The Second Western Megapack Read online

  “‘Duke, old doggy,’ I said to the poor spaniel who was sniffing and whining about the bed, ‘you haven’t done your duty. You must have seen what went on between your master and that clam-blooded Asiatic, and you ought to be able to give me a tip of some sort.’

  “I decided to go to bed and make a fresh start on the ugly business in the morning. The bed looked as though someone had been lying on it, so I started to beat it up a little before I got in. I took off the pillow and as I pulled up the mattress, on the edge of the ticking at the head of the bed, I saw a dark red stain about the size of my hand. I felt the cold sweat come out on me, and my hands were dangerously unsteady, as I carried the lamp over and set it down on the chair by the bed. But Duke was too quick for me, he had seen that stain and leaping on the bed began sniffling it, and whining like a dog that is being whipped to death. I bent down and felt it with my fingers. It was dry but the color and stiffness were unmistakably those of coagulated blood. I caught up my coat and vest and ran downstairs with Duke yelping at my heels. My first impulse was to go and call someone, but from the platform not a single light was visible, and I knew the section men had been in bed for hours. I remembered then, that Larry was often annoyed by hemorrhages at the nose in that high altitude, but even that did not altogether quiet my nerves, and I realized that sleeping in that bed was quite out of the question.

  “Larry always kept a supply of brandy and soda on hand, so I made myself a stiff drink and filled the stove and locked the door, turned down the lamp and lay down on the operator’s table. I had often slept there when I was night operator. At first it was impossible to sleep, for Duke kept starting up and limping to the door and scratching at it, yelping nervously. He kept this up until I was thoroughly unstrung, and though I’m ordinarily cool enough, there wasn’t money enough in Wyoming to have bribed me to open that door. I felt cold all over every time I went near it, and I even drew the big rusty bolt that was never used, and it seemed to me that it groaned heavily as I drew it, or perhaps it was the wind outside that groaned. As for Duke, I threatened to put him out, and boxed his ears until I hurt his feelings, and he lay down in front of the door with his muzzle between his paws and his eyes shining like live coals and riveted on the crack under the door. The situation was gruesome enough, but the liquor had made me drowsy and at last I fell asleep.

  “It must have been about three o’clock in the morning that I was awakened by the crying of the dog, a whimper low, continuous and pitiful, and indescribably human. While I was blinking my eyes in an effort to get thoroughly awake, I heard another sound, the grating sound of chalk on a wooden blackboard, or of a soft pencil on a slate. I turned my head to the right, and saw a man standing with his back to me chalking something on the bulletin board. At a glance I recognized the broad, high shoulders and the handsome head of my friend. Yet there was that about the figure which kept me from calling his name or from moving a muscle where I lay. He finished his writing and dropped the chalk, and I distinctly heard its click as it fell. He made a gesture as though he were dusting his fingers, and then turned facing me, holding his left hand in front of his mouth. I saw him clearly in the soft light of the station lamp. He wore his dress clothes, and began moving toward the door silently as a shadow in his black stocking feet. There was about his movements an indescribable stiffness, as though his limbs had been frozen. His face was chalky white, his hair seemed damp and was plastered down close about his temples. His eyes were colorless jellies, dull as lead, and staring straight before him. When he reached the door, he lowered the hand he held before his mouth to lift the latch. His face was turned squarely toward me, and the lower jaw had fallen and was set rigidly upon his collar, the mouth was wide open and was stuffed full of white cotton! Then I knew it was a dead man’s face I looked upon.

  “The door opened, and that stiff black figure in stockings walked as noiselessly as a cat out into the night. I think I went quite mad then. I dimly remember that I rushed out upon the siding and ran up and down screaming, ‘Larry, Larry!’ until the wind seemed to echo my call. The stars were out in myriads, and the snow glistened in their light, but I could see nothing but the wide, white plain, not even a dark shadow anywhere. When at last I found myself back in the station, I saw Duke lying before the door and dropped on my knees beside him, calling him by name. But Duke was past calling back. Master and dog had gone together, and I dragged him into the corner and covered his face, for his eyes were colorless and soft, like the eyes of that horrible face, once so beloved.

