White Wolf's Law

“Did yuh see him?” she asked in an eager whisper.

“See who?” Toothpick feigned ignorance.

“Don’t tease. You know,” she pleaded.

“Yuh can spill it to her,” Tom Powers said as he went over to join Mrs. Ransom and Mary.

“Yeh, I seen him,” Toothpick told the girl.

She waited for him to go on. Her dark eyes, wistfully eager, were fixed upon him.

“I goes to El Crucifixo, like yuh tells me to,” drawled Toothpick. “An’ I’m tellin’ yuh I seen there a million dollars’ worth of outlaws, ’cause a gent down there ain’t known socially unless he carries a thousand, dead or alive. I ambles into the Palace Saloon, and the gents look hard at me, an’ that bunch can sure look hard. A couple slid up to me and ask me bluntlike who I am. I tell ’em quick I’m huntin’ Jim-twin Allen. At that they eye me different. Then I spots Jim sittin’ at a table by his lonesome, and I calls him. He’s darned glad to see me. Fie tells those hard hombres I’m his friend, and they get soft, pronto.”

His deliberation irritated the girl.

“But is he coming?” she demanded impatiently.

“Sure is.”

Snippets’ eyes lighted with joy.

“I tell him about the Lava Gang, and he won’t come. Then I tell him yuh want him to come, and still he refuses. He gets sorta bitter an’ says he ain’t no cow-thief catcher – that’s his brother Jack’s job. I plead with him and tell him how your uncle’s in danger. He says he’s not comin’ up here to help your uncle hang a man. By accident I tell how the Lava Gang now and then runs off gals across the border fer ransom and how they murdered that Courfay woman. At that he says quicklike he’ll come a-runnin’.”

“When is he coming?” she asked quickly.

He shook his head. “I dunno.”

“And when you told him I wanted him to come, he wouldn’t?” she asked softly.

“Positively not,” Toothpick said bluntly.

Another question trembled on her lips, but her eyes clouded and she turned away, leaving it unsaid. Toothpick called to her.

“Yuh know why he refused,” he grumbled. “Yuh know darn well Jim Allen is an outlaw and hasn’t a Chinaman’s chance of being pardoned. He’d be a hell of a fellow if he came to see a girl like yuh. But I’ll tell yuh this: He talked a heap about yuh and made me promise I’d tell yuh he was no good, an’ that he thought yuh was only a fool romantic gal what thinks yuh like him’ cause he’s the famous ‘White Wolf.’”

“That’s not true, Toothpick,” she said quietly.

“Sure, I knows,” he told her.

“It’s not the Wolf I like, but – ”

“Sure, you and me and Dutchy is the same. We likes the kid, Jim Allen, what blubbers about his hosses.” Toothpick twirled his hat to hide his emotion.

“It’s a damned shame!” he exploded. “Just the same, kid, yuh want to forget yuh ever see him and marry some nice tame gent.”

“Like you, Toothpick?” she asked, smiling.

“Me?” Toothpick grunted. “Not any! I knows yuh too well. Yuhr tongue is too darned sharp. It keeps a man hoppin’ all the time. Come on! Here’s the train.”

The Limited rose from a far murmur to a rasping, grinding rush of sound and roared to a stop, grumbling, sputtering, like some great steel animal suddenly foiled in its rush through the prairie night. Within the lighted cars, passengers turned in casual curiosity to look at the station throng. But, contrary to its usual custom, that throng did not return the stares. For once interest was not centered on the Limited itself; all eyes were turned toward one man as he descended alone, slowly, with dignity. He faced the curious eyes calmly as he greeted his wife and daughter.

Erect, distinguished with his white goatee and the broad black hat that shaded sincere gray eyes, by no gesture did he betray excitement. And yet he knew that, of that crowd, almost every one knew his difficulties, knew why he had gone to the capitol, were avidly curious about the outcome of the visit, and were even more on edge concerning the trial to-morrow.

Cannondale knew that the judge had been in financial straits ever since the Lava Gang had stolen two hundred of his steers. He had tried unsuccessfully to get his notes renewed at the local bank; finally, he had made this trip to the capitol, where he had friends. But there, also, failure stalked him. His ranch was in debt, and it was hinted that his political position was none too secure.

Rumor said the judge had incurred the antagonism of the Mexican vote and would not be re-elected. How this story had reached Washington he did not know. But of the two banks where he was best known, one refused outright to make a loan and the other postponed it until the judge was forced to leave for Cannondale to preside at the murder trial. Vaguely he suspected that the tentacles of the Lava Gang stretched even into the furthermost political and financial centers. As he boarded the train for home he resolved to fight the gang to the end, whatever that end might be.

