The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand
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boy. “I can’t make any more of a fool out of Liz than that tenderfoot made her!”
“Did he,” asked Steve, “ride a piebald mustang?”
“D’you know him?” breathed Lizzie, forgetting the tears of shame which had been gathering in her eyes.
“Nope. Jest heard a little about him along the road.”
“What’s his name?”
Then she coloured, even before Sue could say spitefully: “Didn’t he even have to tell you his name before he kissed you?”
“He did! His name is—Tony!”
“Tony!”—in deep disgust. “Well, he’s dark enough to be a dago! Maybe he’s a foreign count, or something, Liz, and he’ll take you back to live in some castle or other.”
But the girl queried, in spite of this badinage: “Do you know his name?”
“His name,” said Nash, thinking that it could do no harm to betray as much as this, “is Anthony Bard, I think.”
“And you don’t know him?”
“All I know is that the feller who used to own that piebald mustang is pretty mad and cusses every time he thinks of him.”
“He didn’t steal the hoss?”
This with more bated breath than if the question had been: “He didn’t kill a man?” for indeed horse-stealing was the greater crime.
Even Nash would not make such an accusation directly, and therefore he fell back on an innuendo almost as deadly.
“I dunno,” he said non-committally, and shrugged his shoulders.
With all his soul he was concentrating on the picture of the man who conquered a fighting horse and flirted successfully with a pretty girl the same day; each time riding on swiftly from his conquest. The clues on this trail were surely thick enough, but they were of such a nature that the pleasant mind of Steve grew more and more thoughtful.
CHAPTER XIV
LEMONADE
In fact, so thoughtful had Nash become, that he slept with extraordinary lightness that night and was up at the first hint of day. Sue appeared on the scene just in time to witness the last act of the usual drama of bucking on the part of the roan, before it settled down to the mechanical dog-trot with which it would wear out the ceaseless miles of the mountain-desert all day and far into the night, if need be.
Nash now swung more to the right, cutting across the hills, for he presumed that by this time the tenderfoot must have gotten his bearings and would head straight for Eldara. It was a stiff two day journey, now, the whole first day’s riding having been a worse than useless detour; so the bulldog jaw set harder and harder, and the keen eyes squinted as if to look into the dim future.
Once each day, about noon, when the heat made even the desert and the men of the desert drowsy, he allowed his imagination to roam freely, counting the thousand dollars over and over again, and tasting again the joys of a double salary. Yet even his hardy imagination rarely rose to the height of Sally Fortune. That hour of dreaming, however, made the day of labour almost pleasant.
This time, in the very middle of his dream, he reached the cross-roads saloon and general merchandise store of Flanders; so he banished his visions with a compelling shrug of the shoulders and rode for it at a gallop, a hot dryness growing in his throat at every stride. Quick service he was sure to get, for there were not more than half a dozen cattle-ponies standing in front of the little building with its rickety walls guiltless of paint save for the one great sign inscribed with uncertain letters.
He swung from the saddle, tossed the reins over the head of the mustang, made a stride forward—and then checked himself with a soft curse and reached for his gun.
For the door of the bar dashed open and down the steps rushed a tall man with light yellow moustache, so long that it literally blew on either side over his shoulders as he ran; in either hand he carried a revolver—a two-gun man, fleeing, perhaps, from another murder.
For Nash recognized in him a character notorious through a thousand miles of the range, Sandy Ferguson, nicknamed by the colour of that famous moustache, which was envied and dreaded so far and so wide. It was not fear that made Nash halt, for otherwise he would have finished the motion and whipped out his gun; but at least it was something closely akin to fear.
For that matter, there were unmistakable signs in Sandy himself of what would have been called arrant terror in any other man. His face was so bloodless that the pallor showed even through the leathery tan; one eye stared wildly, the other being sheltered under a clumsy patch which could not quite conceal the ugly bruise beneath. Under his great moustache his lips were as puffed and swollen as the lips of a negro.
Staggering in his haste, he whirled a few paces from the house and turned, his guns levelled. At the same moment the door opened and the perspiring figure of little fat Flanders appeared. Scorn and anger rather than hate or any bloodlust appeared in his face. His right arm, hanging loosely at his side, held a revolver, and he seemed to have the greatest unconcern for the levelled weapons of the gunman.
He made a gesture with that armed hand, and Sandy winced as though a whiplash had flicked him.
“Steady up, damn your eyes!” bellowed Flanders, “and put them guns away. Put ’em up; hear me?”
To the mortal astonishment of Nash, Sandy obeyed, keeping the while a fascinated eye upon the little Dutchman.
“Now climb your hoss and beat it, and if I ever find you in reach again, I’ll send my kid out to rope you and give you a hoss-whippin’.”
The gun fighter lost no time. A single leap carried him into his saddle and he was off over the sand with a sharp rattle of the beating hoofs.
“Well,” breathed Nash, “I’ll be hanged.”
“Sure you will,” suggested Flanders, at once changing his frown for a smile of somewhat professional good nature, as one who greeted an old customer, “sure you will unless you come in an’ have a drink on the house. I want something myself to forget what I been doin’. I feel like the dog-catcher.”
Steve, deeply meditative, strode into the room.
“Partner,” he said gravely to Flanders, “I’ve always prided myself on having eyes a little better than the next one, but just now I guess I must of been seein’ double. Seemed to me that that was Sandy Ferguson that you hot-footed out of that door—or has Sandy got a double?”
“Nope,” said the bartender, wiping the last of the perspiration from his forehead, “that’s Sandy, all right.”
“Then gimme a big drink. I need it.”
The bottle spun expertly across the bar, and the glasses tinkled after.
“Funny about him, all right,” nodded Flanders, “but then it’s happened the same way with others I could tell about. As long as he was winnin’ Sandy was the king of any roost. The minute he lost a fight he wasn’t worth so many pounds of salt pork. Take a hoss; a fine hoss is often jest the same. Long as it wins nothin’ can touch some of them blooded boys. But let ’em go under the wire second, maybe jest because they’s packing twenty pounds too much weight, and they’re never any good any more. Any second-rater can lick ’em. I lost five hundred iron boys on a hoss that laid down like that.”
“All of which means,” suggested Nash, “that Sandy has been licked?”
“Licked? No, he ain’t been licked, but he’s been plumb annihilated, washed off the map, cleaned out, faded, rubbed into the dirt; if there was some stronger way of puttin’ it, I would. Only last night, at that, but now look at him. A girl that never seen a man before could tell that he wasn’t any more dangerous now than if he was made of putty; but if the fool keeps packin’ them guns he’s sure to get into trouble.”
He raised