Flaming Feud, page 6
Fiddlefoot and Weary took possession of the first two rooms, while the Dude washed up. Weary was hunkered against the plank partition in Fiddlefoot's room, close by an antiquated washstand, while the blocky rider sat upon the sagging springs of a brass bed, when a decorous tap sounded on the door and Creighton-Caldwell entered. The Dude's tweeds were well brushed, his necktie dangled down the front of a clean white shirt and his hair was neatly combed. The pink-eyed rat peered out of a coat pocket. "I am catching the train that leaves at nightfall," the Englishman informed them formally. "If witnesses are needed when I file my complaint, I will telegraph and you can follow. Of course, I will defray your expenses."
Fiddlefoot thought of the warrant he had dodged so long and decided that one witness would be missing, but he made no comment. "What ef we stick around?" inquired Weary cautiously.
"Your rooms are paid for."
"We gotta eat!"
"Charge your meals."
"My credit ain't none too good."
"I will arrange everything," the Dude informed him precisely. He turned towards the door, "I think I'll rest a little, the day has been quite trying."
"Now we got us a job thet is a job," beamed Weary, when the door closed. "Plenty eats, a good bed and nothing tuh do but set. Who wants tuh go tuh Paradise?"
"Wal?" he inquired later, as the train bearing their boss to the county seat whistled mournfully across the flats. "What'll we do?"
"What kin a feller do—in Adobe, except get drunk?"
It was a quiet night in The Longhorn. Monte Molly dealt listlessly to two strange riders. Fiddlefoot, whose eyes sought her the moment they entered, thought she was under a strain. Certainly her head came up nervously every time the batwings squealed. Nick, with his eternal cigar, was perched at the far end of the bar, unmoving as a fixture. A sprinkling of townsmen idled over their drinks. There wasn't a Boxed H rider in the place.
The pair dropped down at a table with a bottle. Fiddlefoot placed his chair so that he could watch Nick on the one side and the girl on the other. He noted that the saloon man was puffing on his cheroot vigorously. So he was bothered, too. Maybe, considered the rider, Nick was worried about the outcome of the Bitter Spring fracas. The rustlers had headed for the Barrens and chances were the Limey hadn't put him wise. But the girl, why was she disturbed? In a flash, the explanation leapt into his mind. What a hammerhead he had been not to think of it before!
Two redheads—brother and sister! He rose, sauntered across to the card table. He could see Molly tense at his approach.
"Maybe you'd like to know ma'am," he drawled, "three men were killed at Bitter Spring this forenoon."
Molly's red lips parted with quick horror. Forgetful of the cards that spilled from her fingers, she stared at him, and panic ran riot in her distended eyes.
"None of 'em was red-topped," he added, and turned away, her gasp of relief in his ears.
"Some men," commented Weary sadly, as Fiddlefoot resumed his seat, "crave tuh dabble with dynamite—and act surprised when it blows their lid off. Thet snake-eyed saloon man been watching you like a chicken hawk."
Every head swivelled as the batwings boomed like a bass drum before the impact of a boot.
"Hallelujah!" groaned Weary. "Here's Rock!"
Massive as a bull, square face dark and seamed, shirt and pants smudged with soot, a greying cowman strode into the saloon. His cold, deepset eyes probed around, finally fastened upon Nick. Behind him trailed the whipcord Boxed H foreman, Dave Winters.
Halfway down the bar, the cowman stopped, disdaining to go further towards the man he sought. His booming voice filled the saloon, "You take a hand in fencing Bitter Spring, Dardon?"
"Why would I fence Bitter Spring?" came back the saloon owner, face unmoved.
"Because yore a crooked, cowhocked cross between a snake and a coyote!"
"You got no right to tongue-lash me, Hansen!" Nick slipped off his stool, rounded the end of the bar and advanced to meet the big cowman. Fiddlefoot was reminded of a stiff-legged terrier taunting a mastiff. One thing he had to concede, Nick had spunk.
As he moved silently forward on soft-soled shoes, the saloon man's right hand slipped inside his black, buttoned coat.
Fire flickered in Winter's pale eyes. "Sneak a draw, Nick," he warned softly, right hand clamping on his gun butt, "and yore cold meat."
Two paces from Rock, the saloon man stopped. His chin came up and his jet-black eyes gleamed defiance as he met the cowman's frowning stare.
