The Trail Horde - Charles Alden Seltzer (bill gates books recommendations txt) 📗

me, an' they was a glow in the north, behind 'em—an' they stood out plain an' clear. An' so did the men that was with 'em, drivin'.

"Lawler, they was more'n fifty men drivin' them cattle—mebbe five hundred head. An' they had three wagons, an' a remuda with about a hundred head in it!

"They was takin' their time. I rode back a ways, an' then got off my horse an' sneaked up close to the shallow. An' I seen all the men, clear. I waited until they got a good start, an' then I trailed 'em. They brought up at the Rabbit Ear, at that old house of Rud Dickman's—who cashed in three or four years ago, leavin' nobody behind him."

Lawler nodded. He knew the place. Dickman had been a nester, and since his death no one had occupied the house, and no one had come to claim his land.

"Well?" said Lawler, as Hamlin paused.

"Lawler," said Hamlin, gravely; "there's goin' to be hell to pay in this section. Them men turned their cattle into the grass around there, an' put a night guard over them. They emptied their wagons and toted the stuff into the house. They fixed up the corral fence an' turned their horses into it. They brought lamps an' stoves for the bunkhouse an' the cabin—an' bunk stuff an' tables an' such. They're figurin' to stay there. An', Lawler—they're Blondy Antrim an' his gang of cutthroats!"

CHAPTER XXVII EVIDENCE

When Gary Warden stepped off the east-bound train at Willets one evening in April—to be met by Singleton, who had been apprised of the day of his coming and who had been in town for two days waiting—there was an expectant smile on his face.

A change seemed to have come over the town. The winter lethargy had been shaken off and Willets was a throb with life and activity. There was a warm wind blowing, bearing the breath of the new sage; doors were open; many horses were hitched to the rails that fringed the walk in front of saloons and stores; and there was over it all an atmosphere that seemed to be vital, electric.

Warden drew Singleton over to a corner of the station platform, from where, between two buildings, they had a clear, unobstructed view of the street.

"Della Wharton didn't come?" asked Singleton.

"No," laughed Warden; "she stayed over for a reception at the governor's mansion, tonight. She'll be here tomorrow." He leaned close to Singleton, whispering:

"Are Blondy and his men settled?"

"Settled!" Singleton laughed deeply. "You might call it that. Blondy an' his gang are runnin' this man's town, right now! They've got Moreton scared, looks like! He's layin' mighty low, an' keepin' his trap shut. Blondy's got a mighty tough gang—a bunch of hoppin', howlin' tarantulas, straight from hell! Blondy's still raw from that deal Lawler handed him when he brought him here an' dumped him down on the platform, tellin' you Blondy was his 'vent.' Blondy swears he'll kill Lawler for that, an' I'm bankin' that he makes a strong play for a killin'. There's red in Blondy's eyes when he talks about Lawler!"

Warden smiled evilly. "That's Lawler's lookout," he said, venomously; "he ought to be man enough to take care of himself. Let's take a look around."

With Singleton beside him, Warden visited half a dozen saloons and dance halls; smiling as he noted the bepistoled cowboys who were swaggering in and out of doorways and on the sidewalk—strangers to him, but not to Singleton, who grinned and nodded to them as they passed.

Warden spent the night in town. And after midnight, in a room at the rear of the Wolf Saloon—when the sounds of the night's revelry were becoming fainter—he sat at a table with Singleton and Blondy Antrim, talking in low tones.

At eight o'clock in the morning Warden stepped into the door of Sheriff Moreton's office.

Warden's face was pale, and he smiled mirthlessly at Moreton, who was standing near a desk looking over some papers.

Moreton looked keenly at his visitor. "You're back, eh?" he said, shortly.

"Back to perform a solemn duty, Moreton," said Warden. "I have the evidence I spoke to you about. It's too bad, but we are all bound to see that justice is done. I don't like to take this step, for Lawler is a distinguished citizen despite some mighty bad habits, and I don't like to be the one to charge him with that crime."

"Uh-huh," grunted Moreton; "I can see that you're about ready to break down an' bawl right out in meetin'. But I wouldn't do no more fourflushin' in here—it ain't healthy. Where's your evidence?"

Warden laid Della Wharton's written statement on the desk at the sheriff's hand. He watched while Moreton read; he saw Moreton's face whiten; saw his hand tremble a little as he folded the paper and put it into a pocket.

Then he looked straight at Warden.

"I don't believe a damned word of it, Warden!" he said, his eyes blazing. "If that woman was in that cabin with Lawler durin' the storm she kept it mighty quiet. An' Lawler didn't say a word about it when I rode over to see him a couple of months ago!" He glared at Warden. "Where's that Wharton woman, now?"

"She'll get to town this afternoon," Warden said.

"Well, she'll have to swear to this, Warden. I can't afford to act on this—mebbe it ain't her signature."

"Meaning that I forged it?" smiled Warden.

"Meanin' what you damned please!" snapped Moreton. "I ain't actin' in this case till that woman swears she seen what she claims to have seen."

"She'll swear to it," said Warden, confidently. "Meantime, I'd advise you to have a talk with Keller. Ask him who brought Della Wharton to the hotel, and what time she got there." Warden smiled. "I'll see you later, Sheriff."

