Gunsight Pass by William MacLeod Raine

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Hart had come in to see a contractor about building a derrick for a well.
"I got to see him now, Dave. Go along with me," he urged.

"No, see you later. Want to get my trunk from the depot."

They arranged an hour of meeting at the restaurant.

In front of the post-office Bob met Joyce Crawford. The young woman had
fulfilled the promise of her girlhood. As she moved down the street, tall
and slender, there was a light, joyous freedom in her step. So Ellen
Terry walked in her resilient prime.

"Miss Joyce, he's here," Bob said.

"Who--Dave?"

She and her father and Bob had more than once met as a committee of three
to discuss the interests of Sanders both before and since his release.
The week after he left Canon City letters of thanks had reached both Hart
and Crawford, but these had given no address. Their letters to him had
remained unanswered nor had a detective agency been able to find him.

"Yes, ma'am, Dave! He's right here in town. Met him half an hour ago."

"I'm glad. How does he look?"

"He's grown older, a heap older. And he's different. You know what an
easy-goin' kid he was, always friendly and happy as a half-grown pup.
Well, he ain't thataway now. Looks like he never would laugh again
real cheerful. I don't reckon he ever will. He's done got the prison
brand on him for good. I couldn't see my old Dave in him a-tall. He's
hard as nails--and bitter."

The brown eyes softened. "He would be, of course. How could he help it?"

"And he kinda holds you off. He's been hurt bad and ain't takin' no
chances whatever, don't you reckon?"

"Do you mean he's broken?"

"Not a bit. He's strong, and he looks at you straight and hard. But
they've crushed all the kid outa him. He was a mighty nice boy, Dave was.
I hate to lose him."

"When can I see him?" she asked.

Bob looked at his watch. "I got an appointment to meet him at Delmonico's
right now. Maybe I can get him to come up to the house afterward."

Joyce was a young woman who made swift decisions. "I'll go with you now,"
she said.

Sanders was standing in front of the restaurant, but he was faced in the
other direction. His flat, muscular back was rigid. In his attitude was a
certain tenseness, as though his body was a bundle of steel springs ready
to be released.

Bob's eye traveled swiftly past him to a fat man rolling up the street on
the opposite sidewalk. "It's Ad Miller, back from the pen. I heard he got
out this week," he told the girl in a low voice.

Joyce Crawford felt the blood ebb from her face. It was as though her
heart had been drenched with ice water. What was going to take place
between these men? Were they armed? Would the gambler recognize his old
enemy?

She knew that each was responsible for the other's prison sentence.
Sanders had followed the thieves to Denver and found them with his horse.
The fat crook had lied Dave into the penitentiary by swearing that the
boy had fired the first shots. Now they were meeting for the first time
since.

Miller had been drinking. The stiff precision of his gait showed that.
For a moment it seemed that he would pass without noticing the man across
the road. Then, by some twist of chance, he decided to take the sidewalk
on the other side. The sign of the Delmonico had caught his eye and he
remembered that he was hungry.

He took one step--and stopped. He had recognized Sanders. His eyes
narrowed. The head on his short, red neck was thrust forward.

"Goddlemighty!" he screamed, and next moment was plucking a revolver from
under his left armpit.

Bob caught Joyce and swept her behind him, covering her with his body as
best he could. At the same time Sanders plunged forward, arrow-straight
and swift. The revolver cracked. It spat fire a second time, a third. The
tiger-man, head low, his whole splendid body vibrant with energy, hurled
himself across the road as though he had been flung from a catapult. A
streak of fire ripped through his shoulder. Another shot boomed almost
simultaneously. He thudded hard into the fat paunch of the gunman. They
went down together.

The fingers of Dave's left hand closed on the fat wrist of the gambler.
His other hand tore the revolver away from the slack grasp. The gun rose
and fell. Miller went into unconsciousness without even a groan. The
corrugated butt of the gun had crashed down on his forehead.

