Nevada (1995) (27 page)

"You must be pretty rich to talk like that," replied Dillon.

"Quite well off, thank you. I often wondered if that didn'
t
interest you, and now I know."

He laughed in a way that would have been a revelation to an olde
r
woman, well versed in the life of the frontier. But Hettie did no
t
grasp what seemed as plain as print to Jim Lacy, crouching like
a
tiger under the shadow.

"Thanks, you're very smart," he said. "But I'd be crazy about yo
u
if you were as poor as Rose Hatt. I tell you I love you--want you--
n
eed you so terribly that if I fail to get you it'll make a devi
l
out of me."

"I'm beginning to imagine the process of MAKING has progressed ver
y
far already."

"You've got cat in you--same as other women," he retorted.

"Listen, we're wastin' talk. If you'll marry me I'll save Ben Ide.

If you won't I'll quit him an' use my influence all over the range.

I'll make ranchin' impossible for him in this country. An' I'l
l
get YOU in the bargain."

Hettie Ide turned so pale that her eyes shone black.

"Mr. Clan Dillon! Popular fellow! Splendid cattleman! Best an
d
squarest foreman in Arizona!" she exclaimed, with amazed an
d
infinite scorn.

Dillon, whose back was now turned toward Jim, made a deprecator
y
gesture in reply.

"Mr. Dillon, weeks ago when you first came to us and began your--
y
our attentions to me, I thought there was something queer abou
t
you," went on Hettie, deliberately. "You were too good to be true
,
as old Raidy said. Well, I think you're as bad as you seemed good.

I think you're a contemptible, conceited ass. I think you're
a
deep, cunning scoundrel. . . . You need not return to Ceda
r
Springs tomorrow. Marvie Blaine will drive me Home."

"What do you mean?" demanded Dillon.

"You'll not get a chance to quit Ben. Right here and now you'r
e
discharged."

"Me! What? Who's dischargin' me?"

"I am."

"Bah! You're loco, girl. Ben Ide wouldn't listen to you. H
e
can't run that ranch without me. Haven't you sense enough to se
e
it?"

Hettie Ide abruptly turned her back upon Dillon and walked away, t
o
disappear in the crowd of dancers returning to the floor.

"--damn the luck!" muttered Dillon. He lighted a cigarette an
d
stood thoughtfully inhaling and expelling smoke.

Jim Lacy strode out from under the vines and the shadow.

"Howdy, Dillon!" he said, as he confronted the foreman.

A lightning-swift glance took Jim in from head to feet and bac
k
again.

"Howdy, yourself. Reckon you've got the best of me," returne
d
Dillon, gruffly.

"Shore, I reckon I have," drawled Jim, with cool significance.

"Who are you?" queried Dillon, sharply.

"I might be Peter Punkins--only I ain't."

"Pretty smart, aren't you?" rejoined Dillon, feeling his way. H
e
knew men; he knew the West. "Reckon you're more Simple Simon tha
n
Peter Punkins. I don't care. But I'm curious about where you jus
t
sprung from."

"Wal, I hail from New Mexico," returned Jim.

"The hell you do!" flashed Dillon. "That's nothin' to me. Bu
t
where'd you come from just now?"

"Dillon, you're figurin' quick," returned Jim, in slo
w
deliberation. "Wal, I was settin' right heah on the adobe wall."

Jim pointed to the spot in the shadow, but he did not take his gaz
e
off Dillon.

The man cursed under his breath and flung his cigarette down s
o
hard that the sparks flew from the stone pavement.

"You set there watchin'--listenin'?" he demanded, with sudden an
d
powerful self-control.

"Shore did," drawled Jim.

"Stranger, where I come from men got shot for such offense."

"I reckon. That's why I'm not apologizin'."

Dillon seemed to accept this as confirmation of the suspicion whic
h
had evidently been growing with his thoughts. Abruptly hi
s
bullying manner changed. The swift retreat of his personality wa
s
almost as remarkable as the new one which took its place. He stoo
d
unmasked, as far as his pretense was concerned. Cautious, steady
,
cold, and hard he stood a moment, his strange green eyes trying t
o
pierce Jim's mind. He was searching more for Jim's intent than fo
r
other knowledge of him.

As for Jim, he measured Dillon to be a Westerner vastly differen
t
from the character he enjoyed in the section of Arizona. He judge
d
Dillon without recourse to the words of Rose Hatt. Jim did no
t
recognize a kindred spirit, but he read in Dillon the depth, th
e
courage, the desperate experience of a man used to the rawest an
d
deadliest of frontier life.

"Ha! I see you pack a gun, stranger," coolly remarked Dillon, a
s
he lighted another cigarette.

"Yes. I got sort of used to it."

"Reckon you see I don't?"

"Shore. I seen first off you didn't, an' then just now I read i
t
in your eyes."

"Mind-reader, eh? Well, it's a helpin' trait for some men."

"Are you meanin' any particular breed?" queried Jim, dryly.

"Yes. Spies, gamblers, thieves, gun-throwers, an' the like."

