There wasn’t a building up and down either side of the single street of the little cowtown that Doyle hadn’t worked on at one time or another. The sheriff had repaired leaking roofs, strengthened steps and porches, fixed doors and windows so they opened and closed easily, braced false fronts on buildings so they wouldn’t blow down in a high wind, and had duly received the thanks of the local citizens for his labors.
Of course there were a few crabby souls who said it would probably be better for the town and the surrounding country if Sheriff Bill Doyle would do less sawing and more lawing. The peace-officer was big and young, wore two guns, and wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone.
For the last six months the town and the surrounding range had been so quiet that there seemed no need for the law. Not a man had been robbed, no cattle had been stolen, no banks had been held up. It was all too peaceful and dull for Doyle, according to his deputy’s way of thinking.
“If things keep on like this my conscience is goin’ to bother me,” Jud Hill complained one hot August morning, as the two men sat in the sheriff’s office. “The wages the county has been paying us for doin’ nothing makes me feel plumb guilty.” The corpulent deputy’s chair creaked under his weight as he moved restlessly. “Shucks, there ain’t even anything much left for you to repair around town, Bill.”
“Martin Gleason was tellin’ me just last night that the porch roof of the bank leaks a little.” Doyle was sitting in the doorway of the office, idly watching a horseman who was galloping up the street. Hill was inside, next to the desk. “Reckon I could do some work on that. We get any mail on the westbound stage this mornin’?”
“Just some ‘wanted’ notices,” Hill said sleepily, and yawned. “Who’s that on the hoss, Bill? Anybody we know?”
“Don’t recognize the hoss,” said the sheriff. “Or the rider either. Seems like he’s in a hurry to get where he’s goin’. He’s ridin’ fast for a hot day.
“Maybe somethin’ has happened,” he said hopefully. “And that jasper is looking for the Law.”
From the alley between the blacksmith shop and the feed and grain store at the south end of the town a gun roared. The man on the big bay horse reeled in the saddle as a bullet struck him.
* * * *
Doyle leaped to his feet, while back in the office Hill rose from his chair with surprising speed for a fat man. The deputy reached the door and stood beside Doyle, staring up the street.
The man on the horse dropped his reins, grabbed for the saddle horn and missed, then slid off the horse and hit the dust of the street with a thud. The bay snorted and moved a little distance away with reins dragging. The man lay motionless.
Doyle ran toward the man with Hill close behind him, both with drawn guns. It was the sheriff who reached the alley first. He peered in warily. There was no sign of anyone in the alley.
“The ambusher got away,” the sheriff said to Hill. “Let’s see how bad that hombre is hurt.”
They holstered their guns and went to the still form lying in the dust. A glance told them the man was dead. He’d been shot through the heart by a bullet that had entered his back.
Up and down the street, citizens of Brimstone were hurrying to the spot. In the lead of a group of men came Martin Gleason, the local banker. He was a tall, thin man with a perpetual frown on his face, and he always wore store clothes.
“Is he dead, Sheriff?” Gleason demanded. “Did you see who shot him?”
“Somebody hidin’ in there dropped him as he went past,” Doyle nodded toward the alley. “Neither me nor Jud could see who it was.”
The sheriff went through the dead man’s pockets, seeking to identify the victim. He drew out a letter. It was addressed to Lem Kerry, at a town ten miles north of Brimstone.
“Looks like his name was Lem Kerry.” Doyle glanced at the men around him. “Anybody ever hear of him?”
“Not me,” said Gleason. The other men also shook their heads. “Wonder why he was killed?”
“That’s somethin’ I mean to find out,” said Doyle.
At the sheriff’s orders some of the men carried the body down the street to the undertaker’s establishment. The dead man’s horse was turned over to the livery stable keeper. As the excitement died down, the crowd drifted away. In a few moments the two lawmen and the banker were standing alone in front of the sheriff’s office.
“About that leaky roof on the bank porch,” Gleason said. “Think you’ll get a chance to fix it soon, Bill?”
