Max Brand (6 page)

In the crisis of action the big Swede seemed to be accorded the place
of leader by natural right. The others imitated his example silently.
Before they reached the door Larsen turned again.

"Watch Jerry Bent," he said softly. "You watch him, Denver, and you,
Sandersen. Me and Buck will take care of Cold Feet. He may fight like a
rat. That's the way with a coward when he gets cornered." Then he
strode toward the door.

"How thick is Sally Bent with this schoolteaching gent?" asked Riley
Sinclair of Mason.

"I dunno. Nobody knows. Sally keeps her thinking to herself."

Larsen kicked open the door and at the same moment drew his
six-shooter. That example was also imitated by the rest, with the
exception of Riley Sinclair. He hung in the background, watching.

"Gaspar!" called Larsen.

There was a voice of answer, a man's thin voice, then the sharp cry of
a girl from the interior of the house. Sinclair heard a flurry of
skirts.

"Hysterics now," he said into his mask.

She sprang into the doorway, her hands holding the jamb on either side.
In her haste the big white handkerchief around her throat had been
twisted awry. Sinclair looked over the heads of Mason and Denver Jim
into the suntanned face that had now paled into a delicate olive color.
Her very lips were pale, and her great black eyes were flashing at
them. She seemed more a picture of rage than hysterical fear.

"Why for?" she asked. "What are you-all here for in masks, boys? What
you mean calling for Gaspar? What's he done?"

In a moment of waiting Larsen cleared his throat solemnly. "It'd be
best we tell Gaspar direct what we're here for."

This seemed to tell her everything. "Oh," she gasped, "you're not
really
after
him?"

"Lady, we sure be."

"But Jig—he wouldn't hurt a mouse—he couldn't!"

"Sally, he's done a murder!"

"No, no, no!"

"Sally, will you stand out of the door?"

"It ain't—it ain't a lynching party, boys? Oh, you fools, you'll hang
for it, every one of you!"

Sinclair confided to Buck Mason beside him: "Larsen is letting her talk
down to him. She'll spoil this here party."

"We're the voice of justice," said Judge Lodge pompously. "We ain't got
any other names. They wouldn't be nothing to hang."

"Don't you suppose I know you?" asked the girl, stiffening to her full
height. "D'you think those fool masks mean anything? I can tell you by
your little eyes, Denver Jim!"

Denver cringed suddenly behind the man before him.

"I know you by that roan hoss of yours, Oscar Larsen. Judge Lodge, they
ain't nobody but you that talks about 'justice' and 'voices.' Buck
Mason, I could tell you by your build, a mile off. Montana, you'd ought
to have masked your neck and your Adam's apple sooner'n your face. And
you're Bill Sandersen. They ain't any other man in these parts that
stands on one heel and points his off toe like a horse with a sore leg.
I know you all, and, if you touch a hair on Jig's head, I'll have you
into court for murder! You hear—murder! I'll have you hung, every man
jack!"

She had lowered her voice for the last part of this speech. Now she
made a sweeping gesture, closing her hand as if she had clutched their
destinies in the palm of her hand and could throw it into their faces.

"You-all climb right back on your hosses and feed 'em the spur."

They stood amazed, shifting from foot to foot, exchanging miserable
glances. She began to laugh; mysterious lights danced and twinkled in
her eyes. The laughter chimed away into words grown suddenly gentle,
suddenly friendly. Such a voice Riley Sinclair had never heard. It
walked into a man's heart, breaking the lock.

"Why, Buck Mason, you of all men to be mixed up in a deal like this.
And you, Oscar Larsen, after you and me had talked like partners so
many a time! Denver Jim, we'll have a good laugh about this necktie
party later on. Why, boys, you-all know that Jig ain't guilty of no
harm!"

"Sally," said the wretched Denver Jim, "things seemed to be sort of
pointing to a—"

There was a growl from the rear of the party, and Riley Sinclair strode
to the front and faced the girl. "They's a gent charged with murder
inside," he said. "Stand off, girl. You're in the way!"

Before she answered him, her teeth glinted. If she had been a man, she
would have struck him in the face. He saw that, and it pleased him.

"Stranger," she said deliberately, making sure that every one in the
party should hear her words, "what you need is a stay around Sour Creek
long enough for the boys to teach you how to talk to a lady."