Dizzily Sanders rose. He leaned against a telephone pole for support. The
haze cleared to show him the white, anxious face of a young woman.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

Dave looked at Joyce, wondering at her presence here. "He's the one
that's hurt," he answered quietly.

"I thought--I was afraid--" Her voice died away. She felt her knees grow
weak. To her this man had appeared to be plunging straight to death.

No excitement in him reached the surface. His remarkably steady eyes
still held their grim, hard tenseness, but otherwise his self-control was
perfect. He was absolutely imperturbable.

"He was shootin' wild. Sorry you were here, Miss Crawford." His eyes
swept the gathering crowd. "You'd better go, don't you reckon?"

"Yes.... You come too, please." The girl's voice broke.

"Don't worry. It's all over." He turned to the crowd. "He began shootin
'at me. I was unarmed. He shot four times before I got to him."

"Tha's right. I saw it from up street," a stranger volunteered. "Where do
you take out yore insurance, friend? I'd like to get some of the same."

"I'll be in town here if I'm wanted," Dave announced before he came back
to where Bob and Joyce were standing. "Now we'll move, Miss Crawford."

At the second street corner he stopped, evidently intending to go no
farther. "I'll say good-bye, for this time. I'll want to see Mr. Crawford
right soon. How is little Keith comin' on?"

She had mentioned that the boy frequently spoke of him.

"Can you come up to see Father to-night? Or he'll go to your room if
you'd rather."

"Maybe to-morrow--"

"He'll be anxious to see you. I want you and Bob to come to dinner
Sunday."

"Don't hardly think I'll be here Sunday. My plans aren't settled. Thank
you just the same, Miss Crawford."

She took his words as a direct rebuff. There was a little lump in her
throat that she had to get rid of before she spoke again.

"Sorry. Perhaps some other time." Joyce gave him her hand. "I'm mighty
glad to have seen you again, Mr. Sanders."

He bowed. "Thank you."

After she had gone, Dave turned swiftly to his friend. "Where's the
nearest doctor's office? Miller got me in the shoulder."

CHAPTER XVII

OIL

"I'll take off my hat to Dave," said Hart warmly. "He's chain lightnin'.
I never did see anything like the way he took that street in two jumps.
And game? Did you ever hear tell of an unarmed man chargin' a guy with a
gun spittin' at him?"

"I always knew he had sand in his craw. What does Doc Green say?" asked
Crawford, lighting a corncob pipe.

"Says nothin' to worry about. A flesh wound in the shoulder. Ought to
heal up in a few days."

Miss Joyce speaking, with an indignant tremor of the voice: "It was
the most cowardly thing I ever saw. He was unarmed, and he hadn't
lifted a finger when that ruffian began to shoot. I was sure he would
be ... killed."

"He'll take a heap o' killin', that boy," her father reassured. "In a way
it's a good thing this happened now. His enemies have showed their hand.
They tried to gun him, before witnesses, while he was unarmed. Whatever
happens now, Dave's got public sentiment on his side. I'm always glad to
have my enemy declare himself. Then I can take measures."

"What measures can Dave take?" asked Joyce.

A faint, grim smile flitted across the old cattleman's face. "Well, one
measure he'll take pronto will be a good six-shooter on his hip. One I'll
take will be to send Miller back to the pen, where he belongs, soon as I
can get court action. He's out on parole, like Dave is. All the State has
got to do is to reach out and haul him back again."

"If it can find him," added Bob dryly. "I'll bet it can't. He's headed
for the hills or the border right now."

Crawford rose. "Well, I'll run down with you to his room and see the boy,
Bob. Wisht he would come up and stay with us. Maybe he will."

To the cattleman Dave made light of his wound. He would be all right in a
few days, he said. It was only a scratch.

"Tha's good, son," Crawford answered. "Well, now, what are you aimin' to
do? I got a job for you on the ranch if tha's what you want. Or I can use
you in the oil business. It's for you to say which."

