Destry Rides Again (21 page)

The sheriff was not on his veranda, neither was he in his bedroom, but in his small office, adjoining the jail cells, Destry
found him bent over a desk which was piled high with papers, photographs, and such encumbrances. Through the window Destry
watched him for a moment; then shrank down into the shadows as a noisy group of miners went down the board walk, chattering
and shouting in their eagerness to spend a month’s pay.

In the dark, Destry considered, but finally he went around to the door of the jail and rapped on it; the jailer opened to
him with a growl that turned into a groan of terror when he saw the face of his visitor. He staggered back with his arms high
in the air.

“I never was none of ’em!” he gasped. “I never had a hand again you, Harry!”

“I don’t want to bother you none,” Destry explained. “Turn your back a minute, Tom.”

Tom obeyed willingly, and when the click of a door sounded, he looked over his shoulder in fear. But Destry was out of sight!

He stood now before Ding Slater without a gun in his hand.

“You come to give yourself up?” asked Ding quietly.

“I ain’t pullin’ a gun on you, Slater,” said the other. “I reckon that speaks for itself!”

“Of course it does,” said the sheriff.

“You’ll be pretty set to hang me,” suggested Destry.

“For what?” asked Ding Slater.

“For Clifton?”

“I been a long time sheriffing,” said Slater, “but I never took no pleasure in the hangin’ of a man for a thing he didn’t
do!”

“Hold on,” broke in Destry. “There was my knife in his throat!”

“Sure there was,” replied Slater, “but there wasn’t your hand hitched on to it.”

Destry stared.

“Besides,” went on Slater, “I never heard of a Destry bein’ so plumb careless as to leave a knife stickin’ in the throat of
a dead man!”

“Who did it, then?”

“Somebody that if I was to tell you who it was, you would almost of rather that you’d done it yourself.”

“That’s a lot to say, old timer.”

“Ay,” nodded Slater. “It’s a lot to say. What’s really brought you in here, son?”

“I wanted to ask you to come along with me and watch me shoot up a gent, Ding.”

“Go on. I’m ready for the joke.”

“I’m plumb serious.”

“What man?”

“I’m going to kill Chester Bent, or be done in by him.”

“Bent?” cried Slater, rising to his feet.

“Ay.”

“You know about him, then?”

“I know everything!”

“About the old robbery, too?”

Destry hung on the verge of the next prepared sentence which he had been about to speak and looked at the sheriff with amazement.
“What robbery?” he managed to gasp.

“The express! The express six years ago!” said Slater impatiently. “The train you were supposed to rob! The robbery that put
you in prison—the robbery that’s killed or ruined eight of the twelve men who put you there.”

“Hold on, Ding,” urged Destry. “Don’t run away with this here race all by yourself!”

“It was about then that Bent got rich, all at once. Begun to buy and speculate. How? Stolen money, I say! Stolen money, and
the man that he was befriendin’ so’s the ladies cried over him about it, that was the man that had gone to prison in his place.
No wonder that he was kind to you, Harry!”

Destry, like a bewildered child, held out one hand and curled up the fingers of it as he counted over the points of the case:

“Chet grabs the money—he plants the package of coin on me—why, I even remember talkin’ to him that day on the street, when
he gave me the hundred!—he skids me to prison, sittin’ by my side in the courtroom—he takes me into his house after I get
out, and tries to have my throat cut for me so’s he can take in Charlie Dangerfield——”

Truth, at which he had guessed, suddenly was revealed to him with a naked face, and Destry groaned in his anger.

The sheriff finished: “And finally, he murders a man to put the curse of the law on Destry. Harry, I dunno that I got a right
to interfere with the right workin’ of the law, but I’m gunna go down with you and let you arrest Bent. If you miss him, which
ain’t likely, I’ll pull my own gun on him! Come along. Start movin’ to cool off, because you look pretty much on fire!”

They hurried from the jail and down the street,
the jailer aghast at the sight of the two men, shoulder to shoulder, and Destry not in irons! In front of the jail they took
their horses, and the first fear struck at Destry.

“S’pose that he’s guessed something and skinned out of town?”

“It ain’t half likely. He’s got his whole stake here. There’s the light in his library window.”

