The Max Brand Megapack (322 page)

With that telegram working for him in far-off Colma, Bill Sandersen started out to gather what information he could in Sour Creek. He drifted from the blacksmith shop to the kitchen of Mrs. Mary Caluson, but both these brimming reservoirs of news had this day run dry. Mrs. Caluson vaguely remembered a Riley Sinclair, a man who fought for the sheer love of fighting. A grim fellow!

Pete Handley, the blacksmith, had even less to say. He also, he averred, had heard of a Riley Sinclair, a man of action, but he could not remember in what sense. Vaguely he seemed to recall that there had been something about guns connected with the name of Riley Sinclair.

Meager information on which to build, but, having seen this man, Bill Sandersen said the less and thought the more. In a couple of hours he went back through the night to the telegraph office and found that his Colma friend had been unbelievably prompt. The telegram had been sent “collect,” and Bill Sandersen groaned as he paid the bill. But when he opened the telegram he did not begrudge the money.

Riley Sinclair is harder than he looks, but absolutely honest and will pay fairer than anybody. Avoid all trouble. Trust his word, but not his temper. Gunfighter, but not a bully. By the way, your pal Lowrie shot himself last week.

The long fingers of Bill Sandersen slowly gathered the telegram into a ball and crushed it against the palm of his hand. That ball he presently unraveled to reread the telegram; he studied it word by word.

“Absolutely honest!”

It made Sandersen wish to go straight to the gunfighter, put his cards on the table, confess what he had done to Sinclair’s brother, and then express his sorrow. Then he remembered the cruel, lean face of Sinclair and the impatient eyes. He would probably be shot before he had half finished his story of the gruesome trip through the desert. Already Lowrie was dead. Even a child could have put two and two together and seen that Sinclair had come to Sour Creek on a mission of vengeance. Sandersen was himself a fighter, and, being a fighter, he knew that in Riley Sinclair he would meet the better man.

But two good men were better than one, even if the one were an expert. Sandersen went straight to the barn behind his shack, saddled his horse, and spurred out along the north road to Quade’s house. Once warned, they would be doubly armed, and, standing back to back, they could safely defy the marauder from the north.

There was no light in Quade’s house, but there was just a chance that the owner had gone to bed early. Bill Sandersen dismounted to find out, and dismounting, he stumbled across a soft, inert mass in the path. A moment later he was on his knees, and the flame of the sulphur match sputtered a blue light into the dead face of Quade, staring upward to the stars. Bill Sandersen remained there until the match singed his finger tips.

All doubt was gone now. Lowrie and Quade were both gone; and he, Sandersen, alone remained, the third and last of the guilty. His first strong impulse, after his agitation had diminished to such a point that he was able to think clearly again, was to flee headlong into the night and keep on, changing horses at every town he reached until he was over the mountains and buried in the shifting masses of life in some great city.

And then he recalled Riley Sinclair, lean and long as a hound. Such a man would be terrible on the trail—tireless, certainly. Besides there was the horror of flight, almost more awful than the immediate fear of death. Once he turned his back to flee from Riley Sinclair, the gunfighter would become a nightmare that would haunt him the rest of his life. No matter where he fled, every footstep behind him would be the footfall of Riley Sinclair, and behind every closed door would stand the same ominous figure. On the other hand if he went back and faced Sinclair he might reduce the nightmare to a mere creature of flesh and blood.

Sandersen resolved to take the second step.

In one way his hands were tied. He could not accuse Sinclair of this killing without in the first place exposing the tale of how Riley’s brother was abandoned in the desert by three strong men who had been his bunkies. And that story, Sandersen knew, would condemn him to worse than death in the mountain desert. He would be loathed and scorned from one end of the cattle country to the other.

All of these things went through his head, as he jogged his mustang back down the hill. He turned in at Mason’s place. All at once he recalled that he was not acting normally. He had just come from seeing the dead body of his best friend. And yet so mortal was his concern for his own safety that he felt not the slightest touch of grief or horror for dead Quade.

He had literally to grip his hands and rouse himself to a pitch of semihysteria. Then he spurred his horse down the path, flung himself with a shout out of the saddle, cast open the door of the house without a preliminary knock, and rushed into the room.

