Shoot Him On Sight

by William Colt MacDonald

  "You know, Red-Head," she said easily, "you shouldn't allow your feelings to show in your face that way." Adding, "You might as well sit down too."

  I stumbled down in my chair, leaving my sombrero on the table, gradually getting over my embarrassment. "Who you calling Red-Head?" I said, still somewhat flustered. "Bit on that shade yourself, aren't you?"

  "If you like it that way."

  "Lady, if I told you how much I liked it—"

  "Don't start on that, please. In a minute you'll be asking me what a nice girl like myself is doing in this place." I protested, but she cut me off, "Don't deny it. I've already heard that line so often that—well, just say too often, and let it go at that."

  I felt humbled beneath the cool serenity of her voice, but tried again, "My name's—"

  "I know your name, Johnny Cardinal. Turk showed me a reward bill—you probably saw him do it."

  I nodded. "And it doesn't make any difference to you?"

  She shrugged nice shoulders. "Why should it? All sorts of queer characters come to Onyxton—usually on the run."

  "And you're not going to ask what a nice man like myself is doing in this place?" I was beginning to find myself again.

  She showed dimples and the nice even teeth I'd expected. "Lord knows, I don't have to ask, what with all the reward bills floating around with your name on them. You know something, I don't think you're the desperate character you're trying to make out."

  "Certainly not," I laughed. "I'm pure as the lily in the dell."

  "Tiger lily?"

  That's the way it was; she always had a comeback. I asked if I could get her a drink, and she declined, giving me the old never-touch-the-stuff habla. "Besides," she added, "Shel doesn't like me to do any hard drinking in here."

  That caught me up short. Shel! Like the so-and-so owned her or something. Well… A jealous twinge hit me, and I could feel myself beginning to boil. I caught myself before I said something I'd be sorry for later. I reached for my Durham and papers to cover my feelings, then stopped. I said, "You haven't told me your name, yet. Besides Topaz I don't know—"

  "Fiddlesticks!" she said impatiently. "If you must know, it is Topaz Teresa O'Flannigan, and let's not have any joke about the name sounding German. I've been through all that."

  "I'm beginning to think you've been through a lot," I blurted and then, to cover my confusion, reached for my Durham and cigarette papers, not missing the slow flush that crept into her cheeks. She didn't say anything though, just reached across and took the tobacco and papers from my hand.

  Sifting tobacco flakes into a paper, she rolled a cigarette —one-handed!—with the deftness of an expert. I'd never been able to do that as many years as I'd tried, until I gave it up. Placing the cigarette on the table, she rolled a second smoke. I scratched a match and lighted her cigarette and mine.

  Through a wave of smoke drifting between us, I heard her say, "My friends call me Topaz."

  "And is it okay for me to do the same?"

  She dropped her cigarette on the floor, rose and stepped on it. "I'll go see if I can find Shel," she said, turned and crossed the floor, disappearing through a doorway to an adjoining building, which I had guessed was the gambling parlors.

  I glanced toward the bar in time to catch the customers looking in my direction. Hondo Crowell said something, but there wasn't any laughter. I heard Turk Hofer growl, "Hondo, you'd best button your lip. Shel don't like remarks of that kind."

  What the remark was, I didn't know, but figured it was some snide joke concerning Topaz and me. Whoever she was, the men seemed to treat Topaz with respect, I had to admit that. This Sheldon Webster hombre must run things with an iron rein in Onyxton. And what was back of it all? Why had the girl approached me in such fashion? Was her friendliness just assumed? Maybe it was some sort of recruiting act to make sure I stayed in Onyxton and joined up with the Shel Webster faction. That thought made me damn uncomfortable.

  I noticed that I hadn't yet finished my bottle of beer, and while it was warm, I didn't feel like going to the bar where I'd have to mix with the other customers. Then I had an idea.

  I raised my voice: "Turk! My beer's gone warm."

  Turk nodded. "Be right with you, Mister Cardinal." He dropped what he was doing, and hurried around the end of the bar and placed a cool bottle on my table, removing the other bottle. "That's on the house," he told me with an ingratiating smile.

