Читать книгу Buffalo Bill's Pursuit; Or, The Heavy Hand of Justice - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 9

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Pool Clayton reached Poplar Bluffs, an isolated point on the river, at the foot of a spur of the Sepulcher Mountains, after daylight, but he did not at once venture into the camp. He could not summon up enough courage until he saw a number of outlaws ride away from the camp, and guessed that one of them was Snaky Pete.

When he entered the camp he found but few of the outlaws there, and those few seemed to be under command of a young fellow not much older than himself. This young fellow was a weasel-eyed, rat-faced youth, named Tom Molloy, as desperate a character for his years as one could wish to see.

Moreover, Molloy had no love for Pool Clayton. He had a feeling that Clayton thought himself the better of the two, and it had aroused his dislike and enmity.

“So you’ve come sneakin’ in, have ye?” he sneered, his little eyes gleaming with vindictive animosity. “I shouldn’t think you would, after that!”

Pool Clayton’s face flushed to a deep red, then paled. He had expected to receive the jeers of the outlaws, but it did not please him to have this young fellow begin the thing. Nor did it please him to discover, as he did at once, that Molloy was leader here, in the absence of the chief.

“Where have they gone?” he asked, ignoring Molloy’s words.

“Gone to rake in another prisoner fer you to shoot!” was the brutal answer. One of the outlaws “ha-hahed” at this, his sympathies being against Clayton. “And as the other one is here yit, you’ll have two to shoot, soon’s the boss gits back.”

Clayton did not answer, but slid out of his saddle.

“The boss said that if you did come back you’d got to do what he ordered ye to, er he’d sure shoot you!” Molloy added, with a sneer.

Clayton picketed his horse, and returned to where the outlaws were grouped. At one side lay the prisoner, old Nick Nomad; and Nomad’s horse was with the other horses, grazing by the stream.

“You heard what I said?” snapped Molloy.

“Yes, I heard what you said.”

Clayton felt and looked confused. His cheeks burned hot again, and he knew he was trembling a little. Yet he tried to hide this indication of weakness.

Some of the men greeted him, but coldly and rather surlily. He saw that he had fallen in their estimation. It was a rule of the band that whatever the “boss” ordered had to be done, and no questions asked. Clayton had refused to obey orders, and that made him a marked man.

“If you heard what I said, why don’t you answer?” Molloy demanded.

“I don’t have to,” Clayton flared, shaken by growing anger. “Who are you, anyway?”

Molloy doubled a hairy red fist and stepped in front of him.

“You don’t, hey? I reckon you know I’m commander here now?”

“Yes.” Clayton eyed that hairy and threatening fist.

“Then speak with respect to me. Do you understand that? You’ve got to speak with respect to me, or I’ll hammer your face in ag’in.”

“It wasn’t you did it.”

“You think I can’t, eh?”

Molloy shook his hairy, red fist under Clayton’s nose.

Clayton hesitated, and looked about uneasily. He knew that since his refusal of the night he was looked on as a coward by these men. Molloy was bullying him because of that. Molloy was himself the coward, and Clayton felt it—yet he hesitated, merely pushing the red fist away when it was thrust so close that it touched the tip of his nose.

“Don’t do that!” he protested mildly; so mildly that Molloy was only encouraged to continue his bullying.

“I’m not to, eh?” said Molloy, pushing his fist once more against Clayton’s nose, this time with such strength it was almost a blow.

“I tell you not to do that again!” said Clayton, his tone rising.

“And what will you do? Hey—you coward, what will you do? I’m in command here, ain’t I?”

“I haven’t said you’re not, but I tell you not to do that again.”

Some of the men rose, grinning; this was becoming interesting to them.

“Give it to him, Molloy!” one of them sang out.

Molloy pushed his fist against Clayton’s nose, this time so strongly that it brought blood, for Clayton’s nose was still sensitive and ready to bleed at a touch. The dripping of blood down on his shirt caused Clayton to turn white as a sheet; his eyes glittered with a sort of flash, and he clenched his fists.

“You’re a bully and a coward,” he said, in a low, tense tone. “And if you think I’m afraid of you, or afraid to fight you, you’re mistaken.”

He stepped back, and began slowly to take off his coat. His head was roaring in a queer way, and flecks of red seemed to shoot and dart before his eyes.

The men gathered around, forming a ring, with the youths in the middle.

“Slug him, Molloy!” said the one who had chipped in before.

Molloy could hardly believe his eyes, when he saw that Clayton was coolly preparing to fight him. He sprang at him, but one of the men caught and held him.

“Meet him fair,” he was adjured; “meet him fair!”

“Oh, I’ll meet him fair!” Molloy snarled, really amazed by the discovery that he would have to fight; “and I’ll hammer him to a pulp.”

He shook himself free of the man’s hands, and began to take off his own coat and roll up his sleeves. His arms were big and red, covered with freckles, and unpleasant looking.

Clayton’s arms, as he bared them, were white as a girl’s, above the tan circles of his wrists; but, white as they were, they looked firm and hard and muscular. His face, too pale, did not show fear now, nor cowardice.

