Charles Alden Seltzer - Square Deal Sanderson

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However, his progress was slow, for he had to be careful not to let his
head show above the edge of the rock that formed the fissure; and so he
was busily engaged for the greater part of half an hour before he
finally reached a position from which he thought he could get a glimpse
of the men on his side of the defile.

Meanwhile there had been no sound from the bottom, or the other side of
the defile, except an occasional report of a rifle, which told that
Dale's men were firing, or the somewhat more crashing report of a
pistol, which indicated that his own men were replying.

From where he crouched in the fissure, Sanderson could see some of the
horses at the bottom of the defile. They were grazing unconcernedly.
Scattered along the bottom of the defile were the men who had fallen at
the first fire, and Sanderson's eye glinted with rage when he looked at
them; for he recognized some of them as men of the outfit for whom he
had conceived a liking. Two of Williams' men were lying there, too,
and Sanderson's lips grimmed as he looked at them.

Thoroughly aroused now, Sanderson replaced the empty cartridges in the
rifle with loaded ones, and, finding a spot between two small boulders,
he shoved the muzzle of the rifle through.

He had no fear of being shot at from the rear, for the men had
permitted him to go far enough through the defile to allow the others
following him to come into range before they opened fire.

Thus Sanderson was between the Dale outfit and the Double A ranchhouse,
and he had only to look back in the direction from which he and
Williams had come. None of the Dale men could cross the fissure.

Cautiously Sanderson raised his head above the rocky edge of the
fissure. He kept his head concealed behind the two small boulders and
he had an uninterrupted view of the entire side of the defile.

He saw a number of men crouching behind rocks and boulders
that were scattered over the steep slope, and he counted them
deliberately--sixteen. He could see their faces plainly, and he
recognized many of them as Dale's men. They were of the vicious type
that are to be found in all lawless communities.

Sanderson's grin as he sighted along the barrel of his rifle was full
of sardonic satisfaction, tempered with a slight disappointment. For
he did not see Dale among the others. Dale, he supposed, had stayed
behind.

The thought of what Dale might be doing at the Double A ranchhouse
maddened Sanderson, and taking quick sight at a man crouching behind a
rock, he pulled the trigger.

Looking only in front of him, at the other side of the defile where
Sanderson's men were concealed, the man did not expect attack from a
new quarter, and as Sanderson's bullet struck him he leaped up, howling
with pain and astonishment, clutching at his breast.

He had hardly exposed himself when several reports from the other side
of the defile greeted him. The man staggered and fell behind his rock,
his feet projecting from one side and his head from the other.

Instantly the battle took on a new aspect. It was a flank attack,
which Dale's men had not anticipated, and it confused them. Several of
them shifted their positions, and in doing so they brought parts of
their bodies into view of the men on the opposite wall.

There rose from the opposite wall a succession of reports, followed by
hoarse cries of pain from Dale's men. They flopped back again, thus
exposing themselves to Sanderson's fire, and the latter lost not one of
his opportunities.

It was the aggressors themselves that were now under cross fire, and
they relished it very little.

A big man, incensed at his inability to silence Sanderson, and wounded
in the shoulder, suddenly left the shelter of his rock and charged
across the steep face of the slope toward the fissure.

This man was brave, despite his associations, but he was a Dale man,
and deserved no mercy. Sanderson granted him none. Halfway of the
distance between his rock and the fissure he charged before Sanderson
shot him. The man fell soundlessly, turning over and over in his
descent to the bottom of the defile.

And then rose Williams' voice--Sanderson grinned with bitter humor:

"We've got them, boys; we've got them. Give them hell, the damned
buzzards!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

NYLAND MEETS A "KILLER"

Ben Nyland had gone to Lazette to attend to some business that had
demanded his attention. He had delayed going until he could delay no
longer.

"I hate like blazes to go away an' leave you alone, here--to face that
beast, Dale, if he comes sneakin' around. But I reckon I've just got
to go--I can't put it off any longer. If you'd only go an' stay at
Bransford's while I'm gone I'd feel a heap easier in my mind."

"I'm not a bit afraid," Peggy declared. "That last experience of
Dale's with Sanderson has done him good, and he won't bother me again."

That had been the conversation between Ben and Peggy as Ben got ready
to leave. And he had gone away, half convinced that Peggy was right,
and that Dale would not molest her.

