The Second Western Megapack. Zane Grey
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round on the other side o’ that hoss, Larson! And keep your hands away from your guns!” “Guns?” I think, and for the first time notice that Mason is wearin’ two this mornin’. He has turned to face our visitors and now without a word he rolls a cig, his hands steady as rock.
“You’re real interestin’, Yardley,” sez I. “Tell me some more. I’m one curious jasper.” Uneasy? Gosh, I’m on tenterhooks. Them six men and Cal Bassett settin’ there on their hosses all abreast, stony-faced, lynx-eyed, make me squirm.
“Cayuse Brakes is our country,” Yardley resumes. “Couple of weeks ago, Lame Larson up and told me he was quittin’ us.
‘Boss,’ he sez to me, ‘I’m fed up on this damned business. Maybe I can ride a straight trail if somebody’ll give me the chance.’ ”
“And I agreed never to squeal on you, Yardley,” Mason breaks in, harsh. “Also you promised to lay off me and give me a chance. So what the devil you doin’ here?”
“Hell!” snorts the black-whiskered outlaw. “You know why I’m here.” He turns his attention to me, continuin’, “After Larson left us, the next thing we knowed of his doings we seen him pilotin’ a trail herd ’cross my country. Wal, naturally I figgered he was goin’ to turn a nice little trick for us, so, night afore last, I sent one of my boys, Whistlin’ Smith, to talk to him.”
I can’t help givin’ Mason a dirty look. “The hombre you met in the night an’ never told me ’bout,” I growls.
Black Yardley chuckles grim and ugly. “I was some s’prised when Whistlin’ Smith reported back to me that Larson—Mason as yuh call him—hadn’t no intention o’ turnin’ this 90 Bar herd over to his old pards. S’prised—and damned annoyed.”
I jus’ stare at the outlaw boss. He goes on: “Yesterday mornin’, Bill, I seen what you done to the fool sheriff. I also seen the two men what was left behind your herd. One shot bad, the other—wal, I rid up and talked to him,” pointin’ a dirty thumb at Cal Bassett. “Cal was all-fired ringy at yuh, Bill, so he fitted into my scheme plenty good.”
Bassett throws a triumphant look at me. “I get the reward on Lame Larsen,” he ’nounces. “That is, unless Larsen decides to talk turkey with Yardley. Course my good friend, Black Yardley, takes this 90 Bar herd.”
“Yardley, you can’t take the dogies,” speaks up Mason, cold and grim. “Remember, you agreed to let me alone.”
“But you was damn fool enough to pilot a herd worth thirty or forty thousand bucks across my territory,” snaps the black-whiskered outlaw. “If yuh think I’m goin’ to lay off, you’re plum’ loco.”
“You goin’ back on your word? You double-crossin’ me?” Mason wants to know. “Put it anyway yuh like,” retorts Yardley, “but I aim to have these cattle. However, I’ll give you the chance to join my outfit again, Larson. Join us, and Cal Bassett don’t collect no reward on your scalp. Turn my offer down and Bassett collects two thousand bucks. Savvy?”
An instant’s tense silence. I don’t seem to count none in this drama, but I’m lookin’ at the man who does, the tall, lame, thin-lipped and cold-eyed rider, Mason, or Lame Larsen.
His piercin’ eyes—eyes now narrowed to pinpoints—is tryin’ to tell me somethin’, but I don’t get the message.
“Hombre,” Yardley goes on to Mason, “yuh only got one choice. Seven to two, we are,” throwin’ me a contemptuous glance and sneerin’ to show how slight is my chance and Mason’s. “We can bullet-riddle both of yuh afore you can say Jack Robinson.”
“Yardley, you’re a double-crosser. You’ve gone back on your word to me, yuh polecat,” Mason hisses. “Here’s my answer!”
