The Second Western Megapack. Zane GreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
Jimmy. I spur to the kid. “Sure tickled to see you, Jimmy. Did you throw the sheriff off your trail?”
“Say, I had heaps of fun with that John Law. I just imagined I was—was Lame Larson, outlaw, bein’ chased by a sheriff.” Jinglin’s eyes is shinin’. “Yeah, I throwed him off all jake. This yere gray hoss is one humdinger. Whar’d you get him, Mason?”
“That’s a hell of a question to ask an outlaw,” pipes up Cal Bassett in that high, squeaky voice of his’n.
Mason throws a look at Bassett what I wouldn’t want throwed my way, and the confab breaks up abrupt.
* * * *
That night everything ’pears jake. Mason and me stands first guard over the steers. Bassett, Martin and Dixon is to stand second. Two shifts, half the night each, us bein’ short-handed and havin’ a sizable bunch of cattle to ride round.
I’m in bed and sound asleep when hell busts loose. A shot and a yell wakes me and I pop from under my tarp with a gun in my fist. It’s light enough for me to see two men battlin’ a third, an’ another one lyin’ on the ground groanin’. I rush toward the battlers. Roper Dixon and Cal Bassett is wrestlin’ somethin’ fierce and terrible with Mason. As I run, they down him and hold him. Raw Beef Oliver jumps ’longside me and we both stumble over the hombre on the ground—Cash Martin, shot through the chest and dyin’.
“Hey, you rannies!” I beller. “What—” “Stand back!” hollers Bassett. “We’ve nabbed this danged bandit!”
“The son-of-a-buzzard shot Martin afore I could grab his gun arm,” Roper sings out, husky, like he’s outa wind, powerful jasper though he is.
“Say, you coyotes, who’s with the herd?” I yelp, thinkin’ of the cattle immejit. “Nobody? Doggone your hides, what d’you think—”
“We’ve done our thinkin’, Bill Swift,” Bassett squeals. “Me and Roper and Martin figgered this out. I admit I had it in for Lame Larson—alias Mason—anyhow.”
“But I’m tellin’ you to let Mason alone an’ forget this foolishness!” I order, emphatic.
“Foolishness?” Bassett comes back plenty insolent. “I know what you’ll say, Bill Swift. You’ll say we got to stay with your herd. We say, ‘T’ hell with ’em!’ Neither me nor Roper Dixon gives two whoops ’bout them dogies. We’re c’lectin’ two thousand bucks reward. Put that in your pipe an’ smoke it.”
“Furthermore,” rumbles Dixon, still settin’ on Mason’s head, “this cussed gun-slinger has salivated Cash Martin. D’yuh think yuh can argue with us after that?”
“Argument’s open right now with hot lead,” I beller, and old Raw Beef leaves abrupt, to race back to his bed. The old-timer had forgot to bring his gun when he jumped outa his blankets. I’m scairt our cattle, unguarded, will stampede any second. That one shot might ha’ roused ’em. But in the followin’ second I hear the cavvy bells on our ponies tinklin’ up in the basin and hear Jinglin’ Jimmy callin’ to the cattle, “Sho’ now, dogies, don’t you spook. Quiet down, dogies.”
Some kid, that Jimmy. He’s left his hosses and is tryin’ to hold the cattle, ’stead of rushin’ to camp to see what the hell, like ninety-nine out of a hundred kids would ha’ done.
“Hot lead, huh?” Roper Dixon rumbles. “Take ’er in the guts then, Bill.”
His lead-chucker vomits fire and a bullet cuts whiskers offen my left cheek. I’m needin’ a shave bad, but not that kind. My smoker makes talk, too. Its forty-five slug catches Roper in the shoulder, knockin’ him backwards and down, and like a panther, Mason, freed of Roper’s weight, bounds to his feet.
Bassett is draggin’ out his Colt, but Mason catches hold of that little cur, and whippin’ him round his head like he’d whirl a rope, he lets him fly. Bassett’s hurled ’bout twenty feet, fetch in’ up against a rock. Then Mason pivots and jumps on Roper Dixon, who yells.