But he had made himself as inconspicuous as possible while in Okar,
waiting for the train, and he was certain that none of Dale's men had
seen him.

Nyland had concluded his business as quickly as possible, but the best
he could do was to take the return train that he had told Peggy he
would take. That train brought him back to Okar late in the afternoon
of the next day.

Ben Nyland had been born and raised in the West, and he was of the type
that had made the West the great supply store of the country. Rugged,
honest, industrious, Ben Nyland had no ambitions beyond those of taking
care of his sister--which responsibility had been his since the death
of his parents years before.

It had not been a responsibility, really, for Nyland worshiped his
sister, and it had been his eagerness to champion her that had made an
enemy of Alva Dale.

He hated Dale, but not more than he hated Maison and Silverthorn for
the part they were playing--and had played--in trying to rob him of his
land.

Nyland was a plodder, but there ran in his veins the fighting blood of
ancestors who had conquered the hardships and dangers of a great,
rugged country, and there had been times when he thought of Dale and
the others that his blood had leaped like fire through his veins.

Twice Peggy had prevented him from killing Alva Dale.

Nyland was afflicted with a premonition of evil when he got off the
train at Okar. To the insistence of the owner of the livery stable,
where he had left his horse, Nyland replied:

"I ain't got no time to do any drinkin'; I've got to get home."

The premonition of evil still oppressed him as he rode his horse
homeward. He rode fast, his face set and worried.

When he reached the clearing through which Dale had come on the night
he had visited the Nyland cabin, he looked furtively around, for the
dire foreboding that had gripped him for hours had grown suddenly
stronger.

He halted his horse and sat motionless in the saddle, intently
examining every object within view.

It was to the horse corral that he finally turned when he could see
nothing strange in the objects around him. He had looked at the house,
and there seemed to be nothing wrong here, for he could see Peggy's
wash on the line that ran from a porch column to a corner of the stable.

The actions of the three horses in the corral was what attracted his
attention. They were crowding the rail at the point nearest him,
neighing shrilly, though with a curious clacking in their throats that
he instantly detected.

"They're wantin' water," he said aloud. He rode to the water trough
and saw that it was dry, with a deposit in the bottom which did not
contain a drop of moisture.

"There ain't been no water put in there since I left," he decided;
"them horses is chokin' with thirst."

A pulse of anxiety ran over him. There was no doubt in his mind now
that his presentiment of evil was not without foundation, and he
wheeled his horse and sent it toward the house.

"Peggy would give them water if she was able to be on her feet," he
declared, "she's that kind."

But halfway to the house another thought assailed him. It drew his
brows together in a scowl, it stiffened his lips until they were in
straight, hard lines.

"Mebbe Dale's been here! Mebbe he's still here!"

He abruptly halted his horse and gazed around him. As though he
expected to find something there he looked toward a little timber grove
to the right of the house, far back toward the rimming hills. At the
edge of the grove he saw a horse, saddled and bridled.

A quick change came over Nyland. The blood left his face, and his eyes
took on an expression of cold cunning.

Dismounting, he hitched his horse to one of the rails of the corral
fence. With his back turned to the house, his head cocked to one side,
as though he were intent on the knot he was tying in the reins, he
furtively watched the house.

He took a long time to tie the reins to the rail, but the time was well
spent, for, before he finished, he saw a man's face at one of the
kitchen windows.

It was not Dale. He was convinced of that, even though he got only a
flashing glance at the face.

Danger threatened Peggy, or she had succumbed to it. There was no
other explanation of the presence of a strange man in the kitchen. For
if Peggy was able to walk, she would have watered the horses, she would
have met him at the door, as she had always done.

And if the man were there for any good purpose he would have made his
presence known to Nyland, and would not have hidden himself in the
kitchen, to peer at Nyland through one of the windows.

Nyland was convinced that Peggy had been foully dealt with. But haste
and recklessness would avail Nyland little. The great mingled rage and
anxiety that had seized him demanded instant action, but he fought it
down; and when he turned toward the house and began to walk toward the
kitchen door, his manner--outwardly--was that of a man who has seen
nothing to arouse his suspicions.

Yet despite the appearance of calm he was alert, and every muscle and
sinew of his body was tensed for instant action. And so, when he had
approached to within a dozen feet of the kitchen door, and a man's
figure darkened the opening, he dove sidewise, drawing his gun as he
went down and snapping a shot at the figure he had seen.

