Charles Alden Seltzer - Square Deal Sanderson

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Thus it seemed he had entered into the contract in good faith. If he
had not, and there was something wrong about the deal, Maison had
recourse to the law, and the judge would have aided him.

But nothing had come of it; Maison had said nothing, had lodged no
complaint.

But the judge had kept the case in mind.

Late in the afternoon of the day on which Dale had organized the posse
to go to the Double A, Judge Graney sat at his desk in the courtroom.
The room was empty, except for a court attache, who was industriously
writing at a little desk in the rear of the room.

The Maison case was in the judge's mental vision, and he was wondering
why the banker had not complained, when the sheriff of Colfax entered.

Graney smiled a welcome at him. "You don't get over this way very
often, Warde, but when you do, I'm glad to see you. Sit on the
desk--that's your usual place, anyway."

Warde followed the suggestion about the desk; he sat on it, his legs
dangling. There was a glint of doubt and anxiety in his eyes.

"What's wrong, Warde?" asked the judge.

"Plenty," declared Warde. "I've come to you for advice--and perhaps
for some warrants. You recollect some time ago there was a herd of
cattle lost in Devil's Hole--and some men. Some of the men were shot,
and one or two of them went down under the herd when it stampeded."

"Yes," said the judge, "I heard rumors of it. But those things are not
uncommon, and I haven't time to look them up unless the cases are
brought formally to my attention."

"Well," resumed Warde, "at the time there didn't seem to be any clue to
work on that would indicate who had done the killing. We've nothing to
do with the stampede, of course--that sort of stuff is out of my line.
But about the shooting of the men. I've got evidence now."

"Go ahead," directed the judge.

"Well, on the night of the killing two of my men were nosing around the
level near Devil's Hole, trying to locate a horse thief who had been
trailed to that section. They didn't find the horse thief, but they
saw a bunch of men sneaking around a camp fire that belonged to the
outfit which was trailin' the herd that went down in Devil's Hole.

"They didn't interfere, because they didn't know what was up. But they
saw one of the men stampede the herd, and they saw the rest of them do
the killing."

"Who did the killing?"

"Dale and his gang," declared the sheriff.

Judge Graney's eyes glowed. He sat erect and looked hard at the
sheriff.

"Who is Sanderson?" he asked.

"That's the fellow who bossed the trail herd."

The judge smiled oddly. "There were three thousand head of cattle?"

Warde straightened. "How in hell do you know?" he demanded.

"Banker Maison paid for them," he said gently.

He related to Warde the incident of the visit of Sanderson and the
banker, and the payment to Sanderson by Maison of the ninety thousand
dollars.

At the conclusion of the recital Warde struck the desk with his fist.

"Damned if I didn't think it was something like that!" he declared.
"But I wasn't going to make a holler until I was sure. But Sanderson
knew, eh? He knew all the time who had done the killing, and who had
planned it. Game, eh? He was playing her a lone hand!"

The sheriff was silent for a moment, and then he spoke again, a glow of
excitement in his eyes. "But there'll be hell to pay about this! If
Sanderson took ninety thousand dollars away from Maison, Maison was
sure to tell Dale and Silverthorn about it--for they're as thick as
three in a bed. And none of them are the kind of men to stand for that
kind of stuff from anybody--not even from a man like Sanderson!"

"We've got to do something, Judge! Give me warrants for the three of
them--Dale, Maison, and Silverthorn, and I'll run them in before they
get a chance to hand Sanderson anything!"

Judge Graney called the busy clerk and gave him brief instructions. As
the latter started toward his desk there was a sound at the door, and
Barney Owen came in, breathing heavily.

Barney's eyes lighted when they rested upon the sheriff, for he had not
hoped to see him there. He related to them what had happened at the
Double A that day, and how Dale's men had followed Sanderson and the
others to "wipe them out" if they could.

"That settles it!" declared the sheriff. He was outside in an instant,
running here and there in search of men to form a posse. He found
them, scores of them; for in all communities where the law is
represented, there are men who take pride in upholding it.

So it was with Okar. When the law-loving citizens of the town were
told what had occurred they began to gather around the sheriff from all
directions--all armed and eager. And yet it was long after dusk before
the cavalcade of men turned their horses' heads toward the neck of the
basin, to begin the long, hard ride over the plains to the spot where
Sanderson, Williams, and the others had been ambushed by Dale's men.

