my mind!” said Matt abruptly. Drink slowed his voice, thickened it. “Don’t forget that Sam Larson’s a powerful man in this here town. Judge Carter’s his best friend; Sheriff Sears; the whole Vigilante Committee—”
“The whole Committee except one, Matt,” replied Wurt, smiling, restored to good humor. “Me—Number Eight.”
“I got to hand it to yuh, Jim,” admitted Matt. “Yuh sure pulled a whizzer on ’em.”
“Make that present and future,” said Wurt, “and yuh’ll be right.”
Matt’s short laugh had sarcasm in it. “Yuh’re right proud of yoreself, ain’t yuh, Jim? Don’t forget what the Good Book says. ‘Pride goes before a fall.’ ” He chuckled thickly. “Bet the good folk of the Gulch would be kind of surprised to learn that Jim Wurt kept just one step ahead of the law in Texas. The sheriff—blast him—suspected Mr. Wurt of changin’ brands, but never got a chance to prove it—’cause Mr. Wurt skipped Texas and came to California to become a respectable saloon owner—”
“Shut up, Matt!” snapped Wurt, anger flushing his high forehead.
“Sorry, Jim,” mumbled Matt. “Forgot. Sorry.” But liquor had loosened his tongue, and he rambled on. “Was a good idea, buyin’ this saloon. But it sure gets me how yuh won enough playin’ poker to do it. Yuh was always an easy trim—”
The door across the room suddenly creaked open. For a brief instant, a huge, shapeless hulk of a man stood on the threshold—outlined by a distant dim light of the sleeping town. The newcomer quickly shut the door, strode to the table, lifted the filled whiskey glass and tossed the drink down.
He took a chair and sat down; but kept his face well beyond the flickering range of the candle. Jim Wurt’s nocturnal visitors invariably kept to the shadows. Only the newcomer’s hands, huge and hairy, showed against his black trousers.
“Well?” Wurt was standing expectantly. On his feet, the saloon-owner was not a tall man.
In answer, the man tossed a small, cowhide pouch onto the table. It struck the boards with a heavy thwut.
Avidly, Wurt seized it up, pulled open the drawstring and tilted the bag’s mouth into his hand. A small stream of dull yellow metal flakes, grains and kernels sifted out. Cold glitter burned in his black eyes.
“This is sure gettin’ monotonous.” It was Matt’s drawling, thickened voice from the wall. “Say, Black Henry—how much did that there gold dust cost the state of California?”
The big man—Black Henry—laughed coarsely. “Two prospectors,” he answered.
Disgust crowded Matt’s voice. “Yuh’re a cold-blooded killer—ain’t yuh?”
“Why yuh onery—” began Black Henry, and his chair scraped in the darkness.
“Keep quiet, yuh two!” hissed Wurt, looking up. “Want to wake up the whole town?”
Black Henry eased off. “Some day, friend,” he growled to his tormentor, “yuh’re goin’ to push them jokes too far.”
“It ain’t the jokes I’m waitin’ to push far,” grunted the blear-eyed, stubble-faced man against the wall.
Jim Wurt had gone under the table to fetch a scale and some weights, and was now weighing the gold. Once more he turned to his two henchmen, his black eyebrows bristling.
“Listen,” he grated angrily. “As long as I’m bossin’ the outfit, I don’t want any arguments—understand? Matt—Black Henry?” Both men subsided in the darkness. Wurt went back to the scales; adjusted the weights carefully. “Eight pounds,” he finally announced with satisfaction.
He placed the gold pouch into an inner pocket and extracted a large wad of bills. He counted some out and handed them to Black Henry. “One thousand dollars,” he said. “Fifty percent—accordin’ to our agreement.”
Black Henry handled the bills carefully, his huge hands deft in the shuffling. “Right,” he said, pocketing the money. “Send yore man out to the cabin tomorrer mornin’ and I’ll have one of the boys show him the bar.”
Nodding, Wurt handed Black Henry a folded slip of paper. “Entered today,” he said.
The chair tilted against the wall thudded down softly; and the tall, unsteady form of Matt showed faintly in the dull light.
“Gentlemen,” he said, his tongue rolling, “I’m gettin’ mighty tired of not bein’ a millionaire. How ’bout stakin’ out one of them claims for me?”
“Maybe I’ll do that for yuh soon, pard,” growled Black Henry. “A nice, rich diggin’.”
Matt laughed thickly. “We’ll work that one together, friend.” He turned and made his way out.
“One day I’m goin’ to cut out his heart,” rasped Black Henry.
Wurt considered the black, shapeless form in the shadows, his eyes reflective. “Better go slow,” he said casually. “There’s only one hombre I ever saw faster than Matt on the draw—” his face clouded, “—and that ain’t yuh. ’Sides, he rides herd over my town crew.”
“Why do yuh let him drink so much?” asked the other.
“His wife died some time back,” replied Wurt. “He forgets when he drinks—and it keeps him out of serious trouble. Anyhow I got an idea in back of my head, and Matt’s the hombre to handle it.” His voice fell almost to a whisper, and his eyes showed bright and shiny in the candlelight: “An idea that’ll put Hangman’s Gulch into my back pocket.”
“What’s yore idea, Wurt?” demanded Black Henry, interest thick in his voice.
The glance the saloon owner swung at his henchman was void of expression. “My agreement with yuh,” he said coldly, “covers only the claims—that’s all. Any other, er—enterprises I engage in, are exclusively mine. Sabe?”
“Sure.” The big, hairy hands of Black Henry disappeared as he pushed his chair back and rose. He moved to the door.
“Oh yeah,” said Wurt casually. “I want to make a bet with yuh, Black Henry.”
“Bet?” The floor boards creaked as the big man turned.
“Yeah,” replied Wurt. “A thousand dollars against yore hundred the new sheriff’s still alive in forty-eight hours.”
Black Henry snorted. “It’s a bet.”
The door opened and shut. And the room was empty, save for frock-coated Jim Wurt, respectable saloon owner. For a moment his eyes had a faraway look. Then he fetched the cowhide pouch from his pocket, opened its throat and poured the yellow stream into his hand. A quiet, pleasant smile came to his face as he played with the gold.
2. Hangman’s Gulch
HANGMAN’S GULCH lay somnolent in the tawny light of the morning. And morning’s stillness ran the length of the empty, sun-baked