So rapid were his movements, and so well timed was his fall, that he
was halfway to the ground when the flash came from the doorway. And
the crash of his own gun followed the other so closely that the two
seemed almost instantaneous.

Nyland did not conclude his acrobatic performance with the dive.
Landing on the ground he rolled over and over, scrambling toward the
wall of the cabin--reaching it on all fours and crouching there, gun in
hand--waiting.

He had heard no sound from the man, nor did the latter appear. The
silence within the cabin was as deep as it had been just an instant
before the exchange of shots.

There was a window in the rear wall of the cabin--a kitchen window.
There was another on the opposite side--the dining-room. There was a
front door and two windows on the side Nyland was on.

Two courses were open for Nyland. He could gain entrance to the house
through one of the windows or the front door, thereby running the risk
of making a target of himself, or he could stay on the outside and wait
for the man to come out--which he would have to do some time.

Nyland decided to remain where he was. For a long time he crouched
against the wall and nothing happened. Then, growing impatient, he
moved stealthily around the rear corner, stole to the rear window, and
peered inside.

It took him long to prepare for the look--he accomplished the action in
an instant--a flashing glance. A gun roared close to his head, the
flash blinding him; the glass tinkling on the ground at his feet.

But Nyland had not been hit, and he grinned felinely as he dropped to
the ground, slipped under the window, and ran around the house.
Ducking under the side window he ran around to the front. From the
front window he could look through the house, and he saw the man, gun
in hand, watching the side door.

Nyland took aim through the window, but just as he was about to pull
the trigger of the weapon the man moved stealthily toward the door--out
of Nyland's vision.

Evidently the man considered the many windows to be a menace to his
safety, and had determined to go outside, where he would have an equal
chance with his intended victim.

Grinning coldly, Nyland moved to the corner of the house nearest the
kitchen door. The man stepped out of the door, and at the instant
Nyland saw him he was looking toward the rear of the house.

Nyland laughed--aloud, derisively. He did not want to shoot the man in
the back.

At Nyland's laugh the man wheeled, snapping a shot from his hip. He
was an instant too late, though, for with the man's wheeling movement
Nyland's gun barked death to him.

He staggered, the gun falling from his loosening fingers, his hands
dropped to his sides, and he sagged forward inertly, plunging into the
dust in front of the kitchen door.

Nyland ran forward, peered into the man's face, saw that no more
shooting on his part would be required, and then ran into the house to
search for Peggy.

She was not in the house--a glance into each room told Nyland that. He
went outside again, his face grim, and knelt beside the man.

The latter's wound was fatal--Nyland saw that plainly, for the bullet
had entered his breast just above the heart.

Nyland got some water, for an hour he worked over the man, not to save
his life, but to restore him to consciousness only long enough to
question him.

And at last his efforts were rewarded: the man opened his eyes, and
they were swimming with the calm light of reason. He smiled faintly at
Nyland.

"Got me," he said. "Well, I don't care a whole lot. There's just one
thing that's been botherin' me since you come. Did you think somethin'
was wrong in the house when you was tyin' your cayuse over there at the
corral fence?"

At Nyland's nod he continued:

"I knowed it. It was the water, wasn't it--in the trough? I'm sure a
damned fool for not thinkin' of that! So that was it? Well, you've
got an eye in your head--I'll tell you that. I'm goin' to cash in, eh?"

Nyland nodded and the man sighed. He closed his eyes for an instant,
but opened them slightly at Nyland's question:

"What did you do to Peggy? Where is she?"

The man was sinking fast, and it seemed that he hardly comprehended
Nyland's question. The latter repeated it, and the man replied weakly:

"She's over in Okar--at Maison's--in his rooms. She----"

He closed his eyes and his lips, opening the latter again almost
instantly to cough a crimson stream.

Nyland got up, his face chalk white. Standing beside the man he
removed the two spent cartridges from the cylinder of his pistol and
replaced them with two loaded ones. Then he ran to his horse, tore the
reins from the rail of the corral fence, mounted with the horse in a
dead run, and raced toward Okar.

