Essential Western Novels - Volume 5. Edgar Rice Burroughs
of my natural life! I practiced six weeks on that trick!"
"Mebbe that's why you ain't no damn good when it comes to work," jeered somebody.
Buck Manners chuckled and walked to the end of the counter. "My turn now, Heck. Come down here and try another little test."
"Nossir, not me," protested Seastrom moodily. "I done had enough. I'm content to be second strongest man in this here county. Let it go like that."
Manners was in his element, a happy-go-lucky rowdy for the moment, with all the cares of his enormous holdings forgotten. "Anybody try. Come on." His glance arrived at Clint Charterhouse and stayed there. "You try, friend. I can't get any contest out of those buzzards any more. What's the fun of it if nobody will play in my back yard?"
"Why me?" countered Charterhouse, smiling slightly.
"Give him a play," urged Seastrom hopefully. The crowd closed in, interested in this stranger who so far had consistently refused to label himself. Charterhouse saw Manners eyeing him in cool calculation. Stepping around, he faced the yellow-haired cattleman across the bar. Manners had his right elbow on the bar, forearm raised; it was the old "muscling down" test, well known to Charter-house, who extended his own right hand, They locked fingers and adjusted their elbows cagily. Manners grinned across at Charterhouse. "All set? Then—go!"
Charterhouse had braced his body against the bar, but the enormous power Manners threw into his forearm almost unbalanced him, even so. He locked his leg under a box of beer bottles, the cords of his wrist springing to the pressure. Manners had, in the first exertion of strength, pushed Charterhouse's arm slightly toward the bar, toward defeat. Charterhouse bowed his head and hurled his will into the protesting muscles. The cattleman's grip was like iron and he was using it to paralyze Charter-house's finger nerves, crushing down. A runner of weakness began to deaden his arm, hot sweat started to his face; yet his wrist came upright again, and there strained on even terms. He lifted his head, catching the glances of those packed in the saloon. Manners was grinning through the strained lines of his cheeks but his eyes stared into Charterhouse's with a flare of hot fighting spirit. And suddenly his arm gave way and fell to the bar. He drew free and swung it limply, shaking his head in mock soberness.
"That beats me, friend. First man I ever met with a better grip than mine."
"Had you stuck it out another thirty seconds," drawled Charterhouse, "you'd got the decision."
"Let's try the left hand for a change," suggested Manners.
"Agreeable," replied Charterhouse and braced himself once more.
Their fingers locked. This time Manners only nodded and instantly hurled all the power of his shoulders into his wrist. Charterhouse felt his sinews shaking along his arm and although he kept it upright during an interval of terrific effort, he knew he would soon lose. The pressure was too great; and after a recent struggle, he surrendered; his right hand was numb and he disliked having his left in the same condition. Manners showed surprise and stepped back, chuckling more freely.
"That restores some of my damaged prestige. We'll have to call it a draw. You've certainly got the best right."
"Your left hand," mused Charterhouse, dashing the sweat off his face, "is better than your right. Unusual."
"It favors me in most things," agreed Manners casually. "But why didn't you make a struggle for it?"
"Never spend my strength on a losing fight," drawled Charterhouse, reaching around for a free-lunch sandwich.
"To fight another day, eh?" suggested Manners and studied his opponent with an increased attention. "That's not a bad way of looking at things. Well—"
The saloon was stunned by the roar of a revolver at the very doors. A thick yell smashed over the plaza, a man cried for help dismally. Another gun spoke, splintering the saloon's upper wall and then Angels was trembling as the two factions raced for shelter, and the burst of bullets grew. Standing in front of the crowd within Studd's, Clint saw the sweeping reaction, a paling, a darkening, a contraction of faces. John Nickum started for the door, but Buck Manners pushed him aside.
"Stay put, John. I'm the only neutral in the place. You buzzards in here stay humble. This is only some private quarrel that's exciting a few other damn fools. I'll settle it—" His long frame dived through the door and Charter-house heard a sharp, staccato order whip all around the plaza.
"Stop this nonsense! Drop those guns, you skittish fools! Can't a couple fellows stage a fight without drawing in the whole of Casabella county? Cut it out—cut it out! You, yonder by the water trough, pull down that piece. If I take a hand in this, somebody's going to drop. All hands come out of shelter."
John Nickum was planted in front of the exit, fire flashing beneath his bushy brows, cowing the saloon bunch to uneasy silence. A last shot cracked across the plaza and silence fell. Nickum spoke grimly. "Box M, get to your horses. I have given my word we will ride peacefully out of town today. But I want this county to know that if war is the desire of certain elements, war is what they shall have! Outside, Box M!"
Nickum's men pushed eagerly through the doors, leaving a handful of strangely quiet loungers behind. Nero Studd's single, flat tones struck clear through the long room. "Everybody humble. I want no guns drawn in my establishment. The man who violates that rule answers personally to me. Sit down, Flake, and finish your drink."
Charterhouse, holding half a sandwich in one hand, passed out of the place and stopped on the walk. Somebody was cursing Box M with a lurid violence back there and was in turn cursed into meekness by Studd. The plaza was alive with milling men; gunpowder swirled down the porches and a few paces off a man rolled awkwardly into the hot sun and emitted a strangled cry. Nobody paid him the least attention as he drew his last breath and died. Nickum was bellowing at his followers; Box M swung into a semimilitary column, watchfully quiet. Buck Manners galloped past the saloon leading a riderless horse which he led to an adjacent store. A girl stepped out, laden with packages; Manners bent over to take them, smiling at her and receiving some sober reply; then she was up on her horse with one graceful move and the cavalcade moved away, leaving Angels in a haze of dust and with the taint of blood.
Standing there, soberly thoughtful, Charterhouse was conscious that an element of strength had left the town, leaving it the worse for company. The men now moving restlessly toward the dead individual were not of the same clean-cut class at all, their faces belonged to a type Charterhouse had seen too often not to recognize. A loud, bitter prophecy came down the street to him. "They got Neal, damn 'em! It was the fool's own fault for trying to wash his dirty rags on a day like this! But they got him—they fired the first shot—and it ain't going to be the last by a hell of a lot! Where's Shander, where's Studd?"
A ffimsy man with weak, stooping shoulders came along toward the saloon and somebody spoke his name. "Shander—say, Shander, come over here!" But the man said, "Shut up!" and cast a black glance at Charterhouse. The next moment he was inside Studd's. Charterhouse ambled across the plaza, stopping at the water trough to wash down the last of the sandwich. Going into the grateful coolness, he went for his horse. The stall was empty and his saddle and gear missing from the pegs.
––––––––
III
CLINT'S first reaction was to race for the back way, flash a glance into an empty corral and sweep the level land in all directions. Nothing to be seen. Galloping back to the street, he let his eyes roam along all the horses in the plaza. The stable roustabout was just limping over from the saloon, dull face twitching with excitement. He stiffened when Charterhouses's hard challenge hit him.
"Where's my horse and gear? You been fiddling with something that don't belong to you?"
The roustabout was plainly startled. He broke into a trot and passed Charterhouse to spot the vacant stall. "Oh, gosh 'lmighty! Right from under my nose! Mister, I wasn't gone more'n a minute—right after the shooting!