“I just cut Sheriff Sears down,” he cried. “He was hangin’ from a tree—about two miles out of town. And his badge was missin’.” With that, the youngster turned heel and ran into the store two removed from Larson’s. The legend painted on the window was, “Dan River’s Printing Shop.” Underneath that appeared the words, “Hangman’s Gulch Weekly Herald.”
Consternation, then anger showed on honest Sam Larson’s face. “Murdered!” he cried fiercely. “First West and now Sears! This is Black Henry’s bloody work!”
“There’s no proof yet,” said the judge temperately.
“Enough for me, Carter—and the Committee,” cried Larson. “Tom told me yesterday he was on that big devil’s trail. Said Black Henry and the Hounds had a cabin in the hills ’round here.”
“What’ll we do about a sheriff,” asked Wurt quietly, “to take Sears’ place?”
“There’ll be an election,” announced the judge. “As the law prescribes.”
“That’ll take two weeks,” pointed out Tay Brown.
“The law may move slowly, gentlemen,” said the judge. “But it moves. I’m going to have Rivers make the announcement in his paper.” He nodded, and moved with unhurried and dignified stride to the store where the Herald was printed.
“He’ll never learn,” cried Larson bitterly. He turned grimly to Brown. “But we ain’t waitin’ for no election. I’m callin’ a meetin’ of the Committee for tonight.” His glance reluctantly included Jim Wurt.
“I’ll be there,” said Wurt. He smiled pleasantly and left them.
“Can’t understand what yuh have against Jim Wurt,” said Brown.
Larson’s wide mouth drew in as he watched Wurt disappear into the Star Saloon. “I can’t put my finger on it, Brown,” he said unsmiling. “But there’s somethin’ in that gent I don’t trust. Maybe it’s because that bunch of hoodlums uses Wurt’s place to meet.”
“I think yuh got him figgered wrong, Larson,” declared Brown, shaking his head. “Business is business, ’sides there’s never been a suspicion on him. Why he’s Number Eight.”
Two meetings took place that night—not one. And the latter meeting was a counterpart of one that had taken place on many previous occasions—in the single, candle-lighted back room of the Star.
Black Henry had just let his bulk in quietly through the door and taken his seat. Wurt’s face glowed sepulchrally in the yellow light as he finished counting some money from a roll of bills.
“Guess I lost that bet, huh?” he said smiling.
Black Henry’s coarse laughter rumbled low in the room. “That’ll learn yuh not make any more dumb fool bets with me.” A hairy hand broke into the dimly lit circle and took the money Wurt had extended. Then the hands’ owner said, “Brought yuh a present, Wurt.” And an object was thrown onto the table.
For a moment, Jim Wurt stared at it; then a smile brushed his full lips. And he picked the shiny object up and slipped it into his pocket.
“That’ll hang yuh, friend,” Matt’s taunting voice floated thickly from the wall, where he had his chair tipped.
“Sure,” laughed Black Henry. “Right beside yuh.”
“Let up, yuh two,” said Wurt, but it was evident that he was in a good humor. “And listen to me.”
Silence descended over the glimmering darkness of the room. Silence broken only by the softly pushing voice of Jim Wurt, weaving a web of chicanery and cunning.
Once Matt objected. “But Texas—” he began.
Wurt cut him off. “Texas is a long way from here,” he said. “And as long as yuh’re workin’ for me—” he shrugged.
The candle sputtered, neared the nadir of its descent. Still the purring voice went on. Finally Wurt reached the end.
“And Black Henry,” he concluded, “my brother members on the Vigilante Committee are goin’ to comb the woods for yuh. Just disappear for a week.” Then he sent his voice reaching to Matt in the darkness. “And remember, Matt. We remain strangers to each other—the way we been—’til this business is settled. Then we’ll see how the play falls.”
When he had done, his two henchmen joined him in a drink; then the three plotters departed separately, and in silence.
3. Claim-Jumpers
THE LONG-LEGGED black made it up the sharp, rugged scarp and stood blowing and heaving on the patchy crest. The late afternoon sun, still warm, came out of the western fringe of hills to greet the lone rider, and splayed him with flat, yellow sunshine.
Bide Evans flung his hand up against the glare. He blinked as his eyes pierced the faded western distance and found faint smoke curling skyward from vague rooftop shapes. He nodded slightly.
“Reckon that’s Hangman’s Gulch, mister—the last stop down the line.” Evans spoke to his horse, as men do when they ride the range or trail alone. “Six months,” he muttered bitterly. “Six months—and nary a sign.”
The bitterness in his voice lay reflected in the ingrown canker of his deep-set gray eyes. And in the lines of his face that pulled his lips together, tight and thin. Yet his eyes had not always been bitter in his twenty-five years.
It was a strong face, where bitterness and determination sat evenly matched. It was lean of shank, but square of chin—a chin covered with thick, barbed-wire stubble, red in color. As brick red as the tangle of hair that lay thatched underneath his Stetson.
“From Truckee Pass to Frisco,” he muttered grimly. “From Mt. Shasta all the way down here, to Hangman’s Gulch—and nary a trace of him—nary a sign.” He shook his head stubbornly. “He must be in California. He was seen comin’ through the pass.”
He shrugged his wide shoulders, and spoke again to his black: “But we ain’t found him, mister. Reckon that means we’ll be headin’ for home tomorrer.”
Then, for perhaps the hundredth time since he had received it back in San Francisco, he drew a letter from his breast pocket.
He knew the contents as he did the back of his hand. Yet every time he read it, his throat choked him and anger raked him like a fiery brand. He hadn’t shaved since he had received it. The letter was brief and said:
Dear Bide,
Your mother died shortly after you left—of a broken heart. Come back to Texas, son, and the Circle E. I’m getting old and weary, and the spread needs you to ramrod it.
We’re a proud family, Bide—maybe too proud. That’s why I’m asking you to leave off and come home. Your mother would have wanted it that way, too.
Your Father.
Bitterness lay across his face like an open wound. His mother dead, and his father bending under the strain. All because of—
He stuffed the letter back into his pocket. Yes, he thought grimly, they had been a proud family. Proud and stubborn. That’s why he had clung to the trail until now. That’s why he had written back that he would stay it to the end.
But Hangman’s Gulch was the end. It was the last mining town down the line. Only a dogged presistence had kept him going this far. Even to himself he had been unwilling to acknowledge its futility. But he recognized it now. It was all over. Maybe it was best that way? Quien sabe?
At any rate, he had ridden the hot sun from mining camp to mining camp the whole day—as he had these past six months. And he had broken cold camp this morning, therefore the prospect of a hot bath