The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

  The north side of Front Street was lined with bullwhackers and soldiers from the fort. Cowboys were gathered in little groups talking quietly about the coming showdown. They became silent as Sutton approached the Alamo Saloon.

  A hundred men were gathered in the Alamo, but a space had been cleared at the front of the long bar.

  Billings occupied this clearing in solitary splendor, and he was drinking from a quart bottle. A .45 was thonged low on his right leg, the handles notched with deep Vs.

  “They’s seven notches whittled chi that ol’ hogleg, and I never whittle for redskins,” Billings boasted loudly. “I whittled for that damn deputy and I’ll do the same for the new marshal!”

  He glanced up after emptying his glass. A tall man was standing just inside the swinging batwing doors. A tall man with the badge of town marshal pinned to his faded gray vest. A copy of Ordinance 6 was pinned to the wall behind Sutton, and he indicated it with a jerk of his head as he stared at Billings.

  “You can’t make that damn law stick!” Billings said hoarsely. “Say your law piece, then back up your palaver!”

  Sutton paid no attention to the threatening crowd. He stared into the close-set eyes without answering. As far as he was concerned, no answer was necessary. Billings knew the law, and had issued a personal challenge. Several other officers had been killed because they had talked too much. Silence was natural to Sutton and fitted him like an old glove. When Billings spoke again, the edge in his voice told that he was cracking.

  “I’m going to take your guns off and run you out of town!” he shouted. “Elevate pronto or eat my smoke!”

  Sutton was like a figure carved from granite. His eyes narrowed but they never wavered as he watched the killer’s eyes.

  Billings slapped for his six-shooter without warning. His weapon was sliding from the oiled holster when Sutton twitched his right shoulder. The heavy Peacemaker seemed to leap to his hand with a throaty roar. Billings triggered a slug into the splintered planking just as he broke at the knees and pitched headlong to the sawdust.

  Sutton bucked his gun down, and eared back for a follow-up. The heavy weapon swung to cover Stud Bailey behind the bar.

  “Don’t draw, men,” the gambler warned. “This Silent son means to get me with the first shot, and he’d do it before any of you could clear leather. It was a fair fight.”

  Sutton nodded with a light of admiration in his narrowed eyes. “You gents check your hardware before you come out in the streets,” he told the sullen crowd.

  Buffalo McGrew added, “Our orders are to shoot to kill, in case any of you hardcases want to get brave!”

  Bat Masterson and Neal Brown had lined up a crowd near the courtroom. They herded the sullen cowboys and teamsters through the wide doors. Brown had a sawed-off shotgun and the mayor had another inside the room.

  “This scattergun runs nine buckshot to the barrel,” Brown declared loudly. “Don’t tempt me!”

  “Him,” Stud Bailey said, as he pointed to Billings. “The law smoked him down and the law can bury him!”

  “Bury him yourself or let him draw flies,” McGrew answered. “Sarge was drawing pay from you and he’s still your man!”

  Sutton left the saloon and walked to the courtroom. McGrew was emptying holsters while Brown and the mayor covered the prisoners. Judge Bisley Jordan rapped on his desk with the butt of his Colt.

  “Each and every one of you gents are guilty of breaking Ordinance 6,” Jordan said sternly. “I find you, and each of you guilty as charged. The fines are twenty-five dollars a head, and you can get your shooting irons back after you have paid your fines. This court is dismissed!”

  Some cowboys paid their fines, but most would have to wait until they could see their trail-bosses. Crail Creedon was sitting in the Dodge House lobby when the news reached him. He walked out to the plaza and saw several of his crew with empty holsters. His cowhorn mustaches bristled.

  “Fifty of you hardcases, and you pick a loud-mouthed soldier to settle your fuss!” he bawled. “Not a man among you big enough to trim Silent Sutton’s horns, and him playing out his string lone-handed!”

  Jud Carter was a warp-legged veteran of the long trails, and ramrod of the C Bar C drive. He rubbed his stubbled chin when he saw Sutton coming toward the plaza.

  “Yonder comes your nevvy, boss,” Carter told Creedon. “Looks like you don’t aim to pay no mind to Ordinance 6 your ownself!”

