Marble Range

by Robert J. Horton

  Bannister frowned. “You came near running me down,” he accused. He could hardly keep his eyes off the horse.

  The youth laughed again as the liveryman came hurrying for his mount. “Mike wouldn’t run anybody down,” he said. “You needn’t have moved.” Then to the liveryman: “Take good care of him. I’ll be in till day after tomorrow.”

  With a wave of his hand to Bannister, he was off.

  “Who’s that kid?” Bannister asked the liveryman.

  “That’s Howard Marble,” the man drawled. “He’s pretty wild now, but he’ll get tamed in time.”

  “Marble?” said Bannister. “Any relation to the Half Diamond outfit?”

  “He’s Florence Marble’s cousin. Lives out there. She thinks he’s the candy, sugar-coated, an’ lets him run. That’s what’s the matter with him. But he’s a good kid at that.”

  Bannister had been struck by the boy’s riding, his free and easy manner, his sparkling eyes and display of exuberant youth. Perhaps in Howard Marble he saw the reflection of what he had been himself at eighteen. “He’ll break his neck or kill his horse one of these days,” he muttered to himself.

  * * * * *

  The premature celebration got under way full blast early in the morning. And this day Bannister played for high stakes. Deputy Van Note followed him from resort to resort, still suspicious. As he had no regular assignment, but was simply ordered to keep looking around, he could do this. He saw Bannister go into several games and emerge a substantial winner.

  About 10:00 that night Bannister saw Howard Marble again. It was in The Three Feathers. The youth was at the bar and it was all too evident that he had been imbibing freely of the vile liquor that was being served. His face was flushed, his voice loud but lacking the wholesome ring that had characterized it that morning. Also he was engaged in some sort of argument with a short, dark-faced man, beady-eyed, thin, who spoke with a queer accent.

  “If you haven’t got enough room at this bar, go somewhere else,” the boy was saying.

  Bannister moved down toward them.

  “Where would you say I go?” the little man purred.

  “You can go to blazes for all of me!” Howard cried.

  Bannister could see the bartender shaking his head vigorously at the youth. He moved closer.

  “You are the brave little boy,” the dark-faced man said. “But you need go home now. You no talk good. Maybe you go somewhere else.”

  His eyes had narrowed, and Bannister saw that several wanted to interfere, but something held them back. What was this? Were they going to stand around and see the youth get into trouble because they were afraid of the small man? And Bannister’s experienced eye showed him that this man had been drinking, too. But he was holding his liquor well, so far as outward appearances indicated.

  “Why, you confounded little shrimp, if you don’t move, I’ll pick you up an’ carry you out!” sang the boy, rising to his full height of six feet.

  “Ah!” The little man’s tone might have signified delight. “The bold little baby-face.” Quick as a cat he leaped and struck Howard across the mouth. His laugh was like a cold wind suddenly sweeping into the place.

  Howard’s face went red, then white. His hand darted to his gun. But instantly it was grasped in a grip of iron as Bannister leaped. In that moment—the wink of an eye—Bannister’s gun was at his hip, leveled at the little man whose eyes darted fire into his own.

  “Take your hand off that gun!” Bannister’s words rang like a clash of steel through that room of silence.

  The beady, black eyes narrowed to slits through which blue fire gleamed. “It is good,” came the soft, purring voice. “You save the life of the baby-face and I save yours.” His hand came away from his weapon and he turned to the bar with another laugh.

  “You come with me,” said Bannister sternly to the boy. And still gripping him with his left hand he led him out of the place.

  Howard went willingly enough. He was sobered by the swift-moving drama in which he had participated. He realized that the man at his side had probably saved his life. For the little man’s move had been lightning fast. He hadn’t seen this new-found friend draw at all. His gun had appeared in his hand as if by magic. He looked at Bannister respectfully.

  “Listen, kid,” said Bannister, “drunk or sober, I take it that you’ve got more nerve than brains. That fellow in there is a gunman. I can tell the breed a mile away. You missed a slug of hot lead by a hair.”