No trace of emotion, beyond pleasure at seeing her, tinctured the greeting kiss he gave his wife; no hint of the sword above their heads. Yet one glance at his eyes told the kindly, white-haired little woman that their difficulties were still unsolved. She pressed his hand in the comforting reassurance of her own courage and understanding.

His daughter Mary gave him a resounding kiss and a cheery “Hello, dad.” The family troubles had as yet only vaguely affected Mary; they had not toned down her treble giggle nor her natural nineteen-year-old interest in the arrangement of her blond curls. Snippets, though a year younger, was far more seriously concerned than Mary, because she understood better the gravity of the judge’s situation.

The conductor waved his lantern, the engine snorted response, and the Limited slid majestically past the spectators. At its rear there trailed a smoking car. As this drew abreast of the station platform, the door banged open and a husky brakeman appeared, dragging a small man by the scruff of the neck. The brakeman seized his victim by the collar and, catching him by the seat of the pants, he heaved him outward.

The small man rolled head over heels, to the spectators’ howls of mirth. He fetched up at the feet of the judge and his friends.

“You darned drunken hobo, it takes money to ride on this train,” the brakeman bawled as he shook his fist at the forlorn figure.

The little man stumbled to his feet and disclosed a dirty face largely obscured by blue glasses. His trousers were too large and bagged at the waist. His threadbare coat hung in tatters. A battered bit of felt draped his head in the semblance of a hat, and one toe protruded from an overlarge shoe. He clinched a grimy fist and shook it after the jeering brakeman.

“You mutton face! Just you dare come back here, and I’ll give you a licking so your mother won’t know you!” he cried shrilly.

His futile rage, his puny fists, brought another gale of mirth from the onlookers.

As if stirred by the laughter, his rage mounted, and he lapsed into shrill abuse mixed with oaths. Toothpick seized him by the shoulder and shook him.

“Hey, you little runt, there’s ladies present,” he warned sharply. “Get out of here, pronto!”

He gave the hobo a rough shove that sent him staggering. The small man gave one glance at the tall Toothpick and limped forlornly up the platform.

“Poor fellow!” Mrs. Ransom fluttered after the tattered figure. Even in her own troubles she pitied this scarecrow of a man. “Why did they throw you off the train?”

He paused, then drew down his mouth and whined to gain her sympathy.

“I bought me a ticket to Chi – that’s Chicago – where I live, ma’am. Me muvver is sick. That feller stole my ticket and guv it to a friend, then threw me off.”

Mrs. Ransom struggled between the contrary emotions of pity and common sense. She knew the story was not true, yet he was so forlorn and hungry looking. Pity won.

“Here’s a dollar. Go buy yourself some food,” she said. Then, struck with an idea, she added sternly: “Promise you won’t drink it up.”

The tramp straightened up.

“Me, ma’am?” He was all injured innocence. “Why, ma’am, I never touch the stuff.”

The crowd chuckled. Tom Powers snorted disgust. He seized the man’s arm.

“What’s yuhr name?” he snapped.

The hobo glanced at the star on the sheriff’s coat and tried to slink away. Pinioned by the heavy hand, he cowered as if he expected a blow.

“Mister, I ain’t done nothin’. I’ll get out of town on the first train,” he pleaded.

“You got until to-morrow afternoon to do it,” warned the sheriff.

As the hobo slunk away the three Frying Pan riders looked after him longingly. He was an ideal mark for their humor. Sam Hogg sensed their longing.

“It’s all right, boys,” he said. “You can go along now. Looks like they ain’t goin’ to be no trouble here, after all. Not right now, leastways.”

As one man the three humorists started after the scarecrow. Mrs. Ransom bristled to his protection.

“You bullies!” She shook a warning finger. “If I hear of you tormenting that poor little fellow, I’ll – well, I’ll be angry.”

“Huh, ma’am,” Tad Hicks stuttered. “We wa’n’t thinkin’ of doin’ nothin’, nohow.”

“We figured we’d take him to dinner with us-all,” Windy added with defensive genius.

Mrs. Ransom shook her head, smiling, as they joined the hobo. They towered above him – a tatterdemalion dwarf between three guardsmen.

She rejoined her husband. The sheriff nodded, and the judge and his family moved toward their home. Ransom was flanked by two deputies and further protected by Silent and Dutchy, who brought up a grim rear guard.

