Читать книгу Hopalong Cassidy and the Eagle's Brood - Clarence E. Mulford - Страница 6

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The seven, having paid their respects to the bar, turned and sought the largest table, dragging up what chairs were necessary, and the magic circle was complete. Three of them talked cattle—age, weight, condition, numbers and prices. Duncan disposed of all he cared to sell, and Saunders’s needs were rounded out by Skinner, whose selling urge was met and satisfied. Details and arrangements were agreed upon: the dates of the starting of the herds, the routes, and the dates of delivery. Honest men all, and vouched for by men of honor, they did business between themselves on honor.

On the other side of the table three old-time friends exchanged gossip and messages, reviewed past deeds and misdeeds, and questioned the future. Tex was doing well up near McKenzie and had bought into the ranch; Johnny Nelson had only praise and optimism for the SV and its future.

The marshal sat between the two groups, his smiling face turned first toward one and then toward the other. He dropped a word here and there in the conversations and joined in the occasional bursts of laughter; but mostly he was content to listen and to learn. At the top of his own profession and one of the most outstanding peace officers of the great, old-time West, he knew that on both sides of him were men who were his equal in every department of his own line of work. For them all he had a keen and friendly admiration; but for one of them admiration was hardly the word.

He looked closely at this one, studying the seamed, rugged face; the faded, thinned red hair; the squinting, cold eyes, the cold, blue eyes of the gunman. He was looking upon the peer of his friend Hickok in physical reactions, in speed and certainty of hand; but he was looking upon a man whose moral fiber was far above that of the famous gambler-gunman-marshal, who had been murdered not so many years before up in Deadwood. Hickok, suave, polished, meticulous in his appearance; this man, blunt, bluff, rough and almost slouching: the rapier and the mace.

A movement at the front door caught the marshal’s eye, and he turned his head quickly as his hand dropped down, sensing that the conversation at the table had abruptly ceased.

A young man staggered into the room, headed for the nearest chair, and collapsed when within two steps of it. An outraged bellow from a bartender was checked by a warning, upflung arm, as the limping redhead, his chair crashing to the floor behind him, sprang forward, his friends at his heels. He picked up the youth, carried him to the chair, and took the glass which Matt Skinner already had obtained. Empty, he handed it back again.

The youth was white of face, where dust and dirt and cinders would let the skin be seen. Blood streaked face and neck, and oozed from his torn and lacerated hands. His clothing, ripped and rent, was spotted with grime and dust. He was almost inert, but the second glass of liquor was beginning to have its effect. No one had seen the marshal’s gesture or heard his whispered order, but in a remarkably short time one of the bartenders returned with a doctor. His practiced hands took charge of things. First he wanted room and breathing space: seven backs arched quickly, seven pairs of legs pushed against the floor: and the room and the breathing space was had.

“Looks like he’s been dragged along th’ railroad track,” said the man of medicine to himself, but audibly. “Food’s th’ first thing he needs, an’ not too fast or too plenty to start with. He’s starvin’, I’d say.” He looked around the room, his eyes questing.

“Take him over to th’ hotel, up to Number Six,” said Hopalong with quiet authority. He turned to the marshal. “You ever seen him before, Bat?”

“No. He’s not a bum,” said Bat, stating the fact professionally.

“He needs food an’ rest,” said the doctor to the marshal. “His nerves are purty well shot, seems like. We’ll put him to bed, an’ he’ll come ’round all right, I reckon.”

The youth stirred, tears gathering in his eyes; tears of weakness, of despair, and of something else. He looked around slowly, scanning the circle of kindly faces.

“Don’t bother with me,” he mumbled. “Blow my head off, an’ get it all over with. Get it all over with quick.” He choked, and the tears fell unrestrained.

“Weak as blazes, all ripped to pieces,” muttered the doctor. “Pick him up. I’ll go along an’ do what I can. Anyhow, I’ll guarantee him a night’s rest. It’s all right, friend,” he told the stranger, smiling down at him. “We’re goin’ to fix you up slick as a button.”

Strong hands took hold of the youth, strong backs straightened. Matt Skinner picked a partly filled bottle from the bar, flinging a coin down in payment. It flipped back at him, and he nodded his apologies to the red-faced man behind the counter. Then he looked around curiously, and suddenly realized that two of his new friends were missing: Nelson and Ewalt. As he passed through the door he saw Nelson slip around the corner of the building, and Ewalt moved forward out of the deeper darkness of a wall.

Skinner grunted, and smiled with sudden warmth: he was in durned good company. It looked like the stranger was in good and capable hands. He thought that Ewalt was slipping something into a holster, and his smile grew. He was glad that he had made the long and tiresome trip to Bulltown. Yes, sir, by gosh; he was glad he had come.

