The Coming of the Law

Rapidly, but with rather less excitement in his manner than he had exhibited on his entrance, the boy related in detail the conversation he had overheard at the Fashion. When he had finished Hollis patted him approvingly on the back.

“The official circulation manager of the Kicker has made good,” he said with a smile. “Now go home and take a good rest and be ready to deliver the Kicker next Saturday.”

The boy backed away and stood looking at Hollis in surprise. “Why!” he said in an awed voice, “you ain’t none scared a-tall!”

“I certainly am scared,” laughed Hollis; “scared that Ten Spot will change his mind before six o’clock. Do you think he will?”

“No!” emphatically declared the boy. “I don’t reckon that Ten Spot will change his mind a-tall. He’ll sure come down here to shoot you!”

“That relieves me,” returned Hollis dryly. “Now you go home. But,” he warned, “don’t tell anyone that I am scared.”

For an instant the boy looked at Hollis critically, searching his face with all a boy’s unerring judgment for signs which would tell of insincerity. Seeing none, he deliberately stretched a hand out to Hollis, his lips wreathing into an approving grin.

“Durned if you ain’t the stuff!” he declared. “I’m just bettin’ that Ten Spot ain’t scarin’ you none!” Then he backed out of the door and still grinning, disappeared.

After Jiggs had gone Hollis turned and smiled at Potter. “I suppose you know this man Ten Spot,” he said. “Will he come?”

“He will come,” returned Potter. His face was pale and his lips quivered a little as he continued: “Ten Spot is the worst of Dunlavey’s set,” he said; “a dangerous, reckless taker of human life. He is quick on the trigger and a dead shot. He is called Ten Spot because of the fact that once, with a gun in each hand, he shot all the spots from a ten of hearts at ten paces.”

Hollis sat silent, thoughtfully stroking his chin. Potter smiled admiringly.

“I know that you don’t like to run,” he said; “you aren’t that kind. But you haven’t a chance with Ten Spot–unfortunately you haven’t had much experience with a six-shooter.” Potter’s hands shook as he tried to resume work at the type case. “I didn’t think they would have nerve enough for that game,” he added, advancing again toward Hollis. “I rather thought they would try some other plan–something not quite so raw. But it seems they have nerve enough for anything. Hollis” he concluded dejectedly, “you’ve got to get out of town before six o’clock or Ten Spot will kill you!

“You’ve got plenty of time,” he resumed as Hollis kept silent; “it’s only a little after four. You can get on your horse and be almost at the Circle Bar at six. No one can blame you for not staying–everybody knows that you can’t handle a gun fast enough to match Ten Spot. Maybe if you do light out and don’t show up in town for a week or so this thing will blow over.”

“Thank you very much for that advice, Potter,” said Hollis slowly. “I appreciate the fact that you are thinking of my safety. But of course there is another side to the situation. You of course realize that if I run now I am through here–no one would ever take me seriously after it had been discovered that I had been run out of town by Ten Spot.”

“That’s a fact,” admitted Potter. “But of course – ”

“I think that is settled,” interrupted Hollis. “You can’t change the situation by argument. I’ve got to face it and face it alone. I’ve got to stay here until Ten Spot comes. If I can’t beat him at his game he wins and you can telegraph East to my people.” He rose and walked to the window, his back to the printer.

“You can knock off for to-day, Potter. Jump right on your pony and get out to Circle Bar. I wouldn’t say anything to Norton or anyone until after nine to-night and then if I don’t show up at the ranch you will know that Ten Spot has got me.”

He stood at the window while Potter slowly drew off his apron, carefully folded it and tucked it into a corner. He moved very deliberately, as though reluctant to leave his chief. Had Hollis shown the slightest sign of weakening Potter would have stayed. But watching closely he saw no sign of weakness in the impassive face of his chief, and so, after he had made his preparations for departure, he drew a deep breath of resignation and walked slowly to the back door, where his pony was hitched. He halted at the threshold, looking back at his chief.

“Well, good-bye then,” he said.

Hollis did not turn. “Good-bye,” he answered.

Potter took one step outward, hesitated, and then again faced the front of the office.

“Damn it, Hollis,” he said hoarsely, “don’t wait for Ten Spot to start anything; when you see him coming in the door bore him. You’ve got a right to; that’s the law in this country. When a man gives you notice to leave town you’ve got a right to shoot him on sight!”

