Читать книгу Robbers' Roost - Zane Grey - Страница 4

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BEND over here, so I can get your ear,” went on Hays, confidentially, and when Wall had complied he said: “I run true to form today when I held up thet Mormon. But it was a blunder, considerin’ the iron I have in the fire. If he wasn’t a Mormon, I’d feel uncomfortable about thet.... Now listen. Lately I’ve got in with a rancher over here in the Henry Mountains. He’s an Englishman with more money than sense. Fact is, he’s rich an’ crazy as a bedbug. It’s beautiful country an’ he got stuck on it. Bought ten thousand head of cattle an’ a lot of hosses. There’s some tough cowboy outfits over there, an’ more’n one real rustler outfit. Wal, this Englishman—his name is Herrick—got the idee of hirin’ all the hands available, cow-punchers, range-riders, gun-toters, an’ plain out-an’-out bad men. An’ to throw this select outfit ag’in’ the whole country. What do you think of thet idee?”

“Original, to say the least. But not practical, unless he can reform bad men,” replied Wall, much interested.

“Wal, exactly. But I’m not concerned with the practicability of it. Herrick took a shine to me, made me what he calls his superintendent, an’ sent me off all over, lookin’ for hard-shootin’, hard-ridin’ men. An’ thet’s how you happened to run into me. I call it good luck for us both.”

“You’ve taken me for one of the hard-shooting, hard-riding kind, eh?”

“Shore. I only need to clap eyes on a man.... An’ don’t overlook, Wall, thet I’m not askin’ questions.”

“I haven’t missed that. Go on.”

“Wal, I want you in my outfit,” resumed Hays. “Brad didn’t cotton to you, I seen first off. But he’s a gun-thrower himself, a suspicious, jealous, queer sort, as most of them fellars air. He’s done for I don’t know how many ambitious-to-be killers. All the same he’s in my outfit an’ I reckon you might get along. It’s Heeseman who sticks in my craw.”

“Heeseman? Who’s he?”

“You’ll take this as confidence, in case you don’t want to throw in with me?” queried Hays, earnestly.

“Yes. I’ll regard it all that way.”

“Wal, Heeseman is the rustler of Dragon Canyon. None of the ranchers even round here know thet, but I know it. He’s got a small outfit, but shore enough bad. An’ in some way he got wind of Herrick’s scheme. Damn me if he didn’t pack over to the Henrys with his outfit an’ start ridin’ fer Herrick.”

“Heeseman saw the same opportunity as you?” queried Wall, quietly.

“Wal, yes, I was comin’ to thet,” resumed Hays, gruffly. “I got the upper hand, though, an’ I’ll be the boss. Thet’ll lead to friction, shore as hell. There’ll be two factions sooner or later, an’ the sooner thet fight comes off the better.”

“I see. Less of a division of spoils.”

“Wall, I’m no rustler,” snapped Hays, annoyed.

“Excuse me. If it isn’t impertinent, may I ask just what you are?”

“Ever hear of Henry Plummer?”

“Can’t remember if I did.”

“Wall, Plummer flourished some ten an’ more years ago, first in Montana an’ later in Idaho. He was the greatest robber the West ever developed. Educated man of good family, born in the East. But the gold fever called an’ he was not the kind of a man to dig. He operated on the placer mines. Was an officer of the law while he was head of the biggest robber gang the frontier ever knew. From Bannock to Lewiston he kept the miners, the stages, the Wells-Fargo in terror for years.... Wal, I seen Plummer hanged. I was one of his gang, a young man then in years.”

“Thanks for the confidence, Hays,” returned Wall, in surprise. “You must have strong interest in me to tell that.”

“Shore I have. But I don’t care to be classed as a rustler.”

“Too low down, eh—Well, then, what’s your plan with Herrick?”

“It certainly ain’t any two-bit cattle-stealin’.... However, thet’s not the point between you an’ me. What I want to know is, will you take a job in my outfit?”

“That depends, Hays,” returned Wall, ponderingly.

“Any scruples about it? Remember, I come clean with you.”

“No. I broke jail in Cheyenne.”

“What was you in for?”

“Shot a man. They were goin’ to hang me.”

“Ahuh. Was thet square?”

