Susan stayed her hand and looked urgently at Big Bill’s back. The man had not moved a fraction of an inch. Contempt came into Susan’s face.
“This was too easy,” said Spick. “An Apache in his cradle could have figured out what you’d do, where you’d cross, how long it would take you. A squaw would have known that no posse would come over the border. And I don’t have to tell you that there’s no Mexican patrol that can’t be bought. That should demonstrate the superiority of brains over brawn, Bailey.”
“Are you going to . . . to kill him?” said Buster.
“Turn around, Bailey. I never shot a man in the back in my life.”
“Don’t!” screamed Susan.
Big Bill was turning around. A six-gun at fifty paces could not miss in the able hands of Spick Murphy and the six-gun was already cocked.
The Winchester swooped out of its boot as Big Bill spun, sun flashing from his cartridge belt, small swirls of dust shooting out from under his boots.
He got completely turned and the Winchester was coming up.
Spick fired with the cool deliberation of a marksman. The bullet kicked Big Bill back into the roan’s flank. The mount’s sudden start at both blow and shot knocked Big Bill forward and flat.
Spick’s second shot ricocheted from a stone beside Big Bill’s face.
And out of the curling dust blazed the Winchester.
Spick dropped his six-gun. He put both hands to his face and the blood came oozing through his fingers. He stood there, wavering, and Buster scuttled to one side. Unsteadily Spick took a pace forward, out over nothingness.
Slowly the dust settled again. The roan stopped a hundred feet away and looked wonderingly back, having stepped on his reins.
Susan leaped down and sped to Big Bill’s side but before she got there he was sitting up.
The stock of the Winchester was cleanly split and a long scarlet furrow ran up his shoulder.
Susan stopped when she saw he was all right and then reached down as though to help him to his feet. He shook her off and pulled himself over to a rock. Methodically he took off his silk neckerchief and began to bind his own shoulder with his hand and his teeth.
Buster scrambled down from his high perch and came running. “Gee! Gee, you were lucky! He hit your gun!”
Big Bill’s voice was muffled by his mouthful of silk but it was still matter-of-fact. “He never failed to shoot for the heart in his life. That ain’t luck, Buster.”
Susan had control of herself again and she clutched Buster to her, much against his liking. “How . . . how can I ever thank you?”
Big Bill looked sideways at her. “You remember your promise?”
She did. It jolted her. “I didn’t think . . .”
“It was a promise, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll . . . I’ll go through with it.”
“You’ll marry me because I made you say you would?”
“Yes . . . yes, I’ll . . . marry you.”
“You sound like those words choked you,” said Big Bill, patting his knot in place. “Well, they needn’t. Climb your horse and beat it back to your Pinta. I didn’t have any intention of holding you.”
Amazement, even relief, dawned upon her face as she crouched there beside Buster. “You mean you’ll release me from that promise?”
“Sure,” said Big Bill bitterly. “Sure I’ll release you. I’d pull up stakes and head for Cheyenne before I’d keep my part of it. I’d sell my spread for a plugged centavo before I’d ever call you my wife.”
The hardness in his voice brought her erect, angered her.
He went steadily on. “All you wanted from me was a favor. I suppose you’d have married Doyle or Con Mathews or anybody if they’d made you promise. If you had any self-respect you never would have consented, that’s a cinch. And now I know just how much you think you’re worth. I know just where I stand with you. Well, I don’t admire the answer, Miss Susan Price, and I wouldn’t have the likes of you with ten thousand beeves thrown in to boot. Now get on your horse and get out of here, I’m sick of looking at you.”
“You . . . you knew you wouldn’t go through with this from the first?”
“Shut up and get out of my sight,” said Big Bill. “You make me sick. I’ll recover the money and the horses. Go on! Beat it!”
She did not move. She stood and shook with the violence of her anger. “You . . . you did this to make me look cheap!”
“That’s what you are. Cheap! You aren’t worth fighting for. You’re fickle and you’re dumb and you haven’t got a lick of sense in that pretty head of yours. I let myself be on call to you for years but that’s through. I never want to see you again, but if I do I’ll quirt you. Now get out.”