Snippets turned back and ran to Toothpick.

“Thank you for protecting me from that man,” she smiled, teasing.

“Huh?” Toothpick queried dumbly.

“Oh, you men! How dumb you are!” She stamped her foot. Then, on tiptoe, she delivered a quick kiss on the nose of the astounded Toothpick and ran to rejoin her party.

Toothpick stared after her. He felt gingerly of his nose and scratched his head.

“She meant somethin’ by that. But what was it?” he asked himself, and gave up the answer.

CHAPTER III

KING OF LIARS

Tad Hicks, Windy Sam, and Kansas Jones, out of sight of the depot platform, seized the little hobo’s arms and dragged him willy-nilly behind a saloon.

“Yuh promised yuh wouldn’t drink up that cartwheel Mrs. Ransom guv yuh,” Tad Hicks reminded him.

“Aw, get out and leave me be,” the hobo said truculently, with an evident attempt at bravado.

“What’s that?” Windy roared as he tightened his grip on the arm.

The hobo’s truculence vanished, and he whined: “Nothin’ – where we goin’ to eat?”

They led him to a Mexican eating house on Depot Street, where they were joined by Toothpick. Having planked their charge in a chair and ordered food, they settled back to have a little fun with the victim.

“What’s yuhr name?” Windy Sam commenced.

“Jim Anson. What’s yours?” the hobo asked.

“Windy Sam, now – ”

The man called Jim Anson interrupted him.

“Is you called that because you talk too much, or because what you say don’t mean nothin’?” he asked innocently.

“Ha-ha!” the others exclaimed, and dug the red-faced Sam in the ribs.

One after the other they plied him with questions, but his answers always left them floundering. He had a way of turning a thrust into a boomerang. He did this with such a guileless, cringing air that they were never sure whether he was secretly laughing at them or if his answers were accidental. Before the meal was over he had them grinning at his absurd tales. In spite of themselves they listened, absorbed, and momentarily almost believed what he said.

“Rise up, liars, and salute yuhr king!” Toothpick shouted.

For a moment there was a change in the hobo’s face. The fawning expression was replaced by a broad, lovable grin that made the punchers’ hearts warm toward Jim Anson. Toothpick started. For a moment he studied the hobo’s face, saw the fawning smile there again, and shook his head.

The five adjourned to Maria’s Cantina, on the corner of Depot Street. Jim Anson insisted that the first drink was on him and ordered it in a loud voice. Another followed and another. Toothpick chuckled when he saw that, while Jim Anson always ordered the drinks, one of the three riders paid for them.

All the while Jim Anson asked them questions in such a way that they never realized they were being pumped. He turned on Toothpick and skillfully ferreted from him the story of the murder of the Courfay family two weeks before.

“When we got there they was all dead, except one gent what says: ‘Fees do dible chable’ which I figures is French.” Toothpick rambled on with his story, but Jim Anson was not listening.

“Fils du Diable à Cheval,” he muttered to himself. “Sons of the Devil on Horseback. Gosh!”

A little later “Mac” Kennedy, an Eastern dude, sauntered in. Jim Anson, after studying him a minute, turned to the others.

“Who’s that gazebo all dressed up like a Christmas tree?” he asked.

“He’s a white-livered dude,” Windy snorted contemptuously.

“He comes out here about three months back and says it’s for his health,” Kansas elaborated. “Buys the Bar X, a little runt of a ranch what backs up against the lava fields.”

“He don’t look yellow,” Anson said meditatively.

“He is, though. Plumb yellow, from the neck down and feet up,” Tad Hicks hiccuped.

Ten minutes later Bill Anderson stepped into the cantina. He hesitated for a moment when he saw the group at the table; then he nodded to them.

“Boss in the back room?” he asked of Maria.

“Si, si, señor.”

Anderson walked quickly to a door in the back, glancing over his shoulder at the five at the table. Apparently they were too interested in themselves to note his actions. Quietly he passed through and closed the door after him.

Jim Anson insisted on buying one last drink here, despite his comrades’ urging to try the liquor elsewhere. Maria brought the drinks. Kennedy, the dude laughed as he watched them. He leaned over the bar and whispered something to Maria, then left the cantina.

The cow-punchers began to sing, and the woman came forward and ordered them to leave.

“All right, we’ll go,” Jim Anson said with drunken dignity. He staggered to his feet and swayed toward the rear door. He turned the handle and kicked it open. It led to a storeroom.