  “I’m sure much obliged to you, old-timer,” said the boy contritely.

  “In that case I wish you’d show it by going to the hotel, or wherever you’re stopping, and stay there till tomorrow,” said Bannister. “And tomorrow I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  “Well . . . all right,” said Howard reluctantly. “I’ll go up to the hotel.”

  Bannister walked with him up the street to see that he kept his word.

  Five minutes later Deputy Van Note was pounding his fist on the sheriff’s desk. “What’d I tell you!” he cried. “That fellow who calls himself Bannister may be a gambler, which I happen to know he is. But he’s a whole lot more than that. I came into The Three Feathers a few minutes back just in time to see it. He threw his gun on Le Beck . . . on Le Beck, understand . . . and he beat him to the draw.”

  Chapter Three

  In a town such as Prairie City, where horses furnish the common means of transportation, the liveryman is pretty apt to know just about everything as to what’s going on and who’s who. Therefore, on this occasion, Bannister turned to this source of information. He described the appearance of the small man in The Three Feathers with whom Howard Marble had clashed, but before he had finished the liveryman interrupted him: “That’s Le Beck,” he said with conviction. “He’s bad medicine. Gunfighter. Sure-fire shot. Killer, too. Comes from up north somewhere an’ don’t get in here often or stay long. But he’s been here over a week this time.”

  “Where does he get that accent from?” asked Bannister.

  “French-Canadian, I guess,” was the reply. “People don’t know much about him, except that he’s dynamite an’ a good hombre to stay away from.”

  Bannister walked out of the barn with a thoughtful look on his face. From what little he had heard, when he entered the resort, he surmised that the trouble between Howard and the gunman had arisen over crowding at the bar. He didn’t doubt at all but that Le Beck would have shot down the youth. He would have permitted the boy to draw first and then claimed self-defense. Plain as a mule’s ears. The thought in Bannister’s mind now was whether Le Beck would go gunning for him. He smiled grimly and walked down to The Three Feathers.

  Le Beck still was in the place. He was playing cards. He paid no attention whatsoever to Bannister, although almost everyone else in the place did. Bannister resumed his play. Only once during the rest of the night did their glances clash. And on this occasion Bannister read the message in Le Beck’s eyes and caught its significance. But he shot a message back. Men of the lightning draw talk with their eyes.

  Bannister played until dawn, and as a result he didn’t get up until noon. When he went downstairs, he found Howard Marble in the dining room. The boy smiled and beckoned to him to come to his table. Bannister hung his hat on a hook and sat down.

  “You look better this morning, or noon, than you did last night,” Bannister observed.

  “Had a good sleep,” said Howard. “The stuff they peddle out around here is great stuff to sleep on.”

  “Well, that’s all it’s good for then,” Bannister grunted. He gave his order and leaned his elbows on the table. “I’m no veteran now,” he said slowly, “but when I was your age I was just as big a fool as you are . . . almost. I guess that’s why I took a fancy to you. But you’re playing the wrong end of the game.”

  Howard appeared to resent this. “I was a little excited,” he said with a slight frown. “The white stuff hits me quick.”

  “Then quit it,” said Bannister shar
ply. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to lecture you, although I have the right. Do you know who it was you ran up against last night?” The boy nodded. “Well, then, I reckon you know he’d have bored you quick as light. Did you know who he was when you got tangled up with him?”

  “I . . . I found out who he was this morning,” replied the youth sheepishly.

  “Then you know the chance you took, and every man in there was scared to interfere or even say a word out loud, so . . .”

  “But you wasn’t,” Howard interrupted with a look of admiration. “Everybody’s talking about you, Mister Bannister.”

  Bannister shook his head impatiently. “No, I wasn’t,” he said with some irritation. “I can throw a gun and make no bones about it. But if I’d been drinking, you’d be in Kingdom Come this minute. I started out when I was a kid the same way you’ve been going. I was hitting up the hard stuff and every time I slipped a few under my belt I thought I had the world by the ears. Then one night I got mixed up just about the same as you did last night, only not with so fast a man. It ended in gun play. He missed me, but I didn’t miss him. Call it luck, for that’s what it was. But it left me so cold sober that I was like a cake of ice. It’s mighty serious business, Howard, killing a man. I’ve been through a lot since then and I’ve never taken a drink.”

