Robber's Roost (1989) (4 page)

"Wot! He filled his ace full thet way?" roared Hays.

"He most certainly did."

"All right, let it go at thet," replied Stud, deadly cold. "If you can say honest thet you haven't pulled any tricks go for your gun.

Otherwise keep your shirt on."

That unexpected sally exemplified the peculiar conception of honor among thieves. It silenced Hays. The little gambler knew his man and shifted his deadly intent to a more doubtful issue. Such fascination of uncertainty had been the death of untold Westerners.

"Jim Wall, eh?" he queried, insolently.

"At your service," retorted Wall. He divined the workings of the little gambler's mind. Stud needed to have more time, for the thing that made decision hard to reach was the quality of this stranger. His motive was more deadly than his will or his power to execute. All this Jim Wall knew. It was the difference between the two men.

"I'm admittin' I cheated," said Stud, harshly. "But I ain't standin' to be tipped off by a stranger."

"Well, what're you going to do about it?" asked Wall.

The moment had long passed in which there had been need of caution.

Stud did not know what he was going to do. And just as plain was the fact that he wanted to annihilate. On the other hand, Wall had no desire to kill this testy, loudmouthed little gambler. These things were manifest. They were Wall's strength and Stud's weakness. The spectators of the drama almost held their breaths.

Wall's deliberate query ended Stud's vacillation. His body shrank ever so slightly. His lean, dark, little hands lifted quiveringly from the table.

"DON'T DRAW!" yelled Wall. "The man doesn't live who can sit at a table and beat me to a gun."

"Hell--you say!" panted Stud. But that ringing taunt had cut the force of his purpose. There were beads of sweat on his face.

"You've got a gun in each inside vest pocket," said Wall, contemptuously. "Men of your stripe don't live long in my country."

The gambler let his nervous, clawlike hands relax and slide off the table. Then the tension of all broke.

"Come on, Stud," spoke up Morley. "Let's get out of here."

Stud shuffled to his feet, malignant, and beaten for the moment.

"Hays, you an' me are even," he said, gruffly. "But I'll meet your new pard some other time."

"Shore, Stud. No hard feelin's on my side," drawled Hays.

The little gambler stalked to the bar, followed by Morley and the russet-bearded giant. "Buy me a drink," said Stud, hoarsely. "I'm cleaned out." They drank and left the saloon.

Not until then did Hank Hays turn round, and when he did it was distinctly noticeable that he was pale.

"Jim, thet ---- did have two guns inside his vest. I never saw them till you gave it away. The ---- ---- ---- ---- would have killed me."

"I think he would, Hays," returned Wall, seriously. "You were sitting bad for action. You ought to have got to your feet before starting that argument."

"Ahuh!" ejaculated Hays, huskily. He wiped his face, then regarded Wall with new eyes. Happy Jack and Brad Lincoln rejoined Hays at the table. Lincoln's gaze was more expressive than any words could have been.

"Brad, where was you when it come off?" queried Hays.

"I was lookin' out fer myself."

"I seen thet, all right. . . . Jim, I'm much obliged to you. I'd have hated shufflin' off at this particular time. You can gamble I won't forget it. . . . I'd like to know somethin'."

"What's that?"

"Did you bluff him?"

"Hardly. I had him figured. It was a pretty good bet he wouldn't try to draw. But if he had made a move--"

"Ahuh. It'd been all day with him. . . . This gambler, Stud, has a name out here for bein' swift on the draw. He's killed--"

"Bah!" cut in Wall, good-humoredly. "Men who can handle guns don't pack them that way."

"Wal, he's the first I ever seen out here, at thet," replied Hays.

"You see, when I called him I had my eyes on his hands, which was flat on the table. I thought I could shoot him easy enough an' was a mind to do it. But, hell's fire, how easy he could have bored me!"

"No, he couldn't, with me standing here. . . . Let's go to bed, Hays. I'm sleepy."

"Good idee. We'll all go. Have a drink on me."

