Rimrock Trail Part 20

"Doin' a trade already," said Sam. "Must have brung that sign erlong with him. Smart, fo' a youngster. Simpson said he was a kid. How 'bout seein' him befo' Miss Bailey an' Ed here stake their claims? I'm aimin'

to mark out one fo' me, same time."

"Also me," said Mormon.

Guffaws suddenly rose from the little crowd by the a.s.sayer's sign. A deep voice boomed out in bullying tone, followed by silence, then more laughs. Sandy leaned to Mormon.

"You keep her an' young Ed back," he said. "Trouble here, I figger."

Mormon nodded, stepping ahead, blocking Miranda's progress in apparently aimless and clumsy fas.h.i.+on while Sandy, his hands dropping to his gun b.u.t.ts, lifting the weapons slightly and, releasing them into the holsters once again, lengthened his stride, walking cat-footed, on the soles of his feet, as he always did when he scented trouble. Sam, easing his own gun, lightly touched his lips with the tip of his tongue and followed Sandy with eyes that widened and brightened.

"Bullyin' the kid, I reckon," he said to Sandy as they went. Sandy did not need to nod before they reached the half-ring that had formed about a young chap in khaki s.h.i.+rt, riding breeches and puttees, whose fair hair was curly above a face tanned, and resolute enough. Yet he was clearly nervous at the jibes of the crowd and the actions of the man who faced him, heavy of body, long of arm, heavy of jowl; a deep-chested, broad-shouldered individual whose head, cropped close, tapering in a rounded cone from his bushy eyebrows, helped largely to give him the aspect of a professional wrestler, or a heavyweight prizefighter. He carried a big blued Colt revolver, and the way he spun the weapon on the trigger guard showed familiarity with the weapon.

The young a.s.sayer had no holster to his belt, seemingly no gun. His clean shaven jaws were clamped tight so that the muscles lumped here and there, and he fronted the unsympathetic crowd and the jeering bully with a courage that was partly born of desperation.

"Mining engineer!" read the bully. "Smart, ain't he, for a curly-headed kid! Engineer? Peanut butcher 'ud suit better. Looks like a movie pitcher actor, don't he? Mebbe he's a vodeville performer. I'll bet he is, at that. What's yore speshulty, kid? Singin' or dancin'. Or both."

He flung a shot from the gun into the ground between the young man's feet.

"Show us a few steps, you powder-faced dood! Mebbe we'll let you stay in camp if you amuse us."

Sandy and Sam had elbowed their way lightly through the ring and the former turned to the man beside whom he happened to stand.

"What's the idea?" he asked.

"The young 'un good as told Roarin' Russell he didn't know what he was talkin' about. Chap asked the kid's opinion on a bit of ore an' he give it. It didn't suit Russell."

"It didn't, eh? Now, that's too bad," drawled Sandy. The other looked at him curiously. Sandy's drawl was often provocative. Russell's gun barked again.

"Dance, d.a.m.n ye! An' sing at the same time; blast you for a b.u.t.tin' in tenderfoot! Won't, eh?"

The victim, game but despairing, flung a look of appeal about him. To give in meant to become the laughing-stock of the camp, to have its ribaldry follow him, to be laughed out of the camp, branded as a coward.

Yet to resist was a challenge to death. The bully had been drinking, the gleam in his eyes was that of the killer, a man half insane from alcohol.

"Up with yore hands! Up with 'em, or I'll shoot the knuckles off of 'em!

I'll make a jumpin'-jack of you or I'll shoot yore...."

The first syllable of the intended volley of foulness was barely out when Sandy, stepping forward, touched the bully on the shoulder. Russell whirled as a bear whirls, gun lifting.

"Lady back here in the crowd," said Sandy quietly.

For a second Russell gasped and stared and, as he stared, the cold hard look in Sandy's eyes told him the manner of man who had interrupted him.

But this man's guns were in the holsters, Russell's weapon was in hand though its muzzle was tilted skyward. The crowd, thickening, waited his next move. He had been stopped in his baiting. He saw no woman back of the big bulk of Mormon, keeping Miranda well away, not seeing what was going forward.

"To h.e.l.l with the lady!" shouted Russell. At his back was only the unarmed a.s.sayer. This lean cold-eyed interferer was a hardy fool who needed a lesson. He swept down his gun, thumb to hammer. Two guns grew like magic in Sandy's hands. Russell read a message in Sandy's glance, he heard the gasp of the crowd. With his own gun first in the open the stranger had beaten him to the drop and fire. He felt the fan of the wing of death on his brow. His gun flew out of his fingers, wrenched away by the force of impact from Sandy's bullet on its muzzle, low down, near the cylinder. Dazed, he watched it spinning away, his hand numb.

