Part 36 (1/2)

The others watched breathlessly. This movement had taken the savages by surprise. The lad darted into the mesquites, running with head low.

Bullets buzzed about him, kicking up clouds of dust at his feet.

Arrows whistled after him. A yell went up from the Apaches.

”Will he make it?” groaned the father, in an agonized voice.

”Doubt it,” said the guard.

The messenger sprinted at top speed through the brush, then dived down into an arroyo. A score of warriors swarmed after him, firing shot after shot from their rifles. Already the youth was out of arrow range.

The guard shaded his eyes with his hand. ”He's got a chance, anyways,”

he decided.

The town of Lost Springs--if such a tiny settlement could have been called a town--sprawled in a valley of cottonwoods, a scattering of low-roofed adobes. To find such an oasis, after traveling the heat-tortured wilderness to the east or the west, was such relief to the wayfarer that few missed stopping.

There was but one public building in the place--a large building of plastered earth which was at the same time a saloon, a store, a gambling hall, and a meeting place for those who cared to partake of its hospitality.

The crude sign over the narrow door read: ”Garvey's Place.” It was enough. Garvey was the storekeeper, the master of the gamblers, and the saloon owner. Lost Springs was a one-man town, and that man was Gil Garvey. His reputation was not of the best. Dark marks had been chalked up against his record, and his past was shady, too. There were whispers, too, of even worse things. It was, however, a land where n.o.body asked questions. It was too dangerous. Garvey was accepted in Lost Springs because he had power.

It was a hot morning. The thermometer outside Garvey's door already registered one hundred and five. Heat devils chased one another across the valley. But inside the building it was comparatively cool.

Gla.s.ses tinkled on the long, smooth bar. The roulette wheel whirred, and even at that early hour, cards were being slapped down, faces up, at the stud-poker table. Including the customers at the bar, there were perhaps a dozen men in the house besides Garvey himself. Garvey was tending bar, which was his habit until noon, when his bartender relieved him.

Gil Garvey was a menacing figure of a man, ma.s.sive of build and sinister of face. His jet-black eyebrows met in the center of his scowling forehead, and under them gleamed eyes cold and dangerous. A thin wisp of a dark mustache contrasted with the quick gleam of his strong, white teeth. On the rare occasions when he laughed, his mirth was like the hungry snarl of a wolf.

The sprinkling of drinkers at the bar strolled over to watch the faro game, and Garvey, taking off his soiled ap.r.o.n, joined them, lighting a black cigar. The ruler of Lost Springs moved lightly on his feet for so heavy a man. Around his waist was a gun belt from which swung a silver-mounted .44 revolver in a beaded holster.

Suddenly a slim figure reeled through the open door, and with groping, outstretched arms, staggered forward.

”Apaches!” he choked.

Nearly every one leaped to his feet, hand on gun. Some rushed to the door for a look outside. A score of questions were fired at the newcomer.

”They're attackin' the stage at the foot of the pa.s.s!” explained the messenger.

There were sighs of relief at this bit of news, for at first they had thought that the red warriors were about to enter the town. But six miles away! That was a different matter.

”I'm Dave Robbins,” the youth went on desperately. ”I've got to go back there with help. When I left, they were holdin' 'em off. Fifty or sixty Indians!”

Some of the saloon customers began to murmur their sympathy. But it was evident that they were none too eager to go to the aid of the ambushed stagecoach.

Young Robbins--covered with dust, his face scratched by cactus thorns, and with an arrow still hanging from his clothing--saw the indifference in their eyes.

”Surely yuh'll go!” he pleaded. ”Yuh--yuh've got to! My father's in the coach!”

Garvey spoke up, smiling behind his mustache.

”What could we do against sixty Apaches?” he demanded. ”Besides, the men in the stage are dead ones by this time. We couldn't do any good.”