Acres of Unrest (18 page)

Now that the grip of big Peter had relaxed, the cowpuncher withdrew his shoulder deftly and hurried on into the hotel. But Peter watched events maturing with a wonderful speed down the street, where the crowd was formed in a thick mass before the hotel. Some of its leaders were entering. If they were indeed bent on the capture of big Mike Jarvin, how sadly would events go for that worthy, captured by such a throng, in such a humor.

Peter was in no little danger. Behind him he overheard a murmur of voices:

“Are they overlooking the big stiff on the crutches?”

“What about him?”

“He’s been wandering around the town, bashing gents over the head with that crutch of his. Besides, he’s one of the Jarvin outfit.”

“The devil he is. Is Jarvin picking up his men from the hospitals, maybe?”

“Jarvin has him, and that’s enough to make any man with good sense lay odds that he’s a crook and a bad one. I’d like to know how he got wrecked. That’s what I’d like to know, old pal. I’ll lay my bet that it would make a story that would interest some of us, including the sheriff.”

“If he belongs to Jarvin, why don’t they round him up?”

“Yes, and it was him who pulled that Soapy out of the hands of the boys…when they was about to give him a lesson that his yellow hide would never forget.”

These remarks were never intended to be heard by Peter, but his ears were supernaturally acute on this evening. He heard this, and he heard, moreover, that there was much talk of taking big Mike Jarvin and riding him on a rail, after his capture—and then trying him for various and sundry crimes that were laid against him, including even that old but unforgotten death of Sam Debney. Assuredly the air of this town was growing hot for Mike and for his protégés.

Peter waited to hear no more. It was reasonably certain that that crowd meant the torment of Jarvin. And, richly as Mike might have deserved trouble, still he was the patron of Peter, and Peter had been hired to protect his skin. So he swung himself about on his crutches and he went back behind the hotel to the stable, where Soapy waited with the horses—a very nervous Soapy, whose teeth glinted in his wide mouth as he spoke.

“It’s the boss, ain’t it, Mister Hale?”

“It’s Jarvin, right enough. They’ve gone down there to get Mike at the next hotel. What can we do, the pair of us, to help him?”

It amazed Soapy to hear his master ask such a question—he who had shown such godlike powers. But apparently here was something beyond even the hands of big Peter Hale.

So Soapy said with much fervor: “Mister Hale, it looks to me like the right and reasonable thing for us two to do is to get right out of this here town. As you say, what can we do for old Jarvin by staying
here? Nothing but get throwed into the same jail that he’s put into. Or get our necks stretched on the same rope alongside of his. Because these folks is fractious. I heard some cowpunchers going by a minute ago and talking big and bad about a lynching…laying down that it would do a power of good to the town to have a real, first-class lynching here, y’understand?”

“I understand!’ Peter sighed. “And that’s exactly the atmosphere that I’ve been guessing at in the place. And so, Soapy, of course, we can’t desert him.”

“Jarvin?”

“No.”

“Curse him! He’d desert us quick enough.”

“We didn’t hire him to take care of us,” Peter reminded mildly. “You must never forget that.”

“
Humph!
” said the mulatto. “I dunno that I follow your line of thinking, Mister Hale, but I’d just as soon be throwed into the corral, yonder, with that flock of wild Nevada hosses, as to get laid hold of by that crowd again. They was only playing when they first met up with me. But, believe me, they’d be in earnest now.”

“They would, and they’d be in deadly earnest. However…something…”

His voice died away. For, down the street, they could see where the crowd had surged with a sudden violence straight into the hotel. In another moment there was a distinct sound of crashing and splintering.

“There goes a door down,” Soapy said through his set teeth.

Instantly the crowd pressed back from the hotel into the street—and there was the form of a bulky
man dangled high and light upon their shoulders, with many an angry hand reaching for him. It was Jarvin; the angry roar of the crowd testified to that. Jarvin! They would have the truth of his wickedness out of him, and they would tear him to rags and to tatters.

