Читать книгу The Sheriff of Hangman's Gulch - Matt Rand - Страница 6

THE LONG-LEGGED black made it up the sharp, rugged scarp and stood blowing and heaving on the patchy crest. The late afternoon sun, still warm, came out of the western fringe of hills to greet the lone rider, and splayed him with flat, yellow sunshine.

Bide Evans flung his hand up against the glare. He blinked as his eyes pierced the faded western distance and found faint smoke curling skyward from vague rooftop shapes. He nodded slightly.

“Reckon that’s Hangman’s Gulch, mister—the last stop down the line.” Evans spoke to his horse, as men do when they ride the range or trail alone. “Six months,” he muttered bitterly. “Six months—and nary a sign.”

The bitterness in his voice lay reflected in the ingrown canker of his deep-set gray eyes. And in the lines of his face that pulled his lips together, tight and thin. Yet his eyes had not always been bitter in his twenty-five years.

It was a strong face, where bitterness and determination sat evenly matched. It was lean of shank, but square of chin—a chin covered with thick, barbed-wire stubble, red in color. As brick red as the tangle of hair that lay thatched underneath his Stetson.

“From Truckee Pass to Frisco,” he muttered grimly. “From Mt. Shasta all the way down here, to Hangman’s Gulch—and nary a trace of him—nary a sign.” He shook his head stubbornly. “He must be in California. He was seen comin’ through the pass.”

He shrugged his wide shoulders, and spoke again to his black: “But we ain’t found him, mister. Reckon that means we’ll be headin’ for home tomorrer.”

Then, for perhaps the hundredth time since he had received it back in San Francisco, he drew a letter from his breast pocket.

He knew the contents as he did the back of his hand. Yet every time he read it, his throat choked him and anger raked him like a fiery brand. He hadn’t shaved since he had received it. The letter was brief and said:

Dear Bide,

Your mother died shortly after you left—of a broken heart. Come back to Texas, son, and the Circle E. I’m getting old and weary, and the spread needs you to ramrod it.

We’re a proud family, Bide—maybe too proud. That’s why I’m asking you to leave off and come home. Your mother would have wanted it that way, too.

Your Father.

Bitterness lay across his face like an open wound. His mother dead, and his father bending under the strain. All because of—

He stuffed the letter back into his pocket. Yes, he thought grimly, they had been a proud family. Proud and stubborn. That’s why he had clung to the trail until now. That’s why he had written back that he would stay it to the end.

But Hangman’s Gulch was the end. It was the last mining town down the line. Only a dogged presistence had kept him going this far. Even to himself he had been unwilling to acknowledge its futility. But he recognized it now. It was all over. Maybe it was best that way? Quien sabe?

At any rate, he had ridden the hot sun from mining camp to mining camp the whole day—as he had these past six months. And he had broken cold camp this morning, therefore the prospect of a hot bath and a good meal at Hangman’s Gulch, was inviting. So the redheaded Texan kneed his mount forward; and the animal went down the slope.

The black had shifted into an easy walk and soon neared stream level. Evans’ ears became filled with the sound of rushing water. That’s why he did not hear the clump of shovel biting into earth and the hoarse growl of low-pitched voices, until his mount sidled around a small tree cluster. Then he pulled to an abrupt halt.

A curious piece of business was going on here. A man was engaged in digging a shallow ditch, about six feet long, while five others stood around and watched—silently, and somehow sinisterly.

These were gun-heeled men dressed alike in black. And it was their horses, evidently, that stood bunched at the other end of the clearing, near a lean-to.

There was an ominous note about the proceedings that caused Evans to slip silently out of leather and glide unnoticed into the shadow of a tree trunk. In the quick glance he looped around the camp, he recognized here a dry diggings. Two buckets stood near fresh-turned earth on the rocky hillside. And down near the clay cut-bank at the stream’s edge was the familiar miner’s device—the rocker. In the center of the clearing, on the upturned roots of a tree stump, a few articles of clothing were hung to dry.

Even in the descending dusk, the deathly pallor of the man digging the trench was obvious. Sweat rolled down his leathery, weather-beaten face. And now he threw off his black felt hat—to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand—and exposed a shock of gray hair.

The leader of the group watching, a big, heavy-set man with a jet black beard, seemed to grow impatient.

