The Complete Novels of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

quivered with tension. The news of Leverage's ill fortune had reached town early, and shortly after a call went out for a meeting of the Association. So now men rode in and walked the streets uneasily; drifted together to exchange news. A man had ridden down Prairie Street to scout the road. Earlier in the morning a Leverage puncher had galloped in to summon Doc Williamson, refusing to talk. And Doc had gone off with the man hurriedly.

      The practical defeat of the vigilantes shocked Sundown out of its lazy calm. Lou Redmain ceased to be a minor factor in the country; in one brief evening he had achieved notoriety, and when the gathering men spoke of him it was with a lurking doubt mixed with their profane anger. If he had whipped Leverage, if he had so recruited the wild bunch that he could stand off an organized force, who ruled Yellow Hill then? What was to prevent him from instituting a guerrilla warfare from one isolated ranch to another? The timid felt this immediately and began to fall silent, lest the red mark of destruction be placed against them and their habitations; and Sundown witnessed the drying up of casual talk, the coming of an alien reserve. For always in a land where the law goes to pieces the first rule is the rule of self- preservation.

      Al Niland was in Grogan's, brooding over this, turning other matters as well darkly around his mind. Steele's death had made a gap in the ranks of friendship that never would be filled. If anything happened to Denver—Niland rejected the thought. He simply could not tolerate the premise that disaster would ever overtake Dave Denver. Other men might weaken or blunder, other men might go crashing down to ruin and death. This was mortality. But, logical as Niland was, he somehow could never bring himself to accept Denver as ordinary. Denver always came crawling out from the bottom of the wreckage, grinning cheerfully. In short, Denver's career had created a legend of personal power that was hard to shake off. Niland was analytical enough to realize this; he knew also that nobody could look at Denver impartially. Men either hated him or trusted and followed him with a kind of fanatical zeal.

      "Good God!" grunted Niland. "I'm conductin' a post mortem. All I got to say is this'll be a sorry place if he's gone down the chute. Which the Lord forbid!"

      He turned from the bar and saw Steve Steers coming in. Steve looked harried. Niland thought, "Debbie's pushed him just an inch too far, and I'm sort of glad." Steve made straight for the bar and slapped his palm resoundingly on the mahogany.

      "Trot out the hog wash," he called. Grogan, who never liked any such reference to his product, pushed bottle and glass toward the puncher. "No law compellin' you to drink my liquor, Steers."

      Steve straightened. Honeyed softness caressed his words. "Grogan, my lad, I have observed your lordly manner some frequent, and I'm reminded of the horse that put on a shirt and tried to eat off the parlor table. I pay for your booze, and I'm entitled to pass judgment on it. If you got anything definite to say to me, let's hear it."

      Grogan stared, the rims of his eyes reddening. There was cruelty in the man, plenty of it, and he never hesitated to cuff a trouble maker out of his place. Yet he backed water in front of Steve Steers. "Somebody must've stepped on yore foot, Mister Steers."

      "Be that as it may, I feel like steppin' on somebody else's foot. Al, you drinkin' with me? I despise drinkin' alone."

      "Sure," said Niland. "But I thought you was temperamentally opposed to liquor."

      "Ha!" snorted Steve and took his jot without a quiver. "That's the trouble with me. I ain't got a mind of my own any more. I can't do nothin' without lookin' on the chart to see if it's proper. Debbie issues orders. Her old lady tells me where to head in. The old gent bites me off short. Even the eleven-year-old mutt of a Lunt kid roots me on the shins. I'd like to haul off four feet behind my breeches and spank him into next leap year. But no. I'm just the swivel-eyed ape which hangs around the Lunt house and gets pushed outa the road. Ha! Grogan, bring me a glass that ain't half plugged up with scum. I want a drink."

      "I don't know if I better leave you alone," reflected Niland. "You'll foam any minute now."

      "Hear anything new?" demanded Steers, drawing the bottle to him.

