The man-killers

Title: The man-killers

Author: Dane Coolidge

Release date: June 14, 2023 [eBook #70972]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: E. P. Dutton & Company, 1921

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70972

Credits: deaurider, Graeme Mackreth and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

THE MAN-KILLERS

BY

DANE COOLIDGE

AUTHOR OF "THE FIGHTING FOOL," "WUNPOST," ETC.

NEW YORK

E.P. DUTTON & COMPANY

681 FIFTH AVENUE

COPYRIGHT, 1921,

BY E.P. DUTTON & COMPANY

All Rights Reserved

First printing March, 1921 Second " April, 1921

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

[Pg 1]

THE MAN-KILLERS

CHAPTER I

THE TRAP

There was a hush, a boding silence, in Deadman Canyon, and skirling hawks, flying high against the cliffs, settled down and watched expectantly. A man was riding warily up the Maverick Basin trail, and ahead, like hunting animals, two men were skulking forth to cut him off at the creek. Above them, stuck tight as mud-wasp's nests to the shelves of sun-blackened crags, the white houses of cliff-dwellers, now desolate and tenantless, gazed down upon the age-old tragedy; but the man rode on, his rifle beneath his knee, and at the stalking place of the Scarboroughs he stopped. A stream of cold water, gushing out of a deep side chasm, formed a swirl in the tepid waters of the creek; and close to its edge a flat stone had been laid, where a man could kneel and drink. He knelt, and when he rose up he was looking down a gun.

"Put 'em up!" commanded a voice, and he started back defiantly, at which a second voice came from the side.

[Pg 2]

"Right quick!" it added, and as the stranger obeyed Isham Scarborough stepped out from behind his rock.

He was tall and slim, as befitted a Texan, with a red, freckled face, lips swollen by the sun, and eyelashes bleached yellowish white. A huge, black hat made him tower like a giant as he glowered down insolently upon his captive and after a long, searching look he jabbed him in the ribs and reached out to take his gun. But the stranger stepped away with waspish quickness and at the look in his eyes Isham flinched and drew back while his brother rose up to shoot. Red Scarborough was short and chunky, with flaming red hair and eyes with a piggish glint; and when he shouted out a warning the stranger's hands shot up, for he, too, had learned to read eyes. Red strode forth wrathfully and twitched away the prisoner's gun, then whirled on the startled Isham.

"You're going to get killed," he warned, "if you don't quit monkeying with these fellers."

"Huh, huh!" scoffed Isham, and swaggered up to the man, he regarded him with his head on one side. "You're bad, now; ain't ye?" he demanded. "Well, we'll soon break you of that. Where d'ye think you're going with that horse?"

The stranger blinked and regarded him intently, then drew down his lips to a line. He was dark and slender, with flashing black eyes and the high cheek-bones of a fighter, but now he was ominously calm.

[Pg 3]

"I am going," he said, "to Maverick Basin. Is this a hold-up, or what?"

"It's a hold-up," replied Isham, "and you're dad-burned lucky it didn't turn out a killing. I had my six-shooter on your heart and if you'd ever went for that gun—we'd've left you here for the buzzards. What takes you over into Maverick Basin?"

"That is my business," replied the prisoner, suddenly matching his arrogance, and Isham glanced meaningly at his brother.

"Oh, it is, eh?" he observed, reaching over behind a rock and fetching out a rawhide rope. "Well, I'll damn soon show you that it's mine!"

He shook out a loop, flipped it back into the sand and then, with the practiced skill of a cowboy, snapped it over his prisoner's head. Before he could move, the stranger's arms were pinioned; and as the rope was jerked taut Red caught him from behind and tied his hands hard and fast.

"Now!" cursed Red, "come through, Mister Man—are you going in to join them Sorry Blacks?"

"Never heard of 'em," answered the man, and Red's sunburned lips drew back in a hateful, distorted grin.

"I know that's a lie," he said, "so we'll jest cut you off right here."

He motioned to Isham, and, with their prisoner between them, they toiled up a trail to the east. The canyon wall was low on that side of the creek[Pg 4] and at the base of the cliff there was a row of cliff-dwellings, strung along under the overhang of the rim.

It was from behind their loopholed walls that the Scarboroughs watched the trail, to cut off such chance travelers as he, and as the prisoner climbed up his lip curled scornfully at the sight of their elaborate precautions. In spite of their bluster something still seemed to tell him that they were not as bad as they looked; although often, as he knew, the most hideous crimes have been committed by cravens at heart. They entered a low door and passed on from room to room until at last he was thrust into a dark and noisome space and bound with his back against a post.

