"The liquor-peddler don't exactly undervalue hisself."
"No, it's 'bout time his comb was cut, an' I've sent for the man who can do it. When Jesse Sark an' his riders git here we'll be able to talk down to Mister Nippert." Javert's evil eyes gleamed. "I hope we'll be able to do more than just talk," he said viciously. "Why not git busy afore he comes?"
"D'you figure I'm dumb?" Mullins asked. "Come an' see for yoreself." At the eastern end of the street they entered the Red Light's rival, if a low drinking and gambling den could be so termed.
Known as "Dirty Dick's" after its shaggy-haired and bearded owner, it was frequented only by the tag-rag of the town. The place was full, and Jake chuckled as he elbowed a path through the throng.
"Nippert ain't so popular as he fancies--half o' the guys here are customers o' his," he whispered.
A bleary-eyed member of the company, balanced precariously on a table, was endeavouring to make himself heard above the hubbub.
"I shay it's a blot on Welcome," he bellowed thickly. "Here we got a col'-blooded murd'rer--admits it, don' he?--an' we do nothin'. He's our meat, we catched him, an' oughta string him up." A chorus of savage oaths, and cries of "That's the ticket," and "You said it, boy," greeted the suggestion. The speaker swung his hat and shouted, "Let's go." Jake grabbed the nearest stool and stood on it. "Hold on," he said harshly. The surge towards the door ceased. "You all know I wouldn't willin'ly give that rat another minit to live, but I'm tellin' you to wait. I've sent for Sark an' his boys--they should be here soon. Nippert ain't a fool all the time, an' he'll give in when he's out-numbered three to one." The man who had asked the question turned to the others. "Jake's right; there's no sense in gittin' shot up unnecessary."
Chapter VI
SLOPPY was cudgelling his brains for new words--expletives which would adequately describe the state of one reduced to desperation and despair. He had got away from Welcome unobserved, travelling west before swinging round to make for his real destination. For a time all went well and then Fortune played a scurvy trick. Descending the slippery side of a gorge his horse stumbled and went to its knees; when it rose he saw that the poor beast was too badly lamed to carry him. The Bar O was more than six long up and down miles distant, and as he realized what the accident might mean, the little man lifted up his voice and told the Fates just exactly what he thought of them, and it was plenty.
There being nothing else for it, he walked--and talked--leading his mount, and pausing on the top of every rise in the hope of seeing or being seen by a Bar O rider. As he did this for about the twentieth time, his anger broke out afresh.
"O' course, they's all workin' elsewhere--they would be," he raged. "If I was here to rustle cattle, I'd 'a' bin spotted right off." He toiled on over the rough ground and the unwonted exertion soon began to tell. The vertical rays of the sun blazed down, sore and swollen feet made every step painful, and since--for such a short journey--he had neglected to bring a canteen, thirst was soon added to the other discomforts.
Doggedly lie stumbled on. His legs became lead, requiring an effort to drag one after the other, but he dared not stop, knowing that he would never start again. Staggering blindly forward he tripped over a rock his weary eyes failed to note, and went sprawling. He was struggling to stand up when a voice said :
"What th' devil ?" Sloppy looked round, his lips moved, but no sound came from them. John Owen--for he it was--slipped from his saddle, unslung his water-bottle, and held it to the sufferer's mouth. An eager swallow or two and Sloppy found his voice, hoarse but intelligible.
"Was a-comin' for you--my bronc went lame. We gotta hurry, it's life or death. Git yore outfit." The Bar O owner was a man of action. Though he did not know what it was all about, he realized that the messenger had not endured the agonies of that long tramp without good reason. Stepping into his saddle, he said:
"Get up behind me--we can talk as we ride. Leave yore hoss, the boys will gather him in later." The little man obeyed, and sighed with relief when his aching extremities were no longer on the ground. They had something less than two miles to travel and they did it at speed, but by the time they reached the ranch, Owen was in possession of the main facts.
"Ned's afeard that when them Dumb-bell outcasts show up there'll be a neck-tie party. It'll be my fault if we're too late," Sloppy finished miserably.
"Skittles! you couldn't help yore hoss playin' out on you," Owen consoled. "Might happen to anybody." As soon as they sighted the ranch, he drew out his rifle and fired three shots at equally-spaced intervals.
"That'll bring in most of 'em," he said. "They ain't far afield to-day."
"Don't I know it," was the feeling reply.
They found the place deserted, save for the Chinese cook --Owen was a bachelor. Sloppy hobbled to the bench by the door, sat down, and emptied the glass his host hastened to bring.
"Gosh ! I needed that one," he said, but refused a second. "I've bin fightin' shy o' liquor lately, but I reckon a fella who can't take one an' leave it at that ain't o' much account."
"Shorely," the rancher agreed, and then, "You think a lot o' the marshal, don't you?"
"He's done a deal for me."
"An' you say he admitted the killin'?"
"yeah, but he claims it was an accident."
"He didn't deny bein' this outlaw--Sudden?"
"No, but I'll bet there's an explanation for that too," the little man said stoutly. "I'd stake my life on Jim bein' straight." The scamper of galloping ponies cut short the conversation, and Reddy, with four others, raced in and pulled up, sending the dust and gravel flying.
"What's doin', Boss?" the carroty one inquired, and noticing the visitor, " 'Lo, Sloppy, how's the marshal?"
"Still alive--I'm hopin'." Reddy's eyebrows lifted. "How come?" he asked.
"No time for chatter," his employer cut in. "You'll need fresh hosses, an' bring yore rifles. We're for town--you can feed there."
"Shore, at the Widow's--that's worth ridin' twenty-five mile for any day," Reddy cried, and swinging his mount round, darted for the corral.
But precious time was lost waiting for more of the men to put in an appearance, and when at length a start was made, Sloppy was in a fever of impatience; he knew that the Sark contingent must have reached Welcome before he arrived at the Bar O. If Nippert could hold them off ... He glanced hopefully at these riders he had come to fetch, familiar, all of them, yet he seemed to be seeing them from a new angle. Instead of a band of reckless young devils, who played as they worked--hard, and were ready for any prank when they came to town, he saw men with set faces which told that their task would be done--at any cost.
Sloppy's fears were only too well-founded; little more than two hours after he had left Welcome, Sark and his outfit rode in, and instead of pulling up, as usual, at the Red Light, went on to Dirty Dick's. Here their leader left them, and repaired to Jake's abode.
"Howdy, Sark, this is Mister Javert, from Pinetown; Dutch will have told you 'bout him," Mullins greeted.
The rancher acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod, sat down, and poured himself a drink, his gaze on the swollen, battered features of his host.
"That fella can certainly use his fists," he remarked. "If I'd met you anywhere else I wouldn't 'a' knowed you."
"He had all the breaks, an' at that I damn' near got him," Jake retorted savagely. "This afternoon I'm goin' to--" Dutch burst unceremoniously into the room. "I got news," he cried. "Ned disarmed the marshal when he locked him up, an' took his belt into the Red Light."
"How very thoughtless of him--might just as well have signed his death-warrant," Sark murmured.
"You said it," Jake gritted. "What's yore strength, Sark?"