by H. H. Knibbs
“Lift ’em high, Bailey!” he ordered.
Bailey slowly raised his hands. Masterson came from the shadows.
“I heard shooting over in Rowdy Kate’s place,” he said gruffly. “That’s outside the city limits. You want to talk?”
“Why not?” Bailey answered. “You heard about Ramrod getting his?”
“I heard,” Masterson agreed. “So?”
“There were two other men involved,” Bailey answered. “Oregon Saunders and Jake Bowman were waiting for their share of the loot.”
“Both dead, eh?” Masterson asked quietly. “I’ll notify Formaldehyde Smith, the undertaker. Then I’ll tell Bill Tilghman, him being a deputy sheriff. Keep to the alley, Stud, and stay off Front Street. Adios!”
A good gambler always played the cards dealt to him. Bailey nudged the roan and rode up the long alley. He turned the horse over to a hostler at the Longhorn Corral and walked toward his quarters at the rear of the Alamo.
Across the way stood the Red Rose. Gorgeous Mary had her rooms above. A crack of light showed from one upper window, and Bailey’s eyes narrowed and began to glow in the dark. Mary was still on the dance floor, and she never lighted a lamp until she was through for the night.
CHAPTER V
THE GORGEOUS GUN
Gorgeous Mary was evidently breaking the habits of her usual routine. She was entertaining a guest, although the dance hall was still going with all the mad cacophony of the jungle. The tinny piano banged loudly, and the fiddles screamed to announce the end of the dance.
Bailey took advantage of the din to climb the creaky back stairs. His face darkened as he thought of the plot, and his brother’s part in the scheme which could wreck all his carefully-laid plans. Kansas and The Nations were a valuable empire, with riches on the hoof pouring in from a seemingly inexhaustible source. Bailey shrugged as he remembered Rowdy Kate, but his face changed swiftly when he remembered Gorgeous Mary and her part in the robbery and abduction.
Mary had been sufficient until Molly Jo Benton had come to Dodge with her father. Everyone in town knew about him and Gorgeous Mary, but none mentioned them in the same breath or sentence.
Bailey came close to the door at the head of the long flight of steps. He pressed an ear to the panel and held his breath to hear the better. He could distinguish the husky rumble of Mary’s deep voice, and his fingers closed firmly around the doorknob. He pushed gently and raised the door at the same time to take the weight from the creaking hinges.
The door opened a crack, and a heavy wave of musky perfume eddied to the outer air. Bailey’s nose twitched with distaste. He’d recognize that scent anywhere. He lowered his dark head to listen.
“You’re in love with my man!” Gorgeous Mary accused someone angrily. “You’re playing Stud against the marshal, and you can’t make up your sneaking mind which one you want. Or which one will do you the most good!”
Bailey set his teeth and waited for the answer. He was sure Molly Jo Benton was in the room, but he also was fully aware of Mary’s hair-trigger temper. He remembered the thin-bladed dagger she carried in her garter.
No answer came from within the room, and Bailey pushed the door open wide and bounded into the room.
He stopped abruptly when he saw Mary crouching toward him and glaring over the barrel of her light six-shooter. He had ordered that special Colt for her; a .38 on a balanced .45 frame. Mary’s face was twisted with anger.
“Take another step, and I’ll shoot!” she warned. “You can’t two-time me, Stud!”
The gambler shrugged and glanced at Molly Jo lying on the couch, hands tied behind her and a bandanna gag in her mouth.
“Holster your gun, Mary,” Bailey said quietly, but his voice cracked at the end like a whip-lash. “You won’t shoot, and we both know it!”
Mary laughed in her throat. “What have I to lose?” she whispered, with a sudden change of temper. “You’re in love with this girl, and you lie if you say it any different!”
Bailey drew himself erect and swelled his powerful chest. A devil of challenge gleamed in his black eyes, and his full lips curled slightly at the corners.
“Shoot,” he said quietly. “If you’ve got the cold nerve to kill a man, and watch him bleed out his life!”
Mary caught her breath with a choking gasp. The hand holding the pistol began to tremble and Bailey took a step forward.
“I’ll trip the trigger if you touch me, Stud!” the woman warned.
