Читать книгу The Sheriff of Hangman's Gulch - Matt Rand - Страница 7

THE SUN had already set and darkness saddled the clearing. Yet distant peaks still shone faintly in memory of the just-faded sun. But the memory was brief and fast-vanishing in face of the avalanche-in-reverse of shadows that swifted up the slopes, to draw the black-purple mantle of night over them.

The wiry placer miner led the way into the lean-to. Bide Evans heard him fumble around in the dark. Then a match flared, and a candle stuck into the throat of a bottle sent its dull, yellow light probing into the shack’s shadows. In another moment, a second bottle joined the first on the table with a lighted candle in its neck.

“If yuh’re headin’ for town,” said Evans briefly, “we can ride in together.”

“Sure,” agreed Farrell. “Say, I don’t know how to thank yuh. Hey pard—yuh’re bleedin’.”

The double-barreled candles threw light on a deepening red patch high up on the Texan’s left arm.

“I reckon I be,” murmured Evans. He had felt a slight stab of pain at the time of the shooting, but had forgotten it in the ensuing scene.

Ed Farrell grabbed up a bucket near the door. “I’ll get some water from the stream.” He turned. “Say, if yuh’re Matt Evans’ brother, yuh must be an Evans, too?”

“Good guess, Farrell,” said the redheaded Texan, smiling faintly. “The handle’s Bide Evans.” He might have added: “Recently sheriff of Holman County, town of Dudley, Texas,” but did not.

Evans took his shirt off. The wound, still bleeding slightly, he saw, was a two-inch gash across the fleshy part of his arm.

Then Ed Farrell came in, visibly excited, slogging water over the top of the bucket.

“I been a dumb fool,” he cried. “That must’ve been Black Henry and the Hounds. I been warned against ’em.”

“Hounds?” said Bide Evans. “Who are they?”

“Heard tell,” replied Farrell, “they was chased out of Sacramento for killin’s, startin’ fires, and robbin’ stores.” He had torn a clean cloth into strips and was washing Evans’ gash.

“And Black Henry?”

“He got the reputation,” answered the oldster, fixing the bandage, “of bein’ the slickest article this side of Truckee Pass.” He frowned. “That’s what worries me.”

“What?” Evans asked, slipping into his shirt, and then vest.

“Maybe Black Henry,” said Farrell slowly, “did enter a claim for yore brother?”

“Don’t yuh fret, Farrell,” Evans said. “If it was entered in Matt’s name, I promise yuh’ll get it back.” A thin smile cracked through the grim look his face held. “Is it worth gettin’ back, Ed?”

In answer, the oldster brought out the little leather pouch Black Henry had thrown him and tossed onto the table. It struck solidly.

“Two days,” he cried, excitement eating through his voice like acid. “And we ain’t begun to take it out yet.” He hesitated a moment. “If it weren’t for yuh, Evans—I was thinkin’ when I went down to the stream—that I’d like yuh to—become our pardner. Ming would sure say yes.”

“Thanks, Ed,” Evans said, shaking his head. “But I didn’t come to California for gold. ’Sides, I expect to pull out of here in a couple of days.”

The oldster’s face fell. “If yuh should change yore mind,” he said earnestly, “the offer remains open. Well, let’s go. I’m gettin’ worried about Ming.”

A big, early moon split the night darkness and polished the earth’s surface with frost-like silver. The two men followed the water-course westward, the oldster up behind Evans.

“Think we’ll meet up with our ‘friends’ in town?” asked Evans.

“ ’Tain’t likely,” replied Farrell. “Sam Larson told me there’s a kind of war goin’ on ’tween the Hounds and the Vigilante Committee—”

“Vigilantes? Ain’t there no law in the Gulch?”

“Yuh mean a sheriff?” demanded the gray-haired man. “Not for the past two weeks. Last one was found hangin’; one before that, shot. By the great horn spoon!” He slapped his thigh. “I clean forgot. There’s an election tonight—for a new sheriff.”

Like a cold gust of wind, a premonition scraped the warmth from Bide Evans’ lean face. The memory of laughing, black-clad men suddenly weighed heavily on him.

“Who’s runnin’?” His voice rustled with the sharpness of stiff paper rubbed together.

“Don’t recollect,” answered Farrell. “Brother expectin’ yuh?” he asked after a pause.

