E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “My Lord—” She checked herself, then fiercely caught his arms and demanded, “Kiss me, Dex—kiss me from now to sunrise—then leave town!”

  Women were all more or less crazy, he reckoned. First Eve, now Viola, teched in the head, babbling about leaving town. Might as well kiss her for a spell. But Blaine lost the initiative. Viola was clinging to him in a possessing frenzy that inflamed him too much for any thought as to its reasons, or why she made him promise to leave Tecolote the following day. Naturally, he promised her anything. He was a bit too dizzy not to.

  * * * *

  When they met again, at the Bull’s Head, they maintained the pose of formal courtesy, suitable between a gentleman gambler and a prima donna whom the cowpunchers did not paw. If she was surprised at seeing him still in Tecolote, she gave no sign; though he wondered at the strange light in her eyes.

  “Po’ gal’s a widow,” he reasoned. “Broodin’ over someone. Lonesome, and made fo’ love, and last night just didn’t somehow seem exactly right…”

  That piece of feminine psychology worked out, Blaine dismissed the eyes that had become windows into hell. The cards whirred and hissed in his supple grip, and he invited, “Gents, fickle lady luck is honing to be played with tonight, and there’s no limit except your stack!”

  Once, Blaine felt a probing stare. He turned, just in time to see Viola regarding him. The motion of her swiftly dropping hand told him that it had just left her bosom. This night’s gown was cut lower.

  He had an uncomfortable moment as he deliberately turned his back and resumed the deal. Maybe she was a mite teched in the head. Maybe that was a derringer concealed in her bodice. But Blaine could not be a gambler without being a fatalist, so he went on helping four poker players court the fickle goddess.

  One of them was a stranger with a well notched gun. He had a mean eye, a chronic sneer, whether winning or losing. And the losses predominated. Blaine felt it coming. The name, Presidio Jack, was vaguely familiar; so also was that lantern jaw and jutting nose.

  Blaine had seen his picture. Probably the thousand dollar reward offered in the Big Bend country had been withdrawn. Nobody in New Mexico would risk trying to collect it. That was an old story, but it was worth remembering that Presidio Jack was left handed.

  Just a mental note. It was Blaine’s business to know his customers. That was why the highest court in Texas had declared poker a science.

  Jack scarcely picked up his cards when he slammed them down, growling, “Marked, by God! No—wonder I’m losing!”

  His right hand stayed with the cards. He did not rise. But his left hand had started with his right. He was betting on an early draw. And he was quick, deadly swift.

  His only mistake was in not knowing that a good gambler studies his customers. Blaine slumped to the planks, just as lead and flame swept over the table. The other three players fell backward over their chairs.

  Blaine fired from the floor. The shot kicked Presidio Jack’s stomach into his lungs. He piled over in a heap, lay there with his left hand convulsively groping for the gun he had dropped.

  He found it. Girls and men, thinking him dead, were crowded about the table. They did not realize how dying fury drove him; that someone would die with him. But Blaine knew his customer. On his feet now, his eyes flickered right and left; he saw women’s soft curves that a wild slug would riddle.

  He saw, scarcely understanding, a white hand flicker toward the table. That woman was in danger. Blaine had no choice. He fired again, and Presidio Jack’s forehead became a horrible blot. His gun dropped, uncocked. Blaine was sick. Those curious fools crowding about him did not even now realize how death had narrowly missed one or more of them.

  The Bull’s Head was an uproar. Smoke Radford had come in from the street, but he did not join in the incredulous cry, “Must of been crazy, sayin’ them cards is marked.”

  Radford boomed, “Try lookin’ at the cards. That’ll tell.”

  That was fair. Someone snatched the deck from the table. A dozen men squinted at the pasteboards. Tim Higgins, face white with wrath, announced, “By gravey—they is marked!”

  Blaine could scarcely understand. Both guns were out; the only logic to answer the muttering that swelled across the hall. Radford was grinning. The marshal had appeared. He said, “Dex, I ain’t sayin’ yuh doctored them cards, but thar they be. Slick work, too.”

  “Are yo’all referring to Presidio Jack’s heart failure?”

  The marshal shrugged. “Even with slick cards, self-defense is self-defense, I reckon.”

