Ernest Haycox - Ernest Haycox - Ultimate Collection - Western Classics & Historical Novels

Table of Contents

"The picture o' a gal blindfolded an boldin' a pair o' scales is shorely a fine sentiment as regards equal justice to all. But sometimes the lady ain't blind. Sometimes she's cross-eyed, which is shorely sad."—Joe Breedlove.

Trapped. Neatly put out of the way in a place so small that he could touch all four walls without moving. Above his head was a sharp steel hook; from below a current of air scoured through an aperture in one corner of the hard-packed floor. Long seasons of meat curing had impregnated the pine boards with a sharp, woody smell and left heavy layers of soot. His exploring fingers found it everywhere; found, too, an occasional rafter charred from the heat. Still, it was not an unsubstantial prison for when he put his shoulders against the door it did not give. The old man had built this house as he had built all others—solidly and meant to endure.

His head ached from the blow Slim had given him on the temple; blood trickled down his jaw. But that didn't matter. What really hurt was to have been so easily captured and put into Trono's power. What would the old man say if he knew what was going on? Lilly saw Breck's heavy, fighting face scowling at him through the black pit. This was not what he had expected of the red- headed stranger. Lilly reached for his makin's, growing impatient with himself. What he ought to have done was to have kicked those two agents off the ranch in spite of Jill's say-so. After all, he was responsible for her—responsible for the JIB. She wasn't the one that had to do the fighting.

"Well," he muttered, "this ain't no time to hold postmortems. Every minute I stay here means money in Trono's pocket. That gent used his head proper. Instead o' bein' bull-headed and shootin' it out he saved himself the trouble an' snares me like a rabbit. Oh, fine! That's what I get for not followin' my original idea. The question becomes, what does he aim to do now that he's got control?"

It was very puzzling. Not that a man couldn't wreck a ranch and make it thoroughly unprofitable for the owners to stay on. Between Trono and Stubbins, Jill couldn't hold her own. By sundry devices, most of which were illegal, they could haze her off. Just bring the pressure to bear hard enough and she would have to quit. It was a matter of rustling JIB cows, of sending 3Cross stock in to graze on JIB territory, of preventing cow-punchers from working for JIB. Threats—and actual violence. Oh, the road was wide enough for them to follow and no doubt they had examples set them by old Breck himself in earlier days.

Still, what was their next move? Having control, what would they do with him? They couldn't kill him outright. That would—or it should—create a stink in the country. Probably they'd escort him down the line and see that he didn't get a chance to come back. What would they do with Jill? Lilly shook his head and drew a deep breath of cigarette smoke. There was one girl they'd have to treat with gloves. She could fight and she might be able to draw enough sympathy to her throughout the county so that both Trono and Stubbins would find it entirely disagreeable. So, if they figured to do the thing neatly they'd have to keep Jill from getting where she could make herself heard.

But they couldn't keep her prisoner forever. That would leak out. What they ought to do was withdraw from the ranch and do their dirty work from the sidelines. If he was Trono and in that kind of a game it would be his tactics.

"Followin' which train of thought," he mused, "they got to put me out o' the road. Then, if they've got the county buffaloed, which it seems they have, it's only a waitin' game before the JIB is busted. Tom Lilly, my boy, it's yore move, even though you only got four feet to move in."

Someone passed near the smokehouse, feet shuffling on the hard earth. Lilly flattened himself against the door, listening. Presently the sound died. The crew appeared to be in the bunkhouse and in a happy frame of mind. They were making the rafters ring with "Arizona Boys and Girls," with now and then a gun shot to punctuate the rhyme. Lilly, crouched on the floor, opined they must have found a quart of whisky somewhere to induce all the hilarity.

"The boys in this country, they try to advance By courtin' the ladies an' learnin' to dance— An' they're down, down, an' they're down!"

"You'll shore be down if ever I get out o' this mousetrap," muttered Lilly, enraged. "A fine specimen, I am! Supposed to be protectin' the gal an' here I sit, of no more use than two-bits worth of canary seed!"

He waited until the crew had embarked on another verse of the song before butting the door with his shoulders. It gave slightly and he tried it a second time, hearing the hasp grate against the lock. Someone moved outside and he stopped quickly, gathering himself in a corner. As before the sound vanished, leaving him perplexed. Were they guarding him? And what about Jill? Were they keeping watch over her? Lilly had a vision of Trono smiling in his tight-lipped, sardonic manner; smiling at the girl with his immense shoulders humped forward. He would ride his victory high, this one-time foreman, would probably exult in his dominion over the possessions of old Jim Breck. He was dangerous—dangerous because of the uncertainty of his temper and of his mind. There was no telling when he might take it in his head to use violence; Lilly had read the ruthlessness, the killer's instinct in the green eyes and he well knew that a time might come when Trono would tire of playing safe.

The thought moved Lily around in his black cubicle and set him to exploring again. He dug his fist down into the vent hole at the bottom of the house. This was the flue by which smoke was sent into the place from a near-by oven. If he could enlarge it—dig his way through to the outside. A few attempts at crumbling the hard-packed ground discouraged him. It would take hours to make any impression and unless he mistook his man very much, Trono would be up and doing before long. Probably the burly one was mulling over the situation now in his clumsy mental processes. Lilly stepped back a pace and hurled himself at the door once again. There was a long groan of the hasp and a sharp splintering of a board, followed by those soft, shuffling steps outside. This time they came nearer and stopped. Someone was fumbling with the lock and as Lilly crowded himself in a corner, ready to spring at whoever crossed the sill, he heard the hasp give way. The door came open, inch by inch. As he poised on his toes the soft, guttural voice of Pattipaws floated in. "Huh. You come now."

He slid outside, to be met by the Indian's outstretched hand. Gun and gunbelt was there, not his own, but one that did quite as well and felt extremely satisfying as he strapped it about his waist. The Indian whispered. "You go get girl. I fin' horses. Put 'em by barn. Hyak. "

The singing had diminished. Of a sudden the light streaming from the bunkhouse was shut off by an emerging figure. A figure that rolled unsteadily along for a brief time on the path of the yellow beam and then turned directly toward the smoke house. Pattipaws dissolved in the shadows, leaving Tom Lilly rooted in his place. The advancing puncher stumbled over his own high heeled boots, swearing immoderately and presently he was directly before the house, swaying a little, his tall, lanky figure but an outline in the night. Lilly tarried, not quite sure of his future course. But here was a temptation too great to be passed by. Thus, when the man stretched his arm forward and put one hand on the open door Lilly drew his gun and reversed the butt, lifting it high. It was a moment of uncertainty until Lilly heard the puncher's breath whistling inward as if preparing to send out a cry of discovery. That cry was never uttered; Lilly crossed the intervening space at one stride; the gun came down, not with full force, but heavily enough to send the wandering puncher to the ground senseless.