Dusty Zebra: And Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  Slowly he shook his head. “Never saw him before,” he said. “Can’t imagine who he is.”

  And that, he told himself, was the damnest lie he had ever told. For there was no doubt about the dead man on the floor. His name wasn’t Kagel, of course, and he looked some older than the day that he had left Devil’s Gulch, swearing vengeance on the man who drove him out.

  “I think I’ll get that drink,” said Burns.

  “Just a minute,” the sheriff called.

  Burns stood silent, while the star-man squinted at him.

  “Figuring on staying for a while?” the sheriff asked.

  “Hadn’t thought about it, sheriff.”

  “Take my advice,” the lawman told him. “Have a drink and get some grub. Have a sleep if you really need it. But then you better slope.”

  Burns reached into a vest pocket, hauled out a sack of tobacco. His fingers shook a little as he thumbed the book of leaves.

  “Ordering me out?” he said.

  “I’m giving you some time.”

  “I think I’ll stay a while,” Burns told him calmly.

  The sheriff’s face flushed and his fingers twitched impatiently toward his guns, but his thumbs stayed anchored on the belt.

  Burns spilled tobacco into the paper. “You see,” he said, “this is the first place I was ever ordered out of. If I let it happen to me, folks might get the idea I was just a saddle tramp.”

  “I told you to vamoose,” the sheriff rumbled. “We got our bellies plumb full of slickers that come in with their guns tied down.”

  Burns lifted the cigarette to his mouth, licked the flap, twirled it shut. His lips scarcely moved as he spoke. “Sheriff, the only way I ever argue is with my guns. Maybe you would like to…”

  “Hold it,” warned the man with the fancy vest. He addressed the sheriff. “Look, Egan, he didn’t pick the fight, Kagel called him. Must have been out of his head or something. Burns here says he never saw the man before.”

  “That’s what he says,” declared the sheriff, “but it sounds damn funny to me.”

  “He had to defend himself,” argued the other. “Kagel had the first shot. He already had his guns half out when he yelled at Burns. Under those circumstances, I don’t see why Burns can’t stick around long as he’s a mind to.”

  The sheriff started to speak, stammered. “All right,” he finally said. “All right, I guess that he can stay.”

  He swung on Burns like a raging grizzly. “Only don’t go flourishing them guns. This here county is cleaning up and we don’t stand for off-hand shooting.”

  Burns grinned sourly. “Just tell the boys not to prod me none.”

  Brusquely the sheriff turned on his heel and headed for the door. Steve stood, looking after him. Funny, he told himself. Damn funny. That big bear of a sheriff folding up to fancy vest.

  Fingers tapped him on the elbow and he turned around.

  “Name is Carson,” said the man with the fancy vest, holding out his hand. “Joe Carson. Own this place.”

  Burns put out his hand and shook. Carson’s hand was flabby and his handclasp matched it.

  “Don’t mind the sheriff,” said Carson. “It’s near election time and he is on the prod. Always is, come election time. Looking for things that will help the votes.”

  “Like rounding up the cow thieves?”

  “Something like that,” Carson agreed. “Probably had those rustlers staked out for months ahead and hauled them in when it would do some good.”

  Burns moved to the bar, Carson at his elbow.

  “Good shooting,” the bartender told him. “Seen lots of it in my day. But nothing quite like that.”

  “Thanks,” said Burns. “Slow, though. He got in the first one.”

  “And smashed up the backbar,” declared the bartender, bitterly. “Damn it all, I do hate messy shooting. Neat and clean, I says. That’s the way to do it.”

  “Go ahead, drink up,” invited Carson. “The bottle’s on the house.”

  Burns poured a drink and downed it.

  “Maybe you’re looking for a job,” asked Carson. “If you are, I’d like to talk to you.”

  Burns hesitated. “Well, not a job exactly. I’m looking for a man.”

  “Not Kagel?” asked Carson.

  Burns shook his head. “A friend. Name of Custer—Bob Custer. Used to live around here.”

