Flaming feud, p.15
Flaming Feud, page 15
A blast of hot air and spark-laden smoke roared through the doorway as Fiddlefoot gestured to the Dude. Another slug whined through the window.
The Englishman cocked a leg over the sill, slid down. Fiddlefoot slapped at sparks that were singeing his shirt and dove after him.
A crowd had gathered in front of the flaming structure. The firing from the flat roofs of buildings opposite had ceased. Someone set a ladder against the canopy and the three dropped down into the street.
Weary and Winters shouldered through the yammering townsmen. The crowd surged back. Sheets of flame wavered skyward and sparks showered as the roof collapsed. Tensed faces bathed scarlet, knots of spectators watched in awed silence as the sun-dried timbers glowed with incandescent fire and the entire building dissolved into a fiery cauldron.
In the fascination of watching the fire that had so nearly consumed them, Fiddlefoot had, for the moment, forgotten the events that lay behind it. Recollection of the murderous trap that had been sprung came back with a rush. "Say," he told Weary, "Watch that gal like she was a million dollars. I gotta job to do." He found Dave Winters and tapped his shoulder.
When they were clear of the crowd Fiddlefoot turned and surveyed the gutted building. The flames were dying down now and men, gnome-like in the flickering light, were flinging ineffective buckets of water into the embers.
"You know who set thet blaze?" he asked the foreman.
Winters spat, "Sure—Nick! But," he smiled guilelessly, "We can't prove nothing!"
"We don't have to prove nothing," said Fiddlefoot curtly, "Let's go get the skunk."
No light showed in Nick's living quarters in the rear of the Longhorn.
Fiddlefoot picked up a rock and hammered on the door. A lamp glowed inside. The door inched open and the saloon man pushed out his head, yawning.
At sight of his visitors, he hastily withdrew, but Fiddlefoot threw his weight against the door before he could slip the bolt home. It swung back, bowling Nick off his feet. The blocky rider plummeted into the room, Winters pressing close behind him.
Eyes venomous, the saloon man picked himself off the floor. His feet were bare and his shirt hung loose. The cherubic smile was gone. "I've killed men for less than that," he said tightly.
"Howcome yore the only man in town asleep when there's gunfire on Main Street and Guts' joint is burning?" demanded Fiddlefoot.
"I sleep soundly and mind my own business."
Fiddlefoot's gaze wandered around the room. A pair of boots stood by the bed. "Watch him, Dave!" he cautioned. Moved forward and picked the boots up. He examined them carefully. Eyes triumphant, he turned and held them out, so that Winters could see the oil stains still damp upon the soles and uppers.
"Lamp thet Dave?"
The foreman nodded. "This skunk sprinkled oil around Guts' joint and touched a match to it—figgered to roast us."
Fiddlefoot turned to replace the boots. A gun roared. He pivoted. Nick was writhing on the floor, both hands clutching his belly. A derringer lay beside him.
"He tried a sneak draw!" Winters wore a pleased smile.
"Le's go!" said Fiddlefoot.
"Be right with yuh," Winters stepped over to the lamp. Nick was squirming on the floor, moaning softly.
The blocky rider stepped outside. He built a smoke, wondering what held Dave Winters back. He had the cigarette alight when the foreman stepped out, carefully closing the door behind him.
They hit Main Street again. Fiddlefoot stopped, with a puzzled frown, "Ain't that Nick bellowing?"
"Wouldn't you beller," grunted Winters, "With a blue whistler in yore guts? Le's take a gander at the bonfire!"
Guts' place was a smoking heap of cinders now, with townsfolk moving around like restless shadows.
Priscilla was sitting on the edge of the plankwalk, opposite the ruins. Weary hunkered against a store front behind her and the four former Boxed H punchers formed a cordon.
"How's Nick doin'?" drawled the lanky puncher.
"Not so good," replied Winters gravely. "He acted like he had indigestion."
Excited shouting from down street brought Fiddlefoot's head around. The townsmen wandering aimlessly around suddenly drained away. "What's fazing them now?" he demanded, with a touch of irritation.
"The Longhorn's afire," said Winters, who had not stirred.
"Afire!" Fiddlefoot gazed fixedly at the foreman's blank features, then sank down again.
"Ain't you surprised?"
"Should I be, you old rangatang?"
Winters smiled faintly and built another cigarette.