It was one of those black holes which the cliff-dwellers themselves had apparently used as a prison and against the square of light which poured in from above he saw the heavy lattice of bars. Wooden bars, and something else—and as he looked again he saw the sinister outlines of a loop. It hung from a beam like the slack body of a snake, and there was a hangman's knot on the end!

"Now," began Isham Scarborough, "perhaps you can talk. You ain't the first Sorry horse-thief that has tried to hold out on us, but they danged sure talked—or hung. So you never even heard of the Sorry Blacks?"

"No, I never did," answered the prisoner stoutly, and Isham shook down the loop.

[Pg 5]

"Say, now listen," he warned, "we know doggoned well that you ain't no friend of ours. We're from Texas, see, and back where we come from no white man rides a saddle like that. So you're ditched at the start by that center-fire rigging and the danged fresh way you've got, but before we stretch your neck we'll give you a chance to tell where you got that horse."

He paused and opened up the hangman's loop, and the prisoner found his tongue.

"I bought him in Bowie," he declared in a passion, "and I've got the bill of sale in my pocket. But I swear I never heard of the Blacks in my life—and I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, the Bassett gang, then!" broke in Red Scarborough roughly, "ain't you never heerd tell of the Dirty Black Bassetts? Well, that's the outfit we're talking about!"

"Well, why didn't you say so?" demanded the prisoner resentfully. "Of course I've heard of the Bassetts. But is that any reason for holding a man up and threatening to hang him for a horse-thief? You must be some of the Scarboroughs, but they informed me back in Tonto——"

"Well, what did they inform you?" prompted Isham hectoringly, and the prisoner drew himself up.

"I was informed," he said, "that the Scarboroughs were Southern gentlemen."

"Uhr," jeered Red, but Isham stood silent.

[Pg 6]

"Well?" he inquired.

"And as a Southerner myself," went on the prisoner, but Isham cut him off short.

"You ignorant, black rascal," he burst out in a fury, "don't you dare to open your mouth and say a word agin the Scarboroughs or I'll kick your doggoned head off. You've got Injun blood yourse'f, if I'm any judge, and I know for a certainty you're going into the Basin to throw in with them dirty, black Bassetts!"

"No, you are mistaken," answered the prisoner firmly. "I'm just looking for a certain party that I know."

"Oho!" exclaimed Red, stooping to feel for his badge, "so we've picked up an officer, have we?"

"No, again," replied the prisoner. "I am looking for a friend, and your quarrels are nothing to me."

"Well, er—who is this friend?" inquired Isham suspiciously, but the stranger shook his head.

"I cannot tell you that, but I give you my word of honor I am not going in to join the Bassetts. And now, if you'll kindly untie these ropes——"

"Don't you think it!" raged Isham, "not after what you did! You murdering black hound, you started to grab your gun and gut-shoot me before I could pull. You're a Bassett gunman and you'll never git past here, so you might as well say your prayers. Come on, Red; let's string him up!"

"Naw, leave him wait!" answered Red impatiently. "I want to keep my eye on that trail. Let's git that other jasper and throw him in here too;[Pg 7] and then, if they don't come through, we can hang 'em!"

They withdrew hurriedly and as he listened to their footsteps the prisoner ventured the ghost of a smile. It was very impressive, with the hangman's knot and all, but in spite of their bluster he still doubted their big words and their threats to take his life. And as for this other prisoner—he dismissed him with a shrug and turned to inspect his cell. But as he gazed at the blank walls he heard a scuffle without and the thud of heavy blows, and then a hoarse voice burst out in frightful oaths which were smothered as the struggles increased.

"You ain't man enough!" it roared, suddenly blaring out again. "No, you can't put me in there, the two of you!"

There was a rush and a slapping of feet, choking curses and a chorus of grunts, and then Isham plunged through the doorway, heaving away at a rope, while his brother fought the prisoner from behind. The rope, which had once been thrown about the prisoner's neck, was clutched back by a huge, hairy hand; and as Red pushed him in the other hand swept out in a last, bearlike swipe at his head. But the Scarboroughs were powerful men, accustomed to roping and tying steers, and despite his efforts they dragged him to a post and tied his hands together behind it.

"Oh, we cain't, hey?" they taunted, and the prisoner panted angrily as he shook back his tumbled black hair.