  The boy was listening, wide-eyed, impressed.

  “Now, Marble,” Bannister went on, “you owe me something. You . . .”

  “I know I do!” Howard exclaimed.

  “Don’t interrupt me,” said Bannister crisply. “As I say, you owe me something, and I want you to pay it. It’s a promise. I want you to promise me that you’ll never take another drink.”

  The youth sat silently, fingering his fork and looking at the tablecloth, while Bannister watched him keenly. Then he looked up and smiled. “All right, Mister Bannister,” he said in a clear, sincere voice, “I give you my promise.”

  Bannister held out a hand. “A mighty good night’s work for you and for me,” he said earnestly.

  “I wish we had somebody like you out at the ranch,” said Howard as Bannister turned to his meal.

  Bannister made no reply to this. Howard remained until the meal was finished and then they went into the lobby. Deputy Van Note was there waiting. He approached Bannister, and Howard moved away.

  “Ah, Bannister,” said Van Note, “the sheriff wants to see you a minute.”

  Instantly Bannister’s expression changed. His eyes became hard and cold, his jaw squared. He looked at Van Note almost insolently. “I suppose it’s that business last night,” he said icily. “I reckon you know if I hadn’t butted in that kid would be ready to plant. Has he had Le Beck on the carpet, too?” Bannister sneered openly.

  “I . . . I don’t think it’s that business last night,” the deputy said, appearing ill at ease. “I don’t know exactly . . .”

  “Does this sheriff know where I’m stopping?” Bannister interrupted sharply.

  “Why, yes . . . of course. He sent me here.”

  “Then tell him if he wants to see me, I’ll be here in the lobby for half an hour,” said Bannister. And he deliberately turned his back on the deputy.

  Van Note hesitated, wet his lips, and then hurried out. Bannister rolled a cigarette and went into the little sitting room, telling Howard he had an appointment.

  Sheriff Campbell came, somewhat flustered, his face red, but with eyes that snapped angrily. He was not accustomed to going to see people; people came to see him. In this case, well, it was a delicate and perhaps extraordinarily important matter. If this man should indeed prove to be The Maverick, he was the most dangerous man who ever came to Prairie City. In which case it would be well to humor him—until he was safely behind bars.

  Bannister rose, stepped to the doorway leading into the lobby. He beckoned to Campbell, who came in, looking at him queerly. Now Campbell might not look like a sheriff, but he had all the qualifications just the same. He was not a coward; he was fearless; moreover, he had brains and tact—the latter characteristic being lacking in most officers of the law.

  “You wanted to see me, Sheriff?” said Bannister coldly. “I suppose it’s something about that business last night. I don’t reckon it’s against the law in this town to pull a gun to save a life.” His tone swam in sarcasm.

  “Well, sit down,” said the sheriff. And, when they were seated: “This has nothing to do with last night. I want to know who you are, and what you are, and where you’re from.” In his hand he held a folded paper.

  “My name is Bob Bannister,” replied Bannister evenly. “I’m whatever I want to be … a free lance, free to gamble, to punch cattle, and a number of other things. I’m from parts south of here. I’ve been wandering since I was eighteen.”

  “It’s the number of other things I’m interested in,” said the sheriff, looking at him closely. “Your answer is vague. Where did you work last?”

  “Down in Big Falls,” said Bannister easily. “I played every joint in town.”

  “And where were you before that?” the sheriff demanded.

  Bannister’s gaze hardened. “I don’t see any reason why I should answer a lot of questions unless I know why. Or, are you questioning all visitors today? If you are, you’ve got some job on your hands.”

  The sheriff held out the paper. “Read that,” he said sharply.

  Bannister read:

  WANTED!

