Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

"As fair as the pack will let him be," muttered Denver, and turned out of the hall. "I hate to see old Jake Leverage the goat," he told the others when they came abreast of him.

An elderly man hurried up and spoke quietly to Denver. "I'd of gone in if you had," said he. "But you changed my mind, as well as a few others. So just remember, you've got support."

"Thanks," said Denver and studied the street.

Stinger Dann still stood under the Palace gallery, sullen and indifferent. The sight of him roused Denver's thoughts to a different angle, and he began to look more carefully about him. There was a strange rider loitering by the blacksmith shop, and another man he knew only by reputation posted at Grogan's. The arrangement of the three drew his brows together.

"I think it's time for a drink," suggested Niland.

Cal Steele roused himself from his distrait moodiness. "Any time's time for a drink."

Meems and Wango were conferring earnestly at the entrance to Grogan's, and Meems winked heavily at Denver. "It ain't possible, it ain't even natural, but the fact remains, nev'less."

"All right," agreed Denver, "I'll bite. What is it?"

"That Englishman's got a name that's the original stem-winder of all monickers I ever heard. It takes two to git a bit on it. Ready, Pete?"

"Ahuh, shoot!"

Meems drew a deep breath. "Almaric—"

"St. Jennifer—" lisped Wango in turn.

"Crèvecoeur—"

"Nightingale!"

Cal Steele repeated it rather gently to himself. "Almaric St. Jennifer Crèvecoeur Nightingale. His father and mother loved him. Where'd you find out, Buck?"

"It's on the hotel register," asseverated Meems. "Took two lines to get it all in."

"I think," crooned Cal Steele, "we shall have to conduct a surgical operation on that name and get it down to homely Western proportions. He may stay with us a while, and I doubt if Sundown could clamp its jaws around the original." He closed his eyes a moment, smiling faintly. "Yes, indeed. The inevitable contraction would be—Jenny's Nighty."

The group howled. Denver chuckled and looked up at the mention of his name. Dr. Williamson drew alongside the walk with his buckboard. "Dave, you going toward your ranch pretty soon?"

"I thought I might stay over here tonight," replied Denver. "But if there's anything you want just ask it."

The doctor, weathered and lined with the years of his service, took a decent chew of tobacco. "Well, one of Fee's riders was coming along Copperhead River and saw old man Jesson across the stream. Jesson spelled 'doctor' in the air with his hands, the river makin' too much noise to hear a thing. So the rider came right to me. I calculate it's Jesson's wife needing me. It's about time. Copperhead's pretty high, and I might not be able to ford it, but I don't want to waste time by taking the twenty-mile detour to the bridge. If I could get some help I might—"

"Right with you," said Denver, and motioned for Steve Steers. "Let's sift. We'll be back in time for the show."

Together they crossed to the stable for their horses and then followed Doc Williamson down Prairie Street to the rolling ridges beyond. Denver looked back once. Stinger Dann was staring at him. The two others—those Denver had noticed stationed by the stable and Grogan's—were drifting toward the gunman. Some sort of signal passed between the three. Then they disappeared into the Palace.

"Layin' for somebody," mused Denver. His jaws hardened. "Possibly me. They shall have their chance tonight."

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Prairie Street emerged from Sundown and became the Ysabel Junction stage road winding south to the steel ribbon that made a dividing line between the rolling contours of Yellow Hill County and the open immensity of the lower prairies. Also in that direction, leagues ahead, was the state capital; Sundowners occasionally visited the capital and came back with the feeling they had been on a long journey, such being the isolation of the land. The stage road, already turning to powdered dust from the early spring sunshine, had not been fashioned by men who cared much for easy grades; it went straightaway up the slopes and coasted directly down into the numerous little valleys. Where so bold an attack was impossible, it zigzagged weirdly along cliff faces or shot around high rock points. But always it took the short way in preference to the easy one, a matter-of-fact reminder that here horses were cheaper than time.

Dr. Williamson knew his country very well after thirty years of practice in it. Sitting taciturnly in the buggy seat, coat tails flapping, he put the team to a stiff trot and covered the distance. About five miles from town he abandoned the stage road for a stock trail that wavered up along the backbone of a pine- studded ridge; this threatened to peter out presently, but the good doctor only took another morsel of tobacco and drove ahead. A windfall lay across the way; he looked sharply to either side for an alternative trail and, failing to find it, whipped the horses over the obstruction, buggy springing violently. Ahead was a steep climb. Without comment Denver spurred beside the rig, shook his loop over an angle iron on the dashboard, and towed the vehicle to the crest. From this eminence many small valleys and holes were to be seen puckered between the rising ridges. Cattle grazed along the lush areas, a line cabin stood here and there, and far below a patch of river surface flashed in the afternoon sun. There was no distinct trail downward, but the trees were thin and the ground open. Denver dropped back, rope still holding the buggy, to act as a drag, and the doctor drove down with a sort of reckless wisdom, choosing his openings on the run, vehicle teetering and hubs scraping against tree trunks. Presently a road shot around the hill, and the doctor took it. Denver cast off; the party set ahead on the run. Copperhead River and Copperhead Valley lay below, and in five more minutes of headlong driving Dr. Williamson drew up to the very margin of the water and stepped stiffly down. Across the river was a cabin, and out on the bank a man moved back and forth, wringing his hands. "It's Miz Jesson, all right," grunted the doctor. "I told her a month ago she ought to move into Sundown for this event."

"River's a little wild," said Denver dubiously.

"So the Fee man told me," observed Williamson. "But the detour's too long. I'd be too late. There's a baby bein' born yonder, and we got to cross."

"That's different," was Denver's laconic reply. He ran his eyes along the turbulent stream. Normally this particular spot was a safe and shallow ford with sloping sandy sides. Today the Copperhead, swollen by rain and melting snow, came charging out of its upper gorges and threw itself turbulently across what once had been a slack area. Even as they watched, the teeth of the current bit out vast chunks of the bank and swept them down. Jesson was apparently shouting at the top of his voice and making no impression against the sheering, crackling sound of the current.

"Damned if I see how it's any different," was Steve Steers's gloomy thought. "It ain't fordable."

Denver's attention stopped at a cottonwood beside him. "If we could tie a rope to one of the upper branches of that tree—and get the rope yonder—you might be able to slide to Jesson monkey fashion, Doc."

"Try it," said Williamson. "I carry fifty foot of rope in the buggy."

Steve Steers got that piece and joined it to his own rope. Denver made another tie with his. "That's about a hundred and fifty feet to operate on."

"Why anchor this end clear up the tree?" questioned Steve. "More solid down at the base."

"Got to keep it out of the water," said Denver. "Once the current catches the bight of this line it'll jerk the eye teeth out of the man that tries to hold it. Shin up."