The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

  Lindquist, the Pecos cowboy, stood with his hands in the air. Young Pete walked up to him, took his gun, and jerking it up knocked him down and out. Smoke hung in a blue haze round the two ceiling-lamps. Out in the street a dog howled.

  Pete walked round the counter. “Come on out and show yourself,” he called. But Brinkley, drilled through the stomach, was unable to move.

  Bolting the front door, Young Pete raised Yardlaw’s head. The sheriff had been hit twice, but it was the slug that plowed through his scalp that had downed him. The wound in his shoulder was high, and not serious.

  The storekeeper died before sunrise. Randall, White Eye Johnson, and Stevens had been killed in the fight. Lindquist, the Pecos cowboy, was the only one of the outlaws to escape being hit. He lay hogtied in the room back of the main store.

  The second day following the battle, the regular freighter, mounted on Yardlaw’s horse, rode in to Carmelita. The sheriff was still unable to travel. Young Pete had had plenty of time to take stock of conditions. And of himself. He felt no particular satisfaction in having cleaned up the gang. One dog may kill another, but that doesn’t end dog-fighting. Sooner or later other outlaws would ride the country, raiding and killing. As long as there was law, there would be men at war with law.

  Suppose he had thrown in with the Randalls? He would have fought for his life as they had for theirs. In this instance he had been on the side of the law. Thereby he had earned a pardon. But who had paid for it? Not he. The Randall gang. Freedom and citizenship at such a price didn’t especially appeal to him. And would he get his pardon? Would Governor Rowland issue it in spite of the political opposition and criticism Pete knew would follow? If the Governor went back on his word, what would Slim do? “If Slim got into trouble,” reflected Pete, “I would just naturally back up his play. That would mean more trouble for everybody.”

  Pete thought he saw but one way to step clear.

  Buck Yardlaw, stretched on some blankets on the store counter, raised his head.

  “How you feelin’?” asked Pete.

  “Coming along all right. Pete, what you got on your mind?”

  A strange question from Yardlaw. Pete hesitated. He felt inclined to talk things over with the sheriff. But a certain pride kept him silent.

  “Just tryin’ to think,” he said finally. “And I’m not makin’ such a hell of a good job of it.”

  * * * *

  The morning of the third day the sheriff and Young Pete headed for San Dimas Valley. Buck Yardlaw was shaky, but able to sit a horse. Lindquist, handcuffed, was riding a few yards ahead. Asked why he had not put the outlaw out of business during the battle, Young Pete replied that Lindquist was the only member of the gang left alive, and the only witness, aside from Yardlaw himself, that could prove the rest of the gang had been exterminated.

  “It ain’t as if I was a peace officer,” said Pete. “I chucked my star before I hit Carmelita. Them fellas stole one of my horses. That was plenty excuse for me.”

  “So you figured Lindquist will turn State’s evidence?”

  “Figured he was the yellowest dog in the bunch. He’ll talk. Then the Governor will know I played my hand like I said I would.”

  While crossing San Dimas Valley, Young Pete was moved to ride aside and take a look at the mound of stone underneath which lay the body of Black Joe Harper. To Pete’s surprise the grave was now marked. On a roughly hewn headboard was carved, “The Tonto Kid.” He recalled Yardlaw’s “So they didn’t get you, after all?” That explained several things. Yardlaw had found the grave and so marked it. Pete rode back to the sheriff.

  “Buck”—Pete hesitated and glanced away—“we been gunnin’ for each other for quite a spell.”

  This was no news to Yardlaw. That Young Pete should mention it seemed strange. The sheriff nodded.

  “I just took a look at that headboard where Joe Harper is planted. It wasn’t there when I planted him. I noticed it’s got my name on it.”

  “Somebody made a mistake.”

  “Mebby.” Young Pete looked the sheriff in the eye. “I never reckoned you would take that kind of trouble for me.”

  “Hell, Pete! I said somebody made a mistake.”

  “Somebody. Buck Yardlaw, mebby. Thought the gang had got me, so he does some fancy carvin’, for a friend.”

  “For a friend who did some fancy shooting when I was down and the guns still going.”

  “But that headboard was there before the shootin’ started.”