Still she did not move. The bandage had slipped when he had waved his arm toward her horse and he winced as he restored it.
“You don’t mean that, Big Bill.”
“Mean it? Hell, yes, I mean it. You made a fool out of me for a damned bandit and that’s enough of a dose for anybody to take for any kind of a cure. Well, I’m cured. For years I’ve been tipping my hat and saying ‘Yes, ma’am to a woman that didn’t rate a slap from a sheepherder. You figured you were doing me a hell of a big favor to promise me you’d marry me. Well, by God, I wouldn’t have you around my house if you came with more gold than you could carry. Get out!”
She stepped closer to him. “You . . . you don’t mean that, Big Bill.”
“Mean it? Hell, yes, I mean it! This shoulder is making me sick enough without having to look at you.” He started up but the effort shifted the bandage again and he sank back, pain in his eyes.
“You need me,” she said softly. “Don’t send me away. Here, let me tie—”
“Keep your hands off me!” cried Big Bill. “I’d bleed to death before I’d let you touch me.”
But she did touch him. She untied his clumsy knot and fixed the tourniquet right, winding it up with a rifle bullet.
He glared at her. Buster looked on in shocked amazement. He had never seen his sister that humbled before.
Big Bill suffered the treatment and apparently decided to let her stick around for the moment.
“Go get my horse,” he said gruffly.
She went and got his horse.
“Now scramble around up there and find his camp and saddle his horses and get that money he had. Go on. Snap into it.”
She went away and a half-hour later came back with the mounts.
Very sternly he said, “All right. Give me a hand while I mount and we’ll get going.”
She gave him a hand and let him ride up the trail ahead of her as she and Buster led the rest of the string.
Big Bill turned around in his saddle with a terrifying glare. “We’re going right on into San Carlos.”
“Yes,” said Susan.
“And we’ll get there before dark if we push along. So don’t lag.”
“Yes, Big Bill.”
“And when we get there, don’t go wandering off anyplace before I can find the justice of the peace. Understand? You’ll spend tonight out at my ranch and as long as you behave yourself and quit monkeying around with bandits, you can stay. Do you get that?”
“Yes, Big Bill,” said Susan.
Story Preview
NOW that you’ve just ventured through some of the captivating tales in the Stories from the Golden Age collection by L. Ron Hubbard, turn the page and enjoy a preview of The Toughest Ranger. Join gun-shy cowboy Petey McGuire, who’s been kicked around all of his life. Faced with starvation, he bluffs his way into a job with the rough-n’-tumble Arizona Rangers. But when he’s chosen to hunt the most dangerous desperado in the state, Petey’s forced to discover what it really means to be Ranger-tough.
The Toughest Ranger
HE did not know how far he went as his legs were numb and walking, mechanical. But when he looked up he was on the outskirts of a small pueblo. The biggest building in it was a fort-like ’dobe structure which presente
d an arched gate to the road. There was a sign about that gate: “THE ARIZONA RANGERS.”
Petey stopped, hardly seeing the sign at all. In this town, he knew, he could swab out a bar for food. He could clean up a stable. . . .
But Pat had to have shoes and oats and a few weeks’ rest.
He turned and looked at the weary little cow pony who didn’t even raise his head. Pat pushed ahead a staggering step and shoved his muzzle into Petey’s chest.
“Yeah,” said Petey. “Yeah. I know. I’m hungry too.”
He went toward a saloon and wrapped Pat’s reins about the hitchrack. Petey stepped through the doors and into the dim interior.
The bartender was a thick-jowled fellow, shining up glasses. He took one look at Petey and marked him for what he was—saddle tramp.
“Beat it,” said the bartender before Petey had spoken. “We got a swamper. There ain’t no room in Cristobal for saddle tramps.”
“Look,” pleaded Petey.
“Yeah, but you better do the lookin’. Captain Shannon locks up every man that can’t pay his way. He’s cleanin’ up the country, see? He’s tough, the toughest Ranger in the state and you better take my tip. Beat it.”