“That’s not the way, stupid.” The woman gave him a violent shove after the others. He grinned drunkenly at her and staggered out.

About ten that evening Bill Anderson swung in at Judge Ransom’s gate and knocked at the door. When he and the judge were comfortably installed in easy-chairs before a fire, he looked squarely at Ransom.

“What are you going to do about the trial to-morrow?” he asked bluntly.

“My duty,” the older man replied with equal bluntness.

“Judge, don’t think I’m asking you to do anything else,” Anderson added quickly. “You know I’m not in politics for my health. When I came here a couple of years ago, every one was at odds. The leaders of the party were fighting among themselves. I’m not flattering myself when I say that all stopped when I took hold. Judge, you understand that I’d soon lose my leadership if I nominated men who were not elected.”

The judge had hoped against hope that Bill Anderson would back him because of his record, even if the Mexican vote was against him. He was sure, if he could get the nomination, he would be re-elected. Now his heart sank.

“Let’s be frank, judge. If you insist on bearing down too heavily in the trial to-morrow, you lose the Mexican vote, and, much as I want to, judge, I don’t see how I can propose you for renomination.”

The judge pulled thoughtfully at his goatee. For the first time since he had known Bill Anderson, he detected a certain sinister quality beneath his bland air of good fellowship.

“But, Anderson, this Pete Cable isn’t a Mexican,” he said.

“That’s not the question,” Anderson replied. “For some reason the Mexican vote is interested in him. Now, why not be sensible? Go easy at the trial. Cable was drunk, he made a mistake and killed this Easterner. Other men have killed in this town and gotten away with it. Why not be reasonable? Remember, you are not being asked to do anything dishonorable. All these people ask you to do is to sit quiet – to do nothing.”

“You ask me to do nothing – nothing but pervert justice,” the judge said quietly.

The political boss’ good nature and blandness dropped away. A stranger to the judge stood before him, with a face that was hard and cruel.

“This house is mortgaged, isn’t it?” Anderson snapped.

This hit home, for the place was mortgaged to the hilt, and the notes were due the following month. Ransom paled, but his eyes were steady as he gazed into Anderson’s granitelike brown ones.

“Is that a threat?” he asked.

“Only a reminder,” Anderson said savagely. The next moment the judge heard the front door slam, and he was alone.

Slowly he paced the floor. He and his wife had struggled for his present position, for this home. What sacrifices she had made to allow him to finish law school, and through the years of poverty that had followed his graduation! Little by little, after that, came success, until recently they had dreamed of the time when he would go to Washington, a United States senator. All that rosy future had seemed assured – until last month.

Now, not only the future, but the present, might be wiped out. Their savings were wasted; his hope of reëlection crumbled; their home would go next. All because of a murder trial with its mysterious ramifications. There would be no college for Mary, no ease in old age for his wife.

Rebellion and temptation seized him. What right had he to bring ruin on his family? All he had to do was to let events take their course, as Anderson had directed. His credit would be good once more; his dreams of Washington might come true. Back and forth he walked and struggled with the devils of temptation.

A door opened gently, and Snippets stood before him.

“Uncle,” she said softly, “I heard. I couldn’t help it.”

“You heard?” he said, and his voice was harsh. “Then what shall I do? Ruin my wife and child?”

“No. Make them proud of you,” she said firmly.

The judge’s face cleared, and he smiled. “Thank Heaven for you, my child,” he said. “You’re right. That’s the one thing I must do.”

Anderson left the judge’s house in a high rage, but the moment he was in the open his anger gradually left him, and he was once more his cool, calculating self.

“That’s the first time I lost my temper in nine years,” he told himself. “Now what’s to be done? First thing to-morrow I’ve got to see the judge and apologize. I guess I better go and talk it over with my dear brother. How pleased he would be if he knew I’d lost my temper!”

He laughed and strode briskly down Main Street toward the Red Queen. Across from the Lone Star he saw Toothpick, Tad Hicks, Windy Sam, and Jim Anson, staggering along, arm in arm. They had left Kansas asleep at the Lone Star. Anderson waved at them; he was once more the politician.

“Come on, boys, I’ll buy you a drink,” he called.

They staggered after him into the Red Queen and lurched against the bar. The place was filled with shouting, singing men. The back of the long bar shone ornately with polished glasses, mirrors, colored bottles, and other glittering paraphernalia.

Anderson ordered the drinks, and his four guests drank thirstily, with profuse thanks. He nodded to them, told them he would see them later, and pushed his way through the milling crowd toward the gambling room. Unseen, Jim Anson slipped through the crowd in his wake.