  “The blackboard? O, I didn’t forget that. I had chalked the time of the accommodation on it the night before, from sheer force of habit, for it isn’t customary to mark the time of trains in unimportant stations like Grover. My writing had been rubbed out by a moist hand, for I could see the finger marks clearly, and in place of it was written in blue chalk simply:

  C. B. & Q. 26387.

  “I sat there drinking brandy and muttering to myself before that blackboard until those blue letters danced up and down, like magic lantern pictures when you jiggle the slides. I drank until the sweat poured off me like rain and my teeth chattered, and I turned sick at the stomach. At last an idea flashed upon me. I snatched the waybill off the hook. The car of wool that had left Grover for Boston the night before was numbered 26387.

  “I must have got through the rest of the night somehow, for when the sun came up red and angry over the white plains, the section boss found me sitting by the stove, the lamp burning full blaze, the brandy bottle empty beside me, and with but one idea in my head, that box car 26387 must be stopped and opened as soon as possible, and that somehow it would explain.

  “I figured that we could easily catch it in Omaha, and wired the freight agent there to go through it carefully and report anything unusual. That night I got a wire from the agent stating that the body of a man had been found under a woolsack at one end of the car with a fan and an invitation to the inaugural ball at Cheyenne in the pocket of his dress coat. I wired him not to disturb the body until I arrived, and started for Omaha. Before I left Grover the Cheyenne office wired me that Freymark had left the town, going west over the Union Pacific. The company detectives never found him.

  “The matter was clear enough then. Being a railroad man, he had hidden the body and sealed up the car and billed it out, leaving a note for the conductor. Since he was of a race without conscience or sensibilities, and since his past was more infamous than his birth, he had boarded the extra and had gone to the ball and danced with Miss Masterson with blood undried upon his hands.

  “When I saw Larry O’Toole again, he was lying stiff and stark in the undertakers’ rooms in Omaha. He was clad in his dress clothes, with black stockings on his feet, as I had seen him forty-eight hours before. Helen Masterson’s fan was in his pocket. His mouth was wide open and stuffed full of white cotton.

  “He had been shot in the mouth, the bullet lodging between the third and fourth vertebrae. The hemorrhage had been very slight and had been checked by the cotton. The quarrel had taken place about five in the afternoon. After supper Larry had dressed, all but his shoes, and had lain down to snatch a wink of sleep, trusting to the whistle of the extra to waken him. Freymark had gone back and shot him while he was asleep, afterward placing his body in the wool car, which, but for my telegram, would not have been opened for weeks.

  “That’s the whole story. There is nothing more to tell except one detail that I did not mention to the superintendent. When I said goodbye to the boy before the undertaker and coroner took charge of the body, I lifted his right hand to take off a ring that Miss Masterson had given him and the ends of the fingers were covered with blue chalk.”

  THE OUTLAW PILOT, by Stephen Payne

  The 90 Bar outfit’s fall roundup ain’t more’n half over when High Man Jack Owens hits camp one evenin’, drivin’ a light wagon with a new chuck box built into the rear end. Settin’ aside him is a wizened old jigger with less hair on his noodle’n thorns on a quakin’ as
pen, but more mustache than a Texas steer has horns—Raw Beef Oliver, a round-up cook. Forkin’ a big iron-gray hoss and leadin’ Owens’ mount is a tall stranger.

  “Bill Swift,” Owens sez to me, brisk and sorta gruff-like, “I’ve sold a thousand two-year-old steers to Cap Dillingham of the 3 R Ranch, west of Cayuse Brakes, provided I can deliver ’em by the twenty-eighth of September. Today’s the twenty-first and—”

  “And it ain’t nowise possible to trail cattle plum’ around them Brakes like we’ll have to, an’ get ’em thar on time,” I interrupt.

  “By goin’ through Cayuse Brakes you’ll make it,” Owens snaps. “Got over a thousand young steers gathered, ain’t you?”

  “Yes,” I assents. “But—”

  “But nothin’!” he cuts me off.

  “Here’s the man that came from Cap Dillingham with the order for the cattle and a check for a down payment on ’em,” pointin’ at the tall stranger on the gray. “Mason, meet Bill Swift, my foreman.… Mason will pilot you through Cayuse Brakes and Oliver’ll cook for you. I’ll run the round-up while you’re gone.”

  I size up Mason. A cowpuncher all right, from purty nigh wore-out boots to high-peaked, old, black Stetson. Way he sets his horse; his outfit, plain, serviceable, worn; an’ his little mannerisms all show he knows his stuff. A tall, big-shouldered, long-armed jigger; lean-jawed, smooth shaven, with a queer little scar on his left cheek. Hair almost white; kinda awful, cold gray eyes that look right through yuh.

