Zane Grey - The Mysterious Rider

“Well, Cap, he's very amusin' just now, an' I want you-all to enjoy him. Because, if you don't force my hand I'm goin' to tell you some interestin' stuff about this Buster Jack.... Now, will you be quiet an' listen—an' answer for your pards?”

“Wade, I answer fer no man. But, so far as I've noticed, my pards ain't hankerin' to make any loud noise,” Folsom replied, indicating his comrades, with sarcasm.

The red-bearded one, a man of large frame and gaunt face, wicked and wild-looking, spoke out, “Say, Smith, or whatever the hell's yore right handle—is this hyar a game we're playin'?”

“I reckon. An' if you turn a trick you'll be damn lucky,” growled Folsom.

The other rustler did not speak. He was small, swarthy-faced, with sloe-black eyes and matted hair, evidently a white man with Mexican blood. Keen, strung, furtive, he kept motionless, awaiting events.

“Buster Jack, these new pards of yours are low-down rustlers, an' one of them's worse, as I could prove,” said Wade, “but compared with you they're all gentlemen.”

Belllounds leered. But he was losing his bravado. Something began to dawn upon his obtuse consciousness.

“What do I care for you or your gabby talk?” he flashed, sullenly.

“You'll care when I tell these rustlers how you double-crossed them.”

Belllounds made a spring, like that of a wolf in a trap; but when half-way up he slipped. The rustler on his right kicked him, and he sprawled down again, back to the wall.

“Buster, look into this!” called Wade, and he leveled the gun that quivered momentarily, like a compass needle, and then crashed fire and smoke. The bullet spat into a log. But it had cut the lobe of Belllounds's ear, bringing blood. His face turned a ghastly, livid hue. All in a second terror possessed him—shuddering, primitive terror of death.

Folsom haw-hawed derisively and in crude delight. “Say, Buster Jack, don't get any idee thet my ole pard Wade was shootin' at your head. Aw, no!”

The other rustlers understood then, if Belllounds had not, that the situation was in control of a man not in any sense ordinary.

“Cap, did you know Buster Jack accused my friend, Wils Moore, of stealin' these cattle you're sellin'?” asked Wade, deliberately.

“What cattle did you say?” asked the rustler, as if he had not heard aright.

“The cattle Buster Jack stole from his father an' sold to you.”

“Wal, now! Bent Wade at his old tricks! I might have knowed it, once I seen you.... Naw, I'd no idee Belllounds blamed thet stealin' on to any one.”

“He did.”

“Ahuh! Wal, who's this Wils Moore?”

“He's a cowboy, as fine a youngster as ever straddled a horse. Buster Jack hates him. He licked Jack a couple of times an' won the love of a girl that Jack wants.”

“Ho! Ho! Quite romantic, I declare.... Say, thar's some damn queer notions I'm gettin' about you, Buster Jack.”

Belllounds lay propped against the wall, sagging there, laboring of chest, sweating of face. The boldness of brow held, because it was fixed, but that of his eyes had gone; and his mouth and chin showed craven weakness. He stared in dread suspense at Wade.

“Listen. An' all of you sit tight,” went on Wade, swiftly. “Jack stole the cattle from his father. He's a thief at heart. But he had a double motive. He left a trail—he left tracks behind. He made a crooked horseshoe, like that Wils Moore's horse wears, an' he put that on his own horse. An' he made a contraption—a little iron ring with a dot in it, an' he left the crooked shoe tracks, an' he left the little ring tracks—”

“By Gawd! I seen them funny tracks!” ejaculated Folsom. “At the water-hole an' right hyar in front of the cabin. I seen them. I knowed Jack made them, somehow, but I didn't think. His white hoss has a crooked left front shoe.”

“Yes, he has, when Jack takes off the regular shoe an' nails on the crooked one.... Men, I followed those tracks They lead up here to your cabin. Belllounds made them with a purpose.... An' he went to Kremmlin' to get Sheriff Burley. An' he put him wise to the rustlin' of cattle to Elgeria. An' he fetched him up to White Slides to accuse Wils Moore. An' he trailed his own tracks up here, showin' Burley the crooked horse track an' the little circle—that was supposed to be made by the end of Moore's crutch—an' he led Burley with his men right to this cabin an' to the trail where you drove the cattle over the divide.... An' then he had Burley dig out some cakes of mud holdin' these tracks, an' they fetched them down to White Slides. Buster Jack blamed the stealin' on to Moore. An' Burley arrested Moore. The trial comes off next week at Kremmlin'.”

“Damn me!” exclaimed Folsom, wonderingly. “A man's never too old to learn! I knowed this pup was stealin' from his own father, but I reckoned he was jest a natural-born, honest rustler, with a hunch fer drink an' cards.”

“Well, he's double-crossed you, Cap. An' if I hadn't rounded you up your chances would have been good for swingin'.”

“Ahuh! Wade, I'd sure preferred them chances of swingin' to your over-kind interferin' in my bizness. Allus interferin', Wade, thet's your weakness!... But gimmie a gun!”

“I reckon not, Cap.”

“Gimme a gun!” roared the rustler. “Lemme sit hyar an' shoot the eyes outen this—lyin' pup of a Belllounds!... Wade, put a gun in my hand—a gun with two shells—or only one. You can stand with your gun at my head.... Let me kill this skunk!”

For all Belllounds could tell, death was indeed close. No trace of a Belllounds was apparent about him then, and his face was a horrid spectacle for a man to be forced to see. A froth foamed over his hanging lower lip.

“Cap, I ain't trustin' you with a gun just this particular minute,” said Wade.

Folsom then bawled his curses to his comrades.

“——! Kill him! Throw your guns an' bore him—right in them bulgin' eyes!... I'm tellin' you—we've gotta fight, anyhow. We're agoin' to cash right hyar. But kill him first!”

Neither of Folsom's lieutenants yielded to the fierce exhortation of their leader or to their own evilly expressed passions. It was Wade who dominated them. Then ensued a silence fraught with suspense, growing more charged every long instant. The balance here seemed about to be struck.

“Wade, I've been a gambler all my life, an' a damn smart one, if I do say it myself,” declared the rustler leader, his voice inharmonious with the facetiousness of his words. “An' I'll make a last bet.”

“Go ahead, Cap. What'll you bet?” answered the cold voice, still gentle, but different now in its inflection.

“By Gawd! I'll bet all the gold hyar that Hell-Bent Wade wouldn't shoot any man in the back!”

“You win!”

Slowly and stiffly the rustler rose to his feet. When he reached his height he deliberately swung his leg to kick Belllounds in the face.

“Thar! I'd like to have a reckonin' with you, Buster Jack,” he said. “I ain't dealin' the cards hyar. But somethin' tells me thet, shaky as I am in my boots, I'd liefer be in mine than yours.”

With that, and expelling a heavy breath, he wrestled around to confront the hunter.

“Wade. I've no hunch to your game, but it's slower'n I recollect you.”

“Why, Cap, I was in a talkin' humor,” replied Wade.

“Hell! You're up to some dodge. What'd you care fer my learnin' thet pup had double-crossed me? You won't let me kill him.”

“I reckon I wanted him to learn what real men thought of him.”

“Ahuh! Wal, an' now I've onlightened him, what's the next deal?”

“You'll all go to Kremmlin' with me an' I'll turn you over to Sheriff Burley.”

That was the gauntlet thrown down by Wade. It was not unexpected, and acceptance seemed a relief. Folsom's eyeballs became living fire with the desperate gleam of the reckless chances of life. Cutthroat he might have been, but he was brave, and he proved the significance of Wade's attitude.