Bullets in the Sun

by Robert J. Horton

  As Lawson entered the barn, Cole stepped out in full view. “Hello, chief,” he greeted amiably.

  Lawson halted and glared. “What’re you doin’ in town this soon?” he demanded. “Or at all?” he added angrily.

  “I had no orders before tomorrow,” said Cole coolly, “and I came in for a snort or two before the big doings. I didn’t reckon you’d kick.”

  “You’re meanin’ you sneaked in, thinking I wouldn’t be here,” said Lawson in a nasty tone accompanied by a hard look. He shifted the saddlebag from his right hand to his left and the move wasn’t lost on Cole.

  “I didn’t care whether you were here or not,” Cole shot back. “What’s this I hear about Porky killin’ Lester?”

  “It’s just what you heard,” Lawson snapped. “What of it?” It was the second time within twenty-four hours that a clash with his henchman had appeared imminent.

  Cole stepped closer. “Porky didn’t kill Big Tom without some good reason,” he said in a low voice. “An’ he had a good chance to do it with him in bed an’ Lester unsuspecting, eh?”

  Lawson dropped the bag. “What’re you gettin’ at?” he asked.

  “What you got in the bag?” Cole demanded sternly.

  Lawson gasped. Then his jaw came up and he leaned forward.

  “So that’s what you’ve got in that thick, fool head of yours!”

  “Never mind what I’ve got in my head. What have you got in the bag.” Cole was in deadly earnest and his voice attested to it.

  Lawson’s face purpled. “What do you think?” he snarled.

  “Money,” said Cole steadily. “Money from the Red Arrow!”

  Lawson, boiling with rage, gritted his teeth. “You think it was a job, eh?”

  “I’m not as big a fool as you think,” replied Cole. “You’ve asked for information, now you’ll get it. You paid Porky off to do for Lester so you could clean out the safe. Porky takes the blame for the killin’ . . . at a price. You figured to clean up here on the side an’ leave me out in the cold, watching the soldiers. For all I know this Rocky Point raid is a bluff. If it isn’t, you’ll split with me on this, old scout.” His face was livid at the thought of being double-crossed and not for an instant did he take his eyes from Lawson.

  The outlaw leader laughed in his face. “You’ve got more imagination than you’ve got brains, Red. If I’d wanted to take Lester’s place, I’d have taken it long ago an’ you know it.”

  “I don’t know anything about what you’d have done long ago,” was the answer. “I only care what’s been done tonight. If I hadn’t happened along . . .”

  “If you hadn’t happened along, you’d be better off,” hissed Lawson. “At that, I’ll give you a chance to go along with me.”

  “An’ get a slug in the back?” jeered Cole. “Show me!”

  “Show you what?” asked Lawson in a dangerous, silky voice.

  “Open the bag!” Cole commanded.

  “That does it,” said Lawson through his teeth. “You don’t have to take it in the back. You can take it standing up.”

  “Try it!” Cole’s words rang through the barn.

  With the swiftness of light the men’s tight hands moved and the guns blazed almost as one in the yellow gleam of the lantern. Cole stood stockstill after the first two shots, and then Lawson’s weapon spit its death flash of fire the second time. Still Cole stood, his eyes glassy in the lantern light. Suddenly he crumpled in a queer heap on the floor of the barn.

  Lawson grabbed his saddlebag and darted into the barn office where the night man stood, trembling.

  “You heard what he said!” cried the outlaw, grasping the man’s arm. “He brought it on himself. There’s been no robbery. This bag has my things in it. It was a fair gun play, understand? Fair gun play! Get my horse out quick, an’ then get word to Dan Farlin at the Red Arrow that I’ve bumped off Cole. Move!”

  The man moved, and by the time the shots had brought cautious persons to the scene, he was on his way with the message for Farlin.

  Farlin took the news calmly enough. He sensed instantly that the shooting of Cole provided an excellent excuse for Lawson’s hurried departure from town. Moreover, Cole’s demise removed one disturbing factor from the prospective aftermath of the projected raid at Rocky Point. And his services were not essential in the bank undertaking. He spoke swiftly and earnestly to the barn man.

