Читать книгу The Sheriff Rides - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 9

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This remark of the sheriff was not made to the boy alone. Rather, it was delivered to the entire room, for he turned half way from the counter in order to let all the men hear what he had to say. From the four who lolled in their chairs at the table, came appreciative laughter. They had been enjoying this scene with the dull eyes of content, putting by their impatience for the game in the superior pleasure of listening to the follies and the conceits of a very young man. It was not difficult to hear everything that young Signal said. He spoke crisply, biting off his words, like a man who controlled his passion better than his voice.

But now that the sheriff had delivered this rather amused ultimatum, Signal brought all attention back to himself by tapping upon the counter with the stiffened fingers of his left hand.

“Suppose that I take you up on that proposition, sheriff? Suppose that I just take you up on that?”

The sheriff looked back at him, round eyed, and the youngster discerned, in the corners of the eyes, a faint stain of yellow; caused, perhaps, by too much smoking of cigars, or on the other hand, by a dash of Mexican blood. Who could tell in this border land? At any rate, those eyes now blinked at the boy in amazement; there was chiefly astonishment and a sort of persistent disbelief in that expression, but also there was a goodly measure of amusement. Yonder at the table, however, the four smiles had settled down a good deal. A big, handsome man got up and came to the counter. The very fact that the sheriff played cards with such a fellow as this raised Signal’s respect for the former.

“My boy,” said this newcomer, “what’s your name?”

“John Alias,” said Signal defiantly.

“Alias what?”

“Alias nothing.”

“John—alias Nothing,” murmured the new speaker. “Why, we’ve got a firecracker in town again, sheriff!”

“It ain’t the first,” said the sheriff rather wearily. “You go and explode yourself under the nose of Sim Langley, will you, and bring back your horse that you lost?”

“Will you tell me the way to his place?”

“He has all sorts of places,” said the sheriff.

“He’s spending a good deal of time on the Esmeralda,” replied his tall companion.

“Is he going that way to hell?” commented the sheriff. “Well, if you want to find him, young fellow, go straight across the first bridge over the river and head straight on. You can’t get off the main road. Two or three mile out, you’ll come to a ranch house, Mexican style, spread out long and low, whitewashed adobe with a lot of vine climbing all over it. That’s maybe the place around which you might find Sim Langley.”

John Signal stepped to the door.

“Hey, Alias!”

Signal turned.

“The kid answers to the name, all right,” said the sheriff’s companion. “Alias, d’you know the sort of game you’re apt to get from Langley?”

“Guns?”

“And shotguns. Good-by and good luck!”

He waved his hand with a graceful gesture, and John Signal went down to the street. He got to the first bridge across the river as the leaders of a fourteen mule team began to clamber up the arch of the farther side, and he stood aside to watch them tugging all in rhythm, while the mule skinner, with his long whip, strode beside them, cursing magnificently. The wheels of the two wagons that trailed behind this laboring team ground and rumbled on the upgrade. Then, as the crest of the bridge was mounted, they began to gain impetus. The wheelers were forced to hasten, then to trot. The yell of the driver forced the pointers to take up the swifter pace, then the swing—then the leaders themselves were jogging while the wagons rolled with thunder down to the level road, struck a bump with a crash, rocked perilously from side to side, and then settled again to a monotonous progress up the street.

This small affair held Signal enchanted, for he was an imaginative youngster, and he thought he saw in this tiny interlude something which cast a light upon the whole course of human affairs. That is to say: All deeds have an upgrade which takes labor, and when the crest of the labor is reached, then caution and skill are needed to keep from going too far. Yes, at the very shore of success, we often find the bumps which wreck us.

And he turned out on to the road which led away from the town of Monument to the southern hills with a feeling that perhaps this task would be exactly the same. Sim Langley was a gun-fighter, it appeared, a thoroughly dangerous man; and yet a brisk, determined approach could do wonders with the most dangerous of fighters.

He had fully three miles, then, of dusty road to cover before he had sight of the ranch house. It made a pretty picture, set well back from the road, with an avenue of poplars pointing toward it. In fact, the white walls showed very little, and even the red roof was nearly lost under the shade of the trees and the host of green climbing things which swarmed across it. Behind it were the barns and the corrals, and, circling a little around the house, he approached the latter.

He did not have far to look. The ugly head of Grundy was thrust over the fence toward him, and at the sight of his master, he whinnied softly in recognition.

Signal went into the barn. The first thing he saw was a pair of Mexicans, working on the braiding of rawhide whips; and the second thing he saw was a rack of guns to the side; and the third thing he saw was his own saddle, hanging from a convenient peg.