For a moment he stood, awaiting an answer. None came. Potter sighed and stepped out through the door, leaving his chief alone.

At one minute to six Hollis pulled out his watch. He sighed, replaced the time-piece, and leaned back in his chair. A glance out through the window showed him that the street was deserted except for here and there a cow pony drooping over one of the hitching rails and a wagon or two standing in front of a store. The sun was coming slantwise over the roofs; Hollis saw that the strip of shade in front of the Kicker building had grown to wide proportions. He looked at his watch again. It was one minute after six–and still there were no signs of Ten Spot.

A derisive grin appeared on Hollis’s face. Perhaps Ten Spot had reconsidered. He decided that he would wait until ten minutes after six; that would give Ten Spot a decent margin of time for delay.

And then there was a sudden movement and a man stood just inside the office door, a heavy revolver in his right hand, its muzzle menacing Hollis. The man was tall and angular, apparently about thirty years old, with thin, cruel lips and insolent, shifty eyes.

“’Nds up!” he said sharply, swinging the revolver to a threatening poise. “It’s six o’clock, you tenderfoot – !”

This was the vile epithet that had been applied to Hollis by Yuma Ed, which had been the direct cause of Yuma’s downfall the day of Hollis’s arrival in Dry Bottom. Hollis’s eyes flashed, but the man was several feet from him and out of reach of his fists. Had Hollis been standing he would have had no chance to reach the man before the latter could have made use of his weapon. Therefore Hollis remained motionless in his chair, catching the man’s gaze and holding it steadily with unwavering, narrowed eyes.

Though he had waited for the coming of Ten Spot, he had formulated no plan of action; he had felt that somehow he would come out of the clash with him without injury. He still thought so. In spite of his danger he felt that some chance of escape would be offered him. Grimly confident of this he smiled at the man, though still holding his gaze, determined, if he saw the faintest flicker of decision in his eyes, to duck and tackle him regardless of consequences.

“I suppose you are Ten Spot?” he said slowly. He was surprised at the steadiness of his voice.

The man grinned, his eyes alert, shifty, filled with a chilling menace. “You’ve got her right, tenderfoot,” he said; “‘Ten Spot’s’ m’ handle, an’ if you’re a-feelin’ like criticizin’ of her do her some rapid before I starts dealin’ out the lead which is in my pritty.”

Just how one man could be so entirely remorseless as to shoot another when that other man was looking straight into his eyes Hollis could not understand. He could readily realize how a man could kill when provoked to anger, or when brooding over an injury. But he had done nothing to Ten Spot–did not even know him–had never seen him before, and how Ten Spot could deliberately shoot him–without provocation–was incomprehensible. He was convinced that in order to shoot, Ten Spot must work himself into an artificial rage, and he believed that the vile epithet which Ten Spot had applied to him immediately upon his entrance must be part of his scheme. He was convinced that had he shown the slightest resentment over the application of the epithet Ten Spot would have shot him down at once. Therefore he resolved to give the man no opportunity to work himself into a rage. He smiled again as Ten Spot concluded and carelessly twisted himself about in his chair until he was in a position to make a quick spring.

“‘Ten Spot’ is a picturesque name,” he remarked quietly, not removing his gaze from Ten Spot’s eyes for the slightest fraction of a second; “I have no criticism to make. I have always made it a point to refrain from criticizing my visitors. At least I do not recollect ever having criticized a visitor who carried a gun,” he concluded with a smile.

Ten Spot’s lips curled sarcastically. Apparently he would not swerve in his determination to provoke trouble.

“Hell,” he said truculently, “that there palaver makes me sick. I reckon you’re too damn white livered to criticize a man that’s lookin’ at you. There ain’t no tenderfoot (here he applied the unprintable epithet again) got nerve enough to criticize nothin’!”

Hollis slowly raised his hands and placed them on the arms of his chair, apparently to steady himself, but in reality to be ready to project himself out of the chair in case he could discern any indication of action on Ten Spot’s part.

“Ten Spot,” he said in a low, even, well controlled voice, conciliatory, but filled with a manliness which no man could mistake, “at four o’clock this afternoon I heard that you and Yuma Ed were framing up your present visit. I am not telling who gave me the information,” he added as he saw Ten Spot’s eyes brighten, “but that is what happened. So you see I know what you have come for. You have come to kill me. Is that correct?”

