The Cowboy MEGAPACK ®. Owen Wister
Lortz said, frankly. “I aim to dish out a certain amount of money for them yearlin’s and get me a bill of sale. The old man at the Rafter P will take my price and like it. That’s all!”
Polk poured himself a drink, and kept his face neutral. He knew what this maneuver of Lortz would mean. If Lortz and his two companions got to the ranch, they would have only Patchey and Beth to deal with. They would pay a few dollars and take a bill of sale they would force Patchey to sign. The old dodge—“one dollar and other lawful considerations.”
Calmly, Bob Polk rolled himself a smoke, and as he lit it, he glanced into the back bar mirror. A flash of understanding reached him from Martin, the boy rider from the Valley Ranch. Polk turned toward him.
“Hey, you! Are you wakin’ up finally?” he demanded. “I want to talk to you. Want to find if there’s a chance of a job at the Valley Ranch. You get the whisky out of your head so you can talk sensible.”
“Might be—job,” Martin called back, hiccuping.
“You should do all your drinkin’ out of a milk bottle,” Polk recommended acidly. He turned to Lortz again. “Don’t hold it against me that I thought of takin’ you and your friend in,” he said apologetically. “You can’t blame a man for tryin’.”
“I’ll treat you right, even if you are askin’ a lot,” Lortz replied. “1 ain’t got anything personal agin a man like you. Hope you get a job somewhere. Maybe you’ll be where you can help me out some time.”
“Could be,” said Polk, and strolled over to the table where Martin was sitting.
“You tell me about the chances for a job at the Valley Ranch,” he ordered. “I don’t want to ride ’way out there ’less there’s at least a chance. I’m a good puncher.”
“One man got sick and quit,” Martin responded with mock sullenness. “Old Man’s goin’ to fire another for bein’ too danged slow and grouchy. Good place to work. Grub’s good and pay prompt. Bunkhouse clean and neat—”
“Sounds like a good place to hole in for the winter,” Polk observed, the while glancing at the three men at the bar. He made as if to stifle a yawn with the back of his hand, as he whispered across the table to Martin.
“You heard? Get away and hit the trail for the Rafter P. Tell Patchey and Beth what’s up. Say I’ll do all I can to stop ’em.”
“Maybe I’ll ride out with you when you go,” Polk said in a loud voice for Lortz’ benefit.
“I’ll be leavin’ about sundown,” Martin stated. “Gotta sober up first. I’ll get me some cheese and sardines to eat down to the store.”
“See you later, then,” Polk told him, then whispered, “Tell Luke Harson to put the rifle on my saddle, and the medicine and mail in the saddle boot.”
Polk ambled back to the bar, and yawned again, watching from the back bar mirror, as Martin pretended to reel toward the front door.
Simms left Lortz’ side and swooped down on the boy. He whirled Martin back against the wall and took his gun.
“We’ll take care of this till you come back,” Simms said. “In your condition, you might shoot yourself.”
Martin blinked at him. “Mighty highhanded,” he mumbled in weak protest. “Tell sheriff—on yuh.”
Martin, muttering about the injustice of it all, lurched through the door and made his way to the general store.
* * * *
Polk killed a few more minutes toying with his drink, while Lortz and the others talked as if he were not present. They felt secure in disclosing their plans and bragging about how they had decoyed the deputy and all the men from the town.
Finally Polk hitched up his own overalls, and started for the door.
“Where yuh goin’?” Lortz demanded, with some suspicion.
“After him. Sardines and cheese,” Polk explained. “I’m eatin’ light these days.”
“Don’t get any rash ideas,” Lortz warned. “There are three good guns against you.”
“Think I’m a fool?” Polk said curtly. Glancing up and down the street Polk leaned against the door casement and smoked a minute, during which time he saw Luke Harson put the rifle in his saddle boot and stuff the medicine, candy and mail in a saddle bag. Harson gestured and darted back into his store.
Slowly Polk made his way to the store and entered in time to see Martin munching on a big wedge of cheese.
“Give me some crackers and cheese,” he instructed Harson. “Make it look natural! They’re goin’ to rob you, Harson. Hide most of your cash. Martin! Watch your chance and hit the saddle. Get to the Rafter P and tell ’em. I’ll try to get away and hold ’em off at the Mesa trail. Harson can try to send somebody after us if they chase me. Somebody may come ridin’ in or some of the possemen turn back.”
“I’ll make it,” Martin said tersely. “Good boy!” Polk wolfed down some of the cheese. Then he and Martin went to the door only to see Lortz, Simms and Walton emerge from the saloon and start for Harson’s store. Martin proceeded to reel down the steps and soon Polk saw him pass the three and heard him muttering:
“Gotta have another drink now to wash down cheese and crackers. Always somethin’.”
Lortz and his companions let Martin pass, and came on toward the store. Looking past them, Polk saw the Valley Ranch boy walk to the hitch-rail. And suddenly he had jerked the reins free, had tossed them over his pony’s head and was in the saddle.
The sudden clatter of hoofbeats made Lortz and his two companions whirl around quickly, and reach for their guns.
“He’s gettin’ away!” Lortz barked. “Playin’ a trick! Empty your guns at the little rat!”
Martin bent low in his saddle, and raking his pony with rowels, rode at top speed. As Lortz, Simms and Walton kept up their gunfire, Polk edged toward his own mount at the hitch-rail in front of the store.
He had timed his action neatly. When their guns were emptied and Lortz was shouting for his men to reload, Polk jerked his own reins free and hit his saddle. He whipped the rifle out of the saddle-boot and held it ready.
“One side!” he yelled.
He jumped his pony into stride and dashed straight at them. They sprang out of his way, Polk took a quick and ineffectual shot at Lortz, and then was riding wildly, bent low in his saddle.
Glancing back, he saw them running to get their horses, reloading their guns as they ran. Polk returned the rifle to the saddle boot and gave all his attention to getting speed out of his pony.
Ahead of him, he could see Martin was making good time. Polk rode on, glancing back after a time to see that the pursuit had started. But he had a good lead on the three behind him, and knew he could maintain it.
His pony went up the first hill, hit the level again, and got no breathing spell.
* * * *
There was a mass of rocks at the top of the hill, but Polk did not make his stand there. He wanted to get to the top of the grade of the Mesa Trail, where he could stand them off.
His pony was jaded when he finally reached the spot. Polk ground-hitched him behind a rocky ledge where he would be reasonably safe. Grabbing his rifle, he stuffed his pockets with shells Luke Harson had put into a saddlebag, and ran back to the rocks that commanded the upward trail.
Lying prone behind a boulder, Polk watched and waited, all his senses keened. Lortz and the two others hit the bottom of the hill and began ascending. Polk fired a warning shot over the heads of the three and they scattered to either side of the trail and began an ineffectual reply with their six-guns. Then a rifle spoke.
The bullet struck a rock a short