Chapter III: Part 3

Came the crash of breaking glassware, as he plunged behind the bar and the tense crowd went hog-wild. Sales’ men were out for blood and Mora’s men were willing to accommodate them, but the pistol was of little use in that close-packed place.

Men drew their guns and swung them overhanded, clubbing the barrels against anything which might come before them. Bottles flew crashing against the walls; sometimes against heads. The wide doors were not wide enough to accommodate the stampede, so windows were smashed to make exits. Blaze had flung himself across Sales, shielding him from the trampling feet, while Mora’s men strove to fight their way to Mora’s side.

Blaze managed to get to his feet, holding Sales’ limp body, but was buffeted aside by weight of numbers. He clung to the inert body with one hand, while he clubbed his way through the crowd with his heavy six-shooter. Above the roar of the tumult came Frenchy’s voice.

“Hol’ on, you ---- fools! Hol’ on! De sheriff say stop!”

But that crowd knew no authority. Blaze fought his way to the front door, while Mora’s men managed to get their leader and half-drag him out the back door. Bullets began to fly as soon as the clans were separated sufficiently to tell which was which. Mora’s men got him out of the door, but they had paid toll.

Three of his men did not get to the door and as many more were stretched on the floor, downed by pistol barrels or thrown bottles. Four other men, whether Sales’ men or otherwise, were also _hors de combat_. The shooting stopped when Mora’s men disappeared.

Disheveled men staggered around in the street, clothes half-torn from their bodies, bruised and bleeding. The saloon was a shambles, furniture wrecked, mirrors shattered. Blaze staggered across to the office carrying Sales, while behind him limped Frenchy, talking French so fast that he fairly spat words as a machine gun spits bullets. Frenchy’s hat and shirt were gone and his hair seemed to rise up like the roach on an angry grizzly bear.

Blaze placed Sales on a cot and dashed a dipper of water into his face. Sales blinked painfully and opened his eyes. A man, bruised about the face and minus one sleeve of his shirt, came into the door and looked at Sales. He spat out through the aperture of missing teeth and tried to grin. Sales looked up at Blaze and then sat up on the cot, feeling tenderly of the swollen cut on his head.

“How do you feel, Chuck?” asked the man.

Sales squinted up past his crooked nose at the questioner.

“That’s a ---- of a question to ask,” grunted Sales and then looked up at Blaze and asked--“Did I lick him, Carlin?”

“Yuh did, Sales--yuh sure did and yuh licked him fair. Where did yuh learn to fight like that?”

“Back East. I was a prize-fighter once. That’s where I got this lop-sided nose. What happened after somebody hit me?”

“I got the bottle-thrower,” said the man. “He was a friend of Mora. This here Carlin saved yuh from bein’ tramped to death, Chuck. I tried to git yuh but I couldn’t go no place in that millin’ herd. I seen him pick yuh up and fight his way through. McCarty, Simpson, and Franklyn got hammered up a lot and Micky Shannon stopped a bullet, but I think they’ll all pull through.”

Sales held out his hand to Blaze.

“I reckon you went out of your way to do this fer me, Carlin, and I thank yuh to beat ----.”

“I ain’t thanked yuh for what yuh done for me over in the Eureka,” smiled Blaze.

“Just came out even,” sighed Sales. “’Pears like I can’t never git nobody indebted to me, ---- the luck.”

Doctor Brenton worked swiftly probing for bullets and binding up cuts and bruises. There was not enough left of the Square Deal Saloon for the owner even to promise an opening within a week, so the regular habitués shifted their affections to the Eureka, the Double Cinch or the High Card gambling-houses.

* * * * *

The fight was the subject of conversation and only seemed to add zest to the business of the night. Chuck Sales was a hero. He had accomplished the impossible. It was gossip that Chuck was formerly a prize-fighter, of the then “bare-knuckle” school and he was favored of men; but Chuck wore his honors with the crooked smile and a bandage around his head.

Fights were started over the merits of the punch which had made Black Mora as helpless as a child. Men loaded with bad whisky demonstrated it upon their acquaintances, which caused many upset stomachs and not a little spilling of angry blood. Few men cared for fighting with their hands, preferring the more rapid methods which seldom ended in a draw decision.

Four of Mora’s men had been patched up and went home, but two of them would never ride the ranges again. Only one of Sales’ men, Micky Shannon, was unable to partake of the festivities and he would be riding again in a few days. Several others had been slightly injured in the melee. Luckily the fight was held at short range, which made it impossible to shoot without danger of hitting friend as well as foe, otherwise the toll would have been very much greater.

Blaze and Frenchy did not mix with the crowd, but stayed in the office. Both of them had received superficial cuts and bruises. There was no doubt that Black Mora would make reprisals if possible. He would have to do something desperate to wipe out the disgrace of that whipping, and his followers were likely in a mood to follow him on any undertaking.