They left the two horses at the corner of the hedge and went on toward the gate; from a house down the street they could hear
an old man’s voice singing one of the monotonous songs with which a night herder keeps the cows bedded down with comfortable
minds. The sticky new sprouts of the fir touched their clothes and hands. Acrid dust they breathed still hanging in the air
from the last riders who had galloped down the street.

But all was peace, and the bright mountain stars watching them, as they cautiously drew the gate ajar and slipped through.
From the lighted window they looked in on Bent, and the first glance was enough.

He was not busied now with his pretense of study. Instead, he was emptying a saddle bag onto the face of the center table,
and out of the bag tumbled packages of green and yellow backs, neatly held together by elastics. There was a little chamois
sack, moreover, the mouth of which Bent undid and poured out as a sample of the contents a handful of jewels which he shifted
back and forth so that the lamplight sparkled on them before he restored them to the sack.

There was no doubt about it. Bent was about to take wing! He wore not his office clothes but a full cowpuncher’s outfit. There
was even the cartridge belt about his hips and a holstered Colt low down
on his thigh. He was ready to take wing, and with him he was to bear away this nest egg from which he might build up a fortune
in another place.

Destry and the sheriff drew back from the window, and inside the coat of the former, Ding Slater pinned the priceless badge.

“The law’s made you sweat, son,” said Ding. “Now it’s time for you to get some advantage out of it. Go in and get him, and
bring him out to me! I wouldn’t spoil this party for you.”

Destry gripped the hand of Slater and without a word glided up the front steps of the house. The door was not locked. It opened
silently upon its well-oiled hinges, and Destry passed into the darkness of the hall. The first door to the right was faintly
sketched by the light of the lamp, leaking through the crack around it.

He found the knob, turned it softly, and pushed the door wide—then stepped in to find Bent turned toward him with a leveled
revolver!

He nodded toward Bent with a smile and closed the door behind him, only noticing for the rest that the money had been swept
from the table and restored to the fat saddle bag that lay on a nearby chair.

“You?” said Bent.

And he let the muzzle of his revolver slowly tip down. Not a sudden motion of friendship, but a gradual decline of the gun,
while his eyes still glittered coldly at the intruder. Plainly he was asking himself if it would not be worth while to finish
off Destry this instant. But his glance flashed toward the window, and he seemed to decide that the noise was more than he
cared to risk.

“It’s me,” said Destry. “Did I scare you, Chet, comin’ in like this, soft-foot?”

“You gave me a start,” said Bent, and he put up the gun, but still reluctantly.

“I’ve been out at the ranch,” he added, indicating his outfit. “And now, old son, how are things with you? Did you go down
to see Charlie?”

Destry had prepared his answer to this question, but he noticed that as Bent asked it, he looked down toward the floor and
seemed tensely expectant. Something was known by Bent. How much, he could not say. Therefore Destry changed his mind. He had
intended to say that he had not been near the Dangerfield place, but now he said: “Yes, I was there! And half an inch from
bein’ trapped, Chet.”

“How come.”

“The skunks had word about what I was gunna do, or else they’d been trailin’ me pretty close.”

“Trailin’ you?”

“When I got there to the old shack, they was outside and inside.”

He hesitated.

“What happened?” asked Bent, his voice guarded and husky.

“There was a slip of a kid that came in, Chet. He had something to tell me, he said. I’d barely started talkin’ with Charlie
when he arrived and the first thing that happened, this kid come sashayin’ up. The one that had helped me up in the Cumber
Pass. Sick with fever—mighty dizzy—he staggered into the shack——”

“And what did he say?” asked Bent in a snarl.

“Why, I didn’t have no good way of findin’ out, because the minute that he was startin’ to talk, a double-barrel shotgun went
off from the attic of the shack, and I seen the face of Cleeves behind the flash
of it! I took a snap shot that finished Cleeves, but the buckshot pretty nigh tore the boy in two!”

A glare of the most ferocious joy appeared in the eyes of Bent.

“Killed him, Harry?” he asked, and came toward the other.

“Killed him dead,” said Destry, “the poor little devil! And the same minute, the gents outside—for there was the rest of ’em
ready—made a rush for the door, but a couple of bullets turned ’em back. And here I am. I come fast to you, Chet, wantin’
to ask you what I’d better do next. Because Charlie and me had no chance to talk.”