"Your wagon packed the posts and wire," accused Hansen.
"Guess I can hire out my own wagon."
"Sure you kin, you little weasel!" rumbled Rock. His hamlike right hand shot out and clamped upon Nick's neatly tailored shoulder. The saloon man's chubby red face twisted with rage as he strove to break free. His right hand jerked out from beneath his coat, grasping a squat derringer. Before the weapon cleared his coat, Rock's free hand closed over the gun and Nick's small, white-knuckled fist. The cowman's grip tightened. He squeezed, harder, harder, until the cords knotted upon his brawny forearm. Nick screamed in agony. Rock's fingers slackened. The derringer dropped to the floor, its silver-plated grip gleaming in the lamplight. The saloon man's arm hung limp. From where Fiddlefoot sat, it looked as though the hand had been under a wagon wheel, every bone crushed.
Then, unemotionally, as though he was throwing sacked oats onto a wagon, Rock lifted the half-sobbing Nick and flung him, arms and legs jerking like a frog's across the bar. His hurtling form hit the close-stacked shelves beneath the back-bar mirror. Bottles cascaded in crashing chorus around him as his body thudded heavily to the floor.
Tight silence held the saloon, a silence broken only by the hollow gurgle of liquor from broken bottles. No sound came from Nick, whose body was hidden by the bar. Maybe, thought Fiddlefoot, Rock had killed him, and he had a hunch the cowman was no more concerned than if he had crushed a snake underfoot.
"Lamp the gal!" murmured Weary, who looked as if he were enjoying the show.
Fiddlefoot's head slewed around. An angry splotch of crimson burning upon each pale cheek, blue eyes blazing, Molly had pushed back the card table and was hurrying across the room.
Rock turned to face her. "You bully! You murderer!" The girl's voice was low, almost strangled with anger. "You think you can kill and smash as you please, you and your hired gunman! But your day will come, Rock Hansen, dead men will be avenged."
Unmoved, the cowman listened to the girl's indictment, eying her with more curiosity than anger. Without reply, he pivoted and headed for the door, Winter dogging him, as single-minded and indifferent to the gaping patrons as a charging bull.
Talk released in a torrent when the batwings closed behind them. The barkeep waded gingerly through broken bottles to get to his boss. Molly ran behind the bar. Between them, they hoisted Nick to his feet out of the pooling whisky. Dark suit wet and soggy, smooth face white as a fish's belly, still dazed from the impact of his fall, he allowed himself to be led towards his living quarters in the rear of the saloon.
The girl returned to her deserted gambling table and the barkeep started to clean up the litter of broken bottles.
"Wal, look who's here!" chuckled Weary. Fiddlefoot's head turned as Frosty Ferlow came in from the street. "I gamble the old tarantula followed the whole fracas through the window," continued the lanky cowpoke. His attention returned to the bar, "I wonder," he murmured with deep longing, "ef a feller would be allowed tuh lap up some of thet good licker Nick spilled." The humor strained out of his voice, "Some day, Fiddlefoot, a slug's gonna get Rock, as sure as shootin'."
Chapter 8
Fiddlefoot could never forget that he was a wanted man. Always at the back of his mind lurked the spectre of the warrant issued some years previously by a Texas sheriff for the shooting of a gambler. True the lawman was as crooked as the tinhorn who paid him protection money. But that fact detracted not one whit from the efficacy of the warrant. He had assumed Jack Small's identity on impulse. Now, if he were identified, Small's death would be laid against him, too. Sooner or later, the Cattlemen's Protective Association must learn of the switch in identity, and his hand would be called. Common-sense told him to hightail and get on the safe side of the Border while the going was good. A stubborn streak, added to a strain of recklessness, led him to linger. Maybe the redheaded girl was a factor, too, though he wouldn't have admitted it for a million dollars.
Fiddlefoot and Weary were hunkered in front of the hash house, watching the shadows inch up the bleached fronts of the buildings opposite, when Creighton-Caldwell trudged up from the depot, packing his grip, two days later. Ankle deep, dust smoked behind his dragging feet and fatigue lay heavy on his lean face.
"Big Chief Graball's a mite gaunted," grunted Weary, "and his tail feathers are drooping."
