by H. H. Knibbs
Bailey glanced up and threw the powder-grimed gun to the ground. Three men were in the dust, and a fourth was leaning against the side of the building holding his right hand against his chest.
Sutton scanned the three silent bodies, then covered the gambler. One of the three men was old Crail Creedon, and the blood was welling from a deep gash on the Texan’s head.
“Circle off and holster your hogleg Marshal,” Bailey said quietly. “There’s a time and a place for everything, and both of us can wait!”
“You’re under arrest,” Sutton said. “It’s my duty to warn you that anything you say will be used against you!”
“What a long speech,” the gambler said. “I thought they called you Silent.”
“Down the street,” Sutton said savagely. “Save your talk for the judge!”
“Just a minute, Marshal,” Bailey said slowly. “You’re not using your eyes right good. I’m a Texas man the same as you, and old Crail was a pard of mine one time!”
“I doubt that last,” Sutton answered stubbornly, but he did take time to look at the three men on the ground. Then he noticed that Bailey’s holsters were empty. He remembered the hide-out gun the gambler had tossed aside. Sutton sighed and raised his head to stare at Bailey.
CHAPTER VII
GUTS—THE TEXAS KIND
Sutton studied the gambler’s dark face. As though satisfied at what he saw, Sutton holstered his six-shooter and went to his knees beside Creedon. His hand went searchingly under the faded vest and found a strong heartbeat, and all of the jumpiness went out of Sutton as he stretched slowly to his feet.
What had started the fighting and shooting he had heard from up on the hill of the dead? This he knew now. Whoever had started it, Bailey had brought the affair to a speedy finish.
The other two men on the ground were dead. By their dress they had evidently arrived in Dodge but recently.
The hotel door was flung back suddenly, and Molly Jo raced through and ran straight to Sutton.
“You can’t fight him now, Silent,” she whispered. “These three men tried to rob father and they nearly killed your uncle. Old Crail was staying with the colonel, but he followed them down here just as Mr. Bailey drove up. You know where he came from.”
Sutton frowned. The dead were strangers to him, but the third was one of Bailey’s gun-fighters—the same man who’d bossed the crew at the loading chutes. It looked suspicious because only he had escaped death.
A cowboy with his right arm in a bandanna sling pushed a way through the crowd and came to Sutton. “Those two dead hombres were a part of that rustling crew that stole Dollar-Sign herd and lolled our men,” he said harshly. “Percentage Parsons was paying them wages, and that pistol-whipped gent yonder draws his pay from Parsons’ side-kick. That’s him standing by the wall letting on to suffer, and this blazer he pulled don’t fool me none whatever!”
“You was one of Sibley’s trail crew?” Sutton asked.
“Yeah, I was,” the cowboy answered. “The rest were killed, and they thought I was dead. Down on the trail or right here in Dodge, a man ain’t safe anymore.”
“You’re safe enough if you mind your own business,” Bailey interrupted. “The way I see it, it’s your word against more than a dozen.”
“You can identify these three men?” Sutton asked.
“I sure as hell can. Those two were working for Parsons, and that other hombre took his orders from Bailey!”
“Bridle your tongue, cowboy,” Bailey said slowly. “Parsons and I are partners in a legitimate business, and I don’t stand for any crooked work on the side. Parsons didn’t know anything about this job, and those gun-hands of his got what was coming to them!”
Creedon sat up mumbling. The old Texan clawed at his empty holster.
“Take it easy, Crail,” Bailey said soothingly. “You’re among friends, and we caught those holdups.”
Creedon stared at Bailey, then swung his eyes around to Sutton. His eyes cleared suddenly, and his voice was angry when he crouched toward his nephew.
“Law!” he sneered. “What we need is more Texas law, the kind a man packs in his holster!”
“But you were wearing your gun when I left for the cemetery,” Molly Jo said. “You promised me you wouldn’t leave the colonel for a minute!”
The angry light faded from Creedon’s eyes.
“Them three got the jump on me,” he muttered. “One clubbed me with his hog-leg, and I must have dozed off for a time. But not for long!” he shouted savagely. “I came boiling down through the hotel just as they were hitting their saddles. That whiskered gent yonder buffaloed me again over the head with the barrel of his six-shooter, and I heard a pistol shooting just as I went down.”