“I didn’t think so.... Had to kill the jailer to get out.”

“When was all this, Wall?”

“Some years ago.”

“An’ since then?”

“Been shooting my way out of one jam after another. I just couldn’t steer clear. So I’ve come far out West where no one ever heard of me.”

“Much obliged,” replied Hays. “I feel better, now you’ve returned the compliment. I’ve a hunch you haven’t sunk to stealin’. Am I right?”

“Not yet. But I’ve been on the verge often,” replied Wall, bitterly.

“Wal, you’re a hunted man. You’re broke. It’s about where you cross the divide.”

“One more question. What about this Herrick’s family?”

“Wal, he ain’t got any,” rejoined Hays. “We heard somethin’ about a sister comin’ out, but she never turned up.”

“Sister? It’d be a hell of a note if she did.”

“Wal, this shore ain’t no country fer women.”

It seemed to Jim Wall that this sally completed a definite conscious feeling in his mind toward the self-confessed robber. If it had not been dislike and disgust before, it certainly fixed at that now. Wall sensed a gathering interest in the situation he had happened upon. A thirst for adventure had played no small part in the event which had started him on his rolling-stone career.

Hays called for drinks and insisted on a handshake, which he executed solemnly, as if it were a compact which implied honor even among thieves. Shortly afterward the saloon gradually began to fill with loud-voiced, heavily-booted men.

Among them were Happy Jack, Lincoln, and a giant of a man with a russet beard, whom Hays introduced as Montana. He might have been a miner once, but his hand, which he offered agreeably, was too soft to have been lately associated with hard labor.

By tacit acceptance of a situation not vague to Wall, these men kept off to themselves, and were quiet and observing. Brad Lincoln had the hawk eyes of a man who was not going to be surprised.

Jim Wall sat back with interest and a certain enjoyment long unfamiliar. Saloons and gambling-halls were well known to him, from the notorious Dodge City to Kalispel, but he had not seen any like this of Green River, Utah. There was not a typical black-frock-coated gambler present, nor a half-naked dance-hall girl, nor a long-haired four-flush gunman looking for an easy mark to add another notch to his gun.

Cowboys were conspicuous by their absence, although before supper Wall had seen three. Teamsters, prospectors, cattlemen were there to the number of a dozen, and the others, making a score in all, had to remain problematical to Wall’s keen observance. Then a man, undoubtedly a trapper, entered. He wore buckskin and seemed out of place in that crowd. The bartender, Red, did a thriving business, selling only whisky, at four bits a glass.

“Seems to be no lack of money,” observed Wall to the watchful Hays. “Where do they get it?”

“Wal, you’re surprised, I see. So was I. This burg here is a stage stop for points in Utah an’ west. Lots of travel. But there’s big cattle ranges off toward the Henrys. South is most Mormons.”

“I see. But at that bar there are half a dozen men who are not travelers or ranchers or riders.”

“Wal, fer thet matter, all men in these diggin’s have got to be riders. It’s a long way from one waterin’-place to another. But you hit into things at thet. There’s four or five fellars I never seen before.”

“Who’s the tall one, with his hat pulled down, so you can only see his black, pointed beard?”

“Thet’s Morley. Claims to be a rancher. But if he ain’t the boss of the Black Dragon outfit, I’ll eat him.”

“And the loud fellow—the one with the plaid vest. He’s got guns inside that vest, one in each pocket, with the butts pointing out.”

“Hell you say! I hadn’t noticed. His name is Stud somethin’ or other. Seen him before an’ ain’t crazy about him.”

At this juncture the door slammed open, propelled by a vigorous hand, and a stout woman entered with a fierce mien. She had a red shawl tied round her head, and she tramped like a man in heavy boots.

“Sam Butler, you come out of this,” she shouted, peremptorily, to a man in the front rank of drinkers. He detached himself with alacrity from his fellows, and amid their boisterous bantering he sheepishly followed the woman out.

“Now thet’s the kind of a wife I oughta had,” observed Hays, admiringly.

“Let’s play poker.”

“Shore, but not just among ourselves.”

“Got any money, Hank?” asked Happy Jack.

“Did you ever see me broke? Brad, go dig up some suckers. But not thet hombre they call Stud. He didn’t get thet name playin’ solitaire.”

