Читать книгу The Sheriff of Hangman's Gulch - Matt Rand - Страница 4

JOE HALE, lank, taciturn placer miner, put his heft against the boulder and heaved. It toppled with sudden swiftness, and crashed with a loud swish into the stream. Small geysers caught rainbows from the setting sun.

Wiping the sweat off his forehead, Hale set to work with pick and shovel. In flood season, the boulder had been submerged by the stream, and the top gravel the miner now shoveled aside was still damp.

“How’s it comin’, Joe?” called Bill Clayson, Hale’s curly-haired, stumpy partner, from a dozen feet away at the edge of the stream.

Clayson sat beside a four-foot cradle-shaped trough that stood on two rockers, one a few inches higher than the other, and was rolling it from side to side. With his free hand he scooped water from the stream with a tin dipper and kept pouring it into the open box at the high end of the trough. Sediment sifted out of the lower end.

Hale merely nodded as he swung the pickaxe. He went down to hardpan and then with the shovel, lifted the loosened dirt into a bucket at his feet. He left off and came over to the trough. Clayson watched him empty the bucket into the box at the upper end.

“The hopper needs fixin’, Bill,” Hale said, pointing to a loose corner on the box.

“So does yore disposition, Joe,” cried his partner, working again with the dipper. “So tomorrer night we go to town to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” demanded Hale dubiously.

“Why yuh old skinflint,” cried Clayson with mock seriousness, “didn’t this beautiful, little rocker—” he patted the trough, “—give us six pounds of gold dust this week? And look at them cleats.” He unhinged the hopper, swung it up to a point at the bottom of the rocker, into which traverse riffle cleats had been driven. Fine, dull, yellow flakes clustered around them. He let the hopper fall back into place and looked up, smiling. “We must’ve taken out close to two pounds more today, Joe—and the bar ain’t begun to be worked yet.”

“ ’Bout time,” said Hale, his dour expression brightening. “Took us a year to find it. Wish there was a bank in town we could keep the dust in,” he added.

“Larson offered us the use of his safe,” said Clayson, continuing to dip water and roll the rocker. “Said everyone uses it.”

“Maybe we will go into town tomorrer—and leave our gold with Larson,” said Hale.

“He didn’t worry yuh with his talk of Black Henry and the Hounds—did he?” demanded Clayson.

“Maybe so,” admitted Hale.

“No claim-jumpin’ hyena is goin’ to take this piece of pay dirt away from us,” cried Clayson pugnaciously. Then he laughed. “Heck, Joe,” he said. “Let’s not get to fightin’ shadders. “ ’Sides—” and he tapped the gun holstered at his thigh.

Joe Hale shrugged his bony shoulders and returned to the digging. The two men worked steadily until dusk, then knocked off. Night fell by the time they collected the settlings that had gathered around the cleats in the rocker. These were transferred to a milkpan and dried over a fire. Then the hot sand was blown away, leaving the gold.

Bill Clayson brought out a small pouch made of cowhide and poured the gold from the pan into it. He restored the bag to his shirt.

The two partners, fatigued from a full day’s work, went through a meal of hardtack, jerky and some coffee. They dozed a while around the fire, then rolled into their blankets—blissfully unaware that cruel, rodent eyes watched their every move. Gradually, the fire faded to a ruddy char.

The murderous raid came without warning, and the two partners never had a chance. A half dozen black-clad men charged suddenly into the camp, yelling hideous screams, unloosing a withering blast of gunfire upon the blanket-swathed, sleeping men.

Bill Clayson awoke, clutching his gun. “Black Henry—the Hounds!” he howled, catching sight of the ominous figures etched against the late moon. On his knees, he triggered his Colt as the tide of death swooped down on him.

Then a crushing, ripping blow crashed against Clayson’s brain and the universe seemed to explode in his face. He toppled and lay senseless.

His partner never moved from his blanket; never woke. He died in his sleep. A lucky man, Joe Hale.

The leader of the raiders, a huge, hulking figure in the night, kicked up the embers of the dying fire. Sparks and a dull glow temporarily lighted the damp. He stooped over Clayson’s prone form, rifled his pockets and came out with the cowhide pouch. He grunted with satisfaction.