“You mean . . . you mean just because I’m broke he’d lock me up?” said Petey.
“Well? Why not?”
A chill of terror shook Petey. He turned around and went out into the street. He stopped with Pat’s reins in his hand and stared at the big ’dobe building which was marked with the sign: “THE ARIZONA RANGERS.”
He knew what he faced. If they locked him up, Pat . . . He hadn’t realized until now how shabby Pat looked after a thousand miles. They wouldn’t take care of Pat.
But he couldn’t go on. No, he couldn’t take to the desert again. That way lay death. And here was death for Pat.
His hand was shaking as he pulled his hat brim down. He had no solution for this. Captain Shannon was tough, toughest Ranger in the state. . . .
Petey swallowed hard.
If Pat . . .
Suddenly he wanted to hit somebody, anybody. He wanted to lash out and slay these ghosts which had stalked him for twenty-four years. His rage began to mount.
They had no right to do this to him. No right to kill Pat by loosing him on the waterless desert. Pat needed care!
Suddenly Petey McGuire felt cold. His wits felt like crystal in his head. He was not shaking. He had felt himself grow taller and the experience did not even surprise him. His young face was set and his blue eyes were suddenly hard.
They couldn’t kill Pat.
And he knew what he could do.
It was an amazingly brazen idea.
Without any volition of his own he found himself leading Pat across the road and to the ’dobe fort’s gate.
Petey was without any fear of anything. He was five times bigger than the sentry.
Maybe it was the sun. Maybe it was starvation. Maybe it was the thought of losing his only friend.
But Petey snapped at the leather-faced sentry, “Where’s Shannon?”
He did not recognize his own voice.
The sentry jerked his thumb toward another archway within. Petey, leading Pat, went toward it.
He could see a man beyond. That must be Shannon. A granite boulder behind a desk.
Half of Petey was suddenly scared to death. But the other half of him would not stop walking. He dropped Pat’s reins and stalked into the office with a careless, impudent swagger.
Captain Shannon looked up, annoyed, starting to stamp the caller by his dusty, torn clothing.
But Petey was without fear now. Nothing could stop Petey. Not even himself.
“M’name’s McGuire,” said Petey in a challenging tone. “Petey McGuire. You’ve heard of me.”
Shannon started to make a biting remark, but Petey rushed on without any help from Petey.
“Petey McGuire. From Kansas City to N’Orleans, what I say goes. I’m so tough I’d give a rattler nightmares. You’re Shannon and I hear you need tough guys. Well, you ain’t got anybody around here that’d stand up to me.”
“I don’t think . . .” began Shannon sarcastically.
“Hell! You trying to tell me you never heard of Petey McGuire? G’wan, I ain’t in no mood for telling funny stories. Where’s my badge and where’s my bunk? And don’t take all day about it!”
Petey was scared down. He was so scared he expected Shannon to leap at him across that battered desk.
But Shannon looked at a dusty, hard-faced, reckless fellow with a twisted grin on his mouth and a swagger in the way he stood.
Shannon was taken not a little aback. He knew his own reputation and now that he was getting old he was guarding it. He had reasons. He had made enemies in his day. And this tough-talking kid had more brass than anybody Shannon had seen for many a year. Shannon’s reputation was such as to demand respect. And here was a young whippersnapper . . .
Shannon got up and came around the desk. He was taller than Petey by half a foot and heavier by fifty pounds.
With malice, Shannon said, “So you’re tough, are you, sonny?”
Petey startled himself by bristling, “The name’s McGuire. Petey McGuire, and if you ain’t heard of me you don’t know nothin’. Where’s the badge and the bunk?”
Shannon scratched his jaw and squinted up a cold, gray eye. He was amused. But now was not the time. Oh, no. He could read this kid like a book. Youngster putting on a front and nothing more and when the guns began to go . . .
Shannon had a sense of humor.
“Hunter will show you the bunk. We’ll see about you later.”
