by H. H. Knibbs
Sutton lowered the hammer on his gun and holstered the weapon. His face was stern when he faced Molly Jo.
“I found that rope hanging from your window. Why, Molly Jo?”
The girl glanced at the map on the littered desk, and then came close to the tall marshal. “Please take me back to the hotel,” she pleaded. “I can’t talk now, Silent.”
Sutton glanced at Tilghman and took the girl’s arm. He guided her into the alley and through the Longhorn Corral, and headed up Front Street. Stud Bailey turned to the deputy sheriff.
“Leave me alone with my dead, Tilghman,” the gambler requested quietly. “Mary was a good woman, and she deserves the best. She didn’t know that I meant to give her the best, and perhaps I didn’t know it myself until tonight.”
“You can’t buck the law, Stud,” Tilghman warned. “The law is bigger than any one man, and we both know it. Why don’t you give yourself a break?”
“A man makes his own breaks, and I’ll make mine,” Bailey answered sullenly. “Tell Sutton I said so, and three weeks ain’t so long to wait. Do you mind leaving now?”
Tilghman grunted and walked through the Alamo. He could see Sutton and Molly Jo far up the street, and Bailey’s message could wait. The city marshal had enough on his mind for one night.
Sutton walked slowly and shortened his long stride. Molly Jo was holding tightly to his left arm, and when they reached the shadows of the plaza, she stopped him and sought the shelter of his strong arms.
Sutton stiffened for a moment, and then he held the girl close as sobs racked her slender body.
“It was terrible,” Molly Jo sobbed. “Oh, Silent, take me back to Texas where we both belong!”
Sutton wondered if she had noticed the map on Bailey’s desk. His jaw tightened grimly as he recalled the printed brands, and the amounts each outfit had borrowed.
Unless the three old cattlemen delivered their steers to market and collected for them, they’d be unable to pay off their loans.
Sutton started walking toward the Dodge House. Dollar-Sign Sibley saw them from the lobby, and he rushed through the doors and grabbed Sutton’s arms.
“We can’t wait three weeks, Silent!” he said hoarsely, and his hands trembled with anger and excitement. “A Dollar-Sign cowboy just about killed his horse to bring bad news to Crail and me. We each had four men repping with Parsons’ crews, and he’s heading east toward Wichita!” Molly Jo clenched her hands and listened to Dollar-Sign Sibley as the old cattleman told the story. The C Bar C and the Dollar-Sign had each furnished four cowboys to represent their respective brands. They had protested when Percentage Parsons had turned away from Dodge City and had pointed the herds toward Wichita. Four of them had been killed in the ensuing gun battle, and only Slim Henderson had escaped.
“There’s a joker in the deal somewhere,” Sibley continued, and he glanced at the rope swaying from Molly Jo’s window. “Right now the Colonel’s J Bar B herd is coming up the trail to Dodge!”
Molly Jo caught her breath sharply and locked glances with Sutton. They were both thinking of the clause Colonel Benton had inserted in the paper he had given to Stud Bailey. It stipulated delivery of the J Bar B herd at Dodge City, and evidently Bailey had insisted that the order be carried out to the letter.
“Bailey is buying cattle cheap down there in the Strip,” Sibley said thoughtfully. “Most of the owners are glad to sell because they are afraid of the rustlers. Bailey uses his own crews to finish the drives, and he sells at top prices. The buyers pay off in cash, and they will have to pay Bailey for the colonel’s herd. I don’t trust that gambler!”
“But I do,” Molly Jo spoke up quickly. “It proves that Mr. Bailey is honest, in spite of his connection with Parsons. He knows that my father is crippled, and he also knows how much we need that money!”
“He sure does,” Sibley agreed bluntly. “Which is reason enough for watching him; but that’s up to the law.”
“You better go up and stay with the colonel,” Sibley told Molly Jo. “And pull that rope inside before somebody else uses it for a ladder.”
“I’ll go with you,” Sutton said carelessly, and he guided Molly Jo toward the hotel.
Crail Creedon opened the door to the colonel’s room. He placed a finger to his lips for silence, and drew Sutton to one side.