"Honey," replied Riley Sinclair with provoking calm, "you sure put up a
tidy bluff. Maybe you'd tell a judge that you knowed all these gents
behind their masks, but they wouldn't be no way you could
prove
it!"

A stir behind him was ample assurance that this simple point had
escaped the cowpunchers. All the soul of the girl stood up in her eyes
and hated Riley Sinclair, and again he was pleased. It was not that he
wished to bring the schoolteacher to trouble, but it had angered him to
see one girl balk seven grown men.

"Stand aside," said Riley Sinclair.

"Not an inch!"

"Lady, I'll move you."

"Stranger, if you touch me, you'll be taught better. The gents in Sour
Creek don't stand for suchlike ways!"

Before the appeal to the chivalry of Sour Creek was out of her lips,
smoothly and swiftly the hands of Sinclair settled around her elbows.
She was lifted lightly into the air and deposited to one side of the
doorway.

Her cry rang in the ears of Riley Sinclair. Then her hand flashed up,
and the mask was torn from his face.

"I'll remember! Oh, if I have to wait twenty years, I'll remember!"

"Look me over careful, lady. Today's most likely the last time you'll
see me," declared Riley, gazing straight into her eyes.

A hand touched his arm. "Stranger, no rough play!"

Riley Sinclair whirled with whiplash suddenness and, chopping the edge
of his hand downward, struck away the arm of Larsen, paralyzing the
nerves with the same blow.

"Hands off!" said Sinclair.

The girl's clear voice rang again in his ear: "Thank you, Oscar Larsen.
I sure know my friends—and the gentlemen!"

She was pouring oil on the fire. She would have a feud blazing in a
moment. With all his heart Riley Sinclair admired her dexterity. He
drew the posse back to the work in hand by stepping into the doorway
and calling: "Hey, Gaspar!"

"He's right, Larsen, and you're wrong," Buck Mason said.

"She had us buffaloed, and he pulled us clear. Steady, boys. They ain't
no harm done to Sally!"

"Oh, Buck, is that the sort of a friend of mine you are?"

"I'm sorry, Sally."

Sinclair gave this argument only a small part of his attention. He
found himself looking over a large room which was, he thought, one of
the most comfortable he had ever seen—outside of pictures. At the
farther end a great fireplace filled the width of the room. The inside
of the log walls had been carefully and smoothly finished by some
master axman. There were plenty of chairs, homemade and very
comfortable with cushions. A little organ stood against the wall to one
side. No wonder the schoolteacher had chosen this for his boarding
place!

Riley made his voice larger. "Gaspar!"

Then a door opened slowly, while Sinclair dropped his hand on the butt
of his gun and waited. The door moved again. A head appeared and
observed him.

"Pronto!" declared Riley Sinclair, and a little man slipped into full
view.

He was a full span shorter, Riley felt, than a man had any right to be.
Moreover, he was too delicately made. He had a head of bright blond
hair, thick and rather on end. The face was thin and handsome, and the
eyes impressed Riley as being at once both bright and weary. He was
wearing a dressing gown, the first Riley had ever seen.

"Get your hands out of those pockets!" He emphasized the command with a
jerk of his gun hand, and the arms of the schoolteacher flew up over
his head. Lean, fragile hands, Riley saw them to be. Altogether it was
the most disgustingly inefficient piece of manhood that he had ever
seen.

"Slide out here, Gaspar. They's some gents here that wants to look you
over."

The voice that answered him was pitched so low as to be almost
unintelligible. "What do they want?"

"Step lively, friend! They want to see a gent that lets a woman do his
fighting for him."

He had dropped his gun contemptuously back into its holster. Now he
waved the schoolteacher to the door with his bare hands.

Gaspar sidled past as if a loaded gun were about to explode in his
direction. He reached the door, his arms still held stiffly above his
head, but, at the sight of the masked faces, one arm dropped to his
side, and the other fell across his face. He slumped against the side
of the door with a moan.

It was Judge Lodge who broke the silence. "Guilty, boys. Ain't one look
at the skunk enough to prove it?"

"Make it all fair and legal, gents," broke in Larsen.