  I said, "Thanks, Turk. You're a real friend."

  His smile widened and he seemed to waggle all over like a small puppy getting petted. I laughed inwardly, thinking, a desperate man will try anything sometimes. Now, Turk would boost my stock higher than ever.

  I nursed the bottle along, waiting to see if Webster would show up. The batwing entrance doors parted and a man in puncher togs pushed in. Levis, flannel shirt, high-heeled boots. He removed a worn gray sombrero and mopped his forehead before walking farther. Then he donned the hat again and proceeded to the bar, taking a position farther on, away from the other customers. He was a lean, clean-cut looking hombre, around thirty, with dark hair. A Durham tag dangled from a pocket of his open vest. There was a Colt-gun holstered at his right hip. I sort of liked his looks.

  He stood waiting at the bar a moment, Turk paying him no attention. Finally he rapped sharply on the counter with a two-bit piece. Turk looked slowly around. "I'll be there in a minute, Tawney," Turk growled. "Hold your hawsses, can't you?"

  The man's face flushed, but he just said curtly, "Bring a bottle of beer, when you come."

  I knew just how he felt, coming in hot and dusty like that, sweat running down his face. Impulsively, I called to the bartender, "Make sure it's a cold one, Turk."

  The men at the bar swung around, jaws agape. Turk shot me a resentful glance, then grunted a short, "Yessir."

  I probably should have kept my mouth shut; people would think I was trying to run the Onyx, or something. I noted the bottle was cold-beaded when Turk carried it down to the stranger. The man didn't bother with a glass, but uptilted the bottle to his lips. Three long swallows, then he put down the bottle, turned to me and nodded, briefly. "Thanks, cowboy."

  "Don't mention it," I answered just as short.

  I switched around in my chair, back to the man, and paid no more attention, until argumentive voices reached my ear. I turned to see what was going on. Three of the customers were gathered close to the stranger, and I could see—Tawney, was it?—getting red in the face, but trying to avoid a quarrel the other three seemed intent on picking. It looked as though Tawney had finished his drink, and was on the point of leaving when the three stopped him.

  One of the men was saying, "Aw, hell, why don't you just get out? You ain't wanted in these parts. Use your head, or you'll be sorry, Tawney."

  I saw Hondo Crowell edging along to get in on the argument. That didn't look good to me, though the whole business had probably been arranged for him to do just that.

  "He'll be sorry if he lives that long," Crowell said nastily.

  Tawney pretended not to hear. I could see he was anxious just to leave, without trouble, but by this time he was ringed in.

  Another man said, "Look here, Tawney, get smart. Mr. Webster offered to buy your spread. Take your money and git while the gittin's safe."

  Tawney ignored that too, and started to push past. Hondo Crowell shifted his big bulk in front of Tawney. "Aw, you're just a goddam Mexican lover, Tawney."

  "The Mexicans are my friends," Tawney said curtly. "And better men than you'll ever be."

  "By Gawd!" Hondo was working himself into a rage. "You can't say that to me, Hondo Crowell," he roared, "you—" And he called Tawney a name that no man likes to take.

  It came then, almost faster'n than I could follow the movement of Tawney's clenched fist. The blow struck Crowell squarely below the eyes, a mite too high to be effective, but hard enough to send Crowell sprawling to his haunches on the floor.

  Now, I knew trouble couldn't be avoided any longer.
r />   X

  I tensed, waiting for what would come next. Cursing like a madman, Crowell was scrambling up from the pine floor. For an instant he stood swaying unsteadily, shaking his head to clear it. His nose looked as though it had been pushed to one side and I saw blood running down his chin.

  Another man jumped in with a loud, "You ain't going to hit no friend of mine, Tawney, and think you can get away with it—"

  "That's right," another chimed in. "You been lookin' for trouble, Tawney. Now you're goin' to get it."

  The men remaining at the bar looked interested, nothing more. Turk was leaning on one hand, elbow on bar, a nasty grin on his face, so there went that damned temper of mine again.

  I rapped sharply on the table and got to my feet. "Cut it out!" I snarled, Inwardly quaking.

