The Orphan, Clarence E. Mulford [find a book to read TXT] 📗

Sicked your dogs on me, eh? Keep still, d––n you–you can’t get away!” he cried as Tex moved backward.

“Stand to it like a man, or I’ll blow your head off!” cried The Orphan from his perch. “Go on, Bill!”

“You said you wanted me, didn’t you? Do you still want me?” he asked, not hearing The Orphan’s words. “Are you still curious?” he asked, backing Tex into a corner.

“Hash him up, Bill!” cried the man above, and then, “Hey, wait a minute–I want to see this,” he added as he slid down the bank. “Go ahead with the slaughter–push his head off!”

Bill’s one hundred and eighty pounds of muscle and rage suddenly hurled itself forward behind a huge fist and Tex hit the bank and careened into the dust of the trail, unconscious before he had moved.

“I told you you wasn’t man enough to play a lone hand!” yelled the driver as he leaped after his victim. But he was stopped by the sheriff, who sprang forward and deflected him from his course.

“That’s enough–no killing!” Shields cried, regaining his balance and swiftly interposing himself between the driver and Tex.

Bill didn’t hear him, for he had just caught sight of the man who had told him to warble, and he lost no time in getting to him. A few quick blows and the enraged driver left his second victim face down in the dirt and passed on to the man who had held the rope.

“Hurrah for Bill!” yelled The Orphan, hopping first on one foot and then on the other in his joy. “Set ’em up in the other alley! I didn’t know you had it in you, Bill! Good boy!” he shouted as Bill clinched with the third cowboy. “Oh, that was a beauty! Right on the nose–oh, what a whopper to get on the jaw! Whoop her up! Fine, fine!” he laughed as Bill dropped his man. “‘And subsequent proceedings interested him no more!’ Next!” he cried as Bill wheeled on the last of the group. “Eat him up, Bill!–that’s the way! Just above the belt for his–Good! All down!” he yelled madly as Bill, drawing his arm back from the stomach of the falling puncher, sent a swift uppercut hissing to the jaw. “You lifted him five feet, Bill,” The Orphan exulted as Bill wheeled for more worlds to conquer.

“Where’s the rest of the gang?” savagely yelled the driver, looking twice at The Orphan before he was sure of his identity. “Where’s the rest of ’em?” he shouted again, running around the bend in hot search. “Come out and fight, you cowards!” they heard him cry, and straightway the outlaw and the guardian of the law clung to each other for support as they cried with joy.

As Bill hurried back to the field of carnage one of his victims was mechanically striving to gain his hands and knees, to go down in a quivering heap by a blow from the insane victor. As Bill drew back his foot to finish his work, Shields broke from his companion and leaped forward just in time to hurl Bill back several steps. “D––n you!” he cried, standing over the prostrate figure, “If you hit another man while he’s down I’ll trim you right! Cool down and get some sense before I punch it into you!”

The Orphan, leaning limply against the bank of the defile, was making foolish motions with his hands, which still held the Colts, and was babbling idiotically, tears of laughter streaming down his face and dripping from his chin. His eyes were closed and he was bent over, rocking to and fro against the wall.

“Oh, Lord!” he sobbed senselessly. “Oh, Lord, oh, Lord! Let me die in peace! Take him away, take him away! Let me die in peace!”

“I’m a fine sight to hit Sagetown, ain’t I?” yelled Bill, keeping keen watch on the four prostrate punchers. “They’ll think I was licked! They’ll point to my face and head and swear that some papoose kicked the stuffing outen me! That’s what they’ll do! But I’ll show them, all right! I’ll just take my game with me and prove that I am the best man, that’s what I’ll do! I’ll pile ’em in the coach and lug ’em with me!” grabbing, as he finished, one of the men by the foot and dragging him toward the stage. It took The Orphan and Shields several strenuous minutes to dissuade him from his purpose. Shields placed his fingers on the bones of Bill’s hand in a peculiar grip, and the driver loosened his hold without loss of time.

“You go back to town and get fixed up,” ordered the sheriff. “I’ll take your team out of this and turn them around, and then come back for you. Charley can make the trip if you can’t. I would do it myself, only I’ve got to tell Sneed that he’s shy four more men.”

“I’ll turn ’em around myself–I ain’t hurt,” asserted Bill with decision. “And when I get patched up I’ll make the trip, Pop Westley or no Pop Westley. And I’ll lick the whole blamed town, too, if they get fresh about my face! I’m a fighter from Fightersville, I am! I’m a man-eating bad-man, I am! I can lick anything that ever walked on hind legs, I can!” and he glared as if anxious to prove his words.

After the cowboys regained consciousness and got so they could stand, the sheriff lined them up with their backs to the wall and gave them the guns which The Orphan had obtained for him. The outlaw held them covered while the sheriff told them what they were, and he wound up his lecture with instructions and a warning.

“Get out of this country and don’t never come back!” he told them. “I don’t care where you go, so long as you go right now. If you even show your faces in these parts again I’ll shoot first and talk after.”