Frenchy had talked so much during the day that his throat was weary. It was the first time that Blaze had ever seen Frenchy tired of talking. He lay stretched out on a cot, puffing slowly on his old pipe and staring at the ceiling. Blaze walked slowly up and down the small room.

On the table was a pile of weapons which Frenchy had collected that day and surmounting the pile was Black Mora’s belt and gun. Blaze took it from the holster and looked it over. It was a single-action .44 Colt, with carved bone handle, depicting a running wolf. The figure of the animal was in relief. Below the animal was carved the initials, J. L. H.

“Black Mora packs another man’s gun,” observed Blaze, handing the weapon to Frenchy.

Frenchy exhaled a cloud of smoke and examined the gun, peering at the delicate carving.

“Somebody she’s do plenty work on de handle,” he observed, handing it back to Blaze, who replaced it in the holster.

“I’m t’ink any man’s fool to put name on de gun.”

Came a timid knock on the door, barely audible. Frenchy got off the cot and stretched his arms. From across the street came the sounds of dancing, singing, voices raised in shrill argument.

Frenchy stepped to one side of the door while Blaze lifted the bar, drawing the door to him. A woman stepped quickly inside and Blaze shut the door behind her. Blaze dropped the bar into place and faced the woman. It was the one who had laughed when he hit Black Mora, the woman who had turned away when he had lifted his hat to her on the Eureka balcony.

Blaze bowed to her and indicated a chair.

“Won’t yuh set down, ma’am?”

The woman shook her head.

“No, I’ve got to get back quick, but I had to ask you something--something----”

She glanced quickly around the room as if afraid to talk. She was less than thirty years of age, but hardened and haggard from her profession; yet she appeared embarrassed. Beauty parlors were as yet unknown in the West and the women of the dance-halls had little time for more than a daub of paint, smeared in a grotesque imitation of the bloom of youth; their hair frizzed with curling-irons which were heated in the chimney of an oil-lamp, and decorated according to their own standards.

This woman’s dress was sparkling with cheap bangles and reeking with perfume, which is supposed to dull the senses of uncouth men and lead them to believe that this “rag, bone and a hank of hair” is perfection personified.

“Ma’am,” said Blaze, “I’m glad to answer a question if I can.”

She hesitated for a moment as if thinking deeply.

“I heard a man talking about you today. I think he runs one of the stores. He said that you found a man who--who had been hung.”

“Yes’m,” nodded Blaze, “we did find one man thataway.”

“At a little cabin in the gulch which leads to Cinnamon Creek?”

“Is Cinnamon Creek where Black Mora’s ranch is?” asked Blaze.

The woman nodded and compressed her lips.

“I can try to describe the old man,” volunteered Blaze. But the woman got to her feet with a gesture of dissent. She leaned on the table for a moment and then turned, with her back to the table, her hands behind her and looked at Blaze.

“You heard what happened to Jack Wheeler?” she asked slowly.

Blaze nodded.

“Ma’am, it was awful--it sure was.”

She bit her lips as if to keep back the tears and walked back to the door.

“I want to thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for answering my question, and--and for taking off your hat to me.”

She lifted the bar before Blaze could assist her and slipped out into the street. Blaze dropped the bar back into place and looked at Frenchy who had never spoken while the woman was in the room.

“Whatcha know about that?” wondered Blaze.

Frenchy whittled some tobacco from his plug and filled his pipe. He tamped the tobacco carefully and lit a sulfur match.

“Can’t yuh talk?” asked Blaze.

Frenchy nodded his head.

“Sure, I’m mak’ talk, Blaze, but first I’m mak’ t’ink. W’at you suppose she’s tak’ Black Mora’s gun for, eh?”

“Black Mora’s gun?” parroted Blaze and stepped over to the table. The holster was empty.

“She’s tak’ it when she’s back against de table,” explained Frenchy.

“Why didn’t you stop her?”

Frenchy puffed thoughtfully.

“Blaze, de woman no steal for de value of de gun, ba gosh. De woman know some-t’ing. Mebbe she’s need gun. Mebbe she’s tak’ Black Mora’s gun biccause his gun be de handies’, eh?”

“Suppose he comes after his gun, Frenchy? We ain’t got no right to keep his gun.”

Frenchy shook his head.

“_Non_. We got no right, Blaze, but I’m not worry. When Black Mora come for de gun, I’m mak’ t’ink I’m kill Black Mora. Chuck Sales she’s wort’ while for de fight; Beel McKeever she’s suppose to be big man, but I’m got not’ing against dem two out-law. I’m----”

A heavy hand banged against the door. There was nothing timid about this knock.

“Who’s out there?” asked Blaze.

A voice answered, saying something about Delaney, the rest of it being drowned by the noise from the dance-hall. Blaze cautiously opened the door. A man was standing there, his face shaded from the light. The light was behind Blaze and Frenchy, which left their faces in the shadow.

