"Well," grunted Mack, "did it work?"
"Worked swell," said Daugherty. "Jes' worked slick. We got him out. They wasn't but one hangup in the whole proceeding. The gent cleared the jail when the bars went bust but he didn't duck low enough. Met a bullet, which we never did know if it was one of ours or the guards. But we got him out of the jail, anyhow, even if he was killed before we could git him away."
A stifled groan rose from the listeners.
"Ain't that a cheerful idee? Operation shore was successful but the damn' fool patient died."
"It won't work."
Mack checked the talk. "It's a good idea, boys. They ain't any other plan that we can lay a finger to; I believe, by gum, we'll just set our loops in that direction. The big point is to get word to Jim somehow what he's to do. We got to let him know we'll be danglin' a rope down from the buildin' top after dark."
"It ain't so easy," objected another. "Yuh can't git within forty yards of that dump."
"Got to," was Mack's succinct answer. "We'll figger a way."
"Ahuh. Who is goin' to be the gent that skins across the buildin' tops and lowers the ropes?"
Mack ducked his head at the veteran, Gil Daugherty. "He did it before. He can do it again. Yeah, that's a good idea. Now, Gil, you just amble around the back end of town and have a good look at the rear side of the courthouse. Line up the cell window with the top of the roof so's you'll know where to climb when it's dark. Meanwhile, I want Rube and Chitty and Tex to split and sa'nter about the joint. See can you pass the word to Jim. I'll be dopin' out some other scheme to get a message to him likewise. Fluke, you take what's left of the bunch and mosey to'rds the front door o' the courthouse. Don't start anything, but look like yuh meant to go plumb through the place. That'll draw some o' them guards away from the back. Vamoose."
The bulk of the crew ambled into the street, drawing immediate attention by the compactness of their ranks, as well as by the reputation that hovered over them. Stirrup S always had been a fighting outfit, a young and recklessly exuberant outfit. This late afternoon they made a striking picture as they slowly split into smaller groups and drifted casually onward—tall, rangy fellows for the most part, with the air of competence about them; a lazy-moving, slim-hipped clan looking somberly to the front as if nothing existed save the far horizon on which they seemed to be speculating. Even Mack Moran, dropping back, was proud of them.
There could be no mistake as to the meaning of their presence. A current seemed to sweep outward and run along through the bystanders and back through the stores and houses. Folks came to the front and watched them pass, and retreated into the depths again, feeling the impact of the threat. Roaring Horse once had been a town entirely sympathetic to Stirrup S. And Roaring Horse knew every man of the group. Yet times had changed and there were many on that street who stood aside, tight lipped and unfriendly. These were the strangers who had arrived out of the desert and seemed to be waiting only for a signal.
Mack Moran cruised idly from one saloon to another, and from one store to another. He talked little, but he listened carefully, and presently he found himself abreast the Gusher, scowling at the westering sun.
"It looks dubious," he murmured. "I dunno where all them gents come from, but they's shore a raft of unbranded critters floatin' around. It don't look prosperous a-tall. Even the counter jumpers in this layout are crawlin' into their shells. Scared stiff. Ain't I seen some o' Theodorik Perrine's gang among those present? Yeah."
He was, all of a sudden, knocked back. A young woman with rosebud cheeks and alert eyes had collided with him. She stepped aside, half confused, half-laughing. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Moran."
His hat came off instantly, and he suffered the agonies of embarrassment. "Why, say, I'd ought to be shot fer blockin' the way. Ma'am, you'll excuse me."
"Really," said the young lady, still smiling, "it was my fault." And, looking straight into his eyes, she added a low and swift command. "Come up to my room, eighteen, right away." With that Gay Thatcher passed into the hotel.
Mack Moran replaced his hat and surveyed the landscape with a bland, indifferent air. He rolled a cigarette, stopped a passing acquaintance, and talked a few moments. He rocked on his heels, looked at his watch, and rubbed the face of it with a scrupulous concern. Then, having sufficiently established an apparent idleness, he ambled down the street. Abreast the bar's entrance to the Gusher, he paused and admirably portrayed the state of mind of a gentleman debating over the desirability of going in for a drink. Temptation, resistance, and surrender passed plainly across his shrewd, fighter's face. He walked in, lifted a symbolic finger to the barkeep, and imbibed. Paying for the potion, he seemed to be hit hard by a novel idea.
"Say, is that jewelry salesman still around?"
"Yeah," replied the barkeep.
"I want to see him," muttered Mack. "Figger to have an elk tush mounted." Obeying the idea, he marched up the back stairs of the Gusher and down to the room numbered eighteen. He started to knock, but was forestalled by the sight of Gay Thatcher on the threshold, beckoning him in. The door closed quickly.
XI. THE ATTACK ON THE JAIL
Mack Moran was a plain unadorned product of the range. He walked and he rode with his head up, asking concessions of nobody, claiming the freedom to do as he pleased and go where he pleased. He had nerve enough to pass that popular and mythical test of spitting in a grizzly's face; and Roaring Horse, in furtherance of the idea, allowed that Mack was perfectly willing to let the grizzly have first spit. He was a small man, but he never allowed that to handicap him; and his conversation was open, unhemstitched, and sometimes slightly scurrillous.
Such was the reputation of the gentleman as he stepped inside Gay Thatcher's room. Yet the moment the door closed behind him and he found himself closeted alone for the first time with a young woman of recognized standing and undeniable pulchritude a sort of panic struck him, unnerved him, paralyzed him. He was at the moment as nearly petrified as it is possible for a human to become and yet draw breath. He grew as rosy as a Kentucky belle at her first ball. With his hat removed and the weight of his body canted over on one foot he looked exactly like a man who had been caught stealing sheep; or, what was worse, eating sheep. And he mumbled incoherently: "Yes'm."
The worry on Gay Thatcher's forehead relaxed an instant. She smiled. "I am perfectly harmless, Mr. Moran. Your reputation is perfectly safe. Perhaps if you rolled a smoke you'd feel more at ease."
Mack sought for something to say and found it. "Ladies and hosses—yuh never know just what they'll do." That was out and it sounded funny. He was immediately sorry.
"Many a man has gone through life not recognizing that," said Gay. "It isn't complimentary, but it is almost true." The smile departed. She bent forward, her clear eyes searching Mack. "I have heard about Jim Chaffee. Tell me—there isn't anything serious about it? He'll be out of jail soon, won't he?"
Turned to a familiar topic, Mack lost his embarrassment. "Two weeks ago I'd of said yes. Slade drew first. A bunch of men have told me. The town was full of Theodorik's gents, all layin' for Jim. Shucks, any other time, Jim couldn't of been jugged. It's an iron-clad rule hereabouts, and always has been, that the fellow which pulls first is just out of luck if he stops a bullet. Only exception is when some hire gun artist does the job. Such a gent is apt to win a fight and still lose his neck. Accordin' to sentiment." He stopped, not sure what he wanted to say.
"Well?" prompted Gay.
"Jim's in a heap of trouble. Country's changed a lot since Satterlee died. They's a raft of strange dudes roamin' the streets. I've had a bug put in my ear. They aim to haul Jim out after dark. That's what the schedule calls for."
He thought the information would shock her. It usually shocked people who were not accustomed to range tactics. But he was mistaken.