The Seventh Man, Max Brand [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗
- Author: Max Brand
Book online «The Seventh Man, Max Brand [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗». Author Max Brand
The first alarm had called attention to the opposite side of the house from that on which the rider appeared; then, the moon gave only a vague, treacherous light, and the black horse blended into it—the grass lightened the fall of his racing feet.
Like a ship driving through a fog they rushed into view, the black stallion, and Bart fleeting in front, and the surprise was complete. Vic could see it work even in the sheriff, for the latter, having his rifle trained towards his right jerked it about with a short curse and blazed at the new target, again, again, and the line of the posse joined the fire. Before the crack of their guns went from the ears of Vic, long before the echoes bellowed back from the hills, Satan leaped high up. Perhaps that change of position saved both it and its rider. Straight across the pale moon drove the body with head stretched forth, ears back, feet gathered close—a winged horse with a buoyant figure upon it. It cleared a five foot rock, and rushed instantly out of view among the boulders. The fugitive had fired only one shot, and that when the stallion was at the crest of its leap.
Chapter XVII. The Second Man
The sheriff was on his feet, whining with eagerness and with the rest of his men he sent a shower of lead splashing vainly into the deeper night beside the mountain, where the path wound down.
“It's done! Hold up, lads!” called Pete Glass. “He's beat us!”
The firing ceased, and they heard the rush of the hoofs along the graveled slope and the clanging on rocks.
“It's done,” repeated the sheriff. “How?”
And he stood staring blankly, with a touch or horror in his face.
“By God, Mat's plugged.”
“Mat Henshaw? Wha—?”
“Clean through the head.”
He lay in an oddly twisted heap, as though every bone in his body were broken, and when they drew him about they found the red mark in his forehead and even made out the dull surprise in his set face. There had been no pain in that death, the second for the sake of Grey Molly.
“The other two!” said the sheriff, more to himself than to Vic, who stood beside him.
“Easy, Pete,” he cautioned. “You got nothin' agin Haines and Daniels.”
The sheriff flashed at him that hungry, baffled glance.
“Maybe I can find something. You Gregg, keep your mouth shut and stand back. Halloo!”
He sent a long call quavering between the lonely mountains.
“You yonder—Lee Haines! D'you give up to the law?”
A burst of savage laughter flung back at him, and then: “Why the hell should I?”
“Haines, I give you fair warnin'! For resistin' the law and interferin', I ask you, do you surrender?”
“Who are you?”
The big voice fairly swallowed the rather shrill tone of the sheriff.
“I'm sheriff Pete Glass.”
“You lie. Whoever heard of a sheriff come sneakin' round like a coyote lookin' for dead meat?”
Pete Glass grinned with rage.
“Haines, you ain't much better'n spoiled meat if you keep back. I gave you till I count ten—”
“Why, you bob-tailed skunk,” shouted a new voice. “You bone-spavined, pink-eyed rat-catcher,” continued this very particular describer, “what have you got on us? Come out and dicker and we'll do the same!”
The sheriff sighed, softly, deeply.
“I thought maybe they wouldn't get down to talk,” he murmured. But since the last chance for a battle was gone, he stepped fearlessly from behind his rock and advanced into the open. Two tall figures came to meet him.
“Now,” said Lee Haines, stalking forward. “One bad move, just the glint of a single gun from the rest of you sheep thieves, and I'll tame your pet sheriff and send him to hell for a model.”
They halted, close to each other, the two big men, Haines in the front, and the sheriff.
“You're Lee Haines?”
“You've named me.”
“And you're Buck Daniels?”
“That's me.”
“Gents, you've resisted an officer of the law in the act of makin' an arrest. I s'pose you know what that means?”
Big Lee Haines laughed.
“Don't start a bluff, sheriff. I know a bit about the law.”
“Maybe by experience?”
It was an odd thing to watch the three, every one of them a practiced fighter, every one of them primed for trouble, but each ostentatiously keeping his hands away from the holsters.
“What we might have done if we had come to a pinch,” said Haines, “is one thing, and what we did do is another. Barry was started and off before we had a chance to show teeth, my friend, and you never even caught the flash of our guns. If he'd waited but he didn't. There's nothing left for us to do except say good-by.”
The little dusty man stroked his moustaches thoughtfully. He had gone out there hoping against hope that his chance might come—to trick the two into violence, even to start an arrest for reasons which he knew his posse would swear to; but it must be borne in mind that Pete Glass was a careful man by instinct. Taking in probable speed of hand and a thousand other details at a glance, Pete sensed the danger of these two and felt in his heart of hearts that he was more than master of either of them, considered alone; better than Buck Daniels by an almost safe margin of steadiness; better than Lee Haines by a flickering instant of speed. Had either of them alone faced him, he would have taken his chance, perhaps, to kill or be killed, for the long trail and the escape had fanned that spark within him to a cold, hungry fire; but to attempt a play with both at the same time was death, and he knew it. Seeing that the game was up, he laid his cards on the table with characteristic frankness.
“Gents,” he said, “I reckon you've come clean with me. You ain't my meat and I ain't goin' to clutter up your
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