“Take these two gents downstream, where it’s plenty deep,” he ordered his men. “Tie a heavy rock to their bodies, and throw ’em in.”

Four men moved to obey and soon trundled the dead men out of camp. The fifth spoke to the leader.

“How ’bout their tools, Black Henry?” he asked. “Get rid of ’em?”

“No,” grunted the big man. “This claim’ll be worked tomorrer. Yuh head back to the cabin, Lem. Tell the boys I went to town. Be back later.”

Several miles from the scene of sudden death in a miner’s camp, two men sat. For a time, a brittle silence lay between them; then it splintered in the voice of one.

“Wearin’ them fancy pants and clothes ain’t rubbed the smell of wolf off yuh, Jim.”

“Yuh wore fancy pants once, Matt. Remember?” he asked softly.

A chair scraped against the wall somewhere in the dark. “Don’t remind me of that!” The voice was harsh, bitter, and slightly thickened with drink.

“All right, Matt,” the man called Jim said. “But don’t forget these clothes made me a good and respected citizen of Hangman’s Gulch.” He laughed again.

“But not respectable enough to get yuh Kate Larson—huh, Jim?” he taunted.

Jim’s laugh died in his throat. He banged his fist down on the table. The whiskey glass jumped. Amber-colored liquor spilled over its edge and made a thin, glistening streak on the wood.

“I’ll get her,” he cried, his face glowing curiously in the yellow light.

During the day, Jim Wurt looked like the aggressive, reputable businessman that he appeared to be.

Yet somehow, a darkened room and candlelight brought into relief his dominant features; his hooked nose, his high, pale forehead, his black glittering eyes—and made him somehow sinister-looking. In his unguarded moments, despite the white linen shirt and black frock coat of respectability, Jim Wurt had the look of a man who ran with the wolf pack—at its head—as lobo wolf.

“Yuh ain’t forgettin’ Sam Larson, are yuh, Jim?” drawled Matt.

Jim Wurt’s face mottled. “Blast him,” he cried. “He thinks his daughter’s too good for me.” He laughed harshly. “But honest Sam Larson’s due for a surprise one of these days. And mighty soon, too.” His tone changed and interest ruffled it. “Weren’t yuh soft on her when yuh fresh came here?”

“Changed my mind!” said Matt abruptly. Drink slowed his voice, thickened it. “Don’t forget that Sam Larson’s a powerful man in this here town. Judge Carter’s his best friend; Sheriff Sears; the whole Vigilante Committee—”

“The whole Committee except one, Matt,” replied Wurt, smiling, restored to good humor. “Me—Number Eight.”

“I got to hand it to yuh, Jim,” admitted Matt. “Yuh sure pulled a whizzer on ’em.”

“Make that present and future,” said Wurt, “and yuh’ll be right.”

Matt’s short laugh had sarcasm in it. “Yuh’re right proud of yoreself, ain’t yuh, Jim? Don’t forget what the Good Book says. ‘Pride goes before a fall.’ ” He chuckled thickly. “Bet the good folk of the Gulch would be kind of surprised to learn that Jim Wurt kept just one step ahead of the law in Texas. The sheriff—blast him—suspected Mr. Wurt of changin’ brands, but never got a chance to prove it—’cause Mr. Wurt skipped Texas and came to California to become a respectable saloon owner—”

“Shut up, Matt!” snapped Wurt, anger flushing his high forehead.

“Sorry, Jim,” mumbled Matt. “Forgot. Sorry.” But liquor had loosened his tongue, and he rambled on. “Was a good idea, buyin’ this saloon. But it sure gets me how yuh won enough playin’ poker to do it. Yuh was always an easy trim—”

The door across the room suddenly creaked open. For a brief instant, a huge, shapeless hulk of a man stood on the threshold—outlined by a distant dim light of the sleeping town. The newcomer quickly shut the door, strode to the table, lifted the filled whiskey glass and tossed the drink down.

He took a chair and sat down; but kept his face well beyond the flickering range of the candle. Jim Wurt’s nocturnal visitors invariably kept to the shadows. Only the newcomer’s hands, huge and hairy, showed against his black trousers.

“Well?” Wurt was standing expectantly. On his feet, the saloon-owner was not a tall man.

