The Texan by James B. Hendryx (reading in the dark .TXT) 📖

through the office where a coal-oil lamp burned dimly in a wall-bracket, he stepped into the narrow hallway and paused with his eyes on the bar of yellow light that showed at the bottom of the door of Number 11.

"Most any fool thing would do to tell the girl. But I've got to make it some plausible to put it acrost on Jennie. I'm afraid I kind of over-played my hand a little when I let her in on this, but—damn it! I felt kind of sorry for the girl even if it was her own fool fault gettin' into this jack-pot. I thought maybe a woman could kind of knock off the rough edges a little. Well, here goes!" He knocked sharply, and it was a very grave-faced cowboy who stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "I've be'n doin' quite some feelin' out of the public pulse, as the feller says, an' the way things looks from here, the pilgrim is sure in bad. You see, the jury is bound to be made up of cow-men an' ranchers with a sheep-man or two mixed in. An' they're all denizens that Choteau County is infested with. Now a stranger comin' in that way an' kind of pickin' one of us off, casual, like a tick off'n a dog's ear, it won't be looked on with favour——"

Jennie interrupted, with a belligerent forefinger wagging almost against the Texan's nose: "But that Jack Purdy needed killin' if ever any one did. He was loose an'——"

"Yes," broke in Tex, "he was. I ain't here to pronounce no benediction of blessedness on Purdy's remains. But, you got to recollect that most of the jury, picked out at random, is in the same boat—loose, an' needin' killin', which they know as well as you an' me do, an' consequent ain't a-goin' to establish no oncomfortable precedent. Suppose any pilgrim was allowed to step off'n a train any time he happened to be comin' through, an' pick off a loose one? What would Choteau County's or any other county's he-population look like in a year's time, eh? It would look like the hair-brush out here in the wash-room, an' you could send in the votin' list on a cigarette paper. No, sir, the pilgrim ain't got a show if he's got to face a jury. There's only one way out, an' there's about fifteen or twenty of the boys that's willin' to give him a chance. We're a-goin' to bust him out of jail an' put him on a horse an' run him up some cottonwood coulee with a rope around his neck."

Alice Marcum, who had followed every word, turned chalk-white in the lamplight as she stared wide-eyed at the Texan, with fingers pressed tight against her lips, while Jennie placed herself protectingly between them and launched into a perfect tirade.

"Hold on, now." Both girls saw that the man was smiling and Jennie relapsed into a warlike silence. "A rope necktie ain't a-goin' to hurt no one as long as he keeps his heft off'n it. As I was goin' on to say, we'll run him up this coulee an' a while later the boys'll ride back to town in the same semmey-serious mood that accompanies such similar enterprises. They won't do no talkin' an' they won't need to. Folks will naturally know that justice has be'n properly dispensed with, an' that their taxes won't raise none owin' to county funds bein' misdirected in prosecutin' a public benefactor—an' they'll be satisfied. The preacher'll preach a long sermon condemnin' the takin' of human life without due process of law, an' the next Sunday he'll preach another one about the onchristian shootin' of folks without givin' 'em a chanct to repent—after they'd drawed—an' he'll use the lynchin' as a specimen of the workin's of the hand of the Lord in bringin' speedy justice onto the murderer.

"But they ain't be'n no lynchin' done. 'Cause the boys will turn the prisoner over to me an' I'll hustle him acrost to the N. P. an' let him get out of the country."

Alice Marcum leaped to her feet: "Oh, are you telling me the truth? How do I know you're not going to lynch him? I told him I'd stay with him and see him through!"

The Texan regarded her gravely: "You can," he said after a moment of silence. "I'll have Bat take you to Snake Creek crossing an' you can wait there 'til I come along with the pilgrim. Then we'll cut through the mountains an' hit down through the bad lands an'——"

"No you don't, Tex Benton!" Jennie was facing him again. "You're a smooth one all right. How long would it take you to lose the pilgrim there in the bad lands, even if you don't lynch him, which it ain't no cinch you ain't a-goin' to—then where would she be? No, sir, you don't pull nothin' like that off on me!"

"But I want to go!" cried Alice. "I want to be near him, and I'm not afraid."

The girl regarded her for a moment in silence. "I should think you'd had enough of cowpunchers for one night. But if you're bound to go I ain't got no right to hold you. I'd go along with you if I could, but I can't."

"I'm not afraid," she answered as her eyes sought the Texan's. "I've learned a lot in the past few hours."

"I guess you ain't learnt enough to hurt you none," retorted Jennie, with a trace of acid in her tone. "An' you'll learn a lot more 'fore you hit the N. P., or my name ain't Jennie Dodds. If you're bound to go you can take my outfit. I guess Tex'll see that my horse comes back, anyhow."

The cowpuncher grinned: "Thanks, Jennie, I'm right proud to know you think I wouldn't steal your horse." Once more he turned to the girl. "When the half-breed comes for you, you go with him. I've got to go on with the boys, now." Abruptly he left the room, and once more paused in the hall before passing through the office. "She's game, all right. An' the way she can look at a fellow out of those eyes of hers—— By God! Purdy ought to be'n killed!"

CHAPTER IX THE PILGRIM

A group of saddle-horses stood before the Headquarters saloon, and as the Texan entered he was vociferously greeted by the twenty cowboys who crowded the bar.