CHAPTER XXIX

NYLAND'S VENGEANCE

Just before the dusk enveloped Okar, Banker Maison closed the desk in
his private office and lit a cigar. He leaned back in the big desk
chair, slowly smoking, a complacent smile on his lips, his eyes glowing
with satisfaction.

For Maison's capacity for pleasure was entirely physical. He got more
enjoyment out of a good dinner and a fragrant cigar than many
intellectual men get out of the study of a literary masterpiece, or a
philanthropist out of the contemplation of a charitable deed.

Maison did not delve into the soul of things. The effect of his greed
on others he did not consider. That was selfishness, of course, but it
was a satisfying selfishness.

It did not occur to him that Mary Bransford, for instance, or
Sanderson--or anybody whom he robbed--could experience any emotion or
passion over their losses. They might feel resentful, to be sure; but
resentment could avail them little--and it didn't bring the dollars
back to them.

He chuckled. He was thinking of the Bransfords now--and Sanderson. He
had put a wolf on Sanderson's trail--he and Silverthorn; and Sanderson
would soon cease to bother him.

He chuckled again; and he sat in the chair at the desk, hugely enjoying
himself until the cigar was finished. Then he got up, locked the
doors, and went upstairs.

Peggy Nyland had not recovered consciousness. The woman who was caring
for the girl sat near an open window that looked out upon Okar's one
street when Maison entered the room.

Maison asked her if there was any change; was told there was not. He
stood for an instant at the window, mentally anathematizing Dale for
bringing the girl to his rooms, and for keeping her there; then he
dismissed the woman, who went down the stairs, opened the door that
Maison had locked, and went outside.

He stood for an instant longer at the window; then he turned and looked
down at Peggy, stretched out, still and white, on the bed.

Maison looked long at her, and decided it was not remarkable that Dale
had become infatuated with Peggy, for the girl was handsome.

Maison had never bothered with women, and he yielded to a suspicion of
sentiment as he looked down at Peggy. But, as always, the sentiment
was not spiritual.

Dale had intimated that the girl was his mistress. Well, he was bound
to acknowledge that Dale had good taste in such matters, anyway.

The expression of Maison's face was not good to see; there was a glow
in his eyes that, had Peggy seen it, would have frightened her.

And if Maison had been less interested in Peggy, and with his thoughts
of Dale, he would have heard the slight sound at the door; he would
have seen Ben Nyland standing there in the deepening dusk, his eyes
aflame with the wild and bitter passions of a man who had come to kill.

Maison did not see, nor did he hear until Ben leaped for him. Then
Maison heard him, felt his presence, and realized his danger.

He turned, intending to escape down the other stairway. He was too
late.

Ben caught him midway between the bed and the door that opened to the
stairway, and his big hands went around the banker's neck, cutting
short his scream of terror and the incoherent mutterings which followed
it.

Peggy Nyland had been suffering mental torture for ages, it seemed to
her. Weird and grotesque thoughts had followed one another in rapid
succession through her brain. The thing had grown so vivid--the
horrible imaginings had seemed so real, that many times she had been on
the verge of screaming. Each time she tried to scream, however, she
found that her jaws were tightly set, her teeth clenched, and she could
get no sound through them.

Lately, though--it seemed that it had been for hours--she had felt a
gradual lessening of the tension. Within the last few hours she had
heard voices near her; had divined that persons were near her. But she
had not been certain. That is, until within a few minutes.

Then it seemed to her that she heard some giant body threshing around
near her; she heard a stifled scream and incoherent mutterings. The
thing was so close, the thumping and threshing so real, that she
started and sat up in bed, staring wildly around.

She saw on the floor near her two men. One had his hands buried in the
other's throat, and the face of the latter was black and horribly
bloated.

This scene, Peggy felt, was real, and again she tried to scream.

The effort was successful, though the sound was not loud. One of the
men turned, and she knew him.

"Ben," she said in an awed, scared voice, "what in God's name are you
doing?"

"Killin' a snake!" he returned sullenly.

"Dale?" she inquired wildly. Her hands were clasped, the fingers
working, twisting and untwisting.

"Maison," he told her, his face dark with passion.

"Because of me! O, Ben! Maison has done nothing to me. It was Dale,
Ben--Dale came to our place and attacked me. I felt him carrying
me--taking me somewhere. This--this place----"

"Is Maison's rooms," Ben told her. In his eyes was a new passion; he
knelt beside the bed and stroked the girl's hair.

