The Bandit of Hell's Bend by Edgar Rice Burroughs (ebook reader web .txt) 📕
"You damn pole-cat!" he exclaimed, his eyes on Gum. "Come on, Bull; this ain't no place for quiet young fellers like us."
Bull wheeled Blazes and rode slowly through the doorway, with never a glance toward the sheriff; nor could he better have shown his utter contempt for the man. There had always been bad blood between them. Smith had been elected by the lawless element of the community and at the time of the campaign Bull had worked diligently for the opposing candidate who had been backed by the better element, consisting largely of the cattle owners, headed by Elias Henders.
What Bull's position would have been had he not been foreman for Henders at the time was rather an open question among the voters of Hendersville, but the fact remained that he had been foreman and that he had worked to such good purpose for
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“Thompson,” he called, “you take Colby an’ keep him ‘til I git back. Don’t let Gum Smith git his hands on him, an’ shoot Colby if he makes any funny plays. Git down offen your horse, Colby. Take him, Thompson. Come on boys!” and with Texas Pete and Shorty at his pony’s heels he started on a run for the Bar Y As they raced along, now neck and neck, Texas Pete jerked his head back in the general direction of Hendersville. “What was it all about?” he inquired.
“I jest runded up The Black Coyote,” replied Bull.
“Colby?”
Bull nodded. “I ben suspicionin’ him,” he said, “fer a long time back, but I couldn’t never call the turn on him. Then I runs onto Gregorio while I’m hidin’ out up Coyote Canyon. Him an’ Colby ben workin’ together all along, but it seems lately the greaser’s found out Colbys plannin’ on doublecrossin’ him an’ goin’ south with all the swag. This was to be his last job, an’ Colby fixed it someway to have a big shipment of gold today, so Gregorio an’ me fixes it an’ swaps clothes an’ horses an’ I takes the greaser’s place. Colby never got onto it at all. He thinks I was the greaser plumb up to the minute I yanks off the mask.”
“I thought Gregorio didn’t have no use fer you, Bull,” said Shorty.
“I done him a good turn a spell back.” That was all he said about the fight with the Apaches in Cottonwood Canyon, where he had risked his life to save the Mexican’s.
They rode on in silence for a while. The ranch buildings, nestling among the trees, were visible in the distance when Texas Pete called attention to a speck among the sagebrush far to the southeast. To an untrained eye it was scarcely appreciable.
“There’s a saddled cayuse,” he said. “What fer is it doin’ out yender?”
Bull strained his eyes in the direction of the animal. “Looks like the L-O sorrel Idaho used to ride,” he said.
“Idaho was left home with Miss Di,” said Pete.
As one man the three reined toward the distant pony and with loosened reins tore over the powdery earth, bounding in and out and over the brush like so many nimble-footed jackrabbits. Blazes, outdistancing the other ponies, reached the L-O sorrel first. Bull threw himself from his saddle and kneeled beside the prostrate form of a man, half hidden in the brush. It was Idaho. As Bull lifted his head he opened his eyes. He looked at Bull in a bewildered way for a moment, the expression of his face denoting a concentrated effort to recall his mental faculties. Then Texas Pete and Shorty reined in beside him in a cloud of dust and profanity.
“Where’s the boss?” demanded Pete.
“What you loafin’ out here fer?” inquired Shorty.
Slowly Idaho sat up, assisted by Bull. He looked at the reins looped about his wrist. He felt of his side and brought his hand away covered with blood.
“I done the best I could,” he said, “but they was too many of them.”
“Where’s the boss, you ornery side-winder?” yelled Texas Pete. “Who’s ‘them’? What hev they done with her?”
“They was all masked,” said Idaho. “I didn’t know no more after they creased me. I dunno what they done with her. Help me aboard thet cayuse, you bowlegged flannel mouth, an’ we’ll pull our freight an’ find her, ‘stid o’ sittin’ round here listenin’ to your yap,”
Pete, who had dismounted, helped Idaho, almost tenderly, into the saddle.
“You better beat it fer town,” he said. “You ain’t much good nohow an’ with a .45 between your ribs you ain’t no good whatsumever.”
“Shut up!” Idaho admonished him. “If I was perforated like a salt cellar I’d be wuth two o’ you.” He reeled a little in the saddle, but shook himself and straightened up. It was evident that he was weak from shock and loss of blood, and that he was suffering pain beside.
“You’d better go back, Idaho,” said Bull. “You ain’t in no shape to ride at all an’ I reckon we got some hard ridin’ ahead o’ us.”
“Go back, you damn fool,” said Texas Pete, who, under the cloak of rough and almost brutal badinage, had sought to hide his real concern for his friend’s welfare.
“Go chase yerselves,” replied Idaho. “I’m goin’ with you.”
They wasted no more time in argument, but started a wide circle, looking for the tracks of the abductors. They found sufficient evidence to convince them that there had been upward of a dozen horsemen concerned in the work, which corroborated Idaho’s statement, and that approximately half of these had ridden directly in the direction of the Bar Y, while the others had taken a southerly route. It was the latter trail they elected to follow after Bull discovered upon it the imprint of an iron shoe, and as Captain, being tender in front, had recently had his forefeet shod it was safe to assume that they had taken Diana Renders this way.
They rode fast, for dusk was already on them, and when, a short time later, it became too dark to distinguish the trail from the saddle they were often compelled to stop and dismount, and, upon several occasions, strike matches to make sure that they were still on the right track. Their progress was, therefore, necessarily slow. Toward midnight they lost the trail completely. It was there they left Idaho, too weak from loss of blood to continue.
