"Before I hang," I said, "I'll do some talking."
They didn't like that. They didn't like it even a little. Suddenly I had a feeling that if they hadn't already marked me down for killing, I had just moved myself to the head of the list.
"Watch him, Dayton," the smaller man said, "he's good with that gun."
Dayton smiled, and it was not a nice smile.
"My advice to you, my friend, is to get out of town, and get fast."
"Why, I might do that ... given my outfit."
Dayton glanced at the other man. "What about it, Oliphant? Do you know anything about it?"
Oliphant touched his lips with his tongue.
"We figured him for dead. Of course we brought his horses in."
"And thirty pounds of gold," I said.
Oliphant shifted his feet. "I don't know--was "That's quite a lot, Oliphant," Dayton suggested coolly. "I'd rather like to know about that myself."
"I don't know anything about the gold,"
Oliphant said. "I--was Well, I just eared back the hammer on that gun of mine. "You just jog your memory, friend,"
I said. "You just jog it a mite. If you don't, I'll be asking questions of somebody else."
Oh, he was sweating, all right! He was right-down scared, and not only of me. Apparently he, and maybe some of those others, had just kept still about that gold. But there was still fight in him.
"You'll not talk so loud," he said, "if you brace Sackett."
"Who?"
"Nolan Sackett. And if you don't know that name, you don't know anything. Nolan Sackett, the gunfighter."
He mistook my manner for fear, because I was some startled to hear the name of Sackett. And then suddenly the familiarity of that big-built man returned to me. Not that I knew any Nolan Sackett, nor had I ever heard the name, but the build was so like my own ... or my brother Orrin's, for that matter, although he was heavier.
There was no Nolan Sackett I'd ever heard tell of, certainly not among the Smoky Mountain or Cumberland Sacketts.
"Clinch Mountain!"
"What's that?" They both stared at me, not guessing what I meant. And knowing no Sackett history, they could not know. But the only kind of Sackett likely to wind up in such a deal was a Clinch Mountain Sackett. They were the outlaw branch, but fighters ... I'll give them that.
"Mister," I said, "you start talking. Where are my horses and my gold?"
"You'll have to brace Sackett if you want them." He was still thinking the name had scared me. "You ain't about to do that."
"I'll send you to do it," I said, "but if need be, Sackett can face Sackett."
They didn't get it. They just looked at me, so I told them. "Why, Sackett is my name, too. William Tell Sackett, although most call me Tell, and I'm from the mountains of Tennessee, although a different set of mountains from him. And we Sacketts don't take kindly to anyone of our name mixing in with disgraceful conduct. I'll just have to meet this here Nolan Sackett and read him from the Book."
"Your horses are at Greek George's place," Oliphant said, "out beyond Cahuenga Pass. The gold is there, too, if you can get it."
"I'll get it."
Backing to the door, I looked over at Dayton. "You stay out of my way," I said.
"I don't like anything about you."
He smiled, but I knew now it was not a nice smile. There was murder in it. "You'll not live to cross the mountains," he said. "I shall see to that."
"You're too busy," I said, "trying to steal an old man's ranch."
That hit him. It was like he'd been slapped across the mouth, and he came up out of his chair, white around the lips, but I just stepped outside and pulled the door to behind me.
Roderigo was waiting for me at the end of the street, and he was worried.
"I was afraid for you," he said. "I did not know what to do."
"First things first. Do you know Greek George's place?"
"Who does not? It is there they captured the outlaw, Tiburcio Vasquez."
"Is it far?"
"Ten miles ... only that. At the foot of the mountains."
"My horses are there. My gold also."
He glanced at me. "And you will go for them? Do you know what you do, se@nor? It is the place of the outlaws. And there are outlaws in the canyons all along the Santa Monica Range. You must have the sheriff, se@nor, and a posse."
"I carry my own posse." I slapped my holster. "And as for a sheriff--whichyou, we Sacketts always figured to skin our own skunks, and ask no help of any man."
"I would ride with you, se@nor."
Well, I looked at him and figured to myself that this one was pretty much of a man. "You do that if you feel the urge for it," I said; "only come prepared for shooting, if need be."
We went for our horses, and I had an idea we'd be late if we did not hurry, for Oliphant would be sending someone, or riding himself, to warn them.
"There's a man out there name of Nolan Sackett," I said. "If anybody shoots him, it will be me."
His face paled a mite. "I did not know he was there, amigo," he said. "It is said that he has killed twenty-two men."
"To have killed men is not a thing of which one can be proud," I said. "A man uses a gun when necessary, and not too often, or carelessly."
We mounted up and rode up Fort Street and out of town, heading west and north along the foot of the mountains, with the land sloping off west and south away from us. We rode past irrigation ditches and orchards, and it gave me excitement to see oranges growing, for I'd never seen more than a half-dozen of them in my lifetime.
The railroad had come to Los Angeles with its steam cars, and looking back I could see a train standing at the depot. Main Street led from the depot through part of Sonora town where some of the poorer Mexican and Californios lived, mostly in white-washed adobe houses. The Plaza was set with cypresses; this side of it was the Pico House and the Baker Block, two of the show places of the town. Most of the streets where folks lived were lined with pepper trees, but when we got away from the irrigation ditches it was almighty dry. Because of the bad drouth the last two years, things were in poor shape. The grass was sparse, and there was little else but prickly pear.
With Roderigo leading, we cut over to the brea pits road through La Nopalera--the Cactus Patch [the area now known as Hollywood]--to a small tavern kept by a Mexican. Roderigo swung down and went inside, whilst I sat my horse outside and looked the country over.
Only the faintest breeze was stirring, and the air was warm and pleasant ... it was a lazy, easy-going sort of day when a man felt called upon to laze around and do not much of anything. Only we had something to do.
West of us lay the Rancho Rodeo de las Aguas [now the Beverly Hills area], but looking along the edge of the mountains I saw a faint smudge of blue smoke, indicating where our destination lay. This was the adobe house of Greek George ... the very same place where Tiburcio Vasquez had been shot and wounded as he scrambled out a window, attempting to escape.
Roderigo came out of the tavern, looking serious as all get out. "Se@nor, there are five men at the house of the Griego, but the man of your name is not among them."
Well, I was some relieved. No Sackett had ever shot another, and I wasn't itching to be the first. We'd never had much truck with those Clinch Mountain Sacketts, for they were a rough lot, having to do with moonshining and perambulating up and down the Wilderness Trail or the Natchez Trace for no good purpose. But they were fighters ... they were good fighters.
"We'll ride over there," I said. "I figure to lay hands on my outfit."
He looked at me, and I'll give him this.
He was game. He mounted up and swung his horse alongside of mine, and the only thing he did was to reach back and take the thong off his six-shooter.
"I would like you to meet my grandfather," he said suddenly. "Old Ben would like you."