The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

  “You win this time, dearie,” she told Molly Jo, as she paid her fine. “You might not be so lucky the next time.”

  “Save the honey for your customers,” Molly Jo answered spitefully. “You can find me at the Dodge House any time you want satisfaction. And I’ll know where to find you if you fool with Marshal Sutton!”

  “Sweet on the marshal, eh?” Mary taunted.

  Molly Jo struck like a tigress with her flat hand. Gorgeous Mary backed up until she touched the judge’s desk.

  “I’ll square for that,” she said hoarsely. “You didn’t hear about the marshal having your father shot tonight,” she whispered. “He hired a drunken half-breed to do the job. Then the brave marshal rescued the colonel!”

  Molly Jo stepped back with a trace of fear in her dark eyes. She remembered that she had left the hotel to search for her father, and she looked at Sutton.

  A hand touched her arm. Stud Bailey stood in the doorway, and he drew Molly Jo gently toward him. “They’ve taken the colonel up to the hotel, Molly Jo,” the gambler murmured. “May I offer you escort to the Dodge House?”

  Bailey reached out quickly and took the pistol from Molly Jo’s unresisting fingers. Sutton lashed out and jerked the pistol from Bailey’s hand. Bailey smiled and walked away with Molly Jo.

  Sutton seated his pistol, and watched Mary. The blonde glared after Bailey and Molly Jo, and jealousy was in her blazing blue eyes. She walked toward the doors of the dance hall.

  “Looks like you have a rival, Marshal,” she taunted Sutton.

  “Speak for yourself, lady,” he answered, and Sutton walked up the street toward the plaza.

  Dollar-Sign Sibley stretched up from a bench and called softly. “Glad you came, Silent. Is the colonel hurt bad?” he asked.

  “Slug in the right shoulder,” Sutton answered shortly. “What’s on your mind?”

  “A train-load of steers was shipped out tonight,” Sibley answered quietly, and rolled a husk cigarette.

  Sutton stared without speaking. He was thinking about Molly Jo and the handsome gambler. A dozen train-loads of steers left Dodge City every day, and the holding corrals at the end of the tracks were always busy.

  “This load was all J Bar B steers,” Sibley continued in a deep quiet voice. “Better than six hundred head, and Stud Bailey signed the way bills.”

  Sutton knew Bailey was buying and selling cattle, and he made no reply. Colonel Benton knew his own business, and he’d be the first to tell it that way to anyone who interfered.

  “The colonel lost five hundred steers to Bailey in a poker game,” Sibley continued, as he puffed at his quirly. “Bailey is still holding those five hundred steers in his corrals. Thought you might be interested.”

  “Tell Bill Tilghman about it,” Sutton growled. “He’s a deputy sheriff and I’m only the town marshal.”

  Sibley smiled in the darkness as Sutton crossed the plaza, walking stiff-legged to tell of his anger. The Dollar-Sign spread was bigger than the C Bar C or the J Bar B, and the three outfits formed a pool to work spring and fall roundups.

  Sibley smiled and ground out the fire of his smoke under a high heel. He had told the marshal enough for one night. He hadn’t mentioned that a weary rider from one of his own trailherds had almost killed a horse bringing him bad news. That a Dollar-Sign herd of two thousand steers had been rustled in the Strip between the Canadian and the Arkansas Rivers, and that most of his crew of Texas cowboys had been killed.

  Dollar-Sign Sibley had watched Sutton grow to maturity from a gangling boy. He had known Sutton’s father, who had been the sheriff of Uvalde County. The seed had been planted, and Sibley knew the men from Texas, and especially the kind that carried the law.

  CHAPTER IV

  WHO’S BOSS OF HELL TOWN?

  Crail Creedon arose hurriedly from a leather chair when Sutton walked into the hotel lobby. He followed the marshal into the hall and called softly just as Sutton reached the stairs.

  “Wait a minute, Silent!”

  He shuffled forward like a great shaggy bear, and there was a wistful, questioning expression in his faded gray eyes. Silent took one long look and held out his right hand, and his left arm went around the old Texan’s shoulders when Creedon gripped his hand.

  “I’ve been thick-headed, Silent,” the old cattleman admitted in a gusty whisper. “Looked like you’d left me to fight ’er alone, but that jolt on the jaw kinda jarred the scales from my squinchy old eyes. Percentage Parsons is in town!”