In answer, the man tossed a small, cowhide pouch onto the table. It struck the boards with a heavy thwut.

Avidly, Wurt seized it up, pulled open the drawstring and tilted the bag’s mouth into his hand. A small stream of dull yellow metal flakes, grains and kernels sifted out. Cold glitter burned in his black eyes.

“This is sure gettin’ monotonous.” It was Matt’s drawling, thickened voice from the wall. “Say, Black Henry—how much did that there gold dust cost the state of California?”

The big man—Black Henry—laughed coarsely. “Two prospectors,” he answered.

Disgust crowded Matt’s voice. “Yuh’re a cold-blooded killer—ain’t yuh?”

“Why yuh onery—” began Black Henry, and his chair scraped in the darkness.

“Keep quiet, yuh two!” hissed Wurt, looking up. “Want to wake up the whole town?”

Black Henry eased off. “Some day, friend,” he growled to his tormentor, “yuh’re goin’ to push them jokes too far.”

“It ain’t the jokes I’m waitin’ to push far,” grunted the blear-eyed, stubble-faced man against the wall.

Jim Wurt had gone under the table to fetch a scale and some weights, and was now weighing the gold. Once more he turned to his two henchmen, his black eyebrows bristling.

“Listen,” he grated angrily. “As long as I’m bossin’ the outfit, I don’t want any arguments—understand? Matt—Black Henry?” Both men subsided in the darkness. Wurt went back to the scales; adjusted the weights carefully. “Eight pounds,” he finally announced with satisfaction.

He placed the gold pouch into an inner pocket and extracted a large wad of bills. He counted some out and handed them to Black Henry. “One thousand dollars,” he said. “Fifty percent—accordin’ to our agreement.”

Black Henry handled the bills carefully, his huge hands deft in the shuffling. “Right,” he said, pocketing the money. “Send yore man out to the cabin tomorrer mornin’ and I’ll have one of the boys show him the bar.”

Nodding, Wurt handed Black Henry a folded slip of paper. “Entered today,” he said.

The chair tilted against the wall thudded down softly; and the tall, unsteady form of Matt showed faintly in the dull light.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his tongue rolling, “I’m gettin’ mighty tired of not bein’ a millionaire. How ’bout stakin’ out one of them claims for me?”

“Maybe I’ll do that for yuh soon, pard,” growled Black Henry. “A nice, rich diggin’.”

Matt laughed thickly. “We’ll work that one together, friend.” He turned and made his way out.

“One day I’m goin’ to cut out his heart,” rasped Black Henry.

Wurt considered the black, shapeless form in the shadows, his eyes reflective. “Better go slow,” he said casually. “There’s only one hombre I ever saw faster than Matt on the draw—” his face clouded, “—and that ain’t yuh. ’Sides, he rides herd over my town crew.”

“Why do yuh let him drink so much?” asked the other.

“His wife died some time back,” replied Wurt. “He forgets when he drinks—and it keeps him out of serious trouble. Anyhow I got an idea in back of my head, and Matt’s the hombre to handle it.” His voice fell almost to a whisper, and his eyes showed bright and shiny in the candlelight: “An idea that’ll put Hangman’s Gulch into my back pocket.”

“What’s yore idea, Wurt?” demanded Black Henry, interest thick in his voice.

The glance the saloon owner swung at his henchman was void of expression. “My agreement with yuh,” he said coldly, “covers only the claims—that’s all. Any other, er—enterprises I engage in, are exclusively mine. Sabe?”

“Sure.” The big, hairy hands of Black Henry disappeared as he pushed his chair back and rose. He moved to the door.

“Oh yeah,” said Wurt casually. “I want to make a bet with yuh, Black Henry.”

“Bet?” The floor boards creaked as the big man turned.

“Yeah,” replied Wurt. “A thousand dollars against yore hundred the new sheriff’s still alive in forty-eight hours.”

Black Henry snorted. “It’s a bet.”

The door opened and shut. And the room was empty, save for frock-coated Jim Wurt, respectable saloon owner. For a moment his eyes had a faraway look. Then he fetched the cowhide pouch from his pocket, opened its throat and poured the yellow stream into his hand. A quiet, pleasant smile came to his face as he played with the gold.