. I'm going to stay put. I'm through." The otherblinked. "How come?"

  "It's something you couldn't figure," said Sinclair calmly, and he eyedthe fat man as if from a great distance.

  Sinclair was remembering the day, eight years ago, in a lumber camp tothe north when a shivering, meager, shifty-eyed youngster had comeamong them asking for work. They had taken pity on him, those biglumberjacks, put him up, given him money, kept him at the bunk house.

  Then articles began to disappear, watches, money. It was Sinclair whohad caught the friendless stripling in the act of sleight of hand inthe middle of the night when the laborers, tired out, slept as ifstunned. And when the others would have let the cringing, weeping youthgo with a lecture and the return of his illicit spoils, it was thestern Sinclair who had insisted on driving home the lesson. He forcedthem to strip Dago to the waist. Two stalwarts held his hands, andSinclair laid on the whip. And Dago, the moment the lash fell, ceasedhis wailing and begging, and stood quivering, with his head bent, histeeth set and gritting, until the punishment was ended.
br />   It was Sinclair, also, when the thing was ended, and the others wouldhave thrust the boy out penniless, who split the contents of his walletwith Dago. He remembered the words he had spoken to the stripling thatday eight years before.

  "You ain't had much luck out here in the West, kid, but stay around. Gosouth. Learn to ride a hoss. They's nothing that puts heart and honestyin a man like a good hoss. Don't go back to your city. You'll turn intoa snake there. Stay out here and practice being a man, will you? Getthe feel of a Colt. Fight your way. Keep your mouth shut and work withyour hands. And don't brag about what you know or what you've done.That's the way to get on. You got the markings in you, son. You gotgrit. I seen it when you was under the whip, and I wish I had the doingof that over again. I made a mistake with you, kid. But do what I'vetold you to do, and one of these days you'll meet up with me and beatme to the draw and take everything you got as a grudge out on me. Butyou can't do it unless you turn into a man."

  Dago had listened in the most profound silence, accepted the moneywithout thanks, and disappeared, never to be heard from again. In thesleek-faced man before him, Sinclair could hardly recognize thatslender fellow of the lumber camp. Only the bright and agile eyes werethe same; that, and a certain telltale nervousness of hand. The colorwas coming back into his face.

  "I guess I've done it," Arizona was saying. "I guess we're squared up,Sinclair."

  "Yep, and a balance on your side."

  "Maybe, maybe not. But I've followed your advice, Long Riley. I'venever forgot a word of it. It was printed into me!"

  He made a significant, short gesture, as if he were snapping a whip,and a snarl of undying malice curled his lips.

  "As long as you live, Sinclair," he added. "As long as you live, I'llremember."

  Even the sheriff shuddered at that glimpse into the black soul of aman; Sinclair alone was unmoved.

  "I reckon you've barked enough, Arizona," he suggested. "S'pose youtrot along. I got to have words with my friend, the sheriff."

  Arizona waved his fat hand. He was recovering his ordinary poise, andwith a smiling good night to the sheriff, he turned away through thedoor.

  "Nice, friendly sort, eh?" remarked Sinclair the moment he was alonewith Kern.

  "I still got the chills," said the sheriff. "Sure has got a wicked pairof eyes, that Arizona."

  Kern cast an apprehensive glance at the closed door, yet, in spite ofthe fact that it was closed, he lowered his voice.

  "What in thunder have you done to him, Sinclair?"

  "About eight years ago--" began Sinclair and then stopped short.

  "Let it go," he went on. "No matter what Arizona is today, he's sureimproved on the gent I used to know. What's done is done. Besides, Imade a mistake that time. I went too far with him, and a mistake islike borrowed money, sheriff. It lays up interest and keepscompounding. When you have to pay back what you done a long time ago,you find it's a terrible pile. That's all I got to say about Arizona."

  Sheriff Kern nodded. "That's straight talk, Sinclair," he said softly."But what was it you wanted to see me about?"

  "Cold Feet," said Sinclair.

  At once the sheriff brightened. "That's right," he said hurriedly. "Yougot the right idea now, partner. Glad to see you're using hoss sense.And if you gimme an idea of the trail that'll lead to Cold Feet, I cansee to it that you get out of this mess pretty pronto. After all, youain't done no real harm except for nicking Cartwright in the arm, and Ifigure that he needs a little punishment. It'll cool his temper down."

  "You think I ought to tell you where Cold Feet is?" asked Sinclairwithout emotion.

  "Why not?"

  "Him and me sat around the same campfire, sheriff, and ate off'n thesame deer."

  At this the sheriff winced. "I know," he murmured. "It's hard--mightyhard!" He continued more smoothly: "But listen to me, partner. There'stwenty-five-hundred dollars on the head of Cold Feet. Why not come in?Why not split on it? Plenty for both of us; and, speaking personal, Icould use half that money, and maybe you could use the other half justas well!"

  "I'll tell you what I'll do," said Sinclair, "I'll give you the layoutfor finding Cold Feet. Ride west out of Sour Creek and head for aflat-topped mountain. On the shoulder just under the head of the peakyou'll find Cold Feet. Go get him!"

  The sheriff caught his breath, then whirled on his heel. The sharpvoice of Sinclair called him back.

  "Wait a minute. I ain't through. When you catch Cold Feet you go afterhim without guns."

  "How come?"

  "Because you might hurt him, and he can't fight, sheriff. Even if hewas to pull a gun, he couldn't hit nothing with it. He couldn't hit theground he's standing on with a gun."

  Sheriff Kern scratched his head.

  "And when you get him," went on Sinclair, "tell him to go back and takeup his life where he left off, because they's no harm coming to him."

  "Great guns, man! No harm coming to him with a murder to his count anda price on his head?"

  "I mean what I say. Break it to him real gentle."

  "And who pays for the killing of Quade?"

  Sinclair smiled. He was finding it far easier to do it than he had everimagined. The moment he made the resolve, his way was smoothed for him.

  "I pay for Quade," he said quietly.

  "What d'you mean?"

  "Because I killed him, sheriff. Now go tell Cold Feet that his score isclean!"