  They rode a few minutes in silence. Pete broke it. “Say, Buck, what size boots do you wear? What I mean, I ain’t no more peace officer than a coyote. It ain’t my game.” Yardlaw swung around to look at him.

  “Now I figure you’re feelin’ healthy enough to take Lindquist on in, Buck, and pry some talk out of him. If the Governor wants to make out that pardon, tell him to hand it to Slim Akers—and Slim will send it to me.”

  “Scared to ride back to the capital?”

  Young Pete’s face went red. “Yes. I’m scared. Scared of myself. Not that I’d be lookin’ for trouble. But some other folks might be. And there’s only one way of settlin’ that kind.”

  Sheriff Yardlaw thought he knew what Pete meant. The Tonto Kid had done his part toward earning his pardon. Old friends would congratulate him. Old friends? How few! Most folk would remember only the killings. Perhaps it would be just as well if the Tonto Kid kept out of sight for a couple of years. The sheriff thrust out his hand.

  Young Pete seized it, and turned away. “So long. Buck.” Pete grinned. “Tell Slim, for me, to go to hell, and I’ll meet him there, one of these days.” His old companion, Slim, would understand.

  Pete reined his horse round. Well, it was a mighty curious world. He had earned his pardon. Now, strangely enough, it seemed a trivial thing. No man, no piece of paper could change him. Perhaps time would. No. He was not ready to live among folks. Not yet. Someday, perhaps.

  The Pecos cowboy Lindquist stared at him.

  “Heading south?” said Yardlaw as Pete started to ride down the valley.

  Young Pete nodded. “Headin’ south.”

  BLOODY KANSAS, by Chuck Martin

  Copyright 1955 by Catherine T. Martin.

  CHAPTER I

  THE SILENT PISTOL

  Fred Sutton urged his horse across the Arkansas River at the ford and headed for what had once been Buffalo City. He jerked suddenly when the bark of six-shooters echoed from piles of cured buffalo hides that hid the cowtown. He nicked his horse with blunted spurs. A man might dodge death if he reached the aisles of piled hides in time.

  Sutton reined to a stop behind a stack of hides when the sound of running boots came from a nearby aisle. His blue eyes narrowed when a man skidded around a corner and raced toward a saddled horse tied near a peeled-pole corral.

  Yelling cowboys raced after the fugitive, who slid to a stop when cut off from his horse. Both hands went above his head to signify surrender. Sutton’s lip curled when he saw the deputy marshal’s badge on the man’s worn vest.

  Six-shooters blasted as twelve cowboys showed their contempt for law by using the star for a target. The deputy fell under the impact of .45 caliber slugs. The mob wheeled their horses and raced toward Front Street before the dying man’s boots had stopped rattling. Sutton turned when he heard a low voice.

  “Better ride on back the way you came, stranger. Dodge City’s having more trouble and you make a right fair target.”

  Sutton eased his six-foot frame in the saddle and shrugged. The speaker was a stocky man of fifty-odd. A gray beard covered the lower part of his wind-tanned face. He gripped a Sharps rifle; his flat beaver hat and buckskin pants were the garb of a buffalo hunter.

  A shell-studded belt sagged from his lean hips, with a .45 Peacemaker in his right holster. He carried a skinning knife in a sheath on the left side. He stared at S
utton and his gray eyes lightened with recognition.

  “My name’s Buffalo McGrew,” he said. “Ain’t you Silent Sutton from down Texas way?”

  Sutton nodded. He stared at the dead deputy’s bullet-torn body like a man to whom sudden death is no stranger. Sutton was drawn fine from long days and nights in the saddle; a hundred and seventy pounds of rawhide and muscle. His tanned face expressed no motion.

  “You’ll be about twenty-four now,” McGrew said musingly. “Crail Creedon was telling me something about you; said you wouldn’t last a day here in Dodge. The railroad is finished, and there’s no such thing as law since Stud Bailey took to bossing the town.”

  Sutton shrugged and touched his twin six-shooters. The guns advertised that here was a man doubly sure he could take care of himself. His silence told the initiated that those guns would do most of his talking if he rode into trouble.

  “Creedon’s your uncle, but you better stay clear of that proddy old longhorn,” McGrew advised. “He’s on the peck because of a new town law which says a feller can’t pack a shootin’ iron in town.”