"Thanks. I'm shore appreciatin' the way you speak. An' no
t
wantin' to be outdone in compliments, I'll just repeat what Mis
s
Hettie Ide called you--a conceited ass! A deep, cunnin'
s
coundrel!"

"You heard all she said?" snarled Dillon. Deep and crafty as h
e
was, he could not help the risk of passion, though he controlle
d
it.

"Shore. An' I never heard a low-down man called more proper.

Tickled me more because only to-day some one called you a handsome
,
smilin'-faced liar."

"Aho! You happened to hear a good deal, now didn't you, stranger?"
r
eturned Dillon. "Well, I don't care a damn."

"Shore you don't. A skunk stinks so bad that nothin' but bullet
s
can get to his hide."

"You're a brave man, stranger, shoutin' that way above your gun.

But I'm tired listenin'. Are you from New Mexico?"

"No. I was lyin'."

"Ahuh? An' you've got a hunch that's where I come from?"

"I reckon."

"You see I don't deny it. What do I care what you know or think o
r
do? You pose for a dandy cowboy. But you're not ridin' for an
y
outfit around Winthrop. You excite a little suspicion yourself
,
mister, considerin' this country is full of outlaws an' rustlers."

"It shore is. That's why I come over," returned Jim, meaningly.

For the first time the dark red showed in Dillon's face.

"I'll have you put out of here," he said. "An' I'll tip Mackli
n
off that you need watchin'."

"Wal," drawled Jim, with his glance cold and set, "go ahaid, but b
e
sure to tip him off that I'm Jim Lacy."

Dillon's stalwart frame jerked with a perceptible tremor. A slo
w
pale shade began to blot out the brown of his face.

"Jim Lacy, eh! Say, I've had that dodge worked on me before.

Paradin' under a dead man's name! It's an old trick of four-
f
lushers."

But Dillon was not so cocksure as his bluster was intended t
o
indicate. His iron nerve had been pierced. Here was a name t
o
conjure with. For a moment the revelation of it unmasked him a
s
had nothing else. Honest men seldom had anything to fear from Ji
m
Lacy or any other of his class. It was only a sudden, instinctiv
e
fear at that, a weakening at once controlled. Dillon might hav
e
been afraid of a name, but not of any man.

"You expect me to believe you're Jim Lacy?" he demanded, hoarsely.

"Wal, I'm tellin' you, but it's nothin' to me what you believe,"
r
eturned Jim, icily. This interview was about to conclude.

"All right," went on Dillon, breathing hard. "But I still figur
e
you a liar."

Jim sprang forward and knocked Dillon down.

"Wal, shore it may take more'n that," he said, in slow accents.

"But I told you who I am. An' that's somethin' you didn't tel
l
me."

Dillon cautiously arose on his hand, lifting a dark face to hi
s
assailant. But he made no response.

Jim, wheeling away to go, found himself confronted by Rose Hatt.

The girl had seen at least the last of Jim's encounter with Dillon.

"Oh--mister!" she cried, in a comprehension bounded by fear.

The dancers were trooping off the floor. A tall youth, wit
h
features strangely familiar to Jim, appeared behind Rose. Sh
e
clasped his arm, while she stared from Jim to Dillon, who had no
t
attempted to get up. Without a word Jim hurried on.

"My--God! Who was that?" called out some one Jim took to be th
e
youth with Rose. The voice added to the stirring of Jim Lacy'
s
memory. It also urged him faster through the throng of dancers an
d
out into the street.

"That was Marvie Blaine, God bless him!" whispered Jim, as h
e
gained the darkness. "Shore a close shave for me."

It was eleven o'clock when Jim Lacy entered the Ace High Saloon, a
t
the period one of the noted gambling hells of the southwest.

John Brennan, its proprietor, had two unique characteristics tha
t
stood in his favor. He had the reputation of being a squar
e
gambler and he would not have a woman about the place. Consequentl
y
he was not so prosperous as most men of his business and his hous
e
was without costly and gaudy fittings. He did not bar any man fro
m
his tables, so long as that man played fairly. More than one crooke
d
gambler had been carried out of the Ace High, feet first. This fac
t
was reported to have had its effect upon the intent-eyed, still-
f
aced sharps who frequented the rooms.

Jim Lacy bolted into the barroom like a man who was being pursued.

He was, indeed, though not by any visible thing.

"Cowboy, what you runnin' from?" queried a tall man. He happene
d
to be standing nearest to the door, his back to the bar, his hig
h
hat tipped back, to expose a weather-beaten face. A brass shield
,
with letters printed upon it, stood out prominently on his vest.

Jim recognized this individual almost instantly.

"Howdy, Macklin!" he said, nonchalantly. "I was just runnin' fro
m
a sheriff."

"Wal, you run right into another," growled Macklin, surprised an
d
annoyed. "Who air you?"

"I'm foreman of the Coffee Pot outfit," drawled Jim.

"What's your handle, smarty? It jest happens there ain't an
y
Coffee Pot outfit at this particular time. . . . I've a notion t
o
clap you into the jug. You look kinda pale round the gills. Wha
t
have you been up to an' who air you?"