  When he swings off his hoss he moves powerful lame in his left leg, so I inquires if a hoss ever fell on him. He don’t act like he heard me.

  “Mason!” I sings out. Still no answer, so I step up close and touch his shoulder. Gosh! He jumps high, pivotin’ like he’d felt a hot iron. His hands drops toward his black-handled gun with its holster tied down.

  “Ain’t deaf, are yuh?” inquires I. “No.”

  “‘At’s funny. I spoke your name twice.” “I heard yuh,” he sez, and his thin lips part in a grin what shows white, even teeth. I’ve been bossin’ cow outfits long enough to know Mason ain’t been travelin’ long under that name.

  We all get busy shapin’ up our day herd of young steers—stock we’d just been gatherin’ on this round-up—to cut that herd to an even thousand afore we bed the critters.

  Owens tells me I’m to take for helpers three of our newest hands, Cal Bassett, Roper Dixon and Cash Martin. A kid name of Jinglin’ Jimmy’s to be hoss wrangler. These, with Mason and me and Raw Beef Oliver, is my trail herd outfit. Oliver’s a good cook, ’ceptin’ he always seems to figger a cowboy orter eat his beef raw, and I can depend on him. Some others I ain’t so sure of, but the High Man is cranky as an ol’ range bull, so I don’t beller about the hands he’s picked.

  “Mighty important that this herd gets to Dillingham on the twenty-eighth,” says the big boss to me. “The old crank mightn’t take the critters if they’re a day late. We’d be in a heck of a fix with the cattle a hundred and thirty miles from home, all wore out and sore-footed. Get ’em through the Cayuse Brakes, Bill. This Mason strikes me as some cowhand.”

  “Speakin’ of that bird,” I begins, “did he bring a written order from Dillingham?”

  “Uh-huh. Written order. It’s O. K.… What you s’picious of?”

  “Mason hisself,” I blurts.

  “He’s O. K. Dillingham said so. This ain’t the first time Cap has bought cattle without seein’ ’em. He knows our 90 Bar dogies; knows I give him a square deal. He’ll give you his check for thirty thousand dollars to bring home, Bill.”

  “I’m glad it’s a check and not cash,” I grunts.

  Afore daybreak the round-up outfit is up, my boys ropin’ their strings of ponies outa the cavvy. We get a string for Mason by takin’ one pony from this rider, one from another, and so on. He gets some mighty bum nags, but I don’t hear a squawk outa him. Course, he’s got his own long-legged, speedy iron-gray, whose brand is so plum’ blotched nobody can read it.

  Cal Bassett, who thinks he’s some bronc-fighter, ropes a roan pony he hates like pizen, and, all unexpected, said roan plants a hind hoof in Bassett’s bread basket, knockin’ him end over end. Bassett gets up, right on the prod. Tyin’ the bronc’s head down to its front legs he starts workin’ on it with his quirt.

  Makin’ good time for a lame man, Mason drags that stiff left leg of his cross the ground and sez calm: “You’ve fought that hoss plenty, runt. Fight me awhile.”

  “All right, yuh big thus-and-such,” rasps Bassett.

  And the two of ’em cuts loose. For all he’s small, Bassett’s one dirty fighter—the kind as pulls a knife when he can’t gouge an eye or kick a man in the groin. In ’bout three minutes he sees he’s met more’n his match in this cool, steady, hard-hittin’ scrapper, and out comes his knife. He lunges in to rip Mason in the belly. Down go both. A wild yell, and up outer the dust rises Mason holdin’ Bassett solid. Turnin’ the cuss over his knee he gives him the daggondest paddlin’ ever.

  “Now I’ll trade you one of my nags for the roan,” says the tall blond jigger with the scar on his left cheek.

  Bassett is ’greeable to most anything right then. But I ain’t the fool to think he’ll forget this spankin’. One of them “get-even” jiggers, he’ll nurse a grouch and brood, and if the chance comes will do plenty dirty work to the hombre he hates.

  Soon our herd is strung out, headin’ for Cayuse Brakes. Me and Mason up on point, the cattle stringin’ long behind us, Roper Dixon and Cash Martin in the swing, Bassett bringin’ up the drags. Ahead of us is Raw Beef Oliver’s wagon and the hoss cavvy driv’ by Jinglin’ Jimmy. Sure pretty to see the outfit on the move, with the sun jus’ comin’ up.

