Death Waits at Sundown (6 page)

“Ride 'em, Vicky!” yelled Long Tom from sheer
exuberance.

Suddenly he saw her just beside him, headed in the right
direction, quirting Thunder.

“Go it, you devil!” cried Vicky.

A panic hit both horses in the same instant. Like
catapulted arrows they shot forward. Long Tom was ahead half a length and the
glitter of his belt was in Vicky's eyes.

The grandstand fled. Thunder tried to lunge through the
board fence but she swerved him back. She hit against Wild Bill and both mounts
abruptly broke into a mad fury of bucking.

Wild Bill was lunging and buckjumping as he went ahead.
But Thunder sunfished with unexpected vigor.

She was half unseated by the collision as she had had to
withdraw a leg. And now she could not get the stirrup back.

Thunder hit earth at an angle and started to fall. Vicky
braced herself for a jump free. But Thunder suddenly recovered and lunged
sideways in the opposite direction.

The skid and reversal were so sudden that Vicky's grip
broke on the reins and suddenly she no longer had her saddle. She was falling
to the left.

Desperately in that moment she strove to free her left
foot from the stirrup. But it was twisted and the golden spur was caught.

She hit earth on her shoulder and it would have been
broken had the mud not been so soft.

Above her she could see a lunging saddle against the sky
and a foot from her face struck the hoofs of Thunder.

The sudden release of weight made the mustang leap
ahead.

Wild Bill also leaped ahead.

But not until that instant did Long Tom Branner know
that Vicky was off with one foot hung, and would be either dragged to death by
her insane mount, or mangled when Thunder went through the fence.

Immediately there was nothing which could be done. Wild
Bill was in full stride, a length ahead of Thunder.

And then Long Tom did a strange thing.

He yanked Wild Bill to the left with such strength that
the outlaw was broadsided to the track.

A matter of feet from Long Tom's shoulder and leg,
Thunder was coming blind.

And Long Tom jerked his mount's head to the right and up
and pulled with all his might, leaning back.

Unbalanced twice on a slippery track, only one thing
could happen.

Wild Bill went down. Went down to throw Long Tom Branner
under the striking hoofs of another maniac horse.

Vicky had not been dragged twenty feet, so swiftly had
it happened. Wild Bill piled Thunder up and the two mounts went down, entangled
and screaming.

But Long Tom had not misgauged. Before he hit the track
himself, despite the stunning blows upon his shoulders, he had seized the
stirrup which held Vicky's foot and his own weight ripped it free.

With a loud thud, Long Tom hit.

Wild Bill and Thunder struggled up and suddenly began to
run.

From afar came the wranglers to help. The grandstand was
so still that hoofbeats were very loud.

Long Tom turned over in the mud. Vicky pushed herself to
a sitting position and wiped a daub from her right eye.

Long Tom did not even feel his bruises. He went toward
her on his hands and knees. “Are you all right?” he said hoarsely.

“I . . . I was sc-c-c-cared you'd be killed!” wailed
Vicky unexpectedly.

“I'm all right,” said Long Tom. “Gosh, I was scared
stiff myself.”

And then a very strange thing happened. Vicky, sitting
in the mud beside him, looked intently into his face. He had lost. They both
had lost. And he had thought so much of her that he had risked being brained. .
. .

Suddenly she grabbed his arms and buried her face in his
shoulder. “Please,” she wept. “Please forgive me, Long Tom. I . . . I've acted
like a fool! I won't fight with you any more!”

He wrapped his arms about her and implanted a muddy kiss
upon her brow.

Suddenly he began to grin. “The hell you won't. But what
the devil? I'd rather fight with you across the breakfast table than across a
chute gate.”

“Oh, Long Tom.”

And neither one of them heard the cheers which came from
twenty-five thousand throats.

Vicky and Long Tom

Boss of the Lazy B

Chapter
One

S
OMETIME
before dawn the posse
had surrounded the shack and now with the horizon streaking with gray they lay
on their stomachs in the tall grass, chilled by the desert wind but hot for
battle.