Evans half-twisted in saddle, stiffening.

“No,” he said. But he knew that his tension had escaped through his voice, for Farrell said quickly:

“Sorry, Bide. Didn’t mean to—”

“That’s all right, Ed,” Evans said. “It’s a kind of surprise—family affair.”

A bitter, ironic smile rolled unchecked across Bide Evans’ face. If only it had been a family affair!

Perhaps it would have been better if he had never found Matt? Perhaps his pride of family was wrong? Then giving up his sheriff’s badge because of what had happened was also wrong. But he knew it went beyond that. A man had to bear the responsibility for his deeds. A man had to give, and take back what he gave. And a man had to pay for what he got. Those were the lessons the hard, tough years had beaten into him. Lessons that showed up in his thin, half-smile, in the quickness of his eyes, in the faint scar whose track traced a small, wicked pattern across the side of his neck.

“There she be, Bide,” suddenly cried Ed Farrell, a tinge of excitement riding his voice. “Hangman’s Gulch.”

“She’s sure salty-lookin’,” murmured Evans.

Loud noise and clamor rode the crowded main stem. Flares stuck into the earth on either side, and brilliantly lighted stores and buildings made the street a solid octaggonal block of yellow light.

“Plenty of rot-gut spilled tonight,” cried Farrell, the town’s mood hooking onto his voice. He flung his arm up. “Them must be the election banners, yonder. But can’t make out what they say.”

Toward the center of the town, Evans saw several white streamers strung overhead, across the street. But like Farrell, was unable to discern what was lettered on them. A cool down-draught from the surrounding hills kept tugging and pitching the banners.

They dismounted and the loose, swirling ends of the milling stream of men lapped out at them and sucked them in. Evans used his elbows and shoulders to wedge his way through. Farrell, behind, lifted his voice to make himself heard.

“If we get separated,” he cried, “I’ll meet yuh later at the Palace Saloon. I’m goin’ to be lookin’ for Ming.”

Progress was slow and difficult, then Farrell tugged at his sleeve.

“Look!” yelled the oldster.

The redheaded Texan followed Farrell’s pointing finger—then froze suddenly in his tracks. The warm light faded from his eyes, and his shoulders hunched up, as if a chill had struck him.

“ ‘Matt Evans for Sheriff’!” cried Farrell, reading the bold black letters on the waving streamer overhead. “Hey, Bide! Yore brother’s runnin’ for sheriff! Ha! Ain’t that a surprise?”

“Yeah, Ed,” he said tonelessly. “It’s sure a surprise.”

“ ‘Vote for Tay Brown’,” said Farrell, reading the second banner aloft. “Ha!” he laughed. “If Matt’s anythin’ like his brother Bide, Mr. Brown don’t have no chance a-tall. No sir!”

A flat, hard grin worked its way off Bide Evans’ face. “Hope not,” he muttered.

“Huh?” demanded the blue-eyed oldster, not hearing him in the street din. “Heck!” he cried. “That means Black Henry did try to pull a whizzer on us with that story of his.”

“I gave yuh my word, Ed,” said Evans slowly, “that if yore claim had Matt’s brand on it, I’d get it back for yuh.” He turned abruptly and leading the black by the bridle plunged through the crowd.

A pent-up, restless feeling suddenly rode the redhead. His powerfully muscled body cried aloud for action—ached for the escape he found in its swift, violent flow.

He angled across the street toward the dark open doors of a stable.

“Putting up,” he told the hostler. By the light off the street he took care of his horse. He felt the man’s eyes on his back. He turned abruptly and saw them turn away.

When he quit the stable the hostler, a rotund, greasy man who wore a Yankee straw hat and striped pants that threatened to fall off, called his stable boy.

“Go tell Wurt he’s back,” he said. And the kid raced out.

Bide had left Farrell outside, but now found him gone. He shrugged, got into the jostling, thrusting crowd. He saw a general store, climbed the three steps and walked in. A large lamp hung over the counter—the only light in the room.

A girl entered from a side room and came behind the counter.

“Can I help you?” she asked, smiling. “You’re lucky—we were just about to close.”

His glance went across the room and touched her face. “Reckon I am lucky,” he said slowly, coming forward. “I need a box of cartridges—.45 Colt.”