“What was it?” asked Blaze.

“Delaney wants yuh to come to his house,” stated the man. “The Wheeler woman wants to talk to yuh.”

The man half-turned his head toward the dance-hall as he finished his message. Without a sound, Frenchy sprang through the doorway into the man, and both of them crashed to the ground. For a moment Blaze was stunned at the suddenness of Frenchy’s actions, but sprang to his assistance. The man twisted and cursed, but the little Frenchman had pinned his arms.

Blaze removed the man’s gun and they dragged him inside and closed the door. The man sat on the floor and stared at them. Blaze let the full light of the lamp fall upon the man’s face. It was the man whom Frenchy had booted at Cinnamon Creek; the man with mouse-colored hair and empty eye-socket. He stared at them, wonderingly, his eye wide open with fright. It suddenly occurred to Blaze that Mex Free had been killed before telling Mora that the two men had not been burned in the ranch-house fire, and that this man did not know until now.

The man’s forehead had come in contact with the ground, and a trickle of blood was running into his remaining eye, but he made no move to wipe it away. He seemed bereft of motion or understanding.

“I’m never forget de man I’m kick,” stated Frenchy. “She’s plant de trap, Blaze.”

“Delaney wants to see me, eh?” asked Blaze.

The man looked at Blaze, but did not affirm nor deny the question. Frenchy leaned over the man, shoving his bearded face close and peering into the one eye.

“Who sent you to lie?” asked Frenchy harshly, but the man was dumb. His eye stared straight ahead, as if visioning the punishment he expected.

Frenchy stood up and looked at Blaze.

“W’at you t’ink, Blaze? Dis is Black Mora’s man for sure. She’s bring de message to come and see Delaney. Delaney never send him, ba gosh!”

Frenchy snapped his words as if anxious to get into action again. Blaze lifted a coiled rope from under the table and proceeded to hog-tie the one-eyed man, who made no move to prevent it. Blaze roped him as only a cowboy can do the job and when he was finished the one-eyed outlaw was as secure as knots could make him. Not a word would the man speak, not even a curse. He was taking no chances.

“Where you go?” asked Frenchy.

“Delaney’s place. Know where it is?”

“No. Mebbe somebody show us.”

* * * * *

They closed the door behind them and went across the street. The closed Square Deal Saloon made a dark spot in the otherwise lighted street. Two men met them as they reached the sidewalk, and Blaze recognized one of them as being the stable-man.

“Know where Delaney lives?” asked Blaze.

The man had recognized Blaze and Frenchy and gave them the directions in a few words. Delaney lived a short distance from the business section, back on the slope of a hill. Blaze and Frenchy did not go cautiously, for the reason that Blaze believed that if it was an ambush, the outlaws might mistake Frenchy for their messenger in the dark and give them a chance to find out what they were up against. A dim light was burning in Delaney’s front window. They were almost to the door when a voice said--

“Good work, Blue.”

Men rose up from behind them, men who were unseen in the shadows of the fence and who ringed Frenchy and Blaze from every avenue of escape except into the house.

“The house,” whispered Blaze. “Smash the window if the door is blocked.”

“---- yuh, I’ve got yuh where yuh won’t kick fer a while,” gritted Black Mora’s voice.

Blaze whirled and fired at the figure which he thought was Black Mora, while Frenchy’s pistol spat flame in the other direction. The bushwhackers were taken by surprise; supposing that one of the two was their messenger, Al Blue. Blaze swung his gun from figure to figure, firing as fast as possible, while Frenchy emptied his gun into the bulk of the men who were only a few feet from him.

Oaths and cries of pain mingled with the crashing of pistols. Blaze felt a bullet tear through the flesh of his left forearm, while another bit deeply across his shoulder. His gun was empty. Frenchy had ceased to fire for the same reason. Straight for the door they ran, crashing into it together and splintering the cheap latch. It was a narrow hallway, opening each way into larger rooms.

Blaze bounded back from the wall and threw himself against the door. Frenchy went to his knees and skidded almost into the right-hand room. For a moment Blaze held the door with his shoulder, but he immediately dropped flat, braced his feet against the bottom of it, while he calmly shoved cartridges into his empty gun.

Bullets splintered the door, waist high to a man, but none of them came low enough to injure Blaze. Frenchy reloaded as fast as possible and crouched against the wall out of line with the door, cursing softly.

“Didja get hit, Frenchy?” asked Blaze.

“I’m los’ piece from my ear and git bullet in de leg; I’m t’ink one boot she’s get irrigate from de blood. How you come?”

“Got a slug through my left arm and one through my left shoulder, I think. Can’t shut my hand very good. We kinda busted up the meetin’, Frenchy.”

“Ho, ho, ho! I’m have de gran’ time latelee. I’m never know dere be so much good time in de worl’, Blaze. Where you suppose everybodee she’s be? Where’s Delaney and de female wimmin’, eh?”