But who needed to wait for his confession? Did not every sensible man really sense the truth about this matter? Of course—and, therefore, let them live up to the standards that their ancestors set when they had brought law and order into a wild land. So thought the crowd, and Peter Hale, reading their minds, watched their numbers and their fury grow with every instant.

Now that Jarvin was in their hands, everyone wanted to join himself to the list of the men of justice. And yonder was a rail for the taking. It was of new, strong wood. And it was nailed into oaken posts with strong, new spikes, countersunk.

But so many hands laid hold upon the three-by-six beam that it was torn away as though it were nothing. Jarvin was mounted a little higher, perhaps, than any horse had ever carried him, certainly upon the most narrow saddle.

Twenty willing shoulders crowded under the stick. And Jarvin was brought along with a swelling voice of triumph that made even the wild Nevada horses tremble and quake in their corrals. They were a grim-looking lot of horses, having been brought down by some venturesome horse dealers for men who wanted tough saddle animals—tough in both spirit and flesh. But there was too much devil in these creatures to make much of a sale possible, and there still remained fifty of the brutes in the corral, rolling their eyes and flattening their ears as they
heard the roaring voices of men. Peter, observing them, felt that here was a chance for him either to kill his employer outright or else to set him free.

He said to the mulatto: “Soapy, stand by on this side of the road. I’m going to let those horses out. When they come piling through the gate, start shooting and yelling…shooting with both hands and yelling as loudly as you can. Do you understand?”

“Mister Hale, you ain’t gonna fool with those wild horses, are you?”

“Will you do what I ask?”

“Yes, sir, I will!”

Peter left him and reached the lofty corral fence, while the throng of horses shrank from him and then rushed closer along the fence with a perverse desire to catch him with their teeth. He shot back the bolt and let the gate swing wide with a screech of rusty hinges, as their breasts pressed it back. Instantly they had bulged out into the street.

There stood Soapy. From either hand issued a series of rapid explosions as he waved his flaming guns above his head, and from his throat was poured out a dreadful series of wails and yells. The mustangs recoiled from this fire-breathing monster. They swayed this way and then that, and finally they surged, with snorting and squealing, straight down the street toward the avenging crowd that was riding Jarvin on a rail to a just trial and a quick vengeance for his ill deeds. With their heads and tails tossing and the dust flying around them, the horses ran.

Peter saw Mike Jarvin disappear from the rail on which he was carried. No doubt he was dropped straight into the dust as the men who had carried him bolted for their lives.

Peter shouted: “Back to the buckboard, Soapy! Back as fast as you can fly, man!”

Soapy flew. He reached the buckboard fast and leaped into the seat. But he had hardly gained it before the cripple swung past him on the crutches. The saddle horses were tethered at the back of the buckboard. Two of these—Larribee and Jarvin’s own horse—were detached by Peter. He swung into the saddle on Larribee just as the wagon gathered headway. Soapy did not need to be told what to do. He knew that Peter intended to take a most desperate chance, and to take it right at the heels of that fighting, smashing herd of wild horses. Therefore he loosed the reins on that fresh mustang team and gave them the whip. They flew forward at a gallop into the thick dust cloud that the wild horses had raised.

Peter himself was not far behind, gaining with every sweep of the long legs of Larribee. Now, before him, he saw a thing that he had half expected but had not wholly dared to believe might happen. A solitary man was waddling toward them, up the street, as fast as he could leg it, with a swinging glimmer of steel shining from either hand.

That was none other than big Mike Jarvin, rushing for safety up the street, and ready, now, to be killed before he would let himself be taken.

There were no figures of men lying in the street; Peter Hale could thank the Providence which had whisked them out of danger as the herd of horses roared by. But that charge had accomplished its purpose admirably. The crowd, so solidly formed and so intent on its purpose, had been torn to shreds and scattered here and there in doorways, on verandahs, and behind picket fences.

And here was Jarvin, who had torn himself clear and was bolting for safety. He saw the familiar buckboard with Soapy at the helm and started for it with a shrill scream of satisfaction. But others had seen the coming rescue and had fixed their minds on the destruction of Mike. Even wild horses could not tear the idea away from them.

