Square Deal Sanderson by Charles Alden Seltzer (top e book reader txt) 📖

only two horses in the corral—showing that your men has gone. An' there ain't anything between you an' the coyotes!"

"Only you, Dale," said Sanderson. His voice was still gentle, still drawling. But into it had come a note that made Dale's face turn pale and caused the bodies of the men in the group to stiffen.

"Only you, Dale," Sanderson repeated. His right hand was at his hip, resting lightly on the butt of the six-shooter that reposed in its holster.

"I've always wanted to test the idea of whether a crook like you thought more of what he was doin' than he did of his own life. This gun leather of mine is kind of short at the top—if you'll notice. The stock an' the hammer of the gun are where they can be touched without interferin' with the leather. There ain't any trigger spring, because I've been brought up to fan the hammer. There ain't any bottom to the holster, an' it's hung by a little piece of leather so's it'll turn easy in any direction.

"It can easy be turned on you. You get goin'. I'll have a chance to bore one man before your crowd gets me. Likely it will be you. What are you sayin'?"

Dale was saying nothing. His face changed color, he shifted his feet uneasily, and looked back at his men. Some of them were grinning, and it was plain to Dale that not one of them would act unless ordered to do so.

And an order, given by him, would mean suicide, nothing less; for from that country in which Sanderson had gained his reputation had come stories of the man's remarkable ability with the weapon he had described, and Dale had no longing to risk his life so recklessly.

There was a long, tense silence. Not a man in the group of riders moved a finger. All were gazing, with a sort of dread fascination, at the holster at Sanderson's right hip, and at the butt of the gun in it, projecting far, the hammer in plain sight.

The situation could not last. Sanderson did not expect it to last. Seemingly calm and unconcerned, he was in reality passionately alert and watchful.

For he had no hope of escaping from this predicament. He had made a mistake in sending his men away with Williams, and he knew the chances against him were too great. He had known that all along—even when talking and comforting Mary Bransford.

He knew that Dale had come to kill him; that Graney had not issued any warrant for him, for Graney knew that Maison had acted of his own volition—or at least had given the judge that impression.

But whether the warrant was a true one or not, Sanderson had decided that he would not let himself be taken. He had determined that at the first movement made by any man in the group he would kill Dale and take his chance with the others.

Dale knew it—he saw the cold resolution in Sanderson's eyes. Dale drew a deep breath, and the men in the group behind him watched him narrowly.

But just when it seemed that decisive action in one direction or another must he taken, there came an interruption.

Behind Sanderson—from one of the windows of the ranchhouse—came a hoarse curse.

Sanderson saw Dale's eyes dilate; he saw the faces of the men in the group of riders change color; he saw their hands go slowly upward. Dale, too, raised his hands.

Glancing swiftly over his shoulder, Sanderson saw Barney Owen at one of the windows. He was inside the house, his arms were resting on the window-sill. He was kneeling, and in his hands was a rifle, the muzzle covering Dale and the men who had come with him.

Owen's face was chalk white and working with demoniac passion. His eyes were wild, and blazing with a wanton malignancy that awed every man who looked at him—Sanderson included. His teeth were bared in a horrible snarl; the man was like some wild animal—worse, the savage, primitive passions of him were unleashed and rampant, directed by a reasoning intelligence. His voice was hoarse and rasping, coming in jerks:

"Get out of the way, Sanderson! Stand aside! I'll take care of these whelps! Get your hands up, Dale! Higher—higher! You damned, sneaking vulture! Come here to make trouble, eh? You and your bunch of curs! I'll take care of you! Move—one of you! Move a finger! You won't! Then go! Go! I'll count three! The man that isn't going when I finish counting gets his quick! One—two——"

"Wait!! Already on the move, the men halted at the sound of his voice. The violence of the passion that gripped him gave him a new thought.

"You don't go!" he jeered at them. "You stay here. Sanderson, you take their guns! Grab them yourself!"

Sanderson drew his own weapon and moved rapidly among the men. He got Dale's gun first and threw it in the sand at the edge of the porch. Then he disarmed the others, one after another, throwing the weapons near where he had thrown Dale's.

He heard Owen tell Mary Bransford to get them, and he saw Mary gathering them up and taking them into the house.

Sanderson made his search of the men thorough, for he had caught the spirit of the thing. At last, when the guns were all collected, Owen issued another order:

"Now turn your backs—every last man of you! And stay that way! The man that turns his head will never do it again!

"Sanderson, you go after Williams and the others. They've only been gone about an hour, and they won't travel fast. Get them! Bring them back here. Then we'll take the whole bunch over to Okar and see what Judge Graney has to say about that warrant!"

Sanderson looked at Mary Bransford, a huge grin on his face. She smiled stiffly at him in return, and nodded her head.

