Then, on a frantic impulse, he drew swiftly.
The big pistol slid smoothly from its sheath but another gun flashed into sight in Lew Kerrigan's left hand—the gun he had taken from Tom Harrow. The thin barrel and cylinder of the pistol slashed out at the side of the big man's heavy jaw, thudding against the fat face with a crunch as teeth were torn loose and a jawbone caved in.
Donnelly's big body collapsed to the floor and a flabby-lipped groan gushed out of his mouth, the thick mouth beginning to bleed. He made a feeble attempt to sit up and did raise himself a few inches. But Kerrigan's memory of the ex-guard was long and he drew back his right boot a distance of fifteen inches. The toe lashed into that ugly red face and he watched the marshal relax on his massive back in some of the fresh mud his big shoes had tracked in from the street.
"It's not a habit of mine to kick a man when he's down," Kerrigan said pointedly. "I was merely paying back a clubbing Jeb once gave me when I was down."
He stepped back and the thin-barreled pistol slid from sight. The bartender said, "That's all right, friend. I've seen Jeb work on drunks in here. He's had that coming for a long time."
Kerrigan, turning to ask the man LeRoy about buying a good horse in a hurry, heard a soft chuckle, saw the extended hand.
"My implicit admiration, sir. About the most workmanlike job I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing. My name, by the way, is Hannifer LeRoy. I'm a California trader over here in Arizona on a horse-buying trip."
"I was looking for you because I happen to need a good horse in a hurry, LeRoy," Lew Kerrigan answered with pleasure. "I'm out of prison less than an hour, and from the looks of things I'm outside the law once more. I didn't want to kill Donnelly, much as he deserves it at the hands of some decent man. But laying a six-shooter against his jaw makes it necessary more than ever that I find a good horse."
"That I can understand, Mr. Kerrigan," agreed the horse dealer, chuckling. "I have forty-six head of picked stuff on pasture along the river a half mile below town, night-herded by Old Cap, one of my drovers. Suppose we—"
"Donnelly won't keep that long," Kerrigan interrupted sharply. "He might cut me off south and drive me into Mexico. I happen to be going the other direction." He turned to the silent bartender, who had made no effort to assist the fallen marshal. "When you help Jeb to his feet, tell him we're square. But I've been pushed once too often since daybreak this morning."
He picked up his glass and downed the few drops of brandy remaining, and again the horse buyer laughed softly. "I've no wish for trouble with Arizona law, Mr. Kerrigan, so if the bartender will forget about it when the estimable marshal regains his feet and spits out a few teeth, I'll sell you the pick of those forty-six head which I'm riding as a personal saddle horse. He's over in a stall back of the hotel. He'll cost you two hundred cash, no notes or credit."
"If he's the kind of a horse I need right now, hell be worth two hundred," Lew said. "Let's go take a look. Jeb's coming out of it."
Donnelly had let out a slobbering groan. With eyes still closed, he ran a sleeve across his mouth and left a streak of red along the damp blue cloth. Kerrigan moved toward the doorway with LeRoy beside him, and now a strange fear began to bite its way through his mind. Word would spread like lightning around town and there would be no doubt of what would happen if he met Ace Saunders. Saunders also knew the condition of Kerrigan's nearly broken arm and elbow, and Saunders would have more orders from Tom Harrow by now.
The .44 slid out of its sheath and went back into the front of Lew Kerrigan's waistband, butt left. They entered the big hotel corral and went to one of the stalls containing a red horse.
It was sleek and fat, and when it turned its head in answer to Kerrigan's low-spoken voice the eyes showed as clear and as bright as a new moon. Gastric juices working on the oats the animal had finished eating rumbled its stomach loudly as Kerrigan spoke in a low voice again and then gently shoved aside a sleek red hip and moved into the stall beside it.
A big red horse. Four inches taller than average but more there in the blocky body, the short deep barrel. No saddle scars, no wire cicatrices marring the hair around fetlocks above freshly shod hoofs. This horse was sleek and well groomed. Ready for travel.
LeRoy was smoking a thin black cigar, watching with interest as Kerrigan checked the big red animal point by point.
"You don't have to buy him at all, Mr. Kerrigan," he said. "I'm more interested in you. I liked the way you handled Donnelly with a gun barrel where most men in your position would have shot a couple of bullets through his heart. You're already in trouble with the law again over here on the Arizona side of the river, but that won't hold on the west bank of the Colorado. How about going to work for me?"
"Sorry, not interested," was the reply as Kerrigan stepped back out of the stall.
"Then suppose we put it this way. I need a good man like you to help me protect a pretty heavy investment in good horses that certain gentlemen are intending to take from me on the return drive to the California desert. Help me get those horses safely through and I'll do more than give you a percentage of the profits. We'll return to northern Arizona as pardners on a horse-buying trip, and you'll have enough men at your back to make the odds even against a certain Colonel Thomas Harrow. Take the horse, Kerrigan, and get across the river with him and wait for me. He's yours."
Lew Kerrigan looked at the man with the cigar and a chill came into his brown eyes. "What do you know about Harrow?" he asked quietly.
"That man Ace Saunders," LeRoy said as quietly. "From the looks of him he's certainly not a drinking man. Perhaps he was a little nervous about the job of meeting you this morning. But last night he had a bit too much to drink, and he talked in one of the bars. If you don't get shot down this morning before you get out of Yuma, you still face odds of a dozen to one when you get back north. I can get you across the river on the planks of the unfinished railroad bridge. I can make the odds even when we go north as pardners a few weeks from now. Saddle up Big Red, Kerrigan. He's yours."
CHAPTER FIVE
Lew Kerrigan wasted no time. He brought out the big red and saddled him hurriedly, lashing warbag and food pack back of the cantle. He then reached into his hip pocket and brought forth the long leather snap purse and counted out ten more of the twenty-dollar goldbacks.
"Thanks for the offer, LeRoy, but I play my own hand. If you ever get up around Pirtman on a buying trip, look me up. Joe Stovers, the sheriff, might be able to tell you where I can be found."
A cowpuncher strolled into the corral from the back door of the new hotel, breakfast toothpick roaming from side to side in his mouth. He came over to LeRoy. "Mornin, Hannifer." He grinned sheepishly and clapped a hand to his forehead in mock woe. "I ain't never goin' to drink no more of this border whiskey from Mexico." He looked at Kerrigan, a question in his blue eyes. "He's ridin' Big Red. He goin' to California with us?"
"No," LeRoy answered in disappointment, shoving the goldbacks into a pocket of the grey coat. "You get on down to the river and see about the horses while Old Cap comes up for breakfast. And I'd better not find an empty bottle around when I get there," he warned sharply.
He turned to Kerrigan as the puncher left, apparently still not without hope that Lew would throw in with him at the last minute. But a horse came loping past the hotel with mud flying from its hoofs and Bud Casey, on his way home to a day of soggy sleep, beckoned from outside the gate. Kerrigan, thinking of Jeb Donnelly, led the red horse over and opened and went through.
Bud's sandy-whiskered face registered complete and sudden relief.