A big man ran out from a doorway—a tall, cleancut fellow, poising his gun. Peter spurred Larribee ahead, and the great horse took wings, leaving the buckboard behind. The big man ahead fired. Mike Jarvin’s gun flashed in response, and then Peter struck the tall fellow and rode him down—not under the hoofs of the great stallion, but striking him in straight-arm, football fashion. As his victim went down with a shout and rolled headlong in the dust, Peter saw that it was his own cousin, Charles, who he had felled in this summary fashion.

He had time for one mental commentary—which
was that it was very odd that Charles should be so hot for the death of a man who, so far as Charles could know, had most generously returned to him a whole fortune won at the cards earlier in the evening. However, there seemed to be many qualities in Charles that were a matter for wonder.

People were pouring out into the street in increasing numbers, but Mike Jarvin had reached the buckboard and had pulled himself up into it. And now Soapy was whipping the mustangs into a frantic gallop.

Peter reined hastily back to the side of the flying wagon, for in the hands of Mike he saw the short, terrible, two-barreled shotgun. If that weapon were ever discharged into the faces of such a crowd as this, there was no telling how many men would go to the last accounting. It would be hanging for Mike, afterward. It would be hanging for Peter and Soapy, also.

So Peter shouted in stentorian tones: “Mike, if you fire that gun, I’ll drive a bullet through your head. Remember!”

Mike, his face convulsed with fury, cast one dreadful glance at Peter and even waved the muzzles of his weapon toward the big rider. He returned no other response, but, standing braced in front of the seat, like a sailor who defies the lurching of his ship, Jarvin turned his shotgun first to this side and then to that.

This crowd that had regathered was not composed of fools. They knew what such a gun meant, and they scattered back toward their houses with yells of consternation. There were perhaps half a dozen shots fired, but they were wild. Only one weapon was being fired by a steady hand, and that was
held by a man who was posted on the steps of the general merchandise store. His hat had been lost in the confusion, and the wind fanned back his silvery hair. Peter had only a glimpse of it through the same dust clouds that were doubtlessly saving the lives of all three from this marksman. Twice bullets whistled from the man’s gun close by the head of Peter; three times leaden slugs tore through the body of the buckboard, luckily missing man and horse.

But that was the last danger, as they hurtled around the next bend of the street and headed out onto the road toward the creek. That was the last danger—for the moment. In a few seconds they would be mounting and riding hard behind them.

And here was old Jarvin, tilting the familiar black bottle at his lips and then passing it to Soapy. Yet Soapy, standing up to lash the horses to a great frenzy of speed, disregarded liquor for the first time in his life. He was literally garbed in flying tatters, rather than in clothes. And the bellow of his exultant voice came back like a dim thunder to Peter.

“I smashed ’em! I made ’em take water! I backed ’em into the last ditch and made ’em holler when I jumped in their faces. I was ten wildcats. I was a roarin’ grizzly! Oh, Mike, you should’ve been there to’ve seen what I did to them.”

The booming voice of Mike Jarvin roared in answer: “I’m glad you trimmed ’em, kid. But what was that compared to what I did to ’em? Made suckers of the lot of them! I would’ve quit after the first time. I had enough cash after that bout…but that sucker Hale sneaked it away from me. So I went back, Soapy, I sat in on another game. Why, it was taking candy away from babies. Except that
these here babies wore whiskers and packed tons of Colts. I fished the coin out of their pockets and made them like it.

“Dog-gone me if they didn’t think that I was losing, for a time. And then they begun to tumble to the fact that my luck appeared in the losing of the small bets and the winning of the big ones. I’m salted down with money, Soapy. I got forty thousand in my wallet, pretty near. A hundred thousand, by rights…but that sucker Hale…” He broke off to take another drink, and then, forgetting his anger at Peter, his voice pitched into thundering song.

For all their exultation, Soapy was still lashing the horses, and Peter rode half turned in the saddle, constantly watching the winding bit of road behind him.