A rumor came to the men, however, just before they started, which made
several of them look at one another--for there had been those who had
seen Ben Nyland riding down the street toward Maison's bank in the
dusk, his face set and grim and a wild light in his eyes.

"Maison has been guzzled--he's deader than a salt mackerel!" came the
word, leaping from lip to lip.

Sheriff Warde grinned. "Serves him right," he declared; "that's one
less for us to hang!"

CHAPTER XXXI

THE FUGITIVE

After the departure of Barney Owen and Mary Bransford, the Double A
ranchhouse was as silent as any house, supposed to be occupied by a
dead man, could be.

But after a few minutes, if one had looked over the top of the
partition from which Owen had hanged Alva Dale, one might have seen
Dale move a little. One might have been frightened, but if one had
stayed there, it would have been to see Dale move again.

The first time he moved he had merely placed his feet upon the floor,
to rest himself. The second movement resulted in him raising his
smashed hands and lifting the noose from his neck.

He threw it viciously from him after removing it, so that it flew over
the top of the partition and swished sinuously upon the floor of the
kitchen.

For Barney Owen had not done a good job in hanging Dale. For when
Barney had run across the kitchen with the rope, to tie it to the
fastenings of the door, it had slacked a little, enough to permit
Dale's toes to touch the floor of the pantry.

Feeling the slack, Dale had taken advantage of it, throwing his head
forward a little, to keep the rope taut while Owen fastened it. All
that had been involuntary with Dale.

For, at that time Dale had had no thought of trying to fool Owen--he
had merely taken what chance had given him. And when the first shock
of the thing was over he had begun his attempts to reach the top of the
partition in order to slacken the rope enough to get it over his
head--for at that time he did not know that already the rope was slack
enough.

It was not until after his hands had been smashed and he had dropped to
the floor again, that he realized that he might have thrown the rope
off at once.

Then it was too late for him to do anything, for he felt Owen above
him, at the top of the partition, and he thought Owen had a gun. So he
feigned strangulation, and Owen had been deceived.

And when Owen had entered the pantry, Dale still continued to feign
strangulation, letting his body sag, and causing a real pressure on his
neck. He dared not open his eyes to see if Owen had a weapon, for then
the little man, having a gun, would have quickly finished the work
that, seemingly, the rope had begun.

Dale might have drawn his own gun, taking a long chance of hitting
Owen, but he was at a great disadvantage because of the condition of
his hands, and he decided not to.

Dale heard Owen and Mary go out; he heard the clatter of hoofs as they
rode away. Then he emerged from the pantry, and through a window
watched the two as they rode down the slope of the basin.

Then Dale yielded to the bitter disappointment that oppressed him, and
cursed profanely, going from room to room and vengefully kicking things
out of his way while bandaging his smashed hands.

In the parlor he overturned the lounge and almost kicked it to pieces
searching for the money Mary had told him was concealed there.

"The damned hussy!" he raged, when he realized that the money was not
in the lounge.

He went out, got on his horse, and rode across the level back of the
house, and up the slope leading to the mesa, where he had seen
Sanderson riding earlier in the day.

For an hour he rode, warily, for he did not want to come upon Sanderson
unawares--if his men had not intercepted his enemy; and then reaching
the edge of a section of hilly country, he halted and sat motionless in
the saddle.

For, from some distance ahead of him he heard the reports of firearms,
and over him, at the sound, swept a curious reluctance to go any
farther in that direction.

For it seemed to him there was something forbidding in the sound; it
was as though the sounds carried to him on the slight breeze were
burdened with an evil portent; that they carried a threat and a warning.

He sat long there, undecided, vacillating. Then he shuddered, wheeled
his horse, and sent him scampering over the back trail.

He rode to the Bar D. His men--the regular punchers--were working far
down in the basin, and there was no one in the house.

He sat for hours alone in his office, waiting for news of the men he
had sent after Sanderson; and as the interval of their absence grew
longer the dark forebodings that had assailed him when within hearing
distance of the firing seized him again--grew more depressing, and he
sat, gripping the arms of his chair, a clammy perspiration stealing
over him.

He shook off the feeling at last, and stood up, scowling.

"That's what a man gets for givin' up to a damn fool notion like that,"
he said, thinking of the fear that had seized him while listening to
the shooting. "Once a man lets on he's afraid, the thing keeps a
workin' on him till he's certain sure he's a coward. Them boys didn't
need me, anyway--they'll get Sanderson."

