Shoot Him On Sight

by William Colt MacDonald

  Customers passed in and out. There were probably a dozen men at the bar, while Cal and I sat and drank. Cigar and cigarette smoke floated lazily near the ceiling. Hub, the fat bartender, seemed to run a quiet, orderly saloon.

  The swinging doors at the entrance parted, and a middle-aged man in what is known as a Prince Albert coat entered. He was wearing one of these flat-topped derby hats and carrying a cane. A gold watch chain stretched across his vest, and his hair was white.

  "Evenin', Senator," Hub addressed him. "What's your pleasure?" Several other men spoke to him also and each got a courteous reply in a pleasant voice.

  I said to Cal, "Looks like polite society has invaded Deosso Springs. That the mayor of your town?"

  "Cripes, no," Cal replied. "That's Senator Cyrus Whitlock, from Washington, Dee See. Hell of a nice hombre. Nothing high-toned about him."

  "Seems like I've heard the name someplace."

  "That's probable. He's that big what-you-call a philanthropist. Says there's nothing like this country out west. I guess he's bought up land here and there, and says he'd like to do something for poor people—"

  "Sure, I remember reading something about him a a newspaper one time."

  I studied the Senator a few moments. He was a little on the plump side, and wore fuzzy sideburns that were joined by a full white mustache. He was nursing a small drink of whisky while he carried on some sort of chit-chat with the bartender and the men at either side. I noticed when he finished his drink he took out a white silk handkerchief and carefully wiped his lips and mustache. There was something kindly, benevolent, in the old cuss's appearance. He laughed easily at something that had been said, then turned, his back to the bar, and surveyed the room at large. The bartender extended a box of cigars over the Senator's shoulder. Whitlock accepted one and waited while somebody scratched a match for him. He puffed meditatively a moment and then nodded at the men seated at tables along the wall, including Cal and me in the greeting. We both replied to the nods.

  I'd seen Hondo and his pals leave the bar some time before, and I was glad they'd gone. Senator Cyrus Whitlock was just the sort of man Hondo and his pals might have started poking fun at. For the Hondo type, a man like the Senator would be a likely butt of some joke.

  Cal and I had just resumed our conversation when the swinging doors at the entrance swung open. Then I got a shock I wasn't likely to forget for some time.

  The man who had entered was U.S. Deputy Marshal Webb Jordan!

  You could have knocked me over with a feather. Good Lord! Couldn't I ever shake the man off? He was like a bull-terrier, the way he hung on.

  I'd been watching Senator Whitlock, admiring the way he mixed easily with the others, as he stood, back to bar, idly surveying the room and drawing on his cigar, but when I caught sight of Webb Jordan I wanted to slide suddenly under the table at which Cal and I were sitting.

  Cal said, "Huh—a lawman. Wonder what brings him here?"

  I scarcely heard him. I slid down in my seat and, without thinking, my hand went fast to my Colt butt.

  Cal didn't miss the movement. He said sharply, suspiciously, "What's up? You mixed in some trouble with the law?" He started to rise from the table, as though not wanting any part of me. My hand was still on my gun-butt, and I was shaking all over.

  Jordan paused just within the swinging doors, steely glance sweeping around the room. I'd pulled my hat low on my forehead. Had Jordan spotted me, recognized me?

  Then his gaze swept on past, and for the moment I breathed easier. His head came back to the center of the room, eyes now on the Senator as he advanced, manner easy and confident. Well, maybe there'd be no trouble. Cautiously, Cal had resumed his seat at my side. "You looked damn' queer for a minute there—" he started.

  His words scarcely registered. I was still eying Webb Jordan, wondering how I could get out of the saloon without being noticed.

  "Senator Cyrus Whitlock, I believe," Jordan was saying.

  And that was as far as he got.

  There came the sudden explosive roar of a six-shooter, a sound I couldn't quite place for a moment. The dawning smile on the Senator's face vanished and was replaced by a look of alarm as he took one step forward. Jordan swerved violently to one side, then crashed to the floor and lay without movement. Black powdersmoke swirled through the room. There was just an instant's silence, then voices broke loose, excitedly asking who'd done the shooting. Everyone was talking at once. Sudden yells sounded outside, along the street.