“Go back to her,” said Bent. “Go back, and I’ll ride along with you, Harry! I’ll ride with you out to the place!”

Excess of relief overwhelmed him and he laughed a little, shakily.

He had learned, no doubt, of the appearance of the boy at the house of Jack and Pete, and again of his riding through Wham.
That was the death blow to Bent’s tower of ambition, for with ten words the youngster could destroy him utterly. He had made
his preparations for departure rapidly. Another minute, probably, and Destry would have been too late to catch the fugitive.

But now Bent heard that his small enemy was dead, and life inside the law again became possible for him. For with Willie Thornton
out of the way, Destry was the murderer of Clifton!

The relief spread over the face, the eyes of Bent; it appeared in the heartier voice of Bent as he spoke again.

“Harry, you’ve taken a long chance in coming into Wham. No matter what happened, you should have stayed out there to see Charlie.
But I’ll take you back. The poor kid was killed, eh?”

“He might have been,” said Destry.

“Might?” said Bent.

His voice was almost a shout.

“Mighta been scared to death,” said Destry. “But he had a chance to say a few words.”

Fierce pleasure filled him as he saw the face of Bent whiten, and the green light of desperation come into his face.

“What did he say?”

“Raved a mite, Chet. Crazy talk. Something about you bein’ the one that killed Clifton.”

Bent laughed.

But suddenly he was aware that there was no answering smile on the face of his companion, but gravely, keenly, Destry was
watching him. His laughter halted abruptly.

“And what about you, Harry?” he asked. “What
d’you
thing about the kid’s story?”

Destry waved his hand.

“Kid’s get a lot of fool ideas,” he said. “I ain’t so much interested in that, old son, as I am in the yarn that Slater’s
just been tellin’ me about the job that you done on the express six years ago——”

It was a blow so sudden and crushing to Bent, and it came upon him so unexpectedly, that he went back a staggering pace and
rested his hand against the wall.

Swiftly he rallied, and Destry covered the moment of confusion by saying: “And I’ve been admiring the way that you handled
everything from that point on, Chet. The way that you passed me into the pen for six years, say, and the way that you pretty
nigh cried with joy when I got out again! The way that you been befriendin’ me ever since, too, is pretty touching. Traps
in my room, guns in the dark, lies and sneak-in’ treachery!”

His voice did not rise as he talked.

Bent, on the farther side of the room, looked like a half stunned fighter striving to regain full control of his wits.

At last he said: “I’ll tell you, Harry, that you’ve been listening to a poor sick kid and to an old fool. You don’t mean to
tell me that you believe what either of them have been saying?”

“Not more’n I believe the Bible,” said Destry.

“Harry, what’s up?” asked Bent, his face shining with sweat.

“This!” said Destry.

He drew aside the flap of his coat, and exposed the badge of office which the sheriff had just pinned there.

“So?” said Bent.

He looked up at the ceiling, but Destry knew that the other’s attention in spite of all seeming was constantly fixed upon
him.

“Jail or guns, Chester,” he suggested. “You can come along with me and be poisoned with the things that everybody’s gunna
say about you, or else you can take your chance right here and now with old Judge Colt, that don’t never make no mistakes!”

Bent drew a quick, long breath and straightened.

“It’s better this way,” he said. “I’ve been a fool in leaving you to other hands. I should have known from the first that
you’re enough of a man to need my special personal attention, which I’m going to give you now, Harry!”

“You’ll fight?”

“I’ll kill you,” said Bent, “with a good deal more pleasure than I ever did any act of my life. Before this, I’ve been held
back by other considerations.”

“Charlie, for one?”

The face of Bent wrinkled with malignancy.

“I would have had her,” he declared. “Time and a little patience while she forgot the death of the murderer, Destry—and then
I would have married her.”

“I doubt it,” said Destry. “But what made you kill Clifton? Only to chuck the blame on me?”

“I wanted to see you hang,” admitted Bent. “I always wanted to see that, from the time when you bested me, when we were boys.
Besides, I owed Clifton money, and that was after all the cheapest way of paying him off!”

“Say, I hadn’t thought of that! You owed him money? Well, you’re a business man, old timer!”