"Oil," said Dave without a moment of hesitation. "I want to learn that
business from the ground up. I've been reading all I could get on the
subject."

"Good enough, but don't you go to playin' geology too strong, Dave. Oil
is where it's at. The formation don't amount to a damn. You'll find it
where you find it."

"Mr. Crawford ain't strong for the scientific sharps since a college
professor got him to drill a nice straight hole on Round Top plumb
halfway to China," drawled Bob with a grin.

"I suppose it's a gamble," agreed Sanders.

"Worse'n the cattle market, and no livin' man can guess that," said the
owner of the D Bar Lazy R dogmatically. "Bob, you better put Dave with
the crew of that wildcat you're spuddin' in, don't you reckon?"

"I'll put him on afternoon tower in place of that fellow Scott. I've been
intendin' to fire him soon as I could get a good man."

"Much obliged to you both. Hope you've found that good man," said
Sanders.

"We have. Ain't either of us worryin' about that." With a quizzical smile
Crawford raised a point that was in his mind. "Say, son, you talk a heap
more like a book than you used to. You didn't slip one over on us and go
to college, did you?"

"I went to school in the penitentiary," Dave said.

He had been immured in a place of furtive, obscene whisperings, but he
had found there not only vice. There was the chance of an education. He
had accepted it at first because he dared not let himself be idle in his
spare time. That way lay degeneration and the loss of his manhood. He had
studied under competent instructors English, mathematics, the Spanish
grammar, and mechanical drawing, as well as surveying and stationary
engineering. He had read some of the world's best literature. He had
waded through a good many histories. If his education in books was
lopsided, it was in some respects more thorough than that of many a
college boy.

Dave did not explain all this. He let his simple statement of fact stand
without enlarging on it. His life of late years had tended to make him
reticent.

"Heard from Burns yet about that fishin' job on Jackpot Number Three?"
Bob asked Crawford.

"Only that he thinks he hooked the tools and lost 'em again. Wisht you'd
run out in the mo'nin', son, and see what's doin'. I got to go out to the
ranch."

"I'll drive out to-night and take Dave with me if he feels up to it. Then
we'll know the foreman keeps humpin'."

"Fine and dandy." The cattleman turned to Sanders. "But I reckon you
better stay right here and rest up. Time enough for you to go to work
when yore shoulder's all right."

"Won't hurt me a bit to drive out with Bob. This thing's going to keep me
awake anyhow. I'd rather be outdoors."

They drove out in the buckboard behind the half-broken colts. The young
broncos went out of town to a flying start. They raced across the plain
as hard as they could tear, the light rig swaying behind them as the
wheels hit the high spots. Not till they had worn out their first wild
energy was conversation possible.

Bob told of his change of occupation.

"Started dressin' tools on a wildcat test for Crawford two years ago when
he first begun to plunge in oil. Built derricks for a while. Ran a drill.
Dug sump holes. Shot a coupla wells. Went in with a fellow on a star rig
as pardner. Went busted and took Crawford's offer to be handy man for
him. Tha's about all, except that I own stock in two-three dead ones and
some that ain't come to life yet."

The road was full of chuck holes and very dusty, both faults due to the
heavy travel that went over it day and night. They were in the oil field
now and gaunt derricks tapered to the sky to right and left of them.
Occasionally Dave could hear the kick of an engine or could see a big
beam pumping.

"I suppose most of the D Bar Lazy R boys have got into oil some,"
suggested Sanders.

"Every man, woman, and kid around is in oil neck deep," Bob answered.
"Malapi's gone oil crazy. Folks are tradin' and speculatin' in stock
and royalty rights that never could amount to a hill o' beans. Slick
promoters are gettin' rich. I've known photographers to fake gushers in
their dark-rooms. The country's full of abandoned wells of busted
companies. Oil is a big man's game. It takes capital to operate. I'll
bet it ain't onct in a dozen times an investor gets a square run for
his white alley, at that."