The pair followed him up the outside stairway, into his room. The heat-laden air was stale and heavy with cooking odors from the restaurant below. The Dude tossed his grip disgustedly into a corner. "The railway coach was as close as a coffin," he commented acridly, "and this is as odorous as a garbage dump!"
"Stronger than a wolf's den," agreed Weary sympathetically. The Dude yanked the window wide open and flopped onto the bed. The lanky puncher eyed him expectantly, "You look like yore in a sod-pawing, horn-tossing mood, boss!"
"I do feel a little exasperated," confessed the Englishman. "The sheriff was extremely non-cooperative. Indeed, he seemed to regard me as the aggressor. However, I consulted a lawyer and filed my civil suit. After all, even in this lawless country, a deed does mean something!"
"Not when it's blinking down the barrel of a six-gun," drawled the cowpoke.
Shortly after sunup, the three headed back to the Barred M. Fiddlefoot's forehead furrowed as they approached the willows, smudged green against the grey plain. He swung around to Weary, "Am I cross-eyed, or has the spread vanished complete?"
"Mebbe Mulloy swiped it," grunted Weary. "Seems the gents around here got taking ways."
Then Fiddlefoot, whose gaze swept up and down the creek, glimpsed the cabin. It was smoke-blackened, and holes gaped in its roof. "There's something almighty wrong," he murmured.
What was wrong became plain a few minutes later when they rode into what had been the Barred M. Ramshackle barn and open-sided shed were gone, the only indication of their existence sooted squares of ground. Nothing remained of the corral save partially consumed posts. The stout adobe-and-timber frame of the cabin had defied the fire, but the roof was ruined and the interior blackened and burnt out.
"Who could be responsible for this despicable, dastardly act?" choked Creighton-Caldwell, his face white with anger.
"Give me one guess," said Weary sorrowfully.
"Well?"
"Rock!"
"A reputable cowman burn down another's ranch!" The Dude eyed Weary with frowning incredulity.
"Heck, boss! You fence Rock's water, you grab his spring, you shoot his punchers, you set his grass afire. What in hell d'yuh expect him tuh do—file suit?"
"It was my spring! I shot in self-defense, and I did not burn his range," declared the Englishman indignantly.
"Rock don't figger yore way, boss. You stepped on his toe and he jest naturally kicked yore pants up around yore neck."
"Outrageous!" fumed the Englishman. "We'll return to town and demand action—immediately."
The sun rode high and Fiddlefoot envied the youngsters splashing joyously behind the willows that screened Lost River when they again stirred the dust of Main Street. Frosty was enjoying his midday siesta when the trio jingled into his office.
"Wisht I was a deputy," observed Weary enviously, "Nothing to do but eat and sleep." He sank down upon his heels against the wall as the deputy stirred into wakefulness.
"I have a complaint to make!" Creighton-Caldwell's voice was curt.
"I got a fistful of complaints and one concerns ornery gents who bust up my siesta," snapped the deputy.
"This is a serious matter, my ranch has been burned down."
"Wal, what d'yuh want me to do—rebuild it?"
"I merely request," came back the Dude coldly, "that you arrest the criminal—providing, of course, it does not disturb your sleep!"
"Sich as?" prompted Frosty, ignoring the sarcasm and scratching a match on the table top.
"Rock Hansen!"
"You want tuh swear out a warrant?"
"Certainly!"
"You lamp Rock when he set the torch to yore buildings?"
"No," admitted the Englishman, "but—"
"You see a Boxed H puncher start the fire?"
"No!" barked Creighton-Caldwell, now plainly restive.
"Then how in hell kin you swear Rock smoked yuh out?" demanded Frosty irascibly.
"I have good reason to believe that Hansen is responsible."
"Sign?"
The Dude gestured impatiently, "I don't need to look for sign. It is common knowledge that Rock Hansen is quick to make reprisal. I have incurred his enmity and he burned my buildings when I was absent. I demand that you, as an officer of the law, arrest him!"
Weary chuckled, quickly straightened his long face at Frosty's acid stare.
"Mister!" came back the deputy with brittle patience, "You give me proof—and I mean proof—thet Rock burned yore spread and I'll serve a warrant. Now vamoose!"
"This is outrageous!" The Englishman's voice was tight with suppressed anger. "I shall wire the sheriff and demand action. Every official in this infernal country appears to be Hansen's tool."
