Destry Rides Again (16 page)

The spell that held Willie Thornton endured until Bent made a move, and then he dropped like a plummet from the windowsill
and began to run.

He wanted his best speed to get to the rear gate of the garden and so dodge right or left into the obscurity of the safe night,
but his knees were numb, and his breath was gone. He stumbled straightway into a wire erected to support tomato vines and
tumbled head over heels. As he came to his feet again, he saw Chester Bent flinging himself through the window with the agility
of an athlete, and straightway he knew that the slowness which he had hoped for in that sleek appearing man would never appear.

He reached the gate, snatched off the wire hoop, and whipped through, yet delaying a fraction of a second to jam the loop
back in place. Then he headed like the wind straight down the path toward the shrubbery, with the roaring of the river flinging
up louder and louder from the very ground on which he trod, as it seemed.

He turned his head and glanced over his shoulder in time to see Chester Bent take the gate in his stride, like a hurdler,
with the shadowy form of the dog flying over after him.

Dog and man together against him, Willie felt very much smaller than ever before; but in a sense he was less frightened than
he had been when he stood at the window and looked in on the murder.

That had been too horrible for the imagination, but his present case was perfectly clear and exact. If
Bent caught him, youth would make no difference. He would be killed!

Once he tipped up his face to scream for help— the thing which he had wondered that poor Clifton did not do—but he knew that
as he cried out, his feet would be trailing and stumbling, and he dared not slow up, he dared not lose one breath of wind!

So he went on vigorously, probing at the dark of the winding pathway, making his legs work with all the muscle they had gained
from trudging over mountain trails. A sharp stone cut his foot, but it only made his tread the lighter. He fairly flew, leaning
aslant at the curves, but he knew that Bent was gaining rapidly!

The river roared nearer before his face, and suddenly he wondered that he could have been such a fool as to run in this direction!
For the river was the very place which Bent would have chosen. Its rapid waters would be certain to cover a dead body quickly!
Whereas if he had run toward the street, a single shout would have brought people around him!

The sense of his failure and folly made the boy weak. And then the mongrel ran up beside him, snapping and snarling, but not
yet with quite the courage to bite; behind came the greater shadow of the man. His footfall sounded like a heavy pulse in
the brain of Willie; and the boy could hear his gasping breath.

He swerved from under the very hand of Bent into the brush which rattled and cracked deafening him. A cat’s claw gripped him
and spun him around as he lurched away from it, but he darted on, and a moment later, with his lungs bursting and his eyes
thrusting from their sockets, he threw himself flat on the ground beneath a bush and waited.

Desperately he strove to control the noise of his breathing; then told himself that the louder voice of the river probably
would cover such a small thing as his breathing. So he lay trembling with exertion, hopeful that his hiding place would be
overlooked, and at any rate thankful for this moment of rest.

He could hear Bent moving through the bush, cursing the thorns; then he saw the shadow of the man against the stars, moving
past him.

He was safe!

Then a growl came at his very ear! It was the mongrel, which had followed the trail with a sense truer than the eyes in this
dark of the night. Still the dog remembered the heel which had thumped his ribs, and though he snapped it was only at the
air; then he backed up and began to bay the game!

There was no sense in waiting. Willie lurched to his feet, gathering up a broken section of a branch that lay on the ground
beside him. With this he struck true and hard between the eyes of the brute. It yowled with pain and fear and fled, but yonder
came the silhouette of Bent, rushing straight at his quarry.

There seemed no place to flee, now. The brush had proved a useless screen, and the danger was impending over him. But he sprinted
desperately, with renewed wind, straight for the noise of the creek. He could not run as fast as his pursuer, but he had the
advantage of being able to dodge more swiftly among the reaching branches of the shrubs.

The trees along the river bank gave him a hope, but when he reached them the hand of Bent was again stretched for him. He
dodged, pushing his hands against a tree trunk, and barely escaped into the open.

There that hand gripped the shoulder of his coat!