“Now I’m ready for you!” he said quietly.

“And here you git it!” howled Molloy, his anger flaming red in his freckled face. “Look out, for I’m coming!”

He leaped and swung, thinking to knock Clayton down at a blow. To his surprise, Clayton side-stepped and dodged, so that the blow, meant for his face, went over his head.

Then—crack! Clayton’s hard white fist fell full on the freckled face of the bully, and Molloy tumbled backward, and would have fallen if one of the outlaws had not caught him.

Molloy was dazed by that blow; but he saw that if he did not now whip Clayton he would lose his standing with these men.

Clayton was standing quite still, his broad chest heaving, his eyes glittering, and his face still pale; he had his hands up, ready for defense.

When Molloy came again, his blow missed, and so did Clayton’s; and then they locked in a fierce grapple, each striving to throw the other.

The men stood about, clapping their hands and urging on the fighting. This was to them as good as a circus.

“Slug him, Molloy!”

“Stand up to him, Pool!”

“Hook him under the jaw!”

“Cave in his face!”

Such were the commands shouted, as the men hopped about in their excitement.

The combatants came to the ground together, Clayton underneath. Molloy had his arms around Clayton, and now tried to push his head against the ground, and at the same time batter him in the face.

In the opinion of the watching men, Pool Clayton was as good as whipped, but with a mighty effort he twisted round, half rising; and then, catching Molloy about the waist and shoulders, he lifted the young bully and threw him through the air.

Molloy fell on his head and shoulders, a crashing fall, and lay still, after sliding out on the ground in a limp heap.

The thing was done so quickly, and was such a surprise, that the men stood in breathless silence, staring. Then one of them came up to Clayton and offered his hand, which Clayton took.

“I didn’t think ye’d do it, Pool,” he confessed. “But you’re a game rooster, after all; and here’s my hand on’t!”

Molloy groaned, writhed about, and then came slowly to a sitting position, dabbing at his face weakly with his hands, and fluttering his eyelids. For a minute he didn’t know what had happened to him. Then he saw the grinning faces about him, and Pool Clayton standing, white-faced and with arms folded, near by.

At sight of that face, evoking recollections of what had happened, Molloy uttered a scream of rage, and drew his revolver. He leveled it quick as a flash and fired, uttering an oath as he did so. Instantly, however, one of the outlaws sprang at him and succeeded in striking his arm, thus turning the weapon aside. He pushed Molloy back violently, and took the revolver from his hands.

“None o’ that!” he cried sternly. “We don’t do that kind o’ work, ye know! If you’re licked, you’re licked; and you’d ought to take it like a man.”

Molloy turned on him, springing to his feet.

“Gimme my revolver!” he commanded.

The man tossed it to one of his friends.

“Not on yer life. I don’t!”

“I’m boss here, ain’t I? Gimme that revolver!”

“And let ye shoot Clayton?”

“That’s none of your bizness! Gimme that revolver!”

The man stood facing him. “See here!” he said. “We reports this biz to Snaky Pete, and Snaky Pete ain’t goin’ to like it. And we don’t take no more orders frum you while he’s gone. Do you git that through yer head, or do I have to hammer it into it with my fist? You’re no longer boss of this outfit. Ben, there, takes yer place; and he’s got yer revolver. Now go off some’eres and think it over.”

Molloy might have protested further, but that a feeling of dizzy faintness came upon him, and he had to drop to a seat on the ground.

Pool Clayton felt bewildered, rather than exultant, and he had forebodings. He did not know how this whole thing would be regarded by Snaky Pete.

He walked out to his horse, after putting his coat on, and changed the picket pin, trying to find something to occupy himself with, while he could think. Finally he came back and sat down by the fire.

Molloy, lying on the grass, panting and dizzy, glared at him malevolently. The men said nothing, though they steadily regarded both him and Molloy.

“A good un fer you!” said a voice.

Nick Nomad had spoken, much to Clayton’s surprise.

“I was bettin’ on ye frum the fust jump. Whenever I hear a feller hollerin’ and pawin’ round, tearin’ up the ground like a mad bull, wantin’ to fight, I allus knows thet thar’s more wind in him than courage; and so I knowed you’d do him up. And I’m congratulatin’ ye on it.”

Molloy lifted himself on his elbow and shot a malignant glance at the old trapper.

“Is it your cut in?” he snapped. “Shut yer head, and keep it shut, or I’ll feed bullets into yer mouth.”

“I’m thet hungry I could eat anything,” said the old trapper, “even bullets.”

The answer brought a laugh from the outlaws, and seemed to lessen the tension.

Pool Clayton had dropped down near the old trapper, but he did not now look at him. But soon he heard the trapper say, and knew that the words were intended for him, even though they might be overheard by the other outlaws:

“My old pard, Buffler Bill, has been sighted in this section of kentry, yer friends has told me, and the boss has gone out ter investigate reports about him; and he says if Buffler is caught, then you’ll have the fun of shootin’ both him and me. I’m cal’lating that there will be things doin’ some when they catches Buffler! He ain’t sich a fool as me.”