The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

  Stud Bailey didn’t have to guess.

  “Yeah, it was Rowdy,” Parsons said. “I waited until she was just crawling over the sill, and I figured mebbe Mary needed company. Mary was my kin, and Rowdy was yours. What do you aim to do about it, now that you know?”

  Bailey eased his straining muscles. One whispered word came from his slightly parted lips.

  “Now?”

  Parsons caught a deep slow breath and turned his wide shoulders carelessly. Then his two clawing hands slapped down to his twin holsters without warning.

  The gambler dipped his right hand down and up so fast that his .45 Colt made only a silvered blur under the yellow light.

  Parsons was slapped into a left turn with a slug splitting his heart. He was dead on his feet before his twin guns had cleared leather, but his reflexes twitched to trigger a pair of bullets through the bottoms of his open buscadero holsters.

  Stud Bailey holstered his six-shooter when he heard running boots coming through the Alamo. That would be Bill Tilghman, but the gambler showed no surprise when Silent Sutton came through behind a cocked gun.

  Bailey felt Tilghman watching him from the hall door. He glanced at the gun in Sutton’s hand, and shrugged. The marshal glanced at the body on the stained carpet and jerked his head toward the hall door. Stud Bailey could do his talking to Judge Jordan.

  The clock on the wall above Jordan’s bench stood at straight-up two o’clock. Necktie Patton was guarding the door with the inevitable sawed-off in his blocky hands. Because it was city business, Deputy Sheriff Bill Tilghman walked first through the doors of the courtroom, leaving the arrest to the city marshal.

  To a casual observer, Sutton and Bailey might have been friends who had spent the night together. They walked side by side, with hands swinging easily. Sutton had not spoken a word since leaving the Alamo Saloon, but he broke his silence as Bailey stopped in front of Jordan.

  “What’s the charge, officer?” Jordan asked gruffly.

  “Homicide,” Sutton stated briefly. “Bailey killed Parsons back in his office!”

  Jordan leaned forward, and the expression on his seamed face told of his disbelief.

  “Present your case,” the judge said sternly.

  “Rowdy Kate killed Gorgeous Mary in my office tonight,” Bailey stated quietly. “Mary was Parsons’ sister.”

  “The hell you say!” Jordan blurted. “I beg your pardon,” he murmured with a flush staining his face. “Please continue.”

  “There were only three of us Baileys,” the gambler went on. “I’m the only one left. Ramrod and Kate are both dead, as you know.”

  “Rowdy Kate?” the judge echoed.

  “Rowdy Kate,” Bailey repeated, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Rowdy killed Mary in a fair fight, with an even break for both. Kate was leaving town for good, but she stopped at the dance hall across the bridge.”

  Sutton stood behind the gambler, listening to the story. His eyes lighted briefly with admiration for the courage of the man who could tell of his losses without visible emotion. Now he understood why Rowdy Kate had climbed the rope to Molly Jo’s room.

  Bailey still wore his guns, and he touched them lightly several times during his recital. His voice became lower and hummed with repressed emotion. He took a backward step to place himself even with Sutton, as he told of Parsons’ double drive for his twin guns.

  “His eyes gave him away!” Bailey said dramatically. “I moved just like this!”

  His right hand dipped down and came up flashing under the yellow light of the coal-oil lamps. The muzzle of his gun was pointing at Sutton’s heart, and Bailey spoke in a crisp hard voice.

  “You can’t hold me here, Marshal. I’m leaving town until your three weeks are up!”

  “Drop it, Bailey!” the flat voice of Necktie Patton buzzed from the doorway. “You’ve treed the law for the last time!”

  “Suits me,” the gambler answered, without turning his head. “But if you trip that scattergun, you’ll kill two birds with one shot!”

  “Don’t notch that hammer back, Stud,” a deep voice warned from the side of the room. “My gun is cocked in my hand and you wouldn’t have a chance!”

  Bill Tilghman was talking, and Stud Bailey bit his lip. He knew six-shooters; he could take one apart and put it together again in the dark.

  He bowed to acknowledge defeat, and slowly holstered his weapon. Then he spoke softly to Sutton. “Sorry I lost my head and grabbed an edge, Marshal.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” Sutton answered. “I’d have bet my life that you were… gun-honest!”