He was lost, then. But where another boy would have surrendered, Willie Thornton still fought like a cornered rat against
fate. The second strong hand of the man gripped him. He whirled, and the loose, over-size coat gave from his shoulders and
left him suddenly free!

Bent, lurching back, sprang forward again with wonderful adroitness. There was no chance for the boy to dodge and run again.
There was only one verge of the creek bank and the voice of the rushing Cumber beneath.

He did not hesitate. Even a river in flood was preferable to death by the hands of the monster! So he ran straight forward
and leaped out into air.

He saw beneath him the glistening face of the water, streaked white by its speed against the rocks— white like a wolfs teeth,
he thought, as he leaped into the thin hands of the wind. Then down he went as a rock goes. He smote the water with stunning
force, but the cold of it kept his senses alert.

He knew that he was being whirled around and around as he was carried down the stream, and he gripped at the first object
that he saw. It looked a soft shadow; it proved to be a sleek rock that sprang up from a root in the bed of the stream.

His grip held, though the current drew him out powerfully, like a banner flapping in a strong wind. He lay on his back, only
his nose and lips above the surface, and, looking at the bank, he saw Chester Bent moving along the edge of the water.

Opposite the point where Willie lay shivering with the penetrating cold of the melted snow, Bent paused for a long moment
He crouched upon his heels, the better to study the surface of the stream.

Then the lofty shadow stepped out upon a rock straight toward the place where Willie lay!

He was lost, he told himself, and prepared to loose his hold and try to swim down the stream to safety, well assured that
if he did so one of the sharp teeth in that wolf’s mouth would spear him to the life.

But Bent remained only an instant on that rock, then he stepped back to the shore. The old coat he tossed into the stream,
and climbed back to the upper edge of the bank. There he loitered an instant and faded away into the trees.

Five men had gathered, by this time, in the house of Jimmy Clifton, and Henry Cleeves took charge of the assembly. He came
first, and had called for little Clifton, their host, who did not appear; then he had glanced into the bedroom and seen the
lighted lamp, the bed with no sleeper on it, the chair in front of the desk quite empty.

He didn’t examine the room further, but went back to join the others as they gathered. They came in not in pairs, but singly,
each stepping with an odd haste through the front door and moving quickly inside of it, so that he would not remain silhouetted
against the lamplight to any observer on the street

Having made this somewhat guilty entrance, each tried to assume a cheerful air, which was promptly discountenanced by their
self-appointed chairman, for Cleeves was invincibly grave this evening.

Phil Barker, celebrated for his practical jokes, until that stinging jest of Destry’s had altered his habits, was the first
to enter, taking off his sombrero and looking cautiously about him as though he feared lest even Cleeves might have something
up his sleeve.

Immediately afterward came Bull Hewitt and tall Bud Truckman, so close together that it was plain Bull had dogged Bud down
the street, though he would not walk beside the other.

The last to come was Williams, the strong man, who gripped his hat so hard in his powerful hand that he soon reduced it to
a ball; at the expense of his hat, he was able to maintain a fair calm of countenance.

Then Cleeves pointed to the chairs and bade them be seated, while he drew down the shades of the windows and closed the front
door. He explained that their host apparently had stepped out, but must be back in a short time. They could sit down and open
their minds to one another in the meanwhile.

So they sat down around the table and each man looked upon the other as though he never had seen him before and was ashamed
to be seen by him, in turn. Only Cleeves kept his mind clear for the business before them.

He said: “We know why we’ve met here, but I’ll say it over again to bring things to a head. Then, if we get any conclusions,
we’ll tell them to Jimmy when he shows up. He’s stepped out for just a moment; there’s still a lamp burning in his bedroom.
In the first place, Destry is living up to the promise he made to us that day in the courtroom. We’ve scattered and tried
to get away from him; still he hunted us down. Warren and Clarence Ogden are dead. Jud Ogden is worse than dead—crippled forever.
Lefty Turnbull’s in jail and will soon be in the pen for a long time. Orrin is hiding no man knows where; he’ll be tried for
graft when found and in the meantime he’s looked on as a yellow dog. Jerry Wendell has been hounded out of Wham; his heart’s
broken. And that leaves six of us. If we can’t run away from him, we’ll have to bunch together and fight him. We’re here to
discuss ways and means. As for the money end of it, if that enters, I suppose I can begin by saying that any of us will pay
anything up to life to keep life. If I’m wrong, speak up!”