Ten Spot’s eyes narrowed–into them had come an appraising, speculative glint. He nodded. “You’ve got her right,” he admitted gruffly. “But if you knowed why didn’t you slope?” He looked at Hollis with a half sneer, as though unable to decide whether Hollis was a brave man or merely a fool.

Hollis saw the indecision in Ten Spot’s eyes and his own brightened. At last he had planned a form of action and he cooly estimated the distance between himself and Ten Spot. While Hollis had been speaking Ten Spot had taken a step forward and he was now not over four or five feet distant. Into Ten Spot’s eyes had come an amused, disdainful gleam; Hollis’s quiet, argumentative attitude had disarmed him. This was exactly what Hollis had been waiting for.

Ten Spot seemed almost to have forgotten his weapon; it had sagged, the muzzle pointing downward–the man’s mind had become temporarily diverted from his purpose. When he saw Hollis move suddenly forward he remembered his gun and tried to swing its muzzle upward, but it was too late. Hollis had lunged forward, his left hand closing on Ten Spot’s right wrist, his right fist reaching Ten Spot’s jaw in a full, sweeping, crashing uppercut.

The would-be killer did not have even time enough to pull the trigger of his six-shooter. It fell from his hand and thudded dully to the floor as his knees doubled under him and he collapsed in an inert, motionless heap near the door.

With a grim smile on his face Hollis picked up Ten Spot’s weapon and placed it on the desk. For an instant he stood at the window, looking out into the street. Down near the Fashion he saw some men–Yuma Ed among them. No doubt they were waiting the sound of the pistol shot which would tell them that Ten Spot had disposed of Hollis. Hollis grinned widely–Yuma and his gang were due for a surprise. For perhaps a minute Hollis stood beside the desk, watching Ten Spot. Then when the latter’s hands began to twitch and a trace of color appeared in his face, Hollis pulled out his own revolver and approached him, standing within a few feet of him and looking down at him.

There was no mark on Ten Spot’s jaw to show where Hollis’s blow had landed, for his fist had struck flush on the point, its force directed upward. Ten Spot’s mouth had been open at the instant and the snapping of his teeth from the impact of the blow no doubt had much to do with his long period of unconsciousness.

He stirred presently and then with an effort sat up and looked at his conqueror with a glance of puzzled wonderment. Seeing Hollis’s weapon and his own on the desk, the light of past events seemed to filter into his bewildered brain. He grinned owlishly, felt of his jaw and then bowed his head, a flush of shame overspreading his face.

“Herd-rode!” he said dismally. “Herd-rode, an’ by a tenderfoot! Oh, Lordy!” He suddenly looked up at Hollis, his eyes flashing with rage and defiance.

“Damn your hide, why don’t you shoot?” he demanded. He placed his hands, palm down, on the floor, preparatory to rising, but ceased his efforts when he heard Hollis’s voice, coldly humorous:

“I shall shoot you just the instant you get to your feet. I rather think that I am running things here now.”

Ten Spot sagged back and looked up at him. “Why I reckon you are,” he said. No method of action having suggested itself to him, he continued to sit, watching Hollis narrowly.

The latter retreated to his chair and dropped into it, moving deliberately. When he spoke his voice was cold and metallic.

“When you first came into the office,” he said, “you applied a vile epithet to me. Once after that you did it again. You have asked me why I don’t shoot you. If you really want me to shoot you you can keep your mouth closed for just one minute. If you want to continue to live you can tell me that you didn’t mean a word of what you said on those two occasions. It’s up to you.” He sat silent, looking steadily at Ten Spot.

The latter fidgeted, shame again reddening his cheeks. “Why,” he said finally, “I reckon she don’t go, tenderfoot. You see, she’s only a noma de ploom which we uses when we wants to rile somebody. I cert’nly didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Thanks,” drawled Hollis dryly; “I’ll call that sufficient. But you certainly did ‘rile’ me some.”

“I reckon I must have done just that,” grinned Ten Spot ruefully. “You’re shorely some she-wolf with them there claws of your’n. An’ I done laffed at Dunlavey an’ Yuma after you’d clawed them.” His face sobered, his eyes suddenly filling with an expression of defiant resignation.

“I reckon when you’re done triflin’ with me you c’n start to pumpin’ your lead,” he said. “There ain’t no use of prolongin’ the agony.” He looked steadily at Hollis, his eyes filling with decision as he again placed his hands beside him on the floor to rise.