Blaze crawled away from the door, which swung ajar for a few inches. Into the other room went Blaze, crawling softly in the dark. One room was partly lighted with the smoking oil-lamp, but this one was in darkness. Blaze crawled slowly, reaching ahead as much as possible; crawling like a three-legged animal.

Suddenly his hand touched flesh. Like a flash his pistol barrel bored into it but there was no movement. Blaze reached out with his injured hand, not daring to take away the pistol, and felt tight ropes.

“Frenchy,” he called softly. “Come here, Frenchy.”

“Ba gosh, I’m come,” whispered Frenchy, and came limping softly into the room.

“Light a match,” whispered Blaze.

Frenchy lighted a match, shading it with his hands. On the floor lay Delaney, trussed with ropes, gagged with a dirty rag and with a hangman’s noose around his neck. He had been bruised about the head, but his eyes were open.

Blaze cut his bonds and ripped away the gag. For a moment Delaney was unable to move, but he struggled to a sitting position as the match flared out.

“Where are the women?” asked Blaze softly.

Delaney seemed unable to talk and when he did regain speech it was barely a weak whisper.

“Gone. They stole them. Said they’d hang me as soon as they got you, Carlin.”

“Shake yourself,” ordered Blaze. “Where have the women gone? Why did Mora’s gang come here?”

“Mrs. Wheeler,” whispered Delaney. “Black Mora wanted her. Those were Mora’s men in the store when she came there. She knew it was Mora’s gang that killed Jack. Mora killed him to get her. He knew she’d tell me who got Jack and Mora was afraid.

“I heard him send the message to you. Mora’s face is cut to ribbons, where Sales beat him. He said he was going to hang us both to the same limb.”

“He’s got your wife, ain’t he?” asked Blaze.

“We were all here when they broke in,” whispered Delaney. “Mora grabbed Mrs. Wheeler.”

Delaney got to his feet, mumbling to himself. Blaze moved back toward the front door, his footsteps muffled in the heavy rag-carpet. The oil-lamp was guttering in the other room, casting a yellow light over the walls.

The half-open door began to squeak, as some one shoved it gently from the outside. The sound of a husky whisper came to Blaze’s ears. Blaze covered the edge of the door with his pistol. Suddenly a man’s body moved into view, but before Blaze could shoot a streak of flame shot from Frenchy’s gun and the man dropped to the floor.

“Ba gosh, you mebbe wait too long sometime, Blaze,” said Frenchy softly.

They listened, waited. Outside came a shrill whistle and a moment later the sound of galloping horses. Blaze took a chance. He hurdled the man in the doorway and sprang into the yard.

By the dim light from the moon he could see men riding away. Two horsemen swung past him, coming from the rear of the house. Blaze emptied his pistol as the horses thundered past. One of the men cursed and fired back. Fifty feet beyond, the horses seemed to crash together and go down.

Frenchy and Delaney joined him. Blaze had watched, but could not tell whether the horsemen had gone to town or not.

“Mora gave up trying to get us,” said Blaze. “He’s taken the women with him, I think. He’s lost too many men already, and he knows we are still alive. Look out for them two out there by the horses. They may have some fight left.”

They separated and started for the spot where the horses had fallen. A few feet away, Blaze stumbled over the body of a man, which proved that Mora’s surprize party had not worked out as he had planned. They found the horses--one dead, the other crippled, but there was no sign of the two men.

The three men stood there, undecided. Far away they could hear the music from the dance-halls, soft and as indefinite as the light from the fleece-covered moon. The saddle creaked on the crippled horse, as the animal started to move away. Far back in the hills a coyote lifted its voice in lamentation.

“Ba gosh, she’s de peaceful night,” breathed Frenchy. “I’m lak’ to go to sleep, Blaze.”

“How does the leg feel, Frenchy?”

“Not feel much. I’m not t’ink she’s belong to me. My boot squash, squash all de time. How’s de arm?”

“Can’t lift it,” said Blaze. “Weighs a ton. Buck up, Frenchy; we’ve got to get Black Mora tonight.”

“She’s a fact,” said Frenchy. “We got t’ree good leg and t’ree good hand left, which mak’ plenty fun, ba gosh!”

“My wife!” exclaimed Delaney suddenly, as if he had just awakened. “My ----, they’ve got my wife!”

He trotted toward the town with Blaze and Frenchy following painfully behind.

“Delaney got shocked, I reckon,” muttered Blaze. “He’s just rememberin’ things, Frenchy.”

“I’m kill, kill----” muttered Frenchy complainingly, as if talking to himself. “De bad-man mus’ be kill biffore de countree she’s good to live here.”

Blaze knew that Frenchy was weakening from the loss of blood. His voice was halting and his left leg seemed to drag. Suddenly Frenchy increased his pace and his voice boomed out:

“Ho, ho, ho! Ba gosh! All de time I’m mak’ t’ink of de squash, squash inside de boot. To ---- wit’ de squash! First we git Mora, den we sleep. Ho, ho, ho!”