  Tim Higgins cut in, “Yo’re givin’ a honest place a bad name, Dex.”

  Blaine smiled bleakly. “Your next house man won’t be a lily, Tim.” He turned to Radford and said, “Nice work, Smoke. But I ain’t leaving town. Now that the Bull’s Head ain’t bein’ injured by my actions any more, you and me are shootin’ on sight, starting sunrise.

  “Smoke? Smokin’ out folks by proxy. Dudes, old men, boys, and gents with their backs turned. Want it now, or sunrise?”

  He holstered his guns, so that his enemy could get an even start. But Smoke Radford declined the invitation to draw. He said, “Yo’re all het up, Blaine. I’m ignorin’ hot words, but onless yuh eats ’em by sunrise, yuh better come a-shootin’.”

  Blaine put his gold pieces into a long buckskin pouch. He wondered where Viola was. None of the other girls had left. He shook his head, and as he went down the street, he said, “It’s crazy. Why’d she put a crooked deck in place of a honest one?”

  He had no fear of ambush. Smoke Radford would not dare fire from cover; not after the challenge that had been offered and accepted before witnesses. Tecolote would not stand for that.

  Blaine however knew that he’d have to face trick work. He had won too often. A man’s luck changed, sooner or later. Gunnery, like poker, is a science in which there are slips. A strange urge moved him toward Eve’s rooms. He was fatalist enough not to be chilled at the prospect of sudden death, but before that happened, he wanted a final word with Eve. He knew now that he had never ceased loving her; that he perhaps never would.

  He met her at her own back door. She started, recognized him, resolutely turned her back. He caught her shoulder and said, “Ain’t what you think it is—”

  “I know,” she bitterly retorted. “Want to play on my sympathy! As if I didn’t know you can blow Smoke Radford and all his crooks to ribbons! You—you fool! You silly conceited jackass! That girl—Viola—she’s Jason Gale’s widow!”

  “How do you know?”

  “None of your business!” she choked. “I know. Now go ahead and make love to her. You killed her stupid young husband, beating him at poker.”

  She slammed the door in his face. Blaine retraced his steps. Sheer wrath left Eve no chance to dissimulate. Moreover, he had to believe her. That explained Viola’s strange actions; she must have planted the crooked deck, so that Presidio Jack, who by an unforeseen slip had just failed to kill Blaine with an early draw, would have had ample justification for firing without warning.

  Without that marked deck, such a shot would have been murder. It all pointed to Radford, who had seen other gunslicks fail. So he had worked on Viola Gale’s loyalty, set her to work seeking vengeance.

  Blaine digested that, and suddenly, all Eve’s influence combined to hit him a single blow. Gambling was a rotten business. He had killed three men; skunks, all of them, but nonetheless, men. His honest play had made a young numbskull’s celebration end in a fatal robbery.

  With a wife like Viola, no wonder Jason Gale turned to crime rather than telling her he could not meet his notes.

  Only Blaine remained aloof, unwounded in body. Gambling, he now saw, was all that Eve had said. And staying to kill Smoke Radford would prove it beyond any doubt. He now felt, somehow, that he surely would kill Smoke.

  “Ain’t worth it. Feuds and enemies
are one thing. Making a routine of it is suthin’ else,” he told himself.

  He stalked into the Antler Hotel. The clerk’s eyes widened. He said, “Mis’ Viola’s done left, sudden-like. She said she was fixing to go to Jason Gale’s spread. Dangnation, who’d of believed she was his wife? Thought him a stranger, genrully allus going tuh B’ar Gulch fer vittles—hey, whar y’all going to, now?”

  “To give her my gambling money!” Blaine was too weary to resent the direct question.

  * * * *

  Blaine rode through what remained of the night, and all day long he continued his ride. He made no attempt at trailing Viola. He was no tracker, but he could inquire his way to the Rafter JG.

  That evening he approached the ranchhouse. He heard neither horses nor cowpunchers. The Ratter JG must have fallen flat, since Jason’s death.

  He entered the silent house. Viola was there, but she did not hear him until he was almost at her side. She jerked upright from the sofa. Her reddened eyes widened, and fear made her oblivious of the fact that the kimono she wore was hardly adequate for receiving visitors.