  “That goes double, Sutton,” Bailey growled. “I didn’t want to stay for the funerals.”

  Judge Jordan listened and waited for Sutton to speak. Sutton was watching Bill Tilghman, and some message must have passed between the two lawmen.

  Sutton nodded. “We haven’t got a case against Bailey, Your Honor,” he said slowly. “Parsons meant to kill Bailey, but he made the mistake of trying to draw two guns at the same time. Bailey concentrated on one, and he killed the deceased in self-defense. That’s the way I see it.”

  Bailey stared at Sutton with his mouth open. “Gun-honest,” Jordan murmured quietly, and narrowed his eyes to give that same thought. “You anything further to say?” he barked at the gambler.

  “Thanks,” Bailey murmured, and his eyes locked with the marshal’s. “What else is there to say?”

  “Case dismissed!” Judge Jordan roared.

  Bailey stared at Judge Jordan. “You mean I’m free to go?” he whispered.

  “You heard my official verdict,” the judge blustered. “Three weeks isn’t such a long time,” Tilghman said. Bailey straightened suddenly, but he did not look at the deputy. His eyes flickered to Sutton’s impassive face, studied the marshal’s eyes intently, and read the hidden meaning he found in those cool blue depths.

  “Yes,” Bailey said softly. “Three weeks isn’t such a very long time!”

  “Empires have fallen in less,” Jordan said acidly. “Let us hope history will repeat itself.”

  Sutton narrowed his eyes as he remembered talk he had heard about Stud Bailey. The gambler considered Indian Territory as his empire, and collected a tribute for every head of beef that crossed the Strip.

  “Other empires have been built up in that time,” Bailey said casually.

  Silent Sutton’s mind flashed to the maps he had seen in the gambler’s office. Maps showing the three huge Texas ranches joined together. The C Bar C, Dollar-Sign, and the J Bar B.

  “Adios,” Sutton said to Bailey. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Take good care of yourself,” Bailey answered slowly. “Take right good care of yourself, Sutton…

  Bat Masterson fell in beside the marshal when he passed the Longhorn Corral, and he matched strides with Sutton and spoke in time with his tread.

  “Bailey just passed this way, Silent. He was packing a pair of saddlebags on his shoulder and wearing his hardware. He looked like he was leaving town, but to hell with Ordinance 6 at a time like this!”

  Sutton’s hand slapped down to his holster when a tall man stepped out from the shadows under the dripping water tank. He covered up the move smoothly and scratched his hip when he recognized Crail Creedon. The old Texan was excited as he pointed toward the holding corrals at the right of the bridge.

  “What you reckon, Silent?” he asked in a booming whisper. “Bailey just came boning down this away, and he routed out his holdup crew!”

  “I figure he’s had a change of heart,” Masterson spoke up. “Everybody knew that Percentage Parsons was a wide-looping rustler, and mebbe so his pard aims to play the game straight from here on out.”

  “I trailed you down here when you left the hotel, Silent,” Creedon admitted sheepishly, and he tapped the six-shooter in his holster. “You sort of f
igured Bailey had done for Rowdy Kate, the way she said it just before she cashed in her chips.”

  “I was wrong, Crail,” Sutton said quietly. “Percentage Parsons killed Kate, and Bailey squared up for her. How many men can you and Dollar-Sign count on in a pinch?” Creedon’s faded eyes lighted up.

  “We can lay hands on fifteen good trail hands come light,” he answered. “Give me time to ride the camps down along the river, and I could probably pick up a dozen more.”

  “It don’t lack long until daylight now,” Sutton said slowly, and he pulled the brim of his hat low to shade his eyes as a line of horsemen rode out from the corrals and clattered across the long toll bridge. “You get Sibley and sign on all the Texas men you can get, Crail,” he told the old cattleman. “I’ll meet you at the other end of the bridge about sunup.”

  Crail Creedon pulled on his longhorn mustaches and started for the plaza. Masterson watched Sutton for a moment and nodded his head. He could read all the signs, and he knew what was coming.