To find out more about The Toughest Ranger and how you can obtain your copy, go to www.goldenagestories.com.
Glossary
STORIES FROM THE GOLDEN AGE reflect the words and expressions used in the 1930s and 1940s, adding unique flavor and authenticity to the tales. While a character’s speech may often reflect regional origins, it also can convey attitudes common in the day. So that readers can better grasp such cultural and historical terms, uncommon words or expressions of the era, the following glossary has been provided.
alkali: a powdery white mineral that salts the ground in many low places in the West. It whitens the ground where water has risen to the surface and gone back down.→ to text
allus: always. → to text
Arizona Rangers: a group of mounted lawmen organized in 1901 to protect the Arizona Territory from outlaws and rustlers so that the Territory could apply for statehood. They were picked from officers, military men, ranchers and cowboys. With maximum company strength of twenty-six men, they covered the entire territory.→ to text
Battle of the Marne: the name of a battle of World War I that took place near the Marne River in northeastern France in the summer of 1918. It was there the US 3rd Division joined British and French forces to stop the advance of the Germans into France. In two scorching hot days of bloody, hand-to-hand fighting, the US 3rd Division proved themselves to be brave and aggressive and helped to tip the balance of power in favor of the Allied forces. → to text
batwings: long chaps (leather leggings the cowboy wears to protect his legs) with big flaps of leather. They usually fasten with rings and snaps.→ to text
beeves: plural of beef, an adult cow, steer or bull raised for its meat.→ to text
border roll: to spin a gun, with the forefinger slipped through the trigger guard, so that the gun butt is spun back into the palm of the hand, ready to fire.→ to text
border shift: the throwing of a gun from one hand to the other, catching, cocking and, if need be, firing it without seeming to pause.→ to text
buckaroo: a cowboy of the West known for great horsemanship and horse-training techniques. Buckaroos distinguish themselves by their open-crowned hats with short flat brims, silk scarves, chinks (shorter leather chaps), high-heeled boots, dark wool vests and white, long-sleeved, button-down shirts.→ to text
buckboard: an open four-wheeled horse-d
rawn carriage with the seat or seats mounted on a flexible board between the front and rear axles.→ to text
bull’s-eye lantern: a lantern with one or more sides of bulging glass. Dark until it was suddenly switched on by opening its door, it focused its light to some extent.→ to text
bulldogger: one who bulldogs, to throw a calf or steer by seizing the horns and twisting its neck until the animal loses its balance and falls.→ to text
chaw: a wad of chewing tobacco.→ to text
chute: a passage between fences or rails, sometimes narrowing, in which horses or cattle are driven into rodeo arenas, corrals, onto trucks, etc.→ to text
Colt: a single-action, six-shot cylinder revolver, most commonly available in .45- or .44-caliber versions. It was first manufactured in 1873 for the Army by the Colt Firearms Company, the armory founded by American inventor Samuel Colt (1814–1862) who revolutionized the firearms industry with the invention of the revolver. The Colt, also known as the Peacemaker, was also made available to civilians. As a reliable, inexpensive and popular handgun among cowboys, it became known as the “cowboy’s gun” and a symbol of the Old West.→ to text
concha: a disk, traditionally of hammered silver and resembling a shell or flower, used as a decoration piece on belts, harnesses, etc.→ to text
Cordilleras: a mountain system in the West, including the Sierra Nevada, Coast Range, Cascade Range and Rocky Mountains.→ to text
Curly Bill Spin: used when handing a gun over to someone. As the gun is handed over, butt first, the forefinger is slipped through the trigger guard and the gun butt is spun back into the palm of the hand, ready to fire; so named because Curly Bill Graham, a nineteenth-century outlaw, used this maneuver to kill a marshal during an attempted arrest.→ to text
’dobe: short for adobe; a building constructed with sun-dried bricks made from clay.→ to text
dogs and children: referring to the old saying that one cannot fool dogs and children: “If dogs and children like you, then you must be okay.”→ to text
dons: Spanish gentlemen or aristocrats.→ to text
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