"There are crooks in every game."

"Sure, but oil's so darned temptin' to a crook. All the suckers are
shovin' money at a promoter. They don't ask his capitalization or
investigate his field. Lots o' promoters would hate like Sam Hill to
strike oil. If they did they'd have to take care of it. That's a lot
of trouble. They can make more organizin' a new company and rakin' in
money from new investors."

Bob swung the team from the main road and put it at a long rise.

"There ain't nothin' easier than to drop money into a hole in the
ground and call it an oil well," he went on. "Even if the proposition
is absolutely on the level, the chances are all against the investor.
It's a fifty-to-one shot. Tools are lost, the casin' collapses, the cable
breaks, money gives out, shootin' is badly done, water filters in, or oil
ain't there in payin' quantities. In a coupla years you can buy a deskful
of no-good stock for a dollar Mex."

"Then why is everybody in it?"

"We've all been bit by this get-rich-quick bug. If you hit it right in
oil you can wear all the diamonds you've a mind to. That's part of it,
but it ain't all. The West always did like to take a chance, I reckon.
Well, this is gamblin' on a big scale and it gets into a fellow's blood.
We're all crazy, but we'd hate to be cured."

The driver stopped at the location of Jackpot Number Three and invited
his friend to get out.

"Make yoreself to home, Dave. I reckon you ain't sorry that fool team has
quit joltin' yore shoulder."

Sanders was not, but he did not say so. He could stand the pain of his
wound easily enough, but there was enough of it to remind him pretty
constantly that he had been in a fight.

The fishing for the string of lost tools was going on by lamplight. With
a good deal of interest Dave examined the big hooks that had been sent
down in an unsuccessful attempt to draw out the drill. It was a slow
business and a not very interesting one. The tools seemed as hard to hook
as a wily old trout. Presently Sanders wandered to the bunkhouse and sat
down on the front step. He thought perhaps he had not been wise to come
out with Hart. His shoulder throbbed a good deal.

After a time Bob joined him. Faintly there came to them the sound of an
engine thumping.

"Steelman's outfit," said Hart gloomily. "His li'l' old engine goes right
on kickin' all the darned time. If he gets to oil first we lose. Man who
makes first discovery on a claim wins out in this country."

"How's that? Didn't you locate properly?"

"Had no time to do the assessment work after we located. Dug a sump hole,
maybe. Brad jumps in when the field here began to look up. Company that
shows oil first will sure win out."

"How deep has he drilled?"

"We're a li'l' deeper--not much. Both must be close to the sands. We were
showin' driller's smut when we lost our string." Bob reached into his hip
pocket and drew out "the makings." He rolled his cigarette and lit it.
"I reckon Steelman's a millionaire now--on paper, anyhow. He was about
busted when he got busy in oil. He was lucky right off, and he's crooked
as a dawg's hind laig--don't care how he gets his, so he gets it. He sure
trimmed the suckers a-plenty."

"He and Crawford are still unfriendly," Dave suggested, the inflection of
his voice making the statement a question.

"Onfriendly!" drawled Bob, leaning back against the step and letting a
smoke ring curl up. "Well, tha's a good, nice parlor word. Yes, I reckon
you could call them onfriendly." Presently he went on, in explanation:
"Brad's goin' to put Crawford down and out if it can be done by hook or
crook. He's a big man in the country now. We haven't been lucky, like he
has. Besides, the ol' man's company's on the square. This business ain't
like cows. It takes big money to swing. You make or break mighty sudden."

"Yes."

"And Steelman won't stick at a thing. Wouldn't trust him or any one of
his crowd any further than I could sling a bull by the tail. He'd blow
Crawford and me sky high if he thought he could get away with it."

Sanders nodded agreement. He hadn't a doubt of it.

With a thumb jerk toward the beating engine, Bob took up again his story.
"Got a bunch of thugs over there right now ready for business if
necessary. Imported plug-uglies and genuwine blown-in-the-bottle home
talent. Shorty's still one of the gang, and our old friend Dug Doble is
boss of the rodeo. I'm lookin' for trouble if we win out and get to oil
first."

