Chapter XVII

As Sheriff Evans and Banker Hasbrook rode down trail and around the bend, Evans slipped a hand under his coat, dragged out two hefty forty-fours and slid them into Hasbrook’s eager hands.

“I hope you get a chance to use ’em tonight, that’s all,” growled an unusually disgruntled sheriff.

“Me too, dammit,” growled Hasbrook.

Just then two men rode out into the trail in front of them, and one of the two called sullenly as Evans and Hasbrook pulled their horses down:

“You’re to keep on going, and go like hell. Got it?”

“Got you,” snapped Evans, and started to ride on.

But already Jim Torrance had muttered to himself, “Now!” That was uptrail and around the bend, and they couldn’t see him for the trees. Nor could they see Steve Bordereau and the man riding with him, nor the other man who had just stepped out so close to Torrance.

Torrance, having said “Now!” meant “_Now!_” Bordereau and the man with him wore big bandanas over their faces, for masks; they’d kept their faces hidden all the while from Will Hasbrook. But as they pulled in close to where Torrance waited for them, Steve Bordereau jerked the cloth away from his face. Already he saw Torrance’s hands on the saddle horn, and saw too the rope about them.

But there was something he didn’t see. The rope about Torrance’s horse’s neck went just so far and was pieced out with a bit of cotton string; the ropes about Torrance’s legs were pieced out in the same way, as was the rope about his wrists. One jerk, no more emphatic than that with which Steve Bordereau snatched his handkerchief away, was all he needed to set him free.

“Got you at last, damn you!” exulted Bordereau. He reached in leisurely fashion for his gun. “You’re a dead man in ten seconds, Torrance. You’ll live just exactly long enough to know who burned you down. Take this--and like it!”

“Hold it, Bordereau,” said Torrance quietly. “Me, I want to tell you something too. I felt sure down to my boots that it was you and your gang pulling off these jobs, bank robbing, murder and such. Now I know from seeing you and listening to you. Here’s a tip for you. I don’t think you’ll live through the night; if you do you’ll be where you put Doc Taylor before your whiskers grow long enough to shave two-three times.”

Bordereau hardly heard him out before he started shooting, and not ten paces away. But Torrance, whom circumstances forced to make his final, revised plans in a hurry, wasn’t in the saddle when Bordereau’s finger hardened to the trigger. Knowing that he could never hope to go free on horseback, he spilled out of his saddle, breaking the little cotton strings that bound him, throwing himself against the fellow who had just stepped from the wood, knocking him endwise. Torrance’s frightened horse leaped and reared and lunged, and in the narrow trail caromed flank to flank against Steve Bordereau’s mount.

By that time Bordereau was firing as fast as he could, not caring in the least if he knocked over his own man, tangled there on the ground with Jim Torrance, not caring much about anything, just so Torrance was one man he killed. But in his excitement and rage he had the poorest of luck; Torrance was firing back with less excitement, with more precision. As he threw himself from his horse’s back his gun was in his hand; he brought it down smashingly on the head of the man against whom he catapulted himself; thereafter he did his level best to make an end of Bordereau. But three horses were rearing and snorting their fear, and trying to run away, and, close as the men were to each other, it was hard to make sure with any single shot.

But he came mighty close to making sure with the first bullet he winged on its way; it carried Steve Bordereau’s hat away and left a bloody groove along Bordereau’s scalp. The gambler, emulating his enemy, went down out of the saddle in a hurry, keeping the reins in one hand, getting behind his horse, and he kept on firing from behind his restless barricade as fast as he could pull a trigger.

He did kill his own man, the one whom Torrance had downed; Torrance heard the thud of the impact in the lax body, thanked his stars for the eight or ten inches between them, and leaped into the dark of the wood bordering the trail. Bullets were singing all about him, the other bandit slamming lead at him as fast as did Steve Bordereau.

Bordereau too sprang nimbly out of the open trail, ducking behind a tree. The fellow with him was slower of wit or of bolder mettle; in any case he stopped one of Torrance’s bullets and went to the ground headlong. By that time, above the crash and thunder and clamorous reverberations of gunfire, rose Bordereau’s voice, choking with anger, yelling savage commands:

“Varney! Billings! Where the hell are you? Get into it or--”

Varney Slack and Hen Billings were the two men he had set on guard lower down the trail, to make sure that the sheriff and Hasbrook were on their way; for at the time of cooking up his plans Bordereau hadn’t counted on Torrance bursting his bonds like this. And just now it happened that Varney and Billings had other matters to attend to beyond listening to their leader’s commands. For the instant Walt Evans heard the start of a duello of gunfire, he chose to consider that his contract with these rats was fulfilled and that he was a free man to do just what he damn well pleased. He grabbed a gun up out of its holster where it rested so loosely, yelled downright joyously, “Stick ’em up, you two, or go for your guns!” and cut loose. For he saw they were doing what they had to do; they were going for their guns.

