Rifles at Eagle Pass

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RIFLES AT EAGLE PASS

By H. BEDFORD-JONES Author of “The Red Katy Trail,” “The Crows Craw,” etc.

PECOS TAYLOR CAME RIDING SOUTH LIKE A TOPHAND DRIFTING FREE. BUT HE HAD A GRIM MISSION ALL HIS OWN. WHEN HE FOUND THAT BUYING INTO THE SCOTT RANCH WOULD HELP HIM IN HIS TASK HE BOUGHT AT THE DROP OF THE HAT—AND, BEFORE HIS JOB WAS FINISHED, LIKEWISE HAD TO SHOOT THAT WAY, FREQUENT AND FANCY

II

MR. TAYLOR was sitting on the veranda and talking about sunsets in general, stock branding and other gentle subjects with Mary Scott, when Russ Scott showed up.

He was a man of perhaps thirty, much older than his sister, and wore a peculiar sullen, lowering expression which was at first extremely forbidding. Sizing him up, Taylor felt sorry for the sister. He set down Mr. Scott as weak-kneed, stubborn, vindictive, generally disliked, and too proud to fight in the open; none the less he tried to make himself agreeable, and gradually thawed out the other man with his cheery disposition.

“Sure ye can stay,” said Russ, sinking down, and leaning his rifle against the rail. “Well, sis, what news? I didn't get that danged coyote. Seen fresh deer tracks, though.”

“Some news,” said the girl. “The sheriff was killed just down the trail.”

Russ turned his head slowly, and his eyes were bulging.

“Huh?” he said. “Huh? The sheriff? Not him, surely—huh?”

“And another feller,” said Taylor. “Gent named Eph Sawyer. Killed each other.”

For a moment Russ Scott looked at Taylor. “By gosh!” he exclaimed. “Is that so? I ain't sorry 'bout neither of them. Wisht half this here county would kill off t'other half.”

Mary Scott went in to get supper ready, and Mr. Taylor talked attentively with his host. Discovering that Russ apparently hated everyone in sight, he was not long in probing to the cause. It seemed that the brother and sister had been left a large property by their father, consisting of the Lazy S ranch and this toll road, the only approach to the county from the southwest, and a fairly good paying proposition.

HARD neighbors and a shiftless disposition had lost the ranch for Scott, and for the past year he and his sister had been settled here, working the toll road for support. The toll road was an unpopular institution, Insisting stubbornly on his legal rights, Scott had reached a state of virtual war with half the population “below”; and Taylor shrewdly judged that had it not been for Mary, Mr. Scott would have been run out of the county long since.

“Been a lot of excitement in these parts, I hear,” said Taylor, shifting the subject. “They tell me two main ranches have got a private war on, the stage and the mails have been robbed twice in the last month, and four-five fellers killed.”

“Yeah,” agreed Scott gloomily. “That's Barton's doin's. Him and Bud Carrol about run the roost around here. It was Barton took over our ranch, durn' him! He ain't got the title, though, and he ain't going to get it.”

“Huh?” Mr. Taylor pricked up his ears. “Meaning no offense, howcome, if he's got the ranch?”

“Oh, hell! It ain't no secret.” Scott seemed glad to talk, glad to get a chance to converse with someone he did not distrust and hate. “Dad left the prop'ty to me and Mary equal, sabe? Well, I got to drinking one time, and we needed cash and one thing and another, and I mortgaged my half to Barton. He figured he'd marry Mary and have the ranch, sabe? Well, I got caught, that's all. Ranch wasn't worth a durn any more and Mary she wouldn't mortgage her share, and there we were. She wouldn't marry Barton neither. Barton, he says let him take over the ranch and build it up, and he'd give us half the profits. So we moved up here and he took the ranch, and that's the last of it. Ain't sent no profits and won't.”

“Huh?” said Taylor, and whistled softly. “Think he's made any?”

“Made any?” Scott showed his teeth in a snarl. “Him and Sawyer—Eph Sawyer's his foreman and boss, or was—have got the place into elegant shape! We can't get no accounting out of him. He come over las' week and joshed us, and says he's losin' money and so on. But I know from Bud Carrol he done shipped out a big drive this spring and cleaned up on the high prices, and he's got a fine lot o' cattle there right now. Him and Carrol have a war on.”

