The Rangeland Avenger Part 51

"We're getting down to a small game," said the gray-headed man who was dealing.

But Cartwright had other ideas. "A friend's a friend," he said jovially. "And a gent that's been playing beside me all evening I figure for a friend. Sit in, boys. I'll stake you to a couple of rounds, eh?"

Gladly they came, astonished and exchanging glances.

Cartwright had made a sour loser all the game. This sudden generosity took them off balance. It let in a merciful light upon the cruel criticism which they had been leveling at him in private. The pale man, with the blond eyelashes and the faded blue eyes, who had been dexterously stacking the cards all through the game, decided at that moment that he would not only stop cheating, but he would even lose some of his ill-gotten gains back into the game; only a sudden rush of unbelievable luck kept him from executing his generous and silent promise.

This pale-faced man was named Whitey, from the excessive blondness of his hair and his pallor. He was not popular in Sour Creek, but he was much respected. A proof of his ingenuity was that he had cheated at cards in that community for five years, and still he had never been caught at his work. He was not a bold-talking man. In fact he never started arguments or trouble of any kind; but he was a most dexterous and thoroughgoing fighter when he was cornered. In fact he was what is widely known as a "finisher." And it was Whitey whom Cartwright had chosen as the leader of the mob which he intended raising. He waited until the first shuffle was in progress after the hand, then he began his theme.

"Understand the sheriff is pretty strong for this Sinclair that murdered Quade," he said carelessly.

"'Murder' is a tolerable strong word," came back the unfriendly answer.

"Maybe it was a fair fight."

Cartwright laughed. "Maybe it was," he said.

Whitey interrupted himself in the act of shoving the pack across to be cut. He raised his pale eyes to the face of the rancher. "What makes you laugh, Cartwright?"

"Nothing," said Jude hastily. "Nothing at all. If you gents don't know Sinclair, it ain't up to me to give you light. Let him go."

Nothing more was said during that hand which Whitey won. Jude, apparently bluffing shamelessly, bucked him up to fifty dollars, and then he allowed himself to be called with a pair of tens against a full house. Not only did he lose, but he started a laugh against himself, and he joined in cheerfully. He was aware of Whitey frowning curiously at him and smiling faintly, which was the nearest that Whitey ever came to laughter. And, indeed, the laugh cost Cartwright more than money, but it was a price--the price he was paying for the adherence of Whitey.

"What about this Sinclair?" asked the man with the great, red, blotchy freckles across his face and the back of his neck, so that the skin between looked red and raw. "You come from up north, which is his direction, too. Know anything about him? He looks like pretty much of a man to me, and the sheriff says he's a square shooter from the word go."

"Maybe he is," said Cartwright. "But I don't want to go around digging the ground away from n.o.body's reputation."

"Whatever he's got, he won't last long," said Whitey definitely. "He'll swing sure."

It was Cartwright's opening. He took advantage of it dexterously, without too much haste. He even yawned to show his lack of interest.

"Well, I got a hundred that says he don't hang," he observed quietly and looked full at Whitey across the table. It was a challenge which the gambling spirit of the latter could not afford to overlook.

"Money talks," began Whitey, then he checked himself. "Do you _know_ anything, Cartwright?"

"Sure I don't," said Jude in the manner of one who has abundant knowledge in reserve. "But they say that the sheriff and Sinclair have become regular bunkies. Don't do nothing hardly but sit and chin with each other over in the jail. Ever know Kern to do that before?"

They shook their heads.

"Which is a sign that Sinclair may be all right," said the sober Whitey.

"Which is a sign that he might have something on the sheriff," said Jude Cartwright. "I don't say that he _has_, mind you, but it looks kind of queer. He yanked a prisoner away from the sheriff one day, and the next day he's took for murder. Did the sheriff have much to do with his taking? No, he didn't. By all accounts it was Arizona that done the taking, planning and everything. And after Sinclair is took, what does the sheriff do? He gets on the trail of Arizona and has him checked in for murder of another gent. Maybe Arizona is guilty, maybe he ain't.

But it kind of looks as if they was something between Sinclair and Kern, don't it?"

At this bold exposition of possibilities they paused.

"Kern is figured tolerable straight," declared Whitey.

"Sure he is. That's because he don't talk none and does his work.

Besides, he's a killer. That's his job. So is Sinclair a killer. Maybe he did fight Quade square, but Quade ain't the only one. Why, boys, this Sinclair has got a record as long as my arm."

In silence they sat around the table, each man thinking hard. The professional gunman gets scant sympathy from ordinary cowpunchers.

"Now I dropped in at the jail," said the man of the great freckles, "and come to think about it, I heard Sinclair singing, and I seen him polis.h.i.+ng his spurs."

"Sure, he's getting ready for a ride," put in Cartwright.

There was a growl from the others. They were slowly turning their interest from the game to Cartwright.

"What d'you mean a ride?"

"Got another hundred," said Cartwright calmly, "that when the morning comes it won't find Sinclair in the jail."

At once they were absolutely silenced, for money talks in an eloquent voice. Deliberately Cartwright counted out the two stacks of s.h.i.+mmering twenty-dollar gold pieces, five to a stack.

"One hundred that he don't hang; another hundred that he ain't in the jail when the morning comes. Any takers, boys? It had ought to be easy money--if everything's square."

Whitey made a move, but finally merely raised his hand and rubbed his chin. He was watching that gold on the table with catlike interest. A man _must_ know something to be so sure.

"I'd like to know," murmured the man of the freckles disconnectedly.

"Well," said Cartwright, "they ain't much of a mystery about it. For one thing, if the sheriff was plumb set on keeping them two, why didn't he take 'em over to Woodville today, where they's a jail they couldn't bust out of, eh?"

Again they were silenced, and in an argument, when a man falls silent, it simply means that he is thinking hard on the other side.

"But as far as I'm concerned," went on Cartwright, yawning again, "it don't make no difference one way or another. Sour Creek ain't my town, and I don't care if it gets the ha-ha for having its jail busted open.

Of course, after the birds have flown, the sheriff will ride hard after 'em--on the wrong trail!"

Whitey raised his slender, agile, efficient hand.

"Gents," he said, "something has got to be done. This man Cartwright is giving us the truth! He's got his hunch, and hunches is mostly always right."

"Speak out, Whitey," said the man with the freckles encouragingly. "I like your style of thinking."

Nodding his acknowledgments, Whitey said:

"The main thing seems to be that Sinclair and Arizona is old hands at killing. And they had ought to be hung. Well, if the sheriff ain't got the rope, maybe we could help him out, eh?"

34

The moment her husband was gone, Jig dropped back in her chair and buried her face in her arms, weeping. But there is a sort of sad happiness in making sacrifices for those we love, and presently Jig was laughing through her tears and trembling as she wiped the tears away.

After a time she was able to make herself ready for another appearance in the street of Sour Creek. She practiced back and forth in her room that exaggerated swagger, jerked her sombrero rakishly over one eye, c.o.c.ked up her cartridge belt at one side, and swung down the stairs.

She went straight to the jail and met the sheriff at the door, where he sat, smoking a stub of a pipe. He gaped widely at the sight of her, smoke streaming up past his eyes. Then he rose and shook hands violently.