It was sunup when the populace of Adobe, bleary eyed from excitement and loss of sleep, gathered in groups to discuss the second calamity that had smitten the town— the total loss of The Longhorn.
"Wal," said the foreman, as he and Fiddlefoot split a pot of coffee in Slim Ardley's office down at the depot, while Priscilla repaired the ravages of a sooty night in the storekeeper's home, "I guess Rock's death is righted—at last."
Fiddlefoot drained his cup, "So you figure Nick bushwhacked Rock?" he asked thoughtfully.
"Yep!" asserted Winters.
"Yore barking up the wrong tree, Dave!"
Speculation lay in the foreman's faded blue eyes as he met Fiddlefoot's glance. "Kin yuh prove it?" he challenged.
"Sure! Just give me time," promised the other.
Chapter 20
Before the sun cleared the distant Chiracahuas, Fiddlefoot was heading back into the Barrens. There were two warrants, both for murder, hanging over his head like suspended nooses, and he had to get out of town before the lawmen arrived from Fremont Wells. The Halliford girl had telegraphed the sheriff. It was almost a certainty that he and Frosty Ferlow would be in before nightfall.
Although he pushed the calico, it was noon before he threaded through the boulders of the gulch where he had left the gang. There was no challenge from a concealed lookout, no clink of coin as men gambled in shady niches, no nickering ponies. At a first startled glance, he thought the camp was deserted. Then he glimpsed Dakota and saw the fiery sheen of Molly's red hair.
"Where's the boys?" he questioned, swinging to the ground.
"Beat it!" said Dakota gruffly.
"Not for the Border?"
"Nope, f'r the Boxed H." Light broke upon Fiddlefoot. He grinned, "So they tired of setting around and staged a raid?"
"Nope," came back the laconic Dakota. "They quit! Butch's three pards tied up with a gent named Sudden. Some claim Sudden's Rock's son, others swear he's a ringer. Anyways, he's beating it with a big slice of Boxed H beef and he craved help to handle the herd. He showed the boys plenty dinero, so they saddled up and vamoosed."
"When was this?" asked Fiddlefoot, his features straight as he chewed upon the information.
"Yesterday, around midday."
It was plain to the blocky rider now. Sudden had guessed the girl had read his real brand and had determined to beat a posse to the Border, with a chunk of Boxed H beef to boot. "Howcome you didn't grab some of that easy dinero?" he asked abruptly.
Dakota tugged at his ragged, tobacco-stained mustache. Fiddlefoot had never seen him closer to embarrassment. "Guess I sided the gal, and she sided you," he admitted finally. The blocky rider glanced at Molly, standing silent in the cook's rear. "Sided me?" he repeated, with quickened interest.
"Yep," rumbled the old renegade. "She claimed you was elected kingpin and you give the orders, and danged ef she would pull out 'til you got back."
"Thet sure was nice of you, ma'am!" drawled Fiddlefoot. The redhead glanced away. "I got in a fracas or I'd have been back yesterday," he explained. "You two head f'r town. Get holt of Weary, the beanpole. Tell him to hump his tail and hit f'r the Boxed H, bringing along Winters and his boys."
"Where you heading?" queried Dakota.
"For the Boxed H."
The cook scrubbed his mustache with a back of a gnarled hand, "I don't get it!"
"You don't have to," retorted Fiddlefoot, with a grin. "Give your thinkbox a rest, saddle your bronk and bust the breeze."
Dakota moved away, but Molly stood uncertainly, obviously unwilling to leave. "Will you be back?" she asked, hesitantly.
"I'll be in town afore your dust settles," he promised.
Shadows were slanting eastward when his leg-weary pony ambled into the Boxed H yard. He stepped down at the water trough, eased the calico's cinches and took stock of his surroundings. It was plain that something was wrong. At this time of day the ranch should have been empty of men, except for the cook. But there were a dozen or more punchers drifting aimlessly around. From their manner it was plain that they were uneasy and perplexed.
Fiddlefoot accosted the nearest cowpoke, "Boss around?"
The puncher lifted his shoulders with a comic gesture of despair, "Nope! Sudden's gone loco, everything's loco!"
"Howcome?"
"He rode in with a bunch of hard cases. I swear they were the brand-blotchers who been harrying our stock. Had cookie feed 'em like fighting cocks. Then they all beat it at sunup. Sudden left no orders and we ain't seen hair nor hide of him and the hard cases since."