So he justified his lack of courage, and spent some hours reading. But
at last the strain grew too great, and as the dusk came on he began to
have thoughts of Dal Colton. Ben Nyland must have reached home by this
time. Had Colton succeeded?

He thought of riding to Nyland's ranch, but he gave up that idea when
he reasoned that perhaps Colton had failed, and in that case Nyland
wouldn't be the most gentle person in the world to face on his own
property.

If Colton had succeeded he would find him, in Okar. So he mounted his
horse and rode to Okar.

The town seemed to be deserted when he dismounted in front of the City
Hotel. He did not go inside the building, merely looking in through
one of the windows, and seeing a few men in there, playing cards in a
listless manner. He did not see Colton.

He looked into several other windows. Colton was nowhere to be seen.
In several places Dale inquired about him. No one had seen Colton that
day.

No one said anything to Dale about what had happened. Perhaps they
thought he knew. At any rate, Dale heard no word of what had
transpired during his absence. Men spoke to him, or nodded--and looked
away, to look at him when his back was turned.

All this had its effect on Dale. He noted the restraint, he felt the
atmosphere of strangeness. But he blamed it all on the queer
premonition that had taken possession of his senses. It was not Okar
that looked strange, nor the men, it was himself.

He went to the bank building and entered the rear door, clumping
heavily up the stairs, for he felt a heavy depression. When he opened
the door at the top of the stairs night had come. A kerosene lamp on a
table in the room blinded him for an instant, and he stood, blinking at
it.

When his eyes grew accustomed to the glare he saw Peggy Nyland sitting
up in bed, looking at him.

She did not say anything, but continued to look at him. There was
wonder in her eyes, and Dale saw it. It was wonder over Dale's
visit--over his coming to Okar. Ben must have missed him, for Dale was
alive! Dale could not have heard what had happened.

"You're better, eh?" said Dale.

She merely nodded her reply, and watched Dale as he crossed the room.

Reaching a door that led into another room, Dale turned.

"Where's Maison?"

Peggy pointed at the door on whose threshold Dale stood.

Dale entered. What he saw in the room caused him to come out again,
his face ashen.

"What's happened?" he demanded hoarsely, stepping to the side of the
bed and looking down at Peggy.

Peggy told him. The man's face grew gray with the great fear that
clutched him, and he stepped back; then came forward again, looking
keenly at the girl as though he doubted her.

"Nyland killed him--choked him to death?" he said.

Peggy nodded silently. The cringing fear showing in the man's eyes
appalled her. She hated him, and he had done this thing to her, but
she did not want the stigma of another killing on her brother's name.

"Look here, Dale!" she said. "You'd better get out of here--and out of
the country! Okar is all stirred up over what you have done. Sheriff
Warde was in Okar and had a talk with Judge Graney. Warde knows who
killed those men at Devil's Hole, and he is going to hang them. You
are one of them; but you won't hang if Ben catches you. And he is
looking for you! You'd better go--and go fast!"

For an instant Dale stood, looking at Peggy, searching her face and
probing her eyes for signs that she was lying to him. He saw no such
signs. Turning swiftly, he ran down the stairs, out into the street,
and mounting, with his horse already running, he fled toward the basin
and the Bar D.

He had yielded entirely to the presentiment of evil that had tortured
him all day.

All his schemes and plots for the stealing of the Double A and Nyland's
ranch were forgotten in the frenzy to escape that had taken possession
of him, and he spurred his horse to its best efforts as he ran--away
from Okar; as he fled from the vengeance of those forces which his
evilness had aroused.

CHAPTER XXXII

WINNING A FIGHT

After Sanderson shot the big man who had tried to rush him, there was a
silence in the defile. Those of Dale's men who had positions of
security held them, not exposing themselves to the deadly fire of
Sanderson and the others.

For two hours Sanderson clung to his precarious position in the
fissure, until his muscles ached with the strain and his eyes blurred
because of the constant vigil. But he grimly held the place, knowing
that upon him depended in a large measure the safety of the men on the
opposite side of the defile.

The third hour was beginning when Sanderson saw a puff of smoke burst
from behind a rock held by one of his men; he heard the crash of a
pistol, and saw one of Dale's men flop into view from behind a rock
near him.