  Creedon growled and turned to face Sutton. The windows of the lobby were filled with watching cattlemen, and Creedon recognized the expectant grins on their faces. Sutton came right up to Creedon and spoke quietly.

  “Check your gun at the rack inside,” he said. “That’s the law.”

  “Damn the law!” the Texan bellowed. “You throw down on me and I’ll wing you sore as hell!”

  Sutton studied the man who’d raised him from boyhood. If he allowed old Crail to bluff him, every old mossyhorn in Dodge would flaunt his authority. They were a stubborn breed who would never admit that the advancing years had slowed them down.

  Judge Jordan had explained that the new law was meant to protect older cattlemen bringing wealth to Dodge City. They carried large sums openly, and many had been robbed after collecting for their herds.

  Sutton had listened attentively, but with doubt. He knew Texans and their love of independence. He also realized the wisdom of Judge Jordan’s reasoning, and now was a good time to put that logic to a test He looked straight at Creedon.

  “Check your hardware at the desk, Crail,” he repeated. “Did you ever know me to run away from trouble when it rode right up to meet me?”

  Creedon’s weathered face was convulsed. He went into a crouch, but even then a clash might have been averted. But a cackling laugh from another oldster goaded him on.

  CHAPTER III

  TALK SOFT IN DODGE!

  Creedon’s right hand plunged for the gun. Sutton stared in amazement. One of Creedon’s admonitions had been to never draw a gun unless you intended to use it.

  Sutton came forward like a cat. Creedon’s thumb was easing back the hammer when Sutton chopped his rocky right fist to the old cattleman’s jaw. His left hand darted out and caught the falling hammer on his thumb, and he turned quickly to bring the old man’s arm up over his shoulder.

  Creedon’s boots dragged as Sutton carried him into the lobby. Dollar-Sign Sibley watched without speaking, but Molly Jo Benton stepped from behind a pillar with scorn in her dark eyes.

  “You’d do that to an old man?” she lashed at Sutton.

  Sutton walked over to the counter, pried the spiked hammer of Creedon’s six-shooter from his thumb, and handed it to the staring clerk.

  “Give it to him when he rouses around,” Sutton said. “Tell him I’m sorry I had to hit him, but I couldn’t shoot an old-timer!”

  He left the hotel and walked out into the plaza. Only the fine wrinkles spraying out from the corners of his eyes told of the conflict that raged within him, and his rugged affection for old Crail Creedon. Crail would paw and beller like a range bull that has been whipped from the herd, and two other old range bulls had witnessed his downfall.

  Colonel Benton glanced at Dollar-Sign Sibley and cleared his throat. The colonel clicked his heels together, executed a smart right-about-face, and lined up at Creedon’s left shoulder. Sibley stepped to the right, and they each took an arm and raised Creedon to his feet. Walking stiffly erect, the three old-timers crossed the lobby and headed for Benton’s rooms.

  All three had been comrades in an army long disbanded, but invisible bonds would hold them together so long as they lived. Benton produced three glasses and a quart of Kentucky Bourbon. He poured the glasses full, handed them to his companions, and raised his own glass.

  “To the confusion of our enemies, gentlemen,” he toasted in a firm drawling voice.

  They
drank their liquor neat, and Crail Creedon straightened.

  “You’ve got to kill him, Crail!” Colonel Benton said sternly. “You’re a Southerner, suh, and he laid the weight of his fist against your face!”

  Creedon nodded soberly. “Dehorned me in public,” he murmured angrily. “My own kin shamed me in public!”

  “A man had sooner be dead,” Benton clipped, and he opened a bureau drawer. He took a .45 Colt pistol by the barrel and offered it to Creedon over his bent elbow. “At your service, suh,” he said very softly.

  Creedon took the gun and tested the balance. A knock sounded on the door. The clerk came in with a muttered apology.

  “The new marshal left your gun at the desk, sir,” he told Creedon. “I have it stuck down in my pants-band. He said to tell you he was sorry he hit you, but he couldn’t shoot an old-timer.”

  He drew Creedon’s gun slowly and extended it. Then he turned swiftly and left the room.

  “I was a damn old fool,” Creedon whispered hoarsely. “I taught Silent all he knows about shooting. He waited till my pistol had cleared leather, and even then he wouldn’t draw against me.”