“C’mon Farrell,” he rasped. “It’s deep enough—and we ain’t got all day to waste.”

Evans breathed softly and the shadows around his eyes darkened. Slowly, his lean hands reached down to his holsters.

The gray-haired man called Farrell stopped shoveling earth and stepped out of the trench. He fronted the leader, pale but defiant, and shook his fist at him.

“Some day,” he cried hoarsely, “yuh’ll pay for this coldblooded murder.”

“Button yore lip,” snapped the black-beard. “And get back there.” He towered over the lean, wiry miner, gripped his arm, and—

“Not so fast, gents.”

At the sound of the voice that drifted casually to them from across the clearing, the black-clad men whipped around like mongrels with tin-cans tied to their tails. They dove for hardware with practiced speed—then came up abruptly as they caught sight of a figure detach itself from a tree and move forward until he stood beneath the end of a low, leafy branch.

“Who are yuh?” cried the leader fiercely. “And what do yuh want here?” Two fox-eyes sat high up on his broad, pocked face. They tried to pierce the dusk to identify this intruder. The men behind him scowled darkly.

But the stranger’s face was shadowed by hat and branch; and the features blurred. There was, however, no mistaking the identity and menace of the two black guns that jutted from his fists.

“I’m a right close friend of Mister Colt,” drawled Evans. He wiggled the weapons suggestively. “Better tell yore amigos to remain hitched till I ask some questions—”

His right-hand gun bucked suddenly as he laid a shot down across the feet of a lank, scar-faced member of the black-clad band. The latter, on the far end of the shallow ditch, apparently thinking himself unobserved, had reached for his six-shooter. He changed his mind abruptly as the dirt showered his feet; and his hand froze to his side.

“I ain’t foolin’,” observed Evans calmly. A thin coil of blue-white smoke drifted lazily from the gaping black muzzle of his gun. He made a loose, idle shape standing there in the blur of the tree. But there was a grim threat of violence in the subtle undercurrent of his drawling voice, and the unexpectedness of his appearance.

Into the gray-haired miner’s faded blue eyes leaped a sudden gleam of hope.

“Whoever yuh are mister,” he cried desperately, “yuh got to help me. These hyenas—” He moved to step away from the trench.

“Stay put, Farrell!” roared the pock-faced man, still grasping the miner’s arm in his huge, hairy paw. “And shut up! And yuh, mister, if yuh want to keep yore nose clean, stay out of someone else’s business.” His glance flared bellicosely at the armed man confronting him.

Bide Evans’ skin tightened around his lips, and his gray eyes, flecked with queer lights, glinted oddly. Yet when he spoke, it was in the same deceptively mild voice.

“Yuh’re a stubborn gent,” he said evenly. “But I’m kind of patient myself. Matter of fact, I’m goin’ to count all the way up to three. If yuh don’t let go of Mr. Farrell’s arm when I get up there—I’m goin’ to put a bullet through yore right knee cap. I saw a man once who couldn’t use his leg for four years after that happened to him—”

With a baffled cry of rage, the leader released Farrell, thrust him forward and sent him sprawling on his face into the dirt.

A pulse high up in Evans’ temple began to pound. But he relaxed as he watched the gray-haired man pick himself up. Then he put a question to him.

“What was that yuh were diggin’ there, Farrell?”

“My grave!” cried the latter, hoarsely. “Them claim-jumpers rode into my camp ten minutes ago, stole my gold and told me to start shovelin’ dirt—”

“Yuh lyin’ son!” roared the heavy-set leader. “Yuh’re the one who jumped this claim. It’s registered in the name of a friend of mine.” He gave vent to a short laugh, incomprehensible to the Texan.

“That ain’t true,” declared Farrell hoarsely, appealing to Evans. “Me and my pard been prospectin’ Dutch Diggin’s two weeks now—since the Gulch’s sheriff got himself stretched. Yesterday we located this claim, and Ming Foy—that’s my pard—went to register it at the Claims Office in Hangman’s Gulch.”

The fox-eyed man sneered and laughed sarcastically.

“Farrell’s talkin’ through his hat,” he said, addressing Evans. “Don’t know why I have to explain this to yuh. But this claim was worked three weeks ago. Then Matt had to go to Frisco, so he asked me to register it for him. Wal—I clean forgot to do it till yesterday. Then I decided to come out here to make sure everythin’ was all right—when I run into this windbag, Farrell. The whole town knows he’s a liar. Bet there ain’t even no Ming Foy. Who ever heard of makin’ a Chinaman a pardner? So the boys and me figgered on throwin’ a little scare into him.”

