Way of the Lawless E-Book

George Owen Baxter

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

Beschreibung

If you love thrilling adventure stories with twist and turns then this Western adventure will offer you just what you need. It tells the story of a decent young man, Andrew Lanning, who through a couple of unlucky breaks, is forced into the life of a desperado. He made one mistake in the beginning, and now the most feared lawman in the mountain desert, Hal Dozier, is on his trail and will stop at nothing to bring the outlaw Lanning to justice. But is Andrew guilty of all the things he is being accused of? There is one, a pretty young girl, who doesn’t believe all she hears about him. Highly recommended, especially for those who love the Old Western genre.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 1

Beside the rear window of the blacksmith shop Jasper Lanning held his withered arms folded against his chest. With the dispassionate eye and the aching heart of an artist he said to himself that his life work was a failure. That life work was the young fellow who swung the sledge at the forge, and truly it was a strange product for this seventy-year-old veteran with his slant Oriental eyes and his narrow beard of white. Andrew Lanning was not even his son, but it came about in this way that Andrew became the life work of Jasper.

Fifteen years before, the father of Andy died, and Jasper rode out of the mountain desert like a hawk dropping out of the pale-blue sky. He buried his brother without a tear, and then sat down and looked at the slender child who bore his name. Andy was a beautiful boy. He had the black hair and eyes, the well-made jaw, and the bone of the Lannings, and if his mouth was rather soft and girlish he laid the failing to the weakness of childhood. Jasper had no sympathy for tenderness in men. His own life was as littered with hard deeds as the side of a mountain with boulders. But the black, bright eyes and the well- made jaw of little Andy laid hold on him, and he said to himself: “I’m fifty- five. I’m about through with my saddle days. I’ll settle down and turn out one piece of work that’ll last after I’m gone, and last with my signature on it!”

That was fifteen years ago. And for fifteen years he had labored to make Andy a man according to a grim pattern which was known in the Lanning clan, and elsewhere in the mountain desert. His program was as simple as the curriculum of a Persian youth. On the whole, it was even simpler, for Jasper concentrated on teaching the boy how to ride and shoot, and was not at all particular that he should learn to speak the truth. But on the first two and greatest articles of his creed, how Jasper labored!

For fifteen years he poured his heart without stint into his work! He taught Andy to know a horse from hock to teeth, and to ride anything that wore hair. He taught him to know a gun as if it were a sentient thing. He taught him all the draws of old and new pattern, and labored to give him both precision and speed. That was the work of fifteen years, and now at the end of this time the old man knew that his life work was a failure, for he had made the hand of Andrew Lanning cunning, had given his muscles strength, but the heart beneath was wrong.

It was hard to see Andy at the first glance. A film of smoke shifted and eddied through the shop, and Andy, working the bellows, was a black form against the square of the door, a square filled by the blinding white of the alkali dust in the road outside and the blinding white of the sun above. Andy turned from the forge, bearing in his tongs a great bar of iron black at the ends but white in the middle. The white place was surrounded by a sparkling radiance. Andy caught up an eight-pound hammer, and it rose and fell lightly in his hand. The sparks rushed against the leather apron of the hammer wielder, and as the blows fell rapid waves of light were thrown against the face of Andrew.

Looking at that face one wondered how the life work of Jasper was such a failure. For Andy was a handsome fellow with his blue-black hair and his black, rather slanting eyes, after the Lanning manner. Yet Jasper saw, and his heart was sick. The face was a little too full; the square bone of the chin was rounded with flesh; and, above all, the mouth had never changed. It was the mouth of the child, soft–too womanly soft. And Jasper blinked.

When he opened his eyes again the white place on the iron had become a dull red, and the face of the blacksmith was again in shadow. All Jasper could see was the body of Andy, and that was much better. Red light glinted on the sinewy arms and the swaying shoulders, and the hammer swayed and fell tirelessly. For fifteen years Jasper had consoled himself with the strength of the boy, smooth as silk and as durable; the light form which would not tire a horse, but swelled above the waist into those formidable shoulders.

Now the bar was lifted from the anvil and plunged, hissing, into the bucket beside the forge; above the bucket a cloud of steam rose and showed clearly against the brilliant square of the door, and the peculiar scent which came from the iron went sharply to the nostrils of Jasper. He got up as a horseman entered the shop. He came in a manner that pleased Jasper. There was a rush of hoofbeats, a form darting through the door, and in the midst of the shop the rider leaped out of the saddle and the horse came to a halt with braced legs.

“Hey, you!” called the rider as he tossed the reins over the head of his horse. “Here’s a hoss that needs iron on his feet. Fix him up. And look here” –he lifted a forefoot and showed the scales on the frog and sole of the hoof–“last time you shoed this hoss you done a sloppy job, son. You left all this stuff hangin’ on here. I want it trimmed off nice an’ neat. You hear?”

