Bullets in the Sun

by Robert J. Horton

  “That girl?” Big Tom frowned.

  “We’ll leave her out of it,” said Farlin sharply.

  Big Tom Lester shifted uneasily in his chair. Whenever Farlin spoke and looked at him like that, it nonplussed him, and such was Farlin’s attitude whenever Lester spoke of the gambler’s daughter, Gladys—the fair flower that bloomed in that questionable garden of guarded misdeeds and strife.

  “Well, now, Dan,” the resort proprietor resumed briskly, “I’m wonderin’ . . . since we don’t know what this bad hombre looks like . . . how will we know him when he gets here?”

  Farlin chuckled. “In the first place, Tom, he’ll be a stranger. We get lots of strangers, but Bovert should turn out to be a different brand of stranger. You know men pretty well, and I have met pretty near all kinds. I guess we’ll be able . . . between the two of us . . . to make him out by his looks, his actions, or his general manner. And there’s always a chance that some of the crowd may have met up with him before.”

  “That’s so,” said Lester, brightening. “Still, I don’t want it to get noised about that a bad one’s coming. An’, confound that Mills, I promised to let him alone. If some of the boys get wise to him, they might pick a fight just to put him under. Then Mills would blame me, although I can’t see what he could do about it, even if he did.”

  “Mills is half bluffing,” said Farlin, frowning. “Not all bluff, understand. He knows he couldn’t do anything but rout us out, if he could do that. But he’s got me interested, for one, and I’m for laying off this Bovert and trying to find out why Mills wants him protected.” He paused and stared at the end of his cigarette. “There’s a chance we might get something on Mills,” he said softly. “Did you ever think of that, Tom?”

  Lester’s eyes widened. “Snakes, yes!” he exclaimed. “You know, I haven’t always pegged you for the smartest man in Sunrise for nothing, Dan.” He beamed.

  “Except yourself,” Farlin observed dryly.

  Lester’s smile vanished. It irritated him that he never had been able to compliment this man, as he could others of his followers possessed of lesser intellects. For Farlin was immune to flattery. To praise him for anything was futile.

  “There’s another matter, Dan,” he said, changing the subject. “It seems to me that during the last year or so Porky’s brain has been drying up.”

  “He had one, then?” Farlin inquired mildly.

  “I never asked him to think for me,” Lester snapped out in a heat. “Lately I suspect him of gettin’ nosey.”

  Farlin smiled. “That wouldn’t be healthy, so far as you are concerned, would it?” he asked pleasantly.

  Lester frowned darkly. “He’s useful in a good many ways,” he confessed. “But I’m afraid he’ll forget where his usefulness ends.”

  “I’m not interested in that,” said Farlin. “Tell me . . . did Mills want to know when this Bovert arrives? That is, did he ask you to send him word, or anything?”

  Big Tom shook his head. “Nope. I told Porky to tell me if he left town, an’ as Porky ain’t back he must have stayed over. Maybe he figures to see me again before he leaves.”

  “I doubt it,” said Farlin, “but you never can tell about the law. It works like a merry-go-round, its wonders to perform. If this is all, Tom, I’ll go out and take my evening’s nourishment of stud. I’m just laying low till Lawson and his crowd come in with a stake. They’re due pretty quick now from that bank job . . . if they made it.”

  “No danger of Lawson fallin’ down,” Big Tom grunted. “He’ll be back with plenty. I only hope he doesn’t bring a couple of posses trailin’ him.”

  Farlin laughed. “To hear you talk, one would think you were losing your nerve,” was his parting rejoinder.

  It might have been said in the spirit of banter, but it left Big Tom Lester slumped in his chair, an unlighted cigar in his mouth, a thoughtful look in his cruel eyes. Dan Farlin was too smart!

  * * * * *

  Dan Farlin stood at the lower end of the bar, tall and handsome, his soft gray hat pulled over his eyes, shading them from the yellow beams that slanted through the smoke layers from the hanging lamps. He was the personification of ease and elegance, and he was listening to a slip of a girl with a rose-white face, wide, dark eyes, and an abundance of auburn hair, who was singing. She had the soft, sweet voice of her mother, who had thus sung before her, who Dan Farlin had married, who had left him this daughter. Three times each night she sang, and, at such times, the clamor of the busy resort was stilled, and the men removed their hats. It was good business, thought Big Tom; it gave the girl something to do, thought Handsome Dan.