Frosty lifted his bony legs onto the table again. "Wire and be damned," he retorted indifferently.
"And if the law is afraid to affront Rock Hansen," continued the Englishman tightly, "I am not, I shall be avenged!"
The discomfited Dude and his two riders retreated outside to the plank-walk.
"I shall telegraph the sheriff immediately." The Englishman's voice was edged with anger. "This is a travesty of justice!"
"Reckon I'll bathe my tonsils," decided Fiddlefoot. "You lubricating, Weary?"
"I'll tag along later."
Creighton-Caldwell headed for the telegraph office, at the railway depot. Fiddlefoot drifted up street to the saloon. Weary ducked into the deputy's office again.
Frosty slid aside his newspaper and glared. Weary grinned with melancholy friendliness, "Howcome yuh stomped all over the Limey?"
The deputy reached out and jerked a yellow telegraph form from beneath a cigar box. "Lamp thet!" he grunted. Weary took the crackling sheet and read:
Ferlow, Deputy Sheriff
Adobe.
Englishman named Caldwell claims he owns Barred M and alleges Hansen, Boxed H seized his water known as Bitter Spring and is holding it with armed force. Last I heard Bitter Spring was Boxed H water. Check and report. Also Caldwell won big sum in all-night poker game at Western House. Reported too lucky. Check on Caldwell.
James Roth, Sheriff.
"Six on one side, half-dozen on the other," barked Frosty.
The Dude was inclined to linger in Adobe and await results from his wire, with which idea Weary, at the prospect of well-fed idleness, professed hearty agreement. Fiddlefoot, however, was adverse to hanging around town—he could not forget that warrant. Why set around, he urged, when they could get busy? The cabin and corral could be repaired with no great effort. So it came that, by midafternoon, laden with gunny sacks of chuck; new cooking implements and tools, the three again hit for the burned-out Barred M.
While the two riders cut small timber along the creek, Creighton-Caldwell decided he would ride to Bitter Spring, retrieve his tent and spend the night in Adobe.
This would give him a chance to ascertain if his wire had brought results.
"Wisht I was a boss," grumbled Weary. "Nothing tuh do but ride around."
"Save yore breath for panting," advised Fiddlefoot, unsympathetically, "and put a little more weight on thet saw."
Night still clung to the willows and a far-off coyote pack serenaded the dawn. Fiddlefoot cooked breakfast on the stove, which had survived the fire. Drying himself off on one of the Dude's new towels, the tall puncher poked his head through the doorway, "I been thinkin'," he drawled "How in heck will Big Chief Draggletail pack thet big tent?"
"Ten to one it's cinders by now, or I misjudge Rock," Fiddlefoot broke eggs into the frying pan.
"Mebbeso!" Weary frowned at the towel. "I gotta notion to take a pasear over tuh the spring, jest in case."
"You mean yore shying away from thet buck saw, and crave tuh lay off for a spell," grinned the blocky rider. "Well, beat it, you spavined old maverick."
Weary's face crinkled, "I sure would like tuh put a few blisters on the seat of my pants," he confessed. "They feel a mite more natural down there. My maw always said buck saws was hell."
He was back shortly before noon. "No tent, no Dood, ashes of one big fire," he reported, "Mebbe Rock made one big roast."
"You can get up one big sweat," Fiddlefoot told him. "Heck, you coulda rode tuh Bitter Spring twice over."
"Me, I was all tuckered out, so I snatched me a mite of shuteye."
They were setting new posts for the corral when a distant dust plume told of a horseman crossing the flats.
It was a big-bodied man in a dust-powdered dark suit who jogged out of the simmering haze. A stiff-brimmed Stetson was slanted down over his eyes and a thick mustache, greyed from the trail, drooped over his mouth.
"The sheriff!" ejaculated Weary.
Fiddlefoot's heart flip-flopped, but the lawman's first words steadied his pulse. "The Limey around?" he inquired, gaze roving over the ravished spread.
"Should be in Adobe," came back Fiddlefoot, straightening his back. He studied the lawman covertly. Jim Roth had the amiable voice and easy smile common to those whose emoluments depend upon votes. He was running to fat, which the rolls of flesh bulging over his broad belt plainly testified. But his jowls were not too fleshy to conceal the strength of his jaw and his bland stare had a disconcerting quality.