  Crowell had staggered back to the bar, bracing himself, still somewhat groggy, but already I saw his right hand sneaking down to his gun-butt. The others spun around, eyes darting questioning looks at me. My voice had seemed to clear the air slightly. There was a short silence, with all but Crowell looking a trifle uncertain.

  His hand had ceased to move toward his gun. Now he bellowed hotly, "What's your gripe, mister?"

  I drew my six-shooter and placed it on the table in front of me, close to hand. "Two things," I snapped. "You're one of 'em. I don't like you and I don't like anybody that does." Sure, I knew I was making a deadly enemy, but I didn't want him for a friend. Anyway, I'd gone too far to stop now. "The second, only rats gang up on a victim. I don't like that either. Now, anybody got any objections to my remarks?" I waited. No one said anything. "All right," I continued, "let's have a little quiet around here."

  I replaced my gun in holster, thinking, Migawd, what a bluff! And I was making it stick. I spoke curtly to Tawney: "All right, mister, you'd best slope out of here, while the going is good."

  Tawney pushed past the others and started for the exit. As he passed my table he said, "Much obliged."

  "Por nada," I replied, "for nothing."

  He passed through to the street. My heart was going bangety-bang and I could feel the hot sweat running down from my armpits, as reaction set in. But so far, I had it made. One of the men returned to the bar. Crowell and another left the barroom for the outside. Neither looked at me as they went by, though I'd been expecting threats. Probably now I'd have to be on the outlook for some back-shooting skunk. It wasn't a healthy prospect.

  A clock ticking above the wall said two-thirty and I wondered if no one had located Shel Webster. I was still half hoping that Topaz might return, but she didn't show. I didn't want any more beer and I figured I might as well go out and navigate around town some more.

  At that moment there was a movement at the doorway leading into the gambling parlors, and a tall, wide-shouldered blond man entered the barroom. His hair was so blond it appeared white, though his face was deeply tanned. His woolen trousers came down to highly polished boots. It was his coat that interested me: from a slight bulge over the left breast I guessed he was packing an underarm-gun. He wasn't wearing a hat. His nose was straight above a clean-shaven chin, his mouth a thin straight line. Eyes pale blue.

  I guessed who he was even before I heard the servile greetings of Turk and other men at the bar. He scarcely noticed them while he conversed low-voiced with Turk a few minutes, then wheeled and came straight to my table, dropping into a chair across from me.

  "I'm Sheldon Webster," he said quietly.

  "So I heard. That gang at the bar sounded like they'd rehearsed the act—"

  "You?"

  I smiled thinly. "Do you have to ask?"

  He eyed me narrowly. "Maybe not, Cardinal. All right, you said you wanted to see me. What's on your mind?"

  "I was told to get in touch with you if I ever get down this way."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Friend of yours—so he said." I picked a name out of thin air. "Feller named Jim Flecker. He said you could take care of me if I got jammed up."

  Webster scowled. "Flecker? Flecker? I can't seem to remember the name."

  I hadn't expected him to, of course. "Maybe it's convenient to forget some names."

  "Maybe," he conceded. "But I still don't recollect—"

  "Forget it," I yawned. "Mebbe I came to the wrong place."

  "Now don't jump to conclusions," he said. "If I can, I'll help you in any way. What's on your mind? I can generally arrange things for friends in Onyxton. What do you want?"

  "I figure to stay a spell. Where's the best place to sleep?"

  His jaw dropped. "Is that all you wanted to speak to me about?"

  "What else?"

  "I can think of a lot of things," he said disgustedly.

  "Meaning what?" I snapped.

  "For one thing you want protection. The law is hot on your trail for the murder of Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan. You'd like me to cover for you—"

  "You're wrong, Webster," I stated coldly. "I didn't kill Jordan."

  He sneered. "You'll be telling me next who did?"

  "That's easy. Hondo Crowell killed him—your jackal, Crowell."

  His thin lips tightened to a fine slit. "You're certain of that?"

  "I'm certain."

  He said wrathfully, "You know too goddam much."

  I laughed insolently. "Let's just say you've misjudged me so far. Furthermore, while I realize there are rewards on my scalp, I don't want any of your cheap gun-slingers trying to collect. I'll expect you to give orders to that effect. I don't like back-shooters."