  “Remember exactly what Lawson told you,” he said. “You heard them talking, as you say. And it was a fair gun play. The sheriff will question you and you simply tell him the truth. You can see for yourself that there’s been no robbery here, and I’ll give you my word, which you know is good, that there isn’t going to be any. So that’s all. And here’s a ten-dollar bill to quiet your nerves.”

  * * * * *

  Jim Bond rapped boldly upon the front door of the Farlin cabin. It was Gladys herself who responded.

  She caught her breath and stepped back, motioning for him to enter.

  “However did you get my message so soon?” she asked as she closed the door.

  “I didn’t receive any message,” he replied in surprise. “I just happened along. Did you give a message for me to Porky?”

  “Just before the . . . the shooting,” she answered. “Oh, Jim Bond, it’s . . . it’s terrible!” There was a catch in her voice.

  “Now tell me quickly what has happened, Gladys,” he said earnestly. “This may make things different and I can’t stay here long, as you know. Tell me what you know, girlie.”

  Gladys explained her visit to Porky Snyder, detailing the incident of entrusting the message to his care.

  “It was just to tell you that Lawson was back and that Father was acting, well . . . acting stranger than I ever saw him act before,” she said, trembling. “And I was so worried . . . I thought you ought to know Lawson was here.”

  “That’s right.” He nodded. “And Lester went up to see Porky right after you left. He must have, because the shooting took place so soon. Now I understand it. Lester got hold of that note in some way and Porky shot him. It’s as plain as daylight. Well, Lester is no great loss and I’ll protect Porky.” He thought a few moments. “And your dad’s in charge down at the place? Yes? And Lawson’s still here? Well, unless my thinking cap’s got a hole in it, Lawson will be beating it pronto. He will . . .”

  Bond’s speech stopped suddenly and they stood staring at each other in startled apprehension. For three shots had broken sharply on the night air.

  Gladys stifled a scream and started for the door, but Bond caught her and held her.

  “Don’t get excited,” he said. “You can’t go out, and . . .”

  “It’s Daddy!” cried the girl. “Lawson has shot him! I know that Lawson has shot him to rob the place.”

  “Don’t you ever think it,” he said convincingly in her ear. “I happen to know that, if there is one thing Lawson doesn’t want to do, it’s shoot your father. I’ll tell you something else. Now be quiet and don’t start going to pieces. Red Cole just rode into town. I’d bet every dollar I’ve got and my horse, saddle, and gun that he and Lawson have come together. Now you stay here and I’ll go down and sneak around a bit and find out. Then I’ll come back. I won’t be long. Please be yourself, Gladys . . . for me.”

  The girl recovered almost instantly and looked up at him.

  “Go ahead, Jim, only . . . be sure to come back. I trust you.”

  Bond kissed her, and smiled. “Gladys, I’d bet my life on my hunch that everything’s coming out all right. Dog-gone, I’m beginning to feel downright happy.”

  A few moments later he hurried away, and Gladys sank upon a divan. Her head was swimming. Jim Bond—Bovert—gunman and killer! She laughed foolishly. Lester dead! And now . . . She went into her bedroom and sat by the window. There was no light in the room and she could see the path to town where yellow gleams of lamplight glowed like paper lanterns among the trees and dark shadows of dingy buildings. She was watching, waiting until her
man came back.

  * * * * *

  Jim Bond circled through the trees until he reached the rear of the livery. He saw the crowd in front and sensed at once that here was where the shooting had taken place. By the time he reached the place, Lawson had ridden away and the night man was returning after having delivered his message to Dan Farlin. The barn man was entering the barn from the rear to avoid the crowd. Bond stopped him and speedily learned what had taken place.

  “You’re sure Lawson has gone?” Bond said thoughtfully.

  “He left right after,” the man replied.

  “All right,” said Bond. “Saddle Gladys Farlin’s horse and get it out here. She wants it, understand, as quick as she can get it and I’m going to take it to her. And all this is under your hat.” There was an exchange of gold.

  The request didn’t seem unreasonable to the barn man. Hadn’t Gladys herself been interested in this stranger? He thrilled with an inspiring thought. An elopement! He was past asking the reason why for anything. The town was blowing up and he knew it. He prepared immediately to follow instructions.