I’m lookin’ straight at him, yet I fail to see his two Colts leave their holsters. I see ’em in his hands, held low at his hips, both muzzles spurtin’ flame. Deafenin’ roar and crash of shots. Pandemonium among the seven horsemen. I crouch, snake out my own barker and begin’ throwin’ lead. Horses leapin’ every which way, kickin’, squealin’. Dust! Din! I can’t see more’n half of what’s goin’ on. I’m busy pumpin’ bullets at Cal Bassett, who’s tryin’ to get me. All the rest of that gang seem hell-bent on downin’ Mason. But Yardley’s saddle is empty, his horse sky-hootin’ away yonderly. ’Nother hombre has keeled offen his bronc, but his foot has hung in a stirrup and his crazy hoss is kickin’ the man’s head to a pulp while it stampedes over the rim of the hill and outa sight.
Mason’s first two shots has settled Yardley and one other, but four more men throw lead at him. Outa the tail of my eye, as I knock Bassett offen his nag, I see Mason hurled back by a forty-five slug. But he lands sitting and his two guns flame on. A hoss leaps towards him, a wild-eyed killer on the hoss. I shoot that hombre through the head. Another of my shots brings down a bronc that squeals horrible and kicks, the rider pinned under the critter.
Then all in the space of time it takes to empty a six-shooter that battle’s over. Silence, save for a thuddin’ of hoofs in the distance, squeals of wounded horses and groans of men. I take stock of the situation. Yardley dead. One bandit gone yonderly somewhere, draggin’ from his stirrup. Cal Bassett gone west. I’ve somehow escaped ’cept for a few minor nicks. Two more Yardley outlaws has cashed in and the other two is shot up terrible. Three horses so bad hurt I put ’em outa their misery.
Mason is lyin’ stretched out on the ground. Quick as I’ve seen there ain’t no more danger from the toughs I run to him.
“Mason, Mason, tell me you ain’t dead.” He sets up slow, blood on his face, blood all over his shirt. “Not dead,” he mutters. “Nope. I’ll pilot them cattle through the rest of the way.”
I catch a pack pony and soon get some rags to bandage that gun-fightin’ outlaw. Three times he’s been hit in the body and has got a scalp wound besides. Not a whimper outa him. But thunder! I know he can’t live long.
Here, speedin’ to camp, come Raw Beef and Jimmy. They stare at the awful scene and Jimmy turns alkali white, but Raw Beef growls, “Damn, I missed out on—”
“The rip-snortin’est scrap ever,” sez I. Then I walk over to Sheriff Dutton, who’s been a spectator to the whole business. “You willin’ to take charge of them two wounded bandits and go back and see how Roper Dixon is makin’ out since Cal Bassett left him?” I inquire.
“I’ll be glad to,” says the awed sheriff. “What’s more, Bill Swift, I’m forgettin’ what you done to me. I’m also forgettin’ all about wantin’ to nab Lame Larson. By grab, he’s all man, he is!”
“Then let’s both get busy,” sez I, cuttin’ ropes on the John Law and lettin’ him up.
The sheriff takes a good look at Mason. “Lordy,” he says, “you cowpunchers take the cake. That is you real, steel-true cowpunchers—you and Mason and Jimmy and ol’ Raw Beef. All you could think of, Bill, when I wanted to arrest Mason, was you had to get the herd through. Same when I arrested you. You bucked the law, regardless o’ consequences. And now Mason, shot all to hell, dyin’ as he rides, will still pilot this herd.”
In that last sentence I figger the sheriff pays Mason the highest compliment he or any man could. For Lame Larson, or Mason, outlaw, gunfighter and cowboy, all shot up though he is, does pilot our 90 Bar herd on across Cayuse Brakes. The second day and the third he has to be tied to his saddle. Sometimes he’s outa his head, but he swears he’ll kill me if I make him get off to die. But on we goes, plumb through the badlands.
* * * *
Sundown of the third day after the battle—the twenty-eighth of September—we reach Cap Dillingham’s ranch. I’m ridin’ with Mason up on point when Dillingham hisself lopes out to meet us.
“Got ’em here on time, I see,” says the rancher. Then lookin’ sharp at the tall, blond cowpuncher aside me, whose face is white as a cigarette