If there was one thing--and there were several--that Walt Evans could do pretty close up to the fine edge of perfection, it was shoot on the draw true to the mark. He unlimbered before either of his two opponents got their guns up six inches from their holsters; they should have shot from the hip and taken their chances that way, for no other chance was to be granted them. He shot one man through the throat, the other man through the gun elbow. And Will Hasbrook by that time was in action; he drilled with a lucky shot the fellow whom Evans had merely wounded.

Then the two went storming back uptrail.

“Hey there, Jim!” and, “Torrance! Torrance! We’re with you!” yelled Evans and Hasbrook. And Bordereau, hearing and understanding what must have happened when he heard the shooting around the bend, got into the edge of the forest, dragging his horse along, and got up into his saddle and left behind him only the faint sound of his cursing and the livelier racket of brush crackling under his precipitate flight.

Out in the clearing was a rock some five or six feet high. Torrance with a single leap seemed somehow to be on top of it. From there he shouted so that his vociferations were like the challenge of a crowing cock. That was because already he tried to see into that thing that they call the future--into happenings which, yet unborn, might come out this way or that.

“Bordereau!” he shouted, inviting a bullet and feeling in his heart, standing high just then, that he could dodge it! “Bordereau! You’ve run off and left your fifty thousand! And I’ve scared you out of the country, me, Jim Torrance! Hell with you--since I know after this you’ll never come back! Me, I’ll own this whole damn country a year from now; and you--you’ll be down below the border with the rest of the half-breeds, sucking eggs for supper, hungry and dirty and lousy and down and out. And it was me, Jim Torrance, that ran you out.”

And for full measure he simulated rollicking spontaneous laughter.

That extravagance of his nearly cost him his life--but since it was merely a case of nearly but not quite, he didn’t in the least mind. Steve Bordereau heard his taunts and stopped and shot at him through the uncertain region of twigs and shadows and moonlight, and his shots whistled close but left Torrance unscathed. Nor, after having fired his verbal volley, did Torrance choose to linger on the rock. He spilled down again, almost under the running hoofs of the horses bringing Evans and Hasbrook.

“There’ll be sure to be more of the rats hid in the brush,” he sang out warningly. “Better duck for cover among the trees.”

“I don’t see you ducking,” snorted the sheriff.

Torrance’s horse had run but a short distance uptrail and stood there stamping and whirling and jerking its head high, making a lively jingle of bridle chains. Torrance ran forward, caught up the reins and went up into the saddle. Then there was a crashing in the underbrush where he had vanished, going after the already vanished Bordereau. Close behind him came both the sheriff and Hasbrook. And now Hasbrook, though he was not going to hang back when the others led, called out a warning:

“You’ll never get him at night in this rough country--he knows every step of it--look out or he’ll let you have it before you ever see him.”

Torrance didn’t stop and didn’t bother to answer. He knew that Bordereau still fled on somewhere ahead, for he heard the drumming of speeding hoofs. But he had to swing this way and that among the trees; his horse balked once where a big fallen tree lay across the way; he had to draw back and ride around it--and then all sounds of the horse ahead of him died away. He stopped and listened; the trample of Evans’ and Hasbrook’s horses, coming closer, was all he heard.

“Let him go, Torrance,” said Evans bruskly. “You’re no sorrier than I am to have him slide out on us--but we’ve saved Will’s fifty thousand dollars for him--and we’ve done what we could to square things for Phil Gates, potting two of the devils. And tomorrow I’ll come back up here with a posse and comb these mountains--”

“You got two of them?” said Torrance. “Well, Bordereau himself got a third man, plugging wild at me. If we haven’t busted up his gang, at least we’ve thinned it. And I guess you’re right; it’s about all we can do for tonight.”

Evans said to Hasbrook: “This man Jim Torrance is barely up out of bed; he got himself shot up a bit in the scrap when they grabbed you. It’s time we rode home with him and tucked him into bed again. Let’s catch up these horses running free, and be on our way.”

“Torrance,” said the banker warmly, “if it hadn’t been for you--”

“Let’s ride,” said Torrance.

No posse went out the next morning, but just a couple of men with a buckboard to haul back into town the three dead bandits. That was because the sheriff and Will Hasbrook had had a good long talk with Jim Torrance.