There were only two large gaming-tables, one of which was in use. Lincoln went among the men to solicit players, returning with Morley and the russet-bearded giant, Montana. There was no formality or greeting between Hays and these men. It was dog eat dog, Wall grasped.

“Make it six-handed. Come an’ set in, Wall,” said Hays. “Friendly little game of draw. Sky limit.”

Wall laughed. “I couldn’t play penny ante.”

“Wal, I’ll stake you.”

“No thanks. Some other time. I’d rather watch.”

“Excuse me, sir, but we don’t care for watchers,” interposed Morley, curtly.

No sooner had they seated themselves than the man Hays had called Stud strode up. He was a little fellow, but forceful, not one who would be good to meet in a narrow, dangerous place.

“Am I bein’ left out of this on purpose?” he demanded, and evidently he addressed Hays.

“Lincoln got up the game,” replied Hays, coolly, returning glance for glance.

“You ask my friends to set in, an’ not me.”

“Wal, if you’re so damn keen about it, why, set in with us,” went on Hays, fingering a deck of cards. “But if you want to know bad, I’m not stuck on playin’ with you.”

“Mean thet to insult me?” Stud queried, sharply, his right hand rising to the lapel of his open vest. If Wall had not observed the bulge of two guns inside this vest he would have divined from Stud’s action that there was one at least. Probably this fellow was a surly, cross-grained type whom contact with the bottle made unreasonable.

“Not atall,” replied Hays, leaning back in his chair. That significant movement of Stud’s had not been lost upon him. A little cold glint appeared in his pale eyes. “Reckon you’re too slick a poker-player for Hank Hays. I want a run fer my money.”

“Slick, eh? Wal, I don’t mind bein’ called thet. It’s a compliment. I’ve yet to see the gambler who wouldn’t be slick if he could. But when you ask my pards to play, an’ not me—thet’s different.”

“Set in, Stud,” rejoined Hays, civilly, as he began to shuffle the cards. “I feel lucky tonight. Last time you had it all your way.”

The game began then with Happy Jack and Wall looking on. Morley made rather a pointed move and remark anent Wall’s standing behind him.

“Shore I’ll change seats with you,” replied Hays, obligingly, but it was plain he felt irritated.

“Never mind, Hays,” interposed Wall, deliberately. “The gentleman evidently fears I’ll tip off his cards. So I’ll stand behind you, if I may.”

From the very first deal Hays was lucky. Morley stayed about even. Brad Lincoln lost more than he won. The giant Montana was a close, wary gambler, playing only when he had good cards. Stud was undoubtedly a player who required the stimulation and zest of opposition. But he could not wait for luck to change. He had to be in every hand. Moreover, he was not adept enough with the cards to deal himself a good hand when his turn came. He grew so sullen that Wall left off watching and returned to the fireside.

But presently he had cause to attend more keenly than ever to this card game. The drift of conversation, if it could be called that, and especially from the gambler, Stud, wore toward an inevitable fight. These men were vicious characters. Wall knew that life out here was raw. There was no law except that of the six-shooter. Back in Wyoming and Montana, where it was tough enough, Wall thought, there were certain restraints bound to affect any man. There were sheriffs, courts, jails, and something wonderfully calculated to check outlaws, desperadoes and cowboys run amuck—and that was the noose. Wall had seen many a man strung up to the limb of a cottonwood.

While he bent a more penetrating gaze upon Stud, to whom his attention gravitated, Wall saw him perform a trick with the cards that was pretty clever, and could not have been discerned except from Wall’s position.

Nevertheless, fickle fortune most certainly had picked on Stud. He bet this hand to the limit of his cash, and then, such was his confidence, he borrowed from Morley. Still he could not force Hays to call. He fell from elation to consternation, then to doubt, from doubt to dismay, and from this to a gathering impotent rage, all of which proved how poor a gambler he was. When at last he rasped out: “Wal—I call! Here’s mine.”

He slammed down an ace full. Hays had drawn three cards.

“Stud, I hate to show you this hand,” drawled Hays.

“Yes, you do! Lay it down. I called you.”

Whereupon Hays gently spread out four ten spots, and then with greedy hands raked in the stakes.