“You takin’ liquor to th’ hotel?” asked Ewalt, chuckling. “More coals to Newcastle,” he grunted.

“Never been there,” said Skinner; “but I’ll bet you it won’t be wasted. If there’s any danger of that, I’ll drink it myself.” He was turning something over in his mind, and he suddenly looked at his companions. “You fellers ever been starvin’?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Ewalt in his throat.

“No,” said Nelson, sharply.

“Well, I have,” said Skinner. He made no further comment upon this subject, and it seemed that comment was not necessary. Their minds were given a new path for thought, and they paced along with him, silent and thoughtful.

“Looked to me like he’s been manhandled,” said Nelson. He turned to Ewalt, who once had studied medicine. “You reckon he was dragged from a train?”

“Yes; looked that way,” replied Tex, thoughtfully. For a moment he was silent, and then spoke again. “We’ll get him on his feet, chip in, an’ send him on his way rejoicin’.” Strange emotions were playing through him, strange for a once cold-blooded professional gambler. If someone had only stepped forward in his extremity in the days of his youth what might have been spared to him!

They stopped in the hotel office, just inside the door, waiting. The stairs creaked steadily and regularly, and Dave Saunders came into sight, from the feet upward. He joined the little group in the doorway, his eyes on the bottle in Skinner’s hand.

“They got one of those upstairs,” he said, holding out his hand. “Might as well empty yourn, here an’ now.” He took the bottle, drank deeply, and passed it on to the next man, wiping his mouth on the back of a hand. “I’ve heard just about enough, an’ seen about enough in th’ last few minutes to appreciate that drink. What I saw is enough to last me the rest of my life. Dead wife, stolen cattle—blast such a world!”

“Dead wife?” asked Johnny.

“Blowed all to pieces with a six-shooter,” said Saunders, his voice a growl. “Let’s go sit down an’ wait for th’ boys. It don’t look like I’ll be headin’ straight for home, like I figgered on.” His face was like a thundercloud: dark, with threatening patches of white that came and went.

“Meanin’ th’ Kid’s wife was murdered?” asked Skinner, holding the bottle up to the light and idly speculating upon how many drinks remained in it. It looked like there were at least two good ones.

“Mowed right down!” snapped Saunders. “Th’ killin’ was th’ most decent, most merciful part of it! There’s a gang out in th’ Kid’s part of th’ country that’s a stench on th’ face of th’ earth. No sir, I ain’t goin’ straight home!”

Skinner was cursed by a vivid imagination, and he forthwith emptied the bottle and placed it on the floor near his chair.

“What’s th’ doc say?” he asked. “About th’ shape th’ Kid’s in?”

“He said he would get along a durn sight better if he had th’ wish to get well. Cassidy’s got th’ first trick to-night. Here comes th’ others now.”

The doctor, followed closely by Duncan, joined the seated group.

“Food an’ rest—they’re easy to give him,” he said, a scowl on his face. “What he needs more than anythin’ else is a brand new spirit; an’ that ain’t easy to acquire. He wasn’t dragged along th’ railroad track: he was just kicked off th’ eastbound limited to-night, an’ rolled along th’ track. Few miles west of town, beyond th’ cattle crossin’. How he ever got here, I don’t know. Bruised, cut, scraped; shocked, starved, wants to die, an’ can’t. I’ll drop in to-morrow an’ look him over. An’ I’ll ante up right now to make a jackpot to pay somebody to kill that —— —— brakeman! Good-night, gentlemen!”

They watched the indignant medical gentleman stalk from the room, his chin out and his shoulders high, with a chip on each of them; and then Wyatt Duncan glanced at the stairs.

“Bat’s talkin’ it over with Cassidy,” he said. “He’ll soon be down. Speakin’ of jackpots an’ killin’ somebody, I’m almost tempted——” he broke off suddenly and reached for tobacco and papers. His expression was not a pleasant thing to look upon.

“Yieldin’ to temptation is th’ easiest thing I do,” muttered Matt Skinner, his imagination at work again.

Saunders, his face still dark with anger, was looking at Duncan with great intentness, and then he glanced curiously at the last speaker, and gravely nodded his head.

“Boys,” he said, breaking the silence, “as I reckon it, our little cattle deals are all done. If we had to, we could leave open th’ dates for th’ startin’ an’ delivery of th’ herds. Like Wyatt, here, I too am almost tempted; an’ like Skinner, I’m a willin’ yielder. We’ll see what Cassidy has to say.”

Nelson toyed absent-mindedly with a weighted holster, caressing it; while Ewalt sat quietly in his chair, hands on thighs, his gambler’s face cold and calculating.

Nelson stirred, looked around, and spoke.

“I can make a right good guess what he’ll say. I’ve lived with him too many years not to know that!”