  “But he hit you in public,” Benton reminded.

  “Yeah, he done it like you said,” Creedon agreed miserably.

  “Just a minute, Colonel, suh,” Dollar-Sign Sibley interrupted. “We’ve been friends for many years. What course would you pursue if I forgot myself and bruised the skin of my hand against your face?”

  “I’d send you notice, suh!” the colonel answered proudly. “We would then meet next upon the field of honor!”

  “And I’d give you satisfaction,” Sibley answered softly. “We are about the same age, but Silent Sutton is in his prime. Being kin to old Crail, the marshal wouldn’t give him fight!”

  “I’m still in my prime, suh,” the colonel said proudly. “And I’m not kin to Silent Sutton.”

  “He’d be kin to you if he wasn’t tongue-tied,” Sibley growled. “Now that won’t ever happen since Molly Jo saw him slap old Crail to sleep!”

  Creedon listened with his eyes half-closed. He’d never discussed the matter with Benton, but both had hoped for the same thing. It was the only thing that could join their far-flung rangelands together.

  “You’d do as much for me, Crail,” he heard Benton say as from a great distance. “I’m sending Sutton notice that he either meets me on the field of honor, or that I’ll shoot him on sight!”

  Benton reached for his wallet. The door opened as he drew out a white card and Molly Jo came into the room.

  There was a droop to her shoulders, and a hint of unshed tears in her brown eyes. She leaned against the wall watching her father, but she didn’t speak.

  “My card, Sibley,” Benton said softly. “You will carry it to Sutton with my compliments. He can name the time and the place.”

  Creedon opened his eyes and saw Molly Jo staring at her father. She’d given a double measure of love to the fiery old colonel from the time her mother had died. Silent Sutton had been her childhood companion, and he had not always been so reticent.

  Molly Jo remembered the day her father had sent her back to Kentucky to finish her education. She’d been fifteen then; Silent Sutton had been four years older. A tall, slender boy with tawny hair and clear blue eyes.

  “I’m going to marry you some day, Molly Jo,” he’d said quietly.

  She hadn’t forgotten during the three long years in Kentucky. She hadn’t forgotten during the year since her return to the J Bar B down in Texas, but now things had come between them. She heard herself speaking as she ran to her father.

  “You mustn’t do this thing, dad,” she pleaded. “It wouldn’t be fair. You’ve been almost like a father to Silent!”

  “Go to your room!” Benton said sharply. “You and I are no kin to Sutton, and we never will be. My card, Sibley!”

  Dollar-Sign Sibley stared at the card and shook his head slowly. Crail Creedon was breathing heavily as he sat in a big chair. Molly Jo sat down on the arm and pulled his gray head against her breast.

  “There’s another way,” Sibley said very quietly. “If I insulted you in public, I could make a public apology.”

  “And as a gentleman, I would accept your apology, suh,” Benton answered stiffly. “Will you act as my second, or shall I deliver my card in person?”

  “Seems to me like the young folks has more manners than us old rebels,” Sibley remarked with a shrug. “Silent Sutton apologized to Crail in public, and we both heard him. Not only that, but all three of us know he could clear leather long after we started, and still beat us to the shot!”

  “He never saw the day he could beat me to the shot,” Benton contradicted savagely.

  “Hold on there, Colonel,” Crail Creedon cut in quietly. “It was only last month that you and me were shooting at a target, against time. Cast back in your mind a ways, suh!”

  Benton frowned and tugged at his pointed white beard. “He’s a born gun-fighter,” he admitted slowly. “Ask him to resign this fool job, Crail. Make him boss of the C Bar C, and let Dodge City fight her own battles!”

  “Didn’t I do it?” Creedon growled. “I was about to offer him a partnership, and one of these days he’ll own the whole damn spread. But he done passed his word to hold the job for a month.”

  Colonel Benton stared at the card in his hand, then slowly tore it to shreds. He smiled wistfully when he saw the tears of relief in Molly Jo’s dark eyes, and Dollar-Sign Sibley winked at the girl.

