The Rangeland Avenger - Max Brand
In the darkness beneath the north windows of the hotel, Sinclair
consulted his watch, holding it close until he could make out the dim
position of the hands against the white dial. It was too early for
Cartwright to be in bed, unless he were a very long sleeper. So
Sinclair waited.
A continual danger lay beside him. The kitchen door constantly banged
open and shut, as the Chinese cook trotted out and back, carrying
scraps to the waste barrel, or bringing his new-washing tins to hang on
a rack in the open air, a resource on which he was forced to fall back
on account of his cramped quarters.
But the cook never left the bright shaft of light which fell through
the doorway behind and above him, and consequently he could not see
into the thick darkness where Sinclair crouched only a few yards away;
and the cowpuncher remained moveless. From time to time he looked up,
and still the windows were black.
After what seemed an eternity, there was a flicker, as when the wick of
a lamp is lighted, and then a steady glow as the chimney was put on
again. That glow brightened, decreased, became an unchanging light. The
wick had been trimmed, and Cartwright was in for the evening.
However, the cook had not ceased his pilgrimages. At the very moment
when Sinclair had straightened to attempt the climb up the side of the
house, the cook came out and crouched on the upper step, humming a
jangling tune and sucking audibly a long-stemmed pipe. The
queer-smelling smoke drifted across to Sinclair; for a moment he was on
the verge of attempting a quick leap and a tying and gagging of the
Oriental, but he desisted.
Instead, Sinclair flattened himself against the wall and waited.
Providence came to his assistance at that crisis. Someone called from
the interior of the house. There was an odd-sounding exclamation from
the cook, and then the latter jumped up and scurried inside, slamming
the screen door behind him with a great racket.
Sinclair raised his head and surveyed the side of the wall for the last
time. The sill of the window of the first floor was no higher than his
shoulders. The eaves above that window projected well out, and they
would afford an excellent hold by which he could swing himself up. But
having swung up, the great problem was to obtain sufficient purchase
for his knee to keep from sliding off before he had a chance to steady
himself. Once on the ledge of those eaves, he could stand up and look
through any one of the three windows into the room which, according to
the boy, Cartwright occupied.
He lifted himself onto the sill of the first window, bumping his nose
sharply against the pane of the glass.
Then began the more difficult task. He straightened and fixed his
fingers firmly on the ledge above him, waiting until his palm and the
fingertips had sweated into a steady grip. Then he stepped as far as
possible to one side and sprang up with a great heave of the shoulders.
But the effort was too great. He not only flung himself far enough up,
but too far, and his descending knee, striving for a hold, slipped off
as if from an oiled surface. He came down with a jar, the full length
of his arms, a fall that flung him down on his back on the ground.
With a stifled curse he leaped up again. It seemed that the noise of
that fall must have resounded for a great distance, but, as he stood
there listening, no one drew near. Someone came out of the front door
of the hotel, laughing.
The cowpuncher tried again. He managed the first stage of the ascent,
as before, very easily, but, making the second effort he exceeded too
much in caution and fell short. However, the fall did not include a
toppling all the way to the ground. His feet landed softly on the sill,
and, at the same time, voices turned the corner of the building beside
him. Sinclair flattened himself against the pane of the lower window
and held his breath. Two men were beneath him. Their heads were level
with his feet. He could have kicked the hats off their heads, without
the slightest trouble.
It was a mystery that they did not see him, he thought, until he
recalled that all men, at night, naturally face outward from a wall. It
is an instinct. They stood close together, talking rather low. The one
was fairly tall, and the other squat. The shorter man lighted a
cigarette. The match light glinted on an oily, olive skin, and so much
of the profile as he could see was faintly familiar. He sent his memory
lurching back into far places and old times, but he had no nerve for
reminiscence. He recalled himself to the danger of the moment and
listened to them talking.
"What's happened?" the taller man was saying.
"So far, nothing," grunted the other.
"And how long do you feel we'd ought to keep it up?"
"I dunno. I'll tell you when I get tired."
"Speaking personal, Fatty, I'm kind of tired of it right now. I want to
hit the hay."
"Buck up, buck up, partner. We'll get him yet!"
Now it flashed into the mind of Sinclair that it must be a pair of
crooked gamblers working on some fat purse in the hotel, come out here
to arrange plans because they failed to extract the bank roll as
quickly as they desired. Otherwise, there could be no meaning to this
talk of "getting" someone.
"But between you and me," grumbled the big man, "it looked from the
first like a bum game, Fatty."