“Good man!” grunted Blaze, gritting his teeth over his throbbing shoulder and arm. “We’ll clean ’em up, old pardner.”

Frenchy stumbled and almost fell to his knees.

“Hurrah for ----!” he croaked drunkenly. “Who’s afraid of de fire?”

Blaze steadied him with his good arm and Frenchy laughed foolishly. They reached the street and headed for the Eureka, passing the other places. Frenchy was weaving, stumbling, but Blaze helped him along.

* * * * *

Into the saloon they went and men stepped aside to let them through. The woman, who had stolen Mora’s gun, was standing on a platform, singing, but stopped when she saw Blaze and Frenchy, who came up near the platform. The violin quit in the middle of a bar of music.

Blaze faced the crowd, lifting his good hand as a signal for silence. The room stilled in a moment, except for the shuffling of feet. Frenchy was hunched from weariness, but watched the crowd, with his right hand near the butt of his gun.

“Men,” said Blaze hollowly, “you know us. We’re cleanin’ up this town.”

Sales was standing near the bar and now he moved closer to Blaze. From back in the crowd came a voice--

“Look out yuh don’t drown in your own suds.”

“Black Mora and his men stole two women and a little girl tonight.” Blaze’s voice was cool. “Black Mora is the leader of the cut-throat gang, who are posing as vigilantes. No man or woman is safe while his gang are alive.”

The crowd received this statement silently. A man pushed his way to the front and faced Blaze. He was a tall, gaunt figure of a man, yellow as old ivory. His taffy-colored hair was matted and a long, greasy lock curved over his forehead and almost to the bridge of his nose. His eyes were cavernous and the light from the hanging lamps made deep hollows under his cheek-bones. A yellow muffler around his neck seemed to increase the sallowness of his face. Blaze had never seen this man before.

“Talk to ’em, McKeever,” urged a man behind him. Blaze knew that this was Bill McKeever, a partner of Buck Law, whom Frenchy had shot.

“Got gunned up and now you’re lookin’ fer help, eh?” drawled McKeever. “Bit off more ’n yuh can chaw and now you’re huntin’ fer sympathy. Well, yuh won’t git a ---- bit of it hereabouts. I ain’t forgot Buck Law, and by ----, if yuh wasn’t crippled----”

“It’s my left hand, McKeever,” replied Blaze coldly. “I use my right hand for shootin’. I’ve had plenty of shootin’ today, but if you must have it----”

McKeever was moving as Blaze spoke. His hand streaked to his gun, drew swiftly, but his gun exploded into the ceiling. Blaze had shaded him just enough to send a bullet ripping through McKeever’s knuckles, scoring his forearm and burning across the ribs of the man who had urged McKeever on.

The crowd split with a rush, but above it all came Chuck Sales’ voice:

“Steady, steady! Carlin stopped him, gents. No use of any more trouble.”

McKeever staggered back, nursing his shattered hand, cursing impotently, his nerve gone. Then Sales sprang to the platform, shouting:

“Listen to me, you bunch of mangy coyotes! Stay here and suck a bottle and be ----ed to yuh! Dance, you whelps, while that offspring of the devil runs away with good women. Me and my men ride with the law tonight, and when we come back we’re goin’ to help the sheriff do the rest of his washin’.”

Seven men, including Blaze and Frenchy, followed Sales out of the saloon, plowing their way through the crowd, which split wide open to let them through.

“Horses are at the hitch-rack!” cried Sales. “We’ll find enough to carry us.”

Frenchy was staggering and Blaze put an arm around his shoulder.

“Keep goin’, pardner,” urged Blaze.

“Ba gosh, I’m go!” declared Frenchy weakly. “I’m go, but de legs she’s forgit how to lif’ up. I’m tired like ----, Blaze Carlin.”

Sales and his men were ahead. Blaze and Frenchy were passing the front of the deserted Square Deal Saloon, when Frenchy jerked to a stop and almost fell.

“You hear dat, Blaze? You hear de woman scream?”

“Keep goin’, Frenchy,” urged Blaze. “There wasn’t no woman screamin’, old pardner.”

“I hear,” declared Frenchy stubbornly, stumbling toward the door of the deserted saloon. “She’s sound lak’ somebody choke hoff de scream.”

Blaze stepped to the smashed window, across which had been nailed strips of boards, and tried to peer into the blackness. There was moonlight enough to show that the back door was open, and against the moonlit strip of the rear door moved the figures of men.

Blaze turned to Frenchy, who was trying to see inside, and gripped him tight.

“Stand here, Frenchy!” he whispered fiercely. “Black Mora was sure we’d go to his ranch to find him and he’s holed up in here, where nobody’d think to look for him. Maybe he was afraid we’d catch him in the hills, do you understand, Frenchy?” Blaze shook him by the arm. “They’ve got them women in there! If Wolf Butte went huntin’ Black Mora, he’d be right here to raise ---- with the town while we was gone. Do you know what I mean?”

