Bullets in the Sun

by Robert J. Horton

  “This your first trip up here?” he asked in a softer tone.

  “Guilty.” Jim Bond smiled. “I’ve heard it was fertile pasture.”

  Dan Farlin started. He looked at the younger man sharply. Bond was not a greenhorn. He gave indubitable evidence of wisdom and experience beyond his years. He possessed no cowhand appearance, no common personality.

  “That depends on what you mean by fertile.” He scowled.

  “I have a hunch you could tell me anything I wanted to know,” said Bond, returning Farlin’s steady gaze.

  The gambler was trying to shake off a wild conjecture. Could this be the famous Bovert? If so, had the sheriff recognized him?

  “Maybe I could,” Farlin agreed. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where to put up my horse and myself in town,” replied Jim Bond blandly.

  “I’ll show you,” said the nettled Farlin. “You can ride in with me.”

  “And unless I’m a poor guesser, that’ll be a good enough card of introduction,” said Bond as they started for Sunrise.

  * * * * *

  Dan Farlin found Gladys at home when he finally reached there, angry, puzzled, already feeling sore from his swift ride.

  “How’d you come to meet up with that fresh newcomer?” he demanded. “It seems to me you . . .”

  “Father! Don’t be silly. And what were you riding around looking for me for . . . with the sheriff? That was a spectacle. The man rode out from across the creek and asked me where the nearest town was. I suppose I should have given him a cold stare and ridden on.”

  “I don’t suppose you ever saw him before,” said Farlin, and raged at himself instantly for this senseless remark.

  “No. But he talked more entertainingly than the common run that comes here,” said the girl. “Maybe you’ll tell me why you are acting this way all of a sudden.”

  Farlin changed his tactics. “You won’t be bothered by the common run long,” he said, evading her implied question. “Gladys, you were right. It’s time we left here, and left here for good. You’ll understand why I don’t want you to mention this to anyone. We’re going, and we’re going before long. Meanwhile, I don’t want you to sing any more at the Red Arrow.”

  The girl stared at him. “We’re going?” She looked as if she could hardly believe it. There was mistrust in her eyes. “I do hope you mean it, Daddy. But I’m going to sing tonight . . . and every night until we’re ready to go. Maybe that’ll speed your plans. Anyway, it’s final.”

  She went into her room, and Dan Farlin knew she meant it.

  Chapter Six

  When he rode into the barn, Jim Bond surveyed the liveryman from his seat in the saddle. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the street.

  “Can you see that gent parading out there?” he asked. “The one with the town clothes and the two big flashlights, I mean. He left his horse at the hotel.”

  The liveryman looked and shook his head. “Nobody out there now,” he said, subjecting the newcomer to a closer examination, and looking his horse over with undisguised admiration.

  “Well, no matter,” said Bond lightly. “I met a man out here a piece who directed me to town and this place. I didn’t ask him his name, but I’m curious. Good-looking gent, blue suit, town shoes, soft, gray hat, and sporting a big sparkler in his tie and another on his finger. A gambler I should say, maybe?”

  “That would be Dan Farlin,” the liveryman decided. “He’d have told you who he was, I reckon, if you’d asked him. Dan ain’t got no notion or reason to keep his name quiet.”

  “Exactly,” said Bond, dismounting and turning his reins over to the liveryman. “That would be him, I expect. I don’t aim to be too curious, but I met a girl riding out west of here, and he said she was his daughter. Right-looking girl, too. Has Dan Farlin got a daughter?” A piece of gold found its way into the liveryman’s palm.

  “Well, I don’t blame a young feller like yourself for bein’ curious,” said the liveryman. “Yes, Dan has a daughter by name of Gladys. She just put up her hoss. Could you tell her hoss if you saw it?”

  Bond strolled down the barn a short distance and pointed out a horse. “Yes or no?” he said with his smile.

  “Yes.” The other grinned. “It was Gladys Farlin, all right, an’ her old man is Dan Farlin. He’s a gambler, like you say, but he’s a square-shooter. You ain’t the first visitor that has gone locoed at first sight of Gladys, but she’s bad medicine for freshies, boy. Take my tip an’ keep your boots shined.”