  “When you talk to Necktie Patton, put it this way, Silent,” he suggested. “Tell him the town is quiet now, and you want to take a little trip. You can make up the time when you get back, and Dodge City will need you worse then than it does right now.”

  Sutton nodded and started for the courtroom. Judge Bisley Jordan was sleeping on a long bench, but Necktie Patton was still guarding the door with his shotgun. He lowered the murderous weapon as Masterson and the marshal came into the big room.

  “I want some time off, mayor,” Sutton began slowly. “I might be gone close to three weeks.”

  “You can’t do it, Marshal,” Patton protested. “All the saddle-tramps in town would go on the prod the minute you rode out. Not only that, but you agreed to stay on the job for a month!”

  “I’ll take Silent’s place while he is away,” Masterson offered quietly. “Old Crail needs Silent right now, if him and Sibley are going to save their herds. Parsons’ owlhoot crew is driving the cattle toward Wichita, and you know what that means, now that Parsons is dead.”

  Judge Jordan turned and probed the face of the mayor with a searching glance. Necktie Pattern nodded to signify his assent.

  “Leave of absence granted for three weeks, Marshal, starting today,” the judge announced. “With the understanding that you serve the time agreed upon in your contract!”

  Sutton nodded and left the courtroom. He saddled his horse in the barn behind the Longhorn Corral, mounted like a working cowboy, and rode across the toll bridge with the rising sun at his back.

  Creedon and Sibley were dressed for the long trail, with scarred leather chaps on their legs, and brush coats tied behind their saddles. Creedon rode up and shook hands with his nephew.

  “You’re the trail-boss, Silent,” he said. “Give your day orders, and I can personally vouch for every man in the crew!”

  “We’re traveling fast today,” Sibley told Sutton. “Every man has cold meat and bread tied in his slicker-pack. I sent one of my chuck-wagons down the trail last week, and we ought to pick it up before noon tomorrow.”

  Sutton nodded and started to make his plans. Only the toughest horses were used on the long trail drives, and they would be at least seventy miles south of Dodge City by the time they overtook the Dollar-Sign wagon.

  Sutton nudged his stocky roan with a blunted spur, loped into the lead, and waved his left hand. The rolling prairie was covered with gramma grass and afilaree, and deep water-holes were plentiful. The cowboys were talking and joking among themselves, but Sutton seemed not to hear them as he made his plans.

  “The way I figure it,” Crail Creedon said thoughtfully, “our herds ought to be slanting north by east to hit the Arkansas River. They branched off at Cherokee Creek, and we sent a man ahead to hold Sibley’s wagon at the forks.”

  Sutton nodded and traced a map in his mind. The distance from Cherokee Creek to the Arkansas River was about seventy miles. Fifteen miles a day would be good time for any trail herd, and grass-fed steers brought poor prices unless they were well-fleshed.

  “Like as not they threw both herds together,” Sibley said. “There’s close to three thousand steers in each herd, and both outfits have their own chuck-wagon. We should catch them up before they hit the south bank of the Arkansas.”

  They stopped at a water-hole at noon, to rest the horses and eat cold meat sandwiches. Muddy swirls told that another group of riders had stopped to water their horses.

  “Bailey and his killers headed this way,” Creedon said to Sutton. “It’s my guess Bailey will meet the J Bar B herd and keep it heading toward Dodge.”

  It was late afternoon when the tired horses crossed a dry scrape and headed for a fringe of green alders that marked the north bank of Cherokee Creek. Sutton was the first to see a tiny dot leave the creek and start toward the bottom land. Creedon shaded his eyes and spoke jerkily.

  “That’s a running horse, Silent. Looks like a Texas man swinging a quirt, and we better ride down to meet him.”

  “I’ll stay with the boys,” Sibley offered, and Sutton nodded as he kicked his roan into a lope.

  “Big fellow with his right arm crippled,” Creedon muttered.

  “That’s Fist Maroney,” Sutton said briefly.

  “You whipped him your first day in Dodge, and he was one of Bailey’s men,” Creedon said slowly. “I don’t trust him too much, so I’ll keep him covered.”

  Maroney slowed his pace and waved his left hand. His face was covered with bruises made by Sutton’s fists, but Maroney grinned at Sutton with friendly eyes.

