The Law-Breakers Part 23

"Guess you boys'll see him later--all you need." Then his eyes flashed in Charlie's direction, and he winked at those near him. "Maybe some folks around here'll hate the sight of him before long."

Pete looked up, turning his cruel eyes with a malicious grin on O'Brien.

"Guess there's more than us boys goin' to see him if there's trouble busy. Say, I don't guess there's a heap of folk 'ud fancy Fyles sittin' around their winter stoves in this city."

"Or summer stoves either," chuckled Holy d.i.c.k, craning round so that his gray hair revealed the dirty collar on his soft shirt.

Stormy Longton glanced over quickly, while the kid shuffled the cards.

"Who cares a curse for red-coats?" he snorted fiercely, his keen, scarred face flushing violently, his steel-gray eyes shining like silver tinsel. "If Fyles and his boys b.u.t.t in there'll be a dandy bunch of lead flying around Rocky Springs. Maybe it won't drop from the sky neither. There's fools who reckon when it comes to shooting that fair play's a jewel. Wal, when I'm up against police b.u.t.ters-in, or any vermin like that, I leave my jewelry right home."

O'Brien chuckled voicelessly.

"Gas," he cried, in his cutting way. "Hot air, an'--gas. I tell you right here, Fyles and his crowd have got crooks beat to death in this country. I'll tell you more, it's only because this country's so mighty wide and big, crooks have got any chance of dodging the penitentiary at all. I tell you, you folks ain't got an eye open at all, if you can't see how things are. If I was handing advice, I'd say to crooks, quit your ways an' run straight awhiles, if you don't fancy a striped suit. The red-coats are jest runnin' this country through a sieve, and when they're done they'll grab the odd rock, which are the crooks, and hide 'em away a few years. You can't beat 'em, and Fyles is the daddy of the outfit. No, sir, crooks are beat--beat to death."

Then his eyes shot a furtive look in Charlie's direction.

"The sharps ain't in such bad case," he went on. "I'd say it's the sharps are worrying the p'lice about now. The prohibition law has got 'em plumb on edge. The other things are dead easy to 'em. You see, a feller shoots up another and they're after him, red hot on his trail.

They'll get him sure--in the end, because he's wanted at any time or place. It's different running whisky. They got to get the fellow in the act o' running it. They can't touch him five minutes after he's cached it safe--not if they know he's run it. If they find his cache they can spill the liquor, but still they can't touch him. That's where the sharps ha' got Fyles beat."

He chuckled sardonically.

"Guess I'd sooner be a whisky-running sharp than be a crook with Fyles on my trail," he added as an afterthought.

"An' he's after the sharps most now," suggested Holy d.i.c.k, with a contemplative eye on Charlie.

A laugh came from the poker table. Holy d.i.c.k glanced round as a harsh voice commented----

"Feelin' glad, ain't you, Holy?" it said.

Holy d.i.c.k spat.

"I'd feel gladder, Pete Clancy, if I could put him wise to some o' the whisky sharps," said the old man vindictively. "Maybe it would sheer him off Rocky Springs."

The man's eyes were snapping for all the mildness of his words.

O'Brien replied before Pete could summon his angry retort.

"There's a good many sharps in the game in this town, and I don't guess it would be a gay day for the feller that put any of 'em away.

Not that I think anybody could, by reason of the feller that runs the gang. Look at that train 'hold-up' at White Point. Was there ever such a bright play? I tell you, whoever runs that gang is a wise guy. He's ten points flyer than Master Stanley Fyles. Say, Fyles was waiting for that cargo at Amberley, and here are you boys, drinking some of it right here, and with him around the town, too. Say, the boss of that gang is a bright boy."

He sighed as though regretful that so much cleverness should have pa.s.sed him by in favor of another, and again his gaze wandered in Charlie's direction.

"Well, I'm glad I'm not a--sharp," said Billy Unguin, preparing to depart. "Come on, Allan," he went on to the postmaster. "It's past midnight and----"

O'Brien chuckled.

"There's the old woman waiting."

Billy nodded good-naturedly, and the two pa.s.sed out with a brief "good night."

When they had gone Holy d.i.c.k leaned across the bar confidentially.

"Who'd _you_ guess is the boss of the gang?" he inquired.

O'Brien shook his head.

"Can't say," he said, with a knowing wink. "All I know is I can lay hands on all the liquor I need right here in this town, and I'm dealing direct with the boss. When the money's up right, the liquor's laid any place you select. He don't give himself away to any customer.

He's the smartest guy this side of h.e.l.l. He's right here all the time, jest one of the boys, and we don't know who he is."

"No one's ever seen him--except his gang," murmured Holy, with a smile. "Guess they wouldn't give him away neither."

Stormy Longton and the Kid arose from their table and demanded a final drink. O'Brien served them and they took their departure.

"I sort of fancy I saw him once," said O'Brien, in answer to Holy d.i.c.k's remark.

He spoke loudly, and his eyes again took in the silent Charlie in their roving glance. At that instant the poker game broke up, and the men gathered at the bar.

"What's he like?" demanded Nick derisively.

"Guess he's a h.e.l.l of a man," laughed Pete sarcastically.

O'Brien eyed his interlocutors coldly. He had no liking for men with color in them. They always roused the worst side of his none too easy nature.

"Wal," he said frigidly, "I ain't sure. But, if I'm right, he ain't such a h.e.l.l of a feller. He ain't a giant. Kind o' small. All his smartness wrapped in a little bundle. Sort o' refined-looking. Make a dandy fine angel--to look at. Bit of a swell sharp. Got education bad.

But he ain't got swells around him. Not by a sight. His gang are the lowest down b.u.ms I ever heard tell of. Say, they're that low I'd hate to drink out of the same gla.s.s as any one of them." He picked up Pete's gla.s.s and dipped it in water, and began to wipe it. "It 'ud need to be mighty well cleaned first--like I'm doing this one."

His manner and action were a studied insult, which neither Pete nor Nick attempted to take up. But Holy d.i.c.k's grin drew threatening glances. Somehow, however, even in his direction neither made any more aggressive movement. Toughs as they were, these two men fully appreciated the company they were in. Holy d.i.c.k was one of the most desperate men in Rocky Springs, and, as for O'Brien, well, no one had ever been known to get "gay" with Dirty O'Brien and come off best.

Pete strove to grin the insult aside.

"Wal," he said, with a yawn, "I guess Fyles has 'some' feller to handle, if your yarn's right, Dirty. Blankets fer mine and--right now.

Comin', Nick? An' you boys? Nick an' me are hayin' bright an' early to-morrer mornin'," he added with a laugh, as he moved toward the door.

The others slouched after him and with them went the cold voice of O'Brien.

"You an' Nick hayin' is good--mighty good," he said, with a sneer.

"Nigh as good as Satin poppin' corn at a Sunday School tea."

"Or Dirty O'Brien handin' out scripture readin's in the same layout,"

retorted Pete, as he followed his companions out of the door.

Holy d.i.c.k ordered a "night-cap."

"Them two fellers make me hot as h.e.l.l," cried O'Brien fiercely, as he dashed the whisky into Holy's gla.s.s from a bottle under the counter.

"Ther', Holy, drink up, and git. I'm quittin' right now," he added.

"Say, I'm just sick to death handin' out drinks this day."