Red Devil of the Range E-Book

George Owen Baxter

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Seattle-born author who worked as a cowhand in California, attended Berkeley, joined then deserted the Canadian Army, and finally settled down to writing full-time. He was incredibly prolific and wrote numerous books under his birth name (Frederick Faust) and a variety of pseudonyms. Today he is best known for his work published as Max Brand. „Red Devil Of The Range” is one of his Western fiction. When young Ever Winton loses the two most important things in his life, his Uncle Clay and Red Pacer – the wildest, most untamable horse in the West – he must ride with the notorious Timberline outside the law, doing whatever it takes to get his horse and his uncle back.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. HORSE LIGHTNING

II. SUSPICIONS

III. NOT HIS OWN MASTER

IV. THOROUGHBREDS

V. A WRECKED SADDLE

VI. THE CONQUEST

VII. NO SON OF HIS…

VIII. SO-LONG!

IX. IF HE WERE IN HELL

X. A PROMISE OF ARREST

XI. A YEAR’S WORK IN A DAY

XII. THE MAIN IDEA

XIII. ONE OF THE BATTY ONES

XIV. TIMBERLINE

XV. A TRICK HOSS

XVI. HELL IS RAW

XVII. HAWK OR BUZZARD

XVIII. SO-LONG

XIX. ONE SOLUTION

XX. THE ROBBER HIMSELF

XXI. BREAKING IN—AND OUT

XXII. GETAWAY

XXIII. A CHAMPION

XXIV. IN THE SOUP

XXV. A REAL JOB

XXVI. CARSON JIMMY

XXVII. HORSE OR MAN

XXVIII. NEWS FROM TIMBERLINE

XXIX. HAVING IT OUT

XXX. NO WINTON DIES ALONE

XXXI. TO UPHOLD THE LAW

XXXII. A WORD TO THE WISE

XXXIII. INDIAN BRAINS

XXXIV. $5,000 REWARD

XXXV. GOOD-BYES

XXXVI. ON THE ROOF

XXXVII. MAYBE ONE LESS WINTON

XXXVIII. OUTSIDE LOOKING IN

XXXIX. BAITED

XL. SHOOTING CONTEST

XLI. THE PURSUED

XLII. THROUGH MOONLIGHT

XLIII. THE END OF CARSON

XLIV. ALL THE LUCK IN ONE ROOM

I. HORSE LIGHTNING

At the table in the Winton ranch house sat three men and a woman. All the men were more or less formidable outside the house, but inside it they were all in fear of that one woman. Ned Winton feared his wife a little more than did his twenty-year-old son, Everard. Ned’s brother, Clay Winton, who had been a paying guest of the ranch for four years, was so accustomed to being the target of his sister-in-law’s attacks that he had developed a good deal of skill in making retreats from such battles.

A charge was about to be made now, and all three men knew it. They could tell by the fixed smile on Mrs. Winton’s face that trouble was in the air.

Mrs. Winton wore a mask of pleasantness which, she felt, was a perfect disguise, but which flecked the blood of all the others in the family with cold. She might have been carved in ice, and the dim blue eyes of the three Winton men were fixed upon her.

“How was your day, Everard?” she began.

He was working every day in town, in the blacksmith shop.

“Oh, it was a good day enough,” said the son. “Plenty to do. We had to weld a break in the coupling of Tom Walter’s big iron wagon. It was heavy to handle, but we managed it.”

“Was that the job that made you so late coming home?” asked the mother.

Uncle Clay Winton glided in swiftly and gently. He said:

“That was one of the biggest two-man jobs of welding that I have ever seen. Reminds me of a time in Dodge City when a new prairie schooner outfit was getting ready for the plains, and along come some bohunks with wagons with iron frames. One of ‘em took and tumbled over the edge of the creek, where”

“Dodge City, again!” sighed Mrs. Winton.

Her glance was as bright as fire; it might have burned the very soul of a person less callous than Clay Winton.

“Well, Dodge City was Dodge City, in the old days,” said Clay Winton. “Mighty few things that didn’t happen there, one time or another. The days when Wild Bill Hickok was town marshal”

“Seems to me,” said Mrs. Winton, “that you talk as though you were there yourself! You weren’t even born when Wild Bill Hickok was murdering his poor victims!”

