LITMIR.BIZ

      TRONO VERSUS STUBBINS

       Table of Contents

       "Hark to me, amigo: a woman may shorely be a weak vessel but she's got more ways o' fightin' than a man ever heard about. It ain't because o' chivalry a man don't want to hit a lady—it's because o' fear o' gettin' a fine lickin'. You bet."—Joe Breedlove.

      Jill Breck had fallen asleep instantly in the hidden glade. But it was not a dreamless sleep; the long ride and all the discouraging, tragic incidents of the day had bruised her profoundly and left unforgettably vivid pictures in her mind. So she dreamed; terrifying dreams that at times brought helpless cries from her. It seemed she was being led away from the JIB, that the house and quarters were going up in flames. She was being roughly treated and each time she protested a vise-like fist closed around her throat. She was driven to a strange country—to the chasm of a river she could not recognize. Above the roar and rush of water she felt a heavy fist closed about her wrist and someone spoke ironically.

      "What yuh shoutin' about, sister?"

      She woke with a scream in her throat. Trono, his face beet-red and glistening with sweat, was bending over her, grinning in his- tight, triumphant manner. "If yuh aimed to hide yuh shouldn't be caterwaulin' in yore sleep. Come up girl, we got to be movin'. Where's that red-head went?"

      "Take your hand off me!"

      "Oh, don't talk sassy. Yuh'll live to regret it!"

      When she pulled back, resisting the force of his massive arm, he grew suddenly enraged and yanked her forward at a motion. She struck at his leering face and left her mark; roaring, Trono slapped her with the palm of his hand, shoved her through the bushes and into the clearing. Half a dozen of the JIB crew were scattered around the cabin, guns out, moving warily. "Yuh goin' to tell me where the red-head went?" demanded Trono.

      She felt the cruel pressure of his grip and gave up her attempt to get free. "You will be paid for this, Trono! Don't you know what the men of the county will do to you for treating me like you do?"

      "If there's any pay comin' I guess we'll get it all right," muttered Trono, hoisting her into the saddle before him. "But I guess we'll ride that down. As fer the men o' this county they oughta know better'n to tackle me or my men. Stop that squirmin', yuh little spitfire! Ain't your own crew good enough fer yuh? Think yore awful smart, sidin' in with this waddy. Well, we'll learn yuh manners."

      "What are you going to do with me?"

      "Wait an' see. Come on, boys. We've lost the redhead, I guess. It won't do fer us to let him take pot shots from the bush. Anyhow, we've got Jill, which is plenty. We're ridin'."

      "If my father were alive he'd skin you."

      Trono chuckled. "Yeah, he shore would. Or I'd skin him. The old man was afraid o' me. Never had the nerve to gimme my time. Didn't know that, did yuh? Well, I had the dope on him. I'm a- tellin' yuh. I ain't no church member, but yore dad wa'n't a Methodist elder by a long shot. Come on, boys."

      She closed her lips, venturing no more. Trono was a desperate man, and the recent turn of events had unleashed the everpresent strain of lawlessness. Authority, he had never held in great esteem. More than once he had openly flouted it, though he perhaps did not quite understand that the county left him alone because he had the protection of Old Jim Breck. In his overweening pride he considered that it was his reputation they were afraid of; he believed he was the one who had made the JIB formidable. Stubbins would have told him otherwise, but on this morning Stubbins was not present to give his cautious advice. The girl wisely held her peace, uncomfortable in her precarious seat, thinking of Red and wondering what had become of him.

      They reached the open country and instead of going toward the ranch, curved westward, dropping into an arroyo that put them below the horizon. Much later they reached the homesteader's shack and stopped for a rest while Trono sent out men to skirmish. Jill, half asleep in the house, heard one of them ride hurriedly back some time later and presently the word "sheriff'" revived her hopes. It was swiftly quenched. Trono hailed her, half hurled her up before another of the party. Then they were away, riding in great haste, leaving Trono behind.

      She grew so weary that she lost trace of time. Once they stopped in a depression, the men whispering to one another and keeping watch over the surrounding land; later they left their shelter and struck rapidly toward the Pass, crossed it and dipped into the burning plain below. Jill closed her eyes and for long stretches of time was oblivious of her surroundings. She never knew how long she rode; but toward sunset she was roused by a man speaking and she looked up to see the 3Cross ranch-house directly in front of them. One of the party rode ahead. By-and-by the cavalcade reached the porch and stopped before Stubbins.

      Stubbins smiled courteously, but Jill understood him well enough to know there was little hope of help here. Still, she protested as much as her flagging strength permitted.

      "Mr. Stubbins, are you making war on a woman? For shame, but you will never live it down! I'll fight back—you'll never keep me long!"

      "Ma'am," said he evenly, "don't put it that way. We're only rescuin' you from your enemies. Consider yourself my guest, nothing more. All right, boys, the lady rests here."

      She slid gingerly to the ground. "Rescue! Fine words. But, then, you never were a hand to speak the truth. You were afraid of my father, Mr. Stubbins. You never had the courage to face him. So you waited until he died—and then began to fight me!"

      Stubbins reddened. His thin lips folded beneath the bear-like nose and he motioned her inside with a gesture abrupt and impatient. "You take advantage of a man, knowin' he can't strike back."

      "Fine reasoning," she retorted. "What excuse have you for taking advantage of a woman?"

      He half pushed her down a hall, into a bedroom. Without a word, bowed himself out. She heard the key turn and when she crossed to pull down the shade at the window she saw a puncher negligently stroll across from the bunkhouse and take up his station. A prisoner of the 3Cross! She dropped on the bed to cry but instead, fell asleep.

      Though transplanted from his native land—or, more properly, driven from it by an outraged family—Stubbins had never foregone its leisurely, formal customs. It was quite dark when he knocked on the door and announced supper. "I am waiting for you, of course. We must not let the meal get cold. Come, now."

      Awakened, Jill debated on self-imposed confinement. But that passed, for she was not the kind to sulk. Hers was the temperament that took the fight to the enemy; in this case she considered it the better part of valor to break bread with the Englishman and talk him out of his ideas. So she rose, washed some of the dust from her face and stepped forth to meet him. He had recovered his perfect urbanity and led her into the dining- room, seating her with a studious politeness. Jill looked about her with considerable interest.

      The man lived high and took pains to bring as much of England into the desert as he could. He had fashioned the dining-room, which was the living-room as well, after the fashion of a manorial hall, its ceiling extending a story and a half up. Trophies studded the four walls and bear rugs quite entirely covered the floor. There was a great fireplace, surmounted by a mantel filled with pipes, tobacco and a litter of purely masculine bric-a-brac. A long gun rack stood to one side, the row of oiled weapons glistening dully in the lamp light And somewhere he had picked up some magnificent oil paintings of the West—a Remington's scene of a bighorn on the high ledges; a thorough-brace stage coach tilting perilously down a mountain road done as Russell alone knew how to do.

      He enjoyed her unspoken compliment and said so. "You see, I surround myself with as many comforts as I can. Really, the old Westerners are grand fighters, but they don't understand the gentle art of living. It takes a gentleman of the old country to show them."

      Jill shrugged her shoulders in dissent. A Chinaman came silently in and they ate

Скачать книгу