“It ain’t so,” cried Farrell, desperately, again to Evans. “Ming Foy’s my pardner and as good as any white man. And I am a stranger in these parts. They don’t know me in town—’cept Larson. He owns the general store. I don’t even know how this hombre here learned my name. Never seen him before in my life.” He hesitated a fraction as a thought semed to strike him. “By the great horn spoon, I do. Ming went to town to enter the claim. If someone else’s name is on this piece of diggin’, it’s—it’s because they stole the information from Ming and entered it themselves. That’s why Ming didn’t get back this mornin’ like he was supposed to. And they weren’t foolin—” he pointed to the five men. “They were goin’ to fill that grave with Ed Farrell’s body.”

“Yuh’re loco,” declared the leader. “The claims clerk wouldn’t register the same claim twice—would he?” His manner suddenly became friendly. He fetched a small, leather bag from his pocket and tossed it to Farrell. “Tell yuh what, Farrell. That’s the gold I took from yuh ’cause it rightfully belongs to my friend Matt. Wal—yuh go to town, and if yuh don’t find Matt Evans’ name down on the record—”

“Whose name?” A breath seemed to stir the leaves over the Texan’s head—although no wind blew.

The big man squinted hard, trying again to make out the face of the man under the tree. But the dusk had deepened, and if it was difficult before, it became impossible now.

“Matt Evans—” he answered.

“Be back from Frisco tomorrer,” put in the lank, scar-faced member of the band.

“Shut-up!” roared the leader, turning. Then with surprising agility, he suddenly leaped aside, shouting, “Gut-shoot him, Lem.”

The man called Lem had spoken to get his leader’s attention. While the latter had been talking, Lem had cautiously drawn his gun, being partially out of direct vision of the Texan. Now, he fired.

The redheaded Texan was a veteran of many gun battles, yet this once they almost caught him off guard. Still his movement was but a heart-tick behind the big man’s. He lunged backward and sideward in the same motion and snapped a shot with either gun. He crashed to his knees, went down on an elbow—then leaped to his feet, leveled guns smoking.

“Freeze, hombres!” The command in his voice nailed their moving arms and shifting legs to the spot. All except the scarred, black-clad man named Lem.

He had fired once, and then two bullets blasted his chest. He cried out in brief torment, and the gun slipped from his twitching hands. His knees buckled, then he sagged suddenly in the middle, caved and pitched forward on his face into the ditch.

“Farrell,” ordered the Texan. “Remove their hoglegs, then take the rifles out of their saddle boots.”

The gray-haired miner did the job with alacrity, despite the glowering, hostile looks cast at him.

“I ain’t never been crossed but once,” cried the heavy, thick-set leader, grimly. “And that hombre wasn’t happy long. I ain’t seen yore face clear, mister, but I heard yore voice—and I’ll be listenin’ for it.”

“Pick up yore amigo and get movin’,” ordered the Texan. “That was a mighty interestin’ story yuh told, hombre. Almost believed yuh. Better go before yuh tell another—maybe that this Matt Evans not only staked this here claim, but also is sheriff of Hangman’s Gulch.”

The gang’s leader, astride his horse by now, looked incredulous a moment, then suddenly threw his head back and roared with laughter. His men joined in as they rode out of the clearing. The body of the dead man, hitched to the saddle of his horse, trailed after them.

For a short time nothing was heard but the receding sound of men laughing. Then it mingled with roil of the river, and faded. The Texan listened, eyes intent, puzzled. Then he shrugged his shoulders and holstered his guns.

“Do yuh know Matt Evans?” he asked Farrell.

“No,” replied the gray-haired man. “Wait—’pears to me I heard the name in Hangman’s Gulch. Matt Evans? He—he ain’t a friend of yores, is he?” he asked hurriedly.

For a moment the Texan was silent, seemed to be turning something over in his mind. Finally he spoke.

“No,” he said softly, almost to himself. “He ain’t a friend of mine—he’s my brother.” The knuckles on his clenched fists were white. And a strange light blazed in his eyes.

“Found him,” he murmured. “Found him.”