Sanderson's smile was a tribute to the vigilance of his men. Evidently
the Dale man, fearing Sanderson's inaction might mean that he was
seeking a new position from where he could pick off more of his
enemies, had shifted his own position so no part of his body was
exposed to Sanderson.

He had wriggled around too far, and the shot from Sanderson's man had
been the result.

The man was not dead; Sanderson could see him writhing. He was badly
wounded, too, and Sanderson did not shoot, though he could have
finished him.

But the incident drew Sanderson's attention to the possibilities of a
new position. He had thought at first that he had climbed as high in
the fissure as he dared without exposing himself to the fire of the
Dale men; but examining the place again he saw that he might, with
exceeding caution, take another position about twenty feet farther on.

He decided to try. Letting himself down until his feet struck a flat
rock projection, he rested. Then, the weariness dispersed, he began to
climb, shoving his rifle between his body and the cartridge belt around
his waist.

It took him half an hour to reach the point he had decided upon, and by
that time the sun had gone far down into the hazy western distance, and
a glow--saffron and rose and violet--like a gauze curtain slowly
descending--warned him that twilight was not far away.

Sanderson determined to finish the battle before the darkness could
come to increase the hazard, and when he reached the spot in the
fissure he hurriedly took note of the strategical points of the
position.

There was not much concealment for his body. He was compelled to lie
flat on his stomach to be certain that no portion of his body was
exposed; and he found a place in a little depression at the edge of the
fissure that seemed suitable. Then he raised his head above the little
ridge that concealed him from his enemies.

He saw them all--every man of them. Some of them were crouching; some
were lying prone--apparently resting; still others were sitting, their
backs against their protection--waiting.

Sanderson took his rifle by the barrel and with the stock forced a
channel through some rotted rock on the top of the little ridge that
afforded him concealment. When he had dug the channel deeply
enough--so that he could aim the weapon without exposing his head--he
stuck the rifle barrel into the channel and shouted to the Dale men:

"This game is played out, boys! I'm behind you. You can't hide any
longer. I give you fair warning that if you don't come out within a
minute, throwin' your guns away an' holdin' up your hands, I'll pick
you off, one by one! That goes!"

There was sincerity in Sanderson's voice, but the men doubted.
Sanderson saw them look around, but it was plain to him that they could
not tell from which direction his voice came.

"Bluffin'!" scoffed a man who was in plain view of Sanderson; the very
man, indeed, upon whom Sanderson had his rifle trained.

"Bluffin', eh?" replied Sanderson grimly. "I've got a bead on you. At
the end of one minute--if you don't toss your guns away and step out,
holdin' up your hands, I'll bore you--plenty!"

Half a minute passed and the man did not move. He was crouching, and
his gaze swept the edge of the fissure from which Sanderson's voice
seemed to come. His face was white, his eyes wide with the fear of
death.

Just when it seemed that Sanderson must shoot to make his statement and
threat convincing, the man shouted:

"This game's too certain--for me, I'm through!"

He threw his weapons away, so that they went bounding and clattering to
the foot of the slope. Then he again faced the fissure, shouting:

"I know I've caved, an' you know I've caved. But what about them guys
on the other side, there? They'll be blowin' me apart if I go to
showin' myself."

Sanderson called to Williams and the others, telling them the men were
going to surrender, and warning them to look out for treachery.

"If one of them tries any monkey-shines, nail him!" he ordered.
"There's eleven of them that ain't been touched--an' some more that
ain't as active as they might be. But they can bend a gun handy
enough. Don't take any chances!"

Sanderson ordered the man to step out. He did so, gingerly, as though
he expected to be shot. When he was in plain view of Sanderson's men,
Sanderson ordered him to descend the slope and stand beside a huge rock
ledge. He watched while the man descended; then he called to the
others:

"Step up an' take your medicine! One at a time! Guns first.
Williams!" he called. "You get their guns as fast as they come down.
I'll see that none of them plug you while you're doin' it!"

There was no hitch in the surrender; and no attempt to shoot Williams.
One by one the men dropped their weapons down the slope.

When all the men had reached the bottom of the defile Sanderson climbed
down and asked the first man who had surrendered where they had left
their horses. The animals were brought, and the men forced to mount
them. Then, the Dale men riding ahead, Sanderson and the others
behind, they began the return trip.

When they reached the open country above the defile, Sanderson rode
close to Williams.