Bailey smiled coldly and advanced until his chest almost touched the muzzle of the gun. His glittering black eyes held Mary’s glance, like a snake charming a bird. Then his left hand moved with dazzling speed.
Mary recovered her senses when it was too late. She tried to thumb back the hammer to full cock, but Bailey’s fingers twined around the silver-plated gun and held the hammer down. A flick of his steely wrist tore the weapon from her perspiring fingers, and Bailey stepped back with the same cold, mirthless smile on his dark, handsome face.
“You’re getting jumpy, Gorgeous,” he murmured gently.
He backed slowly toward the couch with the captured weapon pointing toward the thick carpet. His right hand went to the back of his belt and removed a thin-bladed skinning knife from its hidden sheath.
Molly Jo sat up on the couch and turned her slender body. The gambler made a quick stroke and severed the thong which bound her wrists. He straightened slowly when Mary whined low in her throat and came toward him.
“Stay back!” he warned sharply, and the captured pistol tilted up in his left hand.
Mary laughed softly. Bailey thrust the skinning knife under the tails of his long broadcloth coat, and he gave back a step when the woman continued her confident advance.
“You won’t shoot,” she said quietly. “You can kill a man without batting an eye, but a woman is different!”
Molly Jo jerked the gag from her mouth and drew up her feet to pluck at the knots that bound her slim ankles. Her lips were parted, and her brown eyes were wide with wonder as she watched Gorgeous Mary advance.
A startling change had swept over the gambler’s dark face. He was frowning as though uncertain, and he grunted softly when his wide shoulders touched the wall.
“You didn’t take a chance, Stud,” the woman taunted. “That gun of mine wasn’t loaded. Silent Sutton pulled its teeth and you saw him do it!”
Bailey clicked his teeth and then threw the light pistol behind the big chair. The same movement drew his right-hand gun. Gorgeous Mary laughed and threw back her shapely shoulders.
“Shoot,” she mocked the gambler. “You don’t have the nerve to kill me and watch me bleed out!”
Bailey heard his own statement coming back at him as though it were a belated echo. Mary took a slow, deep breath until her full figure swelled against the bodice of her tight gown. Her blue eyes mocked the gambler, and he holstered his gun.
Molly Jo tugged the last knot from the rawhide thong that bound her ankles. Her intuition told her of Bailey’s helplessness, and she dropped her boots to the carpet and tried to stand up.
Agonizing pains of returning circulation toppled her to the couch. She jerked up her head to see Mary not more than four feet away.
“I don’t need a gun, and I didn’t intend to use one on this Texas filly,” the dancehall queen said in a changed, hushed voice, and her left hand reached down to catch her gown.
Molly Jo stared with a flush of shame. Mary had a magnificent figure. She was holding her gown above her silken-clad knees, and Bailey was staring at the dagger in her crimson garter.
Mary reached for the dagger with her right hand. The Texas girl dug her bootheels in the thick carpet and launched her strong, slender body upward like a steel spring. Her arms opened wide and closed behind Mary’s knees, and Molly Jo brought the heavier woman crushing to the floor like a bull-dogger taking his
steer.
Mary went limp as her blond head thudded hard on the floor.
Molly Jo shielded the silken-clad legs as she drew the dagger from its hiding place. She threw it behind the couch as though the warm metal had burned her fingers. Her face was pale as she pushed herself erect.
Her eyes widened, and a startled gasp burst from her lips. Bailey was facing the marshal who stood framed in the doorway, and the two men seemed chiseled from granite.
Molly Jo broke the tension when she ran to Sutton. “Dad?” she pleaded. “Did they kill him, Silent?”
“You can’t kill an old cowboy unless you cut off his head and hide it from him,” Sutton murmured.
He gently disengaged his hands, and all the while his eyes held Bailey. Sutton jerked his head slightly toward the woman on the floor. “You look after Mary,” he told Bailey. “I’m taking Molly Jo back to the hotel.”
Bailey’s eyes narrowed as he nodded. Molly Jo bit her lower lip, then she ran to Bailey and took his hand.
“I owe my life to you, Bailey,” she whispered in her soft, southern drawl. “I won’t forget it, ever!”
