The Rangeland Avenger by Max Brand
21
It seemed patent to Bill Sandersen, earlier that afternoon, that fatehad stacked the cards against Riley Sinclair. Bill Sandersen indeed,believed in fate. He felt that great hidden forces had alwayscontrolled his life, moving him hither and yon according to theirpleasure.
To the dreamy mind of the mystic, men are accidents, and all theyperform are the dictates of the power and the brain of the other world.
Sandersen could tell at what definite moments hunches had seized him.He had looked at the side of the mountain and suddenly felt, withoutany reason or volition on his part, that he was impelled to search thatmountainside for gold-bearing ore. He had never fallen into the habitof using his reason. He was a wonderful gambler, playing with singularabandon, and usually winning. It mattered not what he held in his hand.
If the urge came to him, and the surety that he was going to bet, hewould wager everything in his wallet, all that he could borrow, on apair of treys. And when such a fit was on him, the overwhelmingconfidence that shone in his face usually overpowered the other mensitting in at the game. More than once a full house had been laid downto his wretched pair. There were other occasions when he had lost thevery boots he wore, but the times of winning naturally overbalanced thelosses in the mind of Bill. It was not he who won, and it was not hewho lost. It was fate which ruled him. And that fate, he felt atpresent, had sided against Riley Sinclair.
A sort of pity for the big cowpuncher moved him. He knew that he andQuade and Lowrie deserved death in its most terrible form for theirbetrayal of Hal Sinclair in the desert; and nothing but fate, he wassure, could save him from the avenger. Fate, however, had definitelyintervened. What save blind fate could have stepped into the mind ofSinclair and made him keep Cold Feet from the rope, when that hangingwould have removed forever all suspicion that Sinclair himself hadkilled Quade?
Another man would have attributed both of those actions to commondecency in Sinclair, but Sandersen always hunted out more profoundreasons. In order to let the fact of his own salvation from Sinclair'sgun sink more definitely into his brain, he trotted his horse into thehills that afternoon. When he came back he heard that the posse was intown.
To another it might have seemed odd that the posse was there instead ofon the trail of the outlaws. But Sandersen never thought of sopractical a question. To him it was as clear as day. The posse had beenbrought to Sour Creek by fate in order that he, Sandersen, might enlistin its ranks and help in the great work of running down Sinclair, for,after all, it was work primarily to his own interest. There wassomething ironically absurd about it. He, Sandersen, having committedthe mortal crime of abandoning Hal Sinclair in the desert, was nowgiven the support of legal society to destroy the just avenger of thatoriginal crime. It was hardly any wonder that Sandersen saw in all thisthe hand of fate.
He went straight to the hotel and up to the room which the sheriff hadengaged. Cartwright was coming out with a black face, as Sandersenentered. The former turned at the door and faced Kern and the fourassistants of the sheriff.
"I'll tell you what you'll do, you wise gents," he growled. "You'llmiss him altogether. You hear?"
And then he stamped down the hall.
Sandersen carefully removed his hat as he went in. He was quite awarethat Cartwright must have been just refused a place on the posse, andhe did not wish to appear too confident. He paid his compliments to thebunch, except Arizona, to whom he was introduced. The sheriffforestalled his request.
"You've come for a job in the posse, Bill?"
Hastily Sandersen cut in before the other should pronounce a finaljudgment.
"I don't blame you for turning down Cartwright," he said. "A gent likethat who don't know the country ain't much use on the trail, eh?"
"The point is, Bill, that I got all the men I need. I don't want awhole gang."
"But I got a special reason, sheriff. Besides a tolerable fast hossthat might come in handy for a chase, I sling a tolerable fast gun,sheriff. But beyond that all, I got a grudge."
"A grudge?" asked the sheriff, pricking his ears.
"So did Cartwright have a grudge," cut in Arizona dryly.
Perhaps after all, Sandersen felt, fate might not be with him in thisquest for Sinclair. He said earnestly: "You see, boys, it was me thatraised the posse that run down Cold Feet in the first place. It was methat backed up Sinclair all the way through the trail, and I feel likesome of the blame for what happened is coming to me. I want to squarethings up and get a chance at Sinclair. I want it mighty bad. You knowme, Kern. Gimme a chance, will you?"
"Well, that sounds like reason," admitted the sheriff. "Eh, boys?"
The posse nodded its general head, with the usual exception of Arizona,who seemed to take a particular pleasure in diverging from thejudgments of the others.
"Just a minute, gents," he said. "Don't it strike you that they'ssomething the same with Cartwright and Sandersen? Both of 'em inparticular anxious to cut in on this party; both of 'em has grudges.Cartwright said he didn't want no share of the money if you caughtGaspar and Sinclair. Is that right for you, too, Sandersen?"
"It sure is. I want the fun, not the coin," said Sandersen.
"Boys," resumed Arizona, "it rounds up to this: Sinclair came down hereto Sour Creek for a purpose."
Sandersen began to listen intently. He even dreaded this fat man fromthe southland.
