Part 8 (1/2)
With a dexterous contortion of his nether lip, the man gathered an end of his huge moustache into the corner of his mouth: ”What would it be?”
he asked noncommittally.
”Hurry to Mr. Cameron's and tell my husband and Mr. Colston to come down here quick!”
”Y Bar Colston?” he asked, with exasperating deliberation.
”Yes. Oh, please hurry!”
His left eyelid drooped meaningly, as he audibly expelled the moustache from between his lips, and jerked his head in the direction of the saloon, ”Y'ain't helpin' his case none by draggin' Y Bar into it,” he opined. ”Hod hates Y Bar on account he trades over to Claggett. Hod, he runs the main store here besides bein' marshal.”
”Oh, what shall I do!”
Making sure they were out of earshot, the man spoke rapidly. ”They ain't only one way to work it. You hustle back an' tell him to slip down cellar an' climb up the shoot where they slide the beer-kaigs down. It opens onto the alley between the livery barn an' the store. Hod ain't thought of that yet, an' my horse is tied in the alley. Tell him to take the horse an' beat it.”
For an instant the girl peered into the man's eyes as if to fathom his sincerity. ”But why should you sacrifice your horse?”
The man cut her short: ”I'll claim his'n, an' it's about an even trade.
Besides, he done me a good turn by not shootin' me in there when he had the chanct, after I tried to help Barras hold him. An' I'm one of these here parties that b'lieves one good turn deserves another.”
”But,” hesitated the girl, ”you were shooting into the saloon at him. I saw you.”
”Yup, I was shootin', all right,” he grinned, ”but he'd of had to be'n ten foot tall fer me to of hit him. It wouldn't of looked right fer me not to of be'n a-shootin'.”
”But, won't they shoot him when he tries to get away?”
The grin widened: ”They won't. Tell him to come bustin' right out the front way on the high lope, right into the middle of 'em. I know them _hombres_ an' believe me, it's goin' to be fun to see 'em trompin' over one another a-gittin' out of the road. By the time they git in shootin'
shape, he'll be into the dark.”
”But, they'll follow him.”
”Yes, mom. But they ain't goin' to ketch him. That horse of mine kin run rings around anything they've got. Better hurry now, 'fore Hod thinks about that beer-kaig shoot.”
”Oh, how can I thank you?”
”Well, you might set up a bra.s.s statoo of me acrost from the post office--when the sun hit it right it would show up clean from the top of the divide.”
Alice giggled, as the man extended his hand: ”Here's a couple more matches. You better run along, now. Jest tell that there Texas cyclone that Ike Stork says this here play is the best bet, bein' as they'll starve him out if a stray bullet don't find its way between them kaigs an' git him first.”
She took the matches and once more paused in the doorway and lighted her candle. As she disappeared into the interior, Ike Stork s.h.i.+fted his position upon the edge of the horse trough and grinned broadly as his eyes rested upon the men huddled together in the darkness in front of the saloon.
The girl crossed to the bar, and reading the question in the Texan's eyes, shook her head: ”He won't do it,” she said, ”he's just as mean, and stubborn, and self-important and as _rude_ as he can be. He says he's going to arrest you, and he's going to hold you for a few days in jail to see if there isn't a reward offered for you somewhere. He thinks, or pretends to think, that you're some terrible desperado.”
The cynical smile twisted the Texan's lips: ”He'll be sure of it before he gets through.”
”No, no, Tex! Don't shoot anybody--please! Listen, I've got a plan that will get you out of here. But first, you've got to promise that you will see Win. We've set our hearts on it, and you _must_.”
”What's the good?”
”Please, for my sake, promise me.”