  “No hard feelings, Marshal,” he began. “I had it coming, and I owe you my life. The Dollar-Sign cooky sent me on to bend the lead to where he’s got the wagon hid in a thicket.”

  “What’s he hiding from, and how come you to be riding with the wagon?” Creedon asked suspiciously.

  “Sutton gave five of us a chance to ride out the night we jumped the law,” Maroney explained. “You could use a few more guns. Being Texas boys, we started for home, and then we met Skillet Johnson who rods the Dollar-Sign growler. We’ll help you and Sibley earn the grub we ate!”

  “Took, and from now on you and your pards are drawing fighting pay,” Creedon answered with a frosty smile. “You see anything of Bailey and his crew?”

  “I saw that gang through a pair of old field glasses,” Maroney admitted grimly. “That’s why Skillet Johnson hid the wagon in a thicket. We saw what happened yonder a ways where Percentage Parsons turned a trail herd toward Wichita, and we buried four Texas cowboys.”

  “When was that?” Creedon demanded harshly.

  “Three days ago,” Maroney answered. “Those boys were shot to pieces, and there must have been all of thirty men in that rustling crew, but they are going to miss Percentage Parsons.”

  “News travels fast in this Strip country,” Creedon remarked, and then he remembered the cowboy he had sent on ahead to hold the Dollar-Sign wagon. “I’ll ride back and tell the boys,” he suggested. “You and Silent go on to the wagon, and tell old Skillet Johnson to start burning some thick steaks.”

  Sutton rubbed stirrups with Maroney as they rode to Cherokee Creek. They put their horses to the water where the bottom was packed. A warp-legged old cowhand shouted at Sutton as they rode into a clearing.

  “Long time no see, Silent,” he said with a grin.

  Four sheepish-looking cowboys came out of the brush, and Sutton called each man by name.

  “You boys are all drawing fighting pay starting now,” he told them quietly. “We’re going to take over those two trail-herds Parsons rustled three days ago. It means fight, and some of us won’t ride back home to Texas.”

  Creedon and Sibley rode into the clearing and dismounted. Cowboys were taking down their lariats to picket their weary horses, and Creedon jerked his head at Maroney.

  “You’re one of us now, M
aroney,” Creedon began. “You used to run with the wild bunch. It might help some if you was to tell Sutton about Bailey and Parsons.”

  “There wasn’t much law in Dodge until Silent rode in,” Maroney said slowly. “Bailey bought enough cattle to make his front look good, and that gave him a chance to ship the stuff Parsons rustled. Bailey sold the beef cheap enough, and the buyers didn’t ask any questions.”

  “Looks like Silent made a white man out of you, Fist,” Creedon said with a friendly smile. “You’ve got a job on the C Bar C.”

  “I’m talking out of turn,” Maroney said, and he glanced at Sutton’s stern face. “You giving me the go-ahead, boss?” he asked Sutton.

  “Fly at it, pard,” Silent answered, and that one word made him a friend who would ride a straight trail.

  “You and Stud has a date in about three weeks,” Maroney began slowly. “I’ve seen you both work, and I’d have to flip a coin to decide where to lay my money. If Stud beats you to the shot, he means to get those three big spreads down in Texas and join them together. And Bailey likewise wants the colonel’s gal!”

  Sutton walked away and sat down by the wagon. Skillet Johnson served a hot meal, and the weary crew turned into their blankets. Sutton roused them up at day-break, and the old cooky had another hot meal ready. All hands were in the saddles as the sun slanted over the eastern rim of the horizon.

  By mid-morning they could see a heavy dust-cloud billowing up in the far eastern distance. Ten miles away, but the hoofs of six thousand longhorn steers sent up plenty of trail-sign.

  The crew lazed on the bunch grass during the afternoon, rolling and smoking spill-quirlies. Guns were oiled and double-checked, and there was no idle boasting. They watched Sutton as he loaded his Winchester rifle and pumped a shell into the breech.

  Thirty-five hard-faced Texans followed his example without speaking. Sutton tightened his cinchas and swung up in his saddle. As the crew followed his move, he waved his left hand for the go-ahead.