Bailey looked at Sutton, then lowered his head to smile at the girl. His fingers closed over her tiny hand and his smooth, deep voice was sincere as he relinquished his advantage.
“I only paid what I owed you, Molly Jo. My brother planned that robbery, but Ramrod, he paid too!”
“I saw him,” the girl said slowly, and released her hand. “You mean…he’s dead?”
“Ramrod bucked the marshal three times,” Bailey said quietly. “Sutton gave him two chances, and that’s more than I give any man. Sutton lined his sights the third time and didn’t throw off his shot!”
Sutton listened intently, and a gleam of admiration lighted his eyes briefly. “The colonel needs you, Molly Jo,” he said in a strained voice.
Molly Jo nodded and spoke again to Bailey. “Be kind to Mary, amigo,” she pleaded softly.
“I’ll try to be a friend,” Bailey answered. “Good night!” Molly Jo fell in beside the marshal, and matched his long, stiff-legged stride. Their heels clicked on the splintered planking, under the overhanging board awnings. As they neared the plaza, the girl felt the tenseness leave his muscular arm.
“Don’t be angry, Silent,” she began hesitantly. “I only tried to show my gratitude. That woman—I mean Mary—meant to kill me. She paid those men to kidnap me!”
Sutton shrugged and slowed the pace; He remembered the promise the gambler had made to kill any man who laid a hand on Molly Jo. The marshal’s trained eyes had noted the powder-grime on the gambler’s twin six-shooters, and all the anger left him.
Sutton now knew what Bailey meant by laying their cards on the table. Whether he liked it or not, Bailey was boss of his part of Dodge City. He had known where to look for the two men who had abducted Molly Jo.
They walked through the lobby, stopped at the stairs leading to the second floor, and Molly Jo pressed Sutton’s hands.
“Old friends are best, Silent,” she whispered. She raised up on her toes, kissed him lightly on the cheek and ran quickly up the steps.
Sutton stood without moving until he heard her door close. His left hand went to his cheek and stroked it gently. Stud Bailey was a man of his word, and he’d kept his promise. Sutton set his jaw and cuffed his Stetson low over his blazing eyes. He’d keep his promise too, if any man laid a hand on Molly Jo, and Sutton was thinking of Bailey.
He left the Dodge House and made his way down Front Street to his own hotel. Sutton undressed slowly, crawled into bed, and was asleep instantly. He awoke refreshed when a knock sounded on his door four hours later. It was eight o’clock by his heavy silver watch. Sutton pulled on his gray wool pants and picked up one of his six-shooters.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Bill Tilghman. Open up, Silent!”
Sutton turned the key and opened the door. The deputy sheriff came in and smiled when he saw the gun in the marshal’s hand.
“I’ll bet you sleep with one eye open,” he said with a chuckle. “There’s going to be hell at the loading chutes, Marshal!”
Sutton washed his face and hands in the granite basin. He studied Tilghman’s remarks as he dried on a huck towel. He asked a question as he shrugged into his white shirt. “Dollar-Sign Sibley?”
“In a way, the law is getting a break,” Tilghman said, as he nodded confirmation. “Sibley and old Crail have rounded up their crews, and they mean to find out about Colonel Benton’s steers. Those old boys stick together, but that’s a mighty tough crew down there at the chutes.”
“Every one of them is on Bailey’s payroll,” Sutton said slowly. “Most of them were run out of Texas, and the Texas law can’t reach them up here.”
“What’s the reason it can’t?” Tilghman demanded. “You’ve done right well up to now, and you’re not working any different than Jesse Sutton did when he was sheriff of Uvalde County. Deputize those cowhands who’re spoiling for fight, and take Bailey’s crew another mess of Texas law!”
Sutton considered and shook his head. Bailey’s men were professionals. Not that Texas boys were lacking in nerve, but they’d be no match for men who practiced ceaselessly.
He frowned when he thought of Ordinance 6. When Texas cowboys got drunk, they always looked for fight Most fought for keeps, and Ordinance 6 had been framed to reduce graves.
“We don’t need help,” Sutton said bluntly. “There’s my three deputies and myself, and there’s you. In a pinch we can count on Judge Bisley Jordan and Necktie Patton.”