“I got here about that time, Crail,” Bailey said quietly. “I never learned to throw off my shots.” He glanced at Sutton.
Neal Brown cleared his throat and spoke in his drawling, guttural manner. “I figured I’d better rep for the law, Silent. Bailey dropped those two corpses, but that rubber-legged hombre was bearing a charmed life. I let him have a slug through his gun-arm, and then I slapped him over the head to keep from killing him. I figured it didn’t call for a killing!”
“Take him down to the jail and call Doc Caspar,” Sutton told Neal.
Bailey was rolling a shuck cigarette. His long-fingered hands were steady, and he licked the quirly with the tip of his tongue and smiled at Sutton with his black eyes.
“Is it against the law to help an old friend?” he asked slowly.
“Don’t know what I’d have done without you, Stud,” Crail Creedon spoke up heartily, and then he turned on Sutton. “One more chance,. Silent,” he said, with a plea in his wind-roughened voice. “Turn in your law badge and help me bring our C Bar C cattle up the trail!”
He shook his head and refused to meet the old cattleman’s pleading eyes. Crail Creedon stared, then turned away and faced Stud Bailey.
“I thought blood was thicker than water, but it looks like I was wrong,” he said bitterly. “I’ll throw in with you, Bailey. I’ll pay that twenty-five percent to get my cattle and crews safely through the Strip. Here’s my hand on it!”
“Count them delivered safe at Dodge,” Bailey answered, and he gripped Creedon’s calloused palm. “You needing an advance in cash money?”
“He needs ten thousand,” Sutton said before Creedon could answer.
Bailey frowned, then nodded. “Come down to the Alamo tonight and get the money,” he told Creedon, and leaned down to pick up a leather money belt. He handed the belt to Molly Jo and removed his black Stetson. “Take this to the colonel, I’ll keep it for you if you like,” he said with a smile.
“Will you?” the girl accepted eagerly. “It would take such a big load from my mind to know it was safe.”
A man pushed through the crowd and shouldered Sutton aside. The marshal dropped the hand dipping to his holster when he recognized Dollar-Sign Sibley.
“I’ll sign up, Bailey,” Sibley said quietly, and glared at Sutton. “I don’t know the set-up between you and Percentage Parsons, but it looks like it takes a thief to catch a thief. Parsons is a damned rustler, but I better save what I can!”
Surprise showed briefly in Bailey’s dark eyes when the marshal nodded.
“Good idea, Dollar-Sign,” Sutton agreed. “Most of the gun-slammers will be out on the trails then, and that’ll help the town.”
“If the town needs any help, I stand ready to give it,” Bailey said slowly. “I always keep a bunch of good men down at the loading corrals, which same are on the other side of the deadline!”
Neal Brown started walking his prisoner across the lot, but he stopped when he caught a nod from Sutton. The marshal jerked his head toward the prisoner and watched Bailey.
“Throw the book at him,” the gambler said with a shrug. “I’ll pay
his fine, and take it out of his wages. We won’t have any more trouble with Pete Shagrue!”
“He’ll have to work a long time,” Brown said with a chuckle. “I’m booking him on four counts.”
Formaldehyde Smith drove up with his pick-up wagon. Neal Brown herded Shagrue across the plaza. The wide-shouldered hunchback crawled out of the driver’s seat and opened the bade of his wagon. He pulled a stout stretcher to the ground, stared curiously at the bodies and waited for Smith to come around the wagon.
Bailey saw Molly Jo standing in the lobby of the hotel, and the gambler knew Sutton was watching him. He removed his hat and went to the girl with a smile of sympathy.
“I’m sorry you had to see all this, Molly Jo,” he said earnestly. “The law is supposed to prevent such things as robberies, especially in broad daylight.”
“But there is so much for the law to do,” the girl said defensively, and both men knew that she was thinking about the scene in the graveyard.
“The law didn’t do much up there as I remember it,” Bailey said with a shrug.
“Rowdy Kate,” Molly Jo reminded. “She meant to kill you. Did she leave town?”