Buck Mason strode straight up to the prisoner.

"Was you over to Quade's house yesterday evening?"

The other shrank away from the extended, pointing arm.

"Yes," he stammered. "I—I—what does all this mean?"

Mason whirled on his companions, still pointing to the schoolmaster.
"Take a slant at him, boys. Can't you read it in his face?"

There was a deep and humming murmur of approval. Then, without a word,
Mason took one of Gaspar's arms and Montana took the other. Sally Bent
ran forward at them with a cry, but the long arm of Riley Sinclair
barred her way.

"Man's work," he said coldly. "You go inside and cover your head."

She turned to them with extended hands.

"Buck, Montana, Larsen—boys, you-all ain't going to let it happen? He
couldn't
have done it!"

They lowered their heads and returned no answer. At that she whirled
with a sob and ran back into the house. The procession moved on, Buck
and Montana in the lead, with the prisoner between them. The others
followed, Judge Lodge uncoiling a horribly significant rope. Last of
all came Bill Sandersen, never taking his eyes from the face of Riley
Sinclair.

The latter was thoughtful, very thoughtful. He seemed to feel the eyes
of Sandersen upon him, for presently he turned to the other. "What
good's a coward to the world, Sandersen?"

"None that I could see."

"Well, look at that. Ever see anything more yaller?"

Gaspar walked between his two guards. Rather he was dragged between
them, his feet trailing weakly and aimlessly behind him, his whole body
sinking with flabby terror. The stern lip of Riley Sinclair curled.

"He's going to let it go through," said Sandersen to himself. "After
all nobody can blame him. He couldn't put his own neck in the noose."

Over the lowest limb of a great cottonwood Judge Lodge accurately flung
the rope, so that the noose dangled a significant distance from the
ground. There was a businesslike stir among the others. Denver, Larsen,
the judge, and Sandersen held the free end of the rope. Buck Mason tied
the hands of the prisoner behind him. Montana spoke calmly through his
mask.

"Jig, you sure done a rotten bad thing. You hadn't ought to of killed
him, Jig. These here killings has got to stop. We ain't hanging you for
spite, but to make an example."

Then with a dexterous hand he fitted the noose around the neck of the
schoolteacher. As the rough rope grated against Gaspar's throat, he
shrieked and jerked against the rope end that bound his hands. Then, as
if he realized that struggling would not help him, and that only speech
could give him a chance for life, he checked the cry of horror and
looked around him. His glances fell on the grim masks, and it was only
natural that he should address himself to the only uncovered face he
saw.

"Sir," he said to Riley in a rapid, trembling voice, "you look to me
like an honest man. Give me—give me time to speak."

"Make it pronto," said Riley Sinclair coldly.

The four waited, with their hands settled high up on the rope, ready
for the tug which would swing Gaspar halfway to his Maker.

"We're kind of pushed for time, ourselves," said Riley. "So hurry it
on, Gaspar."

Bill Sandersen was a cold man, but such unbelievable heartlessness
chilled him. Into his mind rushed a temptation suddenly to denounce the
real slayer before them all. He checked that temptation. In the first
place it would be impossible to convince five men who had already made
up their minds, who had already acquitted Sinclair of the guilt. In the
second place, if he succeeded in convincing them, there would be an
instant gunplay, and the first man to come under Sinclair's fire, he
knew well enough, would be himself. He drew a long breath and waited.

"Good friends, gentlemen," Gaspar was saying, "I don't even know what
you accuse me of. Kill a man? Why should I wish to kill a man? You know
I'm not a fighter. Gentlemen—"

"Jig," cut in Buck Mason, "you was as good as seen to murder. You're
going to hang. If you got anything to say make a confession."

Gaspar attempted to throw himself on his knees, but his weight struck
against the rope. He staggered back to his feet, struggling for breath.

"For mercy's sake—" began Gaspar.

"Cut it short, boys!" cried Buck Mason. "Up with him!"

The four men at the rope reached a little higher and settled their
grips. In another moment Gaspar would dangle in the air. Now Riley
Sinclair made his decision. The agonized eyes of the condemned man,
wide with animal terror, were fixed on his face. Sinclair raised his
hand.

"Wait!"

The arms, growing tense for the jerk, relaxed.