“He’s asleep,” Creedon whispered, and jerked a thumb toward the wounded man’s bed. “How in time did Molly Jo get out of here without me seeing her?” he demanded hoarsely.
Molly Jo was listening at the door of her bedroom, and she held up a warning hand for silence. They could hear a faint scratching sound, and then the sudden barking roar of a six-shooter brought the sleeping man to a sitting position with a, jerk. The sound came from the empty lot below Molly Jo’s window.
Something thudded heavily on the floor in Molly Jo’s room. Sutton bunched his muscles to tighten his left shoulder. Then he crashed against the flimsy door. He spilled into the room when the lock broke, and he called sharply as he caught his balance.
“Molly Jo!” his voice came hoarsely. “It’s Rowdy Kate, and she’s badly hurt!”
Rowdy Kate was lying on the floor just below the open window. Sutton picked her up gently and carried her to the bed. Molly Jo ran in just as Sutton straightened up, and Rowdy Kate opened her dark eyes and coughed.
“Percentage Parsons,” she muttered drowsily, and her tongue licked a red froth from her lips. “He’s coming to get… Bailey!”
Her head fell back against the pillow as her eyes closed wearily. Sutton looked intently for some sign of a wound, and then he pointed to a red stain spreading out on the white counterpane under Rowdy Kate’s shoulders.
“She climbed that rope hanging from my window,” Molly Jo whispered. “Someone saw her, and shot her in the back!”
“Some brave hombre who wanted to whittle a notch on the handle of a killer-gun,” Creedon said hoarsely. “I’d like to know!”
Sutton stepped to the colonel’s room and took a whiskey bottle from the bureau. He poured a stiff drink into a glass, and held it to the wounded woman’s trembling lips.
Rowdy Kate swallowed and then opened her eyes. Her lips moved slowly, and she motioned far Sutton to come closer. Then her husky voice came in a faint whisper.
“I’m dying, and I’m glad. Parsons hates Bailey, and now…he will kill him. Gorgeous Mary was Parsons’ sister!”
“I’d never have guessed,” Crail Creedon murmured. “I never knew Mary had any kinfolk.”
“Who shot you, Kate?” Molly Jo whispered with her lips close to the wounded woman’s ear. “Was it—?”
Rowdy Kate kept her eyes closed, but her head moved slowly from side to side. “Stud Bailey,” a faint whisper came from her parted lips. “He…was…my…brother!”
She jerked suddenly and then relaxed. Sutton drew Molly Jo to her feet and led her to the colonel’s room. He closed the bedroom door softly with his left hand.
“Rowdy Kate has gone…west. I’m going down to see Stud Bailey!”
“I wouldn’t go down there right now,” Creedon advised. “This thing is all tangled up, and daylight might help read the sign a lot better.”
“By then the sign will all be blotted out,” Sutton answered grimly. “I’m still the law here, and there has been another murder!”
“Two women,” Creedon whispered. “And they both died by the gun!”
CHAPTER XI
DAMNATION LEGION
A black covered wagon left the rear of the Alamo Saloon and rolled noiselessly through the ankle-deep dust. A thick-chested hunchback was perched in the driver’s seat, leaning forward because of the disfiguring burden he carried between his broad shoulders. Driving was something he could do to ease the pain which never left him during all his waking hours.
Hunch Donnegan handled the two black horses expertly, avoid
ing chuck-holes and “Thankee-marms” he could not see. The Alamo alley was his back yard, and he knew every foot of it just as a blind man knows his own familiar room. He had made many trips up that alley; the afflicted man knew he would make many more.
Formaldehyde Smith sat straight as a ramrod beside Hunch, dressed entirely in black as befitted his calling.
“It’s Percentage Parsons,” the cripple whispered. “Wonder what he’s doing back in town. He’s calling on Stud Bailey!”
“We’ll live longer by minding our own business,” Smith said nervously.
“There’s some who won’t,” Hunch said significantly. “Or your business would not be so good.”
Formaldehyde Smith hawed softly in his throat, and turned to look back. An incredibly tall man was outlined in the square of light where the door to Stud Bailey’s office made a yellow frame. The tall man was leaning forward, poised like a hawk about to strike, and he was staring at something inside the lighted room.
