Dusty Zebra: And Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

“Since you know my name, miss, maybe …”

  “Ann,” she said.

  The door opened and closed softly and her footsteps were faint tappings.

  Burns stood for a moment, listening, then socked his hat on his head, walked out of the room and down the stairs. There was no sign of Ann. Probably, he told himself, she sneaked out the back way. Probably had her horse out there, back of the hotel.

  There was no one in the lobby and he strode across it, came out on the porch.

  The town was quiet. Somewhere a drunken puncher gurgled on a song and two horses stood slack-hipped at a hitch rack across the street.

  Steve shucked up his gunbelt, stepped swiftly from the porch and headed for the livery barn.

  A whining thing brushed past him and thudded into the hotel’s side. A heavy rifle coughed hollowing in the night.

  Burns flung himself toward the dark alley between the hotel and barber shop, hands clawing for his guns even as his legs drove him toward the place of safety.

  The rifle coughed again and another bullet chewed into the siding, throwing bright splinters that flashed like tiny spears of light in the glow that came from the window just above them.

  Burns hit the alley running and kept on, stumbling in the darkness.

  And as he ran, thoughts hammered in his skull.

  Someone knew who he was. Probably Carson had planted that rifleman in the building across the street.

  The livery stable, he remembered, was to the west. He had to reach there quickly, get his horse and ride—west out of town to meet the girl.

  A sudden thought stopped him in his stride. That girl! Was she really who she said she was? How was he to be sure that Custer had sent her? Maybe she was nothing more than bait to Carson’s trap. A ruse to get him out of the hotel. If he rode to meet her, that might be another trap.

  He shook his head, befuddled. He’d been a blundering fool, should have demanded some proof of the girl’s identity. But it was too late now.

  Carson was out to get him—for no one else would have planted that rifleman. Probably out to get anyone who rode into town and looked as if he might be troublesome.

  Carson had said a word for him, he remembered, but that probably meant nothing now. Maybe Carson had figured on hiring him for one of his gunslicks until he’d shown too much interest in the empty valley and had asked about Bob Custer.

  There was no one in sight at the alley’s end and Burns swung to the west, slipped along the buildings, gun out, eyes and ears alert for danger.

  From the street behind him came the uproar of shouting voices. Probably, he thought, grimly, those rifle shots had emptied every business place.

  “Got to be fast about it,” he told himself. “Another minute and the whole town will be on top of me.”

  Out of the silence ahead a pebble clicked and Burns froze against the building. Behind him the boards gave way and pushed inward as his shoulder pressed against them. In the darkness there was another sound, the slither of a foot, of a man moving up ahead coming toward him.

  Steve froze tighter against the building, felt the boards against his back swing farther inward. Putting his hand behind him, he pushed and a hinge squealed faintly, like the sound of a cricket in the grass.

  It was a door, he knew. A door leading into the rear of one of the buildings, although he could not know which one.

  Backing silently into the darkness, he felt the floor beneath his boots, ducked swiftly into the cavernous blackness.

  From outside came the scuff of boots, the scuff of several boots. More than one man out there, he told himself.

  Reaching out with his toe, he found the door’s edge, exerted gentle pressure. The door swung easily. The hinges squeaked just once then the latch clicked softly.

  Relaxing from the strung-up tension of a moment before, he caught the sweetish smell of whiskey in the darkness, heard the subdued mumble of voices that came from just behind him.

  His eyes made out the shapes of things piled against the wall. Kegs and cases and a pile of empty bottles, thrown helter-skelter in the corner.

  A voice came higher than the others, cutting through the mumble.

  “But, damn it, Egan, Gardner never misses. He’s pure death with that gun of his. That’s why I picked him for the job.”

  The sheriff’s throaty rumble answered. “But he did miss, Carson. Shot twice and missed slick and clean each time. The boys are out hunting down the hombre.”

  Straightening up, Burns tiptoed back into the darkness, nearer to the sound of the voices.

