The Rangeland Avenger by Max Brand

  13

  From the first there was no thought in the sheriff's mind of ridingstraight into Woodville, trussed and helpless as he was. Woodvillerespected him, and the whole district was proud of its sheriff. He knewthat five minutes of laughter can blast the finest reputation that wasever built by a lifetime of hard labor. He knew the very faces of themen who would never let the story die, of how the sheriff came intotown, not only without his prisoner, but tied hand and foot, helplessin the saddle.

  Without his prisoner!

  Never before in his twenty years as sheriff had a criminal escaped fromhis hands. Many a time they had tried, and on those occasions he hadbrought back a dead body for the hand of the law.

  This time he had ample excuse. Any man in the world might admit that hewas helpless when such a fellow as Riley Sinclair took him by surprise.He knew Sinclair well by reputation, and he respected all that he hadheard.

  No matter for that. The fact remained that his unbroken string ofsuccesses was interrupted. Perhaps Woodville would explain his failureaway. No doubt some of the men knew of Sinclair and would not wonder.They would stand up doughtily for the prowess of their sheriff. Yet thefact held that he had failed. It was a moral defeat more than anythingelse.

  His mind was made up to remain in the mountains until he starved, oruntil he had removed those shameful ropes--his own rope! At thatthought he writhed again. But here an arroyo opening in the ragged wallof a cliff caught his eye. He turned his horse into it and continued onhis way until he saw a projecting rock with a ragged edge, left where agreat fragment had recently fallen away.

  Here he found it strangely awkward and even perilous to dismountwithout his hands to balance his weight, as he shifted out of thestirrups. In spite of his care, he stumbled over a loose rock as hestruck the ground and rolled flat on his back. He got up, grinding histeeth. His hands were tied behind him. He turned his back on the brokenrock and sawed the ropes against it. To his dismay he felt the rockedge crumble away. It was some chalky, friable stuff, and it gave atthe first friction.

  Beads of moisture started out on the sheriff's forehead. Hastily hestarted on down the arroyo and found another rock, with an edge notnearly so favorable in appearance, but this time it was granite. Heleaned his back against it and rubbed with a short shoulder motionuntil his arms ached, but it was a happy labor. He felt the rock edgetaking hold of the ropes, fraying the strands to weakness, and theneating into them. It was very slow work!

  The sun drifted up to noon, and still he was leaning against that rock,working patiently, with his head near to bursting, and perspiration,which he could not wipe away, running down to blind him. Finally, whenhis brain was beginning to reel with the heat, and his shoulders achedto numbness, the last strand parted. The sheriff dropped down to theground to rest.

  Presently he drew out his jackknife and methodically cut the remainingbonds. It came to him suddenly, as he stood up, that someone might haveseen this singular performance and carried the tale away for futurelaughter. The thought drove the sheriff mad. He swung savagely into thesaddle and drove his horse at a dead run among the perilous going ofthat gorge. When he reached the plain he paused, hesitant between abulldog desire to follow the trail single-handed into the mountains andrun down the pair, and a knowledge that he who retreats has an addedpower that would make such a pursuit rash beyond words.

  A phrase which he had coined for the gossips of Woodville, came backinto his mind. He was no longer as young as he once was, and even athis prime he shrewdly doubted his ability to cope with Riley Sinclair.With the weight of Gaspar thrown in, the thing became an impossibility.Gaspar might be a weakling, but a man who was capable of murder wasalways dangerous.

  To have been thwarted once was shame enough, but he dared not risk twofailures with one man. He must have help in plenty from Woodville, and,fate willing, he would one day have the pleasure of looking down intothe dead face of Sinclair; one day have the unspeakable joy of seeingthe slender form of Gaspar dangling from the end of a rope.

  His mind was filled with the wicked pleasure of these pictures until hecame suddenly upon Woodville. He drew his horse back to a dogtrot toenter the town.

  It was a short street that led through Woodville, but, short though itwas, the news that something was wrong with the sheriff reached theheart of the town before he did. Men were already pouring out on theveranda of the hotel.

  "Where is he, sheriff?" was the greeting.

  Never before had that question been asked. He switched to one side inhis saddle and made the speech that startled the mind of Woodville formany a day.

  "Boys, I've been double-crossed. Have any of you heard tell of RileySinclair?"

  He waited apparently calm. Inwardly he was breathless with excitement,for according to the size of Riley's reputation as a formidable manwould be the size of his disgrace. There was a brief pause. Old Shawfilled the gap, and he filled it to the complete satisfaction of thesheriff.

  "Young Hopkins was figured for the hardest man up in Montana way," hesaid. "That was till Riley Sinclair beat him. What about Sinclair?"

  "It was him that double-crossed me," said the sheriff, vastly relieved."He come like a friend, stuck me up on the trail when I wasn't lookin'for no trouble, and he got away with Gaspar."

  A chorus, astonished, eager. "What did he do it for?"

  "No man'll ever know," said the sheriff.

  "Why not?"

  "Because Sinclair'll be dead before he has a chance to look a jury inthe face."

  There were more questions. The little crowd had got its breath again,and the words came in volleys. The sheriff cut sharply through thenoise.

  "Where's Bill Wood?"

  "He's in town now."

  "Charley, will you find Billy for me and ask him to slide over to myoffice? Thanks! Where's Arizona and Red Chalmers?"

  "They went back to the ranch."

  "Be a terrible big favor if you'd go out and try to find 'em for me,boys. Where's Joe Stockton?"

  "Up to the Lewis place."

  Old Shaw struck in: "You ain't makin' no mistake in picking the bestyou can get. You'll need 'em for this Riley Sinclair. I've heard tellabout him. A pile!"

  The very best that Woodville and its vicinity could offer, was indeedwhat the sheriff was selecting. Another man would have looked fornumbers, but the sheriff knew well enough that numbers meant littlespeed, and speed was one of the main essentials for the task that laybefore him. He knew each of the men he had named, and he had known themfor years, with the exception of Arizona. But the latter, coming upfrom the southland, had swiftly proved his ability in many a brawl.

  Bill Wood was a peerless trailer; Red Chalmers would, the sheriff felt,be one day a worthy aspirant for the office which he now held, and Redwas the only man the sheriff felt who could succeed to that perilousoffice. As for Joe Stockton, he was distinctly bad medicine, but in acase like this, it might very well be that poison would be the antidotefor poison. Of all the men the sheriff knew, Joe was the neatest handwith a gun. The trouble with Joe was that he appreciated his ownability and was fond of exhibiting his prowess.

  Having sent out for his assistants on the chase, the sheriff retired tohis office and set his affairs in order. There was not a great deal ofpaper work connected with his position; in twenty minutes he hadcleared his desk, and, by the time he had finished this task, the firstof his posse had sauntered into the doorway and stood leaning idlythere, rolling a cigarette.

  "Have a chair, Bill, will you?" said the sheriff. He tilted back in hisown and tossed his heels to the top of his desk. "Getting sort of warmtoday, ain't it?"

  Bill Wood had never seen the sheriff so cheerful. He sat down gingerly,knowing well that some task of great danger lay before them.