“You t’ink I’m ---- fool en-tire, Blaze?”

Frenchy’s voice was cold as steel. Dizzy and sick from loss of blood, yet his will was stronger than his flesh.

“You get Sales,” ordered Frenchy. “We smash dis Black Mora, ba gosh!”

Blaze trotted up the street, where men were mounting horses at the hitch-rack.

“Sales!” cried Blaze. “Chuck Sales! This is Carlin.”

“Here’s a horse for you, Carlin,” answered Sales.

“Wait!” panted Blaze. He stepped in beside Sales and told him what they had discovered.

“Tie your horses!” ordered Sales sharply, calling to his men who had already-mounted. “Turn ’em loose--do anything, but hurry!”

None of them took time to tie their horses and in a few moments crowded around their leader and Blaze. Sales gave them the information in a few words.

“Be careful,” he added. “There’s two women and a little girl in there and we don’t want them hurt.”

“One is Jack Wheeler’s wife,” said one of the men. “She’s fed me three times.”

“I knowed Jack,” said another. “They hung a grindstone around his neck and throwed him in the creek.”

“Black Mora swore he’d steal her,” declared Blaze.

“We’ll split into two bunches,” said Sales. “Slim, you and Flack go with Carlin to the front where the sheriff is. The rest of us will go to the back. Give us time to get there, will yuh, Carlin? I’ll let out a war-whoop when we arrive. They’ll think I’m just drunk.”

Blaze and his two men went down the street, walking slowly so as not to arrive much ahead of Sales and his men. They found Frenchy braced against a corner of the building. Blaze put his hand on Frenchy’s shoulder and shook him.

“You t’ink I’m ’sleep?” growled Frenchy. “I’m tak’ off de boot and pour out de squash, squash, and I’m can’t get de boot on no more, ba gosh!”

“Stay with her, pardner,” encouraged Blaze. “We’ll go to bed when this here thing is over.”

“De bed,” muttered Frenchy. “Dat’s de good word, Blaze, I’m tire like ----, but de work mus’ be do.”

From the rear of the building floated the eerie war-whoop, which Sales had promised as a signal. Blaze peered into the building just in time to see the door close, cutting off the moonlight from the rear. From inside came the dull thump of a six-shooter. Footsteps rattled across the floor and a man darted to the front window and then dropped to the floor.

“Get down!” he yelled, followed by unprintable oaths. “They’re at the front, too!”

Another voice cursed feelingly and a bullet whizzed out through the half-boarded window.

“We’ve got yuh trapped,” stated Blaze. “Yuh can’t get away. Throw your guns out of the window and come out with your hands up.”

But there was no response. The men knew only too well what it meant. There would be scant mercy for any of them and Mora’s men would rather die fighting than on the gallows. Mora laughed mockingly. He was at the end of his rope, but would not admit it as long as he lived. Blaze grasped one of the boards and tore it off the window. Bullets splintered through the board, but did no damage. Blaze ripped them all off, which left the large window unprotected.

“What’s the idea?” asked one of Sales’ men. “You ain’t goin’ in, are yuh?”

“May have to,” said Blaze calmly.

“Carlin!” shouted Black Mora. “Do yuh hear me?”

“Go ahead,” said Blaze. “Talk fast!”

“I’ve got two women in here,” stated Black Mora. “I’ll make a trade with yuh, Carlin. You let me and my men get out and get away and I’ll give yuh the wimmin and the kid. Talk fast or the deal’s off. We go free, or by ---- the wimmin and kid git what you give us, _sabe_?”

“No gut,” declared Frenchy weakly. “Don’ trus’ him, Blaze.”

“Go to the rear and tell Sales to try to smash in the door,” whispered Blaze to one of the men. “Tell him to hit it hard.”

The man ran to the corner and circled the building. Blaze ducked below the window-sill and crept in close.

“Well, are yuh goin’ to talk business?” growled Mora. There was a note of uneasiness in his voice, as if his nerves were badly worn. Blaze did not reply.

Suddenly there was a crash at the rear door, which threatened to tear the door from its hinges. Blaze shot upright, vaulted through the window and dropped flat on the floor. He had succeeded in attracting all the attention to the rear and not a man in the building had seen him come in.

The blows were shattering the door, tearing off the hinges. Pistols flashed and bullets thudded into the door, but the door was too thick for the bullets to injure the men outside, who were using a wagon-wheel for a battering-ram.

The pistol flashes momentarily lighted the place for Blaze, and he was able to locate the women, who were bound and sitting upright against the top of an overturned table. Blaze crawled to them, while Black Mora and his men expended ammunition against the door and cursed brokenly.