Ewalt nodded and permitted the suggestion of a smile to flit across his face.

“Yes,” he said, complacently. “So can I. Well, I ain’t got no pressin’ business, an’ my wife’s a thoroughbred. We’re right happy, married: an’ when I tell her—oh, well: as I said, I got no pressin’ business.”

“Nor me!” snapped Saunders, his eyes blazing.

“I was allus a great hand to travel,” said Skinner. He looked up as the stairs squeaked, and the marshal slowly stepped into sight. “I allus was,” he reiterated.

Bat nodded to the group and sank gratefully into a chair, finding all eyes upon him.

“Cassidy’s holdin’ a war dance by hisself,” he said, placing his precious derby on one knee. “It might be a good idear for you boys to start tyin’ some scalp loops, in case you need ’em. There’s blood on th’ moon.”

Nelson laughed suddenly. It was almost like a bark.

“I knew it!” he exclaimed. “I knew it!”

Ewalt looked at the clock, and figured a moment.

“Nine o’clock,” he said. “Breakfast at seven. That’s ten hours. There’s five of us, down here. That’s two hours each. Let’s draw straws for our turns upstairs.”

He took five matches out of his pocket, and broke them into different lengths. Closing his hand over them with their heads protruding, he held them out.

“Shortest takes th’ next shift, an’ so on,” he said.

Nelson drew one, and held it in sight while the others took their turns. Comparing them, they accepted the verdict. Duncan felt to see that he had plenty of tobacco, nodded to his companions and walked to the stairs. A few minutes later Cassidy came down, moved slowly toward the silent group, and seated himself. His face was set and forbidding, and his blue eyes smoldered with anger. The others remained silent, waiting for him to speak.

“You boys feel like listenin’ to a story?” he finally asked, glancing around the circle, and quiet nods answered him.

“Johnny,” he said, “I’m headin’ West, with both guns oiled an’ my tail straight up. I’ve got some names an’ descriptions, an’ I’m figgerin’ to put a period after each one. I’m foot-loose, a free agent, an’ I’m shore goin’ skunk-killin’.”

He sighed, dropped his hat down at the side of his chair, waited a moment and then continued, unfolding to the waiting ears of his companions a story so horrible that the youngest of them blenched. Yet Cassidy told it, all at once, in a flat, monotonous voice. A story of doors broken in at dead of night—the rush of an overwhelming masked mob—the screams of a young wife tortured to death while the youthful husband prayed and cursed and struggled vainly against the strong ropes that bound him.

Such a tale told to such men needed no prop of oratory. Long before he had finished, his audience squirmed; and when he had finished, and his big hands dropped unconsciously to the heavy guns on his thighs, he saw other hands as unconsciously repeat the motion. With the last word he leaned back in his chair and let his eyes move questingly from face to face.

Skinner cleared his throat raspingly, and felt a little ashamed of himself.

“Every passin’ year finds me yieldin’ easier,” he said. “Now I got to write a letter home. I didn’t figger to stay away so long.” He arose apologetically and walked toward a table, on which were writing materials.

“I allus hated to write letters,” admitted Saunders, slowly getting to his feet and glancing at the table. “That reminds me that there’s a telegraph line runnin’ to th’ Gulch, an’ that there’s a friend in th’ Gulch to ride out to th’ ranch. Only wish I’d brought my rifle along. Oh, well: I need a new one, anyhow.”

Nelson cleared his throat.

“There’s rifles an’ other things on th’ SV,” he said, apropos of nothing. “There’s an old Sharps buffalo gun there, too, that belongs to Hopalong. You remember it, Hoppy?”

“Shore do! I never should have forgot it, Kid. It’s better than my new one.”

Ewalt nodded, and let a thin smile play across his lean, tanned face.

“All of which means that you an’ me, Johnny, can take our own news in person,” he said. “I reckoned that you’d figger out some way to get out of writin’ a letter. Margaret an’ Jane can keep each other company, an’ that’s a right good thing. We’ve got th’ luck with us so far.”

Hopalong was looking from one to another in a mild surprise. The coldness went out of his face, and his eyes kindled. A little thrill went through him, engendered by the thought that some of the old breed still lived.

The marshal, ensconced comfortably in his easy chair, was looking from man to man, also appraising them. This was no mere outfit, for every one of them was a leader, possessing initiative; every one was an expert with six-shooter and rifle, everyone a plainsman. His glance passed on to the veteran and rested there, on the man whose fame had spread from the frontier to the coast, from the north line to that of the south. An old eagle, he was: swift, certain, ruthless when aroused; master of strategy and warfare, tempered and ground and honed in more than thirty years of conflict against lawlessness. An old eagle; aye, and here was an eagle’s brood!