Gunsmoke

by T. T. Flynn

  "You stiff-necked old hellion! I ought to rub your face in that!"

  Pop Marcy vaulted over the bar, brandishing the bung starter. "Get going, damn you!"

  Halliday wiped stinging liquor from an eye and reached inside his coat. "I'll gun whip some sense in you."

  Big Jerry drew his gun. Two other guns across the room came out. "Don't hit him, Nelse," Big Jerry warned.

  Nelse Halliday looked at the gun. Then he shoved his revolver back and started outside. He lurched slightly as he turned at the front door, scowling.

  "Marcy, you're asking for trouble. You'll get it. Remember, don't come to me when you need help."

  The door behind Halliday flew open. A snowwhitened figure staggered in against him. Nelse Halliday turned with an oath.

  The stranger was a head shorter than Halliday, and seemed thin and gaunt inside his old leather chaps and a sheepskin coat. His head was bare; snow had driven inside the coat collar and caked in his hair. His face was blank with surprise as Halliday turned on him, swung a hard fist, and knocked him down.

  The stranger's right arm had been tucked stiffly under his coat. As he hit the floor, the arm flopped out helplessly. The stranger's groan was so filled with agony that even Halliday's angry oath died uneasily.

  Slowly, white with pain, the stranger came to a knee, and then to his feet. Breath whistled through his clenched teeth. He was grinning, and his face was livid and threatening despite the grin.

  "So you're the kind who does that. I'll remember you, mister." He moved unsteadily toward the bar.

  Halliday slammed the door as he went out, but he caught the first part of Pop Marcy's blast of anger.

  "My God, the feller's arm is busted, an' Nelse knocked him down! Git a chair, somebody ... Ike, some likker. Somebody run for Doc Cloud. Where's some snow? His face is froze."

  There was no lack of help to put a chair under the stranger, to pour a drink in him, to start the frost out of his face with handfuls of snow.

  Doc Cloud, bulky as a bear in a moth-eaten bearskin coat and fur cap, came stamping in with his bag. He shed his bearskin coat, looking almost as huge without it. His moonlike face was jovial as he waved the men back.

  "Give him room, boys. Let's have a look at this arm."

  Doc Cloud was surprisingly quick and gentle as he got the sheepskin coat off. Skillfully he cut the woolen shirtsleeve and the heavy underwear beneath. He examined the arm, and pursed his thick lips in a soft whistle.

  "Wrap him up and get him over to my office," he ordered, reaching for the bearskin coat. "Bring a quart, Pop. If he don't need it, I will."

  Pop grumbled: "You'll need it anyway, Doc. Your last quart was 'way back almost at noon. I been looking for you for over an hour."

  They carried the stranger down the street to Doc Cloud's office, speaking of Nelse Halliday as they went.

  "Halliday slunk out like a skunk runnin' from his stink," said Pete Elden of the J Bar U disgustedly. "That's what comes of havin' an uncle leave a fortune to a swelled head."

  "Old Nelse wasn't much better," Big Jerry grunted. "He tried to hog everything in sight an' run over anybody that got in his way."

  "Old Nelse run over 'em to their faces, fair an' square ... an', when he swallered a pint of whiskey, he was still a man." Pete Elden chuckled with anticipation. "Did you see that stranger's face when he come up from the floor? If I don't miss my guess, Nelse Halliday's in for trouble when the stranger's arm gets well."

  The odor of chloroform was heavy in the little back office as Doc Cloud coughed and lowered the whiskey bottle. "There he is," said Doc, nodding at the operating table. "Now what, Pop? Where's he going to stay?"

  They were alone with the patient. Several of the men who had come with them were loitering in the front room. Pop squinted at the motionless figure on the table. "Can't move him till he wakes up, can we, Doc?"

  "He oughtn't to get out in the cold after having chloroform."

  "There was only sixty-five cents we found on him. Even his gun was gone."

  Pop stepped to the table and opened the shirt. A fresh bandage had been put around the stranger's middle.

  "I locked the door," said Doc Cloud, "an' fixed him while you went back to the saloon. It's a bullet wound, Pop. Not so old, either. Rib busted, and a lot of meat gouged out. It hasn't had much chance to heal."

  Pop closed the shirt and hesitated. "He ain't a bad-lookin' young fellow."

  "Can't always tell. Some mighty tough hombres look like yearlings ... when they ain't ridin' on moonless nights."

  "He won't get any kind of break over at the hotel without money. I'll take him home."

