IXA killer is, with mighty few exceptions, a killer because of his own desires. Black Jack, foreman for the LF, was no exception. He did not even, secretly or openly, offer the plea that he was a victim of circumstance. He had killed men. He would kill more men. His past was a sealed book, his future a gamble and thus he met each day as it came. Making no prayer, he branded as weak any man who believed in a God. A half-breed, and the blend was dangerously bad for he had inherited the baser traits of both races.Now, as he looked along the barrel of his Winchester to find Pete Basset at the end of it, his white teeth flashed in a smile that was unpleasant to see. The bushy black beard hid the cruel lines about his mouth, but the narrow slits of black that were his eyes, glittered as the moonlight struck them. A brown finger pressed the trigger, then paused uncertainly.The taint in his mixed blood, thrown back to some breech-clouted ancestor, now stayed his hand. He hated Pete Basset and a bullet between the boy’s eyes would be too mercifully quick an end. His trigger finger eased off.Pete Basset, shocked and not a little disappointed at Shorty’s easy surrender, hesitated uncertainly, gun lowered, making no move to raise his hands nor return the fire. He realized with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, that Black Jack and his men were well hidden and on higher ground that prevented a rush. He and Shorty, on the other hand, stood in plain view. Resistance meant death. Shorty had shown judgment, not a yellow streak. He dropped his gun and raised his hands.Shorty, the lariat still in his hands, elevated his arms skyward and grinned weakly. The soft drip-drip of water from their soaked clothes on to the hard clay was the only sound that broke the quiet of the night.Behind the willow clump, Black Jack lay aside his Winchester and drew his .45.“The little ’un brung a rope, Bill,” he announced in a jeering tone as he stepped into the open. “Mebbeso it’ll come in right handy to string ’em up. Ketch ropes is scarce and hangin’ a man spoils a rope fer use. Bad luck to use one that’s snaked a man tuh ——.”Followed by another man, he stepped carefully down the incline.“Howdy, Black Whiskers,” said Shorty glibly. “When yuh go through my pockets after you’ve made a corpse outa me, yuh’ll find four bits in my off flank pocket. Buy yorese’f a shave with it.”Holding his gun in careless readiness, Black Jack stepped closer, still on the incline. Shorty noticed that the single action gun was not cocked but that the breed’s thumb was on the hammer.“If yuh got ary more comical sayin’s in yore system,” he sneered, git shet of ’em. I understand as how hangin’ kinda interferes with a man’s voice. Bill, tie Basset up. I’ll tend to this mouthy one.”Black Jack’s hand slipped hipward and produced a pair of steel handcuffs. He was clear of the incline now and on a level with Shorty, standing but a couple of feet distant.“Jest lay aside yore hangin’ rope, little man, and hold yore lily white paws out fer a nice pair uh bracelets.”Shorty’s right hand flicked forward from the wrist with a deft, swift movement. The round noose shot out, settled, and tightened with such abruptness that Black Jack was caught off his guard. Shorty hurled himself backward, jerking the breed from his feet. The .45 exploded harmlessly.Pete threw himself forward as Bill shot. The youth’s hand clutched the gun on the ground and, rolling over with a catlike twist, he fired at the shadowy form that came through the air at him like a mountain lion springing on its prey. His shot missed Bill by inches and their bodies met in a thudding crash to writhe and twist in locked embrace.Shorty’s wet socks slipped on the water-soaked clay bank as he jerked the rope. Black Jack, the shining handcuffs now a nasty weapon, was upon him, the steel manacles crashing full into Shorty’s face. A grunt of pain and the little puncher’s hand gripped the black whiskers and jerked. His other fist swung at the man’s jaw.Again and again the steel cuffs clinked and clashed against the cowpuncher’s face. They came away each time speckled with blood. Shorty, on his back underneath the breed, pulled the harder on the black whiskers and his free arm went around the sinewy brown neck. Muscles flexed and tightened