  Percentage Parsons! The same man Dollar-Sign Sibley had refrained from mentioning, and partner to Stud Bailey. Sutton’s mind flashed back to the half-breed who’d shot Benton. He’d never seen the man before, but it all added up if he could only check the tally.

  Bailey had shipped six hundred head of J Bar B steers, and was holding five hundred more in his shipping pens. The colonel had been shot in Bailey’s saloon, and Percentage Parsons was in town.

  “Sibley lost his trail-herd,” Creedon said. “He told you?”

  Silent started up the stairs, and Creedon followed with a hand inside his hickory shirt.

  Sutton stopped in front of Colonel Benton’s door. He knocked softly, and turned the door knob. Then Sutton stepped inside and Creedon heard him grunt sharply.

  The old Texan stopped abruptly and hugged the wall when he heard the colonel’s growling voice. Then he heard another voice. It belonged to Ramrod Bailey.

  “I knew you’d come barging in, Marshal,” Creedon heard Ramrod Bailey sneer. “You came here to rob the colonel and you got caught red-handed with the money in your jeans!”

  Sutton stared at the six-shooter in Bailey’s left hand. Bailey’s right was bandaged, and carried in a sling.

  A towel was tied around Benton’s head and under his chin.

  Ramrod Bailey had bound and gagged the old Southerner and was robbing him. Now, caught, he meant to kill Benton and make the marshal look guilty.

  Sutton studied his chances. Ramrod Bailey was a two-gun man; could call his shots with either hand. Sutton was about to make his bid when a hoarse voice sounded.

  “Don’t cock that pistol, Ramrod. This one is eared back and ready to go!”

  Bailey threw himself to the side. Creedon’s gun roared behind the marshal, and Sutton made his swift draw. Bailey jerked sidewise as Creedon’s bullet tipped his right shoulder.

  Bailey whirled, cocking his gun as he turned. Orange flame winked at him across the low bed, and Ramrod Bailey was battered against the walk. Then he slid limply to the floor.

  “You got him center, Silent,” Creedon whispered hoarsely. “One outlaw this time for Boothill!”

  Sutton went to his knees beside the bed. He untied the knots and took the gag from Benton’s mouth. Creedon reached for his stock knife when he saw the bonds on the colonel’s wrists and ankles.

  “They robbed me!” Benton said hoarsely. “Three of them, and they meant to kill Silent and me both!”

  Sutton remembered the bulge under Bailey’s left arm. He leaned over the dead outlaw, reached under Bailey’s shirt, and produced a money belt which he tossed to the colonel’s bed.

  “Thanks, Marshal,” Benton whispered weakly. “Close to twenty thousand in that belt, and I needed it to pay off some debts.”

  “Molly Jo,” Sutton said in a strained voice. “Didn’t she hear the scuffle?”

  “Three of them holdups, and they went into Molly Jo’s room,” the colonel whispered.

  Sutton whirled on one high heel and crossed the room.

  “You find her, Silent?” Creedon demanded.

  Sutton was staring at the rumpled bed. He knew Molly Jo had struggled with the two robbers, and they had not taken her through the colonel’s room. He ran to a window and tripped over a rope, and that trip saved his life.

  A shot blasted from the deep shadows across the
yard from the hotel. Creedon crouched on hands and knees and worked closer to Sutton.

  “Get down, Crail!” Sutton shouted. “They took her down this rope, but I’ll turn the damn town inside out to find her!”

  Creedon fingered his gun. “I’ll stay to watch out for the colonel, Silent. You round up your law hounds and put them on the scent before it gets cold. You come up with the kidnappers, shoot to kill!”

  Sutton nodded and stared at the rope. It probably had belonged to Ramrod Bailey. Ramrod was brother to Stud, and Stud Bailey was partner to Percentage Parsons. Sutton also remembered Mary’s jealousy.

  Little Doc Caspar hurried into the colonel’s room just as Sutton was leaving. Bat Masterson fell in beside the marshal as Sutton crossed the wide plaza, and Sutton briefly sketched what had happened.

