Читать книгу The Smiling Desperado - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 5

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Cadigan, in his bunk, stretched his body slowly until he felt the pull of the muscles from the tip of his fingers down his arms and through his body and along his legs. Then he relaxed again. As a cat relaxes, when it has made itself aware of claws sharp beneath their sheaths of velvet, and of needle-pointed teeth, and of strong jaw muscles.

So it was with Cadigan. And he remembered, now, that his strength had never been fully tested except twice—once when he tugged at the fan of the windmill twelve years ago, and once when he struck the bully fairly in the center of the face a whole decade since. But in the interim, nothing had happened which had developed all of his power. He thought of this and yawned discreetly behind his hand.

“No chore boys here,” said old Jud McKay. “You got to run your own errands, Lancaster.”

“The devil!” growled out the newcomer. “What sort of an outfit is this here?”

Some one murmured words which Cadigan could not quite hear.

“Oh,” said Lancaster. “Is that it? Well, that’ll do for me.”

Like a shadow sweeping across a pond when the wind blows, so from the corner of his eye Cadigan was aware of the rising of big Bill Lancaster. What a giant of a man he was! And yet, how smoothly, how efficiently built! Certainly he was no muscle-bound blunderer!

“Hey!” called Lancaster. “Chore boy!”

Cadigan yawned again. Once more like a cat, when it feels a caressing hand run down its back. The big form of the new hand strode across the floor and sent the tremor of his footfall through the entire bunk house. Now his shadow fell thick and black across the magazine of Cadigan.

“What’s your name?” asked Lancaster.

Cadigan lowered his magazine and turned his head. He surveyed the other from head to foot, slowly, luxuriously, taking note of all his power. Here was danger indeed, vast danger with a cruel horde of possibilities. And once again the thrill of expectant happiness shot through him.

“My name’s Dan Cadigan,” said he.

“Well, Danny,” said Lancaster, “ain’t you the roustabout on this here ranch?”

Cadigan turned his head away and looked at the bottom of the bunk above him, as though in thought. But, in reality, he was merely tasting the intense relish of this scene. It was better than feeling that tug and jerking of the invisible hands of the wind; it was better than leaning from the platform of the windmill and waving at the frightened crowd who stood craning at him, a dizzy distance below. For the first time in his life, Cadigan felt an infinite satisfaction coming to him. And this was not all. More was to come!

“I dunno that I ever been called the roustabout,” he said gently.

“Look here, kid,” said Lancaster. “I don’t aim to get riled none. I’m a peaceful man, I am. I’m darned if I like to get my dander up. But I say you’re the roustabout, and what I say goes!”

“Yes,” said Cadigan softly.

“Ain’t you the one that milks the cows and chops the firewood?”

“Yes,” said Cadigan.

“And, if you do them things are you too good to run an errand for me out to the stable?”

“I didn’t say that I wouldn’t run an errand,” said Cadigan.

There was an appeased grunt from Lancaster. “Well,” said he, “hop up, then, and lemme see some action. That tarp is over in the corner right under my saddle. You can tell my saddle by the silver on it. I want that roll brung in here and put over on my bunk.”

He spoke the last words over his shoulder as he turned away, but when he had taken a few steps, he saw that all was not well. He could tell it by the sudden change which had come in the atmosphere of the room. Every man had paused in the very midst of the act which employed him. One had a boot half off; another held the match flaming in his hand without raising it to the tip of the cigarette; another paused with his vest thrown back over his elbows, ready to slip it off. But each stopped short and began to stare with widened eyes. Lancaster turned sharply about and saw that Cadigan had not moved.

He could hardly believe it. Then the wild red blood swelled his face. He was back beside the bunk with a leap.

“Cadigan!” he thundered.

“Yes?” said the gentle voice of Cadigan.

“Did you hear what I told you?”

“Yes,” said Cadigan.

“Why ain’t you movin’?”

The glance of Cadigan dwelt upon the huge, balled fists of the gun fighter. He could hardly speak, so great was that inward satisfaction.

“I was thinkin’ it over,” said Cadigan.

And then some one giggled like a girl, hysterically. That sound precipitated the cloudy wrath of Lancaster. No matter what happened, he would have to vent that wrath in physical action before he was through with this scene.

“Get up!” he snarled out.

Cadigan looked up and saw that the eyes of Lancaster were like the eyes of a beast.

“Get up!” gasped out the big man, and leaning a little, he gripped Cadigan by the shoulder.

Into the thick flesh of Cadigan’s shoulder the fingers dug, digging deep until what seemed flabby fat began to stir and twist and grow hard. The whole mass of shoulder muscle grew hard, and the fingers of Lancaster slipped from the smooth surface. At that, seeing that he had something besides a fat and helpless antagonist, his wrath redoubled. He renewed his grip and tore Cadigan from the bunk.

“You need manners!” shouted Lancaster. “And me, I’m the boss teacher of politeness. I’m gunna give you a lesson, kid, that you ain’t gunna forget if you live to be an old man. I’m gunna—”

“Hey, Lancaster!” called the shaken voice of old Jud McKay. “Don’t make no mistake. That kid ain’t no fighter.”

Lancaster turned on McKay in a ravening fury. “To the devil with your heart!” he raged. “I ain’t gunna stop with the kid, maybe. Maybe I’m gunna go right on and be school-teacher to the whole lot of you. Understand?”