They did not answer. They listened with their eyes on the table, not the speaker.

“I’m right, then,” went on Cleeves. “Now, then,
we’re ready for the ways of disposing of Destry, alive or dead.”

“Alive, he’ll never stop,” said Barker.

“Dead, then. We’ve got that far. He has to be killed! How?”

No one spoke, until Bull Hewitt lifted his stupid face and said sullenly:

“You gents all know I never was agin Harry so much. I wouldn’t of voted him guilty at the trial, if you hadn’t crowded me
agin the wall, all talkin’ together. But now that it comes to the pinch, I say that Destry’s gotta die, because I wanta live.
There’s just a few ways of killin’ a man—rope, knife, gun, poison. But hit on one of ’em quick.”

After this, there was a bit of a silence, until Phil Barker struck the table with his fist.

“Poison! It works secret and secret ways are the only ones that’ll ever catch Destry. We’ve tried the other kind and they’re
no good!”

“Ay, poison. But how?” asked Hewitt.

Cleeves took charge again.

“We’ve all agreed, then, that we’ll use anything from a knife to poison on Destry?”

He took the silence for agreement, and then he went on: “The first great problem is how to get in touch with him. We’ll need
Jimmy Clifton’s good head to help on that. I wonder where he’s keeping himself so long?”

They waited, looking at one another.

Cleeves, making a cigarette, scratched a match, and they all saw his big, bony hands trembling as he strove to light the smoke.
At last, he snapped the match away, and struck another, looking around the table with a swift, guilty glance.

They avoided meeting it. Then Barker broke out, quickly and softly: “We’re all thinkin’ of just one thing. Is Destry the reason
that Jimmy ain’t showed up?”

No one answered, till Cleeves cried: “Ay, and is Destry curled up somewhere, now, and listening to all that we have to say?”

“Or,” suggested Bull Hewitt, “is Destry about to slip in with a pair of guns ready to work? He’s got us all here in one pen!”

It was at this very crucial moment that they all heard, distinctly, the sound of the kitchen screen moaning on its hinges,
and they stood up as though at a command.

The kitchen door yawned slowly open. Cleeves had a gun in his hand. Barker was reaching for a weapon, when they saw in the
dark doorway the smiling face of Chester Bent. It was at least less unwelcome than that of Destry, and there was a faint general
sigh of relief. But Bent, standing in the doorway, ran his eyes carefully across their faces.

“Friends,” said he, “you’re sitting here planning how to kill Harry Destry, and I’ve come to help you plan!”

Cleeves exclaimed angrily: “Bent, we know that you’re his best friend! D’you think that you can come here and listen to us
under such a shallow pretext as that?”

“Am I his best friend?” asked Bent.

Then he laughed a little, adding: “Jimmy Clifton can tell you how much of a friend I am to Destry. Where’s Jimmy now? I thought
that all six of you would be here!”

“You knew about this?”

“Of course. Jimmy told me and asked me to come here; because I have the only scheme that will kill Destry!”

They watched him in suspicion and in amazement. Yet what he had said carried with it a certain portion of self-proof. For
if he knew of the meeting, it seemed logical that he must have learned from one of the six, and who would have been mad enough
to tell him without good reason?

“Go on, man,” said Cleeves. “God knows we
hope
that this is true, because I don’t know a stronger hand or head to have us!
You
want Harry Destry’s death?”

“More,” said Bent fervidly, “than any of you! And more tonight than ever before!”

