Part 46 (1/2)
Lacy did so, his hands above his head, cursing angrily.
”What kind of a low-down trick is this, Brennan?” he snapped, glaring through the darkness at the face of his captor. ”What's become of Pasqual Mendez? Ain't his outfit yere?”
”His outfit's here all right, dead an' alive,” and Brennan chuckled cheerfully, ”but not being no gospel sharp I can't just say whar ol'
Mendez is. What's left ov his body is in thet cabin yonder, so full o'
buckshot it ought ter weigh a ton.”
”Dead?”
”As a door nail, if yer ask me. It was some nice ov yer ter come ridin' long here ter-night, Lacy. It sorter helps me ter make a good, decent clean-up ov this whole measly outfit. I reckon I'll stow yer away, along with them others. Mosey up them steps there, an' don't take no chances lookin' back.”
”I'll get you for this, Brennan.”
”Not if the Circuit Court ain't gone out o' business, you won't. I've got yer cinched an' hog tied--here now; get in thar.”
He opened the door just wide enough for Lacy to pa.s.s, holding it with one hand, his revolver ready and eager in the other.
A single lamp lit the room dingily, revealing the Mexicans bunched on the farther side, a number of them lying down. Moore sat on a stool beside the door, a rifle in the hollow of his arm. He rose up as the door opened, and grinned at sight of Lacy's face.
”Well, I'll be dinged,” he said. ”What have we got here?”
Brennan thrust his new prisoner forward.
”Another one of yer ol' pals, Matt. You two ought ter have a lot ter talk over, an' thar's six hours yet till daylight.”
The little marshal drew back, and closed the door. He heard the echo of an oath, or two, within as he turned the key in the lock. Then he straightened up and laughed, slapping his knee with his hand.
”Well,” he said at last, soberly. ”I reckon my place will be about yere till sun-up; thar might be some more critters like that gallivantin' round in these parts--I hope Matt's enjoyin' himself.”
CHAPTER x.x.xIII: THE REAL MR. CAVENDISH
It was a hard, slow journey back across the desert. Moore's team and wagon were requisitioned for the purpose, but Matt himself remained behind to help Brennan with the prisoners and cattle, until the party returning to Haskell could send them help.
Westcott drove, with Miss Donovan perched beside him on the spring-seat, and Cavendish lying on a pile of blankets beneath the shadow of the canvas top. It became exceedingly hot as the sun mounted into the sky, and once they encountered a sand storm, which so blinded horses and driver, they were compelled to halt and turn aside from its fury for nearly an hour. The wounded man must have suffered, yet made no complaint. Indeed he seemed almost cheerful, and so deeply interested in the strange story in which he had unconsciously borne part, as to constantly question those riding in front for details.
Westcott and Stella, in spite of the drear, dread monotony of those miles of sand, the desolate barrenness of which extended about in every direction, and, at last, weighed heavily upon their spirits, found the ride anything but tedious. They had so much to be thankful for, hopeful over: so much to say to each other. She described all that had occurred during her imprisonment, and he, in turn, told the story of what himself and Brennan had pa.s.sed through in the search for her captors. Cavendish listened eagerly to each recital, lifting his head to interject a question of interest, and then dropping wearily back again upon his blankets.
They stopped to lunch at Baxter Springs, and to water the team; and it was considerably after dark when they finally drove creaking up the main street of Haskell and stopped in front of the Timmons House to unload. The street was devoid of excitement, although the Red Dog was wide open for business, and Westcott caught a glimpse of Mike busily engaged behind the bar. A man or two pa.s.sing glanced at them curiously, but, possibly because of failure to recognise him in the darkness, no alarm was raised, or any effort made to block their progress. Without Lacy to urge them on, the disciples of Judge Lynch had likely enough forgotten the whole affair. Timmons, hearing the creak of approaching wheels, and surmising the arrival of guests, came lumbering out through the open door, his face beaming welcome. Behind him the vacant office stood fully revealed in the light of bracket-lamps.
As Westcott clambered over the wheel, and then a.s.sisted the lady to alight, the face of the landlord was sufficiently expressive of surprise.
”You!” he exclaimed, staring into their faces doubtfully. ”What the Sam Hill does this mean?”
”Only that we've got back, Timmons. Why this frigid reception?”
”Well, this yere is a respectable hotel, an' I ain't goin' ter have it all mussed up by no lynchin' party,” the landlord's voice full of regret. ”Then this yere gal; she wrote me she'd gone back East.”
Westcott laughed.