He did not hesitate, but, nodding to the pair, he went to his saddle and picked it off its peg. With the saddle comfortably propped against his left hip, he stepped to the gun rack, and he knew his own Winchester in a flash. He drew it forth.

He had come back to the door of the barn before one of the Mexicans said in broken English:

“Chief send you here?”

He replied in perfectly good Spanish: “Langley has a little job on his hands.”

The other stepped back at once, and Signal went on with a faint smile, for it was perfectly true that he expected Langley would soon have a job on his hands, though not exactly of the sort that the pair of Mexicans might suspect.

Inside the corral, there was no difficulty in catching the roan. Grundy came gladly to the bridle and even abandoned his usual complaining grunting and swelling of the stomach when the cinches were tightened on him. And so, with the rifle in the long holster and the saddle in place, young John Signal passed out through the corral gate with the feeling that a cheap triumph was in his hands and that the crest of the bridge already had been passed, when, as he turned from shoving home the bolt of the gate, he saw one of the Mexicans hurrying toward him from the house, and beside him was that same tall, lean, hard-faced fellow whom he had met earlier in that day, bringing in the five score beeves to the market.

He remembered, instantly, the rush of cattle and the bellowing down the street, as he had been inside the employment agency. He remembered, also, how highly he had commended his roan to the same cowpuncher during the course of their conversation. That made the links of understanding complete!

Over his bended left arm the cowpuncher supported a rifle. Young Signal went straight toward him. Then, as though changing his mind—or his tactics—the other passed the Winchester to the Mexican at his side and advanced with empty hands. But it could be noticed that he wore two Colts, each slung low down on his leg so that the handles were most convenient to the touch. Signal understood perfectly. His own gun was carried in exactly the same position.

“Hello, young feller,” said the other. “You’ve got a quick eye for a trail, I see.”

“I’m glad you see that,” said Signal.

“But about that horse,” went on the other, halting at a significant ten paces, while Signal stopped the horse, “I’ve gotta say that you can’t get away with it.”

“Can’t I?”

“How do I know that you own it?” went on the puncher with extraordinary brazenness.

“How do I know that you own the guns you wear?” answered Signal.

“Kid,” said the other, “that don’t need any proving. If you want it proved, lemme ask you, do you know my name?”

“It’s Langley, I suppose.”

“You know my name. D’you know me?”

He asked this with a great deal of satisfaction.

“I don’t know you,” answered Signal. “But I gather that you’re what’s called a bad hombre.”

“Do you?” asked Langley. “Now, lemme say this. Gents have seen me ride this hoss in here; what would they think if they saw you ride that hoss out—and me not raise a voice?”

“I don’t give a damn what other people would think,” declared Signal.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pay you a fair price for that hoss and that outfit. Not that I care about the outfit—or very much about the hoss. But folks have seen me take it, and it’s gotta be mine!”

Signal took note that the Mexican was drifting to the side, the rifle at the ready. And he, in turn, slipped around the head of Grundy, putting the horse between him and danger. He still could confront Langley.

“Langley,” he said, “you never had a better chance for fighting than this. Are you going to take it?”

“Why, you damn young fool!” cried Langley, in the tone of one bewildered.

There was a little trick which Signal had learned on his father’s ranch from an old half-breed. It was to mount a horse’s side and cling like an Indian, with nothing showing in the saddle. His right arm remained free to manage a revolver under the neck of the horse, if need be.

So, having delivered his challenge fairly and getting no immediate response, Signal leaped at the side of Grundy, who lurched instantly into a run.

Mr. Langley leaped backward to avoid being trodden under foot, and, springing back, most unluckily, his right spur caught in a tiny hummock, and he landed flat on his back with enough force to jar most of the wind out of his body. Signal, seeing that, turned the head of Grundy a little, and as he did so a rifle clanged and a bullet hissed past.

Under the neck of Grundy he saw the Mexican upon one knee, the rifle drawn level and steady for another shot, and Signal fired without taking aim. He saw a spurt of dust spring up just in the rifleman’s face; that weapon exploded wildly in the air, and the Mexican leaped up and bolted shrieking for the barn.

In five more seconds, young John Signal found himself galloping into the avenue of poplars, tearing up the sod of the garden on the way. He heard a muffled, faint cry, and on his left he shot past a very pretty girl with a pale face, and dark, fine eyes.

That was the Esmeralda, perhaps, of whom the sheriff and his companion had spoken, and even while he galloped, Signal wondered why it should be that those who chose to call upon Esmeralda were said to have chosen a particular way to hell? For so it had been inferred in the sheriff’s office.

However, there was no need for further speculation. The next moment he was clattering down the highroad, and now Monument held out its arms to him again.