The tall man stood motionless. His battered black Stetson was cuffed low to shade his glittering eyes from the sudden glare of yellow light. He slid noiselessly through the open door and closed it softly behind his broad back.
Hunch Donnegan sighed softly in the opaque darkness. “He’s a killer, the big buzzard!’ he said bitterly. “I hope he roasts in hell!”
“Take it easy,” Smith whispered hoarsely. “If he hears you, I’ll be hauling you back in the wagon.”
“Would I care?” Donnegan snarled. “Percentage Parsons did this to me. He broke my back with his two arms, and then he left me to die. Been better if I had, but it wasn’t meant to be that way, I reckon.”
“You’ve hated him ever since,” Formaldehyde Smith muttered. “And what has it got you?”
“The satisfaction of knowing there would come a day,” the cripple answered. “And this could be that day, from what I’ve heard about town.”
“Looks like he’s gunning for Bailey,” Smith whispered.
“I hope he is,” Hunch muttered. “If he makes a pass, I just hope Stud Bailey makes it two of a kind, and deals that big lobo an ace of spades!”
“Leave the team hitched,” Smith said solemnly. “I heard a shot from up near the plaza, and someone departed this life suddenly.”
“You’ve got eyes like a buzzard, and ears like a wolf,” Hunch Donnegan muttered, and stopped the wagon beside the open door of the morgue.
Parsons wore the two heavy guns on his long legs as an integral part of his dust-covered attire. Many deep notches had been whittled on the worn walnut handles. His hard bony face was covered with a black stubble of beard, and his long curving nose was just wide enough to separate a pair of piggish yellow eyes that seldom winked. Parsons stepped like a great stalking cat. Now his little piggish eyes stared at the drooping shoulders of Stud Bailey, who stood near his desk with his back toward the alley door.
Stud Bailey’s lips tightened, and his dark eyes began to glow like hooded rubies. First he raised his head and squared his broad shoulders. Then he spoke quietly without turning his well-shaped head.
“It’s rather late for a visit, Parsons. Leave your guns ride. You’re covered from the bedroom!”
Parsons stopped the hand that was lifting a gun from his right holster. His breath jerked in his corded throat, and his head turned to the bedroom door. Bailey whipped around with a grim smile curling his lips, and Parsons snarled like a wolf shying away from a baited trap.
“Kinda jumpy, ain’t you?” he sneered at Bailey. “And leaving your back exposed means you must be slipping.”
“Did it buy you anything?” the gambler asked slowly. “It bought me time to face you for an even break. Now what in hell do you want here at this time of the night?”
“I’m swinging that J Bar B herd toward Wichita,” Parsons answered truculently, but Bailey knew that the big man was talking just for something to say.
“Have you swung it yet?” Bailey asked quietly, and his calmness brought a flush of rage to Parsons’s leathery face. “Answer my question!” Bailey said sharply.
“I left the word,” Parsons said hoarsely. “It swings come daylight whether you like it or not. I got word about you and that Benton gal from down Texas way, you softheaded fool!”
A gleam of red lighted the gambler’s dark eyes like a burning flame, and died out as quickly. Both long-fingered hands were hooked in his crossed gunbelts, and his elbows edged back the tails of his black coat to show the ivory handies of his twin six-shooters.
“Mary sent you word,” Bailey stated positively. “I see you’ve heard from her. Now it’s your play.”
“You tired of Mary,” Parsons accused bluntly. “There was a time when she meant just about everything to you, but that was long ago. She wasn’t so young as that Benton gal, and you meant to give Mary the go-by!”
“Easy, Parsons,” Bailey warned quietly, but his resonant voice hummed like a steel blade quivering in hard wood. “Not that it is any of your business, and you wouldn’t understand. Miss Benton is a lady, and Mary died an hour ago!”
“You say Mary died?”
“That’s what I said, and you knew it!”
“And what was you doing all this time?” Parsons bellowed.
“Trying to remember that I was once a gentleman,” Bailey answered.
Parsons made a derisive sound with his pursed lips. “You never was a gentleman,” he sneered. “You just went through the motions when it suited your purpose!”