“Guess so.” The sheriff’s mind at the moment, was engrossed with more important things. “I’ll get at it in the next day or so, Martin.”
“Good!” The banker turned away, heading along the plank walk toward the Brimstone Bank. “See you later,” he called back over his shoulder. “Hope you get that drygulcher.”
Doyle sauntered back to his office, followed by Hill. As the sheriff installed himself at his desk, the stout deputy sank wearily into a chair. He had been moving too fast for comfort. Lazily he grinned at the sheriff, “What was in that letter, Bill?” he asked. “I noticed yuh didn’t tell the crowd anything about that, Bill.”
The sheriff handed the envelope to Hill. The deputy drew out the paper it contained. His eyes widened with surprise.
“Why this is a hand-drawn map of Brimstone,” he said. “Shows every building along the street, and about everything else around here.” Hill frowned and looked at the sheriff. “What do you make of it?”
“That you can stop worryin’ about things bein’ so danged peaceful,” said Doyle grimly. “That map means trouble! It’s signed, too, yuh’ll notice.”
“Why trouble,” demanded Hill.
“Suppose a smart bunch of outlaws figgered on robbin’ the Brimstone Bank,” said the sheriff. “A map of the town like that, showin’ every building land alley, would shore be a help.”
“Uh-huh.” Hill nodded. “But if Lem Kerry was one of them outlaws, why was he killed?”
“That’s a question I ain’t answerin’ yet,” said Doyle. “But maybe I’ll tell you in time, Jud.”
They talked over the situation. As they were both experienced lawmen, they had wasted no time searching the town for the killer. If it had been one of the local men who shot Kerry, there was no way of proving it, and if it had been a stranger he had probably made his escape, unseen.
* * * *
By late in the afternoon the town had grown far more active. A ranch wagon was being loaded at the general store. The ringing of the blacksmith’s anvil indicated that he was busy. People were wandering up and down the plank walks on either side of the street.
From the sheriff’s office Doyle and Hill watched six men ride into town and tie their horses at the hitching rail in front of the Brimstone Saloon. They were all dust covered and their horses showed signs of long travel. They looked and acted like a trail drive crew, but there were times when the two lawmen had suspicious natures.
“All strangers,” was Doyle’s comment. “My folks told me to never trust strangers.”
“Which proves yuh been raised right,” said Hill. “Them fellers ain’t no trail drive crew. If they was, at least a couple of them would be ridin’ hosses with the same brand.”
The sheriff grinned. “Yuh’re an observin’ cuss, Jud. Every brand on those hosses is different.” He got up slowly and shook his belts. “Mebbe we better walk down to the saloon and look those gents over. Mebbe they like to draw maps.”
“One more mebbe and yuh’ll be full of ’em,” said Hill. “Let’s go.”
In a casual manner they strolled down to the saloon. As they stepped in through the swinging doors, Doyle saw there were quite a few men in the place. The six strangers were lined up at the bar, drinking quietly. In the sheriff’s estimation they were a salty looking bunch. A heavy-set, bald-headed man appear
ed to be their leader.
“Yes, sir,” he suddenly announced to the world at large. “Me, I’ve handled a lot of trail herds, but I never run across a worse bunch of critters than we just finished driving to the railroad. And let me pause to remark there ain’t a better trail boss anywhere than Jack Crawford. which is me.”
Doyle moved into a place at the bar near Crawford and ordered a drink. The sheriff glanced at the bald-head man and smiled.
“Sounds like yore outfit has been havin’ a tough drive,” said the sheriff. “Come far?”
“Too far, if you ask me,” said Crawford. “Close to a hundred miles. It took us three weeks.”
The sheriff merely nodded. He knew that an average trail herd usually traveled around twelve or fifteen miles a day. If it had taken Crawford three weeks to drive a herd a hundred miles then, in Doyle’s estimation, they had been traveling mighty slow.
