The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

  He recalled the old cavalry charges the rebel yell. But these yells were different, and more like those used by Quantrill’s raiders.

  A dozen hard-riding cowboys were racing down Front Street, spurring their horses and blasting the night air with six-shooters. Benton swore softly as he fumbled at his empty holster. Then he reached for one of McGrew’s shotguns.

  Sutton stepped outside and placed his broad shoulders against the upended railroad ties that formed the jail walls. The cowboys raced up and slid their horses to throw a shower of gravel over the two peace officers. Each man swung down with a six-shooter in his hand, and a big barn-shouldered cowboy stepped out in front.

  His heavy face was cut and bruised. He ejected the spent shells from his gun, reloaded all around and sneered at Sutton.

  “Mebbe you don’t remember me, Sutton,” he said thickly. “The name is Fist Maroney!”

  “So stand back!” McGrew warned. “I’ve got eighteen buckshot in old Betsy here, and just twelve of you salty buckaroos. And the Colonel has another of the same in that riot gun he’s holding!”

  The cowboys glanced behind McGrew and saw Colonel Benton. One old cowhand bow-legged out from the group and addressed Benton.

  “She ain’t noways a wolf gang-up, Colonel,” he said earnestly. “Us trail hands earns our money hard, and we spend it the same way. Sutton allows we can’t pack our hardware into Dodge, and he might as well tell us to throw our boots away and go barefoot. He whupped Fist Maroney, and Fist allows he wants some come-backance!”

  “Hell yes!” Benton agreed promptly, and then he coughed loudly. “Silence!” he roared at the oldster.

  “Shuttin’ right up, Colonel, suh,” the spokesman murmured.

  Benton turned to Sutton. “You heard their palaver, Marshal,” he said gruffly. “The man demands satisfaction!”

  Sutton knew his own abilities, and Fist Maroney was drunk. Drunk or sober, the big man couldn’t match him with a six-shooter, and Sutton shook his head slowly.

  “Yeller-belly!” Maroney sneered. “Just like Stud Bailey said he was!”

  Sutton jerked up his head like a startled stallion. A gun leaped to his right hand so fast none saw the move. He made one jump with his gun swinging sideways, and the barrel struck Maroney on the temple.

  Sutton faced the startled cowboys with his gun cocked for war. Now a terrible change had swept over him. His lips were skinned back to show hard white teeth. He crouched over his gun, and reached down to jerk Maroney to his feet.

  The big cowboy weaved. “I’m caving complete, Marshal,” he said huskily. “Stud Bailey had it all wrong. I know when I’m whipped!”

  Sutton jerked Maroney close. “I should have killed you, Maroney. I might do it yet unless you give up head, and talk with your mouth wide open!”

  “Don’t shoot, Silent,” the big trail-hand pleaded. “Stud Bailey put me up to it, just like in the Longhorn Corral this morning. I was drunk both times on his whiskey!”

  “Get the wind off your belly,” Sutton growled. “What about Bailey?”

  “He’s boss here in Dodge,” Maroney muttered. “He’s likewise the fastest gun-slammer in Kansas. Even down on the Chisholm Trail, the crew bosses can’t tell for sure who might be a spy for him!”

  “Buzzard bait!” a snarling voice said from the crowd.

  “A man can’t fight bushwhack lead,” Maroney said hoarsely. “You heard that one, and I don’t have a chance now!”

  “I’m giving you one, cowboy,” Sutton said quietly. “You hit saddle leather and fan the breeze going south. You just might get a job on the C Bar C, or one of the other big spreads.”

  Three other cowboys stepped out and spoke humbly. “Cut us in om that go-around, Marshal,” one said earnestly. “Run us out of town and tell old Crail you done ’er. If Stud Bailey don’t deal us an ace of spades, Percentage Parsons and his gang will whittle our notches on the handles of their killer-guns!”

  “Git gone!” Colonel Benton barked. “I’ll square for you with Crail Creedon. I smell a polecat in the woodpile, and I aim to help smoke him out!”

  Four grateful cowboys mounted their mustangs and headed south across the toll bridge. As far as Sutton was concerned, the matter was closed. Front Street was deadline, and the jail marked the beginning of that invisible boundary.