      "No. Don't even see any of the vigilantes in town."

      Steers turned to face the room. "Vigilantes? Ain't that somethin' to make yuh die laughin'? Hey, is there any of you vigilantes in these premises? I'd shore like to see what great big scrappin' hellions yuh are!"

      There was no answer. Without question he was on the warpath. One of the Nightingale riders, seeing the foreman of the outfit hell-bent for trouble, slipped quickly from the hall. Steers raked the assembled citizens with a bright eye. "None present, uh? Well, I reckon they must all be home in bed, nursin' their busted arches. If I'd run as fast as they did to get away from Lou Redmain I'd have busted arches, too. And what is more, I wouldn't have nerve enough to come back to Sundown!"

      Niland thoughtfully called Steve's attention to the empty glass. "After a large statement like that you must be dry. There was heat in the remarks. Presuming on the perquisites of friendship I would suggest you have covered a scope of ground somewhat wider than the spread of your elbows. Think it over."

      "Think? All I been doin' lately is thinkin'—about my duty, about my responsibilities, about bein' a gentleman. What's it brought me? Nothin' but grief. I wasn't made to think. I was made to bust forth and do the first thing that came in my head. What're all you dudes sittin' around for? Somebody run out and see if they's news of Denver. You—over there. Git goin'."

      "Pretty soon you're going to need an armored battleship to get out of this town whole," prophesied Niland.

      "Oh, no," said Steve, dripping in sarcasm. "Ev'body's all tuckered out from runnin'. Tie that, will yuh? Runnin' from Lou Redmain, the kinky little belly-slashin' rat! Runnin' away from him and leavin' a man in the lurch which none of 'em is good enough to lick his shoes!"

      Niland let out a small sigh of relief. Nightingale men were slipping unobtrusively into the saloon. Steve had his bodyguard, though he failed to realize it. He lowered his voice to Niland.

      "She said she'd turn me off like a crummy shirt if I ever got drunk, Al. Yeah, Debbie said that. Now you just watch me. She's a thousand times too good for a shif'less egg like me. I'm unregenerate. She thinks she can straighten a crooked nail. Dammit, I don't want to be improved. Just stay around and drink now and then with me while I get drunk. Grogan, trot out another bottle of that doctored dishwater."

      "I've got no more time to drink, Steve. Something on tap."

      "Any time's time to drink," said Steve, falling upon Cal Steele's well remembered phrase. The two men stared at each other as if the ghost of their friend stood lazy and smiling between them. Steve's face was suddenly lined and heavy. "I know. You go on. You're in no position to wallow in the mud with me. I'll get somebody." He shoved himself away from the bar and concentrated on the room. His finger stabbed out, and it may have been wholly by accident that it fairly tagged two rather willing characters—Meems and Wango. Possibly it was accident, though the gentlemen in question seldom missed a free meal and never had been known to refuse a drink.

      "Come here!" bellowed Steers. "You two! Stand right beside me. When I drink, you match me. See?"

      "It ain't as hard as it sounds," said Buck Meems. "Mebbe you'd better let us get evened up afore we start off."

      Steers seemed to recognize them for the first time. "Huh—the human sponges. Well it's all right. I'll know I'm drunk when I see you road runners start wabblin'. Al—Al. When you hear anything come right back and let me know."

      Niland nodded, spoke quietly to one of the Nightingale punchers, and walked out. What he said was, "Don't any of you fellows cramp his style. He could just about lick the contents of the saloon alone in his present state. Don't encourage him by interfering."

      Niland paused to scan the street for new arrivals and found none. He crossed to Doc Williamson's office, but it was empty. Lola Monterey came quickly from the New York grocery and wheeled in front of him, whereat he lifted his hat and answered her question before she asked it. "Not a word, Lola."

      He saw her fists double up around a package. It made him offer the old and well-worn assurance. "No news is good news. There never was the hole Dave couldn't