  Without thinking, I had leaped from my chair and knelt at Webb Jordan's side. He was sprawled partly on his side and I could see the dark spreading stain between his shoulder-blades. His eyes were closed.

  I yelled to somebody to get water, whisky. A glass was thrust into my hand. I held Jordan's head on my lap trying to get a few drops between his lips. Momentarily, his eyes fluttered open, and he recognized me. "So I do—get to thank —you—" he began, then became unconscious.

  I glanced up. Heads were crowded all around above me. Somebody said excitedly, "What did he say—?"

  I ignored that and snapped the usual plea to get back and give the man air. "And for God's sake, send for a doctor—fast!"

  "I already sent a man for Doc." It was Hub, the fat bartender speaking.

  "What in hell's going on here?" a new voice cut in.

  I glanced up. A tall, bearded, deputy-sheriff pushed in when the crowd moved back. Someone brought a folded blanket to place beneath Jordan's head. I didn't like Jordan's looks. All the color was drained from his face and his breath was coming with difficulty. I got slowly to my feet and faced the deputy.

  "Some—somebody shot Webb Jordan," I stammered.

  "Friend of yours," the deputy snapped.

  "Sort of—I just met him once before, sometime back, and—"

  "But who did it?" the deputy demanded impatiently.

  A dozen voices tried to reply at once, but no one seemed to know. The deputy frowned with exasperation. I said, "Sounded to me like the shot come from near the doorway."

  That raised another clamor. Various men had various ideas of the source of the shooting—all different.

  Hub, the barkeep, cut in. "It come from beyond those swinging doors—" he commenced.

  Then the Senator's voice, quiet and even, interrupted, and the rest of the room quieted. "If you'll allow me to speak a minute, Mr. Deputy, I believe I can clear up a few details. Deputy U.S. Marshal Jordan had just entered through the doorway—"

  "Deputy U.S. Marshal Jordan?" the deputy cut in. "Is that who he is?— Oh, yeah, I didn't notice his badge right to first. Friend of yours, Senator?"

  "We've met on a few occasions. That's neither here nor there. As I started to say, Jordan had just entered, when I saw this man"—and he pointed to me—"reach to his holster. Then Jordan spoke to me and an instant later came the shot."

  I was stunned. "You claiming I shot Jordan?" I demanded, after a moment.

  "What else can I believe?" the Senator said. "I saw you reach for your six-shooter—"

  "That's no sign I shot him," I snapped angrily. "And how do you know I was reaching for my holster? My hand was below the table—"

  "You admit that, eh?" the deputy scowled. "Lemme see that hawg-laig of yours."

  He reached over and jerked my forty-four from its holster, without waiting for me to hand it to him, and thrust the end of one little finger into the gun barrel. The finger emerged powder-grimed. He examined the cylinder.

  "Four loads and two empties," he announced. He shoved my gun into the waistband of his pants. "All right, explain, feller."

  "I always carry my hammer on an empty shell—" I started.

  "So do a lot of other fellers. Now how about that other empty?"

  I was bewildered, couldn't think for a moment, then I remembered. "Oh, yes, on the way here today, I took a shot at a rattler—"

  "Expect us to believe that?"

  "—and I reckon I just forgot to reload."

  "Natural
ly," the deputy said sarcastically. "Did you get the rattler?"

  "No—missed him, complete."

  "You're thinking fast, feller," the deputy said nastily. "Now we won't have to go out looking for a dead rattler to make an alibi for you. By the way, what's your name?"

  "Willets, Joe Willets," I lied and on further questioning gave him the story I concocted to cover my presence in Deosso Springs.

  The deputy nodded shortly. "I'll have to place you under arrest, Willets," the deputy said. "If you're smart, you'll come quiet—"

  "Just a minute, Larry." It was the bartender's slow, heavy voice. "I've been trying to get a word in edgewise, but everybody gabs so much I can't get to be heard. Larry,"—to the deputy—"you got no call to arrest Willets. He didn't do the shooting—"

  Cal put in, "I was sitting right next to Willets. I know damn' well he didn't shoot the marshal."

  I shot him a grateful glance. Hub and the deputy were both trying to speak, when the doctor arrived, a spare elderly man with rimless glasses. Silence fell while the doctor made an examination of the unconscious Jordan. Finally, he rose, wiping his hands on a bandanna.

