The Hair-Trigger Kid - Max Brand (uplifting novels .TXT) 📗

the cord, ready in the hands of Morgan to tie the

wrists of the captive. An inspiration came to Davey. He was standing with

the lamp just before him, and rather close to his side of the table. That

table was low, and Davey, leaning over, blew out the lamp with a single

puff.

 

There were stars outside, burning brightly. And there was even a

scattering of reddish streaks of light from the stove itself, where the

fire shone through certain gaping cracks. However, the extinguishing of

the smoky lamp acted like double darkness in which surprise was the

chiefest element.

 

Two guns instantly spoke like two thunderstrokes on the heels of one

another. Pungent scent of burned gunpowder stung the nostrils of all in

the cabin.

 

There was a tumbling of wrestling bodies, curses, and then a wild scream

of pain and terror.

 

Through the doorway, dimly silhouetted against the stars, leaped a man

who was throwing out his arms before him, and still yelling as he fled.

 

Then Davey, who had put out the lamp, lighted it again. It revealed an

odd scene.

 

In the doorway stood the Kid, with a rifle all ready in his capable

hands. He was looking after the fugitive, who now departed with a rapid

pattering of hoofs, putting his horse at a dead gallop. But the Kid did

not open fire. Instead, he lowered the weapon and turned back into the

room, as though he cared too little about the matter to shoot down the

fleeing rider.

 

In the room itself, old Ma Trainor was cowering into a corner. Her

husband stood in front of her, with a short-handled axe gripped in both

hands, and a wild light in his eyes. There was a faint hint of red on the

edge of the heavy blade. An explanation, perhaps, of the shriek of terror

which had filled the cabin the moment or two before this.

 

But, most interesting of all, in the corner of the room where two men had

been struggling, one of them was now rendered helpless. That was Sam

Deacon, and he who had pinned him down was none other than Bud Trainor!

 

“Thanks, Bud,” said the Kid. “It’s all right, now. Let him get up after

you’ve taken his guns away.”

 

The guns were promptly taken away, and the two got to their feet.

 

The thin, white face of Deacon was covered with a ghastly smile, his

habitual expression, which he deepened now in order to show that he was

not at all afraid.

 

But afraid he was, most ghastly afraid, and this smile of his only

accented his terror.

 

He looked at Bud and snarled from the side of his mouth: “You

double-crossin’, sneakin’, dirty, hound!”

 

And Bud winced, and made no reply. He hung his head, doggedly, until his

small mother ran to him out of the corner of the room and cast her meager

arms around him.

 

“Oh, Buddy, Buddy darlin’!” she sobbed against his breast. “My own boy,

my brave boy. Oh, thank Heaven, thank Heaven!”

 

He cradled her in his arms, and he turned to the wall for fear that the

others might see what was happening upon that grim face of his. His

father gripped his arm with a brown old hand and said not a word, but it

was plain that the ties which held that family together had been riveted

with something stronger than steel, in the last moment.

 

The Kid, in the meantime, sat down in the chair and drew a breath.

 

“Well,” he said frankly, “I thought that I was a goner, that time.”

 

Then he nodded toward Davey.

 

“You’re a cool kid,” said he. “I can thank you first, Davey. And, Bud,

something more than cancels out, too. He lost two thousand and put up a

fight, besides. And this Deacon is a wild cat. I know all about him.

Aren’t you, Deacon?”

 

The smile with which he asked this last question turned the pallor of

Deacon from yellow-white to green-white. He blinked. But resolutely he

maintained his smile.

 

“Well, what’s the game?” said Deacon, lightly.

 

“Sit down and make yourself a cigarette,” said the Kid. “There’s no

hurry. We’ll just have a friendly little chat. That’s all.”

 

“About what?” asked Deacon.

 

“Oh, about old times. And new ones, too. I want to know who hired the

pair of you for this job, Deacon.”

 

“Yeah? You wanta know?” said Deacon. “You ain’t expecting me to talk,

Kid, are you?”

 

“Yes,” drawled the Kid. “You’ll talk, all right.”

 

Sam Deacon shrugged his lean shoulders. His eyes flickered aside toward

the door. Then they returned to the face of the Kid, who was lighting a

cigarette. Almost desperately, Deacon followed that example.

 

“You’ll talk,” said the Kid. “You’ll tell me everything.”

 

“I’ll not say a word,” declared Deacon, and pinched his lips together

with an effort.

 

“Deacon,” said the Kid, “don’t you think that you ought to pay something

for your life?”

 

“I’m no double-crossing curl” said Deacon, looking bitterly at Bud

Trainor.

 

“All right,” said the Kid. “You don’t double-cross. You simply murder,

eh? Well, Davey, take a lid off of that stove and freshen the fire and

put the poker in under the lid, will you?”

 

Davey, without a word, did as he was told.

 

And Deacon watched him, curiously. Sweat began to gather on his forehead.

 

But the silence continued, through which the Kid was smoking quietly.

 

At length he said: “Bud, will you take your mother and father outside of

the house? Davey, you’d better go along, too. What’s going, to happen now

won’t be pretty to watch. You’d better get out of earshot. There may be a

little noise in here.”

 

“Kid,” said Deacon huskily, “whatcha got on your mind?”

 

“When that poker’s hot,” said the Kid, “it ought to make a good running

iron. That’s all I mean.”

 

Deacon got up slowly from his chair.

 

“You ain’t serious, Kid,” he gasped.

 

“No, only joking,” said the Kid, “if you intend to talk.” Deacon rubbed a

hand violently across his face.

 

“Aye,” said he. “You’ll do what you say! There ain’t nothin’ but a devil

inside you. Kid, whatcha wanta know?”