“If she didn’t, that’s some more business for the law,” Bailey answered slowly, and turned his head to watch Sutton.
“Gorgeous Mary should leave town too,” Molly Jo said quietly. “She meant to kill Silent.”
“You’ve got Mary wrong,” Bailey argued. “She’s worked for me a long time, and she was gunning for Kate.”
“Why did you warn Silent to stay away from the cemetery?” Molly Jo asked bluntly. “You knew that was a challenge for him to be there!”
“Sutton and I understand each other,” Bailey answered. “I noticed he hung his guns on his saddle-horn before he came to the grave.”
Two long strides placed Sutton in front of Bailey, and he spread his boots wide for balance.
“I thought you’d show some respect for the dead,” Sutton said. “I didn’t know you were packing a hide-out gun. I mean that same gun you used on those two Parsons men.”
“Will you excuse us, Molly Jo?” Bailey asked politely.
Molly Jo took the money belt from Bailey’s coat pocket. His eyes flamed but the girl stepped away from him and took Sutton’s right arm.
“I’ve changed my mind about the money,” she said, and handed him the belt. “Will you keep this safe?”
The marshal smiled. “I’ll be glad to,” he murmured, and glanced down at the empty holsters on Bailey’s legs. “I’ll see you later,” he said quietly, and opened the door for Molly Jo.
Sutton saw her to the foot of the steps leading to the second floor of the Dodge House. Then he left her and made his way to the street where the crowd was dispersing. He walked to the Occidental, went to his room and then stood quietly thinking.
After a moment he pulled the shade low on the front window of his room. He unbuttoned his shirt and fastened Colonel Benton’s money belt around his waist over his undershirt. Such a belt was usually worn next to the skin, but the leather was stained with the blood of the late Ramrod Bailey.
The Drovers Bank had been robbed twice, and the old safe down in the court room was little more than an iron box. The money would be safer on his person, and a tingle of satisfaction hummed through the marshal’s veins. Molly Jo had trusted him.
The outside saloon lights were burning brightly when Sutton left the Occidental and started a routine patrol of Front Street. The cowboys in town were unusually quiet.
Sutton watched them for some sign of hostility. Then he shrugged and leaned against the hotel corner. He told himself he knew how to cope with men; it was the female which made him feel helpless.
The orchestra in the Red Rose Dance Hall was blaring a square-dance tune as Sutton passed the Longhorn Corral. A pistol roared in the Red Rose, and a short-skirted girl leaped through the side door with a cowboy in close pursuit.
Sutton dug in with his high heels and raced across the corral. The cowboy disappeared in the darkness, but the screaming girl stumbled and fell near an old building used for storing oats and hay.
Sutton slid to a stop and circled to keep close to the old barn. He heard the whirring hiss of a rope just before it dropped over his head, but the loop pinned his arms before he could slap down for his right-hand holster.
The hidden roper jerked viciously and spilled Sutton flat on his back. The marshal rolled over in the thick dust and came to a sitting position. A gun barrel came down on his head and he went out.
The tinny piano was playing loudly when Sutton sat up. His arms went out from his sides to spread the rope which no longer held his arms. He staggered to his feet and his hands gripped the handles of his guns.
He stood breathing heavily while he fought the fog that clouded his eyes. Something moved and rubbed against the backs of his hands. Sutton caught a quick breath when he discovered that his shirt was pulled from his gray pants, and was flopping in the night breeze.
His eyes narrowed in the darkness when he felt for the money belt and discovered his loss. His head went back as he stared at the little porch of Gorgeous Mary’s apartment. No lights there, and he made his way unsteadily to the alley where he could see through the windows of Bailey’s quarters behind the Alamo Saloon.
The door opened suddenly. Three men stepped out and came toward him. Bat Masterson called suddenly in a low voice. “Hold your fire, Silent. McGrew is bringing Bailey for a pow-wow!”
McGrew was driving the gambler ahead of him at the muzzle of a cocked six-shooter. A crowd of men was coming across the corral from Front Street, and Sutton was glad he’d tucked in his shirt-tails.