  “You won’t find him, mister,” the bartender told Burns. “He up and pulled his freight a month or two ago.”

  “One of the ranchers that were driven out?”

  The bartender nodded.

  Burns downed a second drink of whiskey. “Doesn’t sound like Bob,” he protested. “All hell couldn’t scare him out.”

  “None of them had a thing to stay for,” Carson said. “Their cattle were gone and some of their places burned. They tried banding together, but it didn’t do no good. Didn’t have the men to protect themselves. When they were one place, the gang would strike at another. Only outfit that survived was Newman’s Lazy K. Newman had men enough to fight off the wild bunch.”

  Burns shook his head, bewildered. “Funny that a bunch of cow thieves would go in for burning and killings. Mostly they’re just interested in cows.”

  “Ranchers picked off a few of them,” said Carson. “Got their dander up. For a while…”

  The batwings flapped and a voice drawled. “Just take it easy, gents. Keep on doing what you’re doing.”

  Burns stiffened and the whiskey in the glass he held slopped onto the bar. In the mirror, he saw Carson’s face go white. The bartender stood frozen with a rag in one hand and a wet glass in the other.

  “We’re holding up the bank,” the man in the doorway said, “and we don’t want any trouble.”

  From down the street came the sound of a single shot.

  “Somebody,” said the man in the doorway, “thought that we were fooling.”

  “Apparently you aren’t,” Burns told him.

  “If you think we are,” replied the voice, “just turn around and try me.”

  Burns spun on his heels, knees folding beneath him so that he slid toward the floor, hands going for his guns. A bullet chunked in the wood above his head and the sound of the bandit’s coughing gun crashed through the stillness of the bar.

  “Take it easy, bub,” said the bandit slowly. “Take it easy, bub. Stay right where you are.”

  Burns’ guns, almost clear of leather, slid back as his fingers loosened.

  “Take it easy, bub … take it easy, bub …”

  The voice didn’t sound exactly right, muffled by the blue bandanna mask, but the words were right. How long had it been since he’d heard those words? Five years or more … seven … maybe more than that.

  “O.K.,” said Burns. “I was a fool to try it.”

  He hunkered on his heels, hands on the floor, studying the man. Tall, straight, with a jaunty angle to his hat and wisps of tawny hair sticking out beneath it. The gun hand was steady and the figure tensed, but the voice had been cool, full of self assurance.

  A ripple of shots came from down the street. A horse’s hoofs started up and drummed into the distance.

  “Steady,” said the man in the doorway. “Don’t get fidgety. One move and I’ll fill you with lead!”

  Queer to be sitting here, thought Burns, while a bank robbery’s going on just a door or two away. Like spectators watching a horse race—or like a dream where a man sees something happening and can’t raise a hand to stop it.

  Someone was shouting now, yelling out orders. A sixgun banged and a rifle barked. Hoofs drummed again, hoofs that became a thunder in the street.

  The man in the door moved swiftly. A quick heel sounded on the steps and just outside a man yelled to a horse. The rolling rush of hoofs went past the saloon and thundered down the
street. Gunfire broke loose, went along the street in a ragged wave.

  Burns leaped to his feet, bounded for the still-swinging doors.

  Two dozen horsemen were racing out of town, horses hunched down and humping like scared rabbits, kicking up a cloud of dust, while guns from doors and windows sent a hail of lead after them. There were no answering shots. There was no need of any. The retreating bandits were already out of range.

  Burns heard Carson come out of the door behind him. Together they stood side by side, watching the swirl of dust move out of sight.

  Burns shook his head. “Big bunch,” he said. “Bank robbers as a rule don’t ride that many together.”

  “Smart way of doing it,” said Carson, almost admiringly. “Ride in and take over the town. Have it over and done with before a man can make a move.”

  Down the street Sheriff Egan was bellowing, rounding up a posse. Up the street a few enthusiastic souls still banged away.

  “Looks like the sheriff will have a chance to win another vote or two,” Burns said in a low tone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gun the Man Down!