“You c’n open the ball when you get damn good an’ ready,” he sneered, “but I’m gettin’ up right now. I ain’t goin’ to die off my pins like a damn coyote!”

He rose quickly, plainly expecting to be shot down the moment he reached his feet. When he discovered that Hollis evidently intended to delay the fatal moment he stiffened, his lips twitching queerly.

“Ten Spot,” said Hollis quietly, “by apologizing for what you said when you came in you have shown that there is a great deal of the man left in you despite your bad habits and associations. I am going to show you that I think there is enough of the man left in you to trust you with your gun.”

He turned abruptly to the desk and took up Ten Spot’s weapon, holding it by the muzzle and presenting it to the latter. Ten Spot looked from the weapon to Hollis and back again to the weapon, blank amazement pictured on his face. Then he reached out mechanically, taking the weapon and holding it in his hands, turning it over and over as though half inclined to believe that it was not a revolver at all.

“Chuck full of cattridges, too!” he exclaimed in amazement, as he examined the chambers.

“Why, hell – ” He crouched and deftly swung the six-shooter around, the butt in his hand, his finger resting on the trigger. In this position he looked at Hollis.

The latter had not moved, but his own weapon was in his right hand, its muzzle covering Ten Spot, and when the latter swung his weapon up Hollis smiled grimly at him.

“Using it?” he questioned.

For an instant it seemed that Ten Spot would. An exultant, designing expression came into his eyes, he grinned, his teeth showing tigerishly. Then suddenly he snapped himself erect and with a single, dexterous movement holstered the weapon. Then his right hand came suddenly out toward Hollis.

“Shake!” he said. “By – , you’re white!”

Hollis smiled as he returned the hearty handclasp.

“You’re cert’nly plum grit,” assured Ten Spot as he released Hollis’s hand and stepped back the better to look at the latter. “But I reckon you’re some damn fool too. How did you know that I wouldn’t turn you into a colander when you give me back my gun?”

“I didn’t know,” smiled Hollis. “I just took a chance. You see,” he added, “it was this way. I never intended to shoot you. That sort of thing isn’t in my line and I don’t intend to shoot anyone if there is any way out of it. But I certainly wasn’t going to allow you to shoot me.” He smiled oddly. “So I watched my chance and slugged you. Then when I was certain that you weren’t dangerous any more I had to face another problem. If I had turned you loose after taking your gun what would you have done?”

“I’d have gone out an’ rustled another gun an’ come back here an’ salivated you.”

“That’s just what you would have done,” smiled Hollis. “I intend to stay in this country, Ten Spot, and if I had turned you loose without an understanding you would have shot me at the first opportunity. As it stands now you owe me – ”

“As it stands now,” interrupted Ten Spot, a queer expression on his face, “I’m done shootin’ as far as you’re concerned.” He walked to the door, hesitated on the threshold and looked back. “Mister man,” he said slowly, “mebbe you won’t lick Big Bill in this here little mix-up, but I’m telling you that you’re goin’ to give him a damn good run for his money! So-long.”

He stepped down and disappeared. For a moment Hollis looked after him, and then he sat down at the desk, his face softening into a satisfied smile. It was something to receive a tribute from a man like Ten Spot.

CHAPTER X

THE LOST TRAIL

It was after seven o’clock when Hollis mounted his pony in the rear of the Kicker office and rode out over the plains toward the Circle Bar. He was properly elated by the outcome of his affair with Ten Spot. The latter had come to the Kicker office as an enemy looking for an opportunity to kill. He had left the office, perhaps not a friend, but at least a neutral, sympathetic onlooker, for according to Hollis’s interpretation of his words at parting he would take no further part in Dunlavey’s campaign–at least he would do no more shooting.

Hollis was compelled to make a long detour in order to strike the Circle Bar trail, and when at seven-thirty o’clock he rode down through a dry arroyo toward a little basin which he must cross to reach a ridge that had been his landmark during all his trips back and forth from Dry Bottom to the Circle Bar, dusk had fallen and the shadows of the oncoming night were settling somberly down over the plains.

