Essential Western Novels - Volume 5. Edgar Rice Burroughs
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at Charterhouse and offered his hand.
"I will remark there ain't nobody I'd rather ride with," he murmured. "All I'm asking is that when the trouble busts, as it will sure's little green apples grow into big red ones, that you'll call your shots. No use both of us breaking the same gent's neck."
Charterhouse accepted the hand, smiling back. It was impossible to resist the rugged, irrepressible humor of Heck Seastrom. "Reckon you're training on a bigger rock since Manners hefted the other," he suggested.
"I'm through," chuckled Seastrom. "Saving my energy for bigger sport. But—" and he cut off further talk with a slight wave of the hand, indicating the men in front knowingly. Haggerty turned in the saddle to look forebodingly at them. Seastrom spoke with a tantalizing solicitude. "It's all right, Driver. We're watching the back trail. If any bold, bad man shows up, I'll tell you when to flop on your belly."
A flare of black hate deepened the vindictive ugliness of the foreman's face. He seemed about to let himself go but finally jerked about and rode on in glowering silence. Seastrom winked at Charterhouse and passed a finger across his throat significantly. The huddled buildings of Angels appeared as they turned a shoulder of the ridge; they straightened for it and presently were entering the plaza, a plaza swimming with the increase of heat and devoid of life. Nickum led across to Nero Studd's and dismounted.
"Buck Manners is supposed to meet me here," he explained. "Guess he's late. Let's go in and get this horse business settled."
Studd was at a table, playing listless poker with four others. Nickum strode over. "Nero, Charterhouse had to borrow a pony off Shander the other night. He's leaving it in your stable."
"With my best personal regards to Mister Shander," drawled Charterhouse. "Due to intentions of hospitality he kept the one you lent me. You fellows can swap."
"Let Charterhouse have a pony out of your stable," directed Nickum. "On my account."
"Anything to please," agreed Studd and rose from the game. "Have a drink on me, boys. Heard about this horse business already."
"As how?" asked Charterhouse.
Studd lifted his immense shoulders. "It ain't my opinion, understand. It's only what I hear. Shander considered his horse was stolen and swore out a warrant for Sheriff Wolfert to execute."
"Let Wolfert try to trump a charge against a Box M man," said Nickum, all the fighting iron of his nature hardening the dogged face.
"Guess nobody knew he'd become one of your riders," suggested Studd, passing a bottle over the bar. "Don't think unkindly of me just because I broke the bad news to you. I know where my bread's buttered and I sure hope I never see the day when Box M is challenged. Empty the bottle. I'll run across and see about getting a horse."
They saw his burly frame cruise deliberately over the shade of the porch and on into the drenching sunlight of the open plaza. The saloon droned and those loitering men at the tables handled their cards with a futile laziness that was oppressive. Haggerty drank a second glass with a touch of nervousness and kept looking out upon the street. Seastrom chuckled.
"Something sort of reminds me of trouble smoking up."
"Never knew a yellow dog yet that would stand and fight," said Nickum. "We'll just stick around and find out if Wolfert wants to make an issue of this. I'd be pleased to have him declare his intentions."
Meanwhile Nero Studd strode through the stable, only checking his pace to throw an order at the roustabout.
"Put a saddle on the claybank, and I'll be back for it."
Going through the rear door, he swung to the right and walked the breadth of three buildings. Knocking briefly at the door of the fourth, he went into a small back room. Beef Graney and Sheriff Ike Wolfert were standing in it and shifted expectantly.
"What's on old John's mind?" asked Wolfert.
"He's took Charterhouse as a rider," said Studd. "That makes it bad. Gosh only knows how much Charterhouse learned at Shander's last night, or how much he's told Nickum. Looks to me as if our chance of getting the stranger out of the way is some slimmer. Would of been easy. Now that Nickum's back of him it ain't."
"That's why I ducked in here when I saw 'em ride up," said Wolfert. "I'll be boiled in grease afore I try to serve a warrant in front of Nickum. Damn Shander! Why'd he let Charterhouse get away?"
Graney's beefy cheeks stiffened. "Studd, there won't be any better time than now. You get me? Here they are, a long ways from help. No use of trying to smile it out. Nickum must have got warning about the ambush. There's some of Charterhouse's work, I'm betting. Well, why not do it now? Don't forget that—"
Studd held up a warning arm. "Don't mention any names, Graney. Not even to yourself. Dangerous. But your idea is good. And we can use Charterhouse's stolen horse to rig the business up right. Wolfert, you go around town, keeping out of sight, and drum up five or six boys. Post 'em around the saloon where they won't be seen. One in the stable. Another in front of Madame LeSeur's. I'll ease back to the saloon with a horse I promised Charterhouse and stick there. Graney, you go down and saddle up Charterhouse's original animal and ride into sight. Charterhouse will jump you about it in a minute. You produce a bill of sale—write one now and sign anybody's you want. He'll argue about it and then it is just a matter of what happens next. That clear?"
Graney nodded. "Suits me. I'll take care of Charter-house. But you be damned sure the others are blocked off and shot down."
Wolfert stirred uneasily. "What am I to do?"
"Come in a little ahead of Graney," decided Studd, "and argue with old John. When the shooting starts, just let him have it."
"How about Seastrom?"
Studd's stolid countenance turned almost sly. "Who would you suppose would finish the Swede? Use your head. All right, I'm going back. Give yourself fifteen minutes, Graney. Wolfert, you get busy now." He backed out of the room and returned through the stable, catching up the horse the roustabout had saddled. He left it in front of his saloon and entered. Upon the impassive, swarthy skin was not even a flimsy trace of the death sentence he had improvised and so shortly would add another weltering, grim chapter to a town already old in violence.
A faint beam of friendliness struggled through Studd's murky eyes, and the same heavy joviality was in his voice when he returned to the saloon.
"I'm giving you the claybank this time, Charterhouse. A stout horse. And, by the way, I'll pay off on your stolen rig whenever you say the word. I figured it was my fault in a way. Have another drink." Passing down the room, his foot struck a chair and he grumbled at the indolent players. "You boys have roosted here long enough. Go sleep some place else for a change."
Charterhouse, swift to detect subtle changes of human temperature, felt some strange current pass through the saloon. The men at the table rose and sauntered through the front door, leaving Studd's empty excepting for the saloonkeeper and the Box M quartet. Neither Nickum nor Haggerty appeared to draw out of their own thoughts, but Seastrom's flash of humor grew more brilliant and he dropped an eyelid to Charterhouse.
"Well, what next?"
Nickum pushed away the bottle. "Where's Wolfert?"
"Snoozing somewheres, I guess," said Studd. "No, here he comes now. Ike, step in."
Wolfert veered from the walk and stopped on the threshold. "Yeah? Hello, Nickum. Thought I heard—"
Nickum cut in brusquely. "I hear you carry a warrant for horse stealing."
Wolfert licked his lips. "That's right. Shander swore it for this gentleman"—indicating Charterhouse—"bright and early this morning."
"Going to serve it?"
"Well, John, you know I got to do what the law requires. No option on my part. I didn't swear out the warrant. Pm only sworn to carry out my duty."
Nickum snorted. "Taking your duty pretty serious lately, ain't you, Wolfert?"