The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod Raine
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sun had declined almost to a saddle in the Cuesta del Burro when the sleeper reopened his eyes. Even before he had shaken himself free of sleep he was uneasily aware of something wrong. Hazily the sound of voices drifted to him across an immense space. Blurred figures crossed before his unfocused gaze.
The first thing he saw clearly was the roan, still grazing in the circle of its picket-rope. Beside the bronco were two men looking the animal over critically.
“Been going some,” he heard one remark, pointing at the same time to the sweat-stains that streaked the shoulders and flanks.
“If he had me on his back he’d still be burning the wind, me being in his boots,” returned the second, with a grating laugh, jerking his head toward the sleeper. “Whatever led the durned fool to stop this side of the line beats me.”
“If he was hiking for Chihuahua he’s been hitting a mighty crooked trail. I don’t savvy it, him knowing the country as well as they say he does,” the first speaker made answer.
The traveler’s circling eye now discovered two more men, each of them covering him with a rifle. A voice from the rear assured him there was also a fifth member to the party.
“Look out! He’s awake,” it warned.
The young man’s hand inadvertently moved toward his revolver-butt. This drew a sharp imperative order from one of the men in front.
“Throw up your hands, and damn quick!”
“You seem to have the call, gentlemen,” he smiled. “Would you mind telling me what it’s all about?”
“You know what it’s all about as well as we do. Collect his gun, Tom.”
“This hold-up business seems to be a habit in this section. Second time to-day I’ve been the victim of it,” said the victim easily.
“It will be the last,” retorted one of the men grimly.
“If you’re after the mazuma you’ve struck a poor bank.”
“You’ve got your nerve,” cried one of the men in a rage; and another demanded: “Where did you get that hawss?”
“Why, I got it—” The young man stopped in the middle of his sentence. His jaw clamped and his eyes grew hard. “I expect you better explain what right you got to ask that question.”
The man laughed without cordiality. “Seeing as I have owned it three years I allow I have some right.”
“What’s the use of talking? He’s the man we want, broke in another impatiently.
“Who is the man you want?” asked their prisoner.
“You’re the man we want, Jim Kinney.”
“Wrong guess. My name is Larry Neill. I’m from the Panhandle and I’ve never been in this part of the country till two days ago.”
“You may have a dozen names. We don’t care what you call yourself. Of course you would deny being the man we’re after. But that don’t go with us.”
“All right. Take me back to Fort Lincoln, or take me to the prison officials. They will tell you whether I am the man.”
The leader of the party pounced on his slip. “Who mentioned prison? Who told you we wanted an escaped prisoner?”
“He’s give himself away,” triumphed the one edged Tom. “I guess that clinches it. He’s riding Maloney’s hawss. He’s wounded; so’s the man we want. He answers the description—gray eyes, tall, slim, muscular. Same gun—automatic Colt. Tell you there’s nothin’ to it, Duffield.”
“If you’re not Kinney, how come you with this hawss? He stole it from a barn in Fort Lincoln last night. That’s known,” said the leader, Duffield.
The imperilled man thought of the girl bing toward the border with her brother and the remembrance padlocked his tongue.
“Take me to the proper authorities and I’ll answer questions. But, I’ll not talk here. What’s the use? You don’t believe a word I say.”
“You spoke the truth that time,” said one.
“If you ever want to do any explaining now’s the hour,” added another.
“I’ll do mine later, gentlemen.”
They looked at each other and one of them spoke.
“It will be too late to explain then.”
“Too late?”
Some inkling of the man’s hideous meaning seared him and ran like an ice-blast through him.
“You’ve done all the meanness you’ll ever do in this world. Poor Dave Long is the last man you’ll ever kill. We’re going to do justice right now.”
“Dave Long! I never heard of him,” the prisoner repeated mechanically. “Good God, do you think I’m a murderer?”
One of the men thrust himself forward. “We know it. Y’u and that hellish partner of yours shot him while he was locking the gate. But y’u made a mistake when y’u come to Fort Lincoln. He lived there before he went to be a guard at the Arizona penitentiary. I’m his brother. These gentlemen are his neighbors. Y’u’re not going back to prison. Y’u’re going to stay right here under this cottonwood.”
If the extraordinary menace of the man appalled Neill he gave no sign of it. His gray eye passed from one to another of them quietly without giving any sign of the impotent tempest raging within him.
“You’re going to lynch me then?”
“Y’u’ve called the turn.”
“Without giving me a chance to prove my innocence?”
“Without giving y’u a chance to escape or sneak back to the penitentiary.”
The thing was horribly unthinkable. The warm mellow afternoon sunshine wrapped them about. The horses grazed with quiet unconcern. One of these hard-faced frontiersmen was chewing tobacco with machine-like regularity. Another was rolling a cigarette. There was nothing of dramatic effect. Not a man had raised his voice. But Neill knew there was no appeal. He had come to the end of the passage through a horrible mistake. He raged in bitter resentment against his fate, against these men who stood so quietly about him ready to execute it, most of all against the girl who had let him sacrifice himself by concealing the vital fact that her brother had murdered a guard to effect his escape. Fool that he had been, he had stumbled into a trap, and she had let him do it without a word of warning. Wild, chaotic thoughts crowded his brain furiously.
But the voice with which he addressed them was singularly even and colorless.
“I am a stranger to this country. I was born in Tennessee, brought up in the Panhandle. I’m an irrigation engineer by profession. This is my vacation. I’m headed now for the Mal Pais mines. Friends of mine are interested in a property there with me and I have been sent to look the ground over and make a report. I never heard of Kinney till to-day. You’ve got the wrong man, gentlemen.”
“We’ll risk it,” laughed one brutally. “Bring that riata, Tom.”
Neill did not struggle or cry out frantically. He stood motionless while they adjusted the rope round his bronzed throat. They had judged him for a villain; they should at least know him a man. So he stood there straight and lithe, wide-shouldered and lean-flanked, a man in a thousand. Not a twitch of the well-packed muscles, not a quiver of the eyelash nor a swelling of the throat betrayed any fear. His cool eyes were quiet and steady.
“If you want to leave any message for anybody I’ll see it’s delivered,” promised Duffield.
“I’ll not trouble you with any.”
“Just as you like.”
“He didn’t give poor Dave any time for