He rode slowly forward; there was no reason for haste, for he had told Potter to say nothing about the reason of his delay in leaving Dry Bottom, and Potter would not expect him before nine o’clock. Hollis had warmed toward Potter this day; there had been in the old printer’s manner that afternoon a certain solicitous concern and sympathy that had struck a responsive chord in his heart. He was not a sentimentalist, but many times during his acquaintance with Potter he had felt a genuine pity for the man. It had been this sentiment which had moved him to ask Potter to remove temporarily to the Circle Bar, though one consideration had been the fact at the Circle Bar he would most of the time be beyond the evil influence of Dry Bottom’s saloons. That Potter appreciated this had been shown by his successful fight against temptation the night before, when postponement of the publication of the Kicker would have been fraught with serious consequences.

Riding down through the little basin at the end of the arroyo Hollis yielded to a deep, stirring satisfaction over the excellent beginning he had made in his fight against Dunlavey and the interests behind him. Many times he smiled, thinking of the surprise his old friends in the East must have felt over the perusal of their copies of the Kicker; over the information that he–who had been something of a figure in Eastern newspaperdom–had become the owner and editor of a newspaper in a God-forsaken town in New Mexico, and that at the outset he was waging war against interests that ridiculed a judge of the United States Court. He smiled grimly. They might be surprised, but they must feel, all who knew him, that he would stay and fight until victory rewarded him or until black, bitter defeat became his portion. There could be no compromise.

When he reached the ridge toward which he had been riding for the greater part of an hour night had come. The day had been hot, but there had been a slight breeze, and in the Kicker office, with the front and rear doors open, he had not noticed the heat very much. But just as he reached the ridge he became aware that the breeze had died down; that waves of hot, sultry air were rising from the sun-baked earth. Usually at this time of the night there were countless stars, and now as he looked up into the great, vast arc of sky he saw no stars at all except away down in the west in a big rift between some mountains. He pulled up his pony and sat motionless in the saddle, watching the sky. A sudden awe for the grandeur of the scene filled him. He remembered to have seen nothing quite like it in the East.

Back toward Dry Bottom, and on the north and south, rose great, black thunderheads with white crests, seeming like mountains with snowcapped peaks. Between the thunder-heads were other clouds, of grayish-white, fleecy, wind-whipped, weird shapes, riding on the wings of the Storm-Kings. Other clouds flanked these, moving slowly and majestically–like great ships on the sea–in striking contrast to the fleecy, unstable shapes between the thunderheads, which, though rushing always onward, were riven and broken by the irresistible force behind them. To Hollis it seemed there were two mighty opposing forces at work in the sky, marshalling, maneuvering, preparing for conflict. While he sat motionless in the saddle watching, a sudden gust of cold wind swirled up around him, dashed some fine, flint-like sand against his face and into his eyes, and then swept onward. He was blinded for an instant, and allowed the reins to drop on his pony’s neck while he rubbed his eyes with his fingers. He sat thus through an ominous hush and then to his ears came a low, distant rumble.

He touched his pony lightly on the flanks with his spurs and headed it along the ridge, convinced that a storm was coming and suddenly realizing that he was many miles from shelter.

He had traveled only a little distance when clouds of sand and dust, wind-driven, enveloped him, blinding him again, stinging his face and hands and blotting out the landmarks upon which he depended to guide him to the Circle Bar. The sky had grown blacker; even the patch of blue that he had seen in the rift between the distant mountains was now gone. There was nothing above him–it seemed–except inky black clouds, nothing below but chaos and wind. He could not see a foot of the trail and so he gave the pony the rein, trusting to its instinct.

When Norton had provided him with an outfit the inevitable tarpaulin had not been neglected. Hollis remembered that this was attached to the cantle of the saddle, and so, after he had proceeded a little way along the crest of the ridge, he halted the pony, dismounted, unstrapped the tarpaulin, and folded it about him. Then he remounted and continued on his way, mentally thanking Norton for his foresight.

The pony had negotiated the ridge; had slowly loped down its slope to a comparatively low and level stretch of country, and was traveling steadily forward, when Hollis noticed a change in the atmosphere. It had grown hot again–sultry; the heat seemed to cling to him. An ominous calm had succeeded the aerial disturbance. From a great distance came a slight sound–a gentle sighing–gradually diminishing until it died away entirely. Then again came the ominous, premonitory silence–an absolute absence of life and movement. Hollis urged the pony forward, hoping the calm would last until he had covered a goodly part of the distance to the Circle Bar. For a quarter of an hour he went on at a good pace. But he had scarcely reached the edge of a stretch of broken country–which he dreaded even in the daylight–when the storm was upon him.