The Max Brand Megapack (163 page)

“And besides, I’ll do more. You think you have a claim on Dozier. I’ll buy him from you. Here’s half his weight in gold. Will you take the money and clear out? Or are you going to make the play at me? If you do, you’ll buy whatever you get at a high price!” “You forget—” put in Sco
ttie, but Andrew interrupted.

“I don’t want to hear from you, Scottie. I know you’re a snake. I want to hear from Jeff Rankin. Speak up, Jeff. Everything’s in your hands, and I trust you!”

The giant rose from his chair. His face was white with the effect of the whisky, and one spot of color burned in each cheek. He looked gloweringly upon his companions.

“Andy,” he said, “I—”

“Wait a minute,” said Scottie swiftly, seeing that the scales were balancing toward a defeat.

“Let him talk. You don’t have to tell him what to say,” said Andrew.

“I’ve got a right to put our side up to him—for the sake of the things we’ve been through together. Jeff, have I?”

Jeff Rankin cleared his throat importantly. Scottie faced him; the others kept their unchanging eyes rivetted upon Andrew, ready for the gun play at the first flicker of an eyelid. The first sign of unwariness would begin and end the battle.

“Don’t forget this,” went on Scottie, having Jeff’s attention. “Andy is workin’ to keep Dozier alive. Why? Dozier’s the law, isn’t he? Then Andy wants to make up with the law. He wants to sneak out. He wants to turn state’s evidence!”

The deadly phrase shocked Jeff Rankin a pace back toward soberness.

“I never thought,” he began.

“You’re too straight to think of it. Take another look at Lanning. Is he one of us? Has he ever been one of us? No! Look again! Dozier has hunted Lanning all over the mountain desert. Now he wants to save Dozier. Wants to risk his life for him. Wants to buy him from us! Why? Because he’s turned crooked. He’s turned soft. He wants to get under the wing of the law.”

But Jeff Rankin swept all argument away with a movement of his big paws. “Too much talk,” he said. “
I want to think.”

His stupid, animal eyes went laboriously around the room. “I wish Allister was here,” he said. “He always knew.”

“For my part,” said Scottie, “I can’t be bought. Not me!” He suddenly leaned to the big man, and, before Andrew could speak, he had said: “Jeff, you know why I want to get Dozier. Because he ran down my brother. And are you going to let him go clear, Jeff? Are you going to have Allister haunt you?”

It was the decisive stroke. The big head of Jeff twitched back, he opened his lips to speak—and in that moment, knowing that the battle was over and lost to him, Andrew, who had moved back, made one leap and was through the door and into the little shed again. The gun had gleamed in the hand of Larry la Roche as he sprang, but Andrew had been too quick for the outlaw to plant his shot.

He heard Jeff Rankin still speaking: “I dunno, quite. But I see you’re right, Scottie. They ain’t any reason for Lanning to be so chummy with Dozier. And so they must be somethin’ crooked about it. Boys, I’m with you to the limit! Go as far as you like. I’m behind you!”

No room for argument now; and the blind, animal hate which Scottie and La Roche and Clune felt for Dozier was sure to drive them to extremities. Andrew sat in the dark, hurriedly going over his rifle and his revolver. Once he was about to throw open the door and try the effect of a surprise attack. He might plant two shots before there was a return; he let the idea slip away from him. There would remain two more, and one of them was certain to kill him.

Moving across the room he heard a whisper from the floor: “I’ve heard them, Lanning. Don’t be a fool. Give me up to ’em!”

He made no answer. In the other room the voices were no longer restrained; Jeff Rankin’s in particular boomed and rang and filled the she
d. Once bent on action he was all for the attack; whisky had removed the last human scruple. And Andrew heard them openly cast their ballots for a new leader; heard Scottie acclaimed; heard the Scotchman say: “Boys, I’m going to show you a way to clean up on Dozier and Lanning, without any man risking a single shot from him in return.”

They clamored for the suggestion, but he told them that he was first going out into the open to think it over. In the meantime they had nothing to fear. Sit fast and have another drink around. He had to be alone to figure it out.

It was very plain. The wily rascal would let them go one step farther toward an insanity of drink, and then, his own brain cold and collected, he would come back to turn the shack into a shambles. He had said he could do it without risk to them. There was only one possible meaning; he intended to use fire.

