Blue Kingdom (15 page)

“He's the king, however,” said Dunmore.

“Sure he's the king,” said the boy, “but he's settin' on tacks all the time. Mostly when she's around.”

They jogged on after the dwindling figure of Tankerton until the trees parted before them and they came into a clearing with a big fire in the center. By the light of the fire, they could see four log shacks built around the verge of the open space, and, at the doors or lounging around the fire itself, were fifteen or more men.

Dunmore instinctively drew a tighter rein on Excuse Me. He had known beforehand into what company he was riding, but no amount of mental preparation could altogether brace him for this scene. Nearly a score of men were there—all were armed, all were experts professionally with their weapons, and all obeyed Tanker-ton with an absolute faith. A gesture from him would be the end of Carrick Dunmore.

Dunmore could see reasons why the bandit would delay the business until the camp was reached. The mob of Harpersville was one thing, but here, in the camp, his killing could be executed far more privately and cause less talk. But of one thing at least Dunmore was assured. Tankerton would not admit a partner to his greatness without making some much more desperate and prolonged struggle than that in the hotel at Harpersville.

So he checked the mare and she pranced uneasily, while the boy sheered close to him and gasped: “You ain't gonna go in, Mister Dunmore?”

Carrick threw a grim glance at the youngster, for the exclamation came as a sudden and unexpected reinforcement of his own feelings. The boy went on: “I thought . . . that you was just gonna be . . . the first
gent that ever had a firsthand sight of Tankerton's gang, but . . . are you gonna go on in?”

Dunmore looked aside, and there he saw, leaning against a big stump, a tall fellow with a rifle in his hands, watching him attentively. If he whirled Excuse Me and strove to bolt, that rifle would bring him down. His coolness deserted him then. He had to grit his teeth to make himself go on, and, coming within the circle of the firelight, he swung lightly down to the ground.

Out of the darker shadows in the background, Tankerton's voice came harsh and grating upon his ear. “Boys, the doctor and Lynn Tucker were all wrong. Dunmore is an old friend of mine . . . I've brought him back to be one of us.”

That was all. There was no talk about division of authority, partnership, or even any lieutenancy placed in the hands of Dunmore. But the latter wisely decided that this was not the time to press the point. As he was introduced in this casual fashion, he saw every face around the fire lifted, while all eyes examined him for a single blazing second with the utmost fervor; men stepped out from the cabin doors, as well. After the first scanning, they regarded him more covertly, as though not wishing to offend him with a stare.

He waved his hand to them, and then started off to find the horse shed and put up the mare. It had been made plain to him that his name was familiar to the gang. Whatever other consolation he was to get out of the situation, this was a grim one—that they must have talked over his affairs more than once, and perhaps the
three expeditions that had been made against him had every one been the subject of many surmises. Each day they had expected to see the champion come back victorious. Twice their men had been foiled. The third time, the chief brought him in. In what manner would they take this? As a victory on the part of the leader, or as something that Dunmore had forced Tankerton to do? No doubt, the former would be the way of it.

He found little Jimmy Larren at the stable before him. The stable was a long lean-to, built beneath the shelter of the trees and anchored against them, and inside there was a single row of horses.

Jimmy carried the lantern before him down the list, and he found himself looking over animals of two types. There were little sharp-backed mustangs for mountain work, and there were long-legged blood horses for expeditions farther afield. Toward the center, he found a vacant stall and put the mare into it. The boy scrambled up into the hay and forked down a feed, while Dunmore found the grain bin and brought a measure of clean oats.

Tankerton was waiting for him near the entrance to the stable.

“I'll show you where you sleep,” he said, and marched Dunmore off to the largest of the four cabins. Inside, there were ten wide bunks fixed against the wall, a stove in the center of the room glowing with a fire, for the mountain night was always chilly, and a table at either end piled with tattered books and magazines whose covers had disappeared, and whose leaves were frayed, curled up with much reading, and yellowed with exposure to the sun. Between the head and
foot of each bunk were a number of pegs, making a sort of clothes closet. He noted that every “closet” was well-filled, several hats of different kinds topped off the display, and on the whole there was a sense of much well-being, for men leading such lives. The cabin walls, too, seemed solidly built, without unstopped chinks through which the winds could pry, and, although in the winter it might be difficult enough to be comfortable here, at this season of the year it was better than most ranches.

