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The Fighting Edge, a novel by William MacLeod Raine |
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Chapter 38. Bear Cat Asleep |
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_ CHAPTER XXXVIII. BEAR CAT ASLEEP Bear Cat basked in the mellow warmth of Indian summer. Peace brooded over the valley, a slumberous and placid drowsiness. Outside Platt & Fortner's store big freight wagons stood close to the sidewalk. They had just come in from their long overland journey and had not yet been unloaded. A Concord stage went its dusty way down the street headed for Newcastle. Otherwise there was little evidence of activity. It was about ten o'clock in the morning. The saloons and gambling-houses were almost deserted. The brisk business of the night had died down. Even a poker player and a faro dealer must sleep. Main Street was in a coma. A dog lazily poked a none too inquisitive nose into its epidermis in a languid search for fleas. Past the dog went a barefoot urchin into a store for two pounds of eight-penny nails. Three horsemen appeared at the end of the street and moved down it at the jog-trot which is the road gait of the cowpuncher. They dismounted near the back door of Platt & Fortner's and flung the bridle reins over the wheel spokes of the big freight wagons with the high sides. They did not tie the reins even in slip knots. The riders stood for a moment talking in low voices before they separated. One went into Dolan's. He was a good-looking young fellow about twenty. A second wandered into the hotel saloon. He was not good-looking and was twice twenty. The third strolled past the bank, glanced in, turned, and walked past it a second time. He straddled, with jingling spurs, into the big store. Tom Platt nodded casually to him. "Anything I can do for you, Houck?" "I reckon," Houck grunted. Platt noticed that he limped slightly. He had no feeling of friendliness toward Houck, but common civility made him inquire how the wounded leg was doing. After the Indian campaign the Brown's Park man had gone to Meeker for his convalescence. That had been two months since. "'S all right," growled the big fellow. "Good. Thought you kinda favored it a little when you walked." The Brown's Park man bought a plug of chewing tobacco and a shirt. "Guess the soldiers got the Utes corralled all right by this time. Hear anything new about that?" Platt asked by way of making conversation. "No," Houck replied shortly. "Got an empty gunnysack I could have?" "Sure." The storekeeper found one and a string with which to tie it. "I'll take a slab of side meat an' a pound of ground coffee," the big man growled. He made other purchases,--flour, corn meal, beans, and canned tomatoes. These he put in the gunnysack, tying the open end. Out of the side door he went to the horses standing by the big freight wagons. The contents of the sack he transferred to saddle-bags. Then, without any apparent doubt as to what he was going to do next, he dropped into another store, one which specialized in guns and ammunition, though it, too, sold general supplies. He bought cartridges, both for the two forty-fives and for the rifle he carried. These he actually tested in his weapons, to make sure they fitted easily. The proprietor attempted a pleasantry. "You're kinda garnished with weapons, stranger. Not aimin' to hold up the town, are you?" The amiable laugh died away. The wall-eyed stranger was looking at him in bleak silence. Not an especially timid man, the owner of the place felt a chill run down his spine. That stare carried defiance, an unvoiced threat. Later, the storekeeper made of it a stock part of his story of the day's events. "When the stranger gave me that look of his I knew right away something was doing. 'Course I didn't know what. I'll not claim I did, but I was sure there'd be a job for the coroner before night. Blister come into the store just after he left. I said to him, 'Who's that big black guy?' He says, 'Jake Houck.' 'Well,' I says, 'Jake Houck is sure up to some deviltry.'" It is easy to be a prophet after the event. When Houck jingled out of the store and along the sidewalk to the hotel, none of the peaceful citizens he met guessed what he had in mind. None of them saw the signal which passed between him and the young fellow who had just come out of Dolan's. This was not a gesture. No words were spoken, but a message went from one to the other and back. The young puncher disappeared again into Dolan's. Afterward, when Bear Cat began to assemble its recollections of the events prior to the dramatic climax, it was surprising how little that was authentic could be recalled. Probably a score of people noted casually the three strangers. Houck was recognized by three or four, Bandy Walker by at least one. The six-foot youngster with them was known by nobody who saw him. It was learned later that he had never been in the town before. The accounts of how the three spent the hour between ten and eleven are confusing. If they met during that time it was only for a moment or two while passing. But it is certain that Bandy Walker could not have been both in the blacksmith shop and at Platt & Fortner's five minutes before eleven. The chances are that some of the town people, anxious to have even a small part in the drama, mixed in their minds these strangers with others who had ridden in. Bob Dillon and Dud Hollister dropped from their saddles in front of the hotel at just eleven o'clock. They had ridden thirty miles and stood for a moment stretching the cramp out of their muscles. Dud spoke, nodding his head to the right. "Look what's here, Sure-Shot. Yore friend Bandy--old, tried, an' true." Walker was trailing his high-heeled boots through the dust across the street from Dolan's toward the big store. If he saw Bob he gave no sign of knowing him. The two friends passed into the hotel. They performed the usual rites of internal and external ablutions. They returned to the bar, hooked their heels, and swapped with Mike the news of the day. "Hear Larson's bought the K T brand. Anything to it?" asked Dud. "Paid seven thousand down, time on the balance," Mike said. "How you lads makin' it on Elk?" "Fine. We got the best preemptions on the river. Plenty of good grass, wood an' water handy, a first-class summer range. It's an A1 layout, looks like." "At the end of nowhere, I reckon," Mike grinned. "The best steers are on the edge of the herd," Dud retorted cheerfully. "It's that way with ranches too. A fellow couldn't raise much of a herd in Denver, could he?" A sound like the explosion of a distant firecracker reached them. It was followed by a second. It is strange what a difference there is between the report of one shot and another. A riotous cowpuncher bangs away into the air to stress the fact that he is a live one on the howl. Nobody pays the least attention. A bullet flies from a revolver barrel winged with death. Men at the roulette wheel straighten up to listen. The poker game is automatically suspended, a hand half dealt. By some kind of telepathy the players know that explosion carries deadly menace. So now the conversation died. No other sound came, but the two cattlemen and the bartender were keyed to tense alertness. They had sloughed instantly the easy indolence of casual talk. There came the slap of running footsteps on the sidewalk. A voice called in excitement, "They've killed Ferril." The eyes of the Elk Creek ranchers met. They knew now what was taking place. Ferril was cashier of the Bear Cat bank. _ |
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