“It’s a funny thing,” said Hasbrook, “how Jim here seems to sort of know what Bordereau’s apt to do next, what he’s thinking even. He came to me and told me to look out for this raid, and I did--well, half-heartedly maybe, still I did feel in my bones that he knew what he was talking about.”

“How come?” demanded Evans. “You and this Bordereau bird had lots of heart-to-heart talks, Jim?”

“Nary a talk, Walt. But you see, I know the sorts of things Steve Bordereau has been pulling off for years; I’ve done a lot of thinking about him; I’ve got a hunch I know what he’s like inside and how he figures things.”

“I heard you yelling after him when you stood up there on that rock last night. You figured he was on his way at last, clean out of the country.”

“That was just my way of inviting him to hang around a little longer,” grinned Torrance, and looked vastly good-natured and hopeful. “After my reminding him that we still had his fifty thousand, and after my doing a bit of big-mouth bragging, there’s no more chance of his running out on us than there is of the world falling apart. If he never does another thing, he’s going to have a try at me.” His grin passed swiftly and his eyes darkened and grew low-lidded and moody. “You see,” he said thoughtfully, “Steve Bordereau is three things by nature. He’s a crook and a killer--and a gambler. He’s sure by now that his luck is running high.”

“After last night?” said Hasbrook, puzzled.

“He’s got a gang with him, hasn’t he? And he’s raked in several sizable jack pots already, hasn’t he, grabbing King Cannon’s gold, sticking up the Yellow Pine and the Mountain City Bank and the Mines? Last night he lost a trick, yes; but at the same time he had the good luck to have three of his followers put out of the running; he’ll grab their share, won’t he? But then you don’t know Bordereau.”

As it happened, both men did know him, though but slightly; both had sat in at a poker table with him. They understood.

“And what next?” demanded Evans.

“First, there’s Bordereau on the run in the mountains. You know damn well you could hunt him until the next snowstorm and never catch a glimpse of him, not up there in the rough country. And after snow flies, what then? He’ll be well provisioned; he’ll have a snug hide-out; it’ll be in a place where one man can hold off fifty. And he’ll still have a few men with him.”

“And you think he won’t do what you said, duck out for south of the border?”

“Not if I know him. He’ll count noses of what’s left of his party, pick up another three or four of the same kind, and try his luck again while he still thinks that luck is running high.”

“And you’ve got a notion where he’ll strike next time?”

“Sure I have,” said Jim Torrance.

* * * * *

They talked the thing out for hours. Then, when Torrance headed back toward Sundown, Sheriff Evans and Banker Hasbrook rode with him. And, to meet them at Sundown, went another old-timer of Canyon City, Doc Kibbee, traveling by stage. Those three, Evans and Hasbrook and Kibbee, just about ran Coconambo County in those days and had done so for many years. True, Sundown was over their county border and, rightly speaking, they had nothing to say about how little Sundown behaved or misbehaved itself; yet it remained that the influence which these three hearty old mountain lions could exert extended through many channels and to considerable distances.

“We’ll come swooping down on Sundown like the wolf on the fold,” said Doc Kibbee.

The three horsemen came abreast of the main gate to the King Cannon ranch just about sunset. Both Evans and Hasbrook cocked an eye at Torrance; his face was without expression and he was staring straight on ahead, giving no sign that he knew where he was.

“How about turning in here for a while?” said Evans. “The folks might even feed us. Me, I’m getting hungry and sort of thirsty too.”

“It’s an idea, Walter,” said Hasbrook.

So they turned in at the ranch wagon road, and rode up to the house on its knoll among the trees. Sam Pepper, loafing out by the chicken yard, saw them and came with all due haste to meet them.

“Say, it’s you, Jim Torrance!” he exclaimed. “Say, here I been wondering-- Wipe my eyes if it ain’t Walt Evans! And Bill Hasbrook with you! Say!”

Then Mrs. Sam, hearing them, came bustling out of the house, dough on her hands and her arms all floury--and, while they were all just shaking hands and saying the first howdys, Sally Dawn made her appearance, sweet and fresh in a pink dress and with pink in her cheeks and violet in her eyes.

The visitors were pressed to have a snack and something cold to drink and remained for a hot supper. There came a time when by chance Jim Torrance and Sally Dawn were alone in the early dark on the porch. They strolled down into the yard.

“There’s so much left over yet that you haven’t told me, Jim,” said the girl.

And he said: “Instead of saying a whole lot more, I’d like to ask you something. Between my ranch and the upper end of your ranch there’s only the old Harper place, and the Harpers have been dead ten years and the ranch is pretty well going to the dogs. What would you say if I bought the place in? We’d be neighbors then.”