Stud stared with burning eyes. “Three card draw! ... You come in with a pair of tens?”

“Nope. I held up one ten an’ the ace,” replied Hays, nonchalantly. “I had a hunch, Stud.”

“You’d steal coppers off a dead nigger’s eyelids!”

“Haw! Haw!” bawled the victorious gamester. But he was the only one of the six players who seemed to see anything funny in the situation. That dawned upon him. “Stud, I was takin’ thet crack of yours humorous.”

“Was you?” snapped Stud.

“Shore I was,” returned Hays, with congealing voice. His pales eyes took on a greenish cast.

“Wal, I didn’t mean it humorous.”

“Ahuh. Come to look at you, I see you ain’t feelin’ gay. Suppose you say just what you did mean.”

“I meant what I said.”

“Shore. I’m not so awful thick. But apply thet crack to this here card game an’ my playin’.”

“Hays, you palmed them three ten spots,” declared Stud, hotly.

Then there was quick action and the rasp of scraping chairs, and the tumbling over of a box seat. Stud and Hays were left alone at the table.

“You’re a —— —— —— —— —— —— of a liar!” hissed Hays, suddenly black in the face.

Here Jim Wall thought it was time to intervene. He read the glint in Stud’s eyes. Hays was at a disadvantage, so far as drawing a gun was concerned. And Wall saw that Stud could and would kill him.

“Hold on there!” called Wall, in a voice that made both men freeze. He stepped clear of the chimney, against which he had been leaning.

Hays did not turn to Wall, but he spoke: “Pard, lay off. I can handle this fellar.”

“Take care, stranger,” warned Stud, who appeared to be able to watch both Hays and Wall at once. They were, however, almost in line. “This ain’t any of your mix.”

“I just wanted to tell Hays I saw you slip an ace from the bottom of the deck,” said Wall. He might as well have told something of Hays’ irregularities.

“Wot! He filled his ace full thet way?” roared Hays.

“He most certainly did.”

“All right, let it go at thet,” replied Stud, deadly cold. “If you can say honest thet you haven’t pulled any tricks go for your gun. Otherwise keep your shirt on.”

That unexpected sally exemplified the peculiar conception of honor among thieves. It silenced Hays. The little gambler knew his man and shifted his deadly intent to a more doubtful issue. Such fascination of uncertainty had been the death of untold Westerners.

“Jim Wall, eh?” he queried, insolently.

“At your service,” retorted Wall. He divined the workings of the little gambler’s mind. Stud needed to have more time, for the thing that made decision hard to reach was the quality of this stranger. His motive was more deadly than his will or his power to execute. All this Jim Wall knew. It was the difference between the two men.

“I’m admittin’ I cheated,” said Stud, harshly. “But I ain’t standin’ to be tipped off by a stranger.”

“Well, what’re you going to do about it?” asked Wall. The moment had long passed in which there had been need of caution.

Stud did not know what he was going to do. And just as plain was the fact that he wanted to annihilate. On the other hand, Wall had no desire to kill this testy, loud-mouthed little gambler. These things were manifest. They were Wall’s strength and Stud’s weakness. The spectators of the drama almost held their breaths.

Wall’s deliberate query ended Stud’s vacillation. His body shrank ever so slightly. His lean, dark, little hands lifted quiveringly from the table.

“Don’t draw!” yelled Wall. “The man doesn’t live who can sit at a table and beat me to a gun.”

“Hell—you say!” panted Stud. But that ringing taunt had cut the force of his purpose. There were beads of sweat on his face.

“You’ve got a gun in each inside vest pocket,” said Wall, contemptuously. “Men of your stripe don’t live long in my country.”

The gambler let his nervous, clawlike hands relax and slide off the table. Then the tension of all broke.

“Come on, Stud,” spoke up Morley. “Let’s get out of here.”

Stud shuffled to his feet, malignant, and beaten for the moment.

“Hays, you an’ me are even,” he said, gruffly. “But I’ll meet your new pard some other time.”

“Shore, Stud. No hard feelin’s on my side,” drawled Hays.

The little gambler stalked to the bar, followed by Morley and the russet-bearded giant. “Buy me a drink,” said Stud, hoarsely. “I’m cleaned out.” They drank and left the saloon.