"Dale, you said--Dale. Dale hurt you? How?"

She told him, and he got up, a cold smile on his face.

"You feel better now, eh? You can be alone for a few minutes? I'll
send someone to you."

He paid no attention to her objections, to her plea that she was afraid
to be alone. He grinned at her, the grin that had been on his face
when he had shot Dal Colton, and backed away from her until he reached
the stairs.

Outside he mounted his horse and visited several saloons. There was no
sign of Dale. In the City Hotel he came upon a man who told him that
earlier in the day Dale had organized a posse and had gone to the
Double A to arrest Sanderson. This man was not a friend of Dale's, and
one of the posse had told him of Dale's plan.

Nyland mounted his horse again and headed it for the neck of the basin.
In his heart was the same lust that had been there while he had been
riding toward Okar.

And in his soul was a rage that had not been sated by the death of the
banker who, a few minutes before Nyland's arrival, had been so smugly
reviewing the pleasurable incidents of his life.

CHAPTER XXX

THE LAW TAKES A HAND

Barney Owen was tying the knot of the rope more securely when he heard
the bolt on the pantry door shoot back. He wheeled swiftly, to see
Mary Bransford emerging from the pantry, her hands covering her face in
a vain endeavor to shut from sight the grisly horror she had confronted
when she had reached her feet after recovering consciousness.

Evidently she had no knowledge of what had occurred, for when at a
sound Owen made and she uncovered her eyes, she saw Owen and instantly
fainted.

Owen dove forward and caught her as she fell, and then with a strength
that was remarkable in his frail body he carried her to the lounge in
the parlor.

Ho was compelled to leave her there momentarily, for he still
entertained fears that Dale would escape the loop of the rope. So he
ran into the pantry, looked keenly at Dale, saw that, to all
appearances, he was in the last stages of strangulation, and then went
out again, to return to Mary.

But before he left Dale he snatched the man's six-shooter from its
sheath, for his own had been lost in the confusion of the rush of
Dale's men for the door.

Mary was sitting up on the lounge when Owen returned. She was pale,
and a haunting fear, cringing, abject, was in her eyes.

She got to her feet when she saw Owen and ran to him, crying.

Owen tried to comfort her, but his words were futile.

"You be brave, little woman!" he said. "You must be brave! Sanderson
and the other men are in danger, and I've got to go to Okar for help!"

"I'll go with you," declared the girl. "I can't stay here--I won't. I
can't stand being in the same house with--with that!" She pointed to
the kitchen.

"All right," Owen said resignedly; "we'll both go. What did you do
with the money?"

Mary disclosed the hiding place, and Owen took the money, carried it to
the bunkhouse, where he stuffed it into the bottom of a tin food box.
Then, hurriedly, he saddled and bridled two horses and led them to
where Mary was waiting on the porch.

Mounting, they rode fast toward Okar--the little man's face working
nervously, a great eagerness in his heart to help the man for whom he
had conceived a deep affection.

Banker Maison had made no mistake when he had told Sanderson that Judge
Graney was honest. Graney looked honest. There was about him an
atmosphere of straightforwardness that was unmistakable and convincing.
It was because he was honest that a certain governor had sent him to
Okar.

And Graney had vindicated the governor's faith in him. Whenever crime
and dishonesty raised their heads in Okar, Judge Graney pinned them to
the wall with the sword of justice, and called upon all men to come and
look upon his deeds.

Maison, Silverthorn, and Dale--and others of their ilk--seldom called
upon the judge for advice. They knew he did not deal in their kind.
Through some underground channel they had secured a deputyship for
Dale, and upon him they depended for whatever law they needed to
further their schemes.

Judge Graney was fifty--the age of experience. He knew something of
men himself. And on the night that Maison and Sanderson had come to
him, he thought he had seen in Sanderson's eyes a cold menace, a
threat, that meant nothing less than death for the banker, if the
latter had refused to write the bill of sale.

For, of course, the judge knew that the banker was being forced to make
out the bill of sale. He knew that from the cold determination and
alert watchfulness in Sanderson's eyes; he saw it in the white
nervousness of the banker.

And yet it was not his business to interfere, or to refuse to attest
the signatures of the men. He had asked Maison to take the oath, and
the banker had taken it.

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