Part 45 (1/2)
”No, Jim,” replied Duane.
”But what'd you come fer without the signal?” burst out Fletcher, in distress. He saw nothing but catastrophe in this meeting.
”Jim, I ain't pressin' my company none. But when I'm wanted bad--”
Fletcher stopped him with a raised hand. Then he turned to Poggin with a rude dignity.
”Poggy, he's my pard, an' he's riled. I never told him a word thet'd make him sore. I only said Knell hadn't no more use fer him than fer me. Now, what you say goes in this gang. I never failed you in my life.
Here's my pard. I vouch fer him. Will you stand fer me? There's goin' to be h.e.l.l if you don't. An' us with a big job on hand!”
While Fletcher toiled over his slow, earnest persuasion Duane had his gaze riveted upon Poggin. There was something leonine about Poggin. He was tawny. He blazed. He seemed beautiful as fire was beautiful. But looked at closer, with glance seeing the physical man, instead of that thing which shone from him, he was of perfect build, with muscles that swelled and rippled, bulging his clothes, with the magnificent head and face of the cruel, fierce, tawny-eyed jaguar.
Looking at this strange Poggin, instinctively divining his abnormal and hideous power, Duane had for the first time in his life the inward quaking fear of a man. It was like a cold-tongued bell ringing within him and numbing his heart. The old instinctive firing of blood followed, but did not drive away that fear. He knew. He felt something here deeper than thought could go. And he hated Poggin.
That individual had been considering Fletcher's appeal.
”Jim, I ante up,” he said, ”an' if Phil doesn't raise us out with a big hand--why, he'll get called, an' your pard can set in the game.”
Every eye s.h.i.+fted to Knell. He was dead white. He laughed, and any one hearing that laugh would have realized his intense anger equally with an a.s.surance which made him master of the situation.
”Poggin, you're a gambler, you are--the ace-high, straight-flush hand of the Big Bend,” he said, with stinging scorn. ”I'll bet you my roll to a greaser peso that I can deal you a hand you'll be afraid to play.”
”Phil, you're talkin' wild,” growled Poggin, with both advice and menace in his tone.
”If there's anythin' you hate it's a man who pretends to be somebody else when he's not. Thet so?”
Poggin nodded in slow-gathering wrath.
”Well, Jim's new pard--this man Dodge--he's not who he seems. Oh-ho!
He's a h.e.l.l of a lot different. But _I_ know him. An' when I spring his name on you, Poggin, you'll freeze to your gizzard. Do you get me? You'll freeze, an' your hand'll be stiff when it ought to be lightnin'--All because you'll realize you've been standin' there five minutes--five minutes ALIVE before him!”
If not hate, then a.s.suredly great pa.s.sion toward Poggin manifested itself in Knell's scornful, fiery address, in the shaking hand he thrust before Poggin's face. In the ensuing silent pause Knell's panting could be plainly heard. The other men were pale, watchful, cautiously edging either way to the wall, leaving the princ.i.p.als and Duane in the center of the room.
”Spring his name, then, you--” said Poggin, violently, with a curse.
Strangely Knell did not even look at the man he was about to denounce.
He leaned toward Poggin, his hands, his body, his long head all somewhat expressive of what his face disguised.
”BUCK DUANE!” he yelled, suddenly.
The name did not make any great difference in Poggin. But Knell's pa.s.sionate, swift utterance carried the suggestion that the name ought to bring Poggin to quick action. It was possible, too, that Knell's manner, the import of his denunciation the meaning back of all his pa.s.sion held Poggin bound more than the surprise. For the outlaw certainly was surprised, perhaps staggered at the idea that he, Poggin, had been about to stand sponsor with Fletcher for a famous outlaw hated and feared by all outlaws.
Knell waited a long moment, and then his face broke its cold immobility in an extraordinary expression of devilish glee. He had hounded the great Poggin into something that gave him vicious, monstrous joy.
”BUCK DUANE! Yes,” he broke out, hotly. ”The Nueces gunman! That two-shot, ace-of-spades lone wolf! You an' I--we've heard a thousand times of him--talked about him often. An' here he IN FRONT of you!
Poggin, you were backin' Fletcher's new pard, Buck Duane. An' he'd fooled you both but for me. But _I_ know him. An' I know why he drifted in here. To flash a gun on Cheseldine--on you--on me! Bah! Don't tell me he wanted to join the gang. You know a gunman, for you're one yourself.
Don't you always want to kill another man? An' don't you always want to meet a real man, not a four-flush? It's the madness of the gunman, an' I know it. Well, Duane faced you--called you! An' when I sprung his name, what ought you have done? What would the boss--anybody--have expected of Poggin? Did you throw your gun, swift, like you have so often? Naw; you froze. An' why? Because here's a man with the kind of nerve you'd love to have. Because he's great--meetin' us here alone. Because you know he's a wonder with a gun an' you love life. Because you an' I an' every d.a.m.ned man here had to take his front, each to himself. If we all drew we'd kill him. Sure! But who's goin' to lead? Who was goin' to be first?