Big Bill Bailey was
hunched down on the sheriff's right, taking the most advantageous position
because he owned the biggest spread in the Rio Carlos country. Big Bill lived
up to his name. He rode a veritable mammoth of a roan and his hats were
gigantic—they had to be. He stood six feet six and his weight matched his size.

With a
John B.
for a
crown and a quirt for a scepter, Big Bill ruled the Lazy B, which covered more
territory than the Kingdom of Jfradersweganstan.

But of late his ten
thousand beefy subjects had been mysteriously missing their mothers and
brothers and had developed a unique habit of giving birth to strangely branded
calves. Fighting sheep was bad enough without fighting rustlers as well, but
Big Bill never got ruffled about such things. He had little to say and usually
what he did say was delivered after prolonged thought. In this case he had
mentioned that it might be a good idea to track down a stolen band, so Con
Mathews of the Flying M and the rest of the nearby ranchers had collected the
sheriff and had taken the trail.

And now they knew that
the probable owner of that trail, one Spick Murphy, was in this mountain shack
peacefully dreaming of his plunder.

Or maybe he was
watching with a cocked rifle.

It was all the same to
the posse. Spick Murphy was already as good as hanged for the murdering
half-breed
he was.

He was of very
unsavory reputation, Spick Murphy. His father was an Irishman and his mother an
Apache squaw and between the two they had bequeathed upon him both a
countenance angelic and a soul diabolic. He oscillated between the two
extremes, given to voluntary acts of kindness one moment and shooting a man in
the back the next. Uncertain, unpredictable, hated and liked at one and the
same time, he had often styled himself the Robin Hood of Rio Carlos, but it is
doubtful if Robin Hood had killed sixteen men at the age of twenty.

The sun started on its
climb to the zenith and the posse still waited patiently. Sooner or later Spick
would have to come out and get some water at the spring which bubbled a hundred
yards from the door, and when he did, things would begin to happen.

One of Big Bill's
chief talents was the ability to wait. For three years he had patiently waited
for Susan Price to say the word which would make her Mrs. Bailey. He did not
push the matter because Susan was not that kind of a girl. She was not
interested in his money as her father, Sam Price, the ultra-famous criminal
lawyer, could have bought and sold Bailey twice. And so Bailey had waited,
always present, always reliable, always dependable, just as he was waiting now
for Spick Murphy to come out.

Some of the posse
began to mumble as the sun scorched their backs. Sheriff Doyle mopped his huge
red face and squirmed.

“Hell, I'd rather rush
the place than stay here and broil,” complained stringy Con Mathews.

“What about it, Big
Bill?” said Sheriff Doyle.

Big Bill was silent
for two or three minutes before he answered. “He'll have to come out sooner or
later. If not today, tomorrow.”

“Y'mean y'think we'll
wait
that
long?” demanded Con Mathews.

After a while, Big
Bill said, “If your cattle aren't worth that much to you, it's your decision.”

“All right. I was just
askin', that's all,” replied Con. “When he comes out I'll
drill
him and then we
can go home.”

“No sir,” said Sheriff
Doyle. “I got to go through an election in a couple months. This trial will be
fine for me. Don't you plug him.”

“All right,” agreed
Con irritably. “Let's all go down and play patty-cake with him.”

Big Bill was silent
for a long time and then he said, “When he comes out, let him go to the spring.
When he gets there, open up on the door and yell for him to surrender.”

“Okay, Big Bill,” said
Sheriff Doyle.

“There must be another
with him,” argued Con. “What'll we do with
him
?”

Big Bill thought that
over. “We'll wait and see what happens.”

The sun climbed higher
and higher and Big Bill's big
repeater watch
bing-binged ten o'clock in his
pocket. As though that were the signal, the cabin door swung open and a dumpy
individual known as “Cheyenne” Shorty came out swinging a pail. He went to the
spring, stopped and filled his bucket. After throwing some cold water on his
face he turned around and started back for the door.