  "Looks pretty hopeless," he announced, "but get him down to my office and I'll see what can be done when the slug is probed out. I don't figure there's much hope, though."

  He beckoned to a couple of men, who picked up Jordan's body and carried it out the doorway, the doctor following.

  Immediately the babel of voices recommenced and again Hub's slow heavy tones cut through. "Larry, you're just a-wastin' time here. If you got the sense Gawd give you you'll get after that Hondo hombre—y'know, Hondo Crowell, he calls hisself—"

  "What's Crowell got to do with this?" Larry, the deputy demanded. "I ain't even seen him around here—"

  "You'd best keep your eyes open, then," Hub said, exasperated. "He was in here before supper time with them two pals of his. They left, but I seen Hondo again, all right, all right. It was him that fired the shot that downed Jordan."

  "You sure of that, Hub?" the deputy asked.

  "Certain, I'm sure," Hub growled. "Wouldn't go to the trouble of talkin' 'bout it, if I wa'n't. I'd looked up when Jordan came in, had my eyes on one of them bat-wing doors at the doorway. One of them doors has been sort of stickin' lately and don't swing complete closed as it should, on occasion. Reckon some oil is needed. Anyway, I was watching that door and it closed all right, and then I see a Colt barrel shoved over the top. Before I could do anythin', it was fired."

  Again came the hubbub of voices. Men had crowded in from the street. Someone stated that he'd seen Hondo and his two pals down near the T.N. & A.S. railroad station a short time before, but the words were lost in the noise.

  The deputy finally managed to make himself heard. "So, what are you proving, Hub?" he asked caustically. "You saw a gun barrel shoved over the top of your swingin' doors. Are you telling me that you recognized Hondo's gun?"

  "Didn't have to," Hub grunted disdainfully. "When the flash of the explosion come it lighted up Hondo's ugly features. Now, is that good enough for you, Larry?"

  "You could have been mistook, Hub," the deputy commenced lamely.

  The Senator cleared his throat. "Mr. Hub may be right," he said quietly, when the voices had died down. "Though it is easy to make an error of recognition in the brief flash of a gunshot, as I think well all concede. On the other hand, on my part, I saw Mr. Willets reach for his gun the instant he saw the Deputy U.S. Marshal come in—"

  Hub demanded, "Senator, did you see him draw the gun?"

  Whitlock hesitated. "No, I can't say that I did. I'd turned toward Marshal Jordan when he spoke my name and started to reach out to shake hands with him." He turned to Cal who stood near. "You saw Mr. Willets reach for his gun, didn't you?"

  "Well, er-" Cal stalled.

  "I know you did," the Senator stated. "You saw his movement and looked surprised. There was a suspicious look on your features as you asked him some question. Surely, you won't deny that."

  Cal shrugged. "I don't remember," he said lamely. Then added, "But I do know damn' well Willets didn't fire his gun."

  "And can you be certain?" the Senator asked. "You looked away a moment later. A fast man with a gun could fire and reholster in mighty swift time—"

  "I'm not that fast," I put in. "Anyway, look here, why don't you consider the angle from which the shot came? Jordan was plugged right between the shoulderblades and from where I was sitting—"

  "Yeah, yeah," Hub nodded, "Willet's has got a point there. And I know what I seen."

  "And I know what I saw," the Senator said. "I've witnessed enough court trials in my time to know that the unexperienced—you'll note, gentlemen, that I say unexperienced-witness is always prone to error. A dozen men witness to a calamity will provide a dozen different stories. I think you all know me well enough, know my reputation, to be convinced that I never judge a man unfairly. I'm always ready to go to extremes in the other direction."

  Several men nodded agreement to that. The deputy said finally, "Hub, I'll keep what you say in mind. Meanwhile, I'll just have to take Willets along for further questioning. I want to look into his story a mite." My heart sank as he added, "Is it going to be necessary to put the cuffs on you, Willets?"

  "I'll come along peaceful," I told him hopelessly.

  We stepped out to the street, followed by a crowd. Cal walked next to me. "Look here, Joe, if you'll point out your hawss, I'll lead him down to the jail for you and tether him at the hitch-rack."