  The bartender had said that Bob Custer had pulled freight. But the barkeep had been wrong. For the man who had stood with leveled gun in the doorway of the Longhorn bar had been Bob Custer.

  Even with the mask covering his face, you couldn’t mistake a jasper like Bob Custer, Steve told himself. Not with the jaunty angle to his hat, the tawny hair that refused to stay in place, the words he used …

  “Take it easy, bub,” he’d said and those had been words that he had used before. Words that he had used when the two of them had ridden together before Burns took the job in Devil’s Gulch.

  He had recognized Steve and had deliberately used that expression to keep his old partner from using his guns.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, Steve smoothed the faded letter on his knee, read the words again as the lamp on the little table guttered in the wind:

  Dear Steve: If you ever figure on leaving Devil’s Gulch why not ramble this way. I got a spread in a nice, quiet valley and sure could use a partner again …

  A nice, quiet valley! Well, maybe it had been, when Bob had written that letter, almost two years before.

  Carefully Steve folded the letter, replaced it in his wallet and walked to the window. Dusk was falling over Skull Crossing and the orange and yellow glow of lighted windows ran along the street. The thump of boots upon the sidewalk came to Burns’ ears as he stood staring out of the window. A horseman galloped past and it seemed to Burns that he could smell the acrid dust the pony’s hoofs had raised in its haste.

  If you ever figure on leaving Devil’s Gulch … Somehow, Bob Custer, even then, two years ago, must have known that the day would come when a man couldn’t go on living in a town where the ghosts of dead men walked in broad daylight. He knew even then that Steve would want to hang up his guns and get away from the constant whispering of, “That’s Steve Burns, he shot about fifty men—cleaned up Devils’ Gulch—he’s poison with a gun.”

  “Good evening,” said a voice from the doorway and Burns swung from the window, saw the man leaning against the jamb.

  “You the gent,” asked the man, “who perforated Kagel?”

  Burns nodded, watching the man warily. A youngish fellow with slicked back hair and a bulldog pipe hanging from his mouth.

  “I’m Humphrey,” said the man. “Jay Humphrey. Editor of the Tribune. Got the room just across the hall from you. Saw your door was open.”

  “Glad to know you, Humphrey,” said Burns, but he didn’t try to make his voice sound as if he were.

  “Understand your name is Burns,” said Humphrey. “Wouldn’t be Steve Burns, would you, from Devil’s Gulch?”

  “That’s right,” Burns told him, tight-lipped. “You aren’t gunning for me, too?”

  “Hell, no,” protested Humphrey. “I just record the news. I never try to make it.”

  Burns hauled out his tobacco sack, started to build a smoke.

  “Catch the bank robbers?” he asked.

  Humphrey shook his head. “Egan came back with the posse just a while ago. The bandits got away into the hills. Osborne’s sorer than a boil.”

  “Osborne the banker?” asked Burns.

  “That’s correct,” said Humphrey. “Egan’s sending out to the Lazy K for help. Figures on taking everyone he can lay his hands on out into the hills tomorrow.”

  Burns snapped a matchhead on his thumb nail, lit the smoke. “I can imagine that Osborne is sore,” he said. “The sheriff will never catch that gang, waiting until morning.”

  He grinned at Humphrey. “You don’t sound too sore yourself. Must not have lost much money in the holdup.”

  “Not a dime,” said Humphrey. “The only ones that had money in the bank were the Lazy K, Carson and old man Osborne himself. Rest of us just use the bank for borrowing.”

  “High interest, I suppose,” said Burns.

  “It isn’t interest,” Humphrey told him. “It’s highway robbery.”

  He straightened from the door jamb. “Got to be going,” he said. “Got some work to do. Don’t suppose you’ll be riding with the posse in the morning?”

  Burns hoisted his eyebrows. “Why should I? It’s no skin off my nose what happens to the town. I ride in peaceable and what happens to me? Someone tries to plug me.”