  The song ended, the room burst into prolonged applause.

  “That’s the ticket, little one!” A tall celebrant, evidently just off the range, pushed forward and held out a handful of gold. “Here’s for the song, an’ there’s another basketful for a kiss!”

  The applause suddenly was stilled. The girl struck the hand, and the gold pieces rang on the floor. Then the girl’s palm came smartly across the cowpuncher’s mouth.

  A cheer swelled from two hundred throats.

  Dan Farlin leaped just as the bold one stepped toward the girl. He caught the man by the arm and whirled him about.

  “Get out!” he commanded sharply. “Get out or I’ll drag you into the street and rinse out your mouth with dust!”

  The other sneered. “Who’re you, anyway, you . . . .”

  That was all. Farlin’s right drove the man’s speech into his throat and he dropped on his haunches on the edge of the low platform.

  “That was my card,” said Farlin. “Are you going? Or do you want the address?”

  Several bystanders grasped the man and hustled him out the rear way. Gladys Farlin, the roses faded from her cheeks, stood holding a tiny, pearl-handled revolver in her hand, looking at her father.

  “Come with me,” she said through lips trembling with anger.

  In the little dressing room behind the dance floor she turned on him. “Why did you do it?” she demanded, stamping her foot angrily. “Why did you do it?”

  “You didn’t think I was going to watch it, did you?” said her father, frowning. “And hereafter you’re not to carry that gun.”

  “I suppose not,” said the girl scornfully. “I expect my big, strong daddy will always be around as bouncer to make a fool of me. Is that it?”

  “It’s only the second time such a thing has happened,” said Dan Farlin sternly. “and I just chanced to be there. Any man in the place would protect you from insult, and you know it. You . . . might kill somebody with that pistol. Ever think of that?”

  “If I have to shoot it, somebody will get hurt, at least,” was the answer. “You say this has happened twice. There’s always a third time and out.” She dropped into an easy chair, putting the gun inside her dress.

  “I think you will have to give this up,” said Dan Farlin, his face gray. “I’ve had that idea for some time.” He could not say that he altogether understood this wild spirit before him.

  “Yes?” said Gladys languidly. “Well, it’s an idea you might as well get out of your head. It’s empty . . . the idea, I mean.”

  “You . . . you like this?” her father faltered. Was her mother’s blood running riot in this offspring?

  “Of course I don’t like it,” was the ready answer. “But it’s all I have, isn’t it?”

  “You could stay south,” he pointed out. “I’ve told you that before.” Even as he said it, he experienced a guilty thrill of apprehension. He was selfish in wanting to have the girl near him.

  “Not unless you stay there, Daddy,” she said flippantly. “I won’t leave you up here alone, and I won’t stop singing here, because I want to keep an eye on you. Now, you have two reasons to puncture your idea balloon.”

  Farlin stared at her. “You never put it that way before,” he blurted. Some of his poise had fled.

  “When I did put it, I put it straight,” she retorted with a toss of
her lovely head. Then her eyes clouded. “Oh, Daddy, I don’t see why we both can’t go south and live there the rest of our lives. In the sun, with the scent of mesquite burning, with the warm desert winds, with guitars strumming, and the pepper trees waving in the breeze. There’s music in the south, Daddy, and here . . .” She stopped short, biting a trembling lip.

  “Yes, yes,” he prompted hurriedly. “Go on.”

  “There’s something else, Daddy,” she said softly. “I want young people. I’m nineteen, Daddy, and there are only two or three girls I can associate with here, and no boys.”

  No boys! Farlin’s heart missed a beat. “You’re too young to be thinking about boys, Gladys,” he stammered.

  “Would you like to have one come along . . . here?” she asked quietly.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” her father said angrily. “Just get such ideas out of your head. I’ve gone in pretty deep down there, as you know. I need this season up here. Maybe next season.”