like a steel-jawed trap and the blows from the handcuffs became less effective as Shorty slowly pulled the breed down to him.Then, with a writhing, twisting movement used by professional wrestlers, the little puncher slid from under the other’s bulk, still holding the black head in the crook of his arm. A short arm jab, vicious and effective, caught Black Jack’s jaw, bringing a grunt of pain from the breed.From the shelter of the high bank moved the man whom Shorty had knocked out with his gun. The man was crawling toward Shorty and Black Jack, his eyes on Shorty’s gun that lay close by. His hand closed over the weapon and he sprang forward, his right arm dangling awkwardly at his side, the gun in his left hand.Shorty saw him and with a terrific effort rolled over, dragging the striking, snarling half-breed with him. The wounded man, cursing methodically to fight off pain and dizziness, stumbled forward and flung himself on top the two. His gun thudded against Shorty’s head. Once, twice, three times. Shorty’s grip on the black-bearded head relaxed and he went limp, his bleeding, mangled features ghastly in the light of the white moon.Pete and Bill, panting and fighting like wild beasts, fought without rules nor thought of fair tactics. Not a word passed their clamped jaws as they rolled to the water’s edge and under the feet of Shorty’s horse.The horse, frightened, lashed out at the struggling forms. A shod hoof struck Bill in the ribs and with a groan, he relaxed his grip. Rolling free of the horse’s flying hoofs, Pete staggered to his feet, aiming a kick at Bill’s face. The stocking-clad heel caught Bill on the cheek. With a last effort, the outlaw clutched Pete’s leg and wrapped his arms about it, jerking Pete off balance and bringing him to the ground.Black Jack, his breath coming in sobbing gasps, had regained his feet. He saw Pete lurch to a sitting posture.“Here!” called the wounded man and thrust the .45 into Black Jack’s hand. “Finish the ——!”The half-breed jumped forward. The next instant the gun barrel crashed against Pete’s head and the fight was over.
A killer is, with mighty few exceptions, a killer because of his own desires. Black Jack, foreman for the LF, was no exception. He did not even, secretly or openly, offer the plea that he was a victim of circumstance. He had killed men. He would kill more men. His past was a sealed book, his future a gamble and thus he met each day as it came. Making no prayer, he branded as weak any man who believed in a God. A half-breed, and the blend was dangerously bad for he had inherited the baser traits of both races.
Now, as he looked along the barrel of his Winchester to find Pete Basset at the end of it, his white teeth flashed in a smile that was unpleasant to see. The bushy black beard hid the cruel lines about his mouth, but the narrow slits of black that were his eyes, glittered as the moonlight struck them. A brown finger pressed the trigger, then paused uncertainly.
The taint in his mixed blood, thrown back to some breech-clouted ancestor, now stayed his hand. He hated Pete Basset and a bullet between the boy’s eyes would be too mercifully quick an end. His trigger finger eased off.
Pete Basset, shocked and not a little disappointed at Shorty’s easy surrender, hesitated uncertainly, gun lowered, making no move to raise his hands nor return the fire. He realized with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, that Black Jack and his men were well hidden and on higher ground that prevented a rush. He and Shorty, on the other hand, stood in plain view. Resistance meant death. Shorty had shown judgment, not a yellow streak. He dropped his gun and raised his hands.
Shorty, the lariat still in his hands, elevated his arms skyward and grinned weakly. The soft drip-drip of water from their soaked clothes on to the hard clay was the only sound that broke the quiet of the night.
Behind the willow clump, Black Jack lay aside his Winchester and drew his .45.
“The little ’un brung a rope, Bill,” he announced in a jeering tone as he stepped into the open. “Mebbeso it’ll come in right handy to string ’em up. Ketch ropes is scarce and hangin’ a man spoils a rope fer use. Bad luck to use one that’s snaked a man tuh ——.”
Followed by another man, he stepped carefully down the incline.