"Come on, Tex, drink up!"

"Hell'll be a-poppin' down to the wool-warehouse."

"An', time we get there we won't be able to see Sam Moore fer dust."
Curly raised his glass and the cowpunchers joined in uproarious song:

  "We'll string him up to a cottonwood limb
  An' dig his grave in under him,
  We'll tromp down the clods, an' we won't give a damn
  'Cause he'll never kill another cow-man,
  Ah wi yi yippie i oo-o-!"

Without a break the Texan picked up the refrain, improvising words to fit the occasion:

  "The sheriff's name, it's old Sam Moore,
  He's standin' down by the jail-house door
  With seventeen knives an' a gatlin' gun,
  But you bet your boots we'll make him run
  Ah wi yi yippie i o-o-o-!"

With whoops of approbation and a deafening chorus of yowls and catcalls, the cowpunchers crowded through the door. A moment later the bar-room was deserted and out in the street the night air resounded with the sound of snorting, trampling horses, the metallic jangle of spurs and bit chains, the creak of saddle-leather, and the terse, quick-worded observations of men mounting in the midst of the confusion of refractory horses.

"The sheriff's name, it's old Sam Moore!" roared a cowboy as he slammed into the saddle of a skew-ball black.

"Go git him!" howled another in exact imitation of Slim Maloney.

There was a thunder of hoofs as the whole crowd, headed by Tex and Curly swept down the street and across the flat toward the impromptu jail.

With a lighted lantern beside him, Sam Moore sat upon the strongly built unloading platform before the warehouse door, access to which was gained by means of a flight of six or eight plank steps at either end. Up these steps rode a couple of cowpunchers while the rest drew up sharply at the very edge of the platform. Hemmed in upon all sides the valiant deputy glanced fearfully into the faces of the horsemen. "Wha—What's up, boys? What's ailin' ye?" he managed to blurt out.

"Drop them guns an' give over the key!" commanded someone.

"Sure—sure, boys! I hain't aimin' to hurt no one. Yer all friends of mine an' what you say goes with me."

"Friends of yourn!" roared someone menacingly; "you're a liar, Sam!
You ain't never seen nary one of us before! Git that!"

"Sure, sure thing, boys, I don't know who ye be. 'Tain't none of my business. I couldn't name none of you. You don't need to be scairt of me."

"You beat it, then, an' lose yerself an' don't yer go stirrin' up no rookus over to the dance, er we'll dangle you a little, too."

"Sure. I'm a-goin' now. I——"

"Fork over that key first!"

"Sure, Tex! Here it is——"

"Sure who!" rasped a voice close to the sheriff's ear.

"I mean—I said—— Here's the doggone key! I was thinkin' of a feller I know'd down to Wyomin'. Tex—Tex—Smith, er some such of a name it was. I mistrusted you was him, an' mebbe you be fer all I know. I don't savvy none of you whatever."

"Get a move on, Sam!"

"Me! I'm gone! An' you boys remember when 'lection time comes, to vote fer a sheriff that's got disgression an' common sense." And with ludicrous alacrity, the deputy scrambled from the platform and disappeared into the deep blackness of the lumber-yard.

The Texan fitted the key into the huge padlock and a moment later the door swung open and a dozen cowpunchers swarmed in.

"Come on, pilgrim, an' try on yer necktie!"

"We'll prob'ly have to haul down all them wool-sacks an' drag him out from behind 'em."

"I think not. If I am the man you want I think you will find me perfectly able to walk." The pilgrim stood leaning against one of the wooden supporting posts, and as a cowboy thrust the lantern into his face he noted the eyes never faltered.

"Come along with us!" commanded the puncher, gruffly, as another stepped up and slipped the noose of a lariat-rope over his head.

"So I am to be lynched, am I?" asked the pilgrim in a matter-of-fact tone, as with a cowboy on either side he was hurried across the platform and onto a horse.

"This ain't no time to talk," growled another. "We'll give you a chanct to empty yer chest 'fore we string you up."

In the moonlight the prisoner's face showed very pale, but the cow-men saw that his lips were firmly set, and the hands that caught up the bridle reins did not falter. As the cavalcade started out upon the trail the Texan turned back, and riding swiftly to the hotel, found Bat waiting.

"You go in to Number 11 and tell the girl you're ready to start."

"You'm mean de pilgrim's girl?"

The Texan frowned and swore under his breath: "She ain't the pilgrim's girl, yet—by a damn sight! You take her an' the pack horse an' hit down the river an' cut up through old man Lee's horse ranch onto the bench. Then hit for Snake Creek crossin' an' wait for me."

The half-breed nodded, and the Texan's frown deepened as he leaned closer. "An' you see that you get her through safe an' sound or I'll cut off them ears of yours an' stake you out in a rattlesnake den to think it over." The man grinned and the frown faded from the Texan's face. "You got to do me a good turn, Bat. Remember them four bits in Las Vegas!"

"A'm tak' de girl to Snake Creek crossin' a'right; you'm don' need for be 'fraid for dat."

The cowpuncher whirled and spurred his horse to overtake the cowboys who, with the prisoner in charge, were already well out upon the trail.

In front of the