  “I always welcome information.” Bond nodded gravely. “Take good care of my horse and you’ll reap a just reward. I’ll just take this pack along to the hotel and engage lodgings, breakfast, and bed, and, if anybody asks for me, don’t tell ’em I’m a stranger. Just say Jim Bond is in town. I haven’t any reason to keep my name quiet, either.”

  Bond went to the hotel, spent some time at the wash bench, shaved with hot water from the kitchen, ate a hearty meal, and went to his room for a long nap. He had not slept the night before.

  * * * * *

  If Dan Farlin hadn’t been in such a hurry to ride out on the west plain in search of Gladys in the first place, and hadn’t been so eager to call his daughter to account immediately after his return to town, he might have been interested to learn that Big Tom Lester and Ed Lawson held a conversation at the end of the bar in the Red Arrow that lasted some little time and did not serve to improve the humor of the resort proprietor.

  “Now, Tom, just what’re you-all tryin’ to get out of me?” asked Lawson good-naturedly, after they had consumed a pair of “morning’s mornings” with Lester eying the outlaw suspiciously.

  “I don’t just know,” Big Tom confessed. “But . . . look here, Lawson, does anything seem different to you this spring?”

  “Yes,” replied Lawson. “You seem different, Tom. What’s eatin’ you, anyway?”

  “Well . . .” Lester hesitated, scowled, then spoke what was in his mind. “First, Mills comes along an’ tells me this Bovert is headed this way. Why should he go to that trouble? Then you come along an’ order your outfit to bed at daybreak an’ tell me you, of all men who come here, haven’t heard of this Bovert. Then Dan Farlin acts peculiar . . . most peculiar.” He nodded significantly.

  “I can explain all those things,” said Lawson easily. He had shown sudden interest when Lester had spoken about Farlin. “Mills don’t want you to bother this Bovert because he wants a crack at him himself, for some reason. Don’t ask me the reason, for I don’t know an’ don’t care. I ordered my men to make themselves scarce because I don’t want ’em puttin’ on any circus while this same Mills is in town to look ’em over. He can remember faces too easy. I don’t know every wild man in this country or any other, which lets me out so far as this Bovert is concerned. As for Dan Farlin, well, what’s the matter with him? How does he act? He played good cards last night, so far’s I could see . . . an’ I saw plenty.”

  “Made a good winning, didn’t he?” coaxed Lester.

  “Why, you ought to know,” said Lawson in surprise. “You get a cut, don’t you? An’ I don’t think Dan would hold out on you any more than I think it would be good business on your part to try to check up on him an’ have him find it out.”

  “I’m not tryin’ to do that,” said Lester hastily. “But Dan didn’t cut me in, except for the rake-off. Now, don’t tell anybody I let you in on this. Somehow I got the impression this mornin’ that Dan don’t care if he stays here or not, an’ I don’t know any place where he could do better.”

  Lawson’s eyes were gleaming with interest. “Gettin’ independent, is he? An’ that makes you sore? Well, I expected it before this, Tom. I don’t see that you’ve got any kick coming. He scoops a heavy rake-off for you an’ draws trade. If it wasn’t for Dan Farlin amusing me at cards, I wouldn’t come to this measly town. My custom’s worth keepin’, ain’t it? An’ maybe there’s others feel the same way. Naturally Dan’s come around to thinking what he wins
should be his own. I wouldn’t bother Dan if I was you, Tom.”

  “Oh, I won’t bother him,” said Lester with a heavy frown.

  “You’re figuring to get him sooner or later this very minute,” Lawson accused with a harsh laugh. “Here, boy, fill ’em up.”

  Lester didn’t speak again until after the drinks had been served and consumed. “It’s that girl of his,” he said, putting down his glass. “She’s gettin’ stuck up.”

  “I wouldn’t bring her into it, a-tall,” warned Lawson.

  Lester looked at him quickly. “I didn’t know you an’ Dan was so friendly,” he said with a shrewd glance.

  “Is that why you had Porky trailin’ us this morning?” asked Lawson coldly.

  “That fool is through!” exclaimed Lester. “I don’t know what you mean by his trailing you,” he lied, “but he ain’t on my list any more.”