  "I was waitiri for that," grumbled Doc Cloud. "But if a sheriff comes lookiri for a man with a bullet wound in his side, this gent will have to be given up."

  "I'll get a wagon, a pile of blankets, an' a tarp to move him," said Pop, turning to the door. "An' you don't need to wag your tongue about it until the sheriff shows up, you oversized old rum-pot."

  "When a cantankerous old wolf can tell me what to do, I'll start drinkin' water," retorted Doc Cloud. "Leave me out another bottle before you close up. It's going to be a long night an' a cold one ... and the devil only knows what'll be knocking at the door in the morning."

  In the morning, when the stranger opened his eyes, a girl was standing at the foot of the bed. He was sick and weak; the pine walls of the room seemed to wobble for a moment.

  He saw her clearly. She was pink-cheeked, brisk, small, and pretty as something out of a dream. Blonde hair swirled above her forehead, her eyes had laughter shadows, and her nose tilted up the pertest bit. She caught his widening stare and chuckled slightly. "How do you feel this morning, Shorty Burgess?"

  His face was drawn, haggard under the stubble. And, too, it was hard, Kathleen Allen thought-too hard for a man so young. But his slow grin wiped away much of the hardness.

  "So you know my name?" he said. "Who are you?"

  "Kathleen Allen."

  Caution, cold and wary, edged his look for an instant. Then it left, as if he had put it away with a hasty effort. "Where am I?"

  "This is Pop Marcy's house. He owns the saloon."

  "Yeah ... I remember." Shorty Burgess stared at his bulky, splinted arm. The hard haggard mask drew over his face again. "I just made it," he muttered. "So he brought me home. I'm obliged. Do you live here?"

  "I live next door with Missus Doyle ... and work for Pop Marcy," said Kathleen Allen briskly. "I take care of the mine books and records, and a little of everything Pop wants done."

  Her eyes were blue-deep blue. Shorty Burgess stared up at them with fascination, and grinned again "I'm your business this morning, I reckon."

  "Some of it," said Kathleen Allen. "Doc Cloud will be around to see how you are. No one knows yet what happened to you last night."

  "My horse went off the trail. Threw me, busted my arm, and sprained my ankle some. The norther mighty near finished me before I made it in." Shorty Burgess grinned again. "Or maybe it did get me. Maybe I died. This ain't heaven, is it?"

  "Do I look like an angel?"

  "You sure do."

  "I see you're rapidly getting better, Shorty. But this is not heaven. I doubt if you deserve it."

  That brought another hard, searching look. "Any reason for saying that, miss?"

  "No," said Kathleen. "And your breakfast will be ready soon. I'll send the cook's husband to shave you. He looks like a Sonora bandit, but he used to be a barber in Chihuahua City. Then Doc Cloud will tell you when you can get up."

  "He won't have much to say about it, miss. I can't stay here. I'm busted."

  "Say that to Pop Marcy and he'll jump on you," warned Kathleen. "Pop says you're to be here until you're well. I'll see about your breakfast."

  Shorty watched her leave the room, and then closed his eyes. Thinking of her, Shorty wasn't sure that she'd been right about this not being heaven.

  Two hours later, Doc Cloud loomed vastly beside the bed, dwarfing Pop Marcy
at his side.

  "So your horse went off the trail?" said Doc Cloud. "Which trail?"

  "This side of Bottletop Pass."

  Doc Cloud rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Just ridin' through?"

  "Sorta. How soon can I get up an' rustle for myself, Doc? You may as well know, I'm busted."

  "Stay off that ankle for a few days."

  Pop Marcy said: "You're fixed till Doc lets you up. If you want a job then, I'll see what I can rustle for you. What kind of work can you do?"

  "I ain't a bad gambler. I could handle a house game one-handed. Not much else I can do right now with one arm."

  "My bar don't run any steady games, son," Pop said. "Sam Clyde, over at the Thirty-Deep, has most of the play. I'll speak to Sam about you."

  "I'd be obliged," said Shorty.

  In five days Shorty was walking a little. The snow had melted on the south slopes, and out of the wind, the sun was warm. Pop Marcy had sent a rider up Bottle Creek, where the rocky walls hung sheerly and the snow was drifted deeply in the canon bottom. Shorty's dead horse was drifted in down in the canon and could not be found. Shorty had borrowed a gun from Pop Marcy.

  "I don't feel dressed up without one," he had explained.