"Back up to that door, you! Back up!" Sandy's voice was almost conversational but it was profoundly convincing. The bully obeyed him, standing at the door in the place of the a.s.sayer, who stepped aside, feeling a little sick at the stomach, Sam bracing him in friendly fas.h.i.+on by one elbow.

"I won't shoot _yore_ knuckles off," said Sandy, "pervidin' you keep yore fingers wide apaht, an' don't wiggle 'em. Spread 'em out against the wood, bully man!"

His face whitening from the ebb of blood to his cowardly heart, Roarin'

Russell opened his fingers wide, judging implicit obedience his greatest safety. Sandy did not move position, he hardly seemed to move wrist or finger as his guns spat fire, left and right, eight shots blending, eight bullets smas.h.i.+ng their way through the door between the "V's" of the bully's fingers while the crowd held their breath for the exhibition.

Sandy quickly reloaded, quickly but without obvious haste. He did not return the guns to their holsters and he paid no attention to the admiring comments of the crowd.

"Who is he? Two-gun man! They say his name's Sandy Bourke."

"You-all interfered with a friend of mine," said Sandy. "It ain't a healthy trick. An' you ain't apologized to the lady. I don't know how Westlake feels about it, but you've sure got to apologize to the lady."

The a.s.sayer, bewildered at Sandy's a.s.sumption of friends.h.i.+p, waved his hand deprecatingly. Russell's eyes rolled from side to side toward his still elevated hands.

"You can lower 'em if you can't talk with 'em up," said Sandy. "I'm waitin' fo' that apology, but I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"I didn't see no woman," mumbled the bully, crestfallen.

"I told you there _was_ one," said Sandy. "I don't lie, even to strangers. You're sorry you swore, ain't you?"

"You're quicker'n I am on the draw with yore two guns," retorted the goaded Russell. "I c'ud lick you one-handed 'thout guns--or any man in this crowd," he bl.u.s.tered in an attempt to halt his departing prestige.

"You-all had a gun in yore hand when we stahted in," said Sandy equably.

"You're sorry you swore--_ain't_ you?"

The repeated words, backed by the cold gaze, the ready guns, were merciless as probes.

"I apologizes to the lady," growled Russell.

"Now, that's fine," said Sandy. "Fine! Westlake, will you come erlong with me fo' a spell?"

He made his way through the opening group. Sam followed with the a.s.sayer who now began to realize that Sandy's interference had established a friends.h.i.+p that would continue protective. They met Mormon, almost purple in the face from suppressed feelings. Young Ed Bailey eyed Sandy with awe and new respect. Miranda Bailey's attempt to learn exactly what had happened was thwarted by Sandy's presentation of Westlake. During the introduction Mormon slipped away. Roaring Russell was endeavoring to readjust his swagger when the stout cowboy met him.

"I was with the lady," said Mormon. "Consequent I c'udn't git here sooner. You said you c'ud lick any one in the camp one-handed, guns barred. Now I don't like the way you apologized, sabe? It warn't willin'

enough, nor elegant enough, nor spontaneous enough. Ter-night, after I git through showin' the lady around the diggin's, I'll meet you where you say for fun, money or marbles, an' argy with you barehanded.

Thisaway."

He slapped Russell on the cheek. The bully roared and the crowd stepped back. Mormon, with the surprising alertness he showed in action, for all his bulk and weight, sprang back, poised for strike or clutch. Miranda Bailey came with a rush and stepped between the two men. Russell foresaw a laugh at his expense and curbed himself, the sooner for his new-found consideration for Sandy's gunplay.

"You ought to be ashamed of yoreselves, both of you," exclaimed the spinster. "I'll have no one fightin' over me. I can take care of myself."

"Yes, m'm, I reckon you can. I reckon we are ashamed," said Mormon meekly, as the crowd roared in laughter that died away before the evenly swung gaze of Sandy, backed by Sam. Russell slipped off and the men dispersed. Miranda addressed Mormon.

"I'll not have you fighting with that hulkin' brute on my account," she said. "Do you understand?"

Mormon gulped. He seemed summoning his courage, gripping it with both hands.

"Marm," he said desperately, "you can't stop me."

The spinster gasped, met his eyes, flushed and turned away. Sam nudged Mormon with elbow to ribs.

"You dog-gone ol' desperado," he said in a whisper. "I didn't think you had it in you. That the way you treated the first three?"