"That's the trouble with you, Red. You ain't got any patience. How does
a cat catch a mouse? By sitting down and waiting--maybe three hours.
And the hungrier she gets, the longer she'll wait and the stiller
she'll sit. A man could take a good lesson out'n that."
"You always got a pile of fancy words," protested the big man.
Sinclair saw Fatty put his hand on the shoulder of his companion.
Plainly he was the dominant force of the two, in spite of his lack of
height.
"Red, as sure as you're born, they's something going to happen this
here night. My scars is itching, Red, and that means something."
Again the mind of Sinclair flashed back to something familiar. A man
who prophesied by the itching of his scars. But once more the danger of
the moment made his mind a blank to all else.
"What scars?" asked Red.
"Scratches I got when I was a kid," flashed the fat man. "That's all."
"Oh," chuckled Red, plainly unconvinced. "Well, we'll play the game a
little longer."
"That's the talk, partner. I tell you we got this trap baited, and it's
_got_ to catch!"
Presently they drifted around the corner of the building and out of
sight. For a moment Sinclair wondered what that trap could be which the
fat man had baited so carefully. His mind reverted to his original
picture of a card game. Cheap tricksters, sharpers with the cards, he
decided, and with that decision he banished them both from his mind.
There was no other sign of life around him. All of Sour Creek lived in
the main street, or went to bed at this hour of the early night. The
back of the hotel was safe from observance, except for the horse shed,
and the back of the shed was turned to him. He felt safe, and now he
turned, settled his fingers into a new grip on the eaves, and made his
third attempt. It succeeded to a nicety, his right knee catching
solidly on the ledge.
He got a fingertip hold on the boards and stood up. Straightening
himself slowly, he looked into the room through a corner of the window
pane.
Cartwright sat with his back to the window, a lamp beside him on the
table, writing. He had thrown off his heavy outer shirt, and he wore
only a cotton undershirt. His heavy shoulders and big-muscled arms
showed to great advantage, with the light and sharp shadows defining
each ridge. Now and then he lifted his head to think. Then he bent to
his writing again.
It occurred to Sinclair to fling the window up boldly, and when
Cartwright turned, cover him with a gun. But the chances, including his
position on the ledge, were very much against him. Cartwright would
probably snatch at his own gun which lay before him in its holster on
the table, and whirling he would try a snap shot.
The only other alternative was to raise the window--and that with
Cartwright four paces away!
First Sinclair took stock of the interior of the room. It was larger
than most parlors he had seen. There was a big double bed on each side
of it. Plainly it was intended to accommodate a whole party, and
Sinclair smiled at the vanity of the man who had insisted on taking
"the best you have." No wonder Sour Creek knew the room he had rented.
In the corner was a great fireplace capable of taking a six-foot log,
at least. He admired the massive andirons, palpably of home manufacture
in Sour Creek's blacksmith shop. It proved the age of the building. No
one would waste money on such a fireplace in these days. A little stove
would do twice the work of that great, hungry chimney. There were two
great chests of drawers, also, each looking as if it were built up from
the floor and made immovable, such was its weight. The beds, also, were
of an ancient and solid school of furniture making.
To be sure, everything was sadly run down. On the floor the thin old
carpet was worn completely through at the sides of the beds. Both
mirrors above the chest of drawers were sadly cracked, and the table at
which Cartwright sat, leaned to the right under the weight of the arm
he rested on it.
Having thus taken in the details of the battle ground, Sinclair made
ready for the attack. He made sure of his footing on the ledge, gave a
last glance over his shoulder to see that no one was in sight, and then
began to work at the window, moving it fractions of an inch at a time.
23
When the window was half raised--the work of a full ten
minutes--Sinclair drew his revolver and rested the barrel on the sill.
He continued to lift the sash, but now he used his left hand alone, and
thereby the noises became louder and more frequent. Cartwright
occasionally raised his head, but probably he was becoming accustomed
to the sounds.
Now the window was raised to its full height, and Sinclair prepared for
the command which would jerk Cartwright's hands above his head and make
him turn slowly to look into the mouth of the gun. Weight which he
could have handled easily with a lurch, became tenfold heavier with the
slowness of the lift; eventually both shoulders were in the room, and
he was kneeling on the sill.
Cartwright raised his hands slowly, luxuriously, and stretched. It was
a movement so opportune that Sinclair almost laughed aloud. He twisted
his legs over the sill and dropped lightly on the floor.