"I dunno what this purpose was," went on Arizona, "but mostly when agent like Sinclair makes a trip they's a man at the far end ofit--because this ain't his range. Now, if it's a man, why shouldn't itbe one of these two, Cartwright or Sandersen, who both pack a grudgeagainst Sinclair? Sinclair is resting somewhere up yonder in themhills. I'm sure of that. He's waiting there to get a chance to finishhis business in Sour Creek, and that business is Cartwright orSandersen, I dunno which. Now, I'm agin' taking in Sandersen. Whenwe're private I'll tell you my reason why."
There was something of an insult in this speech and the tall man tookinstant offense.
"Partner," he drawled, "it looks to me like them reasons could be spokepersonal to me. Suppose you step outside and we talk shop?"
Arizona smiled. It took a man of some courage and standing to refusesuch an invitation without losing caste. But for some reason Arizonawas the last man in the world whom one could accuse of being a coward.
"Sandersen," he said coldly, "I don't mean to step on your toes. Youmay be as good a man as the next. The reasons that I got agin' youain't personal whatever, which they're things I got a right to think,me being an officer of the law for the time being. If you hold a grudgeagin' me for what I've said, you and me can talk it over after thishere job's done. Is that square?"
"I s'pose it's got to be," replied Sandersen. "Gents, does the word ofyour fat friend go here?"
Left to themselves, the posse probably would have refused Arizona'sadvice on general principles, but Arizona did not leave them tothemselves.
"Sure, my word goes," he hastened to put in. "The sheriff and all of uswork like a closed hand--all together!"
There was a subtle flattery about this that pleased the sheriff and theothers.
"Reckoning it all in all," said sheriff, "I think we better figure youout, Sandersen. Besides they ain't anything to keep you and Cartwrightand the rest from rigging up a little posse of your own. Sinclair is upyonder in the hill waiting--"
Suddenly he stopped. Sandersen was shaken as if by a violent ague, andhis face lost all color, becoming a sickly white.
"And we're going to find him by ourselves. S'long Sandersen, and thanksfor dropping in. No hard feelings, mind!"
To this friendly dismissal Sandersen returned no answer. He turned awaywith a wide, staring eye, and went through the doorway like a manwalking in a dream. Arizona was instantly on his feet.
"You see, boys?" he asked exultantly. "I was right. When you saidSinclair was waiting up there in the hills, Sandersen was scared. I wasright. He's one of them that Sinclair is after, and that's why hewanted to throw in with
"And why the devil shouldn't he?" asked the sheriff.
"For a good reason, sheriff, reason that'll save us a pile of riding.We'll sit tight here in Sour Creek for a while and catch Sinclair righthere. D'you know how? By watching Cartwright and Sandersen. As sure asthey's a sky over us, Sinclair is going to make a try at one of 'em.They both hate him. Well, you can lay to it that he hates 'em back. Anda man that Sinclair hates he's going to get sooner or later--chieflysooner. Sheriff, keep an eye on them two tonight, and you'll haveSinclair playing right into your hands!"
"Looks to me," muttered Red Chalmers, "like you had a grudge agin'Cartwright and Sandersen, using them for live bait and us for a trap."
"Why not?" asked Arizona, sitting down and rubbing his fat hands, muchpleased with himself. "Why not, I'd like to know?"
In the meantime Bill Sandersen had gone down to the street, still withthe staring eyes of a sleep walker. It was evening, and from the openstreet he looked out and up to the mountains, growing blue and purpleagainst the sky. He had heard Hal Sinclair talk about Riley and Riley'slove for the higher mountains. They were "his country." And a greatsurety dropped upon him that the fat man of the posse had been right.Somewhere in those mountains Sinclair was lurking, ready for a descentupon Sour Creek.
Now Sandersen grew cold. All that was superstitious in his nature tookhim by the throat. The fate, which he had felt to be fighting with him,he now was equally sure was aligned against him. Otherwise, why had theposse refused to accept him as a member? For only one reason: He wasdoomed to die by the hand of Riley Sinclair, and then, no doubt, RileySinclair would fall in turn by the bullets of the posse.
The shadows were pouring out of the gorges of the western mountains,and night began to invade the hollow of Sour Creek. Every downward stepof those shadows was to the feverish imagination of Sandersen aforecast of the coming of Sinclair--Sinclair coming in spite of theposse, in spite of the price upon his head.
In the few moments during which Sandersen remained in the streetwatching, the tumult grew in his mind. He was afraid. He was mortallyin terror of something more than physical death, and, like the corneredrat, he felt a sudden urge to go out and meet the danger halfway. Adozen pictures came to him of Sinclair slipping into the town undercover of the night, of the stealthy approach, of the gunplay that wouldfollow. Why not take the desperate chance of going out to find theassailant and take him by surprise instead?
The mountains--that was the country of Sinclair. Instinctively his eyefell and clung on the greatest height he could see, a flat-toppedmountain due west of Sour Creek. Sandersen swung into his saddle anddrove out of Sour Creek toward the goal and into the deepening gloom ofthe evening.