Sudden was probably over the Border by now and beyond pursuit, considered Fiddlefoot. And he'd taken the gang with him. Maybe it was all for the best. He rolled a smoke, hunkered against the barn and settled himself to wait.
Slowly, as the day died, the mountains were blotted out and the hush of evening settled upon the ranch, accentuated by the mumble of men's voices and the muted stamp of a pony in the pasture.
Six riders jogged into the yard. Fiddlefoot straightened as he discerned Weary's long form and Winters' spare figure. "Say," he demanded, "You jaspers leg it from Adobe, or did you jest lay down and roll?"
"Nope," said Weary forlornly, beating dust off his shirt, "We crawled, thet's why we most killed our hawses."
Fiddlefoot pulled the foreman and Weary apart from the press of punchers jostling around the newcomers. He told them of Sudden's enlisting the rustlers, gathering a herd and driving it south. "Reckon we got no more chance of catching 'em now than of trimming the whiskers off the man in the moon," he concluded. The foreman nodded agreement.
Outside the law shack, Frosty Ferlow was readying a posse to bring in the pseudo Boxed H heir, while Sheriff Roth leaned against the rail finishing his after-breakfast cigar. Of a sudden, Frosty spat out an oath, jumped for the office doorway and ducked inside. Quickly, he emerged, grasping a shotgun.
The sheriff was tensed, too, staring at two riders jogging up street towards them. "Fiddlefoot!" he ejaculated.
The lawmen stood taut as the riders broke through the possemen and swung out of their saddles. Shotgun levelled, Frosty moved across the plankwalk.
"F'r gosh sakes, drop thet greener," drawled Winters. "Ain't he giving hisself up peaceful?"
Fiddlefoot looped his reins around the smooth-worn rail and gazed down street. Satisfaction registered in his eyes at sight of Weary loping past the store fronts, the Dude and Priscilla tagging behind.
He stepped inside the law shack, Frosty at his heels, the others trailing. Fiddlefoot crossed the room, leaned against the rear wall and waited. Sharp eyes puzzled, Frosty set his shotgun on the table and dropped into a chair, swinging to watch the blocky rider. More forms darkened the doorway. Weary, the last, closed the door and lounged against it.
"Rest your laigs, folks!" invited Fiddlefoot genially. When the scraping of chair legs on the plank floor ceased, a quick silence draped the office and every eye focussed him. There was curt challenge in his glance as he turned to the deputy, "What's the charge?"
"You know dang well what the charge is," snapped Frosty, "Murder of Rock Hansen."
"Heck," drawled Winters, "Would he bushwhack his own paw?"
The Dude gasped. A quick smile of understanding wreathed Priscilla's prim lips, the sheriff's face was expressionless.
"Dave hit the bulls-eye," acknowledged Fiddlefoot calmly, "I beat it eight years back, wandered up and down the Border, mostly in Mexico, dodging a warrant. Month or two back, I met a Cattlemen's Protective man, Jack Small, in Nogales. Guess I was hankering for the home corral. When he was knifed, I grabbed his papers and his name and rode back to Skeleton Valley."
"You beefed Small!" accused Frosty harshly.
"Thet's a windy!" broke in Winters's mild voice. "Weary rode down tuh Nogales and checked on the killing. He found two witnesses and got sworn statements. Small tangled with a bunch of vaqueros."
"Which leaves the Texas killing, and that was self-defense," continued Fiddlefoot. "The tinhorn drew first."
"We only need one murder tuh swing yuh," Frosty's voice again cut in. "Ef you didn't plug Rock, howcome your badge, which you swiped off Small, was found by the body? And howcome the slug come from Nick's derringer, which you picked up in the saloon?"
Fiddlefoot's grey eyes mocked him, "You tell 'em, Frosty—you should know!"
"I know you shot Rock!"
The blocky rider sighed, "Heck, I guess I gotta spill it. Wal, the coyote who killed Rock picked up Small's badge in the rustler's canyon, by the ashes of the campfire, where Red pitched it. Thet hombre rode into the canyon the day after Red and his gang pulled out. He likewise fished Nick's gun from the floor, under a table in The Longhorn, the night Rock worked Nick over. His name is—Frosty Ferlow!"
Every head swivelled towards the deputy. Eyes blazing, bony fists clenched with anger, Frosty choked through his rage, "Me! Why in hell would I kill Rock Hansen?"