IN a back room of The Chicago Saloon Thompson sat guard over Hal Colby, who was neatly and securely trussed and tied to a chair, in which he sat. In The Donovan House the guests were seated at dinner when Gum Smith entered and took his accustomed place. He had just come from the Bar Y and as the streets of Hendersville had happened to be deserted at the meal hour he had met no one.
“‘Lo, Gum,” greeted Bill Gatlin. “I reckon you hearn we got The Black Coyote.”
“Ah hain’t see no one sence Ah reached town,” replied Smith, “but Ah knowed Colby’d git the critter,” yet withall he looked a bit mystified and uneasy. “Whar be he?” he asked.
“He’s safe in The Chicago,” said Wildcat Bob.
“Ah reckon Ah’d better git him over to the jail,” said Gum Smith.
“I reckon you’ll leave him at The Chicago,” replied Wildcat. “Do you know who he is?”
“Bull, o’ course.”
“Bull, hell-it’s Colby.”
Gum Smith paled, just a trifle. “They must be some mistake,” he said, weakly. “Who got him?”
“Bull got him an’ they ain’t no mistake,” said Bill Gatlin. “I knew all along ‘twarn’t Bull.”
“Well,” said Gum Smith, “The Chicago Saloon ain’t no place fer a dangerous prisoner. Soon’s Ah’ve et my victuals Ah’ll take him over to the jail whar he’ll be safe.”
“I tells you you’ll leave him at The Chicago,” said Wildcat Bob.
“Ah’m sheriff o’ this yere county,” bawled Gum Smith, “an’ nobody don’t want to interfere with me in the dis=charge o’ mah duties. Do yo-all hear me, Wildcat Bob?”
“I hears you, but jest like a jack-ass brayin’ it don’t make no impression on my onderstandin’,” replied Wildcat, embellishing his remarks with lurid and descriptive profanity. He finished his meal first and went out. When Gum Smith left The Donovan House he repaired at once to his own saloon. Here he deputized a half a dozen loafers, gave each of them several drinks, and led them to The Chicago Saloon, where he demanded of the proprietor that he turn over to him, forthwith, the person of Hal Colby, otherwise known as The Black Coyote.
“He’s in the back room yonder,” replied the owner of The Chicago Saloon. “Ef you craves him, go git him. I don’t want him.”
In front of the door to the back room sat Wildcat Bob. His elbows were resting can his knees and from each hand dangled a .45.
“In the name o’ the lawr,” piped Gum Smith in his high voice, “Ah demands the pusson o’ one Hal Colby.”
“Git the hell outen here, you blankety, blank, blank, blank!” screamed Wildcat Bob.
“Yo-all better listen to reason, Wildcat Bob,” yelled the sheriff, “or Ah’ll have the lawr on yo.”
Wildcat Bob, raising his voice yet higher again than that of his ancient enemy bawled out an incoherent volley of blasphemous and obscene invective. Gum Smith turned and whispered to one of his followers, who withdrew from the room with two others. Presently Gum Smith stepped to one side of the room and, pointing at the little old man sitting before the locked door, called to his remaining deputies: “Take him, men-do yore duty!”
One of the men stepped forward. Wildcat Bob whirled a gun about his forefinger and without taking aim shot the fellow’s hat from his head. The three stepped back. Almost simultaneously there came the sound of the crashing of glass from the interior of the room where Colby was confined, the voice of Thompson raised in protest, and then shots. Wildcat Bob leaped to his feet and reached for the knob of the door. As he did so his back was toward the barroom for an instant and in that instant Gum Smith raised his six-shooter and fired. Without a word Wildcat Bob crumpled to the floor and lay there motionless.
Smith and his men leaped for the door. It was locked, and being a strong door, withstood their combined efforts for several minutes. When at last it gave before their assault and they stepped across the threshold they saw only the body of Thompson sprawled upon the floor in a pool of blood. The Black Coyote was gone.
Surrounded by masked men, her escort shot from his horse, Diana Henders realized only too well the gravity of her situation and though she recognized no individual among those who had lain in ambush for her she guessed well enough that they had acted under orders from Corson. Her note to him, revealing the fact that she knew the entire truth concerning his duplicity and was in possession of the papers that proved it beyond peradventure of a doubt, had, she guessed, prompted the desperate adventure in which he pitted all against all. So suddenly had the masked riders come upon them from the bed of a dry wash that they had had them covered before they could draw, yet Idaho, true to the unwritten code of his calling and his time, had invited death by drawing in the face of their levelled guns in defense of a woman. Had he been alone, or with another man, his hands had gone up the moment he had realized that the odds were all against him, and one of them had gone up, but it had carried a six-gun with it, and he had been shot out of the saddle for his chivalry, and left for dead upon the parched ground as his assailants galloped off toward the south with Diana.
Night fell and yet the men kept on, two riding ahead of Diana Henders and four behind. They rode rapidly, not sparing their horses, and from both their haste and the direction of their way the girl guessed that they were making a try for the border. Once in the mountains they were forced to a slower gait, and around nine o’clock they halted for a brief rest where there was water for both the horses and their riders.
At first Diana had attempted to question them relative to their intentions, but they would not tell her where they were taking her and at last silenced her with oaths and threats. Nor did they remove their masks
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