"There's enough of you to take care of this gang," he said, indicating
the prisoners; "I'm goin' to hit the breeze to the Double A an' see
what's happened there!"

"Sure!" agreed Williams. "Beat it!"

When Streak got the word he leaped forward at a pace that gave Williams
an idea of how he had gained his name. He flashed by the head of the
moving columns and vanished into the growing darkness, running with
long, swift, sure leaps that took him over the ground like a feather
before a hurricane.

But fast as he went, he did not travel too rapidly for Sanderson. For
in Sanderson's heart also lurked a premonition of evil. But he did not
fear it; it grimmed his lips, it made his eyes blaze with a wanton,
savage fire; it filled his heart with a bitter passion to slay the man
who had stayed behind at the Double A ranchhouse.

And he urged Streak to additional effort, heading him recklessly
through sections of country where a stumble meant disaster, lifting him
on the levels, and riding all the time with only one thought in
mind--speed, speed, speed.

CHAPTER XXXIII

A MAN LEAVES OKAR

Riding the hard trail through the basin, from its neck at Okar to the
broad, upward slope that led to the Double A ranchhouse, came another
man, who also was sacrificing everything to speed. His horse was
fresh, and he spared it not at all as he swept in long, smooth, swift
undulations over the floor of the basin.

Ben Nyland's lips were as straight and hard as were those of the other
man who was racing toward the Double A from another direction; his face
was as grim, and his thoughts were as bitter and savage.

When he reached the bottom of the long, gentle slope that stretched to
the Double A ranchhouse he did not spare his horse. The terrible spurs
sank in again and again, stirring the animal to a frenzy of effort, and
he rushed up the slope as though it were a level, snorting with pain
and fury, but holding the pace his rider demanded of him.

And when he reached the corral fence near the Double A ranchhouse, and
his rider dismounted and ran forward, the horse heaved a sigh of relief
and stood, bracing his legs to keep from falling, his breath coming in
terrific heaves.

An instant after his arrival Ben Nyland was in side the Double A
ranchhouse, pistol in hand. He tore through the rooms in the darkness,
stumbling over the furniture, knocking it hither and there as it
interfered with his progress.

He found no one. Accidentally colliding with the table in the kitchen,
he searched its top and discovered thereon a kerosene lamp. Lighting
it with fingers that trembled, he looked around him.

There were signs of the confusion that had reigned during the day. He
saw on the floor the rope that had encircled Dale's neck--one end of it
was tied to the fastenings of the kitchen door.

The tied rope was a mystery to Nyland, but it suggested hanging to his
thoughts, already lurid, and he leaped for the pantry. There he grimly
viewed the wreck and turned away, muttering.

"He's been here an' gone," he said, meaning Dale; "them's his
marks--ruin."

Blowing out the light he went to the front door, paused in it and then
went out upon the porch, from where he could look northeastward at the
edge of the mesa surmounting the big slope that merged into the floor
of the basin.

Faintly outlined against the luminous dark blue of the sky, he caught
the leaping silhouette of a horse and rider. He grinned coldly, and
stepped back into the shadow of the doorway.

"That's him, damn him!" he said. "He's comin' back!"

He had not long to wait. He saw the leaping silhouette disappear,
seeming to sink into the earth, but he knew that horse and rider were
descending the slope; that it would not be long before they would
thunder up to the ranchhouse--and he gripped the butt of his gun until
his fingers ached.

He saw a blot appear from the dark shadows of the slope and come
rushing toward him. He could hear the heave and sob of the horse's
breath as it ran, and in another instant the animal came to a sliding
halt near the edge of the porch, the rider threw himself out of the
saddle and ran forward.

At the first step taken by the man after he reached the porch edge, he
was halted by Nyland's sharp:

"Hands up!"

And at the sound of the other's voice the newcomer cried out in
astonishment:

"Ben Nyland! What in hell are you doin' here?"

"Lookin' for Dale," said the other, hoarsely. "Thought you was him,
an' come pretty near borin' you. What saved you was a notion I had of
wantin' Dale to know what I was killin' him for! Pretty close, Deal!"

"Why do you want to kill him?"

"For what he done to Peggy--damn him! He sneaked into the house an'
hurt her head, draggin' her to Okar--to Maison's. I've killed Maison,
an' I'll kill him!"

"He ain't here, then--Dale ain't?" demanded Sanderson.

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