Jud McKay shrank back into the shadow of his own bunk. To his own heart he vowed that if he had been a younger man—but he was not young. He was old, he was stiff, he was weak. Why did not some other among these men stand up to stop the horror which was about to take place? But not a man moved. There were black faces among them. But the danger was too great. This was Bill Lancaster, and at the side of the big man were Bill Lancaster’s two guns, each with a half dozen stories sealed in its magazine.

Lancaster wheeled back upon his victim. Cadigan standing was a far different spectacle from Cadigan lying down, or Cadigan sitting. He was exactly ten inches above five feet in his height, and he weighed without his clothes exactly a hundred and ninety pounds, which never varied hot weather or cold, in idleness or in fierce and long-continued labor. He weighed a hundred and ninety, but he looked a full twenty pounds lighter, for that bulk was not noticed in the roundness of his chest and his depth from front to back. But what Lancaster saw at once was that here was a solid fellow—as solid as lead! No one else on the Kirby place had ever suspected it. But Lancaster was not like the others. When one has hunted fights in wholesale quantities, one begins to be able to recognize the fighters. Here, perhaps, was no fighting heart. But certainly here was one who would have stripped well in the prize ring. And Lancaster, remembering how the shoulder flesh had stiffened into thick, gristly muscle, decided suddenly that he would risk no personal encounter. The guns would decide this little matter.

He fell back half a pace.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Lancaster. “You apologize and then trot out and get that tarp and I’ll let you off. Understand?”

Cadigan blinked.

“D’you hear me?” yelled Lancaster.

Then he heard a startled gasp from all the roomful of spectators. For Cadigan was smiling! And indeed, there was in the body and in the soul of Cadigan such a rioting joy that he could no longer suppress it. It burst forth at his eyes in light. It made the corners of his mouth twitch back, and while he smiled straight into the soul of the larger man, he felt as though he were already grappling the other in spirit.

“By the heavens!” breathed Lancaster, and gliding back another half step, he reached for his gun, which hung behind his right hip.

The fingers gripped the butt, but did not draw the Colt. For the hand of Cadigan darted out and closed over that of Lancaster. It seemed to the killer that a bracelet of fire was clamped upon his wrist, for the wrench of Cadigan’s twisting hand fairly ground the flesh against the bones of Lancaster’s arm. And the fingers of that good right hand grew numb and helpless.

Lancaster, with a startled cry, jerked himself back, but he could not tear himself away. He was held as though he were chained to a post. And when he reached for his second gun with his left hand, the right fist of Cadigan chopped into his face.

It was like the tap of a sledge hammer, held with a short grip on the handle. It half stunned Lancaster, but it made him desperate, also, and his desperation gave him a power which even the mighty grip of Cadigan could not withstand. The killer tore himself away, reeling back half the length of the big bunk house, and gripping at his guns.

Cadigan followed close.

He knew his strength, now, and to him it was like the discovery of a new continent. Even this giant of a man, even this famous Lancaster was nothing in his hands. There were only the guns to fear.

“Lancaster!” yelled half a dozen voices in a single burst of horror. “Look out what you do! He ain’t got a gun!”

“I’ll salt him away!” screamed Lancaster, and both the long weapons came out of their holsters.

At the same time, Cadigan leaped from the floor. His stockinged feet gave him security. He dived as though into water, and his shoulder, striking just above the knees of Lancaster, bowled the big man down like a tenpin. The two guns roared blindly at the same instant. One clipped a new hole through the farther end of the building. And one ripped through the thigh of young Stew Tanner.

Then they crashed to the floor.

Lancaster, as he toppled, reached out and caught the edge of a bunk. That grip could not save him, but the impetus swerved him to one side. He sat half erect, braced against the side of the bunk, and since he did not have time to fire, he chopped the long heavy barrel of his Colt against the head of Cadigan.

And Cadigan went to sleep.

Afterward, Lancaster disentangled himself from the limp arms and hands and rose to his feet. He leaned above the prostrate form with a devil in his face, but there was something electric in the air which made Lancaster look aside, and what he saw in the faces about him told him that it would not be well to touch the helpless body of his late antagonist.

So he stood up again, rubbing his right wrist. It had turned blue and purple and was swelling fast. Lancaster was filled with a shuddering horror. What manner of man was it who possessed a bone-breaking power like this in his fingers?

He could see more distinctly, now, the nature of the danger from which he had escaped. And, last of all, he remembered the smile of Cadigan. It was not a pleasant thought. Men sometimes grin with pure fury as they are about to fall into a conflict, but no one smiles out of the perfect happiness of the heart. There was something beyond the human about it. There was something devilish and cruel.

Lancaster stared around him. Old Jud McKay had risen and was slowly approaching with something in his face which made Lancaster understand that it would be unwise for him to remain long on the Kirby ranch. It would be very unwise! Other men were standing up. Some one began to move toward the door, and Lancaster decided that a hasty exit would be most advisable.

He did not stay for the small details of his belongings. Even his hat was an unnecessary luxury—to one who was about to take a long ride in the dark. And without staying to take up even his fallen revolver, with the other weapon still clutched in his left hand, he marched for the door of the bunk house and through it.

With the cool, thick dark in his face, some of his courage and nerve returned. He turned suddenly on the cow-punchers and thundered at them: “As for the rest of you rats, remember that Bill Lancaster might run across you, one of these days. And when the kid comes to, tell him that the reason I didn’t finish him tonight was because I wanted him awake—to see it coming!”

So Lancaster disappeared into the night.

In the morning his horse was gone and his saddle. The Tom Kirby ranch knew him no more. If he left a memory behind him, it was a thing such as none of the cow-punchers cared to speak of. For they had permitted him to commit a shameful wrong in their presence and to escape unharmed afterward.