  Sutton jerked the tie-back thongs that held the holsters to his legs and slowly unbuckled his crossed gunbelts. He shoved them deep into a saddlebag behind his cantle as McGrew stared. The old plainsman shook his head when Sutton picked up his bridle-reins and jogged through the aisles of hides toward Front Street, Dodge City.

  “The wild bunch will kill him,” McGrew muttered. “No wonder they call him Silent,” he growled, as he followed on foot. “He never opened his mouth one time, and he knows he’s riding smack into trouble!”

  Sutton left the curing yards and stared at the booming cowtown that had sprung up across the railroad tracks. Two years ago it had been known as Buffalo City, and Wichita had been the end of the Chisholm Trail. Now the great Texas herds came to Dodge City, and trail herds meant hard-riding cowboys with fixed ideas about life, love and the pursuit of happiness.

  Sutton crossed the railroad tracks which marked one end of the town. He sat his horse near the Last Chance Saloon and stared at the difference two years can make. Heavy board sidewalks had been laid on the north side of Front Street.

  Dancehalls and saloons occupied most of the false-fronted buildings. Windows had been shot out in spite of heavy wooden barricades. Bullwhackers mingled with soldiers from nearby Fort Dodge, but they stayed inside because a man on foot was at a disadvantage. Cowboys did all their work and took most of their fun in their saddles, and now they were running Dodge City up a tree.

  Dancehall girls watched from behind the drapes of barred windows. Any girl was pretty enough to the cowboys who drove Texas herds and who went months without a woman.

  Sutton rode across Front Street to the Longhorn Corral. Hard-faced gun-fighters stared at the burnished spots on the legs of his gray wool pants. They knew he’d unstrapped his hardware to avoid trouble, and any cowhand who avoided a fight was branded coward.

  Sutton swung down and turned his horse over to a warp-legged old hostler. His saddlebags held a change of clothing, and he tossed them over his left arm as he started for the Occidental Hotel next to the corral. He stopped as a cowboy, followed by a dozen men, rode into the corral with a struggling human being on the end of his rope. A second prisoner was dragged into the enclosure, and within a minute the pair was surrounded by a hundred yelling cowboys.

  Sutton turned and handed his saddlebags to the gaping hostler. A tall rider swung down from his scarred saddle, pushed a way through the crowd and held up a hand. Sutton felt a touch on his arm and turned to stare at Buffalo McGrew.

  “That tall hombre is Ramrod Bailey, brother to Stud,” McGrew whispered. “They’ve taken the mayor and the judge right out of their offices. Necktie Patton is mayor of Dodge, or he was until right after dinner. The other gent is Judge Bisley Jordan, and both are past fifty. Better strap your hardware on again, Silent!”

  Sutton shrugged and watched the mob. He made no move to reclaim his saddlebags, but he did glance at the heavy rifle in McGrew’s hands.

  Ramrod Bailey was a trailboss, and undeniably a leader. He began to talk slowly.

  “It’s against the law to kill a man that ain’t heeled,” he said, and his voice was serious. “So we’ll just give these gents a chance to get even. Fist Maroney was arrested and fined for packing a six-shooter last night, and he don’t like it none. Better take the judge first, Maroney.”

  Fist Maroney advanced. He stood six-feet-two, was fast on his feet and eager for war. He threw off his worn Stetson and ruffled his flaming red hair as he leered at the judge.

  Jordan was a stocky man of medium height, his black hair streaked with gray. Outweighed by forty pounds, and twice Maroney’s age, the judge shrugged the noose from his arms and stepped into the ring.

  Maroney danced in and jabbed with a left. The judge blocked and countered with a swinging right that caught Maroney on the mouth. Before the judge could step back, Maroney’s powerful arms closed and Jordan was thrown to the ground. A hammering blow knocked Jordan unconscious before he could move his head.

  Maroney yelled like a Comanche and swung back his right boot. Sutton growled softly as he gripped Maroney by a shoulder and turned him away from his intended victim.

  Fist Maroney was the champion skull-and-knuckle fighter of the cow-camps. He caught his balance, looked Sutton over carefully, liked what he saw for his size and weight, and roared his war-talk.

  “I ain’t never had enough fight! You asked for it, cowboy!”