  The sheriff said: “Just wait. You’ll hear a gunshot pretty quick. That’ll be the end of him.”

  “The end of someone else more than likely,” growled Carson. “You don’t seem to get it into your thick skull who this man is. Steve Burns, the toughest marshal that ever packed a star. Cleaned up Devil’s Gulch single-handed and you know what kind of a place that was. A jasper like that would have to ride in just when we’d gotten things to rolling. Wonder if Custer sent for him…”

  The back door, the one Burns had latched a moment or so before, burst open with a crash.

  Burns wheeled, stepped swiftly backward, felt his body wedge between two piles of cases.

  “Hey!” yelled a voice. “Hey, in there!”

  There were three figures in the doorway and one of them was struggling, fighting furiously and silently to break from the clutch of the other two.

  The sheriff’s voice boomed. “That’s Gardner. They got him!”

  A door opened and a flood of light splashed into the room, lighting up the three who struggled in the doorway.

  From his position between the cases, Steve Burns gasped and his guns jerked up.

  The one who stood between the other two, the one who had been fighting to get free, was the girl with the blue eyes, the girl Bob Custer had sent to guide him to the hills!

  CHAPTER THREE

  Satan’s Law and Order

  Across the room, Burns saw Ann’s mouth shape a warning cry, saw the blank astonishment that slipped like a mask across the face of one of the men who stood beside her. He sensed rather than saw the lightning move that brought a gun flashing from the holster of the other man.

  In that timeless space while the flashing gun was moving, Burns twisted his wrist and thumbed the hammer. The gun bucked in his hand and across the room the other gun was spinning in the lamplight that flooded from the inner door.

  Spinning like a wheel of light while in the doorway the man who had drawn it was wilting like a sack from which the grain was pouring.

  Shuffling feet scraped swiftly across the floor and Burns spun clear of the packing cases, pivoting on his toes. The burly sheriff was almost on top of him, his drawn six-gun dwarfed almost to toy size by the ham-like fist that clutched it.

  The sheriff’s gun crashed in the closeness of the room and Burns felt a slash of fire rip across his ribs. Savagely he lashed out at the charging figure and his sixgun barrel slapped across the sheriff’s face.

  The lawman staggered in midstride and stumbled. His gun dropped from his hands and his face suddenly was red with blood that spouted from his nose. Burns danced out of his way, brought up with a jolt against a pile of cases stacked against the wall.

  Egan skidded to his knees, sprawled upon the floor.

  The room crashed again with spitting thunder and a bullet crunched into a case scant inches from Burns’ head. Quickly Burns ducked, knees bending beneath him, dropping his body to a crouching position.

  Through the gunsmoke that filled the place, Burns saw Carson standing to one side of the doorway. A crooked smile was on his lips and his gun was leveling for another shot.

  Swiftly Burns angled his own sixgun around, thumbed the hammer. The shot was wild, but it spoiled the saloon man’s aim. Carson’s bullet plowed a furrow along the floor, hu
rling shining splinters in the murky light.

  Another gun crashed and the half open door beside which Carson was standing jumped on its hinges at the impact of the bullet.

  Carson jerked back, moving swiftly, dived for the safety of an empty case standing on the floor.

  Steve spun on his heels, leaping for the back door. He saw Ann standing in the doorway, gun in hand, smoke still drooling from its muzzle. The man who had stood beside her, the one with the look of blank astonishment on his face, was huddled on the floor.

  “Quick!” Burns yelled at her. “Outside!”

  She hesitated for a second, staring at him.

  With a single bound, he was at the door and reaching out for her. Lifting her, he swung her into the darkness, set her roughly on her feet. From behind them a sixgun snarled.

  “Run!” gasped Burns. “The livery stable. Two horses. I’ll hold them off.”

  She clung to him. “I hit him,” she said. “He was just standing there and I grabbed the gun out of his holster and hit him on the head.”

  Burns shoved her away. “The barn,” he shouted at her. “Get us horses!”