  “How you goin’ to get rid of him?” asked Lawson quietly.

  “I’m goin’ to tell him to get out,” snarled Lester. “That’ll be enough. I’ve still got something to say about the hangers-on in this town.”

  “Yeah? You talk as if you was afraid you’re slipping.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Lester snapped angrily. Then he recovered himself and realized that he had told the outlaw too much. “I’m not right this mornin’, Ed. Just forget what I said, will you?”

  “Sure,” Lawson promised genially. “You ain’t got no easy job, Tom, even if you have got a mint here. But you’ve got to hold your head. I’m goin’ to bed. Been ridin’ hard lately. So long.”

  His talk with Lawson left Big Tom Lester in an ugly mood. There was something between the outlaw and Farlin, Lester felt sure. Hadn’t Lawson practically threatened to stay clear of the town if Farlin left? Farlin had had him guessing; now both of them had him guessing. If Porky was any good . . .

  Big Tom swore, called for another drink from his private stock, tossed it off, and left the place. Farlin had long since ridden off by chance with Sheriff Mills and had just returned. The resortkeeper would have welcomed sight of Porky to question him, but he had no thought of looking him up. He would have to be back at his place of business by 2:00 that afternoon. He went home.

  * * * * *

  The sun was slanting low in the west when Jim Bond woke. He was up and out speedily for a look at his horse and a bite to eat. He strolled about town, dropping in at the various resorts, until after sunset, and, with the coming of night, went back to the Red Arrow, which he had recognized at once as the liveliest place in town.

  Lawson’s outfit, having been told to go a bit easy against a prospective early departure, was abroad. Red Cole was in command. Farlin was standing with Big Tom at the latter’s customary station at the lower end of the bar near the door to the little office. Big Tom was scowling and appeared nervous. He had had a talk with Porky finally, and it had not been satisfactory. But he had not ordered the little gunman out of town. Again and again his thoughts reverted to Lawson’s intimation that he had talked as if he felt himself slipping. He believed he hated both Lawson and Farlin. They were too smart. Porky was dumb, but he might have more use for him. In any event, this was no way for the money season to start.

  “This looks like a live one,” Farlin remarked suddenly.

  Big Tom glanced quickly in the direction the gambler indicated and saw Jim Bond, tall, handsome, swaggering, playing large gold pieces at the nearest wheel. Bond had seen Farlin at once and had stopped at the roulette table where he could watch him for a spell.

  “Number three, red,” the croupier droned, and shoved two stacks of gold beside the winning piece.

  Bond laughed, took one of the stacks, and left the other on the number for a repeat. The croupier’s eyes glanced toward Big Tom, and the latter frowned.

  “Twenty-dollar limit at this table,” said the croupier, paying the bets on the color and taking the losing wagers.

  “That’s not so much,” taunted Jim Bond. “Where’s the sky-limit layout?”

  “I’m only running this table,” was the reply. “Make your bets, gents. Here goes the little ball.”

  Jim Bond took up the gold pieces and put them in a side pocket of his coat. He turned and walked to the bar, edging in close to Farlin. He held up a finger authoritatively at a white-coated servitor. Then he noticed Farlin and his eyes lighted.

  “Have one with me?” he invited.

  “Go ahead,” said Big Tom in an undertone. “Looks like ready money in a strange place.”

  Dan Farlin moved beside Bond. “I’ll take one and ask a question,” he said in a pleasant voice.

  “And I’ll answer it and ask one back,” said Bond with a keen look at Lester. “But first, should I ask the pouty-looking boss in?”

  Farlin smiled. “I wouldn’t take in too much territory on short notice,” he advised. “Few people ask Big Tom to drink, and he drinks with fewer than that.”

  “Must be tough to have a grouch and a mint at the same time,” Bond observed.

  Farlin had noticed his clear eyes, his clean features, and had decided he was not a braggart or a fool.

  “You seem to think you know quite a bit about people at first sight,” he said dryly, raising his glass.

  “I don’t exactly jump at conclusions,” said Bond slowly. “Would you want to know what I thought of you when I first saw you?”

