THE MAN-KILLERS
BY
DANE COOLIDGE
AUTHOR OF "THE FIGHTING FOOL," "WUNPOST," ETC.
NEW YORK
E.P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE
COPYRIGHT, 1921,
BY E.P. DUTTON & COMPANY
All Rights Reserved
First printing March, 1921 Second " April, 1921
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
THE MAN-KILLERS
CHAPTER I
THE TRAP
There was a hush, a boding silence, in Deadman Canyon, and skirling hawks, flying high against the cliffs, settled down and watched expectantly. A man was riding warily up the Maverick Basin trail, and ahead, like hunting animals, two men were skulking forth to cut him off at the creek. Above them, stuck tight as mud-wasp's nests to the shelves of sun-blackened crags, the white houses of cliff-dwellers, now desolate and tenantless, gazed down upon the age-old tragedy; but the man rode on, his rifle beneath his knee, and at the stalking place of the Scarboroughs he stopped. A stream of cold water, gushing out of a deep side chasm, formed a swirl in the tepid waters of the creek; and close to its edge a flat stone had been laid, where a man could kneel and drink. He knelt, and when he rose up he was looking down a gun.
"Put 'em up!" commanded a voice, and he started back defiantly, at which a second voice came from the side.
"Right quick!" it added, and as the stranger obeyed Isham Scarborough stepped out from behind his rock.
He was tall and slim, as befitted a Texan, with a red, freckled face, lips swollen by the sun, and eyelashes bleached yellowish white. A huge, black hat made him tower like a giant as he glowered down insolently upon his captive and after a long, searching look he jabbed him in the ribs and reached out to take his gun. But the stranger stepped away with waspish quickness and at the look in his eyes Isham flinched and drew back while his brother rose up to shoot. Red Scarborough was short and chunky, with flaming red hair and eyes with a piggish glint; and when he shouted out a warning the stranger's hands shot up, for he, too, had learned to read eyes. Red strode forth wrathfully and twitched away the prisoner's gun, then whirled on the startled Isham.
"You're going to get killed," he warned, "if you don't quit monkeying with these fellers."
"Huh, huh!" scoffed Isham, and swaggered up to the man, he regarded him with his head on one side. "You're bad, now; ain't ye?" he demanded. "Well, we'll soon break you of that. Where d'ye think you're going with that horse?"
The stranger blinked and regarded him intently, then drew down his lips to a line. He was dark and slender, with flashing black eyes and the high cheek-bones of a fighter, but now he was ominously calm.
"I am going," he said, "to Maverick Basin. Is this a hold-up, or what?"
"It's a hold-up," replied Isham, "and you're dad-burned lucky it didn't turn out a killing. I had my six-shooter on your heart and if you'd ever went for that gun—we'd've left you here for the buzzards. What takes you over into Maverick Basin?"
"That is my business," replied the prisoner, suddenly matching his arrogance, and Isham glanced meaningly at his brother.
"Oh, it is, eh?" he observed, reaching over behind a rock and fetching out a rawhide rope. "Well, I'll damn soon show you that it's mine!"
He shook out a loop, flipped it back into the sand and then, with the practiced skill of a cowboy, snapped it over his prisoner's head. Before he could move, the stranger's arms were pinioned; and as the rope was jerked taut Red caught him from behind and tied his hands hard and fast.
"Now!" cursed Red, "come through, Mister Man—are you going in to join them Sorry Blacks?"
"Never heard of 'em," answered the man, and Red's sunburned lips drew back in a hateful, distorted grin.