“Murder!” shouted Bill Sandersen. “Quade is killed!”

CHAPTER 5

Who killed Quade? That was the question asked with the quiet deadliness by six men in Sour Creek. It had been Buck Mason’s idea to keep the whole affair still. It was very possible that the slayer was still in the environs of Sour Creek, and in that case much noise would simply serve to frighten him away. It was also Buck’s idea that they should gather a few known men to weigh the situation.

Every one of the six men who answered the summons was an adept with fist or guns, as the need might be; every one of them had proved that he had a level head; every one of them was a respected citizen. Sandersen was one; stocky Buck Mason, carrying two hundred pounds close to the ground, massive of hand and jaw, was a second. After that their choice had fallen on “Judge” Lodge. The judge wore spectacles and a judicial air. He had a keen eye for cows and was rather a sharper in horse trades. He gave his costume a semiofficial air by wearing a necktie instead of a bandanna, even at a roundup. The glasses, the necktie, and his little solemn pauses before he delivered an opinion, had given his nickname.

Then came Denver Jim, a very little man, with nervous hands and remarkable steady eyes. He had punched cows over those ranges for ten years, and his experience had made him a wildcat in a fight. Oscar Larsen was a huge Swede, with a perpetual and foolish grin. Sour Creek had laughed at Oscar for five years, considered him dubiously for five years more, and then suddenly admitted him as a man among men. He was stronger than Buck Mason, quicker than Denver Jim, and shrewder than the judge. Last of all came Montana. He had a long, sad face, prodigious ability to stow away redeye, and a nature as simple and kind and honest as a child’s. These were the six men who gathered about and stared at the center of the floor. Something, they agreed, had to be done.

“First it was old man Collins. That was two years back,” said Judge Lodge. “You boys remember how Collins went. Then there was the drifter that was plugged eight months ago. And now it’s Ollie Quade. Gents, three murders in two years is too much. Sour Creek’ll get a name. The bad ones will begin to drop in on us and use us for headquarters. We got to make an example. We never got the ones that shot Collins or the drifter. Since Quade has been plugged we got to hang somebody. Ain’t that straight?”

“We got to hang somebody,” said Denver Jim. “The point is—who?”

His keen eyes went slowly, hungrily, from face to face, as if he would not have greatly objected to picking one of his companions in that very room.

“Is they any strangers in town?” asked Larsen with his peculiar, foolish grin.

Sandersen stirred in his chair; his heart leaped.

“There’s a gent named Riley Sinclair nobody ain’t never seen before.”

“When did he come in?”

“Along about dark.”

“That’s the right time for us. You found Quade a long time dead, Bill.”

Sandersen swallowed. In his joy he could have embraced Larsen.

“What’ll we do?”

“Go talk to Sinclair,” said Larsen and rose. “I got a rope.”

“He’s a dangerous-lookin’ gent,” declared Sandersen.

Larsen replied mildly: “Mostly they’s a pile more interesting when they’s dangerous. Come on, boys!”

It had been well after midnight when Mason and Sandersen got back to Sour Creek. The gathering of the posse had required much time. Now, as they filed out to the hotel, to the east the mountains were beginning to roll up out of the night, and one cloud, far away and high in the sky, was turning pink. They found the hotel wakening even at this early hour. At least, the Chinese cook was rattling in the kitchen as he built the fire. When the six reached the door of Sinclair’s room, stepping lightly, they heard the occupant singing softly to himself.

“Early riser,” whispered Denver Jim.

“Too early to be honest,” replied Judge Lodge.

Larsen raised one of his great hands and imposed an absolute silence. Then, stepping with astonishing softness, considering his bulk, he approached the door of Sinclair’s room. Into his left hand slid his .45 and instantly five guns glinted in the hands of the others. With equal caution they ranged themselves behind the big Swede. The latter glanced over his shoulder, made sure that everything was in readiness, and then kicked the door violently open.

Riley Sinclair was sitting on the side of his bed, tugging on a pair of riding boots and singing a hushed song. He interrupted himself long enough to look up into the muzzle of Larsen’s gun. Then deliberately he finished drawing on the boot, singing while he did so; and, still deliberately, rose and stamped his feet home in the leather. Next he dropped his hands on his hips and considered the posse gravely.