“’Nuff! I’m shot.”
I run over to Bassett and grab him. He ain’t knocked out, just woozy. But he’s lost his smoker and his appetite for fight. Here comes old Raw Beef to help me and Mason. The scrap’s over and the dogies ain’t stampeded. I know Jinglin’ Jimmy is all as has kept ’em from quittin’ the earth.
“If you can handle this pair of lizards, I’ll go out on herd,” Mason hollers at me.
“Go, and you too, Raw Beef. Hustle!” I sings out.
The cook and the outlaw fork the hosses what Bassett and Roper had been ridin’ and lope away. I drag Bassett up close to Roper and consider what to do. Heck of a mess! Cash Martin dead. Dixon wounded bad. I can’t depend on Bassett no more. All this ’cause I got in my outfit an outlaw with a reward on his head. Can me and Raw Beef and Jimmy and Mason get that herd through? We got to.
“Bassett,” I sez, “you’re a damned snake in the grass. Raised plenty hell, didn’t you?”
“I ain’t forgettin’ ’twas you who shot Roper,” Bassett snarls. “Him and Martin was both my pards. Damned if I don’t hate yuh, Bill Swift, as much as I do Lame Larson. I’ll—”
“I’ll tell you what you’ll do, Bassett,” I snap. “You’ll either take Roper Dixon to Far Peak to a doctor, or else you’ll stay with him and nurse him.”
With that I tie Bassett, build up the fire, and bandage Roper Dixon’s shoulder. The bullet busted his collar bone and tore plum’ through. Pretty bad. Some outfit I’ve got on this trip through Cayuse Brakes! However, I figger Bassett’ll sure take care of Roper. So I’ll leave them two behind; leave ’em a couple of ponies, grub and a bed—but no gun.
The only thing Mason says to me is: “Sorry I had to shoot Martin. Heard ’em comin’, you see. Jumped outa bed, saw two of ’em with their smokers out, shot one, and Roper grabbed me from behind.”
At daybreak the cattle string out, Mason takin’ the point, Raw Beef Oliver the swing, with Jinglin’ Jimmy followin’. I’ll bring up the drags and the horses. The dogies is stringin’ out, the leaders outa sight, and I’m still at camp packin’ the last pack nag when Sheriff Dutton rides up.
Hailstones in hell! Ain’t I troubles enough without that rooster poppin’ up at such a time! Course he sees Bassett, who ain’t hurt none, and Roper Dixon, who’s in bad shape. Also Martin’s body what I have ordered Bassett to bury later.
“I heard shots las’ night,” sez the hefty sheriff, scratchin’ his meaty nose. “Seems to ha’ been trouble here. Also it may int’rest yuh to know, Bill Swift, that I picked up the tracks of Lame Larson’s hoss. He joined your outfit again.”
“Sheriff,” squeals Bassett, “Larson never left this outfit. He was with it all the time. He still is.”
“So-ho!” Dutton’s bushy eyebrows go up. “And what’s happened here now, Bassett?”
“Lame Larson, or Mason as we call him, killed that man yonder, Cash Martin, and Swift shot Roper Dixon.”
“Bill, yuh’re under arrest,” rumbles Sheriff Dutton, whippin’ out his smoker. But I’m expectin’ somethin’ of the kind, and my ol’ hogleg’s in my fist, pointin’ at Dutton’s nose, as his lead-chucker clears leather.
“Drop it!” I yelps.
“D’yuh mean yuh’re resistin’ an—” the astounded jigger begins.
“Drop it! Keep back, Bassett, you snake, or I’ll put out one of them slinky eyes of your’n!” Dutton’s smoker slides to the ground. “Now then, Sheriff,” I proceeds, “I’m tellin’ you that Bill Swift don’t let nobody keep him from deliverin’ the cattle he has got to deliver. Either you’ll give me your word to keep your nose outa my business until Cap Dillingham gets this herd, or—”