The gambling room of the Red Queen was on the left of the dance hall. Here Francisco Garcia, the owner, could be found on any night. The Toad, as he was called by some, but always behind his back, acted as lookout for a big game. He sat on a raised platform between the two faro tables. He was so powerfully built that he looked squat despite his height. Heavy jowls, thick lips, and protruding eyes relieved the monotony of his full-moon face. His swarthiness hinted at Mexican blood. Garcia himself never carried a visible weapon; he relied on his two paid killers for protection – “Yuma Kid” and “Baldy” Flynn. And because his enemies had a strange habit of disappearing or ending violently, he was more feared than any other man along the border.

Bill Anderson, with Jim Anson, still unnoted, at his heels, sauntered to the table and watched the play for a moment. Then he smiled to Garcia.

“Having a big game?”

The Toad grunted.

“I wanted a word with you, but to-morrow will do.” Anderson turned away.

Jim Anson, that ubiquitous hobo, flopped drunkenly at a near-by table. From beneath his tattered hat brim he studied the gross Mexican and the two killers who lounged against the wall behind him. “Gosh! The Devil on Horseback,” murmured Anson to himself. “And he had four sons! Horned lizards. Rattlers. Coyotes, mixed up with tiger and Spanish bull.”

He wandered out to the dance hall, staggering; yet, strangely enough, when a bully struck at him, he seemed to float away to escape the blow.

His comrades at the bar were now noisy and riotous with drink.

“I’d sure like to see some of this money that’s bein’ bet that Pete Cable won’t get his neck stretched,” Windy announced to the world.

“Yuh wanta see it? Take a look at this.” A wad of bills dropped on the bar. The three punchers swung about to stare at the money and at the man with the high, cackling voice who had produced it.

They met the toothless leer of old Baldy Flynn. Behind Baldy lounged the Yuma Kid, twenty-one-year-old, two-gun killer. The Kid’s pale eyes met theirs, and his two buck teeth shone in a menacing sneer. Most men could easily whip the narrow-chested Yuma Kid in a hand-to-hand encounter, but he did not fight that way; and he was feared along the border.

Baldy and the Kid, Garcia’s two hired slayers, were inseparable. They were bound together by the bond of skill with a Colt and by their unscrupulous cruelty, despite their varying characters. The Yuma Kid seldom talked, never laughed, and never drank. He avoided quarrels, save for profit. Baldy, on the contrary, loved his liquor, his own jokes, and above all loved to quarrel with those who failed to laugh with him.

Toothpick realized that he and Windy stood no chance against these two killers; he knew their reputation. Yet the bar was crowded; people were listening and were already commencing to shuffle to one side in the hope of a fight.

“Yuh gents is talkin’ loud. I’m bettin’ yuh my roll that Pete don’t get his neck stretched,” Baldy cackled.

Toothpick saw the menace in the killer’s eyes, and it sobered him. He tried to gather his scattered wits. He glanced at his friends and saw that they were incapable of action. Tad Hicks, with drooping head, clung to the rail of the bar. Toothpick knew that Baldy would push the affair and try to force Windy to take water. This, no matter what the consequences, Toothpick would not permit; certainly not, with that crowd of spectators all watching and listening. Windy had been a fool; Toothpick would have to use his wits to get him out of it. He chose his words carefully.

“That roll of yallerbacks sure makes me hungry like a coyote, ’cause it’s three days to pay day,” he said, grinning. Both he and Windy moved to the left. If it came to gun play, their right hands would not be hampered in the draw.

Baldy cackled derisively again. He turned to the hushed bystanders and grinned. Out of the tail of his eye Toothpick saw Jim Anson squirm through the crowd toward them.

Baldy spoke slowly and raised his voice: “Gents, I’m askin’ yuh to step up an’ – ”

Boom! A Colt roared behind Toothpick. Like flashes of light, guns leaped into the hands of Baldy and the Yuma Kid.

“What the hell?” snarled Baldy.

Toothpick swung about and saw Jim Anson looking foolishly at a smoking Colt on the floor.

“Darn it!” the hobo wailed. “The durn thing was loaded.”

He looked so foolish as he stared at the gun that the crowd rocked with mirth, but Baldy spat like a wild cat.

“What did yuh expect, yuh bum?” he shrieked.

Tad Hicks had been aroused from his sleep by the shot and stared stupidly at Jim Anson.

“When yuh guv it to me, yuh didn’t say it was loaded,” Anson stuttered reproachfully.