The Rangeland Avenger
33
Cartwright went downstairs in the highest good humor. He had beenconvinced of two things in the interview with his wife: The first wasthat she could be induced to return to him; the second was that sheloved Riley Sinclair. He did not hate her for such fickleness. Hemerely despised her for her lack of brains. No thinking woman couldhesitate a moment between the ranches and the lumber tracts ofCartwright and the empty purse of Riley Sinclair.
As for hatred, that he concentrated on the head of Sinclair himself. Hehad already excellent reasons for hating the rangy cowpuncher. Thosereasons were now intensified and given weight by what he had recentlylearned. He determined to raise a mob, but not to accomplish his wife'sdesires. What she had said about the weakness of jails, the strength ofSinclair, and the probability that once out he would take the trail ofthe rancher, appealed vigorously to his imagination. He did not dreamthat such a man as Sinclair would hesitate at a killing. And, lovingthe girl, the first thing Sinclair would do would be to remove theobstacle through the simple expedient of a well-placed bullet.
But the girl had not only convinced him in this direction, she hadtaught him where his strength lay, and she had pointed a novel use forthat strength. He went to work instantly when he entered the big backroom of the hotel which was used for cards and surreptitious drinking.A little, patient-faced man in a corner, who had been sucking a pipeall evening and watching the crap game hungrily, was the first objectof his charity. Ten dollars slipped into the pocket of the littlecowpuncher brought him out of his chair, with a grin of gratitude andbewilderment. A moment later he was on his knees calling to the dice ina cackling voice.
Crossing the room, Cartwright picked out two more obviously stalledgamblers and gave them a new start. Returning to the table, he foundthat the game was lagging. In the first place he had from the startsupplied most of the sinews of war to that game. Also, two disgruntledmembers had gone broke in his absence, through trying to plunge for thespoils of the evening. They sat back, with black faces, and watched himcome.
"We're getting down to a small game," said the gray-headed man who wasdealing.
But Cartwright had other ideas. "A friend's a friend," he saidjovially. "And a gent that's been playing beside me all evening Ifigure for a friend. Sit in, boys. I'll stake you to a couple ofrounds, eh?"
Gladly they came, astonished and exchanging glances.
Cartwright had made a sour loser all the game. This sudden generositytook them off balance. It let in a merciful light upon the cruelcriticism which they had been leveling at him in private. The pale man,with the blond eyelashes and the faded blue eyes, who had beendexterously stacking the cards all through the game, decided at thatmoment that he would not only stop cheating, but he would even losesome of his ill-gotten gains back into the game; only a sudden rush ofunbelievable luck kept him from executing his generous and silentpromise.
This pale-faced man was named Whitey, from the excessive blondness ofhis hair and his pallor. He was not popular in Sour Creek, but he wasmuch respected. A proof of his ingenuity was that he had cheated atcards in that community for five years, and still he had never beencaught at his work. He was not a bold-talking man. In fact he neverstarted arguments or trouble of any kind; but he was a most dexterousand thoroughgoing fighter when he was cornered. In fact he was what iswidely known as a "finisher." And it was Whitey whom Cartwright hadchosen as the leader of the mob which he intended raising. He waiteduntil the first shuffle was in progress after the hand, then he beganhis theme.
"Understand the sheriff is pretty strong for this Sinclair thatmurdered Quade," he said carelessly.
"'Murder' is a tolerable strong word," came back the unfriendly answer."Maybe it was a fair fight."
Cartwright laughed. "Maybe it was," he said.
Whitey interrupted himself in the act of shoving the pack across to becut. He raised his pale eyes to the face of the rancher. "What makesyou laugh, Cartwright?"
"Nothing," said Jude hastily. "Nothing at all. If you gents don't knowSinclair, it ain't up to me to give you light. Let him go."
Nothing more was said during that hand which Whitey won. Jude,apparently bluffing shamelessly, bucked him up to fifty dollars, andthen he allowed himself to be called with a pair of tens against a fullhouse. Not only did he lose, but he started a laugh against himself,and he joined in cheerfully. He was aware of Whitey frowning curiouslyat him and smiling faintly, which was the nearest that Whitey ever cameto laughter. And, indeed, the laugh cost Cartwright more than money,but it was a price--the price he was paying for the adherence ofWhitey.