  Colonel Jim Benton had different ideas. Now he was sure that a well organized plan was getting under way. Cowboys and cattlemen alike would suffer, and the golden market at Dodge City would be destroyed. A deep grief for his departed youth gripped his tough old heart, but the colonel dismissed the thought instantly. His keen eyes probed the crowd, and then he called a name.

  “You, Ramrod Bailey! Step out!”

  Ramrod Bailey swelled up, and only the threat of the shotgun held him in leash. Benton removed the threat and stepped back. He spoke softly to Sutton without turning his head.

  “This Ramrod is all sidewinder, Marshal. He’s brother to the boss of Dodge City, and he’s packing a hide-out gun under his left arm.”

  Benton stepped aside, watching the marshal. Sutton flicked his right hand, and his six-shooter disappeared in holster leather. He faced Bailey and spoke slowly. “The law speaking, Ramrod. Draw your iron careful and drop it in the dirt. Or you can thumb back the hammer if you feel lucky!”

  Bailey leaned forward in the gunman’s crouch. His right hand slapped down under his left arm, and the snub-nosed hide-out gun leaped into sight!

  Sutton flipped his right hand, and his calloused thumb curled back the hammer against the up-pull. Orange flame winked from the muzzle of the leaping barrel, and then a gust of black powder-smoke put out the flare.

  Bailey jerked back. His left hand was cradling his mashed gun-hand against his chest. To make his humiliation complete, the marshal watched Bailey, maintaining that same maddening silence.

  McGrew stretched slowly and walked around behind the stunned and silent cowboys. He emptied every holster, and dumped the weapons in a water barrel near the jail door. Satisfied with his search, the old hunter jerked his head toward the yellow lights of upper Front Street.

  “Court’s in session,” he said sternly. “Keep on this side of the street, and form a pee-rade. You boys might be wild and woolly and full of fleas, but you just ain’t treeing the law tonight. Forward—march!”

  Sutton followed the procession of prisoners up Front Street with hands swinging at his sides. A voice spoke softly from the shadows near the tracks.

  “Act careless and drift back here, Silent. Masterson speaking.”

  Sutton didn’t turn his head. He watched until Necktie Patton entered the courtroom and closed the doors. The marshal turned and stepped back.

  “There’s several plays coming up, Silent,” Masterson said. “Charley Basset is sheriff of Ford County, and Bill Tilghman is his deputy. Bill is looking for you, and he’s on the prod. Word got around that you made claims that you could beat him to the draw.”

  Sutton drew a deep breath and turned his head to watch the crowd in the Alamo Saloon across the street. Stud Bailey was the boss of Dodge, and Sutton didn’t underestimate him. He knew he’d need plenty help to enforce the new law, and High man was a mighty good man to have on your side.

  “He’s gun-proud that away, Silent,” Masterson went on quietly. “And he don’t fear anything on earth.”

  Sutton didn’t answer. He’d seen Tilghman work.

  Masterson spoke again. “I can straighten Bill out if I get to him before he meets you, Silent. Keep your hands away from your guns if you happen to meet Bill first. This looks like some more of Bailey’s work, and that gambler would win hands down, if he could make the law mad enough to kill each other.”

  Sutton felt a temptation to take it to Stud Bailey and have it over with. Then he thought of the old cattlemen up at the Dodge House, and their trail-herds which were still at the
mercy of outlaws and rustlers. Stud Bailey would have to wait.

  “Bill used to think a heap of you, Silent,” Masterson said. “Fact is, I heard him say the same thing you did. That you made a good man to have on your side.”

  “He’s fast,” Sutton broke his silence. “But I’d have to meet him.”

  “Which is just what Bailey is betting on,” Masterson reminded. “Right now he’s waiting in the Alamo. He’s where a hundred men can see him, waiting to hear about you meeting up with Tilghman!”

  Sutton knew Benton had intended to bring him fight. He knew of the colonel’s deal with Stud Bailey and Percentage Parsons, and now Bill Tilghman was riding.

  Masterson’s powder-blue eyes narrowed slightly when he recognized a man coming down the boardwalk.

  “Don’t draw against Bill,” he warned. “He ain’t spooky, and he won’t smoke you down without warning.”

  If Sutton heard, he gave no sign. Colonel Benton was walking into the Alamo Saloon, and Sutton left the shadows and crossed the street. A stocky man wearing a short coat stepped out from the crowd and spoke softly.