  $5000 REWARD

  This sum is offered for the apprehension of the man who calls himself

  THE MAVERICK

  He is six foot one or two; dark complexion; black eyes and hair; cleft in chin; about 28 to 30 years; packs a pearl-handled gun; always works alone; very fast with his gun. Wanted for MURDER and ROBBERY, by Big Falls county authorities. Communicate with

  JOHN WILLS, Sheriff,

  Big Falls, Mont.

  Bannister handed the paper back to the sheriff. His eyes narrowed and he turned them fully on the official.

  “So that’s the reason you are so interested in me,” he said sarcastically. “How does it come, Sheriff, that you bother with a mere suspect when there is a man with a record a mile long right here in town who you know . . . I mean Le Beck?”

  “Le Beck is covered,” the sheriff snapped out. “I have nothing on him.”

  “Have you anything on me?” asked Bannister sharply.

  The sheriff frowned and bit his lip. It was a hard question to answer. “You refuse to tell me your history,” he said finally. His questioning was getting nowhere and he realized it to his great discomfiture.

  “Do I have to tell you my history just because you’ve got some kind of a hazy idea that I might be this Maverick person?” Bannister demanded harshly.

  The sheriff’s frown deepened and his eyes flashed.

  “Listen!” The word fairly cracked in the little room. Bannister leaned over and tapped the sheriff on the knee. “You think maybe I might be The Maverick,” he said in a low, vibrant voice, “but before you go any further, you make sure.”

  Sheriff Campbell went back to his office, baffled.

  Bannister found his way back to the tables. There was an abandon about Bannister’s method of play that bewildered old-time professionals. They couldn’t put their finger on him, so to speak. He played stud poker exclusively. At times he discarded the science of the game and tried to draw out—and almost invariably his luck would bring him a needed card. He was caught bluffing just enough that when one was sure he was bluffing he wasn’t. Always it cost plenty of money to see his hole card. He won steadily.

  He did not see Howard Marble again that day. He sauntered about after supper among the throngs and late in the evening looked in at a dance. A great pavilion had been erected for the rodeo the preceding fall and this was being used. The dance was in full swing, the floor crowded with couples. As the music stopped, people everywhere turned to look at him. The incident of the night before—a small matter in his own eyes—had assumed great magnitude in t
he eyes of the male celebrants, who had enlarged on the story and passed it along to the women. This attention irritated him and he turned to go, but at that moment Howard Marble pushed through the crowd and grasped his arm.

  “Come on, Mister Bannister, I want you to meet my cousin,” said the youth eagerly.

  “What!” Bannister exclaimed. “Me to go into that mob. Not on your life! No, son, it can’t be done . . . no use urging me.”

  “All right, come along,” said Howard.

  They went out and Howard started around the pavilion. Bannister objected.

  “We’re just going back to this refreshment place,” pleaded Howard. “Wouldn’t you do me that much of a favor?”

  Bannister knew that by his cousin Howard meant Florence Marble, owner of the Half Diamond. He finally gave way to his curiosity and consented. Howard left him at a corner table and hurried away. When he returned, Bannister stood up, drawing a long breath.

  “This is my cousin, Florence Marble,” said Howard.

  Bannister didn’t hear the rest. He took the girl’s hand, hardly knowing he did so, and mumbled something—he couldn’t afterward remember what. For Florence Marble was a girl of the type he most admired. She wasn’t slim or short; she came up to his shoulder and more; beautifully formed; hazel eyes; cheeks where roses bloomed; red lips and full; and a mass of hair the color of burnished copper. Yet there was something about her that suggested she could ride and shoot and was well able to take care of herself. She was Western with a slight veneer of Eastern manner, obtained at some distant school likely. In which surmise he was correct.

  “Howard’s been telling me some wonderful things about you, Mister Bannister,” she said in a voice that fell pleasantly on the ear as the boy moved away. “He says you’re a terror with your gun and saved his life. Anyway, I want to thank you for what you did last night. I think a lot of Howard. He’s all I’ve got.” She kept looking at him searchingly as she said this.