  Bond’s attempt to see Porky Snyder proved futile. The sick man was worse. He was in a raving delirium and the doctor was with him. Bond went back to the livery and in a short time he had Gladys’s horse tethered beside his own near the trail that led out of town eastward.

  Gladys saw him coming and was at the door, opening it, before he could rap. One look at his face and she gave a little cry of joy, for she knew her father was safe.

  “Lawson shot Cole and sloped,” said Bond crisply. “Now you and I have something to do. Get your riding clothes on as quick as you can, make up a little pack of things you may absolutely need, and hurry . . . above all things, Gladys, do not ask questions, for they take time. The main thing is to hurry. We’re leaving town.”

  “But, Jim . . .”

  “Do as I say, Gladys,” he commanded sternly. “We’re going to Rocky Point. By tomorrow night your father and Lawson will be there. Lawson’s gone for his gang. I know what I’m talking about. You’ve got to play the game with me or we’ll lose. Now, do you believe me?”

  Gladys believed him. Figuratively she threw everything to the wide winds and hurried to do as he had directed. She told the housekeeper she was going with Bond, as he suggested. The Negro woman danced about in excitement and hugged and kissed her as she left.

  In the short space of half an hour they were riding swiftly across the plain of flowing shadows toward the jagged outline of Crazy Butte that stood out against the stars.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dan Farlin had many friends in Sunrise. Now that Cole was dead and Lawson, as report had it, had fled as the result, he sent for several of his closest friends to stand by in the Red Arrow in event that any of the hard characters frequenting the place should attempt to raid it. Employees had definite instructions to shoot and shoot straight at the start of trouble. Meanwhile he had a visitor in the person of Smith, proprietor of the general store, and, as such, the leading merchant.

  “I sent word to Mills the moment I heard what had taken place,” said Smith gravely. “It was my duty as . . . well, you know I’m supposed to be special deputy here and the sheriff ordered me to get word to him in case anything like the killing of Lester occurred. He didn’t care so much about shootings among the crowd that comes to town . . . well, you know.” He wiped his forehead.

  “Yes, I know,” said Farlin. “I’m glad you sent word. I’m just looking after this place till the sheriff gets here. I thought it was up to me, seeing that I’d sort of worked with Lester so long. That business between Lawson and Cole was just an outlaw shooting and won’t do the town any harm.”

  “That’s right,” Smith nodded. “Maybe this is all going to be good for the town, although I haven’t got any ranch business to speak of, and of course I don’t want to do anything that would . . . hurt things.”

  Farlin remembered again what John Duggan, the banker, had said about the prospective influx of homesteaders.

  “You haven’t hurt things any,” he assured the merchant. “Just let matters ride and things will adjust themselves.”

  “I’m hoping you will take over this place, Farlin,” said Smith as he turned’ to go. “My girl and yours are good friends, for one thing, and I believe you’d run it on better lines, for another thing. Of course it’s none of my business.” He paused before Farlin’s cold look. “If you want me for anything, send word,” he said, and left.

  Farlin went into the private office after the merchant had gone out and sat down at Lester’s desk, leaving the door open. In the big room of the resort, business was going on much as usual, although there was an undercurrent of excitement, augmented by the killing of Cole.

  The astute gambler was considering the possibility of taking over the Red Arrow. Why not? Even if the end of Sunrise as a wide-open, lawless town was in sight—provided Duggan knew what he was talking about, and there was every reason to believe he did—there always would be good business for a place such as this. And a legitimate business, at that. Still, Farlin couldn’t seize it outright. Lester had heirs; he had often spoken in a guarded way of a sister, for one thing. Farlin would have to buy the place. In order to buy the place he would have to sacrifice the big ranch in Texas and accept a substantial loss. Moreover, he had Gladys’s ideas in the matter to consider. Furthermore, he had Ed Lawson to reckon with. He had gone into the Rocky Point raid proposition with Lawson and had given his word. If he broke it, it could mean but one thing—one thing only. He would have to shoot it out with the outlaw whose very name inspired terror when there was talk of gun play. How easily he had disposed of the formidable Cole. Farlin suddenly felt old. He was fearless, but down in the bottom of his heart he knew he was no match for Lawson when it came to guns. Again he had to think of Gladys. No, he had to go through with the raid. He rolled a cigarette with steady fingers and went out for a small drink.

