“A fine saddle, kid, eh?” repeated Jud Boone, who after pausing a few paces now went a stride nearer. The eyes of Valentine widened a little, fascinated, and then, by degrees, he was able to look away from his enemy to the prize. He touched it with a shaking hand.
“Yep, and they've wasted a pile of silver in fixing it up, I'd say.”
It was an obvious opening for an insult, if Charlie Valentine chose to follow it up. But it was instantly clear that he would avoid the issue if that were possible.
“I guess I'll have time to keep the silver shined up, Jud.”
It seemed somehow that a subtle appeal were conveyed by this use of the man-killer's first name. Something of appeal, too, in the faint smile which the boy now turned on his antagonist.
As though he was mutely saying: “For Heaven's sake, Jud Boone, be merciful. Don't push me to the limit; give me a chance!”
Salt Springs noted all this, and the face of Salt Springs took on a sick look of pain and horror.
Then the same girl's voice, shriller than before, and closer to the door of the saloon:
“I will get in there, I tell you. I will get in! They're getting ready to fight now. I can tell it by the silence!”
A muttering of men's voices followed. Those were the Normans, no doubt, who were keeping the poor creature away.
And then her voice, pitched higher still: “Oh, if any of you are half men, go in and stop them! Save Charlie Valentine! He's only a boy!”
Somehow that girl's voice was the crowning horror.
Charlie Valentine, shaking like a hysterical woman, turned his head with jerks and stared at the silent crowd along the wall.
“Won't some of you—go out—and stop that noise?” he murmured gaspingly.
But the brutal Boone had seen another opening and instantly took advantage of it.
“What's the matter, Charlie? Does the lady think you're sick? Or about to get sick? That's Nan Tucker, ain't it?”
But he had whipped down the pride of the boy too much. Now a touch of color came in young Valentine's face.
“My dad taught me one little thing,” he said, “and that was never to name ladies when I was having a drink. Around these parts, Boone, we most generally keep our womenfolk outside of saloons.”
“But,” said Boone, furious at the murmur of approbation along the wall, “I ain't seen any drinking going on.”
“We'll start in now then.” He turned to the others. “Step up, boys, and have one on me.”
Not a man stirred from the wall. The pale, interested faces stared as if these two had been on a stage, and the others were sitting behind footlights watching the drama of unreal lives. Charlie Valentine swung back again with an attempted smile, which only served to show his set teeth, flashing. “Nobody ain't particular dry, I guess,” remarked Jud Boone.
“I guess not,” whispered Charlie.
“Speaking of saddles, son, I hear that you ain't really got any right to that one.”
“I got no right to it? Well, what d'you mean by that?”
Obviously the crisis was coming. There would be no escaping from the quarrel which Jud Boone was urging on.
“I'll tell you what I mean—it's what I hear pretty general around Salt Springs. They say that young Tolliver really ought to be taking off this saddle today.”
“And how comes that?” queried Charlie Valentine in the same ghastly, faint voice.
“It comes this way. Bud Tolliver rides straight up and won't pull the leather, and he sticks on every horse but the last one. And then you come out and stick through all the horses. But when you come to the one that throwed young Tolliver, you sneak a grip that the judges don't see and pull the leather, and that's how you happen to be here today taking off the prize saddle.”
Once more Charlie Valentine moistened his colorless lips.
“Somebody has been joking with you, Jud. I didn't pull no leather that day.”
Jud Boone raised his head and laughed derisively. And the fire was in his eyes. Plainly he was drinking deep of pleasure in this torture scene.
“Ask the boys, Jud,” gasped Charlie Valentine. “They'll tell you I didn't pull leather.”
Jud Boone rolled his keen glance up and down the line—and not a man stepped forward—not a voice was raised.
Once more the gun fighter laughed. His confidence was mounting to great heights by this time. No attempt had been made so far by Jess Dreer to break through the cordon of the Normans around the saloon; and apparently the game was in his hand. And even if Charlie Valentine mustered courage enough to draw his gun, he would be worse than helpless with such shaking hands. Yet Jud was determined to avoid a shooting affair if possible. He was set on breaking the nerve of this boy and making him “take water.” Because there was one chance in ten that even though Jess Dreer were not here today, he might make it a point to look up the slayer later on. And Jud was distinctly desirous of avoiding that future meeting.
“You see,” he said, “they ain't any volunteers for information. Kind of looks as though they were agin' you, Charlie. Look 'em over yourself.”
Obediently Charlie cast a wild glance down that line. Not a man would stir or speak. He looked back to Jud.
Suddenly Jud shouted: “Well, how do you think it is?”
Charlie Valentine trembled. Perspiration poured out on his forehead.
“Maybe,” he whispered very faintly, “I'm wrong. Maybe—I've forgotten—just what I did—that day!”
Gratification flooded the face of Jud Boone. Plainly the nerve of the boy was breaking; he was about to take water. And in the closet at the rear of the room Jess Dreer, though he was quivering with horror, muttered to himself: “Thank Heaven. They ain't going to come to a show down. I won't have to step-in!” But a great desire to spring at Boone and break him in his hands was sweeping over the outlaw.
“Yep,” sneered Jud Boone, “I figure that you got a pretty handy memory. But I'll tell you what you do, son, to put yourself in right ag'in. You just leave this saddle here for young Tolliver, and I'll see that he gets it.”
The head of Charlie Valentine dropped; his hand which had been twisted around the horn of the saddle loosened and fell nervelessly away. He seemed about to turn back toward the door, and a breath of relief came from the onlookers.
It may have been that breath that changed the mind of Charlie Valentine; it may have been that little whispering sound which made him recall the stern words of his father when he set out that morning.
He whipped himself together with an effort and looked Jud Boone in the eye.
“Jud Boone,” he said, “the saddle's mine!”
The other was shaken by the sudden change. On his brow gathered his most ferocious frown.
“Son,” he said ominously, “watch what you're saying. I'm a tolerable peaceful man—till I get riled up. And you're riling me a whole pile. If you take this saddle, it's just the same as calling me a liar!”
“Then—Heaven help me—that's what I call you, Boone!”
It was done. Even Boone could hardly believe that he had heard it.
“Think twice, Valentine. I ain't a man to stand such talk!”
“I—I've done my thinking,” cried the young fellow, trembling like a girl. “And now—have it over with!”
He stood perfectly straight, his chin up; and it was patent that he could never get his gun out of the holster in time to meet the lightning draw of the other. And Jud Boone had forgotten all scruples, forgotten even Jess Dreer. The fighting lust was on him, and his upper lip was drawing back over his teeth in that bestial manner which needs to be seen only once to be remembered forever.
Then a voice cried from the other end of the room—a deep, mellow voice: “Boone! Jud Boone! You're facing the wrong way!”
Those who saw the change that came in the face of Boone were haunted by it. They looked down the saloon, and there stood a big man, broad-shouldered, long-armed, with his gun hanging far down on his thigh. There was something negligent in his attitude, and negligently alert.
Yet for a long instant Jud Boone did not turn. When he whirled, it was with a shrill, animal cry, the gun coming into his hand as he veered.
Two reports. Two drifts of thin smoke, like two small puffs from a cigarette which is being deeply inhaled. The smoke went upward slowly. Jess Dreer had dropped his gun to his side again. But Jud Boone stood with a dazed expression, his revolver still extended. First the weapon crashed on the floor. Then he reached his left hand along the rail of the bar. His head dropped over, and he lowered himself slowly to the floor.