"You think they'll attack."

A gay light of cool recklessness danced in the eyes of the young oilman.
"I've a kinda notion they'll drap over and pay us a visit one o' these
nights, say in the dark of the moon. If they do--well, we certainly aim
to welcome them proper."

CHAPTER XVIII

DOBLE PAYS A VISIT

"Hello, the Jackpot!"

Out of the night the call came to the men at the bunkhouse.

Bob looked at his companion and grinned. "Seems to me I recognize that
melojious voice."

A man stepped from the gloom with masterful, arrogant strides.

"'Lo, Hart," he said. "Can you lend me a reamer?"

Bob knew he had come to spy out the land and not to borrow tools.

"Don't seem to me we've hardly got any reamers to spare, Dug," drawled
the young man sitting on the porch floor. "What's the trouble? Got a kink
in yore casin'?"

"Not so you could notice it, but you never can tell when you're goin' to
run into bad luck, can you?" He sat down on the porch and took a cigar
from his vest pocket. "What with losin' tools and one thing an' 'nother,
this oil game sure is hell. By the way, how's yore fishin' job comin'
on?"

"Fine, Dug. We ain't hooked our big fish yet, but we're hopeful."

Dave was sitting in the shadow. Doble nodded carelessly to him without
recognition. It was characteristic of his audacity that Dug had walked
over impudently to spy out the camp of the enemy. Bob knew why he had
come, and he knew that Bob knew. Yet both ignored the fact that he was
not welcome.

"I've known fellows angle a right long time for a trout and not catch
him," said Doble, stretching his long legs comfortably.

"Yes," agreed Bob. "Wish I could hire you to throw a monkey wrench in
that engine over there. Its chuggin' keeps me awake."

"I'll bet it does. Well, young fellow, you can't hire me or anybody else
to stop it," retorted Doble, an edge to his voice.

"Well, I just mentioned it," murmured Hart. "I don't aim to rile yore
feelin's. We'll talk of somethin' else.... Hope you enjoyed that reunion
this week with yore old friend, absent far, but dear to memory ever."

"Referrin' to?" demanded Doble with sharp hostility.

"Why, Ad Miller, Dug."

"Is he a friend of mine?"

"Ain't he?"

"Not that I ever heard tell of."

"Glad of that. You won't miss him now he's lit out."

"Oh, he's lit out, has he?"

"A li'l bird whispered to me he had."

"When?"

"This evenin', I understand."

"Where'd he go?"

"He didn't leave any address. Called away on sudden business."

"Did he mention the business?"

"Not to me." Bob turned to his friend. "Did he say anything to you about
that, Dave?"

In the silence one might have heard a watch tick, Doble leaned forward,
his body rigid, danger written large in his burning eyes and clenched
fist.

"So you're back," he said at last in a low, harsh voice.

"I'm back."

"It would 'a' pleased me if they had put a rope round yore neck, Mr.
Convict."

Dave made no comment. Nobody could have guessed from his stillness how
fierce was the blood pressure at his temples.

"It's a difference of opinion makes horse-races, Dug," said Bob lightly.

The big ex-foreman rose snarling. "For half a cent I'd gun you here and
now like you did George."

Sanders looked at him steadily, his hands hanging loosely by his sides.

"I wouldn't try that, Dug," warned Hart. "Dave ain't armed, but I am. My
hand's on my six-shooter right this minute. Don't make a mistake."

The ex-foreman glared at him. Doble was a strong, reckless devil of a
fellow who feared neither God nor man. A primeval savagery burned in
his blood, but like most "bad" men he had that vein of caution in his
make-up which seeks to find its victim at disadvantage. He knew Hart too
well to doubt his word. One cannot ride the range with a man year in,
year out, without knowing whether the iron is in his arteries.