Andrew sat with the butt of his rifle ground into his forehead. It was still easy to escape; the insistent whisper from the floor was pointing out the way: “Beat it out that back window, lad. Slope, Andy; they’s no use. You can’t help me. They mean fire; they’ll pot you like a pig, from the dark. Give me up!”

It was the advice to use the window that decided Andrew. It was a wild chance indeed, this leaving of Dozier helpless on the floor; but he risked it. He whispered to the marshal that he would return, and slipped through the window. He was not halfway around the house before he heard a voice that chilled him with horror. It was the marshal calling to them that Andrew was gone and inviting them in to finish him. But they suspected, naturally enough, that the invitation was a trap, and they contented themselves with abusing him for thinking them such fools.

Andrew went on; fifty feet from the house and just aside from the shaft of light that fell from the open door, stood Scottie. His head was bare,
his face was turned up to catch the wind, and no doubt he was dreaming of the future which lay before him as the new captain of Allister’s band. The whisper of Andrew behind him cut his dream short. He whirled to receive the muzzle of a revolver in his stomach. His hands went up, and he stood gasping faintly in the moonlight.

“I’ve got you, Scottie,” he said, “and so help me heaven, you’re the first man that I’ve wanted to kill.”

It would have taken a man of supernerve to outface that situation. And the nerve of Scottie cracked.

He began to whisper with a horrible break and sob in his breath: “Andy—Andy, gimme a chance. I’m not fit to go—this way. Andy, remember—”

“I’m going to give you a chance. You’re pretty low, Scottie; I check what you’ve done to the way you hate Dozier, and I won’t hold a grudge. And I’ll tell you the chance you’ve got. You see these rocks, here? I’m goin’ to lie down behind them. I’m going to keep you covered with my rifle. Scottie, did you ever see me shoot with a rifle?”

Scottie shuddered—a very sufficient reply.

“I’m going to keep you covered. Then you’ll turn around and walk straight back to the shack. You’ll stand there—always in clean sight of the doorway—and you’ll persuade that crowd of drunks to leave the house and ride away with you. Understand, when you get inside the house, there’ll be a big temptation to jump to one side and get behind the wall—just one twitch of your muscles, and you’d be safe. But, fast as you could move, Scottie, powder drives lead a lot faster. And I’ll have you centered every minute. You’ll make a pretty little target against the light, besides. You understand?

“The moment you even start to move fast, I pull the trigger. Remember it, Scottie. For as sure as there’s a hell, I’ll send you into it head first, if you don’t.” “So help me heaven,” said Scottie,
“I’ll do what I can. I think I can talk ’em into it. But if I don’t?”

“If you don’t, you’re dead. That’s short, and that’s sweet. Keep it in your head. Go back and tell them it would take too great a risk to try to fix me.

“And there’s another thing to remember. If you should be able to get behind the wall without being shot, you’re not safe. Not by a long way, Scottie. I’d still be alive. And, though you’d have Hal Dozier there to cut up as you pleased, I’d be here outside the cabin watching it—with my rifle. And I’d tag some of you when you tried to get out. And if I didn’t get you all I’d start on your trail. Scottie, you fellows, even when you had Allister to lead you, couldn’t get off scot-free from Dozier. Scottie, I give you my solemn word of honor, you’ll find me a harder man to get free from than Hal Dozier.

“Here’s the last thing: If you do what I tell you—if you get that crowd of drunken brutes out of the cabin and away without harming Dozier, I’ll wipe out the score between us. No matter what you told the rest of them, you know I’ve never broken a promise, and that I never shall.”

He stopped and, stepping back to the rocks, sank slowly down behind them. Only the muzzle of his rifle showed, no more than the glint of a tiny bit of quartz; his left hand was raised, and, at its gesture, Scottie turned and walked slowly toward the cabin doorway. Once, stumbling over something, he reeled almost out of the shaft of light, but stopped on the edge of safety with a terrible trembling. There he stood for a moment, and Andrew knew that he was gathering his nerve. He went on; he stood in the doorway, leaning with one arm against it.