The blacksmith shrugged his shoulders.

“Spoils the hoof to put the knife on the sole, Buck,” said the smith. “That peels off natural.”

“H’m,” said Buck Heath. “How old are you, son?”

“Oh, old enough,” answered Andy cheerily. “Old enough to know that this exfoliation is entirely natural.”

The big word stuck in the craw of Buck Heath, who brought his thick eyebrows together. “I’ve rid horses off and on come twenty-five years,” he declared, “and I’ve rid ‘em long enough to know how I want ‘em shod. This is my hoss, son, and you do it my way. That straight?”

The eye of old Jasper in the rear of the shop grew dim with wistfulness as he heard this talk. He knew Buck Heath; he knew his kind; in his day he would have eaten a dozen men of such rough words and such mild deeds as Buck. But searching the face of Andy, he saw no resentment. Merely a quiet resignation.

“Another thing,” said Buck Heath, who seemed determined to press the thing to a disagreeable point. “I hear you don’t fit your shoes on hot. Well?”

“I never touch a hoof with hot iron,” replied Andy. “It’s a rotten practice.”

“Is it?” said Buck Heath coldly. “Well, son, you fit my hoss with hot shoes or I’ll know the reason why.”

“I’ve got to do the work my own way,” protested Andy.

A spark of hope burned in the slant eyes of Jasper.

“Otherwise I can go find another gent to do my shoein’?” inquired Buck.

“It looks that way,” replied the blacksmith with a nod.

“Well,” said Buck, whose mildness of the last question had been merely the cover for a bursting wrath that now sent his voice booming, “maybe you know a whole pile, boy–I hear Jasper has give you consid’able education –but what you know is plumb wasted on me. Understand? As for lookin’ up another blacksmith, you ought to know they ain’t another shop in ten miles. You’ll do this job, and you’ll do it my way. Maybe you got another way of thinkin’?”

There was a little pause.

“It’s your horse,” repeated Andy. “I suppose I can do him your own way.”

Old Jasper closed his eyes in silent agony. Looking again, he saw Buck Heath grinning with contempt, and for a single moment Jasper touched his gun. Then he remembered that he was seventy years old. “Well, Buck?” he said, coming forward. For he felt that if this scene continued he would go mad with shame.

There was a great change in Buck as he heard this voice, a marked respect was in his manner as he turned to Jasper. “Hello, Jas,” he said. “I didn’t know you was here.”

“Come over to the saloon, Buck, and have one on me,” said Jasper. “I guess Andy’ll have your hoss ready when we come back.”

“Speakin’ personal,” said Buck Heath with much heartiness, “I don’t pass up no chances with no man, and particular if he’s Jasper Lanning.” He hooked his arm through Jasper’s elbow. “Besides, that boy of yours has got me all heated up. Where’d he learn them man-sized words, Jas?”

All of which Andy heard, and he knew that Buck Heath intended him to hear them. It made Andy frown, and for an instant he thought of calling Buck back. But he did not call. Instead he imagined what would happen. Buck would turn on his heel and stand, towering, in the door. He would ask what Andy wanted. Andy chose the careful insult which he would throw in Buck’s face. He saw the blow given. He felt his own fist tingle as he returned the effort with interest. He saw Buck tumble back over the bucket of water.

By this time Andy was smiling gently to himself. His wrath had dissolved, and he was humming pleasantly to himself as he began to pull off the worn shoes of Buck’s horse.

CHAPTER 2

Young Andrew Lanning lived in the small, hushed world of his own thoughts. He neither loved nor hated the people around him. He simply did not see them. His mother–it was from her that he inherited the softer qualities of his mind and his face–had left him a little stock of books. And though Andy was by no means a reader, he had at least picked up that dangerous equipment of fiction which enables a man to dodge reality and live in his dreams. Those dreams had as little as possible to do with the daily routine of his life, and certainly the handling of guns, which his uncle enforced upon him, was never a part of the future as Andy saw it.

It was now the late afternoon; the alkali dust in the road was still in a white light, but the temperature in the shop had dropped several degrees. The horse of Buck Heath was shod, and Andy was laying his tools away for the day when he heard the noise of an automobile with open muffler coming down the street. He stepped to the door to watch, and at that moment a big blue car trundled into view around the bend of the road. The rear wheels struck a slide of sand and dust, and skidded; a girl cried out; then the big machine gathered out of the cloud of dust, and came toward Andy with a crackling like musketry, and it was plain that it would leap through Martindale and away into the country beyond at a bound. Andy could see now that it was a roadster, low-hung, ponderous, to keep the road.

Pat Gregg was leaving the saloon; he was on his horse, but he sat the saddle slanting, and his head was turned to give the farewell word to several figures who bulged through the door of the saloon. For that reason, as well as because of the fumes in his brain, he did not hear the coming of the automobile. His friends from the saloon yelled a warning, but he evidently thought it some jest, as he waved his hand with a grin of appreciation. The big car was coming, rocking with its speed; it was too late now to stop that flying mass of metal.

