The Black Muldoon Read online

  A scratching sound made him jump. It was an old, gray tiger cat, which reached up from the floor to sharpen its claws on the edge of the canvas tick of the bed.

  Bristol sat down on the edge of the bed, picked up the cat, and let it stretch out on his thigh. The cat accepted the position at once, closed its eyes, and, purring with content, began to work its claws into the tough cloth that covered his knees. The cat was very old and very ill cared for. Its whiskers were white as silver. With the tip of a finger, he could count its vertebrae from behind its ears to the root of its tail, and its poor old ribs were obvious through the thin mist of its fur. Plainly the animal was not fed, but had to hunt for its living, and increasing age made this more and more difficult. He could see it waiting for death at last under the lee of a southern bank, its paws tucked under its body, purring for gratitude because of the warmth of the sun.

  But the cat was a poor beast incapable of reason, and therefore trapped by circumstance, and Bristol was a human creature with a brain, yet from the moment he met Dan Miller in the gap, he had allowed himself to drift on from one point to another until he found himself closed in this impasse. He had done such things before. He was a wine taster, and danger always had been the wine that he loved. The danger that thickened around him in the gap had been a glorious delight to him. There had only been one moment of real fear, and that was when Dirk van Wey gripped his shoulder in the barn. But now there was fear again, real fear. The breath of it was in the cold damp of the room.

  He had one consolation. If it were impossible for him to get out of the room unnoticed, it would also be impossible for the men of the house to get into the room without waking him.

  There was a key in the door. He got up and turned that key, and felt the rusty bolt slide home. They would have to beat down that door to get at him. And they were not apt to do that. Morning might bring him new ideas. So he pulled off his boots, opened the window, blew out the lantern, and lay down in his clothes to be ready for any alarm. The old, gray cat curled up against his breast, and the hoarse music of its purring put him to sleep. The last he remembered was the secret voice of the wind through the foliage of the big tree outside the house.

  * * * * *

  He wakened with a start and in another world. Pale moonlight streamed before him, and a monstrous tiger, striped with dim, gray stripes, was before him. Only gradually he realized that he was lying in the bed in the house of Dirk van Wey and that the moonshine was streaking through the window. The huge tiger that stood with ears laid savagely back and with tail lashing its sides, was no other than the old, gray cat that had awakened him by its sudden start and that now stood on the edge of the bed, staring toward a corner of the room.

  Bristol turned his head in that direction and almost exclaimed aloud. For a whole section of the ceiling now hung down, a big square section of the boards. And now, into the dimness, dropped what seemed the limber length of a snake, but turned out to be a swaying rope ladder. It began to swing and sway more violently. The boots and spurs of a man appeared, then his knees, his hips, his head and shoulders.

  Bristol drew a revolver and leveled it.

  Having reached the floor, the intruder waved his hand. The rope ladder gradually ascended; the trap door closed on soundless hinges. And peering through the gloom, Bristol made out the profile of that broken-nosed man, Lefty Parr.

  The head of Lefty had turned only once toward the bed. Now, as though perfectly assured that his victim slept, he raised his face and watched the soundless closing of the trap. In that moment the gray cat couched itself as if for a spring, and big Jimmy Bristol glided from the bed and across the floor. Moonlight bathed him to the knees, and as though the flash of it struck the corner of Lefty’s eye, he whirled suddenly, gun in hand.

  The leveled Colt in the hand of Bristol made Lefty’s own weapon waver. Then it hung at his side at the length of a limp arm. Yet there was little or no fear in his face.

  “Walk over to the bed and put the gun on it,” said Jimmy Bristol.

  Lefty Parr obeyed. He laid down the gun with a sort of reverence and, straightening, turned to Bristol again.

  “Now stand over in the moonlight,” said Bristol softly. “And take care of your hands. No quick moves, Lefty.”

  “All right,” said Lefty.

  He stood back into the moonlight until the bright current of it cut across his face at the sag in his nose. Still he seemed perfectly calm.

  “Now, what’s up, brother?” asked Bristol.

  Lefty made a gesture with both hands, palms up, inviting Bristol to see for himself.