“Same here!” endorsed The Orphan, frowning down his desire to laugh at the wrecks in front of him.

“I’ll kill you next time!” shouted Bill, prancing uneasily.

“The cayuses are yours,” continued the sheriff. “I’ll settle with Sneed if he has the gall to ask about them. Now git!”

Tex stared first at the sheriff and then at The Orphan and Bill as if doubting his ears. He was ten years nearer the grave than he had been before The Orphan had interrupted his counting. In less than half an hour he had gone through hell, and now he suddenly burst into tears from the reaction and staggered to his horse, which he finally managed to mount, a nervous wreck. “Oh, God!” he moaned, “Oh, God!”

The others stared at him in amazement until he had turned the bend, and then his companions slowly followed him and were lost to sight.

“D––n near dead from fright!” ejaculated the sheriff. “I never saw anybody go to pieces so bad!”

“He shore lost his nerve all right, all right,” responded The Orphan. Then he turned to where Bill stood looking after them: “Bill, you’re all right–you can fight like h–l!”

Bill slowly turned and grinned through the blood: “Oh, that wasn’t nothing–you should oughter see me when I get real mad!”

·····

Two men rode side by side after a lurching coach on their way toward the Limping Water, both buried in thought at what the driver had told them. As they emerged from the defile and left the Backbone behind, the elder looked keenly, almost affectionately, at his companion and placed a kindly hand on the shoulder of the man who had turned the balance, breaking the long silence.

“Son, why don’t you get a job punching cows, or something, and quit your d––d foolishness?” he bluntly asked.

The younger man thought for a space, and a woman’s words directed his reply:

“I’ve thought of that, and I’d like to do it,” he said earnestly. “But, pshaw, who will give me a try in this country?” he asked bitterly. Then he added softly: “And I won’t leave these parts, not now.”

“You won’t have to leave the country,” replied the sheriff. “Why not try Blake, of the Star C?” he asked. “Blake is a shore square man, and he’s a good friend of mine, too.”

“Yes, I reckon he is square,” replied The Orphan. “But he won’t take no stock in me, not a bit.”

“Tell him that you’re a friend of mine, and that I sent you to punch for him, and see,” responded Shields, examining his cinch.

“Do you mean that, Sheriff?” the other cried in surprise.

“Hell, yes!” answered Shields gruffly. “I’ll give you a note to him, and if you watch your business you’ll be his right-hand man in a month. I ain’t making any mistake.”

“By God, I’ll do it!” cried the outlaw. “You’re all right, Sheriff!”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” replied Shields, grinning broadly. “Mebby I just can’t see the use of us shooting each other up, and that is what it will come to if things go on as they are, you know. I’d a blamed sight rather have you behaving yourself with Blake than bothering me with your fool nonsense and raising the devil all the time. Why, it’s got so that every place I go I sort of looks for flower pots!”

The Orphan laughed: “I shore had a fine time that night!”

When half way to the Limping Water the sheriff said good-by to Bill and wheeled, facing in the direction of the Cross Bar-8.

“Orphan, you wait for me at the ford,” he said. “I’m going up to break the news to Sneed, and I’ll get paper and pencil while I’m there, and write a note to Blake. I’ll get back as quick as I can–so long.”

“So long, and good luck,” replied The Orphan, heartily shaking hands with his new friend.

Shields loped away and arrived at the ranch as Sneed was carrying water to the cook shack.

“Hullo, Sneed! Playing cook?” he said, pulling in to a stop.

“I’ll play on the cook if I ever get my hands on him,” replied Sneed, setting the pail down. “Well, what’s new? Seen Tex and the other three? I’ll play on them, too, when they gets home! Off playing hookey from work when we all of us aches from double shifts–oh, just wait till I sees ’em sneaking in to bed! Just wait!”

“You ought to give ’em all a good thrashing, they need it,” replied the sheriff, and then he asked: “Got any paper, and a pencil?” He wanted his needs supplied before he broke the news, for then he might not get them.

“Shore as you live I have,” answered the foreman, picking up the pail and starting toward the bunk-house. “Come in and wet the dust–it’s hot out here.”

“Let me have the paper first–I want to scrawl a note before I forget about it,” the sheriff responded as he seated himself on a bunk and looked critically about him at the bullet-riddled walls and pictures.

Sneed handed him an ink bottle and placed a piece of wrapping paper and a corroded pen on the table.

“That paper ain’t for love letters, the ink is mud, and the pen’s a brush, but I reckon you can make tracks, all right,” the host remarked as he pushed a bench up to the table for his guest. “And if them punchers don’t make tracks for home purty lively, I’ll salt their hides and peg ’em on the wall to cure,” he grumbled, rummaging for a bottle and cup. When he placed the tin cup on the table he grinned foolishly, for it was plugged with a cork. “D––d outlaw!” he grunted.

“There,” remarked the sheriff, fanning the note in the air. “That’s done, if it’ll ever dry.”

“Blow on it,” suggested Sneed, and