“Yeah?” prompted Taylor. “Which side was Sawyer on?”

“Dunno.” Scott shot him a sulky, scared glance which made Taylor think. “Him and me wasn't friends. Him and Carrol ain't—Carrol grabbed one of our springs on a boundary dispute, and the two outfits have fought ever since. There you are.”

“Don't explain the robberies,” said Taylor. “Ranchers makin' money don't rob the mails.”

“No,” said Scott, then delivered himself of an unexpectedly shrewd observation. “But when the big fellers have protection, when killing and rustling and burning can go on, then their riders will raise hell other ways. Some hombres never know when to stop.”

“Right,” said Taylor, and rose as Mary Scott appeared with word that supper was ready.

It was a simple, delightful meal, and the interior of the toll house was charming; but Taylor felt more than ever sorry for the girl, as it progressed. Russ Scott said little, was in a black and sullen humor, and Taylor wondered how the girl could live with such a man if he were like this all the time.

THE whimsical temper of the visitor, his laughing eyes and infectious mirth, somewhat relieved the situation, and charmed Russ out of his bad humor. He eyed Taylor wonderingly, even admiringly; while his sister wakened into merry laughter at the droll tales and audacious sallies of the stranger. Within half an hour, the three were old friends.

“Must be you ain't never had a care in the world, Taylor,” said Russ suddenly. “You act it.”

“Who, me?” Taylor looked at him. “Listen, partner. When I was ten, my dad was gored by a steer, and died a year later. We had a ranch-house half built, my mother was sick, and I had a kid sister. I ran the outfit. When I was sixteen, we owned the place clear and had money. Year after that, my sister died, the house was burned, and every head o' stock we owned was rustled. When I was twenty—three years ago—the bank in Morgantown was cleaned out one day by three robbers. We lost everything. Them three gents stopped by our place that night, while I was away. They wanted grub and hosses, and got gay when my mother fed 'em, and she took down a gun to hold 'em off. They shot her and rode away. I sold out, took my hoss and gun, and started in to run down them three killers. I got one acrost the Mexican line ten months later. Last year I got the second one. I'll get the third one before I quit. No. I ain't had a care in the world—not to ride me! If I got any cares, I ride them.”

Mary Scott listened, her eyes shining as she heard this recital. Russ flushed a little.

“You're a man, by gosh!” he said. “If I had a feller like you with me, I—I'd go up against this here gang and wipe 'em clean!”

“Maybe,” said Taylor. “And maybe you'd get wiped. Was the late sheriff a friend o' Barton?”

“Nope,” said Russ. “Him and Bud Carrol were cousins. That's howcome he got killed. Sawyer was Barton's foreman.”

“Anyhow, that's what everybody'll say,” commented Taylor. Russ started.

“Huh? What you mean by that?”

Taylor smiled, pushed back his chair and rolled a smoke.

“Ain't saying.” His eyes met those of the girl for a moment. “Miss Scott, Russ was tellin' me outside about you-all losing the ranch. I ain't aiming to interfere, but I'm sort of interested. Just how does it stand? Has Barton got any title to it at all? What sort is he?”

“He's a rough sort, able to make his own way,” she returned slowly. “He grew up around here, went away, and came back two or three years ago pretty well fixed. He'd been in some sort of business up in Walla Walla. What was it, Russ?”

“Apple orchards and real estate,” said Russ Scott.

“Anyhow, he had quite a bit of money.” Mary Scott reddened slightly. “He bought a small ranch next to ours. Then he and Russ got friendly, and one thing and another happened, and2”

“Oh, tell him the straight of it,” said Russ gloomily. “I done so already.”

“He lent Russ money and Russ mortgaged him his share of the ranch, that's all,” said the girl. “Things went from bad to worse, and Barton simply took over the whole place, agreeing to split the profits with us. We moved up here. I wanted to get away from things. We've never had any profits, and he laughs at us. I wanted to get a lawyer to force an accounting, but there's only one in Smithvale, and he's a relative of Barton's. Bud Carrol wanted to force Barton into a showdown, but—but I wouldn't let him.”

“Bud's courting her,” said Russ. “Was, at least. Ain't now. Got his mind on a waitress over to Moronia. Right pretty girl, I hear, but sort o' shiftless.”

