Читать книгу The Sheriff Rides - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 4

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The unshaven mountaineer did not hesitate.

“I could use a bit of mutton,” he said, and swung his leg over the cantle of his saddle.

He moved slowly, very like a man who is numbed by cold, and then sat down cross-legged on a stone beside the cooked meat which was pointed out by Signal.

“It’s coming on cold, ain’t it?” said the stranger.

“It’s pretty cold,” admitted Signal, and kicked together the last embers of the fire, so that a blaze jumped up. Doing this, he kept his face constantly, watchfully, toward the stranger. He had laid aside his rifle, but he had a Colt loose in the holster at his right thigh, and his right hand was never far from the projecting handle.

He felt that he had some reason for this caution. There was something wolfish about the manner of the stranger in eating—something wolfish, also, in his way of turning his eye upon Signal. Part by part, the boy felt himself surveyed—his boots, even, his revolver—the rifle he had put aside—the heavy belt of ammunition which loosely sagged about his hips.

With amazing speed, the mountaineer had devoured a quantity of the mutton. Now he leaned back against the rock.

“Got the makings?” he inquired.

With his left hand, Signal extracted brown papers and Bull Durham from his pocket and passed them over, watching critically while the other made his smoke with stumbling fingers, lighted it, and drew in great drafts so deep that very little of the smoke appeared again when he blew it forth.

“You hunt, maybe?” asked Signal, allowing his curiosity the satisfaction of a single question.

“I hunt now and then,” said the other.

He nodded after he had answered; his eyes had grown strangely sleepy and a vague smile appeared beneath his beard. Then he jerked up his head, suddenly awake.

“You don’t pack a knife, I see.”

“I have a knife here.”

“That’d never pass for a knife—not if you have to live up here for a spell. Look at this one. It’s the best German steel.”

He displayed it, accordingly—a hunting knife with a long and a heavy blade.

“I’m a little short,” said he. “I’m a little short of bullets. I’d trade that for a handful out of your belt, youngster.”

“It’s worth a good deal more,” answered Signal.

“I know it is. But I can’t expect to make a good trade at this end of the world. You throw in as many bullets as you want.”

“And where shall I get more up here?” asked Signal.

“Why, you’ll have enough to see yourself through, I suppose. You’re not going to camp up here for ever, young feller?”

“No. But ammunition may be worth more than gold,” said Signal.

“Why, then,” replied the other, “I’ve got another knife. I can get along without this one. Suppose that we say only half a dozen cartridges?”

“And I take the knife?”

“I’ve got another as good,” explained the stranger. “A few cartridges would be saving me from a long trip.”

He looked with such earnestness at young Signal that the latter hesitated and, for a fraction of an instant, turned his eyes upward in thought. Charity is highly commendable. He could live very well without another knife, but this ragged man of the mountains seemed desperately cornered. So thinking, with the scales turning to the side of kindness, John Signal saw a floating bird high above him, and knew the flight of a golden eagle—drifting across the range, perhaps, to drop on some prey in the richer lowlands.

Then his glance flickered down, and he was in time to observe the last of a lightning movement which brought a Colt from somewhere about the person of a stranger and leveled it at the head of his host. There was hardly more chance to outspeed that gesture than there would have been, say, to beat the flick of a cat’s paw when it has started toward the mouse. And young John Signal was too bewildered to even attempt resistance.

“I tried to treat you white,” said the other, “but you wouldn’t have that. Now you’re gunna get hell, instead. I’ll take that whole gunbelt, kid. Just unbuckle that belt and let her drop, will you? Bein’ special careful about what your fingers do at the time of unbuckling.”

Totally outraged, the boy exclaimed: “You’ve been fed when you were starving, stranger. Is this your comeback to me?”

“Son,” said the other, pushing himself up to his feet with the same clumsy movement which Signal had noticed when he dismounted, “I’ll tell you how it is. There’s some that’s able to do the way they’re done by; and there’s some that ain’t got a chance unless they do a mite more.”

He rendered justice to his own wit with a broad, slow grin, and this was the thing which unbalanced the scales for Signal. If he had been one of those cautious and thoughtful beings to whom probabilities mattered in a pinch, he never would have done the thing which, in the first place, drove him away from his home; but now he was in loftier regions—above the law. And he felt a pain in his temples, which was the beating of his blood there. Then he went for his Colt.

