Читать книгу The Longhorn Feud - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 7

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Litton and the boy left the store, and together they went down the street.

“You coming to Turner’s place with me?” Litton asked.

“Say,” said Jimmy, “what are you doing with the Dead Man Steer?”

“I’m keeping it for the sheriff,” said Litton.

“What for?”

“I’m going to charge nickels to the boys who want to see it—except you, Jim. You’re in on the ground floor.”

“Nickels, eh?” questioned Jimmy. “How about bullets? Will they do? Because you’re likely to get a whole flock more of them than nickels.”

“I’ll take whatever I can get,” answered Litton. “Mind you, partner, if you walk down the street with me now, you’re liable to collect a bullet or two your ownself.”

“If they can hit me, they can murder jackrabbits on the run,” boasted Jimmy. “Come along!”

So they sauntered down the middle of the street.

“It makes dusty walking, here in the middle of the street,” said the boy.

“It does,” answered the other, “but it gives you a chance to look at the doorways behind you.”

They drew near the crowd that now spilled quite across the street from the Chaney to the Morgan warehouse. And as they approached, an avenue opened up before them.

Jimmy, delighted, could not help thrusting out his chest like a pouter pigeon.

“Something’s gonna break now,” he said.

“Not yet,” answered Litton. “They’ll need a little time to make up their minds. Anyway, we’ll see how hard this town is.”

“It’s plenty hard,” said Jimmy.

They had come to a spot midway between the two stores when a gray-headed man, big and walking with long strides, came out to them. He pointed a finger at Litton.

“You’re the man who shot down that Morgan sign?” he asked.

“I am,” said Litton. “I needed to try out a rifle I’d just bought, and I thought if I paid for the damage—” He was smiling gently as he spoke.

“You and your damages be damned!” said the big man. “This ain’t the last you’ll hear of shootin’ down signs in Holy Creek!”

“Brother,” said Litton, “I’m moving into the Si Turner shack, and if anybody wants me, I’ll be found there at regular hours—and irregular hours, too. The Dead Man Steer will be at home there, too. Five cents is all I charge.”

He drew himself up. Then, looking deliberately to the right and the left, over the heads of the others, he remarked, “But it doesn’t look as though I’ll collect much money in this crowd.”

“Doesn’t it?” demanded the other. “What do you—”

“It doesn’t,” said Barry Litton, “because it doesn’t look to me as though there are many men in the lot of you who are worth a nickel!”

With that he strode on, leaving behind him the men who had been drinking in the scene, their eyes and ears dumfounded.

Jimmy scurried at the side of his long-stepping companion. “Jumping jiminy!” said he. “You know who that was?”

“The gray-headed fellow? No.”

“That was Rush Morgan himself, and he’s the head of the whole clan,” said the boy.

“Is he?” said the other carelessly. “I’m glad I’ve seen him, then.”

“But look here!” said the boy. “If you—” He paused, unable to speak more, and looked at the load of guns carried over the bend in his companion’s left arm.

Then he shook his head. “What brought you out here, partner?” said Jimmy filled with a deep awe and even deeper worship.

“Why,” said the other, “a friend of a friend of mine wrote about Holy Creek. I thought since I was travelling this way I might as well look it up.”

“Who was it that wrote?”

“A man called Pete. Red Pete. Red Pete Chalmers was his name.”

“Red Pete?” asked the boy. “Why I know about him!”

“Do you?” said Litton, with seeming carelessness.

“They bumped him off.”

“Why, who killed him?” asked Litton. “Was he a bad actor?”

“He wasn’t doing nothing,” said the boy, “but he got in between, when the Morgans and the Chaneys met up, one time, right here in town. It happened right back there. They opened up, and he got in between. He was the only man killed that day.”

“Wouldn’t the fool move when they yelled to him to get out of the way?” asked Litton even more carelessly. But his face, which was turned a trifle away from the boy, had turned a shade pale under the tan. His jaw was set like stone.

“There wasn’t anybody shouting to him to get out of the way,” said the boy. “They just opened up and blazed away at each other, and he happened to be in between.”

“Yeah?” murmured Barry Litton. “Was it a Morgan or a Chaney who got him?”

“Nobody could tell,” said the boy. “He was right in between. It might have been either of the lot, or both.”

“Kind of hard luck for Red Pete, eh?” said Barry Litton, laughing.

There was a hard grating sound in the laughter. The boy did not notice it, however. He looked up with amazement at a man who could be so totally callous.

“Yeah, it was hard luck,” said the boy. “Kind of mean luck, too,” he continued, “because, like you say, you’d think that people would give a sign to folks in between, before they start in shooting.”

“Yes, a fellow would think that,” said Litton. “Still, I don’t know. A man has to take his chances.”

“Yeah. But there weren’t no chances—not for Red Pete. It made me sick when I seen him spin around and drop.”

“Oh, you saw it, did you?” said Litton, with an imperceptible start.

“It was close to the shop, you see,” explained the boy, “and I was there near the window. I looked out and saw the shooting begin, and I saw Red Pete grab his guns as he fell.”

“He went for his guns, did he?” asked the other in a faint voice.

“You bet. He had a gun in each hand as he hit the dust, but he hit the dust dead.”

“That was his bad luck,” said Litton.

“He was a fine big gent, too,” said the boy. “He was your size, partner.”

“Was he?” murmured Litton. His voice was almost inaudible.

“And he had eyes about like yours—mighty blue,” said Jimmy.

“Yeah?” drawled Litton. He gave a sudden shrug to his shoulders, as though a chill had run down his spine.

“Say—he was a ringer for you,” said the boy, “except that he had red hair.—I never thought of that before!”

“Yeah, I guess a lot of people look like one another,” remarked Barry Litton carelessly.

“But not ringers—like him for you,” said the boy. “They got him planted out in Boot Hill, and nobody but half a dozen would know where the grave is.”

“Why,” said Litton, “some day we might step out and take a look at it—just for curiosity, eh?”