“I see,” said Taylor, with a whimsical glance at the girl. “Well, if you two want to take back your ranch, why don't you do it?”

“We'd have to pay that thousand dollars back to Barton first,” said Russ, “Ain't got it.”

Taylor frowned. “What? You mean to say the amount was only a thousand?”

“It's a lot when you ain't got it,” returned Russ Scott. “Besides which, he wouldn't give it up. We'd have to grab the place. That'd mean fighting him and his outfit. He's got five fellers there and a Mexican cook who's hell on wheels, they say. Mex gunmen ain't of much account, but this here Mig Estrada, he's right good.”

“Eh?” Taylor looked at Russ, and his eyes were suddenly sharp and keen. “Estrada—Miguel Estrada? Ain't a very common Mexican name, Well, folks, you don't know me, but I got a little proposition to make you—let you talk it over tonight. We got to have a yes or no tomorrow morning, because if it goes through, then there's got to be some sharp, swift action. Always take the other gent on the jump, is my motto.”

“A proposition?” repeated Mary Scott.

“Yep; pure business, too,” said Taylor briskly. He reached into his shirt and produced a small folded wallet, from which he drew a bank-note and a certified check. “Here's the last of my ranch price—thousand dollar bill and a check for fifteen hundred. Twenty-five hundred in all. Look 'em over.”

HE SHOVED the two objects across the table. Russ looked them over; his sister looked the stranger over, and her dark eyes were very level and cool, almost suspicious.

“I didn't aim to do this when I came here,” said Taylor, lighting his cigarette and breaking the match. “But I gamble a heap on folks. More'n I do on facts, to tell the truth. I ain't asked any proof o' your story; I believe it. My proposition is to turn this here money into the jackpot. You pay off that mortgage and do it at the bank, right early in the morning. Then you and me will amble along and throw Barton off the ranch, and Mary here can come along about tomorrow night. We can send out a wagon from town, I reckon, to move the stuff.”

Russ Scott stared at him, gaped with jaw fallen.

“My gosh, feller!” he exclaimed, handing back the check and bill. “You talk like it wasn't nothing to throw Barton out!”

“Won't be nothing after it's done,” and Taylor chuckled. “Ain't finished my proposition yet. There's fifteen hundred after the mortgage is paid. Keep it. I'll have a third interest, each of you a third. The only joker is that I'm to be manager. In running the ranch business, my word goes. I ain't aiming to over-ride you-all, but I'm good and I know it, and I aim to run whatever business my money is put into. There y'are, folks. Well, ma'am?”

Mary Scott's eyes were glowing, and color was rising in her cheeks.

“It—it's too good to be true!” she exclaimed, then checked herself. “But—but you're a wanderer, Mr. Taylor2”

“Pecos, ma'am.”

“All right, Pecos. You say yourself you've been on the go for about three years, hunting down your mother's murderers. What chance is there of you being content to settle down here in this place and running a ranch?”

Taylor met her gaze for a long minute.

“Every chance in the world—now,” he said; and if for an instant his words brought a glint of anger to her eyes, it fled as he went on. “You see, I don't have to go hunting the third man any further. I've done found him, I reckon,”

“Eh?” She paled a little. “You mean—oh, the Estrada you mentioned! The Mexican cook?”

Taylor shook his head and puffed at his cigarette before replying.

“Nope. He's in on the game, though—his being here shows the other man, the third one, is here also. Let that rest until later. You see, it looks like chance has combined with fate to work things out for us all around. Let my proposition wait until morning. You folks talk it over tonight when I ain't around to influence you, and if you don't like the notion of it, then no hard feelin's. But listen to one thing, Russ! If you say yes, then tomorrow you got to work a dinged sight harder'n you've worked for a long while! Sabe? If you go into it, you got to keep up with me; and keepin' up with Pecos Taylor is a man's job. Well, now let's forget it, and help Mary wash up! I ain't pottered round a real kitchen for a long while.”

MARY protested, but to no avail. Russ Scott, wide-eyed now and inclined to be feverishly excited over Taylor's proposal, lent a willing hand, and in no time at all everything was in shape and the three adjourned to the veranda over the road. In another hour the moon would be up and the view of a nearly full moon rising above the mighty stretch of country so far below was one not to be sneezed at, as Mary assured the visitor.

