Trails to Two Moons/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII
The all-night ride of the Killer's three captors in from the remote foothills by the Spout to Two Moons had been a grinding ordeal for the girl at least. She had not tasted food since the morning before; many miles on the back of the scrubby Christian had taken their toll of her strength. It was Zang who had insisted they dismount a few miles outside of town when the dawn was first beginning to spread her jewels in the east so that the girl might snatch a few hours of sleep. This she did, her head pillowed on her saddle; nor had she thought to inquire of Zang's wound, which now consumed his whole arm with a slow and torturing fire. The Killer, grumbling against his bonds, had fallen into noisy slumber under Whistler's watchful eye.
The sun was an hour high when Zang roused the sleepers and directed the saddling of the horses. Before they mounted Hilma drew him a little aside.
"You must turn back here, Zang; if you ride into Two Moons it means jail, a court trial, penitentiary—the end of everything for you. Please turn back here."
The big outlaw's tired eyes kindled under her gaze. Hard lines of determination etched themselves across his features. His old devil-may-care smile parted his lips.
"So you 're still aimin' to tie loose from me? Well, ma'am, that's not an easy thing to do when Zang Whistler's mind's made up to stick. He builds right 'longside you until that time when the preacher says: 'Do you take this pore sinner for better 'n' worse?' "
Hilma looked out to the carnelian and ruby east where a nest of clouds over the Black Hills had engulfed the sun. She was battling with an impulse to tell this man he was twenty times a fool to run his neck into a noose for her sake. The fleeting tenderness of the night before had sped with the coming of the day; Hilma was her old sure, hard self. There was no place in her heart for Zang Whistler or any man; yet a saving grace of pity for one who could be so devoted persisted.
"Zang, I never go back on a promise. I have promised to come back to you at the Spout. Won't you wait for me there?"
"What 's more," the man continued as if he had not heard her, "I 'm not taking chances on you an' Uncle Alf piloting this skunk down Main Street alone. You can shoot, but Uncle Alf 's not sure. I got my left hand still ready for business in case some of these cow outfits should start a rush before we get to the jail. Let 's be moving."
He arranged the order of march: Uncle Alf, unarmed, leading; Hilma, with the Killer's rifle, preceding the prisoner; himself covering the rear. So they traversed the two divides separating them from town and at a walk crossed the Poison Spider bridge. The wilderness road suddenly became Main Street. They were in Two Moons. Three long blocks away the bulk of the courthouse pointed destination.
Zang drew his .45 and held it ready on the horn of his saddle. He addressed the Killer in front of him:
"Just one sign of a break an' you get a slug between the shoulders. If any roach-maned friend of yours on the sidewalk starts dealin' himself into this game you get that slug pronto. Just write that down in your little book."
Two Moons was just winding up the bacon-and-flap jacks hour. Storekeepers were sweeping out. The saloons were at the midway point between the lingering all-night trade and the morning thirst cutting. Few people were on the street. Few, that is, when the cavalcade crossed the bridge, but
A cow-puncher, taking his morning wash at a horse trough, looked up through streaming strands of hair, saw a woman of dazzling beauty with a rifle held carelessly in the crook of her arm riding ahead of a bound man, saw Zang Whistler of Teapot Spout coolly riding behind with his left hand ready for business. The cow-puncher emitted a surprised whoop and ducked backward into a saloon to possess himself of his gun. The clerk taking down the shutters from the windows of the Boston Cash Store stood open-mouthed at the spectacle, then dashed into a neighboring store to spread the word that "something's doing—big!" Men ran hatless out of the hotel, from the saloons, out of the depths of livery stables. A rider who happened to be turning a corner at a sharp swerve almost bumped into Uncle Alf, then pulled his bronc back on to his haunches and sat pop-eyed.
Every cow-punch in town recognized Zang Whistler on the instant. A few knew the name of the scowling man who rode trussed just ahead of the ugly muzzle of Zang's .45. But a very few recognized the white face of the girl who carried the rifle so easily snuggled into the crook of her left arm.
It would be hard to say whether the prodigy of Zang Whistler's daring to come to Two Moons stirred the town deepest or the sight of the strange girl escorting a prisoner. Surely something big was afoot. The Big Country had plumped a cardinal event smack into the lap of the town.
It was a withered little weasel in faded overalls—some nonentity in from a sheep camp—who exploded the biggest bombshell. He gave one searching look at the bloated face of the prisoner and then screamed for all Main Street to hear:
"It 's the Killer! Look at the !"
"The Killer!—the Killer!" sped the word from mouth to mouth down the double row of wooden awnings flanking the broad street. The hunting cry had the baying timbre of the wolf pack. Women took it up with shrill voices. Main Street was seething.
Still onward rode the cavalcade toward the courthouse. Uncle Alf held his head high, casting an eagle glance from sidewalk to side-walk. Hilma, every nerve taut as a drumhead, kept her eyes jumping from figure to figure along the route, watching for a single move of a hand to a holster. The Killer's face had gone fish white; he swayed slightly in his saddle as if under the assaults of sound waves become propulsive. Zang Whistler, come for the first time in his outlawry to the domain of law, rode easily and with the ghost of a smile lurking in his eyes.
The crowd fell in behind the heels of Zang's horse and followed to the courthouse. But at a respectful distance, for ever and again Zang would cause his horse to swerve broadside on to the hurly-burly behind and would run a swift eye over the forward rank. Always his .45 was resting easily on his saddle horn.
Sheriff Red Agnew in his shirt sleeves came tumbling out of the wing of the courthouse where he lodged—for he was chief jailer as well as sheriff. Him Zang greeted cordially:
"Sorry to bring in such an onery lookin' prisoner, Red, but it 's the best we could find. Folks call him the Killer. Uncle Alf here picked him up while he 's lookin' for specimens of human souls for his collection."
Red Agnew, moving in a haze of stupefaction, unlocked and threw back the heavy door to the jail yard behind a ten-foot spiked fence. While Two Moons stood breathless the Killer and his escorts rode in and the heavy gate banged behind them.