  I'd expected him to get mad, but he didn't. He looked steadily at me a minute, then he nodded, "I'll do that. You look to me like too smart to lose. I think I can use you."

  "As what?"

  "I'll think it over. I need men of your ability. Too many dumb lunkheads on my payroll."

  "Have I asked for a job?" I scoffed. "I'm not interested in going around bullying Mexes and running small-time hombres out of town—"

  "That's a job for the lunkheads," he said absently. "There's tougher competition if you work for me. There's a hombre named Tawney, got a spread over the line—"

  "He was in here a spell ago," I said.

  "Yeah, I know. Turk told me. You interfered in what was none of your business—"

  "T'hell I did," I snapped brazenly. "Certain, I interfered. My God, I never saw such a crude frame-up. I came here with the understanding you had brains, and what do I see? A damned clumsy attack by a rat-pack to down one man. Jesus! Can't you figure out a better plan than that? It all looked so blasted clumsy I just had to interfere. Any respect for you was vanishing fast. And I'd heard you were smart."

  A slow flush crept through his features. "You could map out a better way, I suppose?"

  "If I couldn't, I'd get out of Onyxton fast, figuring this was a hick-town with a numbskull running things."

  His flush deepened; anger tinged his tones. "And just how would you do it, Mister Wise Hombre?"

  "I don't have to tell you my methods, but I'd get acquainted with Tawney, learn his habits. Something smart could be worked out, to pull the wool over the eyes of any law that might try to interfere."

  "I'm the law here," he interposed.

  I said disgustedly, "Oh, my God! Show some sense. Here, maybe, but you raise a stink and you'll have government law on your tail. If Tawney gets snuffed out sudden and it's learned he was shot down in cold blood, how do you know what relations he may have who may demand an investigation? You say his spread is over the line, in Mexico. His sudden killing might bring the Mexican government into the business, asking questions and stirring up Washington. Do you want that?"

  He didn't reply at once. His forehead was creased with frowns. "How would you do it?"

  "Accidents happen," I said coolly. "How much you offering?"

  He considered, then said, "Five hundred dollars."

  "You're asking me to risk my neck for peanuts," I jeered.

  "It's a lot of money—"

  "It's a lot of buffa
lo chips," I snapped. "You expect me to run risks and plan a job so no one will suspect, for five hundred bucks? Well, I guess I'd best ride on. Onyxton isn't for me." I started to rise from the table, but he put out a detaining hand and I dropped back, as he said, "Don't be in a rush."

  I waited. "Could be you're right," he conceded, thoughtfully. "Perhaps the ante could be raised. I'll have to think. You mustn't be in too much of a hurry. I don't mind telling you that scheme of Hondo Crowell's wasn't my doing. He knows that Tawney is a bother to me, so he took it on himself-"

  "Why you so anxious to get rid of Tawney?"

  His lips tightened. "That's neither here nor there. As to raising the ante, I can see your point, but I'll have to consult with—with somebody else."

  I made my voice as insulting as possible. "Oh, so you're not the big boss in Onyxton—"

  "Now, wait a minute,"—he sounded a trifle flustered—"I'm boss here, all right, but—but—we-ell, there's things to be considered." Abruptly, he changed the subject. "Exactly what did you come here for, asking for me?"

  "I already told you." I laughed. "I just wanted advice as to where to get a place to sleep."

  "For cripe's sake, is that all?"

  "What else would there be?" I asked mockingly.

  He stared steadily at me and I looked him straight in the eye.

  "I think you're stalling," he said bluntly at last, "but we'll let it go at that. Well, there's rooms where the girls stay—"

  "Girls?"

  "I got a dance hall in my gambling parlors, and they have rooms upstairs—"

  "Not interested," I told him. "Though there was one girl in here a spell ago. What's her name? Topaz?"

  His face clouded up like a thunderstorm. "Cut it," he growled savagely, and I realized I'd bored into a nerve. "Topaz is—is a friend of mine. Let's keep her name out of it."

  I took a warning. "Just as you say," I said carelessly.