The Bandit of Hell's Bend - Edgar Rice Burroughs (reading tree .txt) 📗

heavy feet upon the veranda and she raised her eyes just as the elder Wainright entered the room. He was not smiling now, nor was his manner so suave as usual.

“We got to be goin’ now, Miss Henders,” he said brusquely; “but I wanted a mite of a word with you before we left. O’ course, you don’t know nothin’ about it, but afore your father died we was negotiatin’ a deal. He wanted to get out from under, now that the mine’s runnin’ out, an’ I wanted to git a range on this side o’ the mountains. We’d jest about got it all fixed up when this accident happened.

“Now here’s what I wanted to say to you. Of course, the mine’s no account, and the range’s ‘bout all fed off, and they ain’t scarce enough water fer the number o’ stock I was calc’latin’ to put on, but Jefferson Wainright’s a man o’ his word an’ when I says to your father that I’d give him two hundred and fifty thousand dollars fer his holdin’s I won’t back down now, even if I don’t think they be worth so much as that.

“I’ll get all the papers ready so’s ye won’t have to go to no expense fer a lawyer, and then ye can have the money an’ go back East to live like ye always wanted to, an’ like yer paw was fixin’ fer ye.”

The deeper he got into the subject the faster he talked and the more he relapsed into the vernacular of his earlier days. Finally he paused. “What do ye say?” he concluded.

“The ranch is not for sale, Mr. Wainright;” she replied.

He opened his little eyes and his big mouth simultaneously in surprise.

“What’s thet-not for sale? Why, you must be crazy, child. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“I know exactly what I am talking about,” she told him. “Father talked this all over with me and showed me your offer of a million dollars for our holdings. The ranch is not for sale, for a million dollars or any other price, to you, Mr. Wainright, and be careful that you do not stumble over that stool as you go out.”

The man’s fat face became suddenly empurpled with rage and for a moment he was inarticulate as, backing toward the doorway, he sought for words adequately to express his outraged feelings. He was not humiliated-there are certain types of men whose thick skin serves them as an invulnerable armor against humiliation.

He was just plain mad-mad all the way through to think that he had been caught at his trickery, exposed and thwarted by a chit of a girl, and, like the type he represented naturally would be, he was mad at her rather than at himself. As he reached the doorway he found his voice.

“You’ll be sorry for this! You’ll be-sorry for this!” he cried, shaking a fist at her. “And, mark you, I’ll get this property yet. Jefferson Wainright can buy and sell you twenty times over and he always gets what he goes after.”

The figure of a tall man loomed suddenly behind him. Calloused and ungentle fingers seized him roughly by the collar of his coat. A low voice spoke softly in his ear.

“Don’t you know better’n to shake your fist in a lady’s face, you pot-bellied buzzard?” it inquired, and the elder Wainright was jerked unceremoniously through the doorway, whirled about and projected violently from the veranda, his speed simultaneously accelerated by the toe of a high-heeled cowboy boot. “I reckon you’d better make yourself damned scarce around here,” continued the low tones of the speaker.

Wainright scrambled to his feet and turned upon the owner of the voice. He shook both fists now and fairly danced up and down in his fury. “I’ll get you!” he screamed. “I’ll get you! Don’t you know who I am-why, I could buy and sell you a hundred thousand times over-I’m Jefferson Wainright, I am. I’ll get you-layin’ your hands on me-you low down, thirty-five-dollar cowpuncher!”

“Vamoose!” said the man, “and do it pronto.” He emphasized his injunction with a shot, the bullet kicking up a little spurt of dust between Wainright’s feet.

The fat man started on a run for his buckboard which the younger Wainright had driven down to the corrals. The man on the veranda fired again, and again the dust rose about the fleeing feet of the terrified Easterner.

Diana Henders had come to the doorway where she stood leaning against the frame, smiling.

“Don’t hurt him, Bull,” she said.

The man cast a quick smile over his shoulder. “I ain’t a-aimin’ to hurt him,” he said. “I’m just a-aimin’ to eddicate him. Them cornfed Easterners ain’t got no eddication nohow. What they need is someone to lam ‘em manners.”

As he spoke he kept on firing at the fleeing Wainright and every shot kicked up a puff of dust close to the fat man’s feet until he reached the corner of the bunkhouse and disappeared behind it.

The shots had called out the cook and the few men who were about, with the result that a small yet highly appreciative audience witnessed Wainright’s discomfiture. A part of it was Texas Pete, who rocked to and fro in unholy glee.

“By gollies! did you see him?” he yelled. “He never hit nothin’ but the high spots. I’ll bet he busted all the world’s records between the office and the bunkhouse. Why, he done it in nothin’ flat, an’ you could have played checkers on his coat-tails. He shore stepped high, wide an’ handsome.”

On the veranda of the ranch house Bull had shoved his gun back into its holster. The smile had left his face.

“I thought you were still out with the outfit, Bull,” said the girl.