"No noise!" he called softly.
The arms of Cartwright became frozen in their position above his head.
He turned slowly, with little jerky movements, as though he had to
fight to make himself look. And then he saw Sinclair.
"Keep 'em up!" commanded the cowpuncher, "and get out of that chair,
real soft and slow. That's it!"
Without a word Cartwright obeyed. There was no need of speech, indeed,
for a score of expressions flashed into his face.
"Go over and lock the door."
He obeyed, keeping his arms above his head, all the way across the
room, while Sinclair jerked the new Colt out of its holster and tossed
it on the farthest bed. In the meantime Cartwright lingered at the door
for a moment with his hand on the key. No doubt he fought, for the
split part of a second, with a wild temptation to jerk that door open
and leap into the safety of the hall. Sinclair read that thought in the
tremor of the big man's body. But presently discretion prevailed.
Cartwright turned the key and faced about. He was a deadly gray, and
his lips were working.
"Now," he began.
"Wait till I start talking," urged Sinclair. "Come over here and sit
down. You're too close to the door to suit me, just now. This is a pile
better."
Cartwright obeyed quietly. Sitting down, he locked his hands nervously
about one knee and looked up with his eyes to Sinclair.
"I come in for a quiet talk," said Sinclair, dropping his gun into the
holster.
That movement drew a sudden brightening of the eyes of Cartwright, who
now straightened in his chair, as if he had regained hope.
"Don't make no mistake," said Sinclair, following the meaning of that
change accurately. "I'm pretty handy with this old gun, partner. And on
you, just now, they ain't any reason why I should take my time or any
chances, when it comes to shooting."
Unconsciously Cartwright moistened his white lips, and his eyes grew
big again.
"Except that the minute you shoot, you're a dead one, Sinclair."
"Me? Oh, no. When a gun's heard they'll run to the room where the
shot's been fired. And when they get the lock open, I'll be gone the
way I come from." Sinclair smiled genially on his enemy. "Don't start
raising any crop of delusions, friend. I mean business--a lot."
"Then talk business. I'll listen."
"Oh, thanks! I come here about your wife."
He watched Cartwright wince. In his heart he pitied the man. All the
story of Cartwright's spoiled boyhood and viciously selfish youth were
written in his face for the reading of such a man as Sinclair. The
rancher's son had begun well enough. Lack of discipline had undone him;
but whether his faults were fixed or changeable, Sinclair could not
tell. It was largely to learn this that he took the chances for the
interview.
"Go on," said Cartwright.
"In the first place, d'you know why she left you?"
An anguish came across Cartwright's face. It taught Sinclair at least
one thing--that the man loved her.
"You're the reason--maybe."
"Me? I never seen her till two days ago. That's a tolerable ugly thing
to say, Cartwright!"
"Well, I got tolerable ugly reasons for saying it," answered the other.
The cowpuncher sighed. "I follow the way you drift. But you're wrong,
partner. Fact is, I didn't know Cold Feet was a girl till this
evening."
Cartwright sneered, and Sinclair stiffened in his chair.
"Son," he said gravely, "the worst enemies I got will all tell you that
Riley Sinclair don't handle his own word careless. And I give you my
solemn word of honor that I didn't know she was a girl till this
evening, and that, right away after I found it out, I come down here to
straighten things out with you if I could. Will you believe it?"
It was a strange study to watch the working in the face of
Cartwright--of hope, passion, doubt, hatred. He leaned closer to
Sinclair, his big hands clutched together.
"Sinclair, I wish I could believe it!"
"Look me in the eye, man! I can stand it."
"By the Lord, it's true! But, Sinclair, have you come down to find out
if I'd take her back?"
"Would you?"
The other grew instantly crafty. "She's done me a pile of wrong,
Sinclair."
"She has," said the cowpuncher. He went on gently: "She must of cut
into your pride a lot."
"Oh, if it was known," said Cartwright, turning pale at the thought,
"she'd make me a laughing stock! Me, old Cartwright's son!"
"Yep, that'd be bad." He wondered at the frank egoism of the youth.
"I leave it to you," said Cartwright, settling back in his chair.
"Something had ought to be done to punish her. Besides, she's a weight
on your hands, and I can see you'd be anxious to get rid of her quick."
"How d'you aim to punish her?" asked Sinclair.
"Me?"
"Sure! Kind of a hard thing to do, wouldn't it be?"
Cartwright's eyes grew small. "Ways could be found." He swallowed hard.