“Here you are,” said Tankerton. “That bunk there in the center is empty. That's yours. I'm busy now. So make yourself at home.”

Of course, it was unsatisfactory. After the promise of divided sovereignty that Tankerton had made in Harpersville, there should have been more ceremony, more opportunity to choose. But Dunmore had made up his mind to accept the present for what it would bring. He said nothing, but nodded and carried his pack into the room, while Jimmy Larren followed, dragging his own bundle of rags, and took an apparently free bunk at the foot of Dunmore's.

There appeared to be no other person present, at first, but by the light of a lantern that burned at the foot of the room, Dunmore presently saw in the farther corner a slender youth who lay in his bunk reading a magazine. This he now lowered, as though feeling Dunmore's eyes, and looked fixedly at the newcomer.

So Dunmore crossed to him and, coming nearer, saw that the left arm and shoulder of the reader were swathed in bandages. “My name is Dunmore,” he said.

The other extended his right hand. “I'm Bud Arthur,” he said in a curiously soft voice.

He waited without another word, his calm, cold eyes fixed steadily on Dunmore's face, but the latter, with a nod, turned away. For the name shot many pictures across his mind's eye.

Bud Arthur never had appeared off his father's ranch or in the public prints a year before. Since then, he had stood in a mask before a stagecoach and plundered the boot—he had walked into a bank at midday and nearly got off with a fortune—he had then returned to his hometown to shoot down a marshal who had made certain poisonous remarks about him, and had escaped from the town, hotly pursued.

Since, he had passed into oblivion, so far as the public was concerned, and the reason now was clear. The omniscient Tankerton could not afford to overlook a lad who had killed four men in the space of six months, and, therefore, he had stretched out his hand and taken in the wounded youngster. Another week or so and the hawk would once more be on the wing, flying at the whistle of Tankerton. For such were the ideal citizens of the blue kingdom of the horizon where Dunmore now must sow and reap, and once more his mind grew dark with the way that lay before him.

As he went back to his bunk, young Larren grinned.

“What's eating you, Jimmy?” he asked.

The latter clucked as though calling to a hen yard. “Chick, chick, chick!” he said. “You got some raw wolf meat to feed to these here chickens, big boy? They're plumb tired of raw dog, the way they look.”

A gong sounded loudly and rapidly across the clearing, and a high, singsong voice intoned: “Come an' get it, come an' get it, boys!”

So Jimmy Larren and Dunmore went out of the bunkhouse and headed in the direction of the clamor. From the other houses, other streams were heading in the same direction, and presently Dunmore entered a low cabin that had a log table stretched down its center, the men taking their places on either hand.

There was plenty of light. Two lamps were hung by iron chains from the roof, and they threw an illumination that enabled him to see all the faces around the table clearly. The men were filing in with cheerful words to one another, until Dunmore appeared—after which came a moment of silence until the cook, a broad-faced fellow with a face as scarred as that of a pirate or a German student, called out: “There you are, new man! There's your place down by the foot of the table. Set down!”

All cooks are tyrants, but Dunmore overlooked the order entirely. Tankerton was taking a place at one end of the long board, and Dr. Legges was about to take the other end, when Dunmore tapped the doctor on the shoulder.

“Did you aim to set down here, Doctor?” he asked genially.

“This is my place, my young friend,” Legges answered. “It's good to see you among us at last, Dunmore. Idleness, idleness is the greatest sin, Dunmore . . . and it pleases me that you're about to set to work.”

“Thanks,” said Dunmore, feeling that all eyes were on him and the doctor—men even refrained from dragging back their chairs, as though they would not risk shutting out a word of the conversation by their noise. “Thanks, Doctor. There ain't a thing in the world that's better than good advice. It's a better present than money, because money can be swiped, eh? But now I'd like to do something in return. Look here, you were going to sit down where the draft is blowing straight in on you through the window cracks. It's no place for a man of your age.”