“Now, Martha!” said Clay Winton. “You ought to be a little kinder and milder, when you refer to a hero like Wild Bill. I’ve known plenty of men who were friends of his. A finer gentleman and a truer man there never was none!”

“He murdered a hundred men.Ain’t that one of your boasts about him?” demanded the mother.

Uncle Clay leaned back in his chair as though overcome by despair. Then he rallied, shrugged his shoulders, and returned to the defense, saying:

“He never murdered anybody, Martha. Nobody ever dared to say that Wild Bill done murder. He was on the side of the law. That’s what he was!”

“I have it out of your own mouth–and if you know anything you ought to know the history of Hickok; how he shot one of his own best friends in the street!”

“Why, Martha,” said Uncle Clay, “it happened this way”

“I don’t want to hear how it happened! Murder is murder,” said she.

Uncle Clay looked to the ceiling and made a two-handed gesture of surrender that was almost Oriental in its expressiveness.

The mother turned upon her son.

“Everard,” she said, “what would you be callin’ it?”

Said the boy, “Wild Bill was incapable of a dishonorable act.”

“Incapable, fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Winton. “You got just a lot of Clay’s nonsense into your mind, is what you’ve got.Murder! Red murder is what it was!”

“Mother,” said the boy, “Bill Hickok never took an advantage”

“What else did he take?” exclaimed Mrs. Winton. “The devil that loved him taught him to be a dead shot. Ordinary men didn’t have a chance against him. It was murder–not duelling! He wouldn’t of had the nerve for a real stand-up fight with a man that was his equal!”

“There was no fear in him,” answered her son, his face darkening, and a gleam coming in those misty eyes which were so typical of his race.

He would have said more, but Clay Winton caught his eye and made a warning gesture. Everard looked back to his plate.

“You don’t need to shut up my boy at his own table, Clay,” snapped Mrs. Winton. “He can speak his mind for himself, I hope–unless the only mind he’s got is what you’ve put into his head!”

Clay looked to his brother and Ned Winton stirred uneasily and put up a hand to stroke his long mustaches. Then he said:

“The fact is, Martha, you’re bearin’ down pretty hard, ain’t you?”

“It would make a saint bear down!” said Mrs. Winton, flushing with anger.

Uncle Clay put in, genially, smoothly, “Speaking of the old times, I saw a sight today that would have stirred the blood of Dodge City–every man and woman in it. Harry Lawson has come back from his horse hunt, and he has the horse with him!”

Mrs. Winton parted her lips to continue the flow of her harangue, but the family was familiar with her fits of temper and by long practice they had worked up perfect team-play; so now Ned Winton hastily broke in.

“You mean that red stallion–the pacer?”

“I mean the Red Pacer,” said Clay. “What a horse!”

“It’s not one of those pretty things that the ladies love the minute they clap eyes on it,” he went on. “It’s an inch over sixteen hands, and you can see the whole machine. You can see the frame of that horse and the muscles that pull on the bones, is what you can see. He could take a standing jump and sail over the moon, is what he looks like.”

“Nacheral pacer, ain’t he?” asked Ned Winton.

“He is,” said Clay. “And a nacheral bunch of dynamite, too. I seen Buck Sanders and a Mexican puncher by name of Miraflores, and they both tried to ride him, today. There wasn’t nothing to it. He just exploded ‘em into the air, and then he went sailing off to the far end of the corral and looked through the bars and cocked his ears at the mountains. They’ve built up the corral fence to nine feet. He’ll jump anything up to eight!”

“If he can’t be rode how was he caught?” asked Ned Winton.

“They trapped him. A dozen of ‘em snagged him,” said Clay. “Harry Lawson spent about every penny that he’s got in the world to land that stallion.”

“A pile of use it’ll be!” said Mrs. Winton. “A hoss that can’t be rode!”

“There’s a worth in things that can’t be used,” said Clay. I reckon that Harry’d give that hoss away to anybody that could ride it, fair and square, without pullin’ leather. But there’s a worth in things that can’t be used.”

“What worth?” snapped Mrs. Winton. “I’d like to know what worth!”

“Why,” said Clay, “you can’t eat a diamond necklace, can you? But it’s good to look at, all the same. He had the fun and name of hunting the red hoss down. I reckon a thousand punchers have seen the Red Pacer on the edge of the sky, and wished their hearts out to have him. But it was like chasing lightning to chase him.”

“I’d like to put a saddle on him. I’d like to try him,” said Everard Winton, slowly.