  “A thousand bucks is a whole lot of money. Is that it?” asked Bristol.

  “Yeah,” said Lefty, “it’s too much to throw away.”

  “On rent, eh? Van Wey left it up to you fellows to get it?”

  “Something like that,” muttered Lefty Parr.

  “Where are the rest of ’em? Who elected you? I mean, for the dirty work.”

  “We drew for the first black ace. I collected it,” said Parr. “I wasn’t going to bump you off. I was just going to stick you up and take the dough.”

  “Tap me on the head, maybe, for a settler?”

  “Well, maybe. I dunno.” His casual attitude remained.

  “Where are the rest of ’em, Lefty?” asked Bristol.

  “I dunno. That’s their business.”

  “I like a man that talks up,” suggested Bristol. He got up and crossed the floor. The muzzle of his revolver he laid on the square chin of Lefty Parr.

  “That’s no good,” said Parr. “It wouldn’t buy you anything to blow my head off.”

  “It would make me a lot happier, though,” said Bristol. “It’s worth dying for, Lefty, to put away a rat of your size.”

  Lefty considered him with a sudden squinting of the eyes. He said nothing.

  “Tell me where those fellows are … all of ’em!”

  Lefty moistened his lips. The tip of his tongue glistened in the moonshine. “Dan Miller was up in the attic, handling the trap and the ladder for me,” he said. “And out in the hall is Harry Weston.”

  “Where’s Rance?”

  “I dunno, exactly. Maybe outside the house.”

  His tone inferred that the whereabouts of Rance did not greatly matter.

  “Has van Wey come back?”

  “Maybe. I dunno. I ain’t seen him.”

  “You lie,” said Bristol.

  The first real sign of fear was the shudder of Lefty’s body. “I’m telling you straight!” he gasped.

  Bristol considered for an instant. It might well be that Dan Miller was still working his way quietly down from the attic. And in that case, it was time to move at once. He merely paused to ask: “Ever use this room this way before?”

  “No,” said Lefty Parr.

  “That’s a louder lie than the rest,” said Bristol. “You keep the hinges of it oiled. That shows it’s always ready for use.”

  He saw the Adam’s apple work up and down in the throat of his captive as Lefty swallowed. It was confession enough.

  “Walk to the door,” commanded Bristol.

  Lefty obeyed. He stood at the door, whispering: “What’s the idea going to be, Bristol?”

  Bristol laid the muzzle of the Colt against the small of Lefty’s back, reached past him with the other hand, and turned the key. Then he fastened the grip of his left hand on Parr’s neck from behind.

  “Pull the door open and walk out,” he ordered.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” argued Parr, whispering. “If I walk out there, you know that that snaky devil of a Weston is out there.”

  “That’s all right. You’ll be walking first.”

  “He wouldn’t let up because I went first. He’d shoot me to get at you. He ain’t human. He’d do a murder for ten dollars. He’d do it for fun!”

  And Bristol remembered the handsome, cold face of Harry Weston and knew that what he heard was true. He merely answered: “Better take your chance with hi
m. You’ve got no chance with me. If I have to leave the room without you, I’ll leave you dead behind me, Lefty. Killing snakes is not murder, Parr. Open that door.”

  The head of Lefty Parr dropped weakly back with a groan. But he pulled the door open, nevertheless, and before them was the velvet blackness of the hallway.

  VIII

  The voice of Lefty Parr went before them, whining, appealing, with the same shiver in the sound that there was in his body.

  “Harry, don’t shoot! Harry, you ain’t going to shoot, boy. He’s got me. He tricked me, and he got me.”

  Out of the darkness down the hallway a voice laughed softly. “You used up all your luck tonight, Lefty. I’m sorry for you. Are you walking ahead of the big boy?”

  “I’m right ahead of him,” said Lefty Parr, stepping slowly into the blackness, with his arms stretched out before him. “He’s got me by the neck. He’s got a gun rammed into the small of my back. Harry, don’t shoot, for God’s sake.”

