Читать книгу Essential Western Novels - Volume 5 - Edgar Rice Burroughs, Andy Adams - Страница 17

DURING the first half hour Seastrom had considerable stealthy excitement to stir his reckless blood. Knowing the town perfectly, he ranged behind the buildings with considerable confidence. Madame LeSeur's hotel was the last along the line; the kitchen door stood wide open and the dishwasher, a frowsy and rheumatic graduate of Box M, slammed cups and plates around his sink with tired petulance. The savor of cooked food actually brought pain to hungry Heck Seastrom's jaw hinges. From his covert position he saw a table six feet away on which stood leftovers from supper; a few cooked steaks, a bowl of potatoes, a platter of cabbage, and all the accessory garnishments. The thought of this food for Madame's crowd rankled, aroused his sense of injustice; and when so moved, Seastrom was of a nature that acted on impulse. Save for the dishwasher, who was more or less bound by the fraternal ties of the old ranch, the kitchen was empty. Seastrom looked into the darkness, skipped nimbly over the doorsill and had two robust, though stiffly cold steaks in his fist when the dishwasher turned. Being a tired and feeble man, he grunted mildly. Seastrom was back in the shadows before the former finally spoke.

"Ain't a safe place for you, Heck."

Seastrom chuckled. "I wish you'd keep my meat warm." He ate with subdued violence. "You ain't seen me, Pot. So forget it."

"I ain't seen you, but somebody will," said the sudsy Pot. "It's a damn tight town. Now sift before that walleyed cook—"

This designated personage entered from the dining room at the moment, a very obese fellow with pouched eyes and an unfavorable attitude. "Who you talking to, Pot?"

"Reciting Shakespeare to m'self," grunted the dishwasher.

The cook eyed the meat platter and detected the slimmer contents. "This Shakespeare another bum wanting a handout, huh? I told you plenty time to give no grub free." And the cook made for the door. Seastrom had stripped one T-bone down to an almost polished surface. Backing off into deeper protection, he took careful aim with it and threw. The bone struck the cook so hard that the gentleman's stomach reverberated like a drum. Seastrom chuckled and effected a falsetto voice. "Sorry I can't stay to chop wood, you inflated left-hand cousin to a weasel. So long." He ran down the line of buildings, paused to finish the other T- bone and to get his bearings. He felt better, he felt vigorously inclined.

An alley yawned upon him and he went along it until he stood indiscreetly beside a party of Curly's riders who had just come from the dining room. Their talk interested him, since it was the other side's version of the recent fight. But he gleaned nothing of importance and his sober judgment made him retreat. So after scanning the plaza and noting the rather large number of horses at the racks, he went back and continued his prowl. At the stable he again risked his skin and cat-walked down the vault. Men were just strolling away, crossing to Studd's. Evidently the roustabout had gone with them, for nobody seemed to be left behind, and after reassuring himself of the fact, Seastrom deliberately lounged to the sidewalk and draped himself against a wall.

"Loaded for bear," he told himself, scanning the town. "Must be thirty or forty riders here. You don't draw that many men together without it meaning some sort of hell."

Another party of about ten men racked in and halted at Studd's. Seastrom saw Shander in the saloon light and he pursed his lips thoughtfully. Shander was top dog of all this business, the king pin. His presence meant action; he was the jasper who gave orders. "They had that fight framed. Got word of us being around the Bowlus place plenty soon, all right. Now who spilled the beans? Shander's come to get the score on that affair, and I hope it chokes him. I wish I heard what his orders were."

That reminded him of Charterhouse. He began to worry. The designated hour was nearly gone, and the feeling of Angels was beginning to touch Heck Seastrom's nerves. There was such a thing as overstaying a visit. Some fool might stumble upon the horses and raise an alarm, upon which Angels' gates would be soon shut.

Contemplating the plaza through narrowed lids, Heck detected a tremor of excitement near the saloon. Five or six men broke away and hurried off, skirting the town's southwestern corner, like terriers smelling game. Another fellow cut straight across the plaza, and bore down on the stable. Seastrom calculated his chances in the grateful gloom and decided to stay put. The fellow passed him, plunging on through the driveway, and Seastrom, taut- muscled, identified Sheriff Wolfert. "Going so fast his shirt tail's flapping," muttered the dynamic puncher. Instantly was born a rash decision. He let Wolfert get out in the back area before trotting silently in pursuit.