What followed Andrew could not hear, except an occasional roar from Rankin. Once Larry la Roche came and stood before the new leader, gesturing frantically, and the ring of his voice came clearly to Andrew. The Scotchman negligently stood to one side; the w
ay between Andrew and Larry was cleared, and Andrew could not help smiling at the fiendish malevolence of Scottie. But he was apparently able to convince even Larry la Roche by means of words. At length there was a bustling in the cabin, a loud confusion, and finally the whole troop went out. Somebody brought Scottie his saddle; Jeff Rankin came out reeling.

But Scottie stirred last from the doorway; there he stood in the shaft of light until some one, cursing, brought him his horse. He mounted it in full view. Then the cavalcade started down the ravine.

Certainly it was not an auspicious beginning for Scottie Macdougal.

CHAPTER 41

The first ten days of the following time were the hardest; it was during that period that Scottie and the rest were most apt to return and make a backstroke at Dozier and Andrew. For Andrew knew well enough that this was the argument—the promise of a surprise attack—with which Scottie had lured his men away from the shack.

During that ten days, and later, he adopted a systematic plan of work. During the nights he paid two visits to the sick man. On one occasion he dressed the wound; on the next he did the cooking and put food and water beside the marshal, to last him through the day.

After that he went out and took up his post. As a rule he waited on the top of the hill in the clump of pines. From this position he commanded with his rifle the sweep of hillside all around the cabin. The greatest time of danger for Dozier was when Andrew had to scout through the adjacent hills for food—their supply o
f meat ran out on the fourth day.

But the ten days passed; and after that, in spite of the poor care he had received—or perhaps aided by the absolute quiet—the marshal’s iron constitution asserted itself more and more strongly. He began to mend rapidly. Eventually he could sit up, and, when that time came, the great period of anxiety was over. For Dozier could sit with his rifle across his knees, or, leaning against the chair which Andrew had improvised, command a fairly good outlook.

Only once—it was at the close of the fourth week—did Andrew find suspicious signs in the vicinity of the cabin—the telltale trampling on a place where four horses had milled in an impatient circle. But no doubt the gang had thought caution to be the better part of hate. They remembered the rifle of Andrew and had gone on without making a sign. Afterward Andrew learned why they had not returned sooner. Three hours after they left the shack a posse had picked them up in the moonlight, and there had followed a forty-mile chase.

But all through the time until the marshal could actually stand and walk, and finally sit his saddle with little danger of injuring the wound, Andrew, knowing nothing of what took place outside, was ceaselessly on the watch. Literally, during all that period, he never closed his eyes for more than a few minutes of solid sleep. And, before the danger line had been crossed, he was worn to a shadow. When he turned his head the cords leaped out on his neck. His mouth had that look, at once savage and nervous, which goes always with the hunted man.

And it was not until he was himself convinced that Dozier could take care of himself that he wrapped himself in his blankets and fell into a twenty-four-hour sleep. He awoke finally with a start, out of a dream in which he had found himself, in imagination, wakened by Scottie stooping over him. He had reached for his revolver at his
side, in the dream, and had found nothing. Now, waking, his hand was working nervously across the floor of the shack. That part of the dream was come true, but, instead of Scottie leaning over him, it was the marshal, who sat in his chair with his rifle across his knees. Andrew sat up. His weapons had been indeed removed, and the marshal was looking at him with beady eyes.

“Have you seen ’em?” asked Andrew. “Have the boys shown themselves?”

He started to get up, but the marshal’s crisp voice cut in on him. “Sit down there.”

There had been—was it possible to believe it?—a motion of the gun in the hands of the marshal to point this last remark.

“Partner,” said Andrew, stunned, “what are you drivin’ at?”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Hal Dozier. “You sit tight till I tell you what about.”

“It’s just driftin’ into my head, sort of misty,” murmured Andrew, “that you’ve been thinkin’ about double-crossin’ me.”

“Suppose,” said the marshal, “I was to ride into Martindale with you in front of me. That’d make a pretty good picture, Andy. Allister dead, and you taken alive. Not to speak of ten thousand I dollars as a background. That would sort of round off my work. I could retire and live happy ever after, eh?”

Andrew peered into the grim face of the older man; there was not a flicker of a smile in it.

“Go on,” he said, “but think twice, Hal. If I was you, I’d think ten times!”

The marshal met those terrible, blazing eyes without a quiver of his own.