As he thought of Willie Thornton, and of that lad’s knowledge, and of the uncertainty of his death, such a world of sincerity
gleamed in the eyes and roughened in the voice of Bent that to see with a single glance was to believe him. There was not
only real firmness of will, but a ravening hate which made their own fear-inspired hearts seem bloodless things.

He added quietly:

“You know what was attempted in my house the other night against Destry. Do you think that Clifton would have tried that without
my permission and my help?”

It was the final proof and convinced them all. They looked at Bent with wonder, but they also looked at him with a growing
hope.

“Where’s Clifton now?” asked the new recruit peevishly. “We must have Clifton. He’s the one of you who understands my position
and can tell you whether or not I’m really with you. Isn’t he in his room?”

He pushed the door open as he spoke.

“He’s not there,” said Cleeves, “I looked a while ago and there was no——”

“Great God!” cried Bent, and rushed into the room as though from the door he had seen something horrible that called him forward.

Cleeves followed him; the others flocked behind; and they gathered about the prostrate body of Clifton, dead, with the knife
fixed to the hilt in his throat.

“Dead!” said Bent. “But—how long have you been here? Who was here first? What——”

Cleeves grew pale.

“Are you pointing at me, Bent?” he demanded hotly. “I was here first, if that’s what you want to know!”

Williams was leaning above the dead man.

“The knife!” he said. “The knife! Will ya look at it, all of you? Will ya see the ‘D’ carved into the butt of it? Destry!
Destry was here before us! I’ve seen this here knife in the old days. I’ve seen him throw it at a mark! I’d swear it was Destry’s,
even without the letter made onto it!”

Cleeves was drawing down the shade across the window.

He came back to the frightened circle and said firmly: “He’s been here. There’s his hand on the floor. Now what will we do?”

He turned to Bent.

“You wouldn’t be here without an idea, Bent.
He
thinks you’re still his friend?”

“Yes.”

“Can you draw him back to your house?”

“Not since Clifton made his try there. He won’t come back.”

“Is there any other way?”

“There’s one other way. There’s one house that he’d go to, if a message was sent to him.”

“Charlie Dangerfield?”

Bull Hewitt cried out in a choked voice: “You mean to use her for bait, to draw Destry into a trap?”

“Look!” said Cleeves, pointing to the floor.

And Hewitt, staring at the dead body and the blank, smiling face of Clifton, turned back abruptly, his argument crushed.

“Can you get a message to him, Chet?”

“I know how to get to him. I’ll do it tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have to do a bit of arranging, in the first place. I’ll have
to see Charlie Dangerfield. I’ll have to have her written invitation to him. I’ll have to get that and bring it out to him.
I’ll have to do everything, boys. And your only job will be to lie close and get him when he comes. But I’ll arrange the details.
You’ll know everything! Only—what if this thing should happen, and she knew who had led Destry down into the trap?”

They nodded at one another, for they saw the point. If there was one fact in his life which Bent had taken no trouble to hide,
it was that he worshiped Charlotte Dangerfield.

“Chet,” said Cleeves, “if you can do this for us, you don’t have to doubt! The rest of us would kill the man who talked! Great
heavens, man, who would be fool enough to say that he took a hand in the killing of Destry?”

“Get Ding Slater, somebody!” said Bent.

He waved to the door.

“Some of you better leave, too, before Slater comes. You stay on, Cleeves. And here’s an old friend of Clifton—Barker. You
and Barker. The rest of us will
start. Move the chairs away from that table. Get the blinds up. And don’t touch the dead body. Don’t move a thing in this
room—not a chair or a rug. Don’t touch a thing, so that Ding can use his gigantic intelligence on the spot and try to make
out what the ‘D’ on the knife may mean!”

He sneered as he spoke, and, hurrying to the door, waved his hand at them and was gone.

“I wonder,” said Cleeves slowly, as their new confederate disappeared, “who would win the fight if those two were thrown down
hand to hand? That wild cat Destry, or this sleek bull terrier, Bent!”