The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod Raine
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scrupulous custom, he shaved and took his morning bath before appearing outdoors. In all Arizona no trimmer, more graceful figure of jaunty recklessness could be seen than this one stepping lightly forth to knock at the bunk-house door behind which he suspected were at least two men determined on his death by treachery.
Neil came to the door in answer to his knock and within he could see the villainous faces at bloodshot eyes of two of the others peering at him.
“Good mo'ning, Captain Neil. I'm on my way to keep that appointment I mentioned last night I'd ce'tainly be glad to have you go along. Nothing like being on the spot to prevent double-crossing.”
“I'm with you in the fling of a cow's tail. Come on, boys.”
“I think not. You and I will go alone.”
“Just as you say. Reilly, I guess you better saddle Two-step and the Lazy B roan.”
“I ain't saddling ponies for Mr. Leroy,” returned Reilly, with thick defiance.
Neil was across the room in two strides. “When I tell you to do a thing, jump! Get a move on and saddle those broncs.”
“I don't know as—”
“Vamos!”
Reilly sullenly slouched out.
“I see you made them jump,” commented the former captain audibly, seating himself comfortably on a rock. “It's the only way you'll get along with them. See that they come to time or pump lead into them. You'll find there's no middle way.”
Neil and Leroy had hardly passed beyond the rock-slide before the others, suspicion awake in their sodden brains, dodged after them on foot. For three miles they followed the broncos as the latter picked their way up the steep trail that led to the Dalriada Mine.
“If Mr. Collins is here, he's lying almighty low,” exclaimed Neil, as he swung from his pony at the foot of the bluff from the brow of which the gray dump of the mine straggled down like a Titan's beard.
“Right you are, Mr. Neil.”
York whirled, revolver in hand, but the man who had risen from behind the big boulder beside the trail was resting both hands on the rock before him.
“You're alone, are you?” demanded York.
“I am.”
Neil's revolver slid back into its holster. “Mornin', Val. What's new down at Tucson?” he said amiably.
“I understood I was to meet you alone, Mr. Leroy,” said the sheriff quickly, his blue-gray eyes on the former chief.
“That was the agreement, Mr. Collins, but it seems the boys are on the anxious seat about these little socials of ours. They've embraced the notion that I'm selling them. I hated to have them harassed with doubts, so I invited the new majordomo of the ranch to come with me. Of cou'se, if you object—”
“I don't object in the least, but I want him to understand the agreement. I've got a posse waiting at Eldorado Springs, and as soon as I get back there we take the trail after you. Bucky O'Connor is at the head of the posse.”
York grinned. “We'll be in Sonora then, Val. Think I'm going to wait and let you shoot off my other fingers?”
Collins fished from his vest pocket the papers he had taken from Scott hat and from Webster. “I think I'll be jogging along back to the springs. I reckon these are what you want.”
Leroy took them from him and handed them to Neil. “Don't let us detain you any longer, Mr. Collins. I know you're awful busy these days.”
The sheriff nodded a good day, cut down the hill on the slant, and disappeared in a mesquit thicket, from the other side of which he presently emerged astride a bay horse.
The two outlaws retraced their way to the foot of the hill and remounted their broncos.
“I want to say, cap, that I'm eating humble-pie in big chunks right this minute,” said Neil shamefacedly, scratching his curly poll and looking apologetically at his former chief. “I might 'a' knowed you was straight as a string, all I've seen of you these last two years. If those coyotes say another word, cap—”
An exploding echo seemed to shake the mountain, and then another. Leroy swayed in the saddle, clutching at his side. He pitched forward, his arms round the horse's neck, and slid slowly to the ground.
Neil was off his horse in an instant, kneeling beside him. He lifted him in his arms and carried him behind a great outcropping boulder.
“It's that hound Collins,” he muttered, as he propped the wounded man's head on his arm. “By God, I didn't think it of Val.”
Leroy opened his eyes and smiled faintly. “Guess again, York.”
“You don't mean—”
He nodded. “Right this time—Hardman and Chaves and Reilly. They shot to get us both. With us out of the way they could divide the treasure between them.”
Neil choked. “You ain't bad hurt, old man. Say you ain't bad hurt, Phil.”
“More than I can carry, York; shot through and through. I've been doubtful of Reilly for a long time.”
“By the Lord, if I don't get the rattlesnake for this!” swore Neil between his teeth. “Ain't there nothin' I can do for you, old pardner?”
In sharp succession four shots rang out. Neil grasped his rifle, leaning forward and crouching for cover. He turned a puzzled face toward Leroy. “I don't savvy. They ain't shooting at us.”
“The sheriff,” explained Leroy. “They forgot him, and he doubled back on them.”
“I'll bet Val got one of them,” cried Neil, his face lighting.
“He's got one—or he's quit living. That's a sure thing. Why don't you circle up on them from behind, York?”
“I hate to leave you, cap—and you so bad. Can't I do a thing for you?”
Leroy smiled faintly. “Not a thing. I'll be right here when you get back, York.”
The curly-headed young puncher took Leroy's hand in his, gulping down a boyish sob. “I ain't been square with you, cap. I reckon after this—when you git well—I'll not be such a coyote any more.”
The dying man's eyes were lit with a beautiful tenderness. “There's one thing you can do for me, York.... I'm out of the game, but I want you to make a new start.... I got you into this life, boy. Quit it, and live straight. There's nothing to it, York.”
The cowboy-bandit choked. “Don't you worry about me, cap. I'm all right. I'd just as lief quit this deviltry, anyhow.”
“I want you to promise, boy.” A whimsical, half-cynical smile touched Leroy's eyes. “You see, after living like a devil for thirty years, I want to die like a Christian. Now, go, York.”
After Neil had left him, Leroy's eyes closed. Faintly he heard two more shots echoing down the valley, but the meaning of them was already lost to his wandering mind.
Neil dodged rapidly round the foot of the mountain with intent to cut off the bandits as they retreated. He found the sheriff crouching behind a rock scarce two hundred yards from the scene of the murder. At the same moment another shot echoed from well over to the left.
“Who can that be?” Neil asked, very much puzzled.
“That's what's worrying me, York,” the sheriff returned.
Together they zigzagged up the side of the mountain. Twice from above there came sounds of rifle shots. Neil was the first to strike the trail to the mine. None too soon for as he stepped upon it, breathing heavily from his climb, Reilly swung round a curve and whipped his weapon to his shoulder. The man fired before York could interfere and stood watching tensely the result of his shot. He was silhouetted against the skyline, a beautiful mark, but Neil did not cover him. Instead, he spoke quietly to