  “Give him one more chance, Crail,” the colonel suggested. “You say the word, and I’ll call on that salty nephew of yours and try to talk some sense into his head. If he’ll throw in with us, I’ll see Stud Bailey and call off the deal I made.”

  “I’ll do it under one condition,” Creedon agreed. “Providing you check your six-shooter at the rack, before you leave the hotel!”

  “I’ll see you in hell, suh!” the colonel shouted. Then he stroked his beard as a peculiar expression changed his finely-chiseled features. “Misery loves company, you damned old Johnny Reb,” he growled.

  His right hand moved swiftly and drew his .45 Colt. The colonel laid it on the bureau, clicked his heels and saluted stiffly.

  “The cavalry rides again, suh,” he said grimly. “As one Texan to another, I’ll try to make that young smoke-eating marshal come to his senses!”

  The tall old Southerner missed his pistol as he stomped down Front Street. A slow smile crinkled his eyes when he passed a muttering crowd of cowboys with empty holsters.

  Coal-oil lamps cast a yellow glare from the crowded saloons, and Bat Masterson nodded respectfully when Benton passed the courtroom. The colonel cut across the street to avoid passing the Alamo Saloon, and he frowned when he saw the jail at the end of the street near the railroad tracks.

  Benton quickened his pace when a wide-shouldered figure entered the jail office. He would know Silent Sutton at any distance. Buffalo McGrew was loading several sawed-off shotguns. Sutton whirled like a cat with a six-shooter leaping to his right hand. He smiled and holstered the weapon when he recognized Colonel Benton.

  The colonel was standing stiffly erect, glaring at Buffalo McGrew. His polished heels came together as he began to bark orders.

  “Ten-shun! Present arms! Order arms! At ease!”

  McGrew jerked to his feet and came to attention. Then he did the manual of arms, grounded the shotgun and relaxed in a slouch. Benton took a quick step and snatched the shotgun for inspection.

  “So you’ve joined up with the law, McGrew,” he said sternly. “I was your commanding officer until the war ended, and I’m glad to see that you have not forgotten discipline.”

  “That’s right, sir,” McGrew murmured. “But like you said, sir, the war is over and done with long since. I tried to be a good soldier. Now I take my orders from Marshal Sutton, sir!”<
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  “As you were!” the colonel barked, and a faint smile touched his thin lips when Buffalo McGrew obeyed instantly. Benton turned slowly to face Sutton. He looked the marshal over slowly, and saluted smartly. This was his manner of accepting Sutton as a social equal.

  “I am acting as aide for my old friend, Crail Creedon, Marshal,” he began quietly. “A man has to learn to obey orders before he’s qualified to give them. I left my six-shooter in my room, as you can see.”

  Sutton knew Benton had worn his six-shooter every day since the war’s end. The colonel would continue to wear his sidearm as long as he lived.

  “I appreciate the courtesy, Colonel,” Sutton said quietly.

  “Thank you, and I have always received a full measure of that same from you,” Benton answered, and Sutton knew he was talking to gain time for thinking.

  “Let Dodge City fight her own battles, Marshal,” the colonel continued with an obvious effort. “Old Crail needs you now, and he’s making you a partner in the C Bar C.”

  Sutton’s rugged face lighted briefly, and then the smile faded. A look of sadness touched him.

  “Starting tonight,” Benton added persuasively. “There will be plenty of fighting to do, but not this kind. Turn in your star, and let Masterson take over your job. He knows the kind of varmints that feed on Dodge better than you do.”

  Sutton listened a little sadly. These oldsters were his neighbors, had helped him grow up. Crail Creedon and Colonel Benton, Dollar-Sign Sibley, and their crews. They were what Molly Jo would call “Down-home folks.”

  “Begging your pardon, Colonel, sir,” McGrew interrupted. “If Silent quits, we all quit. Trail-herds are being rustled regular, and it’s our guess that the answers are here in Dodge.”

  The old colonel stared hard at McGrew.

  “You heard what McGrew said, Colonel,” Sutton said slowly. “He spoke for all my men.”

  Benton knew further argument was useless. But before he could speak, a yell, followed by pistol shots, sounded. Hoofs rattled across the toll bridge that spanned the Arkansas, and Benton’s eyes lighted with sudden memories.