  “Go ahead,” she challenged. “I planted that deck to protect Presidio and I wanted him to kill you.”

  “I ain’t aiming to hurt you, Vi,” he said, seating himself beside her. “I just learned who you are.” He laid the heavy pouch of gold pieces on her knee. “I ain’t insulting you by paying for Jason’s death. But it’s all I can do. I shuffled my last deck of cards.”

  For a long moment their eyes clashed. Her body was frozen ivory in the failing light. Suddenly she cried out, flung her arms about him.

  “I know you didn’t cheat Jason. Not after doing this. Dex, darling—that evening in my room—I was falling in love with you—and hating myself for it—and for what I’d promised to do. I didn’t know—will you—”

  She was going to say forgive, but his kiss smothered the word. And her hungry mouth told him how love and vengeance had battled that night…

  The moon rose, glorifying her loveliness. The glow in her dark eyes was no longer somber; but for all the sweetness of her ardent mouth, there was bitterness in Blaine’s heart. Finding himself had cost him Eve’s devotion. Yet the reward of pride and stubbornness was warm and throbbing in his arms…

  Hoofbeats brought the lovers apart. Blaine was on his feet, pistol ready, just as the door burst open. A rifle barrel gleamed.

  “Hold it!” he snapped, before he saw the woman’s silhouette.

  “Dex!” It was Eve, and she recoiled, seeing Viola’s beauty in the patch of glow the moon cast through the window. Then she said, “It’s not on her account I’m here—I don’t blame you—I expect that—”

  She thrust the Winchester carbine into his hands, reached into her sagging blouse, bringing out two boxes of cartridges. Before Blaine or Viola could find their voices, Eve went on, “Radford knows where you are. He heard it. Like I did. He knows that if you and Viola get together, his rotten plan’ll be exposed, and he’ll be run out of town. So—”

  “There’ll be a dozen hard cases with him,” Eve panted.

  Viola picked up the old .45. It was loaded. Blaine said, “Eve, I thought you was plumb through with me.”

  “Men are the dumbest critters! You, Viola! Light a lamp—”

  “Lamp?” echoed Blaine.

  “Do as I say! A dozen are against us.”

  Eve had arrived with no more than minutes to spare. Horses with muffled hoofs came up like ghosts. Men dismounted, many yards away, crept from shadow to shadow. The Rafter JG ranchhouse was silent, but a lamp glowed in a bedroom window.

  “Thar they be!” muttered Smoke Radford. He licked his lips as he saw Viola’s body silhouetted against a shade. He knelt, drew a Colt. “Ain’t no use rushin’ ’em. He’ll be passin’ by, any second.”

  “Better you git closter, Smoke,” someone advised.

  They hung back. A shot from the dark was safer than rushing Dexter Blaine. His past record made them cautious. And Radford had a private score to settle. He had promised Viola vengeance for a price, but she had fled instead of waiting…

  He crept ahead. A wheelbarrow, out in the middle of the yard, was his goal. Its shadow would conceal him, if the lovers did find time to glance out the window. But he cursed between clenched teeth when he heard Viola sighing, “Oh… Dexter…darling—”

  What followed froze him to the heart. A cold voice said, “Fire at will, Smoke. I warned you!”

  Dexter Blaine was not kissing a woman to ecstasy. He was rounding the corner of the house. Radford yelled. His shot went wild. Blaine fired, just once. As Smoke Radford sprawled in a heap, a Winchester began crackling from the other corner of the house.

  The ruffians fled, howling. They did not stop to think that Eve Hollis would be a very poor shot, even in daylight. The death of their chief, and Blaine’s searching fire combined to send them away in panic.

  A few moments later, Dexter Blaine faced the two women. He would rather have looked smoking guns in the eye. He did not know what to say. So he blurted out, “Eve, I quit gambling. And I gave Viola every cent I made at it. To—uh—to—make it really quitting.”

  Eve said, “I’ll tell you how I knew who she was. I went to her room to claw her eyes out. And I found some letters.”

  The widow laughed softly. “Dexter, don’t be afraid to tell me. I know where your heart is.” She picked up the buckskin pouch. “You two will need that. I’m going back east.”