He was well-covered at the instant. There was no chance that he would escape being shot through and through. But he merely gambled savagely against fate that the bullet would not strike him in a fatal spot, or would, at least, leave him enough life to enable him to send home his own shot. So he twisted himself sidewise as he snatched out the revolver.

And the gun of the stranger remained silent! Instead of firing, he raised his own weapon like a club and lurched in at the boy. Far better for him if he had run at an upreared grizzly! A young grizzly, say, unhampered by fat, unwieldy bulk, sickness, or wounds.

The gun of Signal was ready for work while still the stranger was plunging in, and a rash or careless workman would certainly have pulled the trigger; but Signal was one of those rare creatures who can drop an old thought and find a new one in the course of a single second, or a split part thereof. So he noted that the game of bullets had been thrown aside and another sport put in its place.

It was not for nothing that he had grown up in the streets of his town where the tough jaws of hard-fisted young Mexicans had to be cracked, and where the boys from the range came in for a fight or a frolic like troops of young lions. In that town, he had been the acknowledged master. If there was a hard look about his stern young features, it was because, perhaps, they had been beaten to that texture by the knuckles of his peers in many a grand battle.

So he abandoned the thought of using his trigger finger, and, instead, he shot a well-timed uppercut just under the chin of the other. It lifted the hat from the head of this stranger and tossed all his long, unkempt hair upward as though in a puff of wind; it stopped his rush; it caused the revolver to drop from his nerveless hand; it made him waver in a balance from toe to heel. Then his knees buckled and he sank slowly down.

Signal picked up the fallen revolver and stepped back, with both hands armed, but the instant his left hand took the burden of the other’s gun, he knew what had happened. The Colt was totally empty. It had been merest bluff that caused the bearded fellow to draw the revolver!

Half stunned, as yet, the stranger supported himself upon one hand and knee while his eyes slowly cleared. He shook his head, like a dog trying to get the water out of its pelt; then he staggered to his feet again.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Signal sharply.

“Kid,” said the other, facing the pair of guns undauntedly, “I tried a crooked move on you, and you called me. Well, you hold the cards. I never had a play in the game, anyway. My gun was as empty as the belly of a starved wolf.”

“You hadn’t a shot left. I could tell that by the heft of your Colt. But what’s paralyzed you? I never saw a man go down so dead from such a tap!”

“Tap?” grinned the other with surprising good nature. “You may call it that; it felt like the tap of a sledge hammer, to me. But I haven’t had a mouthful of chuck for five days, son. That’s what softened my joints, if that’s what you mean!”

Instantly Signal believed. It explained the slowness of the other’s movements—except that lightning flash when the gun had been drawn. It explained the wolfing of the mutton, and the sunken eyes, and the gauntness of the form which made the coat fit so loosely.

“I’m sorry,” said he. “If you’d come cleaner, this wouldn’t have happened. Are you feeling better now?”

“My jaw’ll be loose on its hinges for a couple of weeks,” replied the other with a perfect good nature, “but otherwise, I’ll soon be all right.”

“Will you tell me why you had to starve?”

“I’m up here waiting for pals,” said the stranger.

Signal stared.

“Up to starving time?”

“My pals would never go back on me,” replied the other. “They may be slow in coming, but they’re sure to arrive.”

“Then why not live on horse, for a while?” asked Signal.

The other turned and regarded his horse. It was a tall, clean-limbed bay, sleek and trim from living in the mountain pastures.

“That horse and me,” said he, “have played tag with hell together too often for me to tap him on the head because of my belly. I’ve sure envied him that there talent for living on grass, the last week. But outside of that, I’ve never given him a hard thought. Live on Shanks, there? It’d be like cannibalism, partner!”

Signal hesitated no longer. From his cartridge belt he took out a dozen cartridges—more precious than gold, perhaps, they might prove to him! And he presented them together with the empty gun to the other.

“For the price of the knife?” asked the stranger eagerly.

“For the sake of your horse,” smiled John Signal, “and for your sake too, partner!”