Sheriff Doyle
bellowed, “Stick 'em up!”

Cheyenne Shorty
whirled toward the sound. He dropped the bucket and the water splashed over his
boots. Smoke barked from his right hand and Doyle's hat sailed like a swallow.

The crash of rifles
was ragged but effective. Cheyenne Shorty dropped with a clatter over the water
bucket and lay still.

“You there in the
cabin!” roared Doyle. “Come out with your hands grabbin' sky.”

Spick Murphy's jeering
voice called, “And get killed?”

“We won't shoot if you
come peaceable,” shouted Doyle.

“I wouldn't trust you
with a coyote's dinner,” yelled Spick. “Send somebody down for protection and
I'll come.”

Big Bill thought it
over and then stood up. “I'll go down.”

Doyle grabbed at his
boots. “Don't! That's just one of his tricks.”

“He knows you'll kill
him if he tries anything,” said Big Bill. “Hey, you down there. I'm coming.”

The posse held their
collective breaths. Big Bill sauntered down the slope toward the cabin as
though out to admire the wildflowers instead of pushing them up.

He went leisurely
enough, a lumbering colossus with an impassive face. He was not carrying his
rifle and he had not drawn the gun at his hip.

“The fool,” said Con.

“He's either awful
dumb or awful brave,” said a puncher in the rear.

“If he didn't go, we'd
camp here for a month,” retorted Doyle.

Big Bill walked slowly
up to the cabin door which was still open. “Come on out, Spick.”

The interior was dim
and silent.

Big Bill stepped
inside. He sensed movement above him and ducked. A table leg hit a glancing
blow on his shoulders. Big Bill struck the floor, rolling and drawing at the
same time.

Spick's head was
silhouetted against the window for an instant and Big Bill fired.

Spick dropped, and the
table leg rolled up to Big Bill's boot and stopped. For a full minute nothing
else happened and then Big Bill got up and looked at Spick.

The bandit's head was
creased as Big Bill had intended and everything was as it should be.

Big Bill stepped to
the door and called out, “All right.”

The posse came down
the hill on the run.

“What was the sense of
his doin' that?” said the perspiring Doyle.

“Nervy gent,” said
Con. “He didn't have a gun to his name and that was his way of gettin' one.
See? Cheyenne had the only six-shooter in the place.”

“All right,” said Big
Bill. “Let's get him to town.”

Chapter
Two

s
USAN PRICE
was taking her
afternoon ride alone, wondering a little why Big Bill Bailey had not appeared
on the scene that morning. She was not so very concerned about it as she knew
he would have an excellent excuse.

That was one of the
main troubles with Big Bill Bailey. He was as reliable as the huge repeating
watch he carried—and at times dependability can be carried a little too far. He
never surprised Susan with anything. Guitars and midnight serenades were as
much out of his line as were waist-deep bows and flattery. In fact, Big Bill
was likely to be somewhat tongue-tied among the ladies, holding them in a
reverence which was flattering only for a short time.

But everybody in the
Rio Carlos country knew that Big Bill Bailey and Susan Price would someday be
married. It was the natural thing and the only men who growled about it were
rejected suitors who claimed it must be Big Bill's money—it couldn't be his
charm.

Still, there was a
soothing quality about the rancher. He was never in her road, always ready to
wait upon her, anxious always for her safety and comfort.

You could not have
everything in a man, of course, but still, when one thought of dark-eyed
Spanish
dons
and honeyed words and extravagant promises, one might occasionally
sigh.

Susan Price was not
very tall, but what she lacked in stature she made up in flame. Her hair was
shimmering gold and her spirit—call it temper—went with that shade. She was
kind and compassionate to a fault but she could also soar to heights of rage
which terrified beholders. Her one passion in life was championing underdogs,
taking this from her father's successful career and making a sort of hobby of
it.