  “Neal Brown and Buffalo McGrew are catching up on some sleep,” Masterson said thoughtfully. “The town is fairly quiet, and Stud Bailey has quarters behind the Alamo. Let’s head for there.”

  * * * *

  Stud Bailey kicked back his chair as he jerked to his feet. He stopped the hand that was moving toward his holster when he saw Sutton’s gun.

  “Whatever you’ve got on your mind, it can wait until tomorrow,” Bailey said shortly. “Go away, Sutton; you bother me!”

  A door led to a bedroom, and Sutton moved swiftly and saw that it was empty. He came back to Bailey who sat before a table where he’d been checking some papers.

  “Where’s Molly Jo Benton?” Sutton demanded gruffly.

  Bailey’s eyes widened. “Talk up, Sutton!” he barked. “What happened to Molly Jo?”

  Sutton stared into the glittering black eyes. Now he knew Bailey was as much in the dark as he was himself. Sutton holstered his Colt.

  “Three men robbed Benton not more than an hour ago,” Sutton said slowly. “Two made Molly Jo slide down a rope to that yard on the side of the hotel!”

  “You’re the law, so why the hell are you standing there?” Bailey demanded.

  “I came here because I’m the law,” Sutton answered grimly. “Looks like I was wrong for one time!”

  “For one time?” Bailey sneered, and then his eyes narrowed. “That third holdup,” he whispered. “Was it Ramrod?”

  Sutton merely stared. If Stud knew that the third holdup was his brother, then he also knew more than he wanted to tell.

  “Our personal business can wait, Sutton,” Bailey said quietly. “Was it Ramrod?”

  Sutton nodded. “It was Ramrod,” he answered quietly. “We found the colonel’s money belt on him.”

  “Was?” Bailey muttered. “You’re telling me Ramrod’s dead?”

  Sutton spread his boots for balance. If this was the showdown, it couldn’t come any too soon, to suit him. Bailey’s shoulders stiffened, then shrugged away the challenge.

  “I’m a gambler, Sutton,” Bailey said softly. “I’ll lay my cards on the table beside yours. Together we might beat whoever was behind this holdup. I’m passing my word that it wasn’t me!”

  Sutton admitted to himself that Bailey was sincere. But what about Parsons and Dollar-Sign Sibley’s rustled herd?

  And the J Bar B beef that had been shipped to Kansas City?

  “You were the boss of Dodge City when I took over,” Sutton told Bailey.

  “I still am,” the gambler interrupted quickly. “I’ll still be top man after you homestead a claim up there on Boothill!”

  Sutton stiffened and only the smooth voice of the gambler stopped the marshal’s gun-hand. “Sorry, Marshal,” Bailey murmured, “We both forgot ourselves. We can settle our personal differences later, but you came here looking for Molly Jo. I said I’d show my cards and here they are!”

  Sutton listened while Bailey told about his deal with Benton. The gambler admitted frankly that he and Parsons were partners in the trail-driving business. He insisted that twenty-five percent was cheap to guarantee safe delivery of Texas cattle to the shipping pens in Dodge City.

  “Doc Caspar was working on the colonel when I left the Dodge House,” Bailey said earnestly. “Molly Jo was in her room because the sight of blood made her ill. Parsons had nothing to do with this holdup, because he was waiting here for me when I got back to the hotel. Now it’s your turn to talk!”

  Sutton’s face showed his dislike for conversation.

  “You said Ramrod was dead,” Bailey prompted.

  “If you want gunplay take it now!” Sutton growled.

  “Later,” Bailey murmured. “I won’t jump my gun, so tell me about Ramrod!”

  Sutton told the story simply and briefly. Bailey listened and came to a conclusion. “Ramrod went over my head,” the gambler said. “He had it coming; I don’t need his killing for an excuse. Dodge ain’t big enough for both you and me, but we can wait.”

  Bailey’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the open door. A long shadow was spiking out on the carpet in the hall; a shadowy arm was extended with a six-shooter clutched in a big fist. Bailey spoke very softly so as not to set off straining muscles. “Stop right there, Parsons. We can see your shadow, so holster your gun before you come in!”

  Parsons stomped into the room. He had to turn his wide shoulders as he came through the doorway.

  Bailey told Parsons quietly, “I’ll handle the business at this end of the trail, and you get out of town before daylight. If you don’t, you answer to me personally!”