  Eve shook her head, caught Blaine’s hand. “We won’t need it. We’re in the restaurant business. With a clean start.” She watched Blaine gulp, redden now that he had time to think of the close embrace the blond girl’s sudden arrival had interrupted. Eve laughed in sweet malice and went on, “We’ll call it the Royal Flush! Just for old times sake, you know. Don’t be silly! I’ll look the other way while you kiss her goodbye.”

  But as Dexter Blaine rode back to Tecolote with Eve Hollis, he could not help but think that if the Hoot Owl Restaurant was going to change its name, it should be called Pair of Queens.

  YOU CAN’T FIGHT A WOMAN

  Originally published in Speed Adventure Stories, Nov. 1943.

  “Slim—don’t!” the red haired girl protested. Her voice was tremulous, and her eyes were misty in the moon­light. “I’ve got to get home before dad gets back from town. He’d kill me if he knew—”

  Reluctantly, Slim Crane let Madge slip from his arms. For a moment, he watched her pat her disheveled hair into shape, and smooth out the blouse that a close embrace had pulled all awry.

  “Shucks, honey,” he answered, broad month twisting ruefully, “what do you low my old man’d do if he knew about me, sneaking away like this!”

  Madge’s sigh, and the way she laced her fingers behind her finely poised head as she leaned back against the rock that sheltered them brought pert young curves into charming relief as her blouse drew taut.

  Slim watched the play of moon­light accentuate her beauty. He abstractedly ran his fingertips over his thumb, as though still trying the texture of a fine fabric. He was thinking, “Gosh…she’s wearin’ silk…an’ she smells nicer every time…”

  Madge Daley in gingham was fascinating enough to make him a traitor to every cow country tradi­tion. As she slowly rose and smoothed out her rumpled skirt, he caught her hand. “Honey—I don’t think my dad’s going to have time to cut your bob-wire fences again, not fo’ a spell, no-how.”

  A frown puckered her smooth brow. They had not until this moment mentioned the feud that forced them to meet on the sly. Then her eyes brightened. “Oh—Slim! You mean, he’s getting rea­sonable?”

  Slim Crane loved Madge enough to swallow the unintended jab. “No, dang it! There’s a passel of skunks beefing our critters. Killin’ ’em and hauling ’em off.”

  “And that,” Madge said, a sly bit of malice creeping into her voice, “
is even worse than a nester putting a fence about his lawful property?”

  “Aw, blazes, honey!” He tried to be grim, but he simply could not, so he tried to laugh it off. “You and your pappy don’t understand nothing. Look-ee here. My dad and his’n, afore him, fit the Injuns to get this yere country. They starved, froze, kilt varmints and Mexicans and brought cow critters into this corner of what used to be forsaken hell.

  “Now a bunch of galoots in Washington pass laws, giving nesters the rights to settle down, put fences aroun’ the water holes our critters need—”

  “But Slim, darling.” She sadly shook her head. “Your cows aren’t hungry and they’re not thirsty!”

  “Makes no difference!” He stubbornly shook his tow head. “Fust drought that comes along, the Diamond C critters won’t have a thing to drink except whar your pappy’s squatted.”

  “He’s not a squatter!” she flared. “He’s a homesteader!”

  “I don’t give a tarnation damn!” He snatched his hat and jammed it on his head. “Between homesteaders and this new passel of varmints that’s beefing our crit­ters and selling ’em in Paso del Norte, we’ll git shoved to the wall.”

  “Why—you—you—putting my father in the same class with beef thieves!” She slapped him, and it sounded like a pistol shot. “Thieves, are we! You listen here, Slim Crane! Your father, the pig headed old fossil, he’s a thief! Tearing down a mile of barbed wire that cost dad every cent he made—”

  “Made outen hogging our water hole!”

  But Madge was in the saddle, galloping recklessly from the grove toward the section that Herb Daley, lawfully enough, had “proved up.” Crane, just as sore, mounted his blue roan, and growled, “Gol dang my hide, she’s a snake, like all them nesters! Thief, huh?”

  But as he rode, he had more and more difficulty in keeping his rage white hot. He could not forget those stolen moments when Madge looked up, lashes drooping and lips half parted for a kiss; he could not forget how a runaway team had flung her into his arms, that day before he knew that she was the daughter of the first nester to come to Arroyo Rojo.