Blaze reached the women and touched one of them on the head to satisfy himself that he was not mistaken. “Go out the front!” ordered Mora. “That ---- door won’t last another smash. Jump out the window and take a chance. Those ---- women----”

* * * * *

MORA stepped across the room, feeling in the darkness. Blaze was on his feet now, crouched in front of the women, and Mora’s groping hands touched him.

“Who in ----?” grunted Mora.

Blaze clubbed his gun, striking at Mora’s head with the barrel, but he misjudged direction and struck Mora’s shoulder, eliciting a yelp of pain. Mora flung himself forward, encircling Blaze with both arms. As they crashed to the floor there came a sound of splintering wood as the door gave way, the shouts of men, the thudding of pistols.

Blaze went down with Mora on top of him, clawing, biting, striking blindly. Blaze drew up his knees as he fell, and was thus able to prevent Mora from reaching his throat. His wounded arm was caught under Mora’s knee, and his shoulder came in contact with a table-leg.

Mora slackened his frenzied attempt to reach Blaze’s throat and grasped Blaze by the knees, trying to throw them aside. Like a flash, Blaze rolled sidewise, landed on his knees and sprang to his feet. Mora clawed himself upright, cursing hoarsely. Outside a conflict seemed to rage, but Blaze and Mora had the room to themselves. Blaze had lost his gun and he knew that Mora must be in the same fix.

This thought was only a flash, for Mora dived into him again. Blaze smashed him with a right-hand swing, but Mora growled hoarsely and grappled Blaze around the waist.

Weakened as he was, Blaze was no match for Mora in this kind of fighting, yet he continued to drive short blows to Mora’s already disfigured face. They crashed into an upturned chair and went down, fighting with tooth and nail. Mora’s breath was sobbing into Blaze’s ear and there seemed to be little pressure from Mora’s left arm.

Blaze wondered if the blow from the pistol barrel had not injured Mora’s shoulder. Blaze was almost exhausted, but he fought savagely. He managed to get his fist beneath Mora’s chin, driving upward with every ounce of his strength.

Mora groaned and that groan was his undoing. Blaze laughed. He was a better man than Mora. Blaze laughed aloud, a wheezing chuckle. Mora blubbered a curse and tried to get his fingers around Blaze’s throat, but Blaze tore his hand away and ground the heel of his palm into Mora’s nose.

Suddenly Mora surged away from him and started to get to his feet. Blaze laughed again and tried to revile Mora for being a coward, but his vocal cords refused to function. Very well, he would get up, too, and they could fight more. It was hard work, this getting up, but he managed to get to his feet. He struck at Mora, but Mora did not fight back. Mora almost fell out of the rear door, which was splintered and sagging. Blaze staggered after him, shoving Mora toward the rear of the Eureka.

Once Mora stopped and tried to go the other way, but Blaze struck him in the neck; struck him with a fist which would not stay clenched, and Mora whimpered like a beaten puppy.

The front of Mora’s shirt was splotched with blood, where a bullet had ripped through the muscles, and there was a jagged furrow across his neck, where another chunk of hot lead had barely missed its kill.

* * * * *

Mora stumbled into the rear door of the Eureka. He stopped, but Blaze bumped into him, shoving him ahead. The room was in a turmoil.

Sales, pistol in hand, a bloody smear across his face, had his left hand twisted into the collar of a man and was holding him against the bar. Another man was lying on the floor, with Frenchy standing astride of him, his knees half-bent, mouth wide open, but still gripping his big Colt; dangerous as an old crippled wolf. Two of Sales’ men were holding another man against a card-table. The crowd had given them plenty of room.

Straight ahead staggered Mora, head down and weaving like a wounded animal, while behind him came Blaze, scarcely able to lift his feet.

A group of dance-hall girls scattered to let Mora through. He came to a stop near Frenchy.

“By ----, he didn’t get away!” croaked Sales.

Frenchy threw up his head and looked at Mora.

“Ho, ho, ho!” Frenchy’s voice rasped weakly. “Tak’ look, everybodee! De big one she’s come to be judged!”

Suddenly a woman, the woman who had stolen Black Mora’s gun, rushed past Blaze. She stopped a few feet from Mora, her right hand buried in the folds of her dress.

Her face was white with fury. Her penciled eyes gleamed green in the murky light, and her carmined lips were a thin, red line, barely discernible. For a moment she stared at Black Mora. He seemed about to speak to her, but she forestalled him.

“Black Mora, I’ve waited for you. You made me what I am because I was afraid of you, but I am not afraid of you now.”

She brushed her hand across her brow as if to clear her thoughts.

“My old father--you killed him, Black Mora. He came to this country to kill you for what you done to me and you and your men hung him. He was old and crippled, but you feared him.

“You and your vigilantes! Ha, ha, ha! You told me you would run this country and that you would marry me. You wanted Jack Wheeler’s wife; so you murdered him.”

