Part 33 (1/2)

”Was you thinkin' Miss Bransford is interested in warrants, Dale? Oh, don't! There's an honest judge in Okar, an' he ain't helpin' Maison's gang. Get back to Okar an' tell Maison that Sanderson ain't visitin'

Okar today.”

”You ain't, eh!” Dale's voice snapped with rage. ”Well, we ain't carin' a d.a.m.n whether you do or not! We've got you, right where we want you. I've got a warrant, an' you'll come peaceable or we'll plant you! There ain't only two horses in the corral--showing that your men has gone. An' there ain't anything between you an' the coyotes!”

”Only you, Dale,” said Sanderson. His voice was still gentle, still drawling. But into it had come a note that made Dale's face turn pale and caused the bodies of the men in the group to stiffen.

”Only you, Dale,” Sanderson repeated. His right hand was at his hip, resting lightly on the b.u.t.t of the six-shooter that reposed in its holster.

”I've always wanted to test the idea of whether a crook like you thought more of what he was doin' than he did of his own life. This gun leather of mine is kind of short at the top--if you'll notice. The stock an' the hammer of the gun are where they can be touched without interferin' with the leather. There ain't any trigger spring, because I've been brought up to fan the hammer. There ain't any bottom to the holster, an' it's hung by a little piece of leather so's it'll turn easy in any direction.

”It can easy be turned on you. You get goin'. I'll have a chance to bore one man before your crowd gets me. Likely it will be you. What are you sayin'?”

Dale was saying nothing. His face changed color, he s.h.i.+fted his feet uneasily, and looked back at his men. Some of them were grinning, and it was plain to Dale that not one of them would act unless ordered to do so.

And an order, given by him, would mean suicide, nothing less; for from that country in which Sanderson had gained his reputation had come stories of the man's remarkable ability with the weapon he had described, and Dale had no longing to risk his life so recklessly.

There was a long, tense silence. Not a man in the group of riders moved a finger. All were gazing, with a sort of dread fascination, at the holster at Sanderson's right hip, and at the b.u.t.t of the gun in it, projecting far, the hammer in plain sight.

The situation could not last. Sanderson did not expect it to last.

Seemingly calm and unconcerned, he was in reality pa.s.sionately alert and watchful.

For he had no hope of escaping from this predicament. He had made a mistake in sending his men away with Williams, and he knew the chances against him were too great. He had known that all along--even when talking and comforting Mary Bransford.

He knew that Dale had come to kill him; that Graney had not issued any warrant for him, for Graney knew that Maison had acted of his own volition--or at least had given the judge that impression.

But whether the warrant was a true one or not, Sanderson had decided that he would not let himself be taken. He had determined that at the first movement made by any man in the group he would kill Dale and take his chance with the others.

Dale knew it--he saw the cold resolution in Sanderson's eyes. Dale drew a deep breath, and the men in the group behind him watched him narrowly.

But just when it seemed that decisive action in one direction or another must he taken, there came an interruption.

Behind Sanderson--from one of the windows of the ranchhouse--came a hoa.r.s.e curse.

Sanderson saw Dale's eyes dilate; he saw the faces of the men in the group of riders change color; he saw their hands go slowly upward.

Dale, too, raised his hands.

Glancing swiftly over his shoulder, Sanderson saw Barney Owen at one of the windows. He was inside the house, his arms were resting on the window-sill. He was kneeling, and in his hands was a rifle, the muzzle covering Dale and the men who had come with him.

Owen's face was chalk white and working with demoniac pa.s.sion. His eyes were wild, and blazing with a wanton malignancy that awed every man who looked at him--Sanderson included. His teeth were bared in a horrible snarl; the man was like some wild animal--worse, the savage, primitive pa.s.sions of him were unleashed and rampant, directed by a reasoning intelligence. His voice was hoa.r.s.e and rasping, coming in jerks:

”Get out of the way, Sanderson! Stand aside! I'll take care of these whelps! Get your hands up, Dale! Higher--higher! You d.a.m.ned, sneaking vulture! Come here to make trouble, eh? You and your bunch of curs! I'll take care of you! Move--one of you! Move a finger!

You won't! Then go! Go! I'll count three! The man that isn't going when I finish counting gets his quick! One--two----”

”Wait!! Already on the move, the men halted at the sound of his voice.

The violence of the pa.s.sion that gripped him gave him a new thought.

”You don't go!” he jeered at them. ”You stay here. Sanderson, you take their guns! Grab them yourself!”