Not until then did Hank Hays turn round, and when he did it was distinctly noticeable that he was pale.

“Jim, thet —— did have two guns inside his vest. I never saw them till you gave it away. The —— —— —— —— would have killed me.”

“I think he would, Hays,” returned Wall, seriously. “You were sitting bad for action. You ought to have got to your feet before starting that argument.”

“Ahuh!” ejaculated Hays, huskily. He wiped his face, then regarded Wall with new eyes. Happy Jack and Brad Lincoln rejoined Hays at the table. Lincoln’s gaze was more expressive than any words could have been.

“Brad, where was you when it come off?” queried Hays.

“I was lookin’ out fer myself.”

“I seen thet, all right.... Jim, I’m much obliged to you. I’d have hated shufflin’ off at this particular time. You can gamble I won’t forget it.... I’d like to know somethin’.”

“What’s that?”

“Did you bluff him?”

“Hardly. I had him figured. It was a pretty good bet he wouldn’t try to draw. But if he had made a move——”

“Ahuh. It’d been all day with him.... This gambler, Stud, has a name out here for bein’ swift on the draw. He’s killed——”

“Bah!” cut in Wall, good-humoredly. “Men who can handle guns don’t pack them that way.”

“Wal, he’s the first I ever seen out here, at thet,” replied Hays. “You see, when I called him I had my eyes on his hands, which was flat on the table. I thought I could shoot him easy enough an’ was a mind to do it. But, hell’s fire, how easy he could have bored me!”

“No, he couldn’t, with me standing here.... Let’s go to bed, Hays. I’m sleepy.”

“Good idee. We’ll all go. Have a drink on me.”

They lined up at the bar.

“Jim,” said Hays, poising his glass, “funny how a man figgers another. Not only you figgerin’ Stud, but down at the ferry, when I met you, I had sort of a hunch you’d be a fellar to tie to. Here’s lookin’ at you!”

Presently they bade Red goodnight and went outside. The night was dark, windy, cold. Dust whisked along the road, rustling, seeping. The stars blinked white. Black and grim the cliff wall stood up, seemingly to tower over the town.

“Where you sleepin’?” asked Hays.

“Left my pack in the stall out back with my horse.”

“You don’t call thet pack a bed, do you? Come sleep in a real bed.”

“I’ll make out all right. What do we do tomorrow?”

“I was thinkin’ of thet. We’ll shake the dust of Green River. It might not be healthy for us, seem’ this is Morley’s hangout. Besides, I’m flush with money. I’d only lose it. So I reckon tomorrow we’d better stock up on everythin’ an’ hit the trail for the Henrys.”

“Suits me,” replied Wall.

“How about you, Brad?”

“I’ll go, Hank, but it’s only because nothin’ else offers. This new deal of yours, as I size it up, will come to the awfulest mess ever.”

“Ahuh. An’ you, Happy?”

“Sounds turrible good to me, Hank,” replied Jack, with the enthusiasm to be expected from one with his nickname.

“Wal then, good night. Breakfast here early,” concluded Hays.

They parted. Jim Wall bent his cautious steps back to the barn. Presently his eyes became used to the darkness and he made better progress. But he was not passing any trees or bushes or corners, nor did he enter the barnyard by the gate. Nothing intervened to occasion more caution. He found his pack where he had left it, and carrying it out into the open he made his bed and lay down in it, after removing only his gun belt.

Then he reviewed the events of the day and evening. That brief occupation afforded him no pleasure. Nevertheless, he decided that he was glad he had fallen in with Hank Hays and his cronies. He had been a lone wolf for so long that the society of any class of men would have been relief. Well he knew, however, that soon he would be on the go again. He could not stay in one locality long, though there had been several places where he would have liked to spend the rest of his life. At least he was not indifferent to beautiful and peaceful country. The rub was that no place could long remain peaceful for Jim Wall. It would be so here in Utah. Sometimes, rarely, however, his thoughts impinged upon the distant past when for him there had been zest and thrill of adventure. He had grown callous. It so happened that tonight he seemed on the threshold of another and extraordinary experience, even for him, and it kept him thought-provokingly awake, with only resentment and disillusion as reward.