He spoke so quietly that his mother barely heard him.

“What’s that you say?” she snapped.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’d like to try my luck with the Red Pacer,” he answered.

“And get your neck broke?” she inquired, angrily.

“I hope not,” said the boy.

Again he looked to his uncle, and received the warning sign. But Mrs. Winton also had seen the check of the shaken head, and she was more furious than ever.

“You can waste your time ridin’ wild horses–you can’t waste your time coming home and helping with the chores, like a right-minded boy would do,” she exclaimed. “D’you say that you were kept late in the blacksmith shop, this afternoon?”

Before Everard could answer, and he was habitually slow in speech, his uncle replied:

“Well, Martha, if you’d seen your boy wrestling with that iron beam and treating it like a stove poker, you wouldn’t be asking questions. Tom said he never seen a finer piece of welding done by nobody.”

Mrs. Winton raised a forefinger.

“Everard!” she said.

“Yes, mother?”

“If you was down there in the shop, weldin’ iron beams together, then was it the ghost of you that I seen fighting that big hulk of a Berner boy behind the barn?And your precious uncle standin’ by and lookin’ on–encouragin’ you to a brutal waste of your time?”

II. SUSPICIONS

The silence of disaster settled coldly over the four at the table. Mr. Ned Winton looked gloomily down at his plate, and shook his head wearily. Only his wife was on fire with cruel triumph.

Everard spoke first. “I didn’t lie to you,” he said. “I didn’t say that I was in the shop all the time.”

“You’d of sat and let me think so, though,” cried his mother. “That’s what you’d of done. Your precious uncle, there, could talk about the welding work as though that had kept you. It wasn’t welding; it was breaking that you were doing. Trying to break heads and bones with your fist–swasting your time–fighting like a regular animal.”

Her emotion and lack of breath stopped her.

“What in thunderation is all this about, anyway?” demanded the father. “It ain’t that big Rudie Berner that Ever was fighting, was it? Why, Rudie’s six three, and made like an ox.”

“Fighting! Fist fighting!” stormed Mrs. Winton, the shrillness of her voice sending the blood up to swell and redden in her face. “Right out behind the barn–right when I needed help in the milking and in getting in the wood–right out there behind the barn I peeked around and seen Ever fighting Rudie Berner with his fists.”

“We were only boxing, mother,” said Ever Winton, looking at her with a strangely cold eye. “We had on six-ounce gloves.”

“Fighting!” she insisted. “With your Uncle Clay Winton standing by and encouraging both of you. D’you think you can hoodwink me, Clay Winton? D’you think you can say it wasn’t fighting?”

Clay Winton, who had said nothing, canted his head to the side and endured the assault.

“You can’t bamboozle me!” exclaimed Mrs. Winton. “I got the eyes that God gave me. Didn’t I see Rudie Berner beat my boy to his knees? Didn’t I see Ever jump up and whang Rudie till Rudie Berner lay against the side of the barn with his hands down?”

“It was a right hook,” murmured Clay Winton, dreamily. “A beauty, on the button! That turned the trick.”

“Ever,” demanded Ned Winton, with a grin, “did you lick that big whale of a Rudie Berner?”

The grin maddened Mrs. Winton.

“And you’re praising him for slacking his chores and fighting and lying to me!” she cried.

Everard pushed back his chair from the table. Again his uncle made the negative sign, and again Mrs. Winton saw it. This time the slender remainder of her patience was entirely exhausted and she cried out:

“Clay, don’t you go to shutting up my boy in his own house! Let him talk out!”

“I’ll talk out,” said Everard Winton, as deliberately as before.

“Clay Winton!” shrilled Mrs. Winton. “I’ll have you know”

Everard lifted his hand, and the pain in his face stopped her at last.

“Maybe you’re right, Uncle Clay,” said he. “I won’t say anything. I’ll just go out and take a walk.”

“Go out and take a walk?You set down right this minute and finish your supper!” commanded Mrs. Winton.

“I’ll go take a walk, I think,” said the son, insistently.

“Ned!” she cried out. “Are you gonna let that boy defy you like this?”

Everard was already through the screen door and stepping onto the back porch as his father answered:

“He’s twenty, and growed up. I can’t treat him like a baby no more.”

Mrs. Winton turned on her brother-in-law.

