Part 30 (1/2)
”I'm United States Marshal Hawkins. What's your dog-goned business that needs drawn guns?”
”I'm Buck Hennesy, segundo to the Robbers' Roost gang of outlaws, and my guns are to shoot if I see you flirt that smoothbore.”
”Your business?”
”State's evidence--take it or leave it!”
”And who's your dog-goned evidence against?”
”Against Captain McCalmont, Curly his--his son, and six others, robbers, and that polecat Jim du Chesnay, of Holy Crawss.”
”Wall, throw down your dog-goned guns, throw up your dog-goned hands, and say 'Sir' when you dare to address an honest man. Now you get off'n that horse!”
”Dog-goned Hawkins,” says the robber, ”I ain't no prisoner, I ain't yo'
meat, I don't propose to hole up in yo' flea-trap calaboose, and I quit this hawss when I'm daid. Take my talk for State's evidence, or go without!”
”Chalkeye,” says the Marshal aside, ”is he covered?”
”Say the word, and I drop him.”
”All right. Now, Hennesy, at the first break you die. You may talk.”
”McCalmont's outfit,” says Buck, ”is breaking for Holy Crawss. To-morrow mawning they round up cattle, and then they drive right home to Robbers'
Roost.”
”You're going to guide us, Mr. dog-goned Robber, or get plugged as full of holes as a dog-goned sieve.”
”Guide you?” says Buck, and spat at him. ”Guide you? I wouldn't be seen daid with yo' tin-horn crowd of measly, bedridden toorists. I cayn't insult you worse than saying that yo' mother was a sport, yo' father hung, and their offspring a skunk. Now all you deck of cowards----”
He let drive with both his guns, but I shot first, and only just in time. One bullet grazed my ear, the other killed a horse; but my shot had done its work and spoiled his aim. His eyes rolled up white, his face went dead, he sat there a corpse in the saddle for maybe a minute, until I yelled, and the horse s.h.i.+ed, and the body lurched forward, cras.h.i.+ng to the ground, splas.h.i.+ng a cloud of dust which was red with the sunset.
CHAPTER XXI
A FLYING HOSPITAL
Captain McCalmont, away north on the trail, pulled up at a bend of the hill.
”Doc,” he called out to the man with the led horse astern, ”jest you hitch that sorrel of mine to the tail of this rig. That's right, my son; now find out if Buck stays at the skyline or goes b.u.t.tin' straight back to the ranche.”
”All right, Cap.”
When he was gone, Curly rucked up the canvas ground-sheet, climbed out of bed, and nestled against her father's side on the seat.
”Havin' a bad time?” he asked, as he drove on.
”Sure.”
”You heard what I told to Buck?”