Seemingly, it was the only way out of a bad predicament. Certainly they could not commit wholesale murder, and it was equally certain that if Dale was permitted to go, he and his men would return. Or they might retire to a distance, surround the house and thus achieve their aim.

Sanderson, however, was not satisfied, for he knew that a sudden, concerted rush by the men—even though they were unarmed—would result disastrously to Owen—and to Mary—if she decided to remain.

Telling the little man to keep a watchful eye on the men, he went among them, ordering those that were mounted from their horses. When they were all standing, he began to uncoil the ropes that were hanging from the saddles.

He worked fast, and looking up once he saw Owen's eyes glowing with approval—while Mary smiled broadly at him. They knew what he meant to do.

Dale and his men knew also, for their faces grew sullen. Sanderson, however, would tolerate no resistance. Rope in hand, he faced Dale. The latter's face grew white with impotent fury as he looked at the rope in Sanderson's hands; but the significant Hardness that flashed into Sanderson's eyes convinced him of the futility of resistance, and he held his hands outward.

Sanderson tied them. Very little of the rope was required in the process, and after Dale was secured, Sanderson threw a loop around the hands of a man who stood beside Dale, linking him with the latter.

Several others followed. Sanderson used half a dozen ropes, and when he had finished, all the Dale men—with their leader on an extreme end, were lashed together.

There were hard words spoken by the men; but they brought only grins to Sanderson's face, to Owen's, and to Mary's.

"They won't bother you a heap, now," declared Sanderson as he stepped toward the porch and spoke to Owen. "Keep an eye on them, though, an' don't let them go to movin' around much."

Sanderson stepped up on the porch and spoke lowly to Mary, asking her to go with him after Williams—for he had had that thought in mind ever since Owen had issued the order for him to ride after the engineer.

But Mary refused, telling Sanderson that by accompanying him she would only hamper him.

Reluctantly, then, though swiftly, Sanderson ran to the corral, threw saddle and bridle on Streak, and returned to the porch. He halted there for a word with Owen and Mary, then raced northeastward, following a faint trail that Williams and the others had taken, which led for a time over the plains, then upward to the mesa which rimmed the basin.

CHAPTER XXVI A MAN IS HANGED

Sanderson and Streak grew dim in the distance until, to the watchers at the ranchhouse, horse and rider merged into a mere blot that crawled up the long slope leading to the mesa. The watchers saw the blot yet a little longer, as it traveled with swift, regular leaps along the edge of the mesa; then it grew fainter and fainter, and at last they saw it no more.

Dale's men, their backs to Owen and Mary, seemed to have accepted their defeat in a spirit of resignation, for they made no attempt to turn their heads.

Mary, white and shaking, though with a calmness that came from the knowledge that in this crisis she must do what she could, went inside and stood behind Owen, ready to respond to any call he might make upon her.

Owen, his rage somewhat abated, though he still watched Dale and his men with sullen, malevolent eyes, had changed his position. Mary had brought a chair, and Owen sat on it, the rifle still resting on the window-sill, menacing the men.

The minutes, it seemed to the girl, passed with exceeding slowness. She watched the hands of a clock on a shelf in the room drag themselves across the face of the dial, and twice she walked in front of the shelf and peered intently at the clock, to be certain it was going.

Williams and the other men had been gone for something more than an hour. But, as Owen had said, they would travel slowly, having no incentive for haste. Sanderson, on the other hand, would make Streak run his best—and she knew Streak could run.

So she began to estimate the time that would elapse before Sanderson and Williams returned. With an hour's start, she gave Sanderson three-quarters of an hour to catch them. Then, three quarters of an hour additional would be required for the run home—if they came back as swiftly as Sanderson had gone.

But she doubted that. She would give them a full hour for the return trip. That would make an hour and three quarters.

But it seemed to her that an age elapsed before the minute hand on the clock dragged itself one-quarter of the distance around the circle.

She looked out at Dale and his men. The men were all standing, their backs to the house. But it seemed to the girl that they were standing nearer to one another than they had been all along, and a pulse of trepidation ran over her.

Watching them closely, Mary felt they were meditating some action. They were whispering to one another, and Dale was gesturing as emphatically as he could.

The girl was certain they contemplated concerted action of some sort, and she was just about to apprise Owen of her fears, when she saw one of the men—and then another and another—working with the ropes that bound them. One of the men turned, a huge grin on his face. She caught the flash of metal in the man's hands, saw the rope fall from them, severed.

She shouted, then, at Owen:

"Look out, Barney; they've got a knife!"

At the instant she spoke the men moved as though by prearrangement. By the time her voice reached Owen's ears the men had scattered, running in all directions. Several ran directly away from the house, others toward it, some went toward the corners of the building nearest them. All were running zigzag fashion.

Owen, his eyes blazing, fired three times in rapid succession. One of the men tumbled, headlong, turning