The Rider of Golden Bar Part 68

"North?"

"Yeah, couldn't stand the climate in Arizona, he said," amplified Tommy, loosening the knot. "Git up, feller, pull your freight. Life's sure funny. I'll bet that calf's the first Daley ran our iron on. He only joined the outfit last week. Let's go see if I know the other feller."

Since the place where the dead man lay was on their back trail, they went with Tommy, the TU boy.

"Sure, I know him," declared Tommy, after one look at the dead face.

"He's named Brindley--been with the Horseshoe since February."

Which simple statement explained the presence of Skinny Shindle, but left Jack Murray completely to the imagination. After all, decided Billy, Jack Murray did not matter, and promptly forgot him. Had he known how important a place the slippery Mr. Murray actually held in the scheme of things, he, Billy Wingo, would not have been so casual.

"We gotta make a heap of trail," said Dawson to Billy, when Tommy had departed in suspicious haste. "That d.a.m.n Tommy is going to the ranch for the rest of his bunch. First thing we know we'll lose our prisoner."

"Don't hurry on my account," said the sardonic Slike. "If I gotta be hung, lemme be hung and no fuss about it. I don't want to ride all the way north again."

"We need you, Dan," said Billy briefly. "No hanging goes yet a while."

Forthwith they began to "make a heap of trail." It may as well be said at once that they saw no further signs of Tommy or any other of the TU boys.

Toward dawn next day the horses showed signs of tiring. "Mine won't last another five miles," said Johnny Dawson.

"This is as good a place as any," said Billy briefly. "We'll stop here."

They dismounted Slike and stripped and hobbled the horses. Slike had not enjoyed the long night ride. He was disposed to be peevish. "I want a smoke," he demanded.

Billy ceased pounding coffee and fixed him with a hard eye. "You won't get it," he said shortly.

"h.e.l.luva way to treat a prisoner," snarled Slike. "You done better by me when I was in jail."

"Lots of things have happened since. But don't you fret. I'll give you what you deserve in about five minutes. I missed out on it yesterday, but I'll try to see you don't lose anything by the delay."

"Huh?" puzzled Slike.

"You remember going to Miss Walton's ranch," elaborated Billy in a cold, monotonous tone. "You beat her."

"h.e.l.l, nothin' to that. I only pulled her hair a few times and slammed her once or twice."

"You kicked her, too."

"Not hard, though. Besides, I had to. She was stubborn. My Gawd, you wouldn't begin to believe how stubborn that girl was!"

Billy laid aside the rock with which he had been pounding coffee. "I guess the coffee can wait better than I can."

He stood up limberly and unbuckled his cartridge belt and dropped it beside Johnny Dawson, who was slicing bacon. Then he crossed to Slike and untied the knots of the rope that bound him. Slike stretched his arms and legs but made no offer to rise. Billy nudged him in the ribs with the toe of his boot.

"What's that for?" roared Slike, scrambling to his feet.

"I'm going to give you the best licking you ever got. You've had it coming a long time, and now you're going to get it."

"Is that so?" sneered Slike. "Is that so? You expecting to do all this without help?"

Fists doubled, Billy started for Slike. The latter side-stepped and feinted Billy into a position between himself and Dawson. Slike crouched. His right hand flashed downward. The fingers fumbled at his bootleg. Billy ran in, expecting to beat Slike flat.

"Look out!" cried Dawson, as Slike's hand shot up and out, accompanied by the vicious twinkle of steel.

But Billy, coming in with the speed of a springing wildcat, slipped a bootsole on a rock and fell. Slike's thrust sped past his head so close that Slike's knuckles brushed his ear.

Billy got one foot under himself and threw up an arm in time to catch on the turn the wrist of Slike's knife hand. Slike promptly changed hands. But Billy caught the other wrist, not, however, before the knife had narrowly missed slicing the flesh on his floating ribs.

Slike's head dipped forward and he sank his teeth in Billy's shoulder.

Billy drove a knee into Slike's stomach and Slike unclamped his teeth with a gasp. Over he went. Billy stayed with him.

Dawson, who had dropped bacon and frying-pan at the first blow, saw his opportunity and lunged down to wrench away Slike's knife. Which was not at all to Billy's mind.

"Let it alone!" gasped the warrior. "He ain't giving me a bit o'

trouble."

The reluctant Dawson obeyed.

Slike, his body writhing like that of a scotched snake, could not budge his pinned-down knife hand. Inch by inch Billy dragged his own body forward and upward until he was resting on his knees with Slike between his legs.

"Leggo that knife!" he directed.

Slike's reaction was humanly natural. At least, there were no hobbles on his tongue.

"Well, all right, if you say so," Billy told him, and rejoiced to perceive the top of a small rock not six inches from Slike's knife hand.

He forced the knife hand inward toward the rock. Then he proceeded, with all his might, to batter the back of Slike's hand against the pointed top of the rock. Slike's face changed at the first blow; at the second he involuntarily groaned; at the third his fingers unclosed.

The knife tinkled on the rock.

Billy pounced on the knife, threw it yards away and scrambled to his feet. "Get up, Slike! Stand on your feet! Come and get it!"

Whatever other thing Slike was, he was certainly no coward. Instead he was a glutton for punishment. He jerked himself to his feet and ran headlong into a straight-arm blow that made his nose bleed and his neck ache. As has been said, Slike had no science. Neither had Billy. In which respect the fight was equal. But Slike was only fighting for himself. Billy was fighting not only for himself but to revenge Slike's treatment of the girl he loved.

When he flattened Slike's nose, pleasure ensued--for Billy. It was joy to his heart when the next blow landed on Slike's right eye and laid him all along the gra.s.s. Three times Billy knocked Slike down, and three times the killer hopped to his feet and came back for more. But after the third knockdown it was noticeable that Slike was appreciably slower and considerably more cautious. His face was a sight. One eye was completely closed. His nose was broken, his lips cut and two teeth were missing.

Slike came to a halt in front of Billy, blew a bubble of blood from his lips and wiped his good eye with the back of his hand. He swayed on his legs. But this display of weakness was more apparent than genuine.

Billy, watching Slike's one good eye, was not misled thereby. There was no hint of weakness in Slike's eye. Indeed, there was strength and hatred a-plenty.

Accordingly, when Slike suddenly lowered his head and dodged in under Billy's guard with the evident intention of starting another "s.n.a.t.c.h and wrastle," Billy was ready, very ready. His uplifted knee met Slike full in the face. Slike straightened instantly, and Billy hooked his right to the point of the chin. Slike didn't need that last blow. The knee blow had already given him a clean knockout.

He took the ground limply and lay motionless. Billy stood and looked at him and blew upon his skinned knuckles and suddenly realized that it was a good old world, after all. There might be some mean citizens scattered here and there. But they always got their come-uppances in the end.

Dawson joined him. "Sure looked like a mule had kicked in his dashboard. I dunno when I ever saw a more complete job. That face don't look genuine a-tall."

"I'm sure ashamed of myself," muttered Billy.

"Whyfor? You did just right. I'd have done the same in your place.

You got no call to be ashamed."