  I said, "Thanks, Cal," and indicated my pony in the line of broncs at the pole-rack before the saloon.

  The crowd following us fell off as we entered the office of the jail. "Y'know, Willets, that story of Hub's won't stand up. Everybody knows he's got a grudge against that Hondo hombre. Oh, sure, Hub's honest as the day is long, but he's biased in his judgment, ever since he and Hondo had an argument a few days back. Hondo was drunk and had broken a bottle of liquor—in here," indicating a dark passageway leading from the deputy's office.

  In the gloom I couldn't be sure where I was going, and before I could realize what was happening he'd shoved me into a cell and clanged the door shut behind me.

  I said, "What the hell—!"

  "Take it easy now, Willets. No use you gettin' riled. My night-man will be around shortly and bring you some supper—"

  "But you said you were just bringing me here for questioning."

  "I've had a long day. Too doggone weary to start that now. In the mornin', mebbe. For sure at your trial, anyway."

  He left me in darkness, after slamming shut the door that led to his office.

  VII

  I yelled after him, but he paid no attention. Then I indulged in a fit of useless imprecations. Realizing that wasn't doing any good, I finally calmed down. Fortunately, the deputy hadn't made me empty my pockets. I scratched a match and found an oil lamp on a shelf in one corner. Now I could have some light. The cell was the usual type. A bunk and straw mattress at one side. Two buckets in a corner, one filled with drinking water. A door of strong steel bars. In the outer wall, high up, an open barred window. For the rest, walls, ceiling and floor of cement and rock. It all looked escape-proof.

  I rolled and lighted a cigarette, and dropped wearily on the cot to think things over. Now I was really in a hell of a mess. Any story I told wouldn't stand up under investigation, even if Hub and Cal did back up my story that I'd done no shooting at Jordan. And I wondered about Jordan's condition too. Had he died yet? That and a thousand other thoughts passed through my mind, as I paced back and forth in my cell. Once I reached up and grasped the bars at the window, tried to shake them. No dice. They were imbedded solidly in a rock foundation.

  I returned to my cot and sat down. I had to admit that Hub had done his best for me, but I was afraid it wouldn't go far, that "best," when stacked up against the prestige carried by the word of Senator Cyrus Whitlock. Whitlock, the great philanthropist. I uttered a short bitter laugh. Whitlock called it a
s he figured was correct, so perhaps I couldn't blame him for that. Just the same this was one time when I was wishing he'd stayed in Washington and minded his politics, instead of dashing all around the country trying to help the little man.

  And right now I felt they didn't come any littler than one Johnny Cardinal. Hell and blast! I just had to get out of this place. But how? I was on my feet again, pacing back and forth. The rest of the cells were empty, I guessed. Leastwise I hadn't heard any signs of life. It was all dark along the corridor fronting them.

  Then an angle of light appeared, as the office door opened. I waited, expecting to see the deputy. Instead a middle-aged, brown-haired man appeared at my cell door, bearing a small bucket of coffee and a plate. He didn't seem too steady on his feet, and I guessed he'd been drinking.

  "You want some fodder, Willets?" he asked in a complaining sort of voice.

  "Sure, bring it on in."

  "Uh-uh!" A negative shaking of the head accompanied the words. "You don't catch Hoot-Owl Tanner on that old trick. You go on back to the far corner of your cell, then I'll set this food inside. I been night-man here too long to be fooled. Go on, get back now."

  I stayed where I was. "Where's your deputy?"

  " 'Round town someplace I reckon, or maybe he's gone home to bed. Larry's had a long day. Ain't no use askin' for him. He won't be back here tonight. Allus leaves early, Larry does, less'n he's got a immediate job in hand. Now, you want this food or don't you? Well, get on back there then, y'hear?"

  I still hesitated. "What's the news on that marshal who was shot?"

  "Dead, I reckon. Ain't heard nothin' to the contrary. You goin' to get back, or ain't you?"

  I moved to the back of the cell. Tanner placed the bucket and plate on the floor, near the door. He was pretty bulky about the middle and his six-shooter hung sloppily low against the right leg. A bit tipsy as he was, there was a mean look in his pale eyes, and I wasn't yet ready to take any chances.