“Like many other things, that is a difference of opinion,” Bailey stated in a low voice. “Whatever you and I think of each other, it can wait until after Mary has been laid away!”
“The hell you whisper!” Parsons barked. “She was my sister, you sneaking hound! You might fool the new law up here in Dodge, but I can read your brands and ear-markings from a long ways off!”
“Looks like,” Bailey answered with a slight shrug, and the movement made Parsons jerk his right hand as though it had been pulled by a string. Bailey stared into the little yellow eyes until Parsons lowered his threatening hand. Then Bailey spoke very softly.
“Your place is down in the Strip rodding the trail drives,” he continued. “I suggest that you get back to your work, and leave me to mine. I know what I’m doing, and it seems that you don’t!”
“That’s right,” Parsons agreed. “I don’t know what you’re doing. Mebbe you better tell me, and then we will both be in the know!”
“You got my orders,” Bailey said slowly. “I expect you to carry them out, and not think up something different on your own.”
“Which was what brought me to Dodge,” Parsons growled. “Bad news travels on fast hosses,” he sneered. “You was all for cleaning out Crail Creedon and Dollar-Sign Sibley, and grabbing their spreads down in Texas. You played a smooth game with Colonel Jim Benton, and then you changed your mind sudden. I don’t know just what you’ve got on your mind now, but the play goes through the way we figured it in the first place!”
“Lay your hackles, Parsons,” Bailey warned softly.
“Save that hog-wash for them you damn fool,” Parsons said harshly. “You’re a damned killer!” he accused. “You had to smoke your guns,” he lashed his partner viciously. “You killed Oregon Saunders and Jake Bowman because you knew they didn’t have a chance. Whitey Briggs and Pete Shagrue both cashed in their chips, along with the Cherokee Kid. Ramrod Bailey was your own blood brother, and all you did was give him a funeral.”
“Was there something else to give him?” Bailey asked, but now it was evident that he had been touched in a sore spot.
“I stopped off at Rowdy Kate’s place just across the river before coming on into town,” Parsons rasped hoarsely. “She was in a lather, and fixing for a fast getaway, and she sold her place to one of the gals there for a hundred bucks cash!”
“Her own business, and n
one of mine,” Bailey said quietly. “And for that matter, none of yours.”
“Yeah, but being some different from you, that ain’t the way I had it figured,” Parsons answered nastily. “Her being a woman, she couldn’t keep her big mouth shut, and she told it scary about killing Gorgeous!”
“They will talk,” Bailey answered carelessly, but his glittering eyes never wavered from Parsons’ face.
“That’s what I just said,” Parsons agreed with a wolfish grin. Then he sobered some and spoke quietly. “Rowdy Kate was your sister,” he added.
Bailey stiffened, and then leaned forward. “Was?”
“You got right good hearing when you pay attention,” Parsons grunted. “This gal who bought Rowdy’s place told me about Kate being here. Rowdy tried to put on an act, but she didn’t fool me none when she drifted out the side door. She hit her saddle and lit a shuck back across the bridge, but I didn’t give her any chance to stop here and warn you.”
Bailey suddenly felt a hatred for the big man; hatred he wanted to wipe away with blood. But because he was a skillful gambler, he carefully masked his emotions.
“Hit me again,” he said quietly. “It’s still your deal, but I just might catch what I need.”
“I hope you do,” Parsons said viciously. “And I could name it.”
“But could you deal it to me?” Bailey asked with a smile.
“Pass that for now,” Parsons growled. “I’m still talking about your sister, remember? Rowdy hightailed up the alley to keep off of Front Street,” Parsons continued with his recital. “She slanted in between Dog Kelly’s place and the Dodge House, and her hoss hit a high lope across the plaza. Then I saw that her saddle was empty!”
He stopped to draw a deep breath, and the leering smile widened on his bony face. Stud Bailey was like a man who had stopped breathing.
“Hit me again!”
Percentage Parsons licked his lips. He stared at Bailey. “There was a rope hanging from a window up there at the Dodge House,” Parsons continued. Then he suddenly laughed deep in his throat. “I saw that rope move, and I sat my horse back in the shadows and waited. Somebody was climbing that rope like a monkey, and I’ll give you just one guess!”