Now that the dust of the town was gone, and they had clean countryside behind them, the moonlight flooded everything with its own brilliant silver. The town, in the distance, was a mean huddle of shadows, surprisingly small to have held all the excitement that had been foaming up and down its streets that night.

Out of the larger darkness of the village other, smaller shadows crept out and wound down the trail behind them. Peter knew what those creeping shadows were. They were raging, cursing, spurring horsemen, mounted on their best nags and determined to ride them into the ground, to capture the fugitive trio.

How vast would be the disgrace of the town if it were to be told, hereafter, how three men had dared to beat up their best citizens, and then had been able to rescue one of their members from the hands of countless odds and whisk away to safety.

They were spurring hard for matters of personal honor—and for the honor of their town and the range around it. Besides that, how many in that scurrying party had felt the weight of the mulatto’s fist or had lost money to the hated Jarvin? They had motives in plenty, and presently Peter could see that they were gaining fast. The mustangs ran well, rattling the buckboard over the rough road, It was not in the horses’ power, hampered as they were by harness and the dangling, banging weight behind them, to match the speed that their pursuers were showing. Watching the rate at which the townsmen gained, Peter sent Larribee swinging up beside the wagon.

“You hear me, Jarvin?”

“I hear ye, Pete, me lad,” answered Jarvin, “and I drink to you, too. I thought, after you trimmed me of that money that I’d earned by a lot of honest, hard work at the cards…I thought that you and me would never be friends again. But, curse you, Peter, you knock a man down one minute and you pick him up the next…pick him right away from a thousand pairs of hands, at that! Oh, lad, that trick of the wild horses…that was better than any that I’ve ever worked at cards, and yet I’ve trained and worked with the pasteboards all my life.”

“Will you be quiet, Jarvin? Look back down the road, if you think that you’re out of this mess. Look back and see them coming. A hundred of them if there’s one. A hundred lions, at that.”

The fat man braced himself in front of the seat and stood up, the better to scan the scene behind him. “It’s true.” Jarvin shuddered, and he shook his fist at them. “They’ll get to know the insides of this pal of mine, before the night is over. They’re
hungry and hankering after it, and they’re bound to get it, I tell you.”

“Do you think that would do anything except hurry up your hanging by a few seconds? Look again and try to see the facts. Those fellows are coming too fast for us to get clear of them.”

“Then we’ll take to the horses. What have we got saddles along with us for?”

“Fast horses for two of us…but what about Soapy on his nag?”

“Curse it, Hale, would you put my neck inside of a rope for the sake of a Negro? Keep your hands from me, Soapy, or I’ll blow you to the devil!”

As the great hand of Soapy darted to Mike’s throat, Jarvin pitched the double muzzle of his terrible gun into the midriff of the mulatto—and Soapy’s hand gradually relaxed and recoiled.

“There are three of us here,” said Peter. “There’s going to be three of us saved, or three of us who go down together. That’s flat and final. Do you hear me, Jarvin?”

The other turned a desperate face toward Peter, and then leered down the road at the group of streaking shadows. They had grown rapidly in clearness. Now across the face of a little hill they streaked in a rapid procession—an endless string of clear-cut silhouettes against the moonlit sky.

“All right,” said Jarvin. “I’ll stick by you…if you’ll stick by me. But God knows what we’ll do.”

The hoofs of the horses beat hollow on the narrow little bridge, and beneath them they caught a glimpse of the river, like polished ebony, with the high light of the moon Striking across its surface.

“Pull up, Soapy!” shouted Peter.

“Pull up, man, do you hear?”

Soapy obediently drew rein.

“Are you crazy, Pete?” yelled Jarvin. But Peter was calmly dismounting from his horse. “Listen to me, Soapy,” gasped Jarvin. “He’s lost his head. I’ll sink a bullet through him. Then you and me on the two fast horses…for the sake of our necks, Soapy…”

“You fool!” Soapy sneered. “D’you think that you and me…yes, or that whole crowd back there…could faze him?”