[Pg 8]

"You danged, ornery cow-thieves," he began in measured tones, "I know what's the matter with you—you're jealous. You want all the stealing for yourselves. You ain't satisfied with taking what comes your way; you want to hog it all. But I'll see you in hell first, you low-down Texican polecats, before I'll——"

"Shut up!" broke in Isham, giving him a boot in the ribs, and as he burst out in wicked curses they crawled out the doorway and closed it with a huge flat stone. There was a hush, as their footsteps clumped away into silence, and then, beneath the shadow of the hangman's knot, the prisoners sat and stared at each other.

[Pg 9]

CHAPTER II

MESHACKATEE

The man-trap of the Scarboroughs had caught a wampus when it snared this second rider of the trails. He was huge, and bearded like Olympian Zeus—a black, curling beard which stood out in bunches beneath strands of long, towsled hair. His nose was small and snubbed, his mouth a cavern of noise, and the rolling blue eyes revealed a depth of ferocity which argued him near to the brutes; yet as he gazed at his fellow prisoner the savagery fell away from him and his smile was almost human.

"Hello there, pardner," he greeted with a nod, "so they've got you in here, too. Well by grab, I never thought, after all I been through, to git caught with a bait like that; but when I sees that rock I piles off my horse and drops down to git me a drink, and I'll be shot if Isham Scarborough wasn't right behind that boulder with his Winchester ready to shoot. I surrendered—I had to or the dirty, Texas cowards would have killed me like beefing a steer—but you wait till I git out of here and if I don't lift their hair my name ain't Meshackatee, that's all! I'll throw in with 'em if I have to—because the Bassetts are no better and I don't aim[Pg 10] to die by hanging—but it's gitting pretty rank when a man can't ride this canyon without being roped and tied. How'd they work it to pick you up?"

"The same way they caught you," confessed the other. "I got down to take a drink and when I looked up I was covered. If there hadn't been two of them——"

"Yes," nodded Meshackatee, "I know how you feel—I reckon you're a man of some nerve. But them boys would've killed you without batting an eye—by the way, what'd you say your name was?"

"My name is Hall," replied the stranger after a silence, and the giant bowed to him gravely.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Hall," he responded cordially. "You might've heard of Meshackatee? No? Well, that's the name I go by, the same as yours is Hall—I got it among the A-paches. Wahoo Meshackatee, but some ignorant old wallopers still insist on calling me Jinglebob. Name I had in New Mexico—got mixed up in a range war—but out here they all call me Meshackatee. Kind of an Injun name—or maybe it's Irish—the circumstances was something like this.

"I got run out of New Mexico—or maybe I moved—anyhow, I come away, dragging my tracks out behind me, and I butted right into some cavalry. They was out trailing Injuns—a bunch of A-paches that had left the Reservation on a raid—and the lieutenant in command, seeing that my hair was kinder long, inquires if I could talk A-pache. Well,[Pg 11] to tell you the truth now I couldn't speak a word of it, but in order to git my teeth into some of that Army grub I told him I could habla it fine. He took me on as scout and Injun interpreter at five dollars a day and found; but at the end of two days we ran spang into them Injuns, and the lieut, he sent me out.

"Well, I rode up on a hill where they could see me good and held up my hand for a talk, and when the old chief and a couple of bucks rode out I hollers:

"Wahoo meshackatee!"

"The old chief then, he r'ars back on his hanches and cuts loose with a bunch of A-pache; and finally the lieutenant, who was fresh from West Point, rides up and asks what he says. Well, it was up to me then to make good or bust; so, knowing the dirty dastards, I made a bold guess and by grab it turned out I was right.

"'He says, sir,' I reports, 'that his men want to fight; but if you'll give him some grub, and some coffee and tobacco-smokum, they'll think about coming in.'

"Well, we brought up the grub and the tobacco-smokum and when them bucks saw it they laid down their guns and come into camp on the lope. I was a hero, by crackey, until we got back to San Carlos and rustled up a real interpreter; but the colonel was so tickled that he kept me on the payroll, under the name of Wahoo Meshackatee. Never could speak the lingo but them A-paches all know me and[Pg 12] we git along somehow, by signs; but say, where you going—on your way to join the Bassetts—or was you jest passing through?"

"No, I was just passing through," answered Hall uneasily, "and by the way, who are these men, anyway? I'm a stranger in this country and I can't make out yet why they take so much interest in my business."