But the driver made the effort. His brakes shrieked, and still the car shot on with scarcely abated speed, for the wheels could secure no purchase in the thin sand of the roadway. Andy’s heart stood still in sympathy as he saw the face of the driver whiten and grow tense. Charles Merchant, the son of rich John Merchant, was behind the wheel. Drunken Pat Gregg had taken the warning at last. He turned in the saddle and drove home his spurs, but even that had been too late had not Charles Merchant taken the big chance. At the risk of overturning the machine he veered it sharply to the left. It hung for a moment on two wheels. Andy could count a dozen heartbeats while the plunging car edged around the horse and shoved between Pat and the wall of the house– inches on either side. Yet it must have taken not more than the split part of a second.

There was a shout of applause from the saloon; Pat Gregg sat his horse, mouth open, his face pale, and then the heavy car rolled past the blacksmith shop. Andy, breathing freely and cold to his finger tips, saw young Charlie Merchant relax to a flickering smile as the girl beside him caught his arm and spoke to him.

And then Andy saw her for the first time.

In the brief instant as the machine moved by, he printed the picture to be seen again when she was gone. What was the hair? Red bronze, and fiery where the sun caught at it, and the eyes were gray, or blue, or a gray-green. But colors did not matter. It was all in her smile and the turning of her eyes, which were very wide open. She spoke, and it was in the sound of her voice. “Wait!” shouted Andy Lanning as he made a step toward them. But the car went on, rocking over the bumps and the exhaust roaring. Andy became aware that his shout had been only a dry whisper. Besides, what would he say if they did stop?

And then the girl turned sharply about and looked back, not at the horse they had so nearly struck, but at Andy standing in the door of his shop. He felt sure that she would remember his face; her smile had gone out while she stared, and now she turned her head suddenly to the front. Once more the sun flashed on her hair; then the machine disappeared. In a moment even the roar of the engine was lost, but it came back again, flung in echoes from some hillside.

Not until all was silent, and the boys from the saloon were shaking hands with Pat and laughing at him, did Andy turn back into the blacksmith shop. He sat down on the anvil with his heart beating, and began to recall the picture. Yes, it was all in the smile and the glint of the eyes. And something else –how should he say it?–of the light shining through her.

He stood up presently, closed the shop, and went home. Afterward his uncle came in a fierce humor, slamming the door. He found Andy sitting in front of the table staring down at his hands.

“Buck Heath has been talkin’ about you,” said Jasper.

Andy raised his head. “Look at ‘em!” he said as he spread out his hands. “I been scrubbin’ ‘em with sand soap for half an hour, and the oil and the iron dust won’t come out.”

Uncle Jasper, who had a quiet voice and gentle manners, now stood rigid. “I wisht to God that some iron dust would work its way into your soul,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothin’ you could understand; you need a mother to explain things to you.”

The other got up, white about the mouth. “I think I do,” said Andy. “I’m sick inside.”

“Where’s supper?” demanded Jasper.

Andy sat down again, and began to consider his hands once more. “There’s something wrong–something dirty about this life.”

“Is there?” Uncle Jasper leaned across the table, and once again the old ghost of a hope was flickering behind his eyes. “Who’s been talkin’ to you?”

He thought of the grinning men of the saloon; the hidden words. Somebody might have gone out and insulted Andy to his face for the first time. There had been plenty of insults in the past two years, since Andy could pretend to manhood, but none that might not be overlooked. “Who’s been talkin’ to you?” repeated Uncle Jasper. “Confound that Buck Heath! He’s the cause of all the trouble!”

“Buck Heath! Who’s he? Oh, I remember. What’s he got to do with the rotten life we lead here, Uncle Jas?”

“So?” said the old man slowly. “He ain’t nothin’?”

“Bah!” remarked Andy. “You want me to go out and fight him? I won’t. I got no love for fighting. Makes me sort of sickish.”

“Heaven above!” the older man invoked. “Ain’t you got shame? My blood in you, too!”

“Don’t talk like that,” said Andy with a certain amount of reserve which was not natural to him. “You bother me. I want a little silence and a chance to think things out. There’s something wrong in the way I’ve been living.”

“You’re the last to find it out.”

“If you keep this up I’m going to take a walk so I can have quiet.”

“You’ll sit there, son, till I’m through with you. Now, Andrew, these years I’ve been savin’ up for this moment when I was sure that–”

To his unutterable astonishment Andy rose and stepped between him and the door. “Uncle Jas,” he said, “mostly I got a lot of respect for you and what you think. Tonight I don’t care what you or anybody else has to say. Just one thing matters. I feel I’ve been living in the dirt. I’m going out and see what’s wrong. Good night.”