  Parsons glared at Sutton, whirled on one heel and stomped down the long hall. Bailey smiled coldly as he spoke to Sutton. “I’ll find Molly Jo before daylight, and I’ll do it alone,” he stated stiffly. “I’d kill the man who laid a hand on her, and you’d do the same. You willing to play it that way?”

  Sutton tightened the muscles of his square jaw. Blue eyes and black locked in a silent struggle, and neither pair wavered. Sutton was up against a blocked trail, and he nodded slowly. Then he turned abruptly and walked from the room without speaking.

  Bailey waited until the tread of the marshal’s boots echoed from the boardwalk and finally died away. He set his black Stetson on his head, cuffed the brim low over his eyes, unlocked a door leading to an alley and stepped out into the darkness.

  Keeping to the shadows, he made his way up the alley which paralleled Front Street. He made a turn, walked to the right and was soon walking across the bridge which spanned the river. He smiled grimly when he heard the sounds coming from the dance hall operated by Rowdy Kate.

  Bailey stopped at a side door to look over the crowd. Girls were at the bar with their cowboy partners. Bailey saw Kate seated at a table not far from the side door from which he was watching.

  Two men sat at the table with Kate drinking whiskey from a bottle. Kate was watching one of the men with an interest which was somehow proprietary. The old infallible sign which meant that he had known her intimately, and that she was not displeased. Bailey watched with his lip curling in the outer darkness.

  Kate was attractive enough, but her skin was dark and oily. Her black hair was brushed straight back, and her large brown eyes told of Indian blood. She was forty and plump, and her voice was low and guttural.

  “That blonde hussy only gave you and Jake five hundred for the job?” she muttered harshly. “After you taking all the risks to get the girl?”

  Bailey stiffened. The man with Kate was Oregon Saunders, a fast gun-fighter from the northwest. He was one of Parsons’ crew, and his partner was Jake Bowman. Both men must have ridden in with Parsons. Bailey leaned forward to listen as Saunders emptied his whiskey glass and began to speak.

  “Take it easy, Kate. If you split twenty thousand three ways, how much is my share?”

  “Three into twenty is six, and carry the two,” Rowdy Kate figured aloud. “Better than sixty-six hundred, sweetheart,” she told Saunders. “Only Gorgeous never saw twenty thousand in her life,” she sneered.

 
; “Now for brains, Ramrod has it all over Stud,” Saunders confided slyly. “It was Ramrod who planted the Cherokee Kid in the Alamo to nick the old colonel. The colonel had twenty thousand on him, and I’ll get my cut after Ramrod finishes the marshal. Between you and me, Gorgeous is playing Ramrod for a sucker, because she can’t see any other hombre except Stud!”

  “Call Jake over here,” Kate said sharply. “You and me won’t get hitched until you get that money, so you and Jake better ride over and collect!”

  Bailey stepped into the room. His elbows were spreading the tails of his coat aside as he faced the two outlaws with Kate.

  “On your feet, you two!” he said. “Were you looking for Ramrod?”

  “Yeah, Stud,” Saunders murmured, and got slowly to his feet. “The three of us were due to head south toward the Canadian River. I thought you knew.”

  “Ramrod won’t be here,” Bailey said quietly. “The marshal caught him robbing Colonel Benton, and Ramrod shot second!”

  Old-timers, these two, and they knew all the answers. They also knew Bailey and his speed. The killers jumped to the right and left as both went for their guns.

  Bailey cocked his six-shooters on the draw. Twin sheets of red flame stabbed out from his hands as his guns were clearing leather. He notched back the hammers on the recoil, but a follow-up wasn’t needed.

  Saunders swayed, Bowman was hunched over the table with both his guns still in scabbard leather. Rowdy Kate moaned and slid from her chair in a faint. Bailey stepped back into the darkness behind his smoking guns.

  Two saddled horses were ground-tied in the shadows. Bailey caught up the dragging reins and vaulted aboard a roan. Saunders wouldn’t need a horse where he was going, and it was quite a walk back to the Alamo on the other side of the river.

  The horse’s hoofs rang hollowly on the bridge timbers. Then they were approaching Front Street near the jail. Bat Masterson stepped out from the shadows and barked a command.