“It’s you!” she exclaimed. “It’s you that has done it all! It’s you that’s taking him away from his own flesh and blood!”

Clay Winton was a long-suffering man where women were concerned, and particularly with his brother’s wife. But now even his patience gave way a little. He said:

“You gotta remember, Martha, that half his blood is Winton blood, and that’s what runs in me.

He stood up in turn.

“I’ll be stepping out,” he said.

“And go and walk with my boy? And raise up his heart agin me?” cried Mrs. Winton. “Ned, are you just gonna set there and see things like this happen under your own roof?”

Ned Winton sighed and leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed.

“Oh, Martha, Martha!” he said. “Wouldn’t you leave it be for a while?Wouldn’t you let it drop?”

Clay Winton passed through the door in his turn, and his footfall went across the porch and down the steps, sounded hollowly along the board walk, and then disappeared from hearing.

A silence came over the dining room. Mrs. Winton was still red-faced and panting, but there was alarm in her eyes.

“There had to be a time,” she said. “There had to be a time. It’s just what I’ve suspected for a couple of years. Clay’s corruptin’ our boy.”

“Martha,” said her husband, “a boy that can be corrupted ain’t worth the saving. That’s all I’ve got to say. I’m gonna go and cool off.”

He stood up from the table, but she ran around it and stood before him, gripping him by both sleeves.

“Oh, Ned!” she said. “Suppose that something would happen to him. I’d die.I wouldn’t live none, if anything happened to him; an’ neither would you. We’re all wrapped up in him. And now–it’s shooting and fist-fightin’. And next thing you know he’ll go and take and ride that Red Pacer–and have his neck broke!”

He put his hand on her head and waited until he was no longer choked by the pain in his throat. Then he said:

“Well, Martha, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll forbid him from riding the Red Pacer.”

“That’s something!” she said, eagerly. “It’d be something more if Clay’d decide to take and live in another place.”

“I’m goin’ out on the front porch,” said Winton. “I’ll wait there and speak to Ever when he comes back in.”

He left the dining room as he spoke, and Mrs. Winton sat down at her place, with the tears working down her face unheeded. At last she sighed, gave her shoulders a short, quick shrug, and settled down to finish her supper.

After she had washed the supper dishes and dried thema task which Everard generally performed–she went out to the front porch and sat for a moment beside her husband.

“Ned,” she said, “I want to ask you something.”

“Yes?” he said, wearily.

“I wanta ask you where Clay really got all his money.”

“Mining.”

“That’s what he says.”

“Are you going to doubt his word every time he speaks?” asked Ned Winton.

“You know, Ned,” she answered, “that lying comes dead easy and nacheral to lots of folks. And I notice little things–I notice a pile of little things.”

“I know you do,” he replied, sourly.

“Ten years ago,” she said, “Clay went West, smooth-shaved. Four years ago he came back, and started to grow a beard and a mustache. Then a year ago he shaved off the mustache.”

“Can’t a man please himself, wearing his face rough or smooth?” asked the husband.

“I’m not a fool, talking to hear myself talk. In the old days Clay always was wild. He had to have girls, dancing, liquor. And now he lives like an old man.”

“He’s sowed his wild oats,” said her husband, sadly.

“Hot blood never grows cold,” she answered. “But now Clay lives like a rat in a whole–just like that! He don’t leave the ranch once a year, hardly.”

“What about it?” demanded her husband, irritably. “He’s lazy, maybe. But he’s made his pile and he can afford to be lazy, all right. That’s his business. What are you upset about?His sitting around and his mustache?”

“You don’t put things together,” she objected.

“What do you make out of it?” he asked.

“You remember when Clay came back the first time, full of money? He’d made it prospecting and mining, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Done it for years, and finally hit it rich?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Well, Ned, you ever look at the hands of a miner?”

“Sure I have.”

“What about ‘em?”

“Calloused like leather. Why?”

“You remember the hands of Clay when he came back?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“Well, I remember them, though,” she said. “They were as white and soft as the hands of a

“Humph!” muttered her husband.

“Can you put two and two together?” she demanded.

“I ain’t a suspicious sort of a fellow, Martha,” he answered, uneasily.

“Maybe not,” she replied, “but it’s as plain as the nose on your face.It’s been plain to me all the while, Clay never dug a penny out of the ground. Faster and easier pay was what he was after. That’s the kind of money he’s got, and that’s the kind of money hell send our boy after!”