Legges blinked, as though not understanding what was meant. “There's no draft here,” he said at last. “Not a stir of air.”

“Listen to you,” said Dunmore in gentle reproval. “You'd set right down here and sacrifice yourself for the sake of keepin' a younger man out of this here chair. You'd set here and take rheumatism and lumbago and a chill, and all for the sake of sparin' a mighty lot younger and stronger man from the same
troubles. But I wouldn't let you, Doctor.” Softly he pushed the doctor away. “Down there by the stove is the place for you,” he insisted. “That's where you. . . .”

“This,” said Legges, turning red and then white with anger, “has always been my chair.”

“There you are,” said Dunmore. “I got no doubt that's what's aged you . . . settin' in a draft, givin' up your health for the rest of the boys. But I'm gonna save you from that after this. I'm gonna take the chair . . . and keep it.”

With that he sat down, but no other man in the room stirred. All looked fixedly at Legges, thus ousted from the second place of honor at the table. The doctor himself seemed to waver for a moment between a desire of battle and fear of the new enemy. But at length the genially smiling face of the younger man overcame his own power of will. He turned with a nod and an assumed smile.

“As a matter of fact,” Legges said, “there is a chilly draft of air blowin' at that end of the room. We gotta get hold of some weather-strippin' to shut out some of the wind from this room.”

With a murmur and a scraping of chairs, the rest sat down. Tankerton seemed to be busying himself talking with Lynn Tucker, who sat at his right, studiously avoiding the eyes of Dunmore at the farther end of the room. As a matter of fact, all the others avoided the attention of Dunmore, but there was a good excuse for this, since huge platters of beefsteaks, of potatoes roasted in ashes, of corn pone, and of ham were borne in and carried about to various positions of advantage,
where the long arms of the hungry men could reach to the food.

Dunmore was liberal to his own plate, but he could not claim any instant procedure in such an assemblage of eaters.

While the first clatter of plates, and of steel forks grating on tin, was still at its height, Tankerton said suddenly: “We have bad news. Our friend and bunkie, Chelton, has been nabbed.”

It was a new name to Dunmore, but the announcement made a sensation among the others. They stared at one another and at their leader. Eating paused for an instant.

“How was he got?” someone asked.

“He wanted hotel food in a big town, and he went all the way to Clifford Springs to get it.”

“I've had that hankerin',” said a ruffian close to Dunmore, although he was not addressing his words to the latter. “I seen a time when I'd've paid its price in gold for a table set out with a white cloth, and a waitress in a white apron and a clean pair of hands to bring on the chuck and ask how many lumps of sugar would I have in the. . . .”

“Who got him?” interrupted another.

“Why, nobody but that Ban Petersen,” Lynn Tucker stated with fury in his voice. “He's gonna be got, is Ban Petersen, and he's gonna be got good.”

“He's ridin' us,” said another.

“They say he keeps a special picture gallery in his hometown jail, all filled with our pictures.”

“I'd like to make a fire of them pictures and toast Ban on the top of the pile.”

“What's gonna be done?” demanded another.

Tankerton raised his head a little, and, although he kept his voice quiet, every other sound and movement instantly ceased throughout the room.

“What's going to be done?” he asked acidly. “Why, no doubt you have an idea, Jeff. You want something to be done, of course. I expect all of you to have brilliant ideas. When you go out and get yourselves tangled in barbed wire, you are always able to get out. You don't clamor for me then and expect me to come. You don't blame me and your own luck if I can't get you free without tearing your clothes and pricking the skin. No, by heaven!” said Tankerton, his lips growing stiff with passion. “When you're well and flush, there's no thought of Tankerton, the slave driver. You go off as Oscar Chelton did. You throw yourselves over a cliff, and you expect me to be standing by beneath, ready to catch you.” He snapped his fingers in careless fashion. “I'm tired of being nursemaid to a crew of halfwits,” he said, and sternly ended his speech.