They lined up at the bar.

"Jim," said Hays, poising his glass, "funny how a man figgers another. Not only you figgerin' Stud, but down at the ferry, when I met you, I had sort of a hunch you'd be a feller to tie to.

Here's lookin' at you!"

Presently they bade Red good night and went outside. The night was dark, windy, cold. Dust whisked along the road, rustling, seeping.

The stars blinked white. Black and grim the cliff wall stood up, seemingly to tower over the town.

"Where you sleepin'?" asked Hays.

"Left my pack in the stall out back with my horse."

"You don't call thet pack a bed, do you? Come sleep in a real bed."

"I'll make out all right. What do we do tomorrow?"

"I was thinkin' of thet. We'll shake the dust of Green River. It might not be healthy for us, seein' this is Morley's hangout.

Besides, I'm flush with money. I'd only lose it. So I reckon tomorrow we'd better stock up on everythin' an' hit the trail for the Henrys."

"Suits me," replied Wall. "How about you, Brad?"

"I'll go, Hank, but it's only because nothin' else offers. This new deal of yours, as I size it up, will come to the awfulest mess ever."

"Ahuh. An' you, Happy?"

"Sounds tumble good to me, Hank," replied Jack, with the enthusiasm to be expected from one with his nickname.

"Wal then, good night. Breakfast here early," concluded Hays.

They parted. Jim Wall bent his cautious steps back to the barn.

Presently his eyes became used to the darkness and he made better progress. But he was not passing any trees or bushes or corners, nor did he enter the barnyard by the gate. Nothing intervened to occasion more caution. He found his pack where he had left it, and carrying it out into the open he made his bed and lay down in it, after removing only his gun belt.

Then he reviewed the events of the day and evening. That brief occupation afforded him no pleasure. Nevertheless, he decided that he was glad he had fallen in with Hank Hays and his cronies. He had been a lone wolf for so long that the society of any class of men would have been relief. Well he knew, however, that soon he would be on the go again. He could not stay in one locality long, though there had been several places where he would have liked to spend the rest of his life. At least he was not indifferent to beautiful and peaceful country. The rub was that no place could long remain peaceful for Jim Wall. It would be so here in Utah.

Sometimes, rarely, however, his thoughts impinged upon the distant past when for him there had been zest and thrill of adventure.

He had grown callous. It so happened that tonight he seemed on the threshold of another and extraordinary experience, even for him, and it kept him thought-provokingly awake, with only resentment and disillusion as reward.

Chapter
3

A red sunrise greeted Wall upon his awakening. He rolled his bed and carried it back to the corral. There was a thin skim of ice on the water in the trough. As it had not been broken, he believed that he was the first up. Bay whinnied to him from the stall.

When, a little later, he presented himself at the back of Red's house for breakfast, he was to find Hays, Happy Jack, and Brad Lincoln ahead of him.

"Mornin'!" said Hays cheerily. "Do you smell spring in the air?"

"Howdy, everybody!" replied Wall. "I guess I like this country."

"Only bad thing about this end of Utah is thet you hate to leave," observed the robber. "Usually we winter here an' go somewhere else in summer. It's hottern' hell here in July an' August. But I always want to come back. Gets hold of a feller. An' thet's bad."

They had breakfast. "Brad, you fetch your pack-hosses round back," ordered the leader, when they got outside. "Happy, you get yourself a hoss. Then meet us at the store quick as you can get there. . . . Jim, you come with me."

"Hays, I'm in need of some things," said Wall.

Hays drew out a handful of bills and pressed them upon Wall without any interest in how much or little was there.

"Shore. Buy what outfit you need an' don't forget a lot of shells," replied Hays. "If I don't miss my guess, we'll have a smoky summer. Haw, Haw! . . . Here's the store. Run by Josh Sneed, friendly to Mormons. I've a sneakin' hunch he's one himself. Hasn't any use for us. But he'll take our money, you bet, an' skin the pants off us, if we let him."