  Later, Pop Marcy spoke to Doc Cloud about it. "Half the loops in his gun belt was empty, Doc. He had four cartridges of one make ... an' the rest was another make, like he loaded up in a hurry somewhere. Never said nothin' about that side wound, has he?"

  "I dressed it," said Doc Cloud. "He didn't say a word. Looked me straight in the face like he was warnin' me not to ask."

  Pop snorted. "He ain't foolin' no one. He was in a gunfight that took most of his cartridges. Somewheres he got him a few more, but not enough to fill his belt. Notice his eyes're mighty restless. He's watchin' for somethin'. Kathleen spoke to me about it."

  "Kathleen's watchin' him mighty close," said Doc Cloud slyly. "I wonder how Nelse Halliday likes it."

  "I hope," said Pop, "that Nelse loses his temper an' shows her what a skunk he really is. If she was my girl, Nelse Halliday wouldn't be callin' on her."

  "But she ain't your girl," said Doc Cloud, "although she mighty near runs you. I'm wondering what this Shorty Burgess thinks about Nelse Halliday."

  "You ain't the only one, Doc. I seen the way Shorty looked after Nelse hit him. I know a man when I see one. Shorty Burgess ain't the kind to forget. If I was Nelse Halliday, I wouldn't be sleepin' well now."

  Doc Cloud mused: "Nelse Halliday, Kathy, and Shorty Burgess. There's a keg of powder for you."

  Pop got up from the chair in Doc's office. "I'll go see Sam Clyde about a job for Burgess. I don't want Kathleen mixed up in any trouble."

  Two days later, Shorty Burgess went to see Sam Clyde at the Thirty-Deep Bar.

  "So you can gamble?" said Sam Clyde. "Ever been a house man?"

  "Couple of times."

  A big yellow diamond gleamed on Sam Clyde's right hand. His shirt was heavily striped. His heavy black mustache rolled up at the ends. "How good are you?" he asked bluntly.

  "How good a man you want?"

  Sam Clyde's smile was humorless. "See if you can back up your talk. Saturday nights, when things whoop up, it takes a man to sit on the lid. Buy an outfit of clothes. I'll try you out on the roulette wheel, with a helper. That's where the trouble starts oftenest. And get this. I can hire plenty of men to spin a wheel. I can get a gun-slingin' fool to throw lead into my customers. But a dead customer or a dead wheel cost me money. I need a man who can keep the wheel spinning. Pop Marcy says you're worth a try. Prove it."

  Sam Clyde got a thin smile for a reply. That was all.

  Lodeville knew how the stranger had staggered in out of the storm and had been knocked down by Nelse Halliday. When Shorty Burgess appeared at the roulette wheel in the rear of the Thirty-Deep Bar, men drifted closer in order to size him up

  They saw a wiry young man with a gaunt face, but he smiled easily. He ran the game in a shirt and vest, with his left arm splinted in a black silk sling. His gun was new, but his gun belt was old and scarred with use. He faced them with the impersonal manner of a veteran gambler.

  Shorty knew he was on trial until the first Saturday. The five Lodeville mines paid off Saturday afternoon. Shifts closed down until Monday. Saturday came-and Shorty found that the Thirty-Deep was a crowded, roaring mecca for booted miners and cowmen. Men banked the bar and crowded the gambling tables. The roulette table had more than its share of the play.

  Shorty spun the wheel, raked in the bets, and paid off with swift dexterity. And when trouble came, there was, as he had expected, no warning. A drunken miner slammed a big fist on the table.

  "I played the red, damn you! Pay off! What kinda game you runnin'?"

  "Place your bets," said Shorty evenly. His eyes flicked to Ben Greer, the swart, stocky, unsmiling man who was helping him.

  Greer lifted a shoulder in a negative shrug.

  "Hear me? You gonna pay off or not?"

  The big miner leaned across the table, red with anger. His calloused hand moved back to a sheath knife on his hip.

  Tense quiet dropped over the table. All eyes went to Shorty.

  Sam Clyde, standing nearby, looked hastily for the two armed bouncers. They were not in sight. Sam Clyde reached to his hip pocket for the short length of lead pipe he carried on Saturdays. But Shorty was speaking calmly across the wheel.

  "You had your money on the black, mister."

  "You're a liar! It was red!"

  Shorty's grin was cold. "You're mistaken, mister. When you play at my table, you take my say-so." Still grinning, Shorty looked at the crowd. "That goes for you all. If you play here, you take my word. Pick up your money if it don't suit you. An' I'll pull a gun on the next man who calls me a liar. This game is straight. Place your bet, mister, or get back so someone else can play. Watch the ball, gents. Here she goes...."