  * * * *

  Nothin’ much happens till the second night out, when we’re camped just outside Cayuse Brakes. The cavvy is grazin’ near the wagon. Oliver, me and the wrangler’s in camp. The other boys is with the herd, on a hill outa our sight. I’m gobblin’ an early supper so I can relieve the rannies, when Mason comes from the herd, ridin’ like Billy-be-damned.

  Not stoppin’ at the wagon, he busts right on to the hoss cavvy, ropes his own big iron-gray and leads him close to the fire. Swingin’ from the 90 Bar hoss he’s forkin’, he begins right quick to change saddles.

  “Got to leave you, Bill,” he sez over his shoulder. “I know you’ll savvy when I tell you I spotted a hombre comin’ yonder,” pointin’ northeast, “who, I ain’t carin’ to meet.”

  “Was it a John Law?” pipes up Jimmy. Mason turns and gives the younker a look outa his cold gray eyes what makes Jinglin’ color up scand’lous an’ act like he wished he was elsewhere.

  “Yes, a John Law. Sheriff Dutton of Far Peak, to be prezact.”

  “Gol swiggle it, Mason,” I yammers, “you can’t up an’ quit me in a pinch. Here we are, all set to go into Cayuse Brakes come daylight tomorrer. I ain’t got ’nother man as knows that awful country. You can’t—”

  “For me it’s quit and run, or shoot, or get free board in a rock house,” Mason snaps, swinging onto his hoss.

  “Wait!” I hollers, thinkin’ fast ’bout how I got to get them young steers through to the 3 R. A trail herd boss has got one code—deliver your dogies. “Mason, it don’t make no never-mind to me what you done that a John Law should ride your trail. I won’t turn you over.”

  A dry little smile lights the puncher’s lean face. “An’ I don’t want to quit you, Bill, but—”

  “You hop up in that chuck wagon,” sez I. “Keep down, so your hat won’t show above the side-boards. The beds has been unloaded and the box is ’most empty.… Jinglin’ Jimmy’ll fork your hoss and fog out ahead of the Law.”

  For a jiffy Mason looks me in the eyes. Then he steps off his iron-gray, jerks off the kid wrangler’s hat and slaps his own on Jimmy’s head. “Ride like hell, south! The Law can’t keep in sight of your dust on this Poncho hoss. What you do later depends on you, kid.” Mason climbs into the wagon.

  Jimmy
gets the idea instanter. Bein’ the kind of kid you can bet your last nickel on, he’s up on that gray and gone like a bat outa hell. None too soon, for foggin’ down the slope from where the herd is, comes an officious lookin’ hombre on a big black horse, Sheriff Dutton of Far Peak.

  “Hi, stop!” he yells at Jinglin’ Jimmy. Course Jimmy don’t stop. Sheriff Dutton passes our camp travelin’ like a bullet. A hundred yards beyond our hoss cavvy he reins up sudden, turns his black a little sideways and jerkin’ a rifle to his shoulder, empties the magazine after the kid and the iron-gray hoss. Some of them lead slugs musta come powerful close to Jimmy, but he keeps foggin’.

  The John Law abandons the chase. “You the boss?” he snorts at me, returnin’ to our camp.

  “I admit it,” sez I. “What the hell’s eatin’ on you?”

  “Reckon you didn’t know you had a wanted man with your outfit,” he returns. “But all the same you should ha’ stopped Lame Larson afore he lit out.”

  “Lame Larson? Who’s he? What’s he done?”

  “Damned outlaw! Belongs with Black Yardley’s bandit gang.”

  “Who’s Black Yardley?” I asks.

  “Hell’s bells! Don’t ask me fool questions,” raps the ringy sheriff. “You know who Yardley is as well as I do.”

  But I don’t know, never havin’ heard of Black Yardley. “How come you’re here, Sheriff?” sez I.

  “Feller driftin’ through Far Peak let fall as a blond crippled jasper, white hair, scar on cheek, ridin’ a gray bronc, blotched brand, had been seen with a trail herd of 90 Bar cattle.”

  “That so?” I drawls skeptical. “Wal, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

  “Lame Larson,” snaps the sheriff, “jus’ now split the breeze away from here. What’s more, Mr. Trail Herd Boss, them punchers what’s with your herd now told me plenty. Hell! a two-thousand-dollar reward slipped through my fingers.”