  He came in fast and feinted with his left to draw down Sutton’s high guard. Sutton blocked, and then his fists beat a tattoo on Maroney’s face to break the champion’s nose. Every goggled-eyed cowboy in the crowd knew the stranger was pulling his punches to mark Maroney up, and still keep him on his feet.

  Maroney danced away but found no escape. The silent stranger followed him relentlessly, drove a sledge-hammer blow to the belly, and crossed with a pile-driving right.

  Maroney’s teeth clicked. He broke at the knees, folded slowly, and fell on his bleeding face. Hands slapped for holstered guns that made all men equal.

  “Hold it so, cowhands!” a man bellowed as McGrew clicked back the hammer of his Sharps. “Give Silent Sutton a chance to talk before you declare war!”

  Sutton was breathing easily as he turned to face the threatening mob. Himself a Texas man, he knew the thoughts seething through Texas brains.

  “Anybody else want some fair fight?” he asked, and he glanced at Bailey. “How about you, Ramrod?”

  Ramrod Bailey shrilled a Texas yell and swept off his battered Stetson. He leaped high and sailed his hat into the ring as an accepted challenge, unbuckled his crossed gunbelts, and stomped his high-heeled boots like a fighting cock.

  “No-holds-barred!” he yelled, and then charged.

  Sutton side-stepped, followed the trail-boss as Bailey went by, and caught the turning cowboy with a left jab on the jaw. Sutton’s right made a red pulp of Bailey’s nose.

  “Bulldog him, Ramrod!” a clear voice shouted, and Bailey obeyed.

  He dug in with his high heels and launched his muscled body forward and down, his arms spread. A brawny arm brushed Sutton’s left leg as he turned to avoid the trap. Bailey landed in the thick dust on hands and knees as he missed his hold. He brought up both arms instantly to protect his bleeding face, expecting the boots.

  Buffalo McGrew hawed and spat noisily.

  “You’re fighting a man now, Ramrod,” he sneered. “Get up out of the dirt and fight like one yourself!”

  Bailey rolled to his feet and made another charge. Sutton jabbed with his left fist and crossed with a sizzling right that thudded against Bailey’s jaw like a bullwhip on a stack of soggy hides. Sutton broke Bailey’s fall when the trail-boss sagged.

  He lowered the unconscious man to the trampled dust. Then he straightened slowly to face a tall man dr
essed in black broadcloth, an embroidered vest and hand-made boots. It was the man who had shouted instructions to Bailey. Sutton’s voice was low and even when he spoke.

  “How about you, Stud Bailey? You hankering to scuffle?”

  Stud probed Sutton’s face with narrowed black eyes. He was a professional gambler from his fifty-dollar Stetson to polished kid boots, but he was also boss of Dodge City. A pair of ivory-handled six-shooters were belted around his lean hips. He stared hard at the burnished spots on Sutton’s wool pants-legs.

  “Whenever you say Sutton,” he answered dearly. “But when you bring me fight, get yourself dressed like a man!”

  Sutton reacted out his left hand as he beckoned to the old hostler. He saw Stud’s eyes widen, and then the gambler turned his back and held out his hands to greet a woman pushing through the crowd.

  “You fellows all drag your spurs up to the Alamo,” Bailey told the crowd. “All drinks are on the house.” His voice changed as he spoke to the pretty girl. “Howdy, Molly Jo. May I escort you back to the Dodge House?”

  Sutton ignored the saddlebags the old hostler was holding toward him. Surprise stained his bronzed face as he stared at the girl who avoided Bailey and came to him, both hands extended.

  “Silent,” she whispered, and her voice was the soft drawl of the deep South. “I ran all the way when I heard you were in Dodge City. Aren’t you glad to see me?” Her brown eyes were soft with something deeper than friendship.

  “I’m more than glad, Molly Jo,” Sutton said just loud enough for the girl to hear. “I’ll be up to see you and the colonel as soon as I’ve wasted off. It’s been a long time.”

  “My offer still stands,” Stud Bailey interrupted quietly.

  Sutton stiffened and dropped Molly Jo’s hands. He stared at the gambler.

  “I was going up to talk to Colonel Benton,” Bailey told the girl, and offered his left arm.

  Molly Jo glanced at the crowd, and at the three men just beginning to stir on the ground. Then she noticed Sutton’s bleeding knuckles.