  The girl was running and Steve loped after her, watchful, guns ready to be used.

  Another gun barked from a building’s corner and Burns heard the bullet whine through the grass at ankle height. He held his fire.

  “They can’t be sure where we are,” he told himself. “No use showing them.”

  Ahead of him he saw Ann’s shadowy figure duck into an open door, knew it must be the rear entrance to the livery barn. Reaching it, he stood in the darkness by the door, waiting, watching. But there was no sign of pursuit. Perhaps no one knew exactly where they’d gone. Perhaps most of them didn’t even know what was happening. Of the gang back in the saloon’s back room, Carson would be the only one in any shape to tell them. One man was dead, another had been knocked out by the girl, and the sheriff would need a little while to get his wits together.

  Swiftly, Steve ducked into the door, ran down the aisle that smelled of hay, of oiled leather, of sweaty saddle blankets.

  One horse was sidling along the aisle and Burns spoke to it soothingly. The animal snorted and backed away. Leaping, Burns caught the reins.

  “Where are you?” he shouted at the girl and her voice came back.

  “Here. I got another horse.”

  She was backing it out of the stall.

  Burns flicked his eyes up and down the row of stalls, wishing for his own gray, although his mind told him there was no time to wait, no time to choose. No time even to get on saddles. They’d have to ride without them. Bridles was the best that they could do.

  If he only knew where his own horse had been put. If only…

  “Hey, what’s going on?” a voice called sharply.

  Burns swung around. It was the livery man, striding toward him.

  Burns jerked up his gun.

  “See this?” he asked.

  The livery man stopped abruptly.

  “Just turn around and walk ahead of us,” Burns told him. “Real slow. And shed your artillery as you go.”

  Slowly the man swung around, hands fumbling at his gun belt.

  “One wrong move,” warned Burns, “and I’ll blow you plumb to hell.”

  The gun belt dropped from off the man’s waist and the man himself plodded on ahead, hands half raised.

  Behind him, Burns heard the soft, muffled thud of his own horse and the girl’s.

  “When we get to the door,” Burns told Ann, “we’ll climb these ponies and hit the street full gallop. Swing to the west and keep on going. If there’s any shooting, don’t try to shoot back. I’ll take care of that.”

  To the livery man, he said: “That’s far enough for you. Just stand where you are and don’t let out a yelp.”

  Burns swung abruptly, leaped for the back of his horse. The animal, accustomed to a saddle, crouched in fright, then sprang for the doorway, burst into the street.

  Deftly, Burns swung the horse around, brought his sixgun up to a firing position. Someone stormed out of a restaurant doorway, yelling at him and from far up the street a rifle started up with hollow coughing.

  The sound of hoofs swept out of the barn and went past him. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve caught a quick glimpse of the girl, bent low on the saddleless horse, thundering down the street.

  A bullet hummed over his head and another skipped along the sidewalk, like a stone on water, gouging out clouds of splinters as it went.

  In front of the Longhorn bar men were running for their horses. Others were leaping for their saddles.

  With a yell, Steve reined his horse around, taking the direction the girl had gone. Lighted windows spun past as the horse stretched out and ran as if his life depended on it.

  Then the town of Skull Crossing was behind him and he was following the drumfire of hoofbeats that he knew was the other horse ahead.

  The moon rode just above the eastern horizon and flooded the valley with a crystal light.

  Burns frowned. If only the night could have been dark, Ann and he might have had a better chance. But with the moon almost full, pursuit would be easy. Soon the horses and their riders would be streaming out upon their trail.

  The horse thundered down an incline, splashed across a shallow stream, plunged up the other bank and breasted the rise.

  Ann and her mount were no longer to be seen, but the trail was plain and the horse followed it unerringly. If there’s a place to turn off, Burns told himself, she’ll stop there and wait for me.