The light of the lamp showered Kate Larson’s head with a kind of gossamer sheen. She had brown, wavy hair, but now it had golden glints in it. She was slim-waisted in her white taffeta dress with brown ribbons frilling it, and walked with an easy, assured stride.

Her eyes were probing under his hat shadow and a puzzled look came into her face; then he came into the light, and her eyes grew cold.

“They’re not for sale to you—Matt Evans.”

A ghost of a smile brushed against the Texan’s lips, then it was gone. Since he had seen the election banner he knew this would happen. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell this girl he was Bide Evans. That Matt was his twin brother. That people had always confused the two of them. But that there were ways of telling them apart. His eyes, for example, were gray, Matt s green; he was slightly taller than Matt; he had a scar on his neck—another, just acquired, high up on his left arm.

There were other ways, but she wouldn’t believe him—just yet. No one would. Moreover, he admitted to a deep curiosity about Matt’s life since the latter had fled Texas. So he did not tell her he was Bide Evans.

“Why not, ma’m?” he asked softly.

“Because you’re a drunkard, a coward, and a killer!” she flared angrily.

He frowned. He didn’t understand her anger. “Them’s harsh words, ma’m,” he baited her. “I may take a few drops now and then—”

“Now and then!” she laughed. “I’m surprised you’re standing steadily on your feet.” Kate Larson had inherited her father’s honesty and lashing, stinging tongue, and was unafraid to use it.

Bide Evans winced—for his brother; felt anger. But he had laid down a plan of action and he was going to follow it.

He shrugged. “Yuh’re a woman,” he pointed out. “Yuh can say things a man might hesitate sayin’.”

“Then why did you slink away after you announced you were running for office?” she demanded.

“Business in Frisco,” Bide Evans said.

“I don’t believe you have any business,” Kate cried.

He shrugged his shoulders again—and spoke the words uppermost in his mind. “Yuh got me pegged wrong, ma’m,” he said. “ ’Sides I ain’t never killed anyone—”

“You shot former Sheriff West,” she cried.

He paled at the lips; shadows skirted his eyes. He took a chance: “Self-defense, ma’m,” he protested. Then saw the answer in her face. Somehow, oddly, he felt better for it.

“That’s what they said,” she cried, her eyes unfriendly. “But I believe you’re mean, vicious and unscrupulous—and capable of anything.”

“That’s a right pretty dress yuh’re wearin’, ma’m,” he drawled. He had caught her off guard and she flushed up to her eyes. She was beautiful, he decided. He followed up: “How come yuh’re so interested in me?”

“I’m not!” she cried. “At one time, when you first came here, I thought we could be friends. But you changed that thought very quickly.” There was disgust and loathing in her voice.

The door through which the girl had entered, opened, and a big-boned, wide-mouthed man came out.

“Are yuh ready, Kate?” asked the latter. Then he saw Bide. His eyes flashed and the blood rose to his face.

Bide Evans at once divined what he had suspected: That the girl was Larson’s daughter and that this was Sam Larson.

“So yuh did come back, Evans?” cried Larson. “I figgered yuh put a greater value on yore worthless hide.”

“I put my own value on my hide,” Bide drawled. Then he spoke the words he knew Matt would have spoken: “That’s kind of reckless talk, Larson.” He was committed to wring the last drop of information about Matt from these two.

“Maybe so, Evans,” cried Larson stiffly, watching Bide’s arms. “But a gent of yore caliber ain’t material for a lawman. And will never get to be.” There was a latent threat in his voice.

“Yuh can never tell,” drawled Bide. He saw Larson’s eyes and shook his head. “I didn’t come for shootin’ purposes, Larson.”

“One thing I’d like to know,” demanded Larson. “Where yuh got all the money to buy out Jim Wurt’s Star for tonight and give away whiskey like it was water? Yuh never worked a day since yuh came here, Matt Evans—”

High up in Bide’s face, his temple throbbed violently. He knew only too well where Matt had gotten the money. Suddenly, he sickened of the game. His voice grew tight.

“Since yuh won’t sell,” he said briefly, “I’ll say good night.” He tipped his hat to Kate Larson, and went out.

Father and daughter stared after him.

“He won’t be elected, will he, Dad?” Kate asked finally.

“Not a chance,” exclaimed Sam Larson. But there was a worried look in his eye.