"He is," croaked a reedy voice.
The men grouped around the doorway stood aside to allow the passage of a strange pair. A big negro, helping, almost carrying a shrivelled weed of humanity in a skirted black coat and blood-stained boiled shirt. From his waxen-white face, deep-sunk eyes flared feverish hate, and a dreadful determination. With the inevitability of Death itself he moved forward and stopped in front of the accused.
The gathering watched their progress in amazed silence. Upon Sark their appearance was petrifying. Open-mouthed, and with a clammy fear constricting his heart, he gazed distraught at the man he had left for dead in the Dumb-bell ranch-house. In those vengeful eyes he read his doom and his trembling lips framed a frantic appeal :
"Seth, save me," he whispered. "We can still make good. I swear I'll " A hideous laugh from the lawyer stilled the remainder of the sentence.
"Hark to him," he taunted. "Begging mercy from one who has tasted the torments of Hell to come here and destroy him." He paused for a moment, gathering strength, and then, stabbing a finger at the cowering wretch in the chair, "There sits Eza Kent, liar, thief, traitor, and murderer. Listen: I always coveted the Dumb-bell range, and when Amos Sark made me his man of business, I saw my way. I meant to use young Jesse, but when he died in gaol, I had to content myself with this--thing. Forging the will was a simple matter, and the fact that the heir was not known around here seemed to make success certain." He halted again, and the spectators of this weird scenestood dumb while this fragile creature, obviously dying on his feet, fought for time to compass his vengeance. Sark, fascinated, could not drag his fearful gaze from those blood-drained lips which were condemning him to the darkness of eternity.
"Killing Amos was no part of my plan, but Ezra couldn't wait. We got the range, and nobody suspected until Welcome gets a new marshal and this fool has to fall foul of him; if he'd made friends instead of foes . . ." His glazing eyes never left the object of his scorn, and the consuming hatred which had enabled him to endure the terrible ride from the Dumb-bell still sustained him. The pitiless accusation continued.
"you paid Mullins to steal the girl, meaning to force her into marriage and so make your title good; you failed. You offered five hundred dollars for the marshal's murder, and failed again." In his shaking hand he thrust out a small sheaf of papers. "You even failed to find these--my confession, and the real will, leaving everything to Mary Gray." He grimaced horribly. "I told you they were in a safe place and so they were--the safest place in the world to a bungler like you, right under your nose; you stepped over them a dozen times a day at the ranch. Ha! that touches you." Bitter chagrin came and went in the tortured eyes. The lawyer's voice weakened to a mere whisper. "You tried to kill me, and I--live--to--hang-you." The last words were almost inaudible. His head fell forward, and the sagging form collapsed in Juba's grasp. He lowered it gently to the floor, and bent for a moment.
"Sho' is daid--dis time," he said.
No one spoke, but he marshal removed his hat, and the others followed suit.
As one awakening from an evil dream. Sark wrenched his gaze from the body, and furtively scanned the grim faces around him. All told the same story; he could see no spark of compassion in any one of them. An appalling despair bit into his brain. Nippert spoke:
"Ezra Kent, have you anythin' to say?" He heard himself talking incoherently. "It was Lyman's plot. I had to do what he said--I was in his power. When I refused, at the ranch, he threw a gun on me; I struck him in self-defence. For God's sake, have pity."
"What pity did you show Amos Sark?"
"Lyman forced me " he began, and stopped as he saw the judge was looking at the jury.
In turn each shook his head, and a sweat broke out in beads of ice on his brow. His body shook as with an ague. From his swollen, livid face the eyes protruded, and the squirming lips transformed it into a hideous human travesty. Spellbound, the onlookers saw him try to rise, but his knees buckled beneath him, and with a choking cry of "Mercy ! " he pitched headlong across the man he had slain. Nippert was the first to reach him. His exclamation was brief.
"Finished," he announced. "Died o' sheer fright, seemin'ly. I never see the like. Where's Jim?" The marshal had slipped out unnoticed in the excitement, but returned in time to hear a flippant comment by a Bar O puncher:
"Less trouble for us. How many ropes needed now?"
"Nary a one," Sudden told him. "Mister Death has had a plenty big harvest a'ready."
"Allasame, them fellas are rustlers," Owen objected. "They stole my steers an' shot down my boys; I'm hangin' 'em."
"Yu'll have to catch 'em first. I figured that was how yu'd feel, so I turned 'em loose. They're leavin' the country, an' I'll bet they ain't delayin' any." The rancher glared at him. "You'd no right to do that, even though you are marshal."
"I ain't--I resigned before I sent 'em off. Sloppy, didn't yu give Ned my star?"
"Done forgot," the little man said, with an unrepentant grin. "Things was happenin' so quick."
"So yu see, John," Sudden continued, "if yu must have a necktie party, yu gotta be content with me." He smiled as he spoke, and the very absurdity of the suggestion brought an answering laugh all round, save from the cattleman. The saloon-keeper put the matter bluntly:
"After what he's done, I reckon the Bar O owes him that." John Owen was a just man. "Yo're right, Ned," he admitted. "Sorry I spoke outa turn, Jim. Welcome can't do without you. Shake." Their hands met, and Sudden said something they were to recall later :
"The man who can't be done without ain't been born yet."
Chapter XXII
IT was some days later, and Welcome, having duly celebrated the defeat and dispersal of the outlaws, resumed the uneven tenor of its way.
The marshal and his deputy, chairs tilted back, were taking the morning sun in front of their abode. For some time they had smoked in silence, and then Dave said abruptly :
"When do we hit the trail, Jim?"
"Day or two," the other replied absently, and then, "We? What yu talkin' of? yo're stayin' here."
"I--am--not. Hell ! why couldn't yu leave things be 'stead o' rakin' up ancient hist'ry, an' unsettlin' everybody?" The marshal stared at him. "Yu talked this over with Mrs. Gray?"
"No," the boy snapped. "What yu take me for?"
"The biggest chump the Lord ever put breath into," Sudden said pleasantly, and got up.
Despondently the young man saw him stroll along the street, pausing now and then to chat with a passer-hy. "Jim don't understand," he muttered miserably.
He was wrong, the marshal understood very well. The Widow's face lit up when he entered, but fell again when she saw that he was alone.
"Dave been in?" he asked casually.
"No, and he didn't come yesterday," she told him, adding with a brave show of indifference, "He must have lost his appetite."
"S'posed to be a reason for that, ain't there?" Sudden queried, and noted the quick flush. "Guess it's liver in his case--he needs exercise, an' he'll get it when we start our travels again."
"He's going away?" The cheeks were white now. "But why?"
"Dave's changed the last day or two. He's that modest I don't hardly know him--just an ornery no'-count puncher he calls hisself. Talks dangerous, too, about makin' a pile o' money, pronto."
"Whatever for?"
"I dunno. Mebbe he wants somethin' that seems out of his reach." The girl's eyes glistened. "Jim," she said softly, "you are the best friend I ever had. Do you think ?"
"I'll fix it," Sudden broke in, and beat a rapid retreat. As "he approached the lounger outside the office, he quickened his pace.
"The Widow is hurt," he said, and turned his grinning face aside as Dave leapt from his chair and raced for the restaurant.