  “There it is,” she interrupted. “Maybe next season. It’s always next season. You’ve been saying that for years. And next season it will be the same, and the next . . . if you have your way.”

  “But, Gladys, I haven’t wanted you to come back up here with me for the last three years,” he protested. He knew he lied.

  “I’ve got to come, Daddy. I couldn’t let you come back here alone. Don’t you think I remember when I was a little girl and mother was alive . . . how she used to worry when you were gone? I was born in this country, Daddy. I know that you are always in danger. I know you have to have some restraining influence, and that’s what I am. Without me here, you’d take chances you wouldn’t take with me around. You know it very well. And, what’s more, you know you really want me here.”

  Dan Farlin was silent for a space. “I guess I’m selfish,” he said finally, “but you’re all I have.”

  “And what would I do if you were gone? You have money enough, Daddy. Why, I’ve got quite a lot of money myself. And we don’t have to keep that old ranch, pretty as it is. We have enough, if you’d only think so.”

  “I’ve got to have just one more season,” Farlin said stoutly. “I promise you, Gladys . . . and don’t tell a soul . . . that next year we won’t come back.”

  “But anything can happen this year, Daddy,” said the girl, rising and putting her arms about his neck. “There’s . . . there’s always the danger. You can put it off a season, a month . . . even a day . . . and it might be too late. Why can’t we go now?”

  “Because . . . there’s a reason why it is impossible,” said Dan Farlin coldly, sternly. “You’ll have to accept that explanation. Now, dearie, be good. And promise me you won’t sing again tonight.”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” she said, turning away in resignation. “I won’t sing for your sake, because you’re worried about something. But I’m not afraid for myself.”

  * * * * *

  At the upper end of the bar Big Tom Lester greeted Farlin with a smile. “Better get that look off your face, Dan. Lawson’s crowd just rode in.”

  Chapter Three

  Now Dan Farlin looked down the bar to where a towering figure loomed above the crowd. This was Ed Lawson, jovial but deadly outlaw, leader of a band of desperadoes that ranged far from the Crazy Butte country in carrying out their depredations. Lawson had made it a point not to disturb this district, where he virtually found sanctuary between raids. When he next left with his band, he might be gone for days, weeks, or months; he might not return that season. His men were sure pickings for Dan Farlin. It would be the gambler’s first respectable haul of the season just starting.

  “Does Lawson know Mills is in town?” Farlin asked Big Tom.

  “Not only knows he’s here, but knows he’s alone,” replied Lester. “One of his men trailed him in. You know, Lawson isn’t afraid of Mills. This is the closest he ever goes to Rocky Point.”

  Farlin nodded. Rocky Point was the county seat. It was a sizable town, a shipping point for cattle and banking and supply headquarters for all that section. It was fed, too, by the mines in the Little Rockies. Incidentally Rocky Point supplied Sunrise with considerable business of a doubtful but profitable nature.

  Lawson’s heavy voice boomed above the tumult, ordering refreshments for the house. He soon would delegate this phase of his visit to henchmen and take a turn at the cards. At his side was Red Cole, his right bower, and a gunfighter second only to himself. Lawson forbade his men to fight in town, and his order was generally carried out.

  “Shows sign of being heavy,” Farlin commented.

  “He’s carryin’ plenty,” said Big Tom with an eager note in his voice. “An’ his crowd is heavy, too. I don’t know where they turned the trick, but it was juicy.”

  “West,” snorted Farlin. “Sheepshearing money, likely. I always feel like a common thief, playing with that gang.”

  Big Tom flashed him a queer look. The incident of the unruly cowpuncher and the girl had disturbed him. But it wasn’t like Farlin to show it when he was disturbed. The resort proprietor laid it to the start of the season.

  “You’ve got to get your hand in,” he said in a smooth voice. “You couldn’t ask for better material to practice on.”

  Farlin glanced at him coldly. “You know, Lester, I don’t cheat at cards . . . except to stop the other fellow from cheating. But you’ve never believed that.”

