The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

  “The colonel lost five hundred head of steers to Stud Bailey at poker, and he paid off like a man,” Sibley said quietly. “Bailey shipped six hundred head of J Bar B critters out last night, and there’s five hundred head of his stuff waiting for Bailey’s hands to load ’em on the cars. What do we do with cow thieves down in Texas, boys?”

  “Lead poison, or a short rope,” a bearded oldster answered for the crowd. “I’d admire to see some of these rustlers dance on air, and I’d like to pull on the ropes. What the blazing hell are we waiting for, boss?”

  Sibley smiled and rubbed his lean jaw. “The only man in the law-crowd who has any authority down here is Tilghman,” Sibley stated quietly. “I’ll keep Bill under my gun, and the rest of you rannihans each pick you out a rustler. We’ll have us some holster-law!”

  He whipped around in his saddle when a hand touched his shoulder. Tilghman was staring at him with a hard glint in his powder-blue eyes, and a cocked six-shooter in his hand.

  “Nuh-uh, Dollar-Sign,” Tilghman said gruffly. “You didn’t lull me to sleep none with that palaver. I knew you away back when, and I was waiting for the play I was sure you’d make.”

  “Take it easy, Bill,” Sibley answered with a grin. “You’re out-numbered and out-gunned.”

  “Out-numbered yes; out-gunned mebbe,” Tilghman said harshly. “I know that these holding pens are outside deadline, the same as you do, but they are still in Dodge City. Now don’t go on the prod, Sibley. The law always gives every man a fair chance, but you’re aiming to go off half-cocked. Think it over, old-timer.”

  Sibley glared at the deputy. “Damn you, Tilghman,” he grated, his ruddy face almost black with anger. “I’ve never tangled my spurs with the law up to now, Bill,” he continued in a quieter voice. “We don’t want to tangle with the law now, and I’m asking you as a personal favor to go on up to the plaza and see a man about a dog!”

  “I’ve got a dog,” Tilghman answered firmly. “It’s my trigger-dog, and I’ve got it filed down fine. It’s mighty touchy when I’m crowded, so don’t you trail-hands go to crowding me!”

  “Every man in my crew can say the same thing,” Sibley said in a gusty voice. “Better take the easy way out, Bill. This job has got to be done, and we aim to do it!”

  “Do it the law-way, and I’ll help you,” Tilghman suggested. “Take the other way and make it tough on yourself.”

  “You couldn’t get us all,” Sibley argued stubbornly. “Two at the most.”

  “I’d get you first,” Tilghman warned. “And I couldn’t miss from here!”

  “There’s eighteen of us, and one of you,” Sibley answered. “Bill Tilghman, if you don’t step back, we’ll jump you in a pack!”

  Tilghman rocked back on his heels and lined his sights on Sibley’s broad chest. He made no threats, but every man in the crowd knew Sibley would be first to go. When the hot strain had eased, Tilghman spoke softly. “Look yonder, boys. Silent Sutton is taking it to Stud Bailey. Let them two talk first; if Bailey’s crew declares war, I’ll throw my guns on your side!”

  “Look, deputy,” Sibley agreed promptly, and Tilghman proved his sincerity when he holstered his six-shooter and turned his back.

  Bailey was standing near the loading chute checking tally sheets. He didn’t glance up when Sutton walked toward him, but several of his gun-fighters shifted position. Sutton stopped ten feet from Bailey.

  The gambler turned a page and went on with his checking. Two men prodded a big steer into the car, but the rest of the loaders watched from behind the thick peeled bars of the corral. Crail Creedon snorted with impatience, and Bailey glanced up.

  “Let them start it,” he told his men quietly, and ignored Sutton. “I’m rodding my own layout, and I’ll rod it my own way!”

  Sutton might have been in a different world as far as the gambler was concerned. Bailey’s expensive Stetson was pushed to the back of his well-shaped head, and he shoved his papers down in his belt when a low, angry murmur came from the Texas men.

  They were moving up toward the loading chutes, and fanning out to make less target. Stud Bailey turned swiftly and faced Sutton for the first time. His hands were hooked in his crossed gun-belts. He spoke one word: “Now?” Sutton felt eagerness flooding him. The old familiar pulse was drumming in the tips of his fingers. A fast gun-fighter was challenging his ability, and there was no reason to postpone the inevitable.