She got bored rather
easily and just now, riding along the hot road and watching a cloud of dust
approach a few miles away, she was very bored. Nothing ever happened in Rio
Carlos. It was, of course, rather wild at times, and outlaws had been
increasingly frequent of late, but that was not really anything to interest a
girl. Her father, Sam Price, had bought a spread here after ailing lungs had
retired him from his great practice. It was healthy, but that was all Susan
could say for the place when she got this way.

The dust cloud grew
taller and at last she could make out the horsemen before it. She checked the
sorrel and waited until they came up.

In the vanguard rode
Big Bill Bailey, very dusty, but reserved as always and most courteous. He
raised his hat over his head and pulled up. Behind him the posse stopped. Spick
Murphy was riding in the center, arms tied to his sides, a bloody bandage
around his head. His dark eyes were very sad and beseeching as he looked at
Susan. He made a helpless, forlorn figure in that bristling multitude.

“I guess,” said Big
Bill carefully, “that the country will be safer now. We got Spick Murphy.”

She looked at Spick
and he grew sadder than ever, hanging his head.

“All of you against
that one man?” said the unpredictable Susan.

“Sure,” said Con
Mathews. “You don't think we want to get ourselves killed any more than
necessary, do you?”

“What's he done?” said
Susan, touching the brim of her little flat sombrero and studying Spick
curiously.

“You know Spick
Murphy's reputation, ma'am,” said Sheriff Doyle.

“He's been rustling
stock,” said Big Bill.

“And we're going to
hang him as soon as we can get a trial,” chimed Con.

“I see you've already
decided upon a hanging before the trial,” said Susan.

“He's guilty, ain't
he?” said Doyle.

“I'm sure I wouldn't
know. Judges and juries usually decide those things. Or do they?”

They might have been
warned by her mild, only slightly sarcastic tone. They knew a few of the things
she had done around there but they were too flushed with victory to pay any
heed to a mere girl.

“Shore they do,” said
Doyle. “But when you get killers and rustlers like this gent, there ain't much
question about it. He's changed his last brand and shot his last man, miss, and
there'll be one less outlaw to trouble peaceful citizens. I saw my duty and
it's done.”

Doyle thought this was
a pretty impressive campaign speech and he made a mental note of it for future
reference—until he saw its effect upon Susan.

“All of you against that one man?”
said the unpredictable Susan.

“Without trial, you
have already decided to hang him!” blazed Susan. “Fifteen men against one! You
ought to be ashamed to call yourselves human beings.”

The posse blinked as
one man.

“You've decided he's
guilty already. Have you any
proof
? Fifteen men against one! How do you
know?” She looked just like her lawyer father.

“Well, everybody
knows—” began Big Bill.

“Public opinion
doesn't convict a man. And by law, a man is innocent until he is proven guilty.
Did
you
ever see him rustle any stock?”

“Well . . . no. But—”

“There! You don't know
whether he's guilty or not! You saw how sad he looked and how he was wounded
and at the mercy of those men. He knows he's going to his death and yet he
isn't whining about it.”

“Sure not,” said Big
Bill, frowning. “He knows he's got it coming, doesn't he?”

“Bah! Can't you
think
?”

“Why, sure, but—”

“Why, sure, but—” she
mimicked. “You talk and act and eat like one of those
beeves
of yours! Haven't
you any kindness? No mercy? How do you know he's guilty? ‘Everybody knows.' Don't
you have any ideas of your own?”

She was being unjust
and knew it, but all day she had been bored.

Big Bill froze like a
snowcapped peak and just sat there staring at her.

Finally she said,
“Bah!” and quirted her sorrel and rode away with angry speed.

Big Bill watched her
go with a puzzled scowl. He took off his John B. and scratched his head. “She's
been that way before and tomorrow she'll forget it. But how anybody could see
anything in Spick Murphy . . .” To the posse he said, “Come on.”

She was very aloof
when they passed her.