"I'd find a heap of ways to make her wish she'd died sooner'n shame
me!"
"I s'pose you could," said Sinclair slowly. He lowered his glance for a
moment to keep his scorn from standing up in his eyes. "But I've heard
of men, Cartwright, that'd love a woman so hard that they'd forgive
anything."
"The world's full of fools," said the rich rancher. He stabbed a stern
forefinger into the palm of his other hand. "She's got to do a lot of
explaining before I'll look at her. She's got to make me an accounting
of every day she's spent since I last seen her at--"
"At the wedding?" asked Sinclair cruelly.
Cartwright writhed in the chair till it groaned beneath his uneasy
weight. "She told you that?"
"Look here," went on Sinclair, assuming a new tone of frank inquiry.
"Let's see if we can't find out why she left you?"
"They ain't any reason--just plain fool woman, that's all."
"But maybe she didn't love you, Cartwright. Did you ever think of
that?"
The big man stared. "Not love me? Who _would_ she love, then? Was they
anybody in them parts that could bring her as much as I could? Was they
anybody that had as good a house as mine, or as much land, or as much
cattle? Didn't I take her over the ground and show her what it amounted
to? Didn't I offer her her pick of my own string of riding horses?"
"Did you do as much as that?"
"Sure I did. She wouldn't have lacked for nothing."
"You sure must have loved her a lot," insinuated Sinclair. "Must have
been plumb foolish about her."
"Oh, I dunno about that. Love is one thing that ain't bothered me none.
I got important interests, Sinclair. I'm a business man. And this here
marriage was a business proposition. Her dad was a business man, and he
fixed it all up for us. It was to tie the two biggest bunches of land
together that could be found in them parts. Anyway"--he grinned--"I got
the land!"
"And why not let the girl go, then?"
"Why?" asked Cartwright eagerly. "Who wants her? You?"
"Maybe, if you'd let her go."
"Not in a thousand years! She's mine. They ain't no face but hers that
I can see opposite to me at the table--not one! Besides, she's mine,
and I'm going to keep her--after I've taught her a lesson or two!"
Sinclair wiped his forehead hastily. Eagerness to jump at the throat of
the man consumed him. He forced a smile on his thin lips and
persistently looked down.
"But think how easy it'd be, Cartwright. Think how easy you could get a
divorce on the grounds of desertion."
"And drag all this shame into the courts?"
"They's ways of hushing these here things up. It'd be easy. She
wouldn't put up no defense, mostlike. You'd win your case. And if
anybody asked questions, they'd simply say she was crazy, and that you
was lucky to get rid of her. They wouldn't blame you none. And it
wouldn't be no disgrace to be deserted by a crazy woman, would it?"
Cartwright drew back into a shell of opposition. "You talk pretty hot
for this."
"Because I'm telling you the way out for both of you."
"I can't see it. She's coming back to me. Nobody else is going to get
her. I've set my mind on it!"
"Partner, don't you see that neither of you could ever be happy?"
"Oh, we'd be happy enough. I'd forgive her--after a while."
"Yes, but what about her?"
"About her? Why, curse her, what right has she got to be considered?"
"Cartwright, she doesn't love you."
The bulldog came into the face of Cartwright and contorted it. "Don't
she belong to me by law? Ain't she sworn to--"
"Don't" said Sinclair, as if the words strangled him. "Don't say that,
Cartwright, if you please!"
"Why not? You put up a good slick talk, Sinclair. But you don't win. I
ain't going to give her up by no divorce. I'm going to keep her. I
don't love her enough to want her back, I hate her enough. They's only
one way that I'd stop caring about--stop fearing that she'd shame me.
And that's by having her six feet underground. But you, Sinclair, you
need coin. You're footloose. Suppose you was to take her and bring her
to--"
"Don't!" cried Sinclair again. "Don't say it, Cartwright. Think it over
again. Have mercy on her, man. She could make some home happy. Are you
going to destroy that chance?"
"Say, what kind of talk is this?" asked the big man.
"Now," said Sinclair, "look to your own rotten soul!"
The strength of Cartwright was cut away at the root. The color was
struck out of his face as by a mortal blow. "What d'you mean?" he
whispered.
"You don't deserve a man's chance, but I'm going to give it to you. Go
get your gun, Cartwright!"
Cartwright slunk back in his chair. "Do you mean murder, Sinclair?"
"I mean a fair fight."
"You're a gunman. You been raised and trained for gunfighting. I
wouldn't have no chance!"
