"SECOND TIME WEST"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 16 September 1938, Page 10

"SECOND TIME WEST"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

COPYRIGHT

BY

T. C. BRIDGES

(Author of “Watching Eyes,” “Seven Years’ Sentence,” etc.)

CHAPTER XXIII (Continued.)

To his dismay not a single saddle horse was tied to the rack. Being Thursday night it was not likely that many hands would visit the town from the neighbouring ranches, and those who had come in must have put their horses in the livery stable out of the rain. The only thing in sight was a light four-wheel wagon with two horses, which stood against the veranda of Signal’s store and which two men were loading with cases of groceries. Jim recognised one of them as Ross Carson, Ward Haskell’s foreman. It was late- for the store to be open, but Jim realized that it was likely Ward had sent in late in the evening on purpose that they might avoid interference from Kettle Drum men. As for Signal, anyone’s money was good enough for him. Jim stood where he was. When the wagon moved he would get aboard it. He only hoped it wouldn’t be long before it started. Once Bignal made certain that Joan was gone trouble was going to start. It started sooner than he expected. Three men came out of the saloon. Jim didn’t recognise any of them, but one glance was enough to make him certain that they were gunmen. They were all at least half-drunk, swaggering, talking loudly. Their leader, a squat man built like a bull and with a great, square, ill-shaven face, spotted the wagon, swung round and stared at it.

“It it ain’t Ross Carson! Of all the gall I ever heard —him coming into town!” ’He strode across and his two precious companions followed. Jim bit his, lip. Here was trouble, bad trouble. And what could he do about it!”

Carson went on with his loading. Jim knew him for a man with a fine record, but he was older than this gunman and no match for him physically. His companion was a mere boy though a sturdy one.

“What you doing here?” demanded the squat man insultingly of Carson. “You got eyes, Bastin,” replied Carson quietly. “You can see what I’m doing.” Now Jim knew whom Carson was up against. This was Bull Bastin, a bully of an ugly and dangerous type. “None o’ your lip!” snarled Bastin. “Don’t you know as Haskell’s men ain’t allowed in this here town?” “Whose orders are they—Grant Garnett’s or Murray Fame’s?" Carson asked.

“Mine’s enough for you. Drop that case and drive right out of town and tell your boss if he or any o’ your crowd show up here again there’ll be real trouble.” Jini saw Carson’s face harden. Yet he kept his temper. “If you’re pulling a joke on me, Bastin, you best lay off, I’m busy.” “You’re busy,” sneered Bastin. “Now I’m going to learn you this ain’t no joke. I’ll give you while I count three and if you ain’t in the wagon by then why it’ll be just too bad for you.” Jim saw the man’s hand drop to his holster and swiftly drew his own gun. But Carson acted first. Without an instant’s hesitation he flung the case of canned goods he was holding straight at Bastin. It hit him in the chest and he and it together crashed to the wooden side walk. His gun went off as he fell, but the bullet ploughed the sky. Bastin lay helpless, but Jim saw both his companions pull their guns. Like a flash Jim leaped forward. Whatever happened he had to save Carson from cold-blooded murder. CHAPTER XXIV. Ross Carson saw what was coming. There was no time to draw his own gun. He doubled up, plunged forward and butted his nearest assailant in the stomach. The other would have had him but for Jim. Jim reached the scene-just in time to knock the man’s arm up. He was not in time to stop the fellow from pulling the trigger, but the bullet crashed into the front of Signal’s store. The man swung furiously upon Jim. He was big and thick set but too slow to be dangerous to a boxer like the Englishman. A smashing right to the jaw crumpled him and he fell in the street almost under the wagon. Carson’s young companion was having all he could do to hold the terrified horses. “Thanks, partner,” said Carson, briefly. “Guess we better get out of this. Them shots will have roused the town.”

“I’ll come with you,” Jim began, then the door of the saloon burst open, out poured half a dozen of the Kettle Drum toughs and swept down on Carson and himself. Jim sprang aside and the first of their assailants got his fist under the ear with a force that knocked him kicking. Before Jim could do anything else thick fingers clutched his left arm from behind and at the same moment something hard and round was jammed between his ribs.

“Grab the sky, stranger!” came the voice of Grant Garnett in his ear. Jim froze. He did not'know whether Garnett had recognized him, but the Sheriff’s voice told him that the man was excited —and scared. There is nothing more dangerous than a frightened man with a gun, and Jim was taking no risks. “What’s the charge?” he asked in a voice which he strove to make different from his own.

“Brawling in the streets. Didn’t I see you hit that fellow?” Jim was sure now that Garnett had not recognised him. After all the Sheriff had only seen him once since his return and he would never dream that a Painted Cross man had ventured into Loomis, alone. He felt better.

“He was coming for me, mister,” he remarked mildly. “It were self-de-fence.”

“Self-defence be damned! You come along with me. This here means ninety days—that’s the penalty.”

“Can’t I pay a fine instead?” Jim asked. He was so meek that Garnett believed him to be frightened. His grip on Jim’s wrist relaxed, the gun ceased prodding- Like a flash Jim stiffened, he wrenched his wrist free with a sudden force that staggered the Sherriff. Then before Garnett well knew what was happening Jim drove a blow at his jaw putting all the weight of his body behind it. Garnett’s eyes glazed, his knees sagged, he collapsed on the wet planking.