  “I heard you was looking for me, Sutton. The name is Tilghman!”

  Sutton stopped instantly with both hands at his sides. He could see a law-badge on Tilghman’s vest under the loose black coat, and the gleam of twin six-shooters on the deputy sheriffs sturdy legs.

  Lounging cowboys stopped breathing as they watched. Neither of the two would throw his lead wild; neither knew the meaning of fear.

  “I’ll see you later, Bill,” Sutton spoke softly. “Law business right now, and it won’t wait!”

  He turned abruptly and walked into the Alamo. Tilghman stared his unbelief.

  Benton had forgotten that his holster was empty when he walked into the Alamo for a whiskey straight. The old Southerner looked behind the bar for Stud Bailey. Now was a good time to tell Bailey that he’d changed his mind about trusting his trail-herd to Parsons, but Bailey wasn’t there.

  A half-breed staggered down the barroom and shouldered into Benton. Greasy black hair hung across the drunk’s glittering black eyes, and his thin mouth was a snarling gash as he called Benton a fighting name.

  Benton caught his balance and rapped down for his six-shooter. His fingers clawed air and the half-breed drew his belt gun and squeezed off a slow shot.

  Sutton leaped into the saloon just as the colonel went down with a slug in his right shoulder. The half-breed was cocking his smoking gun on the recoil when Sutton crashed his pistol to the killer’s head.

  The half-breed went down and Sutton faced the crowd. Blood dripped from the barrel of his Colt, and his narrowed blue eyes dared the threatening crowd.

  Boots rattled along the walk outside, then Crail Creedon shouldered through the swinging doors. He saw Benton down in the dirty sawdust.

  “If I had my cutter!” he bellowed—then he saw the bleeding half-breed on the floor. Creedon scooped up the killer’s smoke-grimed gun as he spoke to Sutton.

  “Sorry, Marshal,” he muttered. “Take your man to jail, and I’ll look after the colonel.”

  “Put that scum in jail!” Sutton told McGrew, and walked stiffly from the room.

  Tilghman was standing just outside, and Sutton went straight to him. “Now, Bill?” he asked softly.

  “Not now, nor never, Marshal,” the deputy sheriff answered with a chuckle, and extended his right hand. “Bat talked to me some, and we ought to pull together.”

  Cowboys along the walk expelled their breaths with disappointment. That kind of law would be hard to tree, and every hard-riding cowboy in the crowd knew it.

  In the Alamo, Creedon was trying to get Benton on his feet. The old Southerner’s face was white and drawn, and he was too weak to notice when Stud Bailey helped Creedon raise him between them.

  “We better take him to the back and call the doctor,” Bailey suggested. They laid Benton on a couch in the office, and Bailey poured drinks.

  “That was a grandstand play,” Bailey accused harshly. “Sutton hired that breed to gun the colonel, and then double-crossed him!”

  “Easy, Bailey,” Creedon warned, and dropped a hand to the pistol in his pants band. “Sutton is kin to me, and you damn well know it!”

  “And he dehorned both you and the colonel,” Bailey answered swiftly. “A man don’t throw off his shots here in Dodge, and the breed only winged the colonel in the shoulder. You can read sign with the best, old-timer!”

  “You read it,” Creedon challenged, as his faded eyes glared at the gambler. “And don’t cloud it none!”

  “Sutton could own the C Bar C some day,” Bailey said thoughtfully. “There must be some good reason why he turned down your offer. A man could make a lot of quick money on cattle that never got to Dodge, and somebody is getting that money!”

  A little man carrying a black satchel came briskly into the room. No one had ever seen a diploma hanging in Doc Caspar’s office, but the little man was a wizard at treating gunshot wounds. He went right to work on the colonel, and Creedon watched thoughtfully.

  Stud Bailey stepped closer to the old Texan. His voice was warm and friendly when he spoke. “There’s not much difference up here between the law and outlaws,” he said slowly. “Sometimes that difference is just the star on one man’s vest.”

  He straightened like a steel spring when someone coughed softly from the door. Silent Sutton stood just inside. He looked at the gambler steadily while the clock ticked off a full minute. Then Sutton spoke a single word. “Now?”

  Bailey’s eyes contracted as his nostrils began to flare. Then he shrugged with a smile. “Not now,” he refused. “Some other time perhaps, but not now.”