Sinclair controlled his scorn. "Then I'll fight left-handed. I'm a
right-handed man, Cartwright, and I'll take you with my gun in my left
hand. That evens us up, I guess."
"No, it don't!"
But with the cry on his lips, the glance of Cartwright flickered past
Sinclair. He grew thoughtful, less flabby. He seemed to be calculating
his chances as his glance rested on the window.
"All right," he whispered, a fearful eye on Sinclair, as if he feared
the latter would change his mind. "Gimme a fair break."
"I'll do it."
Sinclair shifted his gun to his left hand and turned to look at the
window which Cartwright had been watching with such intense interest.
He had not half turned, however, when a gun barked at his very ear, it
seemed, a tongue of flame spat in from the window, there was a crash of
glass, and the lamp was snuffed. Some accurate shot had cut the burning
wick out of the lamp with his bullet, so nicely placed that, though the
lamp reeled, it did not fall.
24
With the spurt of flame, Sinclair leaped back until his shoulders
grazed the wall. He crouched beside the massive chest of drawers. It
might partially shelter him from fire from the window.
There fell one of those deadly breathing spaces of silence--silence,
except for the chattering of the lamp, as it steadied on the table and
finally was still. There was a light crunching noise from the opposite
side of the room. Cartwright had moved and put his foot on a fragment
of the shattered chimney.
Sinclair studied the window. It was a rectangle of dim light, but
nothing showed in that frame. He who had fired the shot must have
crouched at once, or else have drawn to one side. He waited with his
gun poised. Steps were sounding far away in the building, steps which
approached rapidly. Voices were calling. Somewhere on the farther side
of the room Cartwright must have found the best shelter he could, and
Sinclair shrewdly guessed that it would be on the far side of the chest
of drawers which faced him.
In the meantime he studied the blank rectangle of the window. Sooner or
later the man who stood on the ledge would risk a look into the dark
interior; otherwise, he would not be human. And, sure enough, presently
the faintest shadow of an outline encroached on the solid rectangle of
faint light. Sinclair aimed just to the right and fired. At once there
was a splash of red flame and a thundering report from the other side
of the room. Cartwright had fired at the flash of Sinclair's gun, and
the bullet smashed into the chest beside Sinclair. As for Sinclair's
own bullet, it brought only a stifled curse from the window.
"No good, Riley," sang out the voice. "This wall's too thick for a
Colt."
Sinclair had flung himself softly forward on his stomach, his gun in
readiness and leveled in the direction of Cartwright. There was the
prime necessity. Now heavy footfalls rushed down the hall, and a storm
of voices broke in upon him.
At the same time Cartwright's gun spat fire again. The bullet buzzed
angrily above Sinclair's head. His own brought a yell of pain, sharp as
the yelp of a coyote.
"Keep quiet, Cartwright," ordered the man at the window. "You'll get
yourself killed if you keep risking it. Sheriff!"
His voice rose and rang.
"Blow the lock off'n that door. We got him!"
There was an instant reply in the explosion of a gun, the crash of
broken metal, the door swung slowly in, admitting a dim twilight into
the room. The light showed Sinclair one thing--the dull outlines of
Cartwright. He whipped up his gun and then hesitated. It would be
murder. He had killed before, but never save in fair fight, standing in
a clear light before his enemy. He knew that he could not kill this rat
he detested. He thought of the wrecked life of the girl and set his
teeth. Still he could not fire.
"Cartwright," he said softly, "I got you covered. Your right hand's on
the floor with your gun. Don't raise that hand!"
In the shadow against the wall Cartwright moved, but he obeyed. The
revolver still glimmered on the floor.
A new and desperate thought came to Sinclair--to rush straight for the
window, shoot down the man on the ledge, and risk the leap to the
ground. "Scatter back!" called the man on the ledge.
That settled the last chance of Sinclair. There were guards on the
ground, scattered about the house. He could never get out that way.
"Keep out of the light by the door," commanded the man at the window.
"And start shooting for the chest of drawers on the left-hand side of
the room--and aim low down. It may take time, but we'll get him!"
Obviously the truth of that statement was too clear for Sinclair to
deny it. He reviewed his situation with the swift calm of an old
gambler. He had tried his desperate coup and had failed. There was
nothing to do but accept the failure, or else make a still more
desperate effort to rectify his position, risking everything on a final
play.
He must get out of the room. The window was hopelessly blocked. There
remained the open door, but the hall beyond the door was crowded with
men.