The store proved to be similar to most Western stores dependent upon the stage line for their supplies. It consisted of the whole floor of a stone-walled building, and general merchandise littered it so that moving around was not easy.

A bright young fellow, who looked to be the son of the proprietor, took charge of Wall. A new saddle blanket was Wall's first choice, after which he bought horseshoes and nails, a hammer and file, articles he had long needed, and the lack of which had made Bay lame. After that he selected a complete new outfit of wearing apparel, a new tarpaulin, a blanket, rope, and wound up with a goodly supply of shells for his .45 Colt, bearing in mind the cardinal necessity of constant practice, a habit neglected of late, for the very good reason that he had no funds. Likewise he got some boxes of .44 Winchester shells for his rifle.

After this stocking-up he was surprised to find that he had considerable money left. Hays had been generous. Whereupon Wall went in for some luxuries, such as a silk scarf, razor and brushes and comb, towels and soap, and finally, amused at himself, some boxes of nuts and candy.

All these purchases he rolled in the tarpaulin, which he threw over his shoulder. Starting out, he passed Hays, who was buying food supplies.

"I'll need a pack-horse," said Wall.

"Ha! I should smile you will!" replied the other, with a grin.

"Take your pick. We got five or six extra hosses. . . . Did you buy saddle-bags an' a canvas water-bag?"

"No. I didn't think of them."

"Wal, I'll fetch them things round for you. Rustle Happy an' Brad over here, will you? An' throw the pack-saddles on. We want to be hittin' the trail."

Wall met the two men on the way to the store.

"Hays wants you to rustle," he said.

"We're mozeyin' along. You've a fust-rate pack-hoss, Wall," returned the genial Happy Jack.

Jim thought so himself by the time he had reached the corral. He was glad he no longer needed to make a pack-animal of Bay. There were six or eight horses in the corral several of which took Jim's eye. Still, they could not compare with Bay.

Spreading out his possessions, he packed them in one small and two large bundles. This he performed with care, having in mind a long journey over bad trails. By the time he had finished Happy Jack and Lincoln arrived, staggering under burdens. While they rested Hays came along, and the pack he carried attested to the fact that he was no shirker.

"Hank, you look like a thundercloud," observed Brad Lincoln, chuckling.

"Wal, I feel like one. What do you think, fellers? Thet fox-faced Sneed always did make me pay cash, but this time I had to produce beforehand."

"These Mormons are slick business men," said Happy Jack.

"Hank, it ain't only your credit thet's bad here in Green River," added Lincoln, satirically.

"Wal, I'll tell you what," growled Hays. "If we didn't have this Star Ranch deal on we'd take every damn thing Sneed has."

"Let's do it, anyhow."

"Nope. At least not now. Mebbe this fall . . . I'd like to have a shot at Sneed's sharp nose. . . . Rustle an' pack now, fellers.

We're behind."

Half an hour later the four men, driving five packed horses and two unpacked, rode off behind the town across the flat toward the west.

Coming to a road, Hays led on that for a mile or so, and then branched off on a seldom-used trail which appeared to parallel the wonderful, gray-cliffed mountain wall that zigzagged on to the purple-hazed distance.

They went down a long hill of bare clay earth dotted with rocks and scant brush, at the bottom of which ran a deep, wide, dry wash.

Green River with its cottonwoods dropped behind the hill, to be seen no more.

Gradually the pack-horses settled into single file on the trail and required little driving. The riders straggled along behind. Jim Wall brought up the rear. If he was ever contented it was when he was on horseback with open, unknown country ahead. This for him was familiar action. Once he caught himself looking back over his shoulder, and he laughed. It was an instinct, a habit.

When the opposite, endless, slow-rising slope had been surmounted, Wall saw all around country that wrenched a tribute from him.

Texas, Kansas, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana left much to be desired in comparison with Utah. Jim had not ridden over Arizona, so could not judge. But Utah was stunning.