  At dawn Farlin considered going up to the cabin. He decided that Gladys would not be up before 7:00, when the bartenders changed shift, and he would have to assume charge of the night’s takings. So he waited, made up the cash, and put matters in order for the day. The crowd had thinned to less than a score. He placed the head bartender in charge and thrust the bag of money in his pocket. He had closed the outer door of the safe and twirled the combination as soon as he had learned of Lester’s death. Naturally he did not know the combination, nor did any of the men who worked in the place. One thing was certain. He would relinquish his supervision of the resort upon the arrival of Sheriff Mills, who, he suspected, would close it temporarily at least.

  The sun was shining brightly, striking a brilliant green from the leaves of the graceful cottonwoods and poplars. The air was soft with the subtle tang of spring. Birds were singing and the world seemed a thing of beauty. Sunrise! Never was a town better named, thought Farlin as he walked up the trail to the white cabin, with its apron of green lawn, its lilacs and colorful flower beds. He was alive, he was healthy, he had a beautiful daughter who he loved and who loved him—he was lucky. Just one last play.

  Gladys didn’t answer when he rapped gently on her door. He called softly. Surely she hadn’t resented his request that she go home the night before. He looked around as the housekeeper came into the living room from the kitchen. For several moments he looked at her keenly, then he strode toward her swiftly.

  “Has Gladys gone riding?” he asked. “Is she up?”

  “Why, Mister Farlin, boss, she went last night,” was the answer.

  A number of expressions came into Dan Farlin’s face and fled, leaving it stern and white. He grasped the Negro woman by an arm.

  “Last night? What do you mean?” he thundered.

  “She went away with Mister Bond,” replied the housekeeper in a frightened voice. “Didn’t you know?”

  Farlin flung her aside and stood as if stunned. “Why . . . why didn’t you tell me . . . send word . . . why . . . ?” His words broke
off in a mumble and the look in his eyes became hard, steel-blue. “Did she say where she . . . they . . . were going?” he asked dully.

  But the woman was too frightened to talk. She shook her head, turned, and fled to her own room off the kitchen.

  Farlin walked swiftly to Gladys’s bedroom, threw open the door, and looked in. Everything was in confusion. In a moment he ascertained that Gladys’s favorite riding habit and boots were gone. He went into his own bedroom, and put the money he carried in the wall safe behind the picture. Then he left the cabin.

  If anyone who knew Dan Farlin well could have seen his face as he walked swiftly down the trail to town, they would have stopped short, struck with wonder and concern. His features were set and cold, his eyes hard as flint, his lips pressed so tightly together that they formed a white line like a scar. He gripped his palms. Something had gone out of his heart, and something terrible had entered it.

  He walked straight to the livery. There he looked for Gladys’s horse and found it gone. He confronted the night man, who still was there, although off duty.

  “How long since Gladys got her horse?” he asked icily.

  “Why . . . she didn’t get it,” replied the man, startled by the gambler’s look and manner and tone.

  The deadly, snub-nosed Derringer dropped like magic into Farlin’s right hand. He shoved its nose against the man’s stomach. “One more lie and I’m going to let you have it for keeps,” he said.

  “I’m tellin’ the truth, so help me!” shrieked the other in fearful dread of those burning eyes. “That fellow Bond got it . . . after the shootings. Said she sent him for it. So help me that’s the truth. I didn’t mean no harm, I . . .”

  But Farlin had swung on his heel. He almost had expected the answer and he knew the man had spoken the truth. He proceeded to the hotel, and went up to Porky’s room.

  The little gunman, his face drawn and his eyes sunken from the effects of the fever, his wound throbbing with a steady excruciating pain, stared dully at him from the depth of his pillow.

  But the sight had no effect upon Dan Farlin. “Can you hear me, Porky?” he asked hoarsely.