“Though,” she added, “ I don't know if you care much for views.”

“But you think I do, huh?” Taylor chuckled. “Miss Mary, you got me at a disadvantage.”

“How so?” she inquired.

“'Cause I'm right scared to make you mad. I like you folks a whole lot. As a rule I plow straight ahead with whatever comes into my mind; but if I like anybody, then I sure don't want to get 'em mad. So I'm walkin' on eggs where speech is concerned.”

“And why?” she said, laughing. “Are your thoughts so terrible you don't dare utter them?”

“They're mighty risky,” said Taylor, emboldened by the darkness around. “Yes'm, powerful risky. For a plumb stranger to up and say that you were a mighty wonderful sort o' girl, and that he seen things in your eyes he hadn't thought to see in anybody's eyes—why, you'd most likely feel insulted. So I ain't saying anything like that at all.”

“Hm!” said the girl after a moment. “Things that are said for effect depend on who says them and how, don't they? Yes, I expect you'd better watch your tongue, Pecos. It might run you into trouble, for a fact. But, mercy! I'd better go get that room ready.”

Mary Scott departed. The two men sat for a space in silence.

“Use your rifle any today, Russ?” demanded Taylor presently.

“Uh-huh. Didn't hit nothing, though. Doggoned gun ain't sighted right.”

“I s'pose you're tryin' to figure out howcome Sawyer killed the sheriff after he was dead, huh?”

Russ emitted a startled sound that might have been a low gasp, as he caught the import of these words.

“Meanin' what, Taylor?”

“Well, I ain't any fool and I'm pretty good at reading sign,” said Taylor calmly.

“So'm I, for that matter,” said Russ in the darkness. “I know durned well the sheriff wa'n't killed by Sawyer, and it's a cinch he didn't kill himself.”

Taylor chuckled quietly, and left it that way—with which Russ, seemingly, was more than content.

Taylor had learned what he wanted to know, however. Russ Scott had got larger game than coyotes that afternoon—and, from Taylor's viewpoint, had not got that game in any upstanding man-fashion. Had it not been for the sister, he would not have thought of riding forth in the morning with Russ Scott for partner; he read a sullen viciousness in the brother, a lack of all moral stamina, and it made him uneasy.

The talk ended there, for presently Mary came out with word that the room was all ready and Taylor could take his things in. She showed him to the room, and presently he rejoined them on the veranda, and so got his promised glimpse of the moonrise over Medicine Valley below. After which he yawned, tossed away his cigarette, and said good night, leaving brother and sister to discuss his proposal.

“If you say yes,” he said from the door, “then we got to be up and riding before the sun, that's all. Aim to hit that Springvale bank soon's the doors open, and be on our way. See you later, folks.”

PECOS TAYLOR was asleep almost as soon as he hit the linen sheets and the white pillow, luxuries he had not experienced in some time.

When he wakened, it was still dark, and Russ Scott was shaking him.

“Come alive, partner!” said Russ. “Mary's gettin' breakfast. I'll have the hosses ready 'fore you are, and we're ridin' together.”

“The proposition's good, is it?” asked Taylor, as he sat up.

“You bet. We cover your bet, feller. Hop to it!”

When Taylor had shaved and dressed, he came into the kitchen and found Mary setting breakfast on the table. She turned a face that was both radiant and anxious toward him.

“Good morning, Pecos! Well, you see, we've accepted. And I do hope it'll come out right.”

“It will,” he returned cheerfully. “Gosh, them biscuits smell good!”

“One thing.” She came close to him, dropped her voice. “Keep Russ away from liquor if—if you want things to go right!”

“It's a promise,” said Pecos Taylor.

Half an hour later, he and Russ Scott were riding down the eastern slope of Eagle Pass, on their way to destiny.

III

SPRINGVALE had started,out well, but stopped halfway. It had a big brick courthouse and jail, and nothing much else. Some three dozen houses, half a dozen stores, post office, livery corral and four saloons made up its ensemble, together with at least two dozen empty stores and houses. The bank was a small building of brick fronting the courthouse. The whole town straggled along the river, across which ran a huge, rumbling, covered bridge of wood. The river was fairly wide at this point, and the bridge was like a tunnel of darkness, unpenetrated by any light save that which seeped in from a few cracks here and there. Taylor had left his extra horse at the toll house. He and Russ Scott rode into town a few minutes before bank-opening time, and Russ suggested they start the day's activities with a drink.