  But was there? The thought brought a quick, startled gleam to his narrowed blue eyes. He heard the muffled thud of walking horses behind him. The Texas men were coming up for fight. He was the law in Dodge, and a dozen men would die if he accepted the gambler’s challenge.

  Sutton turned and presented his back to Bailey. The gambler’s right hand whipped down like a flash, stopped with a jerk, and then dropped to his side. His mouth opened with surprise. He trapped his lips together and smiled when he saw his men crouching toward the mounted Texans.

  Sutton held up his left hand to stop the riders. Most of them had hands on their pistols, waiting for the first shot.

  It didn’t matter who fired the first one; it would be the signal for a war to the finish.

  “Circle off there!” Sutton ordered sternly. “The law can’t take sides, but the first man who draws a six-shooter will stop buckshot!”

  “That’s whatever,” Buffalo McGrew drawled. “We saw this play coming up, and Neal and me has the difference in these old scatterguns. She’s your say, Marshal!”

  “This outfit is a gang of wide-looping rustlers!” Creedon shouted. “The Colonel is out of his head with fever, and we’re taking up for him. Stand aside, Marshal!”

  Sutton stared at the angry old cattleman and then turned his head. The men on both sides followed his glance. Sutton nodded at Masterson, who was facing the eight men in front of the loading chutes. Masterson had a six-shooter in each hand, and he always hit what he fired at.

  Sutton swiveled his head again and allowed his eyes to rest briefly on McGrew’s crouching figure. The old hunter cradled a shotgun at his hip, both hammers cocked.

  Again Sutton’s head moved a trifle, and once more the eyes of the sullen crowd followed his glance. Neal Brown was watching the Texas men with a double-barreled riot gun. While behind the riders and off to one side, Bill Tilghman was watching Bailey’s crew, a gun in each hand.

  The Texas men muttered angrily and straightened up in their saddles. Bailey’s crew also straightened out of their crouches. They turned slightly to watch their boss. Bailey was staring at Sutton with the trace of a sneer curling his full lips.

  “That still leaves it up to you and me, Sutton,” he said quietly.

  Once more Sutton turned on his heel. His boots were spread wide for balance, and the morning sun glittered brightly on his ball-pointed law star. He watched the gambler for a long moment, and the crease deepened between his eyes as he stared at the papers stuck down in Bailey’s belt.

  “You’re loading Colonel Benton’s cattle, Bailey,” he said in a low voice. “I’d like to see the papers giving you authority!”

  “Loading cattle is none of your business now,” Bailey answered. “You set out to rod the law here in Dodge, and you took in a lot of territory. It’s still your deal—and I’ll play what I catch on the draw.”

  A voice growled softly from over by the chutes. The speaker was the same man who had passed Bailey’s guns to the gambler under the eyes of the law.

  “Give the go-ahead, Stud. You’re holding a pat hand!”

  Bailey nodded. His dark eyes were probing at Sutton’s hard face, and changing color between his slitted lids. He was like a card player who knows he holds the winning hand in a no limit game. His lips opened slowly. “Now?” His voice was an eager, questioning murmur.

  Sutton tightened his jaw. He was about to nod his acceptance, but a vagrant, disturbing sound held him motionless. Hoofs were
drumming down Front Street to tell of a horse being pushed at a headlong gallop. A clear feminine voice gave the Texas yell, and forty pairs of eyes rose together.

  A roan leaned into a turn and raced toward the holding corrals without slackening speed. Molly Jo Benton pulled back hard on the split reins and slid the sweating horse to a stop. Its hoofs threw gravel over Sutton and Bailey when Molly Jo stepped down between them.

  “Thank God I got here in time!” she panted, and her hands went out to brace herself against the marshal’s broad chest. “My father sold these steers to Mr. Bailey, and I brought the bill-of-sale!”

  Sutton steadied the panting girl and stared at Bailey. His narrowed eyes accused the gambler of betting on a sure thing, but Bailey would have called it an “Ace in the hole.”

  Dollar-Sign Sibley sighed and slid down from his horse. He walked up to Bailey with his head well back, and his ruddy cheeks flushed with chagrin.