The sheriff had swung along the back line in the direction of Madame LeSeur's. "Wonder if that drum-bellied cook told him? Well—" He followed carefully. Wolfert stopped. A door opened and the sheriff ducked inside. Seastrom approached, drawing himself more tightly to the building wall at each step; he had not reached nearer than twenty feet of the door when Wolfert came out, illumined in a patch of light, and started back.

Coming so rapidly, Seastrom was caught unprepared. Instantly he obeyed his fundamental instinct, which was to use his own magnificent strength. Throwing out both arms, he smashed into the fast-traveling Wolfert and snapped all his muscles into a mighty bone-crushing hug. The impact carried both of them to the ground, Wolfert, unloosing a strangled yell and twisting as some madman.

"Here, cut that out!" grunted Seastrom. "You want the whole town to know what's going on? Oh, so you do, do you! Well, if I got to smack you—"

Somebody ran out of the hotel kitchen and Seastrom found himself trapped. That yell had wakened the town; there was a sudden traffic around the stable. Lights popped out of second- story windows. Seastrom, unable to control Wolfert's knees and finding the resistance more than he had calculated, decided to wind up a bad bargain before he was swamped. Letting go with one- hand, he started to rise. Wolfert pulled him back to the ground, shouting again. The hotel cook responded. "I'm coming. Hold on—"

"Hold hell!" grunted Seastrom, going hog-wild. He cramped the sheriff in his arms, hoisted the man bodily, whirled and flung him into the cook's path with every cataclysmic ounce of strength. He heard the impact and it satisfied him. Without further argument, he leaped away from the buildings, setting a dead course for the slaughterhouse. Then the shooting began. The cook yelled frantically. Wolfert lifted a gasping warning. Bullets clipped along the earth to either side of Seastrom but he refused to open a return fire and reveal his location. Diving around the slaughterhouse, he straightened in a mad rush, reached the stinking hide shed and seized his horse.

"Now I've got to get out of here and draw this damned town's attention another direction before they find Charterhouse's animal. If there was ever a borned fool, here he sits!"

Time was short but he walked the pony twenty yards away from the slaughterhouse before applying spurs. He aimed east, veered and swept west. Presently he was facing the plaza from the sundown end and cracking bullets along the street to draw the embattled citizens away from the slaughterhouse and away from the direction Charter-house had to go. The plaza was swarming with men; they came stumbling out of Studd's, out of the hotel, out of the dimly lit recess along the south side. Horses bunched; one stampeded crazily away. Guns answered, drawn by Seastrom's own flashing muzzle. Being a canny young man, he backed off beyond dangerous range, all the while watching the shadows.

"If Clint ain't hung up, he ought to be on his way by now," reflected the lone and somewhat bruised Box M puncher. "And I reckon I'll have to pull stakes and hike."

Heck started to cut around for the slaughterhouse again but saw he would never make it; a line of horsemen struck out from the plaza furiously and so wedged him off from that direction. He hauled about and raced for the southwest, worried and fretful. The pursuers had picked up his trail and were in stiff pursuit. Twice he started to curl off for the east and so reach the party in Bowlus' clearing; but each time he lost ground and found the others closing on him. So he settled down to run them out.

Meanwhile Clint Charterhouse, desperately trapped, had been granted a reprieve. Within two yards of a groping searcher, whose fingers were closing around the doorknob of the sheriff's office, he waited for the flood of light to come through. It was then the sudden shots from beyond the plaza broke like a warning gong. The searcher ripped open the door and plunged straight on through to the street without glancing back.

Those waiting in the rear of the jail broke for the nearest alley; and in the confusion Clint Charterhouse' gambled on boldness. The sheriff's room was emptied; he pulled down his hat, ran through the room and gained the comparative darkness of the plaza, jostled by men to either side. Still in this human stream, he gained the stable, hurried through and settled for the slaughterhouse, vaulting over corral bars, going kneedeep in the slush of a water trough, and bruising himself badly against a wagon. But he gained the shed before others had begun to search that far from the buildings; and finding Seastrom's horse gone, he wasted no more time lining out for the ridge. The irrepressible Heck, he believed, had gotten into hot water and retreated according to instructions.

He set a fast pace, crossed the ridge, and hurried through the trees to the Bowlus clearing. Expecting guards to challenge, he slowed down. But there was no life in the clearing and no glimmer of light; he whistled softly, receiving only the echo for reply. Disturbed, he dismounted and poked his head into the cabin. After a tentative inspection he entered to try the bunk. But Bowlus had disappeared, too.

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