“Any excitement around this town?” Crawford asked, when he discovered the sheriff didn’t appear much interested in the subject of trail drives. “Seems right peaceful-like now.”
“We had a little excitement earlier today,” Doyle said. “Feller got shot and killed.”
“That so?” Crawford looked intently at the sheriff. “Who was it and how did it happen?”
“Stranger named Lem Kerry was riding into town,” said Doyle. “Somebody ambushed him. Hid in an alley along the street and shot Kerry in the back.”
“That so?” said Crawford. “Well, seein’ as I didn’t know Kerry I can’t get very excited about it.” The trail boss glanced at his men. “Let’s get ridin’, boys. We ought to be gettin’ back to camp.”
The six men finished their drinks and quietly drifted out of the saloon. Not one of the five argued with Crawford about leaving. For a trail drive crew long away from towns, they seemed surprisingly willing to obey orders, particularly since they had finished their job and were due for relaxation. Sheriff Doyle remembered it was the custom of many outfits to pay off the men at the end of a drive. They could either drift back to the ranch or take a job somewhere else if they desired.
Just why the six men should be still camping outside of the town somewhere when they apparently had delivered the herd to the railroad was something Doyle thought remarkable indeed.
Hill joined him at the bar as the sheriff finished his drink. The deputy had been standing further along the counter talking to a couple of Crawford’s men before the trail herd crew had left. The two lawmen paid for their drinks and left the saloon.
“If that bunch is a trail herd crew then I’m George Washington,” said Jud Hill, as he walked along the street beside the sheriff. “I asked them two some questions about cattle, and they shore wasn’t tellin’ much.”
“Neither was Crawford, their trail boss,” said Doyle. He yawned “I’m gettin’ hungry. Let’s eat supper, Jud.”
* * * *
The early part of the evening passed without anything important happening. The saloon closed around midnight and shortly after that the sheriff and the deputy, who had rooms in the Brimstone Hotel, called it an evening and went to bed.
Bill Doyle slept soundly and was up early the next morning. After eating breakfast and visiting his office where the deputy already was in charge, he got his tool box and headed for the bank.
The Brimstone Bank was a box-like two story building with a roof over the porch. Doyle went into the bank and up the stairs to the second floor. He opened a window and climbed out onto the porch roof.
He found there was a place where the tar paper on the roof was worn thin. This was the spot where the roof leaked in rainy weather. Doyle was sure of it.
“Reckon I’ll have to get a roll of tar paper from the general store,” he muttered. “Then I can fix it right.”
He stepped back in through the window, then turned and glanced out as he heard hoofbeats. Six riders came tearing into town at a gallop. They all had bandanna masks hiding the lower part of their faces and each man carried a gun in one hand while he handled the reins with the other.
“Bandits!” exclaimed the sheriff. “Thought somethin’ like this was going to happen.”
As they reached the center of the town, the six horsemen spread out. One man rode back in the direction from which he had come—then halted his horse and sat in saddle, warily watching the buildings on either side of the street.
A second man stationed himself further along the street in the opposite direction. The other four men halted their mounts in front of the bank. Three of them swung out of their saddles, handing their reins to the fourth man who remained on his horse.
As the three bandits started into the bank, Doyle stepped out onto the roof of the bank porch. He crouched down and managed to reach the edge of the roof without being seen by the men in the street below. The sheriff guns were in his hands, hammers drawn back.
Two of the bandits had reached the door of the bank. The third man paused and fired at something he saw up the street. Then he saw Doyle.
“It’s the sheriff!” he yelled. “I’ll get him.”
He lifted his smoking weapon, but before he could shoot again, sheriff’s guns were roaring. One bullet knocked the hat off the masked man’s head revealing the fact he was bald. A second shot caught him in the chest and Jack Crawford dropped to the dust of the street.
Jud Hill came out of the sheriff’s office with a Winchester in his hands. The stout deputy was a crack-shot with a rifle. He raised the gun to his shoulder and fired just as the bandit who had been holding the horses raised his Colt to bring down the sheriff on the roof. The bullet from the Winchester knocked the horse-holder out of his saddle.