“Lovely! Only--only, Jim, I’m not sure that I’ll be here much longer. The ranch is so badly crippled--and what with the mortgage on it and with Steve Bordereau making all the trouble he can--and--”

“Shucks, those things are bound to get ironed out smooth, give ’em time. And don’t forget Bordereau owes you a hatful of money, all that free gold he dug out of your father’s old house up in the mountains. When you get that back--”

“_When_ I get it back!” she said ruefully, and shook her head.

“You’re going to get it back. You’re going to keep your ranch, too; all clear and cleaned up. Steve Bordereau thinks he’s riding high, wide and handsome right now, but don’t let him fool you.”

“And you, Jim? Do you know, sometimes I think if you just forgot all about him, if you just settled down to your ranch, your horses--”

“That’s what I aim to do,” said Torrance. “Right here close to Sundown. I kind of like it here.”

“I’m glad,” said Sally Dawn.

Then he said, almost rough about it: “Look here! You came all the way up to Canyon City when I was hurt. You--”

“Hi, Jim!” called Sam Pepper. “That you?” He came along hastily. “Are you sure it was Bordereau stuck up Canyon City? Think he’s skipped the country or’s coming back? And what’s brought all those Canyon City big bugs, Evans and Kibbee and Hasbrook, down here so far off their stamping grounds? And--”

“I wonder why somebody hasn’t killed Sam Pepper long ago,” said Jim Torrance to the girl.

That made her laugh, and she said, “He makes me wonder, too!” But she gave Jim’s hand, so lingeringly withdrawing, a good tight squeeze.

Supper done, the Canyon City big bugs rode on into Sundown, Jim Torrance with them, and they did not go unaccompanied. Sam Pepper was on hand to ride neck and neck with the first of them; Bill Yarbo showed up and went along; Curly Redmond and Dick Pardee and Dave Drennen were also of the party.

Within twenty-four hours that hard, tight nucleus of determined men turned a new page in Sundown’s history. They looked up old friends; they talked cold turkey. The second night some four or five score of the squarest-shooting, hardest-riding men of the community met in the “Hall.” The yellow light of their coal oil lamps shone on grim-jawed faces. They sent out for the man they wanted, and Biggs was brought in before them, Rufe Biggs, the town marshal.

Seth Hathaway, an old stock man of the King Cannon type, spoke to him.

“Rufe,” he said, “there’s two kinds o’ folks in an’ around Sundown. There’s folks like us men here; there’s folks like Steve Bordereau and Clark Murdo and their crowd. Steve Bordereau put you where you are and our crowd ain’t got any more use for you than a grizzly’s got use for feathers in his tail. Bordereau’s a killer, a crook, a stick-up gent, and he’s on the run. Clark Murdo’s just as bad and won’t be here always. If you, Rufe, have got as much sense as a bedbug, which I doubt, you’ll resign right here and right now. _Sabe?_”

Rufe Biggs bristled and did his small amount of unconvincing blustering, but he looked frightened, and in the end he slammed his badge of office down on the floor and kicked at it.

“Hell! I quit,” he said, and got out of the room the quickest way.

Then the men gathered in the hall took it upon themselves to name their new town marshal to fill the vacancy voluntarily made by Rufe Biggs. Someone picked up the fallen badge and handed it to their new law enforcement officer.

Jim Torrance’s hands just naturally slid down to the guns at his hips.

“I’m naming myself two deputies right now,” he said. “Later maybe I’m going to ask two-three more to kick in with me--that is, if it comes to a clean-up. You, Sam Pepper; you, Bill Yarbo. You’re both sworn in to lend a hand. Pop out and get me an ax and a crowbar.”

Only a block from the hall was the Sundown jail. Torrance knew that Biggs had the key, hence the ax and crowbar.

He got the battered door off its hinges and stood it against the side of the squat, square building.

“You come out, you fellows in there,” he called. And out came three untidy men, one swaggering, two cowering, all scared. For they didn’t like this sort of an exit, and they didn’t like the tone of the voice commanding them--and the grim-faced crowd that had followed Torrance looked as much like a lynching party as anything else.

“We’re not going to need a jail in Sundown any more, boys,” said the new marshal of Sundown. “If you’re the right kind of men, you don’t have to go into jail. If you’re not the kind that Sundown hankers for--well, that’s going to be your hard luck. Now you three--and I don’t know a damn thing about you--just get the hell out of here as fast as you can, and keep on going. You don’t have to come back unless you think it’s healthy here. Just spread the news as you go. That’s all, boys. Good luck.”

The suddenly released three vanished in the dark.

Somebody laughed.

A cheer went up.

Jim Torrance hitched up his guns, rolled a cigarette, pushed his hat pretty far back--and strolled over to the Stag Horn saloon.