  “No,” replied Farlin shortly. “Here’s to green grass. You hinted you were looking for fertile pasture.”

  Jim Bond gave him a swift look. “Now for the question?” he said, dropping a silver dollar on the bar and spinning another after it with a graceful gesture.

  “What was your idea in making that big play at the wheel for my benefit?” asked Farlin quietly, keeping his eyes on the other.

  Bond’s teeth flashed in a smile. “Love me, love my dog,” he bantered. “That play wasn’t made for your benefit, Mister Farlin. I didn’t even know you were looking. I was drilling to bedrock to see how high the limit might be. That’s the right answer. Should I put my question now?”

  “Go ahead.” Farlin nodded with a cold smile. “But this doesn’t mean I’m believing your answer.”

  “Your privilege,” said the young buckaroo, tapping the bar with the strong, slender fingers of his right hand—a gun hand if Farlin ever had seen one. “Can you tell me if a fellow can get a little strong play hereabouts that’s not too raw? The man who told me your name said you were on the level.”

  “That was kind of him,” said Farlin. “I don’t suppose you inquired of anyone besides the liveryman.” The question was in the tone in which he spoke.

  “Didn’t think it necessary,” said Bond a bit sharply. “You see, I had already formed a first impression.”

  Dan Farlin was interested. This youth was no boy; he was far from inexperienced. The gambler suspected that he had appraised Big Tom more accurately than he had let on. He could hold his own in a conversation that had double and triple meanings. He could talk between the lines, which meant fast thinking and quick convictions—a subtle and sometimes dangerous combination.

  “How strong a game are you looking for?” he asked.

  “Strong enough to put a proper value on the cards and the way they’re played,” was the ready answer.

  “There’ll be a game of stud with those earmarks later,” Farlin said thoughtfully. “Maybe I can get you in,” he added in sudden decision, “but it’s a tough lay.”

  “I’ll take a chance,” said Bond. “It won’t be any worse . . .” He stopped speaking as a hush came over the room. The pianist began to play and a girl began to sing. Bond turned quickly and stood with his right arm outstretched along the bar until Gladys Farlin had finished. He did not join in the applause, made no attempt to shower gold pieces into the velvet-lined basket on the platform. But he did catch the singer’s eye.

  He looked soberly at Dan Farlin. “That’s what she meant when she said I’d find out who she was soon enough,” he said. “I suppose she thought
I . . .” He frowned and ceased.

  “Yes?” prompted Farlin, eyeing him closely.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Bond said with a shrug. “Mister Farlin, will you play the game and introduce me to your daughter, or do I have to sneak one behind your back?”

  Dan Farlin looked at him steadily for some moments. No man could tell what was going on in his mind. “Come with me,” he said, compressing his lips.

  He led the way through the throng and into a narrow passage behind the dance floor. There they waited until Gladys came hurrying to her room, the place rocking with applause.

  “Gladys,” said her father, “meet Mister Jim Bond.”

  “How do you do?” said Gladys, glancing quickly from one to the other of the two men, a bit flustered, evidently surprised.

  “The best I can, Miss Farlin,” said Bond with a slight bow.

  “And now we’ll see about our game,” said Dan Farlin with a hint of enthusiasm.

  Gladys’s eyes widened, then she turned abruptly and left them.

  “We’ll have to call that fair, I suppose,” said Jim Bond grimly, “but she’ll think you introduced me for . . . selfish reasons. I’ll do what I can to straighten it out . . . later.”

  Farlin whirled on him, his eyes narrowed. “You’ll . . .” He caught himself in time as the other smiled in his face.

  “We’ll see about our game, as you put it,” said Bond in a soft, purring voice. “It wouldn’t do for you and me to quarrel.”

  Dan Farlin still was trying to think up an answer to this as they made their way back to the floor of the big resort.

  Chapter Seven

  When they approached the bar, Farlin saw Red Cole leaving Big Tom Lester at the latter’s station near the office door. “Hang around,” the gambler said to Bond in a swift aside. Then he disengaged himself and casually joined the resort proprietor.

  Lester grinned at him. “Got him rigged for a game?” he asked in as genial a tone as he could manage.