"Who, these fellers? Why, them's Isham and Red John Scarborough, two of the dangest cow-thieves unhung; and, as I told 'em just now, they're jealous. There's three brothers of 'em, altogether, and three of the Bassetts; and they used to be hand in glove. They throwed in together to steal old Jensen blind, but now it's dog eat dog. The Bassetts are part Injun and don't want no trouble, but these biggoty Texicans are crowding 'em so hard that I look for the fireworks any time. The Scarboroughs are hiring gunmen—you might git a job yourself—and fixing to run the Bassetts out of the country; and the Bassetts, for revenge, are going to bring in some sheep, and that sure will start a war. They're just watching each other now, and guarding the trails, but there ain't no use of your trying to git in there unless you join one of the gangs. If these boys'd let you pass, the Bassetts would sure git you; and so on, plumb through the Basin. We're all split up, and I've favored the Bassetts; but under the circumstances, and considering how

we're fixed, I think we'd better join the Scarboroughs."

[Pg 13]

He glanced up at the loop of the hangman's knot and winked with a knowing leer, but the back of the other prisoner suddenly straightened against the post and fire flashed up in his eyes.

"What, join these men after they've held me up and accused me of being a horse-thief? I'd die first—I'd let them hang me, before I'd even consider it. They're nothing but a pair of criminals!"

"Well, suit yourself," observed Meshackatee, glancing uneasily towards the door, "but you don't need to holler quite so loud."

"I'll say it to their faces!" cried Hall in a passion. "They're a disgrace to the name of Southerners. I'm from the South myself, and back in Kentucky a man holds his honor above his life. Do you think I'll submit to being branded a horse-thief and not call them out, if I live?"

"From Kentucky, eh?" grinned Meshackatee, "well this is Arizona, a whole lot further west; and over in the Basin, where they're all from Uvalde, the term 'hawse-thief' is jest a pet name."

"'Uvalde'?" repeated Hall. "I don't quite understand you."

"Uvalde University! Didn't you ever hear of Uvalde? That's a school for Texas cow-thieves. The teacher in this college is an old, busted-down cow-puncher that's spent half his life in the Pen., and his school-house is a corralful of dust. He starts them boys off at drawing brands in the dirt, and then he puts 'em to work altering 'em; and when a boy can burn every cow-brand in Texas he[Pg 14] sends him out west with his diplomy. The diplomy? Oh, that's jest one of these here running-irons, to use on his neighbor's cows."

"Yes, I see," responded Hall, smiling absently, and fell into a ruminative silence. "Is it a fact," he asked at last, "that over in Maverick Basin the people are as desperate as you say? I can understand this feud but I can't conceive of a community where a man will let you call him a thief."

"Well, they're Texicans, you know," explained Meshackatee glibly, "ain't supposed to have no morals, nohow. They're a cowardly bunch, too—jest look how they roped me—I never did see but one brave one. He's dead now, the rascal, but they called him One-eyed Tex—I was there when he got his name. It was over in New Mexico and he got into a shooting-scrape and the other feller plugged him through the eye. Bullet went plumb through his head and blew out part of his brains—made him feel kinder dizzy for a spell. Then he come to himself and drilled his man dead center, after which they took him to the doctor. The doctor wouldn't touch him till they told him it was Tex, and then he sewed him right up. Said a feller from Texas never would miss his brains nohow and he'd heal up and grow hair in a week.

"Well, Tex he got well, and I will say for him that there was one sure-enough brave Texan. He'd take on anybody and give 'em the first two shots and git off for self-defense. He come on over to Bowie, or I believe it was Lordsburg, but anyway[Pg 15] his reputation had preceded him. He was known to be bad, and he shore run it over them Mexicans. You couldn't kill the scoundrel and there warn't no way to stop him, until some of them Rawhides chopped his head plumb off one night and hid it out in the brush. He starved to death in about a week—but there was one brave Texican."

"But he's dead, eh?" grinned Hall, and then they both laughed while Meshackatee leered at the door.

"Ever spent much time exploring these cliff-dwellings?" he inquired, suddenly changing the subject, "well they sure are an interesting study. Supposed to have been built about a thousand years ago by the ancestors of the Aztecs or the Hopis; but let me tell you, pardner, they ain't all vanished yet—I found some, up here in a cave. I was riding along one time when I seen an old man, with his beard plumb down to his knees; and he was sitting down outside of a cliff-dwelling and crying like his heart would break.

"'What's the matter, old man?' I says, and he bursts out worse than ever.