  The wheel spun. Men who had money down watched the flying ivory ball automatically-and the drunken miner glowered, muttered under his breath as he shouldered away from the table.

  Sam Clyde took a breath of relief. Later he spoke to Shorty. "Good work, Burgess. You might've had trouble if you hadn't handled that drunk slick and smooth. You bluffed him without pullin' a gun."

  Then Sam Clyde got a steady stare that made him blink. "Mister," said Shorty, "I don't bluff. If you want a bluffer at your wheel, go out an' hire one. While I'm runniri the game, I'll back up what I say."

  "Suit yourself," Sam Clyde yielded with a shrug. "But the first man you shoot, unless it's self-defense on your part, finishes you here in Lodeville. We've got a deputy sheriff who's hell on law an' order. You know where the back door is. The livery stable ain't far off. It's your risk."

  "I kinda gathered that." Shorty nodded.

  The story spread. Next day-Sunday-Kathleen spoke to Shorty about it.

  "You're getting a reputation in Lodeville, Shorty. Are you really as dangerous as they say?"

  They were walking together toward the mines. Shorty's sheepskin coat was belted over his stiff splinted arm. He chuckled. "Do I look dangerous, miss?"

  "You don't," said Kathleen, smiling. "But I'm just wondering."

  "I wouldn't worry about it, miss."

  Kathleen was silent for some moments. She looked troubled. "You never say anything about Nelse Halliday, Shorty."

  "I ain't forgot him."

  "It was an accident."

  "I've met his kind before," Shorty said slowly. "There's only one thing they understand. I aim to teach it to the gent when I get around to it."

  "You ... you'll kill him, -won't you, Shorty?"

  "Maybe," said Shorty, "he'll kill me."

  "I thought so," said Kathleen.

  She stopped. They faced one another, and Kathleen's face was white. "You can't do it, Shorty. Nelse told me he was drinking that night. He didn't know your arm was hurt. Please forget what happened."

  Shorty stared for a long moment. His voice was curiously flat and dead w
hen he spoke.

  "I've heard Halliday's handy with a gun. He's shot two men. They tell me he doesn't stand back when he feels like trouble. Owning the Blackbird an' Oriole Mines like he does, an' that big OTZ Ranch over in the valley, he's sure he amounts to a heap, even if he did get it from his uncle. He didn't ask you to speak to me, did he?"

  "Of course not, Shorty."

  "That's good enough, I reckon. I'll keep him safe for you, miss."

  Kathleen bit her lip, started to say something, and then kept silent. This new Shorty was hard to talk to. An icy guard had closed about him.

  Pop Marcy's curiosity continued. Pop spoke about it to Doc Cloud across a table in the Gunsight Bar.

  "I've been watchin' Shorty over at the ThirtyDeep, Doc. He keeps watchin' the front door. An' it ain't Nelse Halliday he's lookin' for. I've seen him do it when Nelse was standing right there at the Thirty-Deep."

  Doc Cloud expertly poured whiskey into his glass until the liquid stood a hair higher than the rim.

  "Halliday ain't sure what Burgess is gonna do," said Doc Cloud. "It's gettin' under Nelse's hide."

  Pop grunted. "It'll give Nelse somethin' to think about besides tryin' to buy my Gunsight Mine. I don't have to tell you how he keeps after me about it."

  Doc Cloud contemplated his whiskey. "Burgess has bought a horse, saddle, saddlebags, a couple of blankets, another six-gun, an' a rifle. His outfit is cached at the livery stable ... where a man could pick it up quick, if he wanted, on his way out of town."

  "You're worse'n an' old woman at findin' out things."

  Doc Cloud was unabashed. "Burgess is ready to leave. I'm bettin' he'll kill Halliday on his way out. He hasn't seeiri much more of Kathleen, has he?"

  "No," said Pop. "That's funny, too. They was gettin' right thick, it seemed to me."

  "How's the Gunsight Mine, Pop? You been looking worried."

  "It's bad, Doc. I've given orders for the men not to talk ... but they will. The vein faulted out on us ten days ago. It'd been runnin' slimmer for a couple of months, you know."

  Doc Cloud nodded.

  "We lost it complete," said Pop heavily. "The bottom's outta the bucket. Nothin's comin' in. I'm borrowin' against the ranch. If we don't find that vein quick, I'm busted clean."