“Always heard tell how Sour Creek was a fine town but I didn’t know they turned out reception committees before sunup. How are you, boys? Want my roll?”

Larsen, as one who scorned to take a flying start on any man, dropped his weapon back in its holster. Sinclair’s own gun and cartridge belt hang on the wall at the foot of the bed.

“That sounds too cool to be straight,” said the judge soberly. “Sinclair, I figure you know why we want you?”

“I dunno, gents,” said Sinclair, who grew more and more cheerful in the face of these six pairs of grim eyes. “But I’m sure obliged to the gent that give me the sendoff. What d’you want?” Drawing into the background Larsen said: “Open up on him, judge. Start the questions.”

But Sandersen was of no mind to let the slow-moving mind of the judge handle this affair which was so vital to him. If Riley Sinclair did not hang, Sandersen himself was instantly placed in peril of his life. He stepped in front of Sinclair and thrust out his long arm.

“You killed Quade!”

Riley Sinclair rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looking past his accuser.

“I don’t think so,” he said at length.

“You don’t think so? Don’t you know?”

“They was two Mexicans jumped me once. One of ’em was called Pedro. Maybe the other was Quade. That who you’re talking about?’

“You can’t talk yourself out of it, Sinclair,” said Denver Jim. “We mean business, real business, you’ll find out!”

“This here is a necktie party, maybe?” asked Riley Sinclair.

“It is, partner,” said big Larsen, with his continual smile.

“Sinclair, you come over the mountains,” went on Sandersen. “You come to find Quade. You ride down off’n the hills, and you come up to Quade’s house. You call him out to talk to you. You’re sitting on your horse. All at once you snatch out a gun and shoot Quade down. We know! That bullet ranged down. It was shot from above him, plain murder! He didn’t have a chance!”

Throwing out his facts as he saw them, one by one, there was a ring of conviction in his voice. The six accusing faces grew hard and set. Then, to their astonishment, they saw that Sinclair was smiling!

“He don’t noways take us serious, gents,” declared the judge. “Let’s take him out and see if a rope means anything to him. Sinclair, d’you figure this is a game with us?”

Riley Sinclair chuckled. “Gents,” he said easily, “you come here all het up. You want a pile of action, but you ain’t going to get it off’n me—not a bit! I’ll tell you why. You gents are straight, and you know straight talk when you hear it. This dead man—what’s his name, Quade?—was killed by a gent that had a reason for killing him. Wanted to get Quade’s money, or they was an old grudge. But what could my reason be for wanting to bump off Quade? Can any of you figure that out? There’s my things. Look through ’em and see if I got Quade’s money. Maybe you think it’s a grudge? Gents, I give you my word that I never been into this country before this trip. How could there be any grudge between me and Quade? Is that sense? Then talk sense back to me!”

His mirth had disappeared halfway through his speech, and in the latter part of it his voice rang sternly. Moreover he looked them in the eye, one by one. All of this was noted by Sandersen. He saw suddenly and clearly that he had lost. They would not hang this man by hearsay evidence, or by chance presumption.

Sinclair would go free. And if Sinclair went free, there would be short shrift for Bill Sandersen. For a moment he felt his destiny wavering back and forth on a needle point. Then he flung himself into a new course diametrically opposed to the other.

“Boys, it was me that started this, and I want to be the first to admit it’s a cold trail. Men has been hung with less agin’ them than we got agin’ Sinclair. We know when Quade must have been killed. We know it tallies pretty close with the time when Sinclair came down that same trail, because that was the way he rode into Sour Creek. But no matter how facts look, nobody
seen
that shooting. And I say this gent Sinclair ain’t any murderer. Look him over, boys. He’s clean, and I register a vote for him. What d’you say? No matter what the rest of you figure, I’m going to shake hands with him. I like his style!”

He had turned his back on Riley while he spoke, but now he whirled and thrust out his hand. The fingers of Sinclair closed slowly over the proffered hand.

“When it comes to the names, partner, seems like you got an edge over me.”

“Have I? I’m Sandersen. Glad to know you, Sinclair.”

“Sandersen!” repeated the stranger slowly. “Sandersen!”