He finished dressing and buckled his shell-studded belts around his slim hips. The sun was shining brightly as he stepped from the Occidental with Tilghman. The deputy sheriff touched Sutton’s arm and pointed to old Crail Creedon and Dollar-Sign Sibley.
The two old cattlemen were riding their horses from the Longhorn Corral, and both carried empty holsters low on their right legs. Sutton smiled and winked at Tilghman.
Creedon turned in the saddle and waved a gnarled hand at Sutton. His leathery face was wrinkled in a smile of innocence, and Sutton told himself that what the law didn’t know for sure wouldn’t stand up in court.
Creedon and Sibley were obeying the town laws, according to the letter. The fact did not alter the habits of a lifetime. Their crews would be waiting for them at the holding corrals, and Sutton knew what would happen.
A long lean cowboy would ride up to Crail Creedon, humming tonelessly. There would be a pair of saddle-bags behind the cowboy’s cantle, and Crail Creedon would smile innocently and rest has hand on the pony’s flank. Then that hand would slip inside the saddle-bags and emerge with a pistol to fill his holster.
Sutton turned when tramping boots came down the boardwalk from the courtroom.
Buffalo McGrew was walking with Neal Brown, and the two carried sawed-off shotguns. Bat Masterson brought up the rear.
Sutton knew that Tilghman had talked to the deputies. The marshal glanced at Tilghman and started walking.
Before they reached the Alamo Saloon, Stud Bailey stepped to the boardwalk and headed for the holding corrals. Sutton had a brief glimpse of molded holsters tied low on the gambler’s long legs. Both holsters were empty, but Tilghman made a clucking noise with his tongue.
“Don’t let him fool you, Silent,” he warned. “He’ll draw to a full house before he reaches the pens.”
Bailey walked with his head high and his shoulders squared back. A hard-faced man fell in beside the gambler as he passed the Keno House. Bailey’s coat tail flapped on the right side, and then his companion broke stride and switched to the left.
Tilghman nudged Sutton. “Sixes full,” he drawled. “And I’ll bet you, two to one, that right now Stud Bailey is packing his own cutters.”
Sutton made no reply. He was watching Crail Creedon and Dollar-Sign Sibley. Two cowboys rode
out to meet their bosses; both were humming night-herd lullabies. They stopped their horses near the old cattleman, and old Crail went through his act just as Sutton had called it.
“Howdy, Marshal,” Creedon greeted Sutton cordially, and he jutted his right leg out to call attention to his well-filled holster. “If I was you, I’d hang around the plaza and keep an eye on the Cunnel’s room,” Creedon suggested.
“How’s Colonel Jim this morning?” Tilghman asked.
Creedon swung his eyes away from his nephew’s face. He knew that he was not fooling Sutton, but a wink was as good as a nod to a blind horse. He and his crew had a job to do and they meant to do it.
“The Cunnel is tol’able,” Creedon answered the deputy sheriff. “He’s resting easy, and Molly Jo is sitting there with him. There’s a gal to ride the river with. Yes, sir; she will do to take along!”
Sutton climbed to the top rail on the holding corrals to check the brands of the bawling steers. Big rangy longhorns, branded J Bar B on the left hip. And they were double ear-notched on the outside of the right ears so a cowboy wouldn’t have to ride around to read the brand.
A crew of loaders was punching bawling steers through the loading chutes and into a string of empty cars. Every man carried a six-shooter on his leg. Eight grim-faced fighters were leaning against the loading chutes with thumbs hooked in their gun-belts.
Creedon and Sibley had gathered their crews around them. Eighteen men all told, counting the two bosses. Men who worked hard and took their fun the same way.
“You better take it, Dollar-Sign,” Creedon said to Sibley. “After last night, I might get to fighting my head.”
“Colonel Jim Benton is down on bed-ground with his head under him, boys,” Sibley addressed the cowhands in a low voice. “He took a .45 slug in the right shoulder, because he wouldn’t take an insult. Not one word of complaint out of that old Johnny Reb, and there never will be one. While he was down in his bed, he was bound-gagged and robbed!”
A swell of low anger came from the crews. They stared at Crail Creedon, fingered their six-shooters as they glanced at one another, then waited for Sibley to continue.