“All right, Sheriff,” yelled Hill. “We’ve got them.”
The two men who had been on guard at either end of the street were also having trouble. Angry citizens of the town had begun shooting at them from the buildings.
They tried to fight back but went down under a hail of lead.
The last two outlaws came running out of the bank without even attempting to get money from the place. From the roof Doyle shot one man in the leg and the other in the arm.
“Don’t shoot any more,” shouted the bandit with the wounded arm. “I quit.”
“So do I,” moaned the other man. He sat down on the plank walk and tried to bandage his leg wound. “Get a doctor.” Bill Doyle holstered his guns and dropped down off the roof. Martin Gleason appeared from inside the bank. The banker was smiling.
“Looks like you were in the right place at the right time, Sheriff,” Gleason said. “You and Hill sure know how to clean up bank robbers in a hurry.”
“Told Crawford we were fools to try robbin’ the bank this morning,” muttered the man with the wounded man. “I done told him so. I was right.”
On the street Crawford groaned and moved weakly. It was obvious that the big bald-headed man did not have long to live.
“You were smarter than I thought, Sheriff,” he gasped as Doyle pulled away the disguising handkerchief. “Figgered me and the boys fooled yuh with that trail drive talk last night.”
“You didn’t fool me any,” said Doyle. “For a trail herd crew, you and yore men shore made mistakes.” He gazed at the leader of the outlaws. “I also know that you killed Lem Kerry before he could double-cross yuh by tellin’ me you and yore bunch planned to rob the bank.”
“How did yuh know that?” asked Crawford weakly.
“By the map that Kerry was carryin’, said the sheriff. “The initials J. C. was on the back of that map.”
“Huh?” said Hill, as the deputy now stood beside the sheriff. “I didn’t see any initials on the back of that map.”
“I thought yuh did,” said Doyle. “That’s why I said the map meant trouble and was signed, too.”
“You’re smart, Sheriff,” said Gleason.
“Mighty glad I asked you to fix the bank porch roof. You’re a handy man to have around!”
“Too blamed handy,” muttered Jack Crawford as he shuddered and then grew still.
* * * *
THE JAIL-PROOF OUTLAW, by T. W. Ford
CHAPTER I
A Mysterious Shadow
The new prisoner riled Sheriff “Smoke” Curtis, and the lawman didn’t try to hide his displeasure. An ordinary horsethief was just a plumb nuisance when he had a famous outlaw like “Slip” Brunnermann behind bars—Brunnermann, the outlaw-killer whom bullets couldn’t slay nor bars hold.
Nothing else in the world was important to Curtis now except keeping Brunnermann and the others of his bunch locked up till the circuit judge came in next week. After that, it wouldn’t be long until the lobo would be dancing on air with a rope around his neck. And when the renowned “Hellfire” Sells, the U. S. marshal, sloped in, Curtis could greet him with a puzzled smile and casually inform him they’d taken care of Brunnermann.
The deputy from Brand County, who had brought in the horsethief, spoke with an apologetic air.
“If yuh could just hold him till I go and pick up his saddle pard—I wounded him too—I’d sure appreciate it.” The deputy from up-state was a gawky, raw-boned man with a face so hot-red it looked as if he were constantly blushing. He fingered his battered lawman’s badge nervously. “I know you got a cuartel here that ain’t leaky.”
“The Wagon Wheel jailhouse is danged near as escape-proof as State Prison itself!” snapped Curtis.
Sheriff Curtis was one of those big, slouching men, sloping-shouldered, and thick around the middle. He looked as if he was toting a lot of suet and as if he was sluggish in the bargain. Actually, Curtis was all tough beef and bull-like muscle, a brute for punishment, and tough-minded as well. When he whiffed the skunk sweat of a law-breaker, he simply waded in behind a screen of gun-smoke, heedless of his own personal safety, a rampaging brute.
The Third Western Megapack Page 41