Essential Western Novels - Volume 5. Edgar Rice Burroughs
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pushed himself toward the table with a swagger of shoulders. In full light Charterhouse saw a triangular face, strangely pallid and as smooth as a woman's, with a pair of eyes as pale and unwavering as he had ever marked. A lock of silky hair escaped the brim of a floppy hat and fell down in front of each ear. A kid with a dirty face stood there, smiling a little, yet without the slightest humor; a vain, boasting youngster armed to the teeth. He squared himself at Charterhouse.
"Ever see me before?"
"Haven't had the pleasure."
"I'm Curly. You know who I am now?"
"Your reputation is known to me," admitted Charter-house truthfully. There was no man in the state more notorious than this youthful bandit.
"What's this for?" complained Shander.
"So he'll know me when he sees me again," grinned Curly and turned away. "Seems like we've done a smear of talking and got nowhere."
Shander nodded. "Chaterhouse, I expect you're pretty tired. We'll excuse you. Louey, escort the guest to the bunkhouse, and stay there yourself."
"I had just got to drinking good," mourned Charter-house and walked through the crowd. "Thanks for the hospitality, Shander, and I hope you have pancakes for breakfast. My favorite dish."
His guard ambled out behind him; they crossed the porch and stepped down to the soft earth. Horses nodded patiently in the darkness and one groaned dismally right beside Charterhouse. He had the stub of a dead cigarette in his mouth and halted to find a match, while Louey, not particularly interested, stood a yard off and waited.
"Damn," grunted Charterhouse, breaking his first match. He searched himself once more, eyes questing through the shadows. "Pass me a light, will you?"
As he said it, he began marching forward again, toward the dim shadow of the bunkhouse. Louey fell in step, both hands dropping into his pockets. Charterhouse veered slightly, gun ripping out of its seat, rising and smashing across the solid head of Shander's man. He fell and lay sprawling. Charterhouse whirled and checked an almost irresistible impulse to run for the horses; instead he walked quietly up to the nearest animal, reached for the trailing ribbons and stepped into the saddle. From the angle of the yard he was able to look through the open door of the house and see part of the crowd as they shifted about the room, with Shander risen and tramping around the table. He even caught a stray word or two. "...to-morrow, but otherwise..." Pulling the horse clear of the porch, he suddenly stiffened, all nerves like cold drawn wire. Somebody walked out of the desert, saw him, and casually hailed.
"Who's that—where you going?"
"Back in a minute," muttered Charterhouse.
"What for?" demanded the other. Talk in the house stopped; boots tramped over the boards as Charterhouse increased the distance intervening. The man swore glumly. "Quit sucking your tongue and talk up. Who is it?"
Then Shander's voice echoed flatly. "Who is that? Hold on—draw in! Louey, where are you? Louey! where are you? Louey! Stop that horse or—"
Charterhouse sank his spurs and the pony lurched into a swift burst of speed. The night was split apart by a shot, then a second, both whipping wide; Shander yelled and his crew came beating out to the porch. More explosions blasted the shadows. Charterhouse, drawing into the protecting darkness, heard a vast volume of swearing as that unruly crew fought their pitching horses. He had this much grace, this margin of safety and he rowled the sturdy beast beneath him unmercifully. Yet, pointed due eastward, he caught the peaked outline of Shander's barn right beside him and there flashed across his mind another expedient. If he kept going straight, they would pick up the drum of his flight or catch his silhouette against the horizon; if he swung now—
Obeying the impulse, Clint shot for the barn, rode against a side wall and stopped dead. The deep gloom folded about him. A few riders sped by easterly and then the bulk of the party pounded past. Somebody yelled an order to spread out fanwise. Another rider veered near and skirted Charterhouse no more than ten feet away. Then the thud and jangle of their progress dimmed, leaving him safe for the moment.
But as he gathered the reins and decided to ease gradually away in a southerly direction, he discovered himself trapped. Voices advanced from the house and a tardy horseman came around from the other end of the barn and jogged circularly about the ranch, apparently on guard against surprise. The voices came nearer. Two men talking. One was Shander, whose irritable tones began to carry distinct meaning.
"I never trust anybody. He may be one of Nickum's damned spies, for all we know. That palaver in the saloon between the two could easily have been faked. You got to remember old John knows all the tricks of the trade. We're not up against a greenhorn."
"Sure. But this Charterhouse probably was telling a straight yam." That, Charterhouse decided, was Curly. "I take it so. He just got scared and figured to pass out. I give him credit for guts, the way he pounded Louey down. I could use fellas like that."
"I don't trust anybody," repeated Shander, seeming to be nearer. "But he didn't hear anything important, if he was Nickum's man. Nickum already knows you and me are hooked up. All our cards have been exposed except one, which is how many men you've got collected. I want that held secret. You see to it nobody rides away from you. Keep a strict hand on your gang."
"Well, what's the next play? I got thirty-five tough nuts, and I can't keep 'em entertained by playing duck on a rock all day in Dead Man. Those fellows want to see action. Elsewise they'll pull freight."
"Everything depends on what happens in the morning," countered Shander. "Once Nickum is knocked over, the gate's wide open to us."
"Where's it going to happen?"
"Same place his kid was killed. On the trail to Angels, beside Red Draw where the trees thin down. Remember those three rocks in a row? That's the spot. Him and Haggerty will be coming alone. About ten in the morning, figuring them to start from Box M Ranch at eight, which is Nickum's habit."
"How'd you engineer this business, anyhow? What makes you so sure he'll be riding along there?"
"That's all taken care of by the other party. Let's go back to the house."
Charterhouse waited until their talk dwindled away. Then, knowing that any longer delay would narrow his chance of safe flight, he pushed the pony along the barn wall until he came to the corner. The mournful whistling of the riding guard approached. Some of the pursuers were straggling back. Charterhouse quelled a strong impulse to break and run, silently cursing this laggard riding guard who slid in front of him and slowly curved to the north. A shout came out of the distance, answered by another. Charterhouse slipped on into the open, scanning every inch of the shadows between barn and house. The Mexican cook walked out of a back door and dumped a pan of water. The sound evoked a clear call from a returning man.
"Say, he musta ducked into a hole around here! It ain't scarcely reasonable he coulda fell off the edge of the earth so sudden. How about looking around the yard? Anybody done it?"
Charterhouse was three hundred feet away and increasing the distance at a pace that seemed slower than crawling. He began to sweat, expecting at any moment to have them catch sight of his fugitive silhouette and come charging down. They were alive and excitable back there, like a pack of hounds trying to catch the scent of a rabbit. Lanterns bobbed; a strong party circled the barn rapidly; he felt rather than saw a second party driving straight at him. His horse walked down the lip of an arroyo and hesitated. Charterhouse drew a long breath, swung with the arroyo and increased speed. Presently he pulled out of the arroyo and cut a circle in the desert and never stopped until Shander's place was a mile southward, light still winking through the fog.
"Time to pause and consider," he mused. "I'm in a bad hole. One side or the other, it's open season on me. If I had the sense of a cooked flea, I'd turn and put the boundaries of this doggoned county away behind. So they are going to kick old John Nickum down the chute? Well, what of it? I don't owe him any favors. If he considers he don't need anybody's help, then I sure haven't got a call to butt in. No sir, I ought to turn."
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