  “Saying right out loud that I’m sorry, Bailey,” he muttered. “But you should have said you had the papers.”

  Bailey shrugged. “I didn’t have them when you and Creedon rode down here to declare war,” he reminded. “I meant to play the cards dealt me, and I figured I had a pretty good hand.”

  Creedon grunted at his crew and turned his horse toward the bridge. Sibley could walk easy and talk soft if he wanted to, but the old Texan knew Bailey had baited a perfect trap. With the bill-of-sale signed by Benton to back him, Sutton and his deputies would have been kicked out of office—if they had lived.

  “No hard feelings, Sibley,” Bailey said to the Dollar-Sign owner, and he turned and told his crew to go ahead and load the car.

  Molly Jo gripped Sutton’s right hand. He felt a slight trembling in her fingers, and he looked down into her pretty face and rubbed his cheek with his left hand.

  The girl flushed when she caught his meaning. She stared at his bronzed cheek where her lips had kissed him the night before. Molly Jo raised her head proudly. “I meant it, Silent,” she said softly. “And I’m so thankful you held your temper long enough for me to get here.”

  “Pardon my intrusion,” a voice murmured just behind the girl. “May I have the papers now?”

  An angry light leaped to the marshal’s blue eyes, but the expression on his face did not change as he raised his head and exchanged a brief glance with Bailey. Molly Jo turned swiftly, and she stood squarely between the two tall men.

  “I found the bill-of-sale in father’s money belt,” she told Bailey, and took a crumpled paper from her belt.

  She handed Bailey the paper with a little shudder of repugnance. Sutton and Bailey both stared at the paper in the gambler’s left hand. Something red had stained the bill-of-sale, and both men knew what it was. The blood of Ramrod Bailey, who’d hidden the colonel’s stolen money belt inside his shirt.

  Now Ramrod was lying in Formaldehyde’s morgue. If Molly Jo had been a minute later, Ramrod would have been avenged. A man can fight better when he knows he’s right, and for once the gambler would have had that added little something.

  Sutton had felt that difference when he had faced the gambler just before Molly Jo had shrilled her Texas yell. Bailey’s crew could have cleaned out the Texans with no fear of consequence. Bailey’s position would have been strengthened, and he could have taken over the town. He could have proved the law wrong, but luck had been against him in the final go-around.

  Sutton watched the gambler turn the stained paper over in his left hand. Bailey’s nostrils were twitching, but his lips tightened as he thrust the bill-of-sale down in his belt. His dark eyes were steady as he raised his head and spoke to Sutton.

  “I could use some of your luck, Marshal. I held the best hand, and we both knew it. Luck was riding with me for a while, then she switched to your side.”

  “That’s a new name for Molly Jo,” Dollar-Sign Sibley said softly.

  The gambler’s dark face clouded when he heard the cattleman’s interpretation of his remark. It was a barbed shaft that had gone true to the mark for which it was intended, but Molly Jo tried to relieve the tension.

  “But I wasn’t taking sides,” she protested. “I know how Texas men stick together, and I heard you and Crail talking,” she told Sibley. “You were trying to help the colonel while he was helpless, but I knew that Mr. Bailey was honest!”

  Bailey listened intently, and his lips parted to show his strong wide teeth when he smiled. Whatever he felt, Silent Sutton had betrayed no emotion.

  “Thank you, amigo,” Bailey murmured softly. “It’s good to have one friend in the camp of the enemy.”

  “But the cattlemen are not your enemies,” Molly Jo answered earnestly. “My father made a deal with you to bring up our next trail-herd, and he would not do that with an enemy!”

  “I happen to know that the colonel was going to pull out of that deal,” Sibley said doggedly. “Don’t get me wrong, Bailey,” he added quickly when the gambler leaned toward him. “Colonel Benton would have strung along with you, but he didn’t like Parsons. The Cherokee Kid shot the colonel before he could get to your office, and you know what’s happened since.”

  “Yes,” Bailey murmured, and only his eyes betrayed the raging anger within him. “I know what’s happened!”

  “Then maybe you can tell me,” Sibley said gruffly. “I lost a trail-herd down in the Strip, and most of my crew was killed!”

  “That’s your business.” Bailey shrugged. “I offered you protection and guaranteed safe delivery of your cattle. You allowed you didn’t need any of my help, and you lost your herd.”