Warden went to his office; and, after a time, Moreton strode slowly to the Willets Hotel, where for a long time he talked with Keller.

When Moreton emerged from the hotel after the talk with Keller his brows were furrowed and his lips were in a pout. He spent most of the day sitting in his office, glaring moodily out into the street; and when he heard the east-bound train rumble in late in the afternoon he drew a deep breath and got up, muttering lowly:

"It looks mighty like it—for a fact. But Lawler—Oh, hell!"

Within fifteen minutes after the arrival of the east-bound train, Moreton was sitting at the desk in his office, studying Miss Wharton's face.

Della had been met at the train by Warden—who now stood just inside the door of the office, watching her, admiring her self-possession.

For Della was calm and deliberate. There was, to be sure, a paleness around her mouth that was not there at other times; and her lips were set rather tightly. Moreton saw those indications of mental stress—but they were no more pronounced than they should be in any woman who had come to swear she had witnessed murder.

And Della swore to the statement she had made. She answered Moreton's questions in a low voice, telling him she regretted having to answer them—begging him to keep the matter as secret as possible, for she abhorred publicity.

After Moreton had administered the oath, Della and Warden went out; and for many minutes Moreton sat at his desk with his chin on his chest, staring at the desk top.

He finally got up, buckled on his cartridge belt and pistol, went out, mounted his horse and rode southward.

Inside the sheriff's office, Warden took leave of Della Wharton, pressing her hand warmly, telling her that she had been "great." Della smiled shallowly, not responding to Warden's hand pressure. Her face had grown white and there was a glow in her eyes that she did not permit Warden to see.

Warden left her, telling her she would find her horse in front of his office—where Singleton had brought it. Warden's expressions of regret that he could not accompany her to the Two Diamond were received in silence. Business would keep him in town for a day or so, he said.

Warden went toward the Wolf, and Della walked down the street to her horse, mounted and rode through mounds of back-yard refuse to the rear of the Willets Hotel. She got a man out to stable her horse, and a few minutes later she was in the room she had occupied on the night Lawler brought her to town from the line cabin. She was still pale, but now there was a smile on her lips.

CHAPTER XXVIII THE TRAIL HORDE

From the front windows of the Wolf Saloon, Slade, the violent-mannered rider whom Blondy Antrim had left in charge of his men the night he had ridden away from the desert camp fire to hold a conference with Lawler near the trail herd, had watched Sheriff Moreton lope his horse into the soft southern twilight.

Slade was a young man, tall, swarthy, reckless-eyed. He was keen, cynical, and jealous of the power and authority of Antrim. He grinned at Warden, who was standing near, also watching Moreton.

The grin was crooked, expressing reluctance.

"Well the Law is hittin' the breeze, an' I reckon, accordin' to orders, we'll be hittin' it, too."

He left Warden and walked to the bar, where he spoke lowly to several men. Then he walked into a rear room, where several other men were playing cards, and repeated his words. The men ceased playing and followed him to the front door.

Half an hour later, when Sheriff Moreton had vanished into the growing dusk, Slade and the men to whom he had spoken, went outside, clambered upon their horses and rode slowly in the direction taken by the sheriff.

There were a score of them—rough-looking characters with eyes as reckless as those of the man who led them; and they were silent as they rode, as though on some stealthy mission.

They did not follow Moreton far; they veered eastward slightly after they had traveled several miles, and finally came to a trail that paralleled a small river, which they rode for a time.

Darkness came while they rode, and the twinkling points of stars grew brighter in the cold blue of the sky—millions of them appeared, distant, winking, shedding a luminous haze over the land.

After a time the riders reached a level near the river, and some low buildings loomed out of the haze. A light glowed through a window in one of the buildings—the largest—and toward this the men rode, dropping from their horses at the door and filing silently inside.

In a big room, from which came the light the riders had seen, were many other men.

Antrim, his bronzed face almost the hue of copper in the glare from the lamp that stood on a table, was sitting in a chair near the door. Some of the men inside were on their feet, expectant, suspicious. They grinned when they recognized the newcomers, calling variously to them in greeting.

Antrim got to his feet when he saw Slade at the door, looking at him expectantly. When Slade grinned, telling Antrim that Moreton had ridden south, Antrim's eyes glittered with satisfaction.

"Selden!" he ordered, sharply; "you slope for the Circle L trail an' watch it! When you see Moreton an' Lawler headin' toward town, you fan it here in a hurry!"

A tall man with two guns sagging at his hips leaped to the door and plunged out. In the silence that followed his departure, they could hear the thudding of hoofs that marked his going.

Antrim grinned coldly around at the other men.

"We'll clean up on Lawler tonight, boys," he said. "We've got to work fast!"

He stood, boldly outlined in the light, a sinister figure. His cruel lips were set tightly, his eyes were agleam. He was a symbol of passion, rampant and unrecking—a wild, violent spirit to whom laws were irksome shackles.

He grinned at Slade, mockingly, naked malevolence in his gaze. His voice was harsh, vibrant.

"Slade, tonight you're goin' to get what you've been waitin' for—the leadership! Ha, ha!" he laughed