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Gunman's Reckoning

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<h2>4</h2> When he wakened, he jumped at a stride into the full possession of his faculties. He had been placed near the open door, and the rush of night air had done its work in reviving him. But Lefty, drawn back to life, felt only a vague wonder that his life had not been taken. Perhaps he was being reserved by the victor for an Indian death of torment. He felt cautiously and found that not only were his hands free, but his revolver had not been taken from him. A familiar weight was on his chest—the very knife had been returned to its sheath. Had Donnegan returned these things to show how perfectly he despised his enemy? "He's gone!" groaned the tramp, sitting up quickly. "He's here," said a voice that cut easily through the roar of the train. "Waiting for you, Lefty." The tramp was staggered again. But then, who had ever been able to fathom the ways of Donnegan? "Donnegan!" he cried with a sudden recklessness. "Yes?" "You're a fool!" "Yes?" "For not finishing the job." Donnegan began to laugh. In the uproar of the train it was impossible really to hear the sound, but Lefty caught the pulse of it. He fingered his bruised throat; swallowing was a painful effort. And an indescribable feeling came over him as he realized that he sat armed to the teeth within a yard of the man he wanted to kill, and yet he was as effectively rendered helpless as though iron shackles had been locked on his wrists and legs. The night light came through the doorway, and he could make out the slender outline of Donnegan and again he caught the faint luster of that red hair; and out of the shadowy form a singular power emanated and sapped his strength at the root. Yet he went on viciously: "Sooner or later, Donnegan, I'll get you!" The red head of Donnegan moved, and Lefty Joe knew that the younger man was laughing again. "Why are you after me?" he asked at length. It was another blow in the face of Lefty. He sat for a time blinking with owlish stupidity. "Why?" he echoed. And he spoke his astonishment from the heart. "Why am I after you?" he said again. "Why, confound you, ain't you Donnegan?" "Yes." "Don't the whole road know that I'm after you and you after me?" "The whole road is crazy. I'm not after you." Lefty choked. "Maybe I been dreaming. Maybe you didn't bust up the gang? Maybe you didn't clean up on Suds and Kennebec?" "Suds? Kennebec? I sort of remember meeting them." "You sort of—the devil!" Lefty Joe sputtered the words. "And after you cleaned up my crowd, ain't it natural and good sense for you to go on and try to clean up on me?" "Sounds like it." "But I figured to beat you to it. I cut in on your trail, Donnegan, and before I leave it you'll know a lot more about me." "You're warning me ahead of time?" "You've played this game square with me; I'll play square with you. Next time there'll be no slips, Donnegan. I dunno why you should of picked on me, though. Just the natural devil in you." "I haven't picked on you," said Donnegan. "What?" "I'll give you my word." A tingle ran through the blood of Lefty Joe. Somewhere he had heard, in rumor, that the word of Donnegan was as good as gold. He recalled that rumor now and something of dignity in the manner with which Donnegan made his announcement carried a heavy weight. As a rule, the tramps vowed with many oaths; here was one of the nights of the road who made his bare word sufficient. And Lefty Joe heard with great wonder. "All I ask," he said, "is why you hounded my gang, if you wasn't after me?" "I didn't hound them. I ran into Suds by accident. We had trouble. Then Levine. Then Kennebec Lou tried to take a fall out of me." A note of whimsical protest crept into the voice of Donnegan. "Somehow there's always a fight wherever I go," he said. "Fights just sort of grow up around me." Lefty Joe snarled. "You didn't mean nothing by just 'happening' to run into three of my boys one after another?" "Not a thing." Lefty rocked himself back and forth in an ecstasy of impatience. "Why don't you stay put?" he complained. "Why don't you stake out your own ground and stay put in it? You cut in on every guy's territory. There ain't any privacy any more since you hit the road. What you got? A roving commission?" Donnegan waited for a moment before he answered. And when he spoke his voice had altered. Indeed, he had remarkable ability to pitch his voice into the roar of the freight train, and above or beneath it, and give it a quality such as he pleased. "I'm following a trail, but not yours," he admitted at length. "I'm following a trail. I've been at it these two years and nothing has come of it." "Who you after?" "A man with red hair." "That tells me a lot." Donnegan refused to explain. "What you got against him—the color of his hair?" And Lefty roared contentedly at his own stale jest. "It's no good," replied Donnegan. "I'll never get on the trail." Lefty broke in: "You mean to say you've been working two solid years and all on a trail that you ain't even found?" The silence answered him in the affirmative. "Ain't nobody been able to tip you off to him?" went on Lefty, intensely interested. "Nobody. You see, he's a hard sort to describe. Red hair, that's all there was about him for a clue. But if any one ever saw him stripped they'd remember him by a big blotchy birthmark on his left shoulder." "Eh?" grunted Lefty Joe. He added: "What was his name?" "Don't know. He changed monikers when he took to the road." "What was he to you?" "A man I'm going to find." "No matter where the trail takes you?" "No matter where." At this Lefty was seized with unaccountable laughter. He literally strained his lungs with that Homeric outburst. When he wiped the tears from his eyes, at length, the shadow on the opposite side of the doorway had disappeared. He found his companion leaning over him, and this time he could catch the dull glint of starlight on both hair and eyes. "What d'you know?" asked Donnegan. "How do you stand toward this bird with the birthmark and the red hair?" queried Lefty with caution. "What d'you know?" insisted Donnegan. All at once passion shook him; he fastened his grip in the shoulder of the larger man, and his fingertips worked toward the bone. "What do you know?" he repeated for the third time, and now there was no hint of laughter in the hard voice of Lefty. "You fool, if you follow that trail you'll go to the devil. It was Rusty Dick; and he's dead!" His triumphant laughter came again, but Donnegan cut into it. "Rusty Dick was the one you—killed!" "Sure. What of it? We fought fair and square." "Then Rusty wasn't the man I want. The man I want would of eaten two like you, Lefty." "What about the birthmark? It sure was on his shoulder; Donnegan." "Heavens!" whispered Donnegan. "What's the matter?" "Rusty Dick," gasped Donnegan. "Yes, it must have been he." "Sure it was. What did you have against him?" "It was a matter of blood—between us," stammered Donnegan. His voice rose in a peculiar manner, so that Lefty shrank involuntarily. "You killed Rusty?" "Ask any of the boys. But between you and me, it was the booze that licked Rusty Dick. I just finished up the job and surprised everybody." The train was out of the mountains and in a country of scattering hills, but here it struck a steep grade and settled down to a grind of slow labor; the rails hummed, and suspense filled the freight car. "Hey," cried Lefty suddenly. "You fool, you'll do a flop out the door in about a minute!" He even reached out to steady the toppling figure, but Donnegan pitched straight out into the night. Lefty craned his neck from the door, studying the roadbed, but at that moment the locomotive topped the little rise and the whole train lurched forward. "After all," murmured Lefty Joe, "it sounds like Donnegan. Hated a guy so bad that he hadn't any use for livin' when he heard the other guy was dead. But I'm never goin' to cross his path again, I hope." <hr style="width: 65%;"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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