“Nope,” said Taylor promptly. “We got to keep our heads, partner. The wrong move is going to gum things up, and we can't afford to have our rope draggin' today. I reckon we can go dry another day or so. Is the bank account in your name or Mary's?”

“In Mary's, what's left of it,” said Russ.

“Then clean off your mortgage and deposit the balance.” The two men had dismounted at the hitching rack in front of the bank and stood talking there. The few passers-by nodded to Russ and flung curious glances at the stranger. “We need a few riders, I reckon. Know anybody we can get?”

RUSS SCOTT considered. “Nope, not right here an' now. And if we find Barton's outfit to home, we're going to wish we had a few fellers behind us!”

“They won't be to home. Now, old timer, you let me do the talking when we get there,” said Taylor. “You're liable to show you're mad, and I don't show it until I shoot. And the first shot is going to make a whole lot o' difference.”

“Think there'll be a shot, huh?” grunted Russ.

“Sure,” said Taylor cheerfully. “I didn't want to scare your sister about it, though. Who will be sheriff, now that the late official ain't no more?”

“His deputy, I reckon,” said Russ, “He's a no-account feller name o' Horton.”

“I'll trot over and see him,” said Taylor. “Come over for me as soon as you get through here.”

He turned and crossed the street, heading for the jail and sheriff's office, which adjoined the courthouse,

The new acting sheriff was alone in the office, dazedly struggling to go through the mail and account books and other papers. He was not a gentleman of gigantic intellect, obviously; in fact, it was locally stated that Horton could not even hit a spittoon once out of five shots. He was lank, sallow, unshaven and considerably soiled about the edges, and being conscious of the fact that he was generally held in small respect, he was ready enough to cover this up by “biggety” talk and a hardboiled manner.

“Howdy said Taylor, walking in. “This Sheriff Horton?”

“Yep,” said Horton, eyeing him.

“My name's Taylor. I'm the one found the sheriff's body on the toll road yesterday. Feller named Flickinger claimed to be a deputy and was with Bud Carrol. I said I'd show up and see if any evidence was wanted.”

Horton swung his chair around.

“Set down, Taylor,” he said. “That danged Flickinger ain't no deputy. He was a special deputy on a posse last week—feller got killed up in the hills—but he ain't nothin' now. So you're Taylor, huh? Well, I reckon we don't want no evidence. Thing was clear enough. Sheriff gets buried today. Aiming to stay in these parts?”

“Yeah,” said Taylor, and drew a paper from his pocket. It was the agreement written and signed that morning between himself and the Scotts. “You might cast your eye over this.”

Mr. Horton did so, and his jaw fell.

“My gosh! You're partners with Russ Scott, huh? And aim to take over Barton's ranch?”

“Yep.” Taylor rolled a smoke and smiled brightly at the sheriff. “And we aim to have you ride along with us just to make sure Barton and his outfit don't start no fuss. Russ will be along in a minute with the papers showing his mortgage is paid off and all clear. We aim to serve 'em on Barton and take over the ranch, since he's got no title to it.”

“Good gosh, man!” Sheriff Horton was no relative of Carrol, but he followed the ways of his predecessor. He seemed to relish the idea of seeing Barton flung off the Scott property. “You got a program, all right—but I dunno if it's legal. Barton's got that there ranch, and he ain't a feller to let loose easy. You got a court order?”

Taylor grinned.

“Barton got any court order to stay on other people's land? I'm a partner in that there ranch, and I'm running it. Barton's got no shadow of right there, and he's refused any accounting. I'm grabbing the whole works, and he'll come a-running with his tongue hanging out to get the accounting done, soon's I got the place. Now, I got a heap of respect for sheriffs, and I'd admire to have you riding along with us. Being a stranger here, I sort of want you to keep your eye on things and see that I ain't starting any fight.”

“No,” said Horton, sarcastically. “You ain't starting nothing except a war, not if you aim to throw Barton off the Lazy S! I dunno had I ought to go along or not2”

“You're the new sheriff,” said Taylor, and through the open doorway saw Russ Scott coming up the walk. “Looks like you'd ought to take the chance to make yourself felt.”