"What about this Sinclair?" asked the man with the great, red, blotchyfreckles across his face and the back of his neck, so that the skinbetween looked red and raw. "You come from up north, which is hisdirection, too. Know anything about him? He looks like pretty much of aman to me, and the sheriff says he's a square shooter from the wordgo."
"Maybe he is," said Cartwright. "But I don't want to go around diggingthe ground away from nobody's reputation."
"Whatever he's got, he won't last long," said Whitey definitely. "He'llswing sure."
It was Cartwright's opening. He took advantage of it dexterously,without too much haste. He even yawned to show his lack of interest.
"Well, I got a hundred that says he don't hang," he observed quietlyand looked full at Whitey across the table. It was a challenge whichthe gambling spirit of the latter could not afford to overlook.
"Money talks," began Whitey, then he checked himself. "Do you _know_anything, Cartwright?"
"Sure I don't," said Jude in the manner of one who has abundantknowledge in reserve. "But they say that the sheriff and Sinclair havebecome regular bunkies. Don't do nothing hardly but sit and chin witheach other over in the jail. Ever know Kern to do that before?"
They shook their heads.
"Which is a sign that Sinclair may be all right," said the soberWhitey.
"Which is a sign that he might have something on the sheriff," saidJude Cartwright. "I don't say that he _has_, mind you, but it lookskind of queer. He yanked a prisoner away from the sheriff one day, andthe next day he's took for murder. Did the sheriff have much to do withhis taking? No, he didn't. By all accounts it was Arizona that done thetaking, planning and everything. And after Sinclair is took, what doesthe sheriff do? He gets on the trail of Arizona and has him checked infor murder of another gent. Maybe Arizona is guilty, maybe he ain't.But it kind of looks as if they was something between Sinclair andKern, don't it?"
At this bold exposition of possibilities they paused.
"Kern is figured tolerable straight," declared Whitey.
"Sure he is. That's because he don't talk none and does his work.Besides, he's a killer. That's his job. So is Sinclair a killer. Maybehe did fight Quade square, but Quade ain't the only one. Why, boys,this Sinclair has got a record as long as my arm."
In silence they sat around the table, each man thinking hard. Theprofessional gunman gets scant sympathy from ordinary cowpunchers.
"Now I dropped in at the jail," said the man of the great freckles,"and come to think about it, I heard Sinclair singing, and I seen himpolishing his spurs."
"Sure, he's getting ready for a ride," put in Cartwright.
There was a growl from the others. They were slowly turning theirinterest from the game to Cartwright.
"What d'you mean a ride?"
"Got another hundred," said Cartwright calmly, "that when the morningcomes it won't find Sinclair in the jail."
At once they were absolutely silenced, for money talks in an eloquentvoice. Deliberately Cartwright counted out the two stacks of shimmeringtwenty-dollar gold pieces, five to a stack.
"One hundred that he don't hang; another hundred that he ain't in thejail when the morning comes. Any takers, boys? It had ought to be easymoney--if everything's square."
Whitey made a move, but finally merely raised his hand and rubbed hischin. He was watching that gold on the table with catlike interest. Aman _must_ know s
omething to be so sure.
"I'd like to know," murmured the man of the freckles disconnectedly.
"Well," said Cartwright, "they ain't much of a mystery about it. Forone thing, if the sheriff was plumb set on keeping them two, why didn'the take 'em over to Woodville today, where they's a jail they couldn'tbust out of, eh?"
Again they were silenced, and in an argument, when a man falls silent,it simply means that he is thinking hard on the other side.
"But as far as I'm concerned," went on Cartwright, yawning again, "itdon't make no difference one way or another. Sour Creek ain't my town,and I don't care if it gets the ha-ha for having its jail busted open.Of course, after the birds have flown, the sheriff will ride hard after'em--on the wrong trail!"
Whitey raised his slender, agile, efficient hand.
"Gents," he said, "something has got to be done. This man Cartwright isgiving us the truth! He's got his hunch, and hunches is mostly alwaysright."
"Speak out, Whitey," said the man with the freckles encouragingly. "Ilike your style of thinking."
Nodding his acknowledgments, Whitey said:
"The main thing seems to be that Sinclair and Arizona is old hands atkilling. And they had ought to be hung. Well, if the sheriff ain't gotthe rope, maybe we could help him out, eh?"