  The horse suddenly shied as a running figure came out of the shadows. Burns’ hand, snaking for his gun-butt, stopped short. The running figure, he saw, was Ann. She was stumbling down the trail in the moonlight, waving as if to stop him.

  She had lost her hat and the shirt was ripped open at the shoulder. Dirt smudges marched across her face.

  “The horse,” she gasped. “Threw me off. Scared of a snake…”

  He reached down a hand and she grasped it.

  “Up you come,” he said, and heaved.

  The horse shied and reared, and Burns talked to it soothingly.

  “Hang on,” he said to Ann.

  Her arms tightened around his waist. “I’m all right,” she told him. “If I’d had a saddle he never would have thrown me. But he jumped so quick that I just flew off.”

  “You hurt?”

  “Skinned up some. That’s all. Landed on my shoulder and skidded.”

  “We got to keep moving,” Burns told her. “There’s a big gang in town. Running for their horses when I left.”

  “The Lazy K mob,” said Ann. “Egan must have sent for them.”

  The horse was stretching out again, running with an easy lope that ate up ground.

  “You’ll have to tell me when to leave the trail,” said Burns.

  “I will,” she said.

  They crossed another stream that tumbled from the hills down into the valley and the horse lunged up the bank.

  “We sure got you in a mess,” said Ann. “I know Bob didn’t figure it this way. He just wanted to talk to you. Wanted to get you straightened out. Didn’t want you to ride away thinking he had taken to robbing banks.”

  “I would have dealt me a hand anyhow,” Burns told her, “just as soon as I got the lay. Didn’t like Carson from the very first. A greasy sort of hombre.”

  They rode in silence for a moment.

  “I came to see Bob anyway,” said Burns. “Got a letter from him a couple of years ago. Said he needed a partner. Figured maybe that he still did. Figured maybe I could find a place where I could hang up the guns.”

  He laughed shortly. “Guess I’ll need them for a while.”

  For a long while nothing further was spoken, then Ann said: “I hear something.”

  Str
aining his ears, Steve heard it, too. Heard it above the whistle of wind in his ears, the steady beat of the pony’s feet—a distant drum of hoofs.

  “That’s the posse,” said Burns. “I was hoping they’d hold off for a while.”

  At the end of ten minutes they turned off the trail, plunged into the tangle of hills that crowded against the valley.

  The horse stumbled beneath them, regained his stride. But it was not as smooth and firm as it had been before—nor quite as fast.

  Behind them the drum of hoofs was closer, louder. Once a man yelled and the yell cut above the rolling sound of pursuit.

  The horse stumbled again, then went on, but this time the stride was broken, limping.

  Burns pulled to a halt and slid off.

  “Go on,” he yelled at the girl. “Tell Bob I’ll try to hold them off.”

  “But, Steve …”

  “Go on!” he yelled. “Ride!”

  He hit the horse with his hat and the animal leaped away. The girl, he saw, had grabbed the reins, was bending low. Then the hoofs clattered up a rocky gorge and pounded into the distance.

  For a moment Burns stood at the mouth of the gorge, eyes taking in the scene. Not too bad a place to make a stand, he told himself, and yet it could be better.

  But there was one thing clear. He had to stop them, hold them up a while for Ann to make her getaway. Had to try to hold out until Bob Custer could send his men sweeping down upon the posse.

  Swiftly he ran up the gorge, dodging around the boulders, heading for a tangle of rock and juniper to one side of the gorge. As he ran he heard the nearing thunder of the posse.

  Jerking loose his guns, he leaped behind the rocks and junipers, crouched waiting, breath whistling in his throat.

  Suddenly the horses and their riders burst over the brow of the hill, stormed down toward the gorge. Twenty five or thirty of them, Burns made out, counting swiftly. Too many—more than he’d thought there’d be.

  Moistening his lips, he lifted the guns. The palms of his hands were wet and he wrapped his fingers with a tighter grip.

  They charged up the gorge in a massed bunch and Burns tensed in his hiding place. Slowly, deliberately, his trigger fingers tightened.