  “No, I won’t shoot,” said Harry Weston. “I’ll let the big shoemaker walk right out of the house and never try to stop him. I’ll let him walk away with the coin just because I don’t want to hurt your feelings, eh?”

  Bristol, straining his eyes through the blackness, could make out nothing, but the hallway was so narrow that few bullets could fly at random. Besides, since Weston had been in the hall for some time, his eyes had probably grown accustomed to the blackness.

  “He’s going to do it. He’s going to kill me,” breathed Lefty Parr to himself. “Bristol, you see how it is. It ain’t any good … it ain’t going to help you …”

  “The best way with rats is to let ’em kill one another,” said Bristol. “Stop squirming and walk straight ahead. Faster!”

  Lefty cried: “Harry, will you listen?”

  “Yeah, I’ll listen, if listening will do you any good.”

  “I always liked you, Harry. You was always about my best friend. It’s going to be a murder if you shoot me. Harry, if things was different, I never would pull a trigger on you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know what you’d do,” said the voice of Harry Weston. “Stop your whining and take it like a man.”

  “Then shoot low!” screamed Lefty. “Don’t shoot breast-high or head-high. Shoot low. Maybe you’ll snag his legs as well as mine. Don’t go and murder me, Harry. Don’t shoot for the breast …”

  “Shut your mouth, you cur!” snarled Weston. “You’ve never been a whole man. You’ve never been more than half a man. Now you take your chances the way you find ’em. This ain’t a pack of cards that you can stack.”

  He laughed as he said it, and suddenly big Jimmy Bristol could endure the thing no more. The direction of that voice seemed to him to come rather high and to the right, as though Weston were standing with his back to the wall, thus giving greater clearance for bullets to go by him. As for poor Lefty Parr, he was squeezing himself to nothing against the left-hand wall. And now Bristol tried a snap shot in the direction of his guess.

  The gun raised a thunder in his ears. There was an instant flash and report in response. By the flash he saw that all his guessing had been wrong, for the golden-headed youth lay flat on the floor of the hall with his gun stretched out before him.

  As Weston fired, Parr shrieked, then doubled up in the hands of Bristol.

  Bristol let the writhing body fall and bounded ahead. He could thank his stockinged feet and the screeching of the wounded man for making his coming silent.

  Again the gun flashed, this time not from the floor, but higher up and to the left, for Weston had moved between shots. He was kneeling, and as the flash of his gun showed him, Bristol fired at the dimly revealed body, the white glimpse of the face. He knew that he had missed, but he was not a stride away, and through the darkness he reached out and struck with the length of his Colt.

  The weight of the blow fell on metal, and the sudden force of that shock knocked his own gun out of his hand. He was disarmed!

  Then sinewy arms were cast about him. It seemed that a lithe python had cast a coil around him and was striking his body with sledge-hammer blows. And yet this was that slender fellow, Harry Weston. Amazement stunned Bristol’s brain. He would have given his word that he could break the man in two like a brittle stick, and yet he found himself fighting in the darkness for his life.

  Down the hallway, Lefty Parr had stopped shrieking. He was merely drawing out terrible groans, for he was sick with his wound. He kept moaning: “Lemme have some light. I don’t wanna die in the dark. Lemme have some light. Gimme a candle, even. I gotta have light.”

  Jimmy Bristol heard the groaning clearly. He was working for a proper hold or a place where he could plant a telling blow, but still it was like struggling with an active snake that continually shifts its grip.

  A fist like the steel face of a hammer struck the side of his head. It struck again, lower down, and thudded against his cheekbone. He ducked his head down and struck. His blow glanced from a muscular body, and his fist hammered against the wall, numbing his arm.

  Footfalls were racing up the stairs. The voice of Dan Miller shouted: “Where are you? What’s up?”

  “I got him here. I don’t need you. I’m going to tear the big hunk of cheese in two!” gasped Harry Weston. “I’m going to strangle him. Leave me alone!”