  “I only know you get the money an’ give me a decent split for workin’ here,” said Lester irritably. “An’ that’s enough for me.”

  “Suppose I was to stop giving you a split,” said Farlin softly. “Ever think of that?”

  Big Tom stared at him as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

  “Think it over and remember to keep in good humor when you’re talking to me,” said Farlin coldly. He walked away in the direction of a roulette wheel to play idly and await the call from Lawson that was sure to come.

  For the second time that night, Big Tom Lester found himself somewhat bewildered, thinking deeply and to no purpose, as a result of a remark made by the gambler. What the devil! Here was the sheriff in town, a notorious outlaw present, and Farlin showing a queer streak of rebellion against his lot—and the formidable specter of the unknown Bovert in the background. Sunrise was getting off to a fast start this spring.

  * * * * *

  There was a full table of seven in the stud poker game in a private room in the rear of the Red Arrow that night. Farlin was in the slot running the game for the house. But his sole duty consisted in seeing that the house received its percentage of the play according to the size of the pots. He played his cards entirely on his own and wagered his own money. But he did not have to deduct a percentage from the stakes he won unless he chose to do so.

  Ed Lawson, big, dark-faced, with black eyes and mustache—a powerful man of great physique with hairy hands—dominated the game. There was none of the silent, calculating gambler about him. He played recklessly and shoved large sums into the center of the table in efforts to draw cards to match his hand or beat another’s. He talked incessantly, and Dan Farlin, cool and accomplished, hated him for this trait and despised him generally. Red Cole played a tight game, a perpetual frown wrinkling his brow; he showed his small, white teeth in a mean smile when he lost, to conceal his chagrin. He was a hard loser. The other four were members of Lawson’s outfit, men who cared little for money or the future. Woodenheads, Farlin called them. There were no spectators.

  “I’ve a mind to send word to the sheriff an’ ask him to set in,” boomed Lawson. “I guess one of the boys would give him his seat.” He laughed uproariously.

  “I wouldn’t do it,” said Farlin quietly.

  “I won’t.” Lawson chuckled. “I won’t bother him so long as he don’t bother me. A hundred, Farlin? Another ace in the hole, eh? You may be a smart gambler, Dan, but here’s one hombre that can read you like a book. Raise it two hundred, my seven of diamonds in sight against your king. Let’s pl
ay cards.”

  Farlin met the raise and bit his lip in vexation. Of all the men he played with, Lawson came nearest to disturbing his outward calm and causing him to overplay his cards. He had to watch himself in this game. It galled him to think that he had to depend on Lawson’s loot for his season’s start. He needed money. He had gone in far deeper there in the south than he had let Gladys or Big Tom suspect. When he had told his daughter it was impossible for him to quit, he had told the truth. He was chained to the tables until Christmas, and it might come to a point where he would have to use more than ordinary skill. He flipped Ed Lawson a second seven in sight, took a jack for himself, and raised the outlaw’s bet $500 without change of expression.

  “Just what I told you!” bawled Lawson. “Playin’ a lucky ace! Sevens for luck, an’ what’s five hundred iron men? If I had to work for ’em as hard as you do, Dan, I’d play ’em close to my watch chain. Five hundred more that I’ve got your goat. Let’s play cards.”

  Farlin had winced at this speech. Now his face went a shade whiter.

  “It’ll take more than one raid to get my goat, Lawson,” he said in a cool, pleasant voice. His smile was genuine. “And if I make my money hard, I don’t take the chances you do.”

  “Sometimes I think you ain’t got the nerve,” growled Lawson.

  Red Cole laughed and the look he shot Farlin was one of contempt. The others were interested. This was the nearest approach to a tilt they ever had seen between Farlin and the outlaw leader.

  Farlin calmly dealt Lawson a third seven and dropped a second king for himself. Lawson flushed and gazed keenly at the gambler for several seconds.

  “I pass,” he said.

  “A thousand,” said Farlin. “We’re playing cards, Ed.”

  Lawson called the bet. On the next deal he drew a nine and Farlin drew the fourth seven. A gasp went up from the others who had dropped out.