“Howdy, Black Whiskers,” said Shorty glibly. “When yuh go through my pockets after you’ve made a corpse outa me, yuh’ll find four bits in my off flank pocket. Buy yorese’f a shave with it.”
Holding his gun in careless readiness, Black Jack stepped closer, still on the incline. Shorty noticed that the single action gun was not cocked but that the breed’s thumb was on the hammer.
“If yuh got ary more comical sayin’s in yore system,” he sneered, git shet of ’em. I understand as how hangin’ kinda interferes with a man’s voice. Bill, tie Basset up. I’ll tend to this mouthy one.”
Black Jack’s hand slipped hipward and produced a pair of steel handcuffs. He was clear of the incline now and on a level with Shorty, standing but a couple of feet distant.
“Jest lay aside yore hangin’ rope, little man, and hold yore lily white paws out fer a nice pair uh bracelets.”
Shorty’s right hand flicked forward from the wrist with a deft, swift movement. The round noose shot out, settled, and tightened with such abruptness that Black Jack was caught off his guard. Shorty hurled himself backward, jerking the breed from his feet. The .45 exploded harmlessly.
Pete threw himself forward as Bill shot. The youth’s hand clutched the gun on the ground and, rolling over with a catlike twist, he fired at the shadowy form that came through the air at him like a mountain lion springing on its prey. His shot missed Bill by inches and their bodies met in a thudding crash to writhe and twist in locked embrace.
Shorty’s wet socks slipped on the water-soaked clay bank as he jerked the rope. Black Jack, the shining handcuffs now a nasty weapon, was upon him, the steel manacles crashing full into Shorty’s face. A grunt of pain and the little puncher’s hand gripped the black whiskers and jerked. His other fist swung at the man’s jaw.
Again and again the steel cuffs clinked and clashed against the cowpuncher’s face. They came away each time speckled with blood. Shorty, on his back underneath the breed, pulled the harder on the black whiskers and his free arm went around the sinewy brown neck. Muscles flexed and tightened like a steel-jawed trap and the blows from the handcuffs became less effective as Shorty slowly pulled the breed down to him.
Then, with a writhing, twisting movement used by professional wrestlers, the little puncher slid from under the other’s bulk, still holding the black head in the crook of his arm. A short arm jab, vicious and effective, caught Black Jack’s jaw, bringing a grunt of pain from the breed.
From the shelter of the high bank moved the man whom Shorty had knocked out with his gun. The man was crawling toward Shorty and Black Jack, his eyes on Shorty’s gun that lay close by. His hand closed over the weapon and he sprang forward, his right arm dangling awkwardly at his side, the gun in his left hand.
Shorty saw him and with a terrific effort rolled over, dragging the striking, snarling half-breed with him. The wounded man, cursing methodically to fight off pain and dizziness, stumbled forward and flung himself on top the two. His gun thudded against Shorty’s head. Once, twice, three times. Shorty’s grip on the black-bearded head relaxed and he went limp, his bleeding, mangled features ghastly in the light of the white moon.
Pete and Bill, panting and fighting like wild beasts, fought without rules nor thought of fair tactics. Not a word passed their clamped jaws as they rolled to the water’s edge and under the feet of Shorty’s horse.
The horse, frightened, lashed out at the struggling forms. A shod hoof struck Bill in the ribs and with a groan, he relaxed his grip. Rolling free of the horse’s flying hoofs, Pete staggered to his feet, aiming a kick at Bill’s face. The stocking-clad heel caught Bill on the cheek. With a last effort, the outlaw clutched Pete’s leg and wrapped his arms about it, jerking Pete off balance and bringing him to the ground.
Black Jack, his breath coming in sobbing gasps, had regained his feet. He saw Pete lurch to a sitting posture.
“Here!” called the wounded man and thrust the .45 into Black Jack’s hand. “Finish the ——!”
The half-breed jumped forward. The next instant the gun barrel crashed against Pete’s head and the fight was over.