Even the stout roan grew weary during the third day, and when they topped the last rise of hills, and looked down to darker shadows in Eldara in the black heart of the hollow, the mustang stood with hanging head, and one ear flopped forward. Cruel indeed had been the pace which Nash maintained, yet they had never been able to overhaul the flying piebald of Anthony Bard.
As they trotted down the slope, Nash looked to his equipment, handled his revolver, felt the strands of the lariat, and resting only his toes in the stirrups, eased all his muscles to make sure that they were uncramped from the long journey. He was fit; there was no doubt of that.
Coming down the main street—for Eldara boasted no fewer than three thoroughfares—the first houses which Nash passed showed no lights. As far as he could see, the blinds were all drawn; not even the glimmer of a candle showed, and the voices which he heard were muffled and low.
He thought of plague or some other disaster which might have overtaken the little village and wiped out nine tenths of the populace in a day. Only such a thing could account for silence in Eldara. There should have been bursts and roars of laughter here and there, and now and then a harsh stream of cursing. There should have been clatter of kitchen tins; there should have been neighing of horses; there should have been the quiver and tingle of children’s voices at play in the dusty streets. But there was none of this. The silence was as thick and oppressive as the unbroken dark of the night. Even Butler’s saloon was closed!
This, however, was something which he would not believe, no matter what testimony his eyes gave him. He rode up to a shuttered window and kicked it with his heel.
Only the echoes of that racket replied to him from the interior of the place. He swore, somewhat touched with awe, and kicked again.
A faint voice called: “Who’s there?”
“Steve Nash. What the devil’s happened to Eldara?”
The boards of the shutter stirred, opened, so that the man within could look out.
“Is it Steve, honest?”
“Damn it, Butler, don’t you know my voice? What’s turned Eldara into a cemetery?”
“Cemetery’s right. ‘Butch’ Conklin and his gang are going to raid the place to-night.”
“Butch Conklin?”
And Nash whistled long and low.
“But why the devil don’t the boys get together if they know Butch is coming with his gunmen?”
“That’s what they’ve done. Every able-bodied man in town is out in the hills trying to surprise Conklin’s gang before they hit town with their guns going.”
Butler was a one-legged man, so Nash kept back the question which naturally formed in his mind.
“How do they know Conklin is coming? Who gave the tip?”
“Conklin himself.”
“What? Has he been in town?”
“Right. Came in roaring drunk.”
“Why’d they let him get away again?”
“Because the sheriff’s a bonehead and because our marshal is solid ivory. That’s why.”
“What happened?”
“Butch came in drunk, as I was saying, which he generally is, but he wasn’t giving no trouble at all, and nobody felt particular called on to cross him and ask questions. He was real sociable, in fact, and that’s how the mess was started.”
“Go on. I don’t get your drift.”
“Everybody was treatin’ Butch like he was the king of the earth and not passin’ out any backtalk, all except one tenderfoot—”
But here a stream of tremendous profanity burst from Nash. It rose, it rushed on, it seemed an exhaustless vocabulary built up by long practice on mustangs and cattle.
At length: “Is that damned fool in Eldara?”
“D’you know him?”
“No. Anyway, go on. What happened?”
“I was sayin’ that Butch was feelin’ pretty sociable. It went all right in the bars. He was in here and didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Even paid for all the drinks for everybody in the house, which nobody could ask more even from a white man. But then Butch got hungry and went up the street to Sally Fortune’s place.”
A snarl came from Nash.
“Did they let that swine go in there?”
“Who’d stop him? Would you?”
“I’d try my damnedest.”
“Anyway, in he went and got the centre table and called for ten dollars’ worth of bacon and eggs—which there hasn’t been an egg in Eldara this week. Sally, she told him, not being afraid even of Butch. He got pretty sore at that and said that it was a frame-up and everyone was ag’in’ him. But finally he allowed that if she’d sit down to the table and keep him company he’d manage to make out on whatever her cook had ready to eat.”
“And Sally done it?” groaned Nash.
“Sure; it was like a dare—and you know Sally. She’d risk her whole place any time for the sake of a bet.”
“I know it, but don’t rub it in.”
“She fetched out a steak and served Butch as if he’d been a king and then sat down beside him and started kiddin’ him along, with all the gang of us sittin’ or standin’ around and laughin’ fit to bust, but not loud for fear Butch would get annoyed.
“Then two things come in together and spoiled the prettiest little party that was ever started in Eldara. First was that player piano which Sally got shipped in and paid God-knows-how-much for; the second was this greenhorn I was tellin’ you about.”
“Go on,” said Nash, the little snarl coming back in his voice. “Tell me how the tenderfoot walked up and kicked Butch out of the place.”
“Somebody been tellin’ you?”
“No; I just been readin’ the mind of Eldara.”
“It was a nice play, though. This Bard—we found out later that was his name—walks in, takes a table, and not being served none too quick, he walks over and slips a nickel in the slot of the piano. Out she starts with a piece of rippin’ ragtime—you know how loud it plays? Butch, he kept on talkin’ for a minute, but couldn’t hear himself think. Finally he bellers: ‘Who turned that damned tin-pan loose?’
“This Bard walks up and bows. He says: ‘Sir, I came here to find food, and since I can’t get service, I’ll take music as a substitute.’
“Them was the words he used, Steve, honest to God. Used them to Butch!
“Well, Conklin was too flabbergasted to budge, and Bard, he leaned over and says to Sally: ‘This floor is fairly smooth. Suppose you and I dance till I get a chance to eat?’
“We didn’t know whether to laugh or to cheer, but most of us compromised by keeping an eye on Butch’s gun.
“Sally says, ‘Sure I’ll dance,’ and gets up.
“‘Wait!’ hollers Butch; ‘are you leavin’ me for this wall-eyed galoot?’
“There ain’t nothin’ Sally loves more’n a fight—we all know that. But this time I guess she took pity on the poor tenderfoot, or maybe she jest didn’t want to get her floor all messed up.
“‘Keep your hat on, Butch,’ she says, ‘all I want to do is to give him some motherly advice.’
“‘If you’re acting that part,’ says Bard, calm as you please, ‘I’ve got to tell mother that she’s