Mora’s mouth was wide open and his breath was jerking from his lips, but no protest came from him. Cold fear gripped his heart. The crowd made no move. Blaze listened dully, as if to an oft-told tale, wishing that the woman would keep still so he could sleep. Frenchy was swaying on his feet, fighting to keep above the man, who had turned on his side and was staring at Mora, as if wondering if his chief could save him.

“You wanted power,” continued the woman, without a trace of inflexion in her voice. “Power--women! Ha, ha, ha!”

Her lips barely opened to emit the cackling laugh, and the lines of her face did not change.

“Women, Mora. You didn’t care what breed. You lied to me. You killed my father and stole his gun. Listen to me, Mora. You said that my voice pleased you more than any you ever heard. Listen to it, because it’s the last voice you’ll ever hear. My father’s gun, Mora. His initials are on the handle. Jack Henderson, whom the Indians called Running Wolf. He carved his hate into those handles, but he loved the gun, because it was to kill you. Do you hear me, Mora?”

Her voice was almost a scream.

“I’ve got that gun, Mora! Pray--quick!”

Mora threw out his arm blindly. Blaze lurched to grasp the woman, but her hand came up swiftly, the skirt still covering the muzzle of the gun.

Just once it roared. Mora jerked back, seemed to collapse like a bundle of rags and crashed to the floor.

The woman dropped the gun and staggered back against the bar, her flimsy dress flaming. She screamed as Blaze grabbed her and swung her around. His ebbing strength flared up as his hand grasped her bodice and with one jerk he ripped off her gown and sent her spinning into the group of hysterical girls.

Blaze kicked the flaming dress to the center of the room. For a moment there was silence; then came a dull thump. Frenchy Ditteau had fallen to his knees, straddling his captive, clutching him with both hands.

“De job is done.” Frenchy’s voice was barely audible. “De bad-man she’s all t’rough in Wolf Butte, and I’m ver’ tire’ of de squash, squash----”

Frenchy slid forward across his man, face down. Blaze tried to go to him, but the room whirled. In a dull sort of a way he seemed to feel hands grasping him and carrying him away. It seemed good to move without effort.

Suddenly the hands seemed to release him. His body stiffened to take the shock, which did not come. Then he opened his eyes. He was in a strange room. Across from him he could see another bed, around which a blue cloud seemed to hover.

He tried to move, but his left side seemed to be bandaged tightly. After a moment’s reflection he lifted his head. A man was standing at a window, while another was humped over, sitting in a chair.

Footsteps were coming up the hall. The man got out of his chair and went to the door. For a few moments there was a whispered conversation. The door closed and the man came toward the foot of the bed.

It was Chuck Sales. He glanced at Blaze and a glad smile lighted up his homely features. He dropped a heavy object on a table and came quickly to the head of the bed.

“Carlin,” he said, “I’m danged glad to see yuh with your eyes open.”

“Ba gosh!” came an exclamation from the smoke enshrouded bed across the room, “Blaze, are you ’wake up?”

“Hello, old pardner,” called Blaze weakly.

The other man came to Blaze. It was Judge Whalen. He looked down at Blaze, a glad smile in his eyes.

“Yuh might tell me about it,” suggested Blaze.

“Doc Brenton told me to keep yuh quiet,” stated Sales, “but I don’t reckon a little tellin’ is goin’ to hurt yuh any. Them women wasn’t hurt none and Mora’s gang is completely wiped out. Wolf Butte is tamed, Carlin.”

“Do yuh mean that?” queried Blaze. “Did all that killin’ do any good?”

The judge picked up the small table and carried it around to where Blaze could see it. On it were at least twenty pistols. Sales lifted the top two and smiled down at Blaze.

“These two just came in. There ain’t nobody down there to make ’em give up their guns, but they’re all doin’ it. I’m takin’ it upon myself to look out for you two, but I wish you’d hurry up and git well.”

“A few more days of this civilized town and I won’t have a horse-thief left to follow me. You fellers sure did put one awful crimp in my business.”

Sales walked back to the window and the judge sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Carlin, you can’t realize what you have done,” said the judge softly, and then added--“you and Ditteau. It will be years before Wolf Butte will be anything except a border-town, but it will be an orderly border-town--a town where good men and women may live in peace. You took the only method of making it change its ways, and--well, we won’t try to thank you.”

“You’re welcome, judge,” said Blaze simply.

“I’m sure had one gran’ time--me,” stated Frenchy. “Nobody she’s have to t’ank Frenchy Ditteau, ba gosh, biccause I’m enjoy everyt’ing, you bet.”

“You fightin’ son of a gun!” laughed Sales and pointed out of the window. “Here comes more artillery. Reckon I better git my gang and drag out of here before a preacher hits town.”

Blaze grinned contentedly and stared up at the ceiling. He had done something for the country--something worth while, and he was glad.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 20, 1922 issue of Adventure magazine.]