“We finished up last night,” he told her, “and I come in ahead.” He looked down at his feet in evident embarrassment. “I come in ahead for my time, Miss.”

“Your time! Why, Bull, you’re not goin’ to quit?”

“I reckon I better,” he replied. “I been aimin’ to move on fer some spell.”

The girl’s eyes were wide, and almost noticeably moist, and there was a surprised, hurt look in them, that he caught as he chanced to glance up at her.

“You see, Miss,” he hastened to explain, “things ain’t been very pleasant for me here. I ain’t complainin’, but there are those that don’t like me, an’ I figgered I’d quit before I was let out. As long as your paw was alive it was different, an’ I don’t need to tell you that I’d be powerful proud to work for you always, if there wasn’t no one else; but there is. I reckon you got a good man an’ it will be pleasanter all around if I ain’t here no more.”

At the mere thought of his going a lump rose in Diana Henders’ throat, and she realized how much she had come to depend on him just the mere fact that she had known Bull was around had given her a feeling of greater security-he had become in the nature of a habit and it was going to be hard to break the habit.

“Oh, Bull,” she cried, “I can’t let you go now-I can’t spare both you and Dad at the same time. You’re like a brother, Bull, and I need a brother mighty badly right now. You don’t have to go, do you? You don’t really want to?”

“No, Miss, I don’t have to an’ I don’t want to-if you want me to stay.”

“Then you will stay?”

He nodded. “But I reckon you’d better tell Colby,” he said, “for I expect he’s aimin’ to give me my time.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure he’s not,” she cried. “Hal likes you, Bull. He told me you were one of his best friends, and he was so sorry about your losing the job as foreman. He said he hated to take it.”

Bull made no comment and whatever his thoughts his face did not betray them. Presently he jerked his head in the general direction of the corrals where the Wainrights, having hastily clambered into their buckboard, were preparing to depart.

“Say the word,” he told her, “and I’ll run them short sports so far outta the country they won’t never find their way back.”

“No,” she replied, smiling; “let them go. They’ll never come back here, I’m sure.”

“I reckon the old gent figgers he ain’t very popular round these diggins,” said Bull, with the faintest trace of a smile; “but I don’t know so much about how thet young dude stands.” He looked questioningly at Diana.

“About deuce high, Bull,” she replied. “I saw enough of him to last me a couple of lifetimes the day the renegades jumped us.”

“I reckoned as much, Miss, knowin’ you as I do. Scenery an’ the gift o’ gab ain’t everything, but sometimes they fool wimmen folks-even the brightest of ‘em.”

“He was awfully good company,” she admitted.

“When they warn’t no Injuns around,” Bull completed the sentence for her. “The old feller seemed all het up over somethin’ about the time I happened along. I heered him say he was set on gettin’ this property. Is that what they come over fer?”

“Yes. He offered me a quarter of what he’d offered Dad for it, and his offer to Dad was only about twenty per cent of what it’s worth. You see, Bull, what they want is the mine. They are just using the range and the cattle as an excuse to get hold of the mine because they think we don’t know the real value of the diggings; but Dad did know. There’s another vein there that has never been tapped that is richer than the old one. Dad knew about it, and somehow Wainright learned of it too.”

“The old skunk!” muttered Bull.

The Wainrights were driving out of the ranch yard and heading toward Hendersville. The older man was still breathing hard and swearing to himself. The younger was silent and glum. They were going to town for dinner before starting on the long drive back to their ranch. Approaching them along the trail at a little distance ahead was a horseman. Young Wainright recognized the rider first.

“That’s Colby,” he said. “He hasn’t any use for that fellow Bull. They are both stuck on the girl. It might not be a bad plan to cultivate him-if you want to get even with Bull.”

As they came nearer it appeared evident that Colby was going by them with nothing more than a nod. He did not like either of them-especially the younger; but when they drew rein and the older man called to him he turned about and rode up to the side of the vehicle.

“You’re still foreman here, ain’t ye?” asked Wainright senior.

Colby nodded. “Why?” he inquired.

“Well, I jest wanted to tell ye that some of your men ain’t got a very pleasant way of treatin’ neighbors.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, I was jest a-leavin’ after a social call when one of yer men starts shootin’ at me. Thet ain’t no way to treat friends an’ neighbors. Suppose we was to shoot up your men when they came over our way?”

“Who was it?” demanded Colby.

“Bull,” said the younger Wainright. “I suppose he was drunk again, though. They say he always goes to shooting whenever he gets drunk. When we left he was up at the house making love to Miss Henders,” he added. “I shouldn’t think she’d feel safe with a fellow like that around.”

Colby scowled. “Thanks fer tellin’ me,” he said. “I reckon I’ll have to fix that feller. He’s gettin’ too damn fresh.”

“Well, I thought ye’d orter know,” said Wainright senior. “Well, so long, an’ if ye ever git over our way drop in.”