Part 5 (2/2)

5

Who killed Quade? That was the question asked with the quiet deadliness by six men in Sour Creek. It had been Buck Mason's idea to keep the whole affair still. It was very possible that the slayer was still in the environs of Sour Creek, and in that case much noise would simply serve to frighten him away. It was also Buck's idea that they should gather a few known men to weigh the situation.

Every one of the six men who answered the summons was an adept with fist or guns, as the need might be; every one of them had proved that he had a level head; every one of them was a respected citizen.

Sandersen was one; stocky Buck Mason, carrying two hundred pounds close to the ground, ma.s.sive of hand and jaw, was a second. After that their choice had fallen on ”Judge” Lodge. The judge wore spectacles and a judicial air. He had a keen eye for cows and was rather a sharper in horse trades. He gave his costume a semiofficial air by wearing a necktie instead of a bandanna, even at a roundup. The gla.s.ses, the necktie, and his little solemn pauses before he delivered an opinion, had given his nickname.

Then came Denver Jim, a very little man, with nervous hands and remarkable steady eyes. He had punched cows over those ranges for ten years, and his experience had made him a wildcat in a fight. Oscar La.r.s.en was a huge Swede, with a perpetual and foolish grin. Sour Creek had laughed at Oscar for five years, considered him dubiously for five years more, and then suddenly admitted him as a man among men. He was stronger than Buck Mason, quicker than Denver Jim, and shrewder than the judge. Last of all came Montana. He had a long, sad face, prodigious ability to stow away redeye, and a nature as simple and kind and honest as a child's. These were the six men who gathered about and stared at the center of the floor. Something, they agreed, had to be done.

”First it was old man Collins. That was two years back,” said Judge Lodge. ”You boys remember how Collins went. Then there was the drifter that was plugged eight months ago. And now it's Ollie Quade. Gents, three murders in two years is too much. Sour Creek'll get a name. The bad ones will begin to drop in on us and use us for headquarters. We got to make an example. We never got the ones that shot Collins or the drifter. Since Quade has been plugged we got to hang somebody. Ain't that straight?”

”We got to hang somebody,” said Denver Jim. ”The point is--who?”

His keen eyes went slowly, hungrily, from face to face, as if he would not have greatly objected to picking one of his companions in that very room.

”Is they any strangers in town?” asked La.r.s.en with his peculiar, foolish grin.

Sandersen stirred in his chair; his heart leaped.

”There's a gent named Riley Sinclair n.o.body ain't never seen before.”

”When did he come in?”

”Along about dark.”

”That's the right time for us. You found Quade a long time dead, Bill.”

Sandersen swallowed. In his joy he could have embraced La.r.s.en.

”What'll we do?”

”Go talk to Sinclair,” said La.r.s.en and rose. ”I got a rope.”

”He's a dangerous-lookin' gent,” declared Sandersen.

La.r.s.en replied mildly: ”Mostly they's a pile more interesting when they's dangerous. Come on, boys!”

It had been well after midnight when Mason and Sandersen got back to Sour Creek. The gathering of the posse had required much time. Now, as they filed out to the hotel, to the east the mountains were beginning to roll up out of the night, and one cloud, far away and high in the sky, was turning pink. They found the hotel wakening even at this early hour. At least, the Chinese cook was rattling in the kitchen as he built the fire. When the six reached the door of Sinclair's room, stepping lightly, they heard the occupant singing softly to himself.

”Early riser,” whispered Denver Jim.

”Too early to be honest,” replied Judge Lodge.

La.r.s.en raised one of his great hands and imposed an absolute silence.

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