  Sutton made no move toward his guns as he jerked his head toward the door. Bailey passed him and started for the courtroom. Inside, Sutton spoke to Judge Jordan. “Ordinance 6!”

  Bailey walked jauntily to the desk and smiled at the judge. Then he turned and counted the prisoners lined along the side wall.

  “Forty-one, counting me,” he said to Jordan. “At twenty-five dollars a round. I’ll pay them all, Your Honor!”

  Bill Tilghman came into the courtroom and went to Sutton. “Any trouble, Marshal?” he asked quietly.

  Sutton watched Bailey spill currency and gold on Judge Jordan’s desk. “No trouble, Bill,” he answered Tilghman.

  Sutton watched the arraignment of the prisoners, then left the courtroom. Dodge City night life was slowing down its tempo after feeling the law. Dance halls were getting more business than the saloons, and Sutton whirled when a hand touched his arm.

  McGrew had told him about Gorgeous Mary who bossed the Red Rose Dance Hall for Stud Bailey. She was buxom, in her early thirties and her hour-glass figure might have been poured into the tight black gown that swept the spur-splintered boardwalk. Her gown was cut low in front, and a single blood-red rose emphasized the snowy texture of her dazzling skin.

  “I’ve heard about you,” she said, and her voice was low and husky. “Up to now you have had most of the good luck.”

  Sutton studied the beautiful woman with a trace of uncertainty. He knew Mary by reputation. McGrew had said she was beautiful like an angel, but that she was a devil from hell. Also that Mary loved Bailey—and she wore an ivory-handled six-shooter in a holster on her shapely right hip.

  “Old Judge Colt makes us all equal,” she stated calmly. “And I won’t give up my protection without a fight!”

  A mocking murmur of laughter from the crowd brought a frown to the marshal’s face. Sutton knew he was beaten by sex. No jury in Bloody Kansas would convict Mary if she shot him in cold blood. Sutton knew Bailey was dealing from a stacked deck.

  “Yes, I’ve heard about you, Sutton,” the woman continued. “Fast with a six-shooter, but I don’t scare easy. I practice an hour every day, and I’m calling your bluff!”

 
Sutton couldn’t fight a woman, and Bailey knew it A hundred pairs of eyes watched Gorgeous Mary.

  “We don’t need your kind of law up here in Kansas,” she went on. “You arrested some of my boys, and I’m taking up for them. Make your fight!”

  Sutton heard a gasping murmur from the crowd, and something brushed his left hand lightly. He saw the change in Gorgeous Mary’s face, and he turned quickly.

  Molly Jo Benton stood beside him with one of his six-shooters in her small left hand. The Texas girl was glaring at the dancehall queen, and she seated the gun in the empty holster on her divided leather skirt.

  “I’ll play the marshal’s hand,” Molly Jo said. “I don’t like sure-thing gamblers, and you knew you weren’t taking a chance. Make your fight, sister, and you better be as fast as you bragged you were!”

  Sutton watched Mary with a gleam of interest in his narrowed eyes. Her breasts rose and fell, then her face paled.

  “I don’t know you!” she hissed. “This isn’t your fight!”

  “Draw!” Molly Jo whispered softly. “You and I are both women, and the crowd won’t get up a lynch mob. Take a chance, Gorgeous, or I’ll trim your horns, Texas-style!”

  Silent Sutton felt a deep content. He detected fear in Mary, and his lips curled slightly when Mary removed her hand from her gun.

  Molly Jo took the gun from Mary and pressed it against her stomach.

  “Not just yet, Gorgeous,” Molly Jo said. “Just step into the courtroom and pay your fine like your boys did.”

  The tall blonde looked about for help, then walked to the courtroom. Judge Bisley Jordan looked up with a start of surprise.

  “If my father can help the law, that’s good enough for me,” Molly Jo told the judge. “This woman violated Ordinance 6!”

  “Twenty-five dollars fine!” Jordan stated sternly.

  Gorgeous Mary had stopped trembling. She stepped away from the bench and slowly raised her black gown, exposing a shapely leg encased in a sheer silk stocking. Mary took a thick sheath of paper money from the hem of her stocking, smoothed the silk, and exposed a thin-bladed dagger under her garter. She counted out twenty-five dollars, returned the roll of bills to its hiding place, and dropped her black skirt like a stage curtain.