"Because," came back Fiddlefoot calmly, "you're half-brother to Patrick Rourke, who died at Bitter Spring. You're like all the Rourkes, Frosty, you hold your hate like an Indian."
"You got bats in the belfry," snarled the deputy.
"Howcome Rourke and his sons hit for Bitter Spring, knowing it was Boxed H water? Because he figured you would side him. Howcome you never brought in a rustler? Because Red was your nephew. Howcome you framed me? Because you read my brand. Dave got wise to me, the day of the funeral, I reckon you did, too. My paw cleaned up three of the Rourke clan. You cleaned up Rock and laid it on me to even the score."
"Yore loco!" scoffed the deputy.
"Patrick Rourke's half-brother was crippled by a bullet wound in the leg. You claim you busted your leg in a fall from a horse. Yank up your pants leg and prove me a liar!"
Tight silence followed Fiddlefoot's challenge. Frosty crouched in his chair, glaring at his accuser like a cornered lobo.
"Wal?" said the sheriff expressively, regarding his deputy with curious eyes.
"You ain't believing thet windbag, Jim?"
"Lemme see your leg!"
Frosty's right hand dropped onto the shotgun, whipped it up. Its twin barrels blurred in a flashing arc…a roar reverberated through the shack. The shotgun clattered to the floor. Blood dribbled from a neat round hole in the deputy's forehead. His lifeless body slid slowly out of the chair. No one moved a muscle, all were petrified by amazement by the lightning play. No one except Weary, by the door, who was holstering his six-gun. "I had the rattlesnake covered," he explained apologetically.
Sheriff Roth was staring at Fiddlefoot, "Ef this don't beat all hell!" he ejaculated.
The blocky rider smiled, without humor, "Guess you still want me f'r the Texas killing?"
"Heck, no, I checked up on thet. The sheriff who issued the warrant is working on a chain gang. He was as crooked as a corkscrew. Nope, there's nothing against you, Fiddl—Hansen." He eyed Frosty's slack form distastefully, "Better get—that, over to the morgue."
Winters and Weary packed the body out of the office, past open-mouthed possemen. The sheriff, still dazed by Fiddlefoot's revelations, remained seated, chewing the stump of his cold cigar. The Dude and Priscilla stood uncertainly.
Fiddlefoot tapped the Englishman on the shoulder and nodded at the doorway. Creighton-Caldwell followed him outside.
The blocky rider swung around, "You was tied up with Nick!" he stated briefly, eyes like grey granite.
Creighton-Caldwell swallowed nervously, "We-er-had certain business relations," he admitted uncomfortably.
"Mister, I got enough on you to put you away for ten years."
The Dude drew himself up, "I may have made an error of judgment," he declared, with dignity, "but I have no regrets. Make your charges—and be damned!"
Fiddlefoot smiled, but his eyes were frosty, "Wal, sign over the Barred M and all rights in Bitter Spring to me, or I'll talk to the sheriff right now. Think fast!"
The Englishman eyed him with relief and lofty contempt, "There speaks a Hansen! You can have the wretched shack and its appurtenances—Rock!"
Priscilla's voice sounded behind them, "What's the conference about?"
Fiddlefoot smiled bleakly, "The Dude here feels so doggoned friendly thet he's signing over the Barred M to me."
"Oh—I had hoped—" She checked, suddenly embarrassed.
"To live on thet hard-scrabble spread," threw in Fiddlefoot, with a sly glance at the Dude's flushed face. "Heck, this ain't yore kind of country."
"Adolph Hansen, don't you dare dictate to me!" Her nose wrinkled, "I love it, even the shooting! I shudder at the thought of returning to stuffy Boston, and this wonderful air would revitalize Mother."
"I warn't through when you horned in," said Fiddlefoot, straightfaced. He nodded at the black patch across the street, where the eating house had stood. "Adobe's gotta have a hash house, and we sure can't go thirsty. I got plans to set a big square building over yonder—the Adobe Hotel. Hash house and saloon on the ground floor; rooms, nice clean rooms, with brass beds and carpets, upstairs. I'll be needing a steady, reliable married couple to manage it—on a percentage, so they could buy it from the profits."
"Why tell me—I'm not married!" shot back Priscilla, with unnecessary emphasis.
The Dude coughed, "Could you—er—hold everything for a brief space, old bean?"