  Sibley threw caution aside. His face turned red and his voice got savage.

  “One of my men got away from those killers, Bailey. He recognized several of those rustlers, and he got a good look at the hombre ramrodding that owlhoot crew!”

  “Lay your hackles, old-timer,” Bailey said. “What’s all this palaver got to do with me?”

  Sibley drew a deep breath and controlled his temper. But his jaw had lost none of its stubbornness. “I reckon I owe you some thanks, Bailey,” he said quietly. “Two of those rustlers died last night in Rowdy Kate’s place. Yeah! I mean Saunders and Bowman!”

  Bailey straightened slowly and glanced at Molly Jo. He knew by her expression that the girl had heard. He heard the strained breathing of his own men, and he took some of the sting from Sibley’s thrust when he deliberately called for showdown.

  “This third man?” he asked. “The hombre bossing the rustlers?”

  “You don’t know?” Sibley barked. “You’re asking me?”

  “I’m asking you!”

  “It was Percentage Parsons!”

  Bailey smiled and rocked back on his heels. He felt fight in the air, and he needed a fight to soothe his wounded pride. He glanced sidewise at his men, but a low voice jerked his head around before he could give a signal.

  “Hold the high sign, Bailey. There’s a lady present!”

  Sutton had broken his long silence, and Bailey quickly shook his head and made a sign with both hands coming out from his hips, palms down.

  “Thanks for reminding me of my manners, Marshal,” he said to Sutton. “I’ll do the same for you sometime. Looks like you’ve finished your business here, and perhaps you’d like to escort Molly Jo back to the Dodge House.”

  Sutton stood perfectly still. If Bailey forced a fight because of Sibley’s implication that he was partly responsible for the loss of the Dollar-Sign herd, the law would have to take a hand. He knew also that there was something personal in the gambler’s suggestion that he, Sutton, escort Molly Jo away from the danger zone.

  Sutton heard the solid tread of boots, and saw Bailey’s eyes widen.

  Tilghman stepped up beside him. “I’ll take your place, Marshal,” the deputy said. “What happened down below is out of your jurisdiction, but I’ll arrest Bailey if Sibley will si
gn the complaint!”

  “I don’t sign complaints, deputy,” Sibley told Tilghman. “I lost a herd and a lot of good men. I’ll square for every last man of that crew, but I’ll do it my own way.”

  Something like disappointment showed briefly in Bailey’s eyes. They widened when Sutton turned without haste and walked toward Front Street with Molly Jo Benton. Bailey smiled to hide the baffled gleam in his eyes, and his voice was low and quiet when he spoke to Tilghman.

  “Better keep out of this, deputy. Sutton didn’t ask for any help, and I don’t need any!”

  Bill Tilghman stiffened. Bailey turned to his loading crew and waved his left hand.

  Dust billowed from the corrals where the cattle were brought for loading, and the deputy sheriff sighed when Dollar-Sign Sibley gave the word for his crew to get back to camp in the river bottom on the other side of the bridge.

  “I’m attending a funeral this afternoon,” Bailey said, and Tilghman turned to face him. “Tell Sutton not to be there,” Bailey continued, then turned and walked away.

  Sutton was leaving the Dodge House when Tilghman met him. “Bailey’s going to a funeral this afternoon,” Tilghman said shortly. “He sent word for you not to be there!”

  Sutton stared. Bailey’s message was a challenge, and both peace officers knew it. There’d be four funerals at Boothill. Sarge Billings wouldn’t be missed, and there’d be few mourners for Saunders and Bowman.

  “They’ll be planting Bailey at two o’clock,” Tilghman said.

  Sutton nodded without speaking. A woman dressed in somber black had just stepped into the Alamo Saloon. Sutton recognized Rowdy Kate.

  Bailey was standing at the bar with his back to the door. His eyes flashed to the back-bar mirror, and he saw Kate watching him from under the brim of a black Stetson.

  Kate wore a black shawl that hid both her hands. Her dark eyes glittered with an unwavering intensity which spoke plainer than words. Bailey turned slowly and the tails of his coat fell away to show empty holsters on his long legs.

  The bar-dog took one look and slowly unhinged his knees until his head disappeared below the mahogany.