The delay had been ratal to Carson. He and his companions had been dragged away by the Kettle Drum mob who were taking them to gaol. A man was tying the heads of the waggon horses to the hitch rail. Jim glanced at the horses. He wondered whether it would be possible to unfasten them and drive off with the waggon, but a second’s reflection showed that this was impossible. The shooting had brought all sorts of people out into the street, and there were also shouts from Signal’s house. Bignal himself was roaring for Oram. If he, Jim, was found standing over the insensible body of the Sheriff there wasn’t much doubt as to the result, and from Jim’s point of view it would be anything but a pleasant result. No, it behoved him to get away —and quickly —if he was to save his skin. He turned and ducked back into the dark lane.

A man bumped into him. A large, stout man. 17

“Who are you?” demanded the latte*, and Jim instantly realized that this was Bignal. He couldn’t hit a man so much older than himself, he kicked one leg from under him and sent him sprawling in the mud. It was a mistake. The moment he had done it h?.knew it was a mistake, for Bignal started yelling blue murder, and instantly there was a rush of feet along the side walk. Jim took to his heels and went straight down the alley. There was nowhere else to go.

He was too late. He heard a roar behind him and knew that men had seen him. Bignal’s shouts for help had brought a whole pack of his jackals, and they were already on the trail. It was no use making straight out into the country. The rain had almost ceased and stars were showing. Some of the men were bound to see him and ride him down. If he only had a horse, but he hadn’t a notion where to find one. He whirled to the right, round the back of the warehouse, but one of his pursuers spotted him. “There he goes! Up the cross alley. Some o’ you go round the other way. Then we got him. He’s the chap as has killed the Sheriff.” They were all shouting at once, and at any rate Jim was warned. Not that this did him much good. It seemed to him that he was properly trapped. A man reached the entrance to the alley, unlimbered his gun and began blazing away. A foolish move on his pert, for he could not see Jim, while he, the shooter, was plainly outlined against the light that, leaked from Bignal’s house opposite. Jim, close against the wall of the warehouse, rapped an answering shot. With 'a yell of pain his rash antagonist dropped his revolver and staggered back. “Cut round behind,” came another voice. “You, Saul and you Hayman.” Jim decided to take a chance and started back the way he had come. They couldn’t see him, for there was no light in the alley. It turned out as he had hoped. No one was guarding the entrance to the alley. He darted across and ran along behind the fence of Bignal’s yard. For a moment he thought he had tricked them, but two flashes of flame and heavy reports undeceived him.

“There he is! He’s back-tracked. Gond round behind Bignad’s. Let him have it. Gun him down!”

Bullets sang a spiteful song as Jim, keeping close under the fence, gave a good imitation of a hare with a pack of harriers at its heels. He had not the faintest idea where he was going. His only hope now seemed to be to gain open country and hide at best he could in the mesquite. He was going so fast that he soon outran his pursuers who had hardly yet got into their stride, but he heard their yells behind him and knew what a mob like this would do to a fugitive.

He saw another opening to his left but it was no use turning up it. That would take him back into the main street. Beyond was a low, flat-roofed shed and Jim saw a possible refuge. He jumped for it, caught the gutter, for it, caught the gutter, dragged himself up by sheer muscle power, flung himself flat and lay, panting, as the hunt streamed by below.

It was only a respite. He knew that. He felt, too, he ought to be doing something but just what he could not decide. If he only knew where to find a horse! In the whole situation there was only one grain of comfort. Joan was safe. Two men came back close beneath the shed. They were talking angrily. “Darn the feller! He’s gone!” growled one. Bignal will raise hades when he hears we missed him.”

“It ain’t Bignal I’m worrying about,” returned the other. “It’s Lopez.” “Where did the sucker come from?” asked the first. “Reckon he’s one o’ the Painted Cross boys.” “I wouldn’t wonder. Likely the same chap as nigh broke Fame’s jaw last night.”

“And knocked out Lopez,” added the other in an awed tone. ‘‘Gee, I wouldn’t be in his shoes if Lopez ever gets hands on him. “He’ll burn him alive.” “I’d burn him, myself,” was the vicious reply, “giving us all this trouble.” “Sweet creatures,” muttered Jim as he watched them pass. They had not gone twenty paces when two other men met them. “Where do you think you’re, going?”

came a clean-cut voice which Jim instantly recognised as that of Lopez. Peering over he could see the man vaguely and a second with him. “We’re hunting the chap as tackled Bignal a while back,” was the answer. “You’re working right hard,” said said Lopez with grating sarcasm. “We’ve been running all round the town,” remonstrated the other. “Running the wrong way,” sneered Lopez. “If some of you don’t And him pretty soon it’s likely you’ll be sorry, and what’s the good of working in the dark? Get some lanterns.” His voice snapped with such ferocity that those two bad' men fairly ran. Lopez came on.

“It’s Andrews,” he said to his companion, “the same who stopped Bud Condon’s horse. I haven’t a doubt of it. We must get him, Shadley. We must get him before he does more mischief.” ' . “He couldn’t have got far,” said Shadley. “He’s got no horse.”“Unless he had one tied out. But my own impression is that he gave the Chandler girl his horse.” He chuckled harshly. “Fame will be pleased when he hears Joan has gone. “But what would Andrews come back for 7 ” questioned the man called Shadley. “You’d think he’d have gone with the girl.” “I don’t know,” said Lopez shortly. “He had some ofeject. Make no mistake about that. This fellow has more brains than most. I’d say he was an educated man.” (To be Continued.)