  “Don’t blame you,” said Humphrey. “Drop into the office sometime. I got a bottle hid away for my friend.”

  Burns stood in the center of the room, listening to the sound of the man’s feet going down the hall.

  Humphrey had come for something. That, he knew, was certain. Some information. Something that he wanted to know. He hadn’t asked any questions, except about that Devil’s Gulch business and about riding with the posse. But that last had been a funny one. Men just passing through seldom rode with posses.

  Humphrey couldn’t suspect that he knew Bob Custer…probably no one in town even suspected Custer had been involved in the holdup. And that only made the visit more senseless than ever.

  Burns let smoke trickle from his nostrils, knitted his brow.

  Funny, that Custer could be tangled with a bank gang. Never had a wild streak in him. Always wanting to stop somewhere and settle down.

  Bob Custer and some other ranchers were driven out of the valley by a bunch of cow thieves that didn’t act the way cow thieves should act. Cow thieves as a rule don’t burn and kill. They gather them some critters and get the hell out as fast as they can go.

  Custer took part in the holdup of a bank, but it was a funny sort of holdup. Not the way bank men ordinarily work. The bunch was too big for one thing and …

  Burns jumped as the door creaked, hand reaching for his gun. But even as his fingers touched the grip, he stopped, frozen in astonishment.

  A girl stood in the room, back against the door, hands behind her, looking at him with blue eyes that seemed to sparkle in the smoky lamplight.

  “You Steve Burns?” she asked.

  Burns nodded, staring at her. The faded levis she wore were splotched with dust and the sleeves of the blue work shirt were so long she’d turned up the cuffs. Brown hair spilled around her shoulders and her hat hung at her back by a thong around her throat.

  “Bob Custer sent me,” she said quietly.

  Burns rose slowly, fumbled his hat off his head and stood with it in his hand.

  “I was figuring maybe that he would get in touch with me,” he said, “but I never thought he would send a girl.”

  “I was the only one that could come. It would be too dangerous for any of the others. But no one would pay any attention to me. Probably wouldn’t even know me.”

  Her eyes laughed at him. “Besides, I sneaked around in back after it was getting dark.”

  “Look, miss
,” pleaded Burns. “Maybe you would just slow up a bit and let me get it straight. About it being dangerous. About the bank robbery this…”

  “That’s what Bob wants to talk to you about,” declared the girl. “He’s afraid you’ll think that he really is a bandit—that all of us are out robbing banks and shooting folks and…”

  “You were doing a right good job of it today,” said Burns.

  Her hand reached out and gripped his arm. “But don’t you see that’s what Bob wants to talk to you about. Wants to explain how we are hiding in the hills, fighting back against the men who drove us off our land.”

  “Wait a second,” gasped Burns. “You mean that Carson, Osborne and the Lazy K were the ones who drove the ranchers out?”

  “Only Carson, really,” the girl told him. “He’s the town boss here. Osborne plays in with him and Newman out at the Lazy K is just the foreman. Carson owns the ranch and uses it as a hideout for his gunslicks.”

  “I should have guessed it,” Burns said, almost as if talking to himself. “I should have spotted it right off. The phoney story about the rustlers and the burning…”

  Steps came rapidly along the hall and Burns, reaching out, pulled the girl away from the door, stepped toward it, hand reaching for a gun.

  Breathlessly they waited, but the steps went past, turned in at another door farther down the hall.

  “You got to get out of here,” Burns whispered. “There’s too much chance of someone spotting you.”

  “Bob asked me to bring you out to the hills,” the girl whispered back. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

  “Sure, I’ll come. What the hell. Bob Custer’s the best friend I ever had. If he’s in trouble, it’s time I was sitting in and calling for a hand.”

  “I’ll meet you on the road just west of town.” She started for the door, but Burns halted her with a gesture. Swiftly, he stepped to the table, blew out the lamp.

  “I’ll be there just as soon as I can get my horse,” he said.

  He heard the doorknob turned.

  “Just a minute,” he said.

  “Yes?”