“You ought to get a job in the Opera House, Sutton,” Bailey sneered. “That was a nice little play you pulled, and I’ll bet anything you name that I can call the turn!”
“Never bet a gambler when he’s dealing his own game,” McGrew advised dryly. “No dice, gamblin’ man, but go right on and give up head. Talk with your mouth wide open, but I don’t trust you!”
Bailey frowned and glanced at the old hunter. He rocked back on his heels and touched his empty holsters. Then he pointed to Sutton’s loaded holsters with a little chuckle.
“Our city marshal is brave and fearless,” he began. “He’s still wearing his law guns, and neither one has been fired recently. He took a little tap on the head from his pard to make things look good, and I saw that cowboy running down the alley. Wouldn’t surprise me any to hear Sutton claim he’s been robbed of Colonel Benton’s money belt!”
Sutton’s hands went to his waist. Anger blinded him for a moment, and then he was leaning hard against a gun that had leaped to his hand, and which now dented Bailey’s lean belly.
“You called the turn, Bailey?”
His finger ached to press trigger but the soft sneering laugh of the gambler restored him to reason. Sutton removed the muzzle of his gun and stepped back with hell in his bleak blue eyes.
“A man who knows all the answers usually thinks up the questions, Bailey,” Sutton said quietly. “I was roped back there by the barn, and hit over the skull with a six-shooter. I was lured back there by a woman from your dance hall. The money belt was stolen, and that deer-footed cowboy got away!”
“That’s your story,” Bailey retorted. “Tell it to Benton if you think he can stand the shock!”
Sutton bit down hard on his teeth. He was hemmed in by scowling cowboys from the camps, and one of them made a hoarse suggestion about a new rope for a damned star-toter who’d rob a sick old man. Sutton’s hands flicked down and whipped up with gun-metal catching the yellow light.
His back was to Bailey as he faced the crowd and dared them to make trouble for the law. Not a word passed his grim lips; none were necessary. Buffalo McGrew pressed a gun against the gambler’s broad back, but it was Masterson who dispersed the crowd.
“Sc
atter, you bastards!” he ordered quietly.
He faced the crowd with both hands hooked in his shell-studded belts. They knew that if he had to talk again, he’d let his guns talk for him. They drifted back to Front Street muttering curses.
Bailey laughed softly. “Law,” he sneered. “I wonder why Neal Brown threw off his shot when he had Pete Shagrue under his gun this afternoon?”
“The law is trying to stop these killings,” Masterson answered.
A six-shooter roared sullenly, and a man came tumbling down the steps from Gorgeous Mary’s apartment. His body struck the ground twenty feet from the little group.
Sutton crouched over his guns and clicked the hammers back. A high-pitched voice shouted from inside the little porch at the top of the steps. “Don’t shoot, Stud. I’m coming down!”
Sutton lowered his guns and stared at the open door above. Gorgeous Mary came out on the landing with a red rose in her blond hair. She wore a tight-fitting gown of deep red silk, and she gathered her skirts and came down the steps with something dangling in her right hand.
“Arrest that marshal!” she barked at Masterson. “Him and Pete Shagrue were in cahoots on this fake holdup, and here’s the proof!”
She stepped up to Masterson and extended her left hand. Sutton caught his breath sharply when he recognized Benton’s money belt. Masterson holstered one of his guns and took the belt. He hefted it in his hand with a frown.
“Feels pretty light to me,” he murmured, and opened one of the flaps. “About a thousand dollars here,” he grunted.
“There was twenty thousand in that belt,” Bailey corrected. “Did you kill Shagrue, Mary?”
“If I didn’t, I’m losing my sight!” Mary snarled. “I saw the whole play from my window. I couldn’t be sure, but the cowboy who ran out of the Red Rose looked like Neal Brown. He roped Sutton to make the play look good, then tapped him on the head with his six-shooter. The law in this man’s town could stand some cleaning up, and now’s the time to start!”
She sneered at Silent Sutton. “It just won’t wash down, Marshal,” she told him. “I saw Brown take the money from the belt, and stick it down inside his shirt. Then he threw the money belt to Shagrue, and Pete came boiling up the steps when he heard the law coming from the Alamo Saloon!”