  And it seemed to big Jimmy Bristol that, in fact, he soon might be helpless against this tigerish fighter. The fellow had the strength of a wildcat. He never paused for a breathing space. Then, hooking his left hand down and striking hard, Bristol felt his fist drive through between the arm and the ribs of Weston. He jerked his arm up until it fitted under the other’s armpit. Then, bending his hand over the shoulder, he reached Weston’s face. He was promptly bitten through the palm of his hand. That agony did not matter. He fumbled lower down and curled the steel-hard tips of his fingers around Weston’s chin. Golden-haired Harry cursed. For now, with a mighty leverage in his favor, Bristol put forth all his strength and felt Weston’s head go back by jerks, little by little.

  “What’s up, Harry?” cried Dan Miller through the choking darkness.

  “Dan! Oh, Danny!” screamed the voice of Parr. “He murdered me. Harry murdered me! Gimme water! Gimme a light! Oh, please, don’t let me die in the dark like this!”

  “He … he’s got me,” gasped Weston.

  Bristol, with a desperate effort, snapped back the head of Harry Weston at that moment. The whole body of the man gave, and into the body Bristol struck with all his might. The expelled breath of Weston gasped at his ear.

  He raised his hand and struck three hammer blows against the side of Weston’s head.

  And at last Harry Weston dropped like a limp rag to the floor of the hall.

  Bristol was free barely in time. Dan Miller, bewildered by the darkness, had fired a bullet over his head to give himself one flash of light. That flash, however, found Bristol with his hands free. He saw Miller clearly and the slanting well of the stairs behind him. At that thin wedge of a face, he struck with all his might. And his fist struck a glancing blow. The revolver exploded again, and the bullet ripped through the wall beside Bristol as he sprang in, reaching for the gun.

  He found the wrist that held it, lurched on, and toppled down the slope of the stairs head over heels, with Dan Miller’s arms and legs entangled in his own. They regained footing for an instant almost at the first landing, but they fell again.

  The head and shoulders of Bristol struck against the closed shutters of the window that was meant to light the stairway and knocked those shutters wide, so that for an instant a blinding stream of moonlight poured over them.

  The grasp of Bristol luckily found Miller’s gun hand and closed on it. He lurched forward to tear himself free from the clinging grip of Miller. But the little man was almost as tenacious as Harry Weston. And in the effort that Bristol was making, he merely sent them both staggering down the lower flight of the stairs. Strangely enough, they did not fall un
til they struck the level of the big room beneath, and above them they could hear Lefty Parr screeching: “Boys, don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Don’t lemme die alone!”

  Then they hit the floor and tumbled head over heels across it. The shaft of moonlight followed and fell upon them and the large form of Rance, the cook.

  He had an axe in his hands, and he came toward them with the weapon gripped and held high over his head. His face was convulsed. Jimmy Bristol could see the desperate crime in it by the moonshine.

  And little Dan Miller, with incredible strength, was grappling at the hands of Bristol, snarling the while at Rance: “Strike, Rance! Sink the axe into him! Kill him, the big devil! Now, now, now!”

  For an instant, as they rolled and struggled, Miller was on top, and Bristol’s head was clearly exposed for a blow. To that purpose Rance sprang closer and swung up the axe again. Death glimmered on the chisel edge of it, and Bristol, looking up in agony, clearly saw the glimmering of the danger.

  But something staggered Rance as though a club had struck him. His head jerked back. His whole body wavered. The axe shuddered wildly back and forth in his grasp.

  Prison shakes! Bristol had heard of them before, but never seen them—the terrible and utter unnerving of a man who has felt the grasp of the law too long. In the last emergency, in the moment of utter need, strength goes out of those poor victims, and fear takes its place. So Rance shuddered now, helplessly.

  That moment of delay was enough for Bristol.

  Above him he heard the wounded man groaning in the sickness of his pain again; he heard the voice of that wildcat, Harry Weston, calling hollowly: “Hold him, Danny. I’m coming!”

  But now Bristol managed to tear the gun from Miller’s hand at last. He struck with the barrel; the warding hand of Miller checked the blow.

  He could pull the trigger, of course—but that was a killing almost in cold blood, and he had no appetite for such a slaughter.

  He struck again, harder, and part of the length of the steel barrel rang on the skull of Miller.