“By gosh, that's an idea!” said Horton. “All right, I'll do it. Howdy, Russ.”

“Howdy,” said Scott entering.

“Taylor wants me to ride out with you-all and keep the peace,” said Horton. “When you going?”

“On our way now,” said Taylor, with a wink at Scott. “Want to get there before noon so's there won't be too much of a crowd on hand. Mortgage paid, Russ?”

“Yep.” Scott produced the document. “Reckon I'd better burn it.”

“Save it and show it to Barton,” and Taylor chuckled. “It'll surprise him a heap. Got your hoss handy, Sheriff?”

“Gimme five minutes,” said Horton. “Have a drink before we start?”

“Nope, we ain't drinking, not on an errand like this,” said Taylor. “Afterward, sure!”

Horton nodded.

IN TEN minutes the three men were mounting and riding out of town together, rattling across the wooden bridge in the cool gloom of its semi-darkness. Russ Scott confided to Taylor that his payment of the mortgage had created a small sensation at the bank.

To the Lazy S was no short jog. As the three rode, Horton talked a good deal; he was a garulous man, anxious to impress Taylor with his importance, and he was feeling his new office as a chance to impress everybody, a chance to redeem the former contempt in which he had been held by the world at large. He talked about Flickinger, who now considered himself deputy, and said profanely that he would be eternally condemned if he ever let Flickinger set foot inside his new office; he talked about everyone and everything he knew. Taylor was not long in comprehending the man, and chuckled to himself.

“I reckon your good qualities,” he said to Horton, “have been sort of over shadowed by the late lamented sheriff, ain't it so? Folks prob'ly depended on him, and you were just the deputy and nobody give a damn about you. Now that you're fillin' out his term—by gosh, you know what? If you was to start out your first day in office by clapping some hombre in jail, you'd make yourself felt! Yes, sir. There'd be no mistake about who was sheriff.”

Horton warmed to this idea. “Yeah, but who'll I clap in jail?” he said, with an eager grin.

“Well,” said Taylor, “you might grab some o' the stage robbers and bandits around here. I hear tell there's been a lot o' law-breaking—even the mails robbed. Now, if the late sheriff never done a thing about it, and you were to start out—gosh! You'd be made for life. Or if you were to show yourself strong enough to grab any gunman. S'pose one o' Barton's outfit tries to pull a gun on me and I beat him up and have you arrest him2”

“Yeah!” said Horton. “Fat chance. Any one o' that outfit goes for a gun, there ain't no beatin' up done. There's a burial.”

“Wait and see,” said Taylor. “You play my game and I'll play yours. Sabe?”

“You bet,” said Horton. “But about them bandits, nobody knows who they are. If I knew, by gosh, I'd go after 'em!”

Taylor judged that the man meant his words. Horton had been too small fry to be included in any actual knowledge of anything amiss going on. Now that he was abruptly raised to a place of power and responsibility, he was fired by a holy and righteous intent to show what was in him, or what he thought was in him. And if well used, such a man might be of utmost value.

The closer they came to the Lazy S, the less Sheriff Horton talked and the more he fully agreed that Taylor should be the chief actor in whatever might take place. Russ Scott, however, grew darker and more somber of mood the closer they came to his old home. Watching him narrowly, Taylor knew that here was his chief danger point. Russ might explode into anything—as he had probably exploded the previous afternoon at sight of Sawyer, who had doubtless ridden around the toll house rather than stop and pay toll. Sawyer's body was now in town awaiting burial late that afternoon, and Taylor had shrewdly figured Barton's outfit would not gather at the ranch before noon to come in for the ceremony. They probably would get in a good morning's work and take the afternoon and night off.

THEY were topping a sharp rise, just beyond which the Lazy S would come into view, when abruptly a rider appeared fifty feet ahead, coming toward them.

“There's luck,” said Horton. “That's Barton now.”

“Russ,” said Taylor quietly, “you keep yourself in hand, sabe? If there's any shootin' done here, I'll do it.”

Barton was evidently not overjoyed at sight of the three. He was a large, powerful man who looked more than his real age by reason of a square-clipped brown beard which accentuated the masterful lines of his face. He was plainly a man accustomed to have his own way; his eyes were heavy, dominant, penetrating. They touched on Horton, went to Russ Scott, and then gripped upon Taylor, who was in the lead.