"Declarin' yoreself in on this, are you?" he demanded ominously, showing
his teeth.

"I've always been in on it, Dug. Took a hand at the first deal, the day
of the race. If you're lookin' for trouble with Dave, you'll find it goes
double."

"Not able to play his own hand, eh?"

"Not when you've got a six-shooter and he hasn't. Not after he has just
been wounded by another gunman he cleaned up with his bare hands. You and
yore friends are lookin' for things too easy."

"Easy, hell! I'll fight you and him both, with or without guns. Any time.
Any place."

Doble backed away till his figure grew vague in the darkness. Came the
crack of a revolver. A bullet tore a splinter from the wall of the shack
in front of which Dave was standing. A jeering laugh floated to the two
men, carried on the light night breeze.

Bob whipped out his revolver, but he did not fire. He and his friend
slipped quietly to the far end of the house and found shelter round the
corner.

"Ain't that like Dug, the damned double-crosser?" whispered Bob. "I
reckon he didn't try awful hard to hit you. Just sent his compliments
kinda casual to show good-will."

"I reckon he didn't try very hard to miss me either," said Dave dryly.
"The bullet came within a foot of my head."

"He's one bad citizen, if you ask me," admitted Hart, without reluctance.
"Know how he came to break with the old man? He had the nerve to start
beauin' Miss Joyce. She wouldn't have it a minute. He stayed right with
it--tried to ride over her. Crawford took a hand and kicked him out.
Since then Dug has been one bitter enemy of the old man."

"Then Crawford had better look out. If Doble isn't a killer, I've never
met one."

"I've got a fool notion that he ain't aimin' to kill him; that maybe he
wants to help Steelman bust him so as he can turn the screws on him and
get Miss Joyce. Dug must 'a' been makin' money fast in Brad's company.
He's on the inside."

Dave made no comment.

"I expect you was some surprised when I told Dug who was roostin' on the
step so clost to him," Hart went on. "Well, I had a reason. He was due to
find it out anyhow in about a minute, so I thought I'd let him know we
wasn't tryin' to keep him from knowin' who his neighbor was; also that I
was good and ready for him if he got red-haided like Miller done."

"I understood, Bob," said his friend quietly.

CHAPTER XIX

AN INVOLUNTARY BATH

Jackpot Number Three hooked its tools the second day after Sanders's
visit to that location. A few hours later its engine was thumping merrily
and the cable rising and falling monotonously in the casing. On the
afternoon of the third day Bob Hart rode up to the wildcat well where
Dave was building a sump hole with a gang of Mexicans.

He drew Sanders to one side. "Trouble to-night, Dave, looks like. At
Jackpot Number Three. We're in a layer of soft shale just above the
oil-bearin' sand. Soon we'll know where we're at. Word has reached me
that Doble means to rush the night tower and wreck the engine."

"You'll stand his crowd off?"

"You're whistlin'."

"Sure your information is right?"

"It's c'rect." Bob added, after a momentary hesitation: "We got a spy in
his camp."

Sanders did not ask whether the affair was to be a pitched battle. He
waited, sure that Bob would tell him when he was ready. That young man
came to the subject indirectly.

"How's yore shoulder, Dave?"

"Doesn't trouble me any unless something is slammed against it."

"Interfere with you usin' a six-shooter?"

"No."

"Like to take a ride with me over to the Jackpot?"

"Yes."

"Good enough. I want you to look the ground over with me. Looks now as if
it would come to fireworks. But we don't want any Fourth-of-July stuff if
we can help it. Can we? That's the point."

At the Jackpot the friends walked over the ground together. Back of the
location and to the west of it an arroyo ran from a canon above.

"Follow it down and it'll take you right into the location where Steelman
is drillin'," explained Bob. "Dug's gonna lead his gang up the arroyo to
the mesquite here, sneak down on us, and take our camp with a rush. At
least, that's what he aims to do. You can't always tell, as the fellow
says."

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