“You stand on top just now, and you gloat a little,” said Bent coldly. “But I’ll win the game. There are other towns than
Wham, other names than that of Bent, other girls than Charlie Dangerfield—though I admit that I’ve never seen ’em. But better
to be a Bent on the wing than a Destry under the ground! Are you ready?”

“You’re gettin’ tolerable honest, Chet,” said the other. “I been wonderin’ when you’d try a crooked gun play on me!”

“I don’t need to,” said the other unexpectedly. “I got you inside the palm of my hand, and I’m gunna keep you there!”

“I reckon that you’re in good practice, Chet.”

“D’you think that I didn’t start preparing for the day you’d get out of prison the day you went into it? Little things are
fairly sure to float up to the surface, in time, and there was never a minute when I didn’t half expect that I’d have to face
you with a gun. The six years that you’ve missed, I’ve been working.”

A dog yapped shrill and loud across the street; it was silent. And Bent stood at the edge of the table, resting his finger
tips lightly upon it.

The very appearance of sleekness seemed to have left him, and the man was hard with muscle as his brain was hard with resolution.

“Knife, or hand, or gun, Destry!” said he. “I’m ready for any one of the three. Which will you take?”

And suddenly fear leaped into the mind of Destry. He who so long had carried the frost of terror to others, now felt it himself.
It was not the fear of death, but that much greater dread of being conquered. That which supports the champion is the knowledge
that he never has been beaten. Because of pride, he is a superman, until he faces in the ring
an equal confidence and feels that stunning impact of the first heavy blow. So it was with Destry. Shaken, chilled, he stared
at Bent and saw a faint, cruel smile on the lips of the other. He felt that he could recognize that smile. How often had it
appeared on his own lips when he faced lesser men?

“When the dog barks again——” said Bent.

And they waited. There was no attempt on the part of Bent to take an advantage. His finger tips still rested lightly on the
edge of the table, his smile persisted, and the cold fire welled and gleamed in his eyes.

Then, shrill and distant as the note of a muted violin, the dog barked again. At one instant the right hands leaped, the guns
flashed, and a wrenching impact tore the Colt from the fingers of Destry, flung it back against his body, and toppled him
from his feet.

He saw, as he fell, the weapon flashing up to cover him and send home a fatal shot; and he knew that he had met his match
at last and had been beaten, fairly and squarely.

All of that rushed through his brain, but as he struck the floor he heard a rapid fire opened from the window. The sheriff,
whom he had forgotten!

Straight at the head of Destry, Bent had fired, but the attack from the side sufficiently unsteadied his hand to make his
bullet fly wide. It struck the floor and cast dust and splinters into the face of Destry.

Bent, stooping, scooped the crammed saddle bag that carried the cash relics of his fortune from the chair, and ran for the
doorway.

He dodged, like a teal in flight, and then the darkness of the hallway received him, while Destry crawled slowly to his knees,
to his feet. He could not realize, for a moment, the thing that had happened to him, but stood balancing like a drunkard,
uneasy, depressed,
fumbling with his mind until the truth drove home.

Beaten, saved only by a masked attack from the side that had routed Bent, he was no longer the man that he had been! He, the
conqueror, had been met and conquered! He groaned and struck his fists into his face. Then he sprang for the door.

The world which he knew was now reduced to a great blank in which there lived a single face and a single name—that of Chester
Bent. And until they met again and fought to a grim finish, he could not hold up his head and call his soul his own.

Fiercely he ran into the hall, tore open the front door, and crashed against the sheriff, who was lunging in.

“Hey—Harry—are you hurt? Did I hit him?”

“Get out of my way!” gasped Destry.

He hurled Ding Slater roughly from him and leaped down the steps to the gravel of the front path.

When he reached the gate, the violence of his hand upon it wrenched it off the hinges. He left it clattering upon the path
before him and turned swiftly down the outside of the hedge toward the horses.

Fiddle, as though she understood, threw up her head and whinnied softly. He whipped the reins up, leaped into the saddle,
and started the good mare forward on the run.

From the rear of the house, he guessed, the fugitive conqueror would be riding, by this time, cutting back through the woods
and over the rolling highlands beyond.

And so through those woods he drove Fiddle. The trees flicked back on either side. He saw the naked hills, the stars, and
against them the shadowy outline of a horseman riding fast before him.