Bullets in the Sun

by Robert J. Horton

  “You’re imagining things, Dan,” blustered Lester. “The take is all right and I won’t kick. It’s only that . . . we’ve sort of worked together.” He began putting the gold and silver into the cash box of the safe. “If you want to work entirely on your own, that’s up to you, I suppose. I’ve always felt I supplied the . . . the material to work on, you might say. I think you gettin’ mixed up in that ranch business is a mistake, but you’re the doctor. Anyway, it looks like a good season that’s breakin’ an’ it’s no time for us to be fallin’ out. I reckon a good sleep will do us both good.”

  “Glad you look at it this way, Tom,” said Farlin cheerfully, rising and stepping to the door. “When Porky tells you I had breakfast with Ed Lawson this morning, just tell him he needn’t be so particular about my movements in the future. So long, Tom.”

  Dan Farlin didn’t have to glance over his shoulder as he went out to know that Big Tom’s eyes were brimming with futile rage and malice. Nor did he have to guess that in the space of time he had been in Lester’s office he had been marked to go. It gave him a feeling of exhilaration and the reckless years came racing back. He still could deal the Derringer from his cuff.

  He walked up to his cabin, whistling in the bright, morning sun.

  The cabin was built of logs, well chinked and whitewashed. It was located in a small meadow on a slope of a ridge above the creek, with grass and trees about it, a flower bed in front, and flower boxes beneath the two front windows. Vines climbed about the little porch. It was the prettiest place of abode in town.

  Farlin’s Negro housekeeper opened the door for him.

  “Gladys about?” he asked her as he entered the comfortable living room. He looked about appreciatively. In his heart he was fonder of this place than the big ranch house he had bought in the south.

  “She’s gone ridin’, Mister Dan,” said the housekeeper.

  Farlin frowned. “So early? Does she usually go riding this early in the morning, Susan?”

  “She been goin’ earlier since the weather got nice, Mister Dan. I’ll have your breakfast ready in a jiffy. The coffee’s all made.”

  “I’ll just take the coffee, Susan,” said the gambler with a trace of irritation in his voice. “I had something to eat in town. Did Miss Louise go riding with Gladys?” He referred to Louise Smith, daughter of the proprietor of the town’s general store and Gladys’s best friend in Sunrise.

  “Not as I saw,” replied the housekeeper. “That is, she didn’t come up here, Mister Dan . . . Miss Louise, I mean. Sometimes they meet downtown. They is usually together.”

  “Bring the coffee,” said Farlin, waving her aside.

  He knew Gladys was in the habit of taking a ride in the morning, and in the evening, too, when the weather was good. After all, the girl was range-born and she loved the open expanse of rolling prairie. She was an expert rider and he had procured as good a horse for her as ever put hoof in that section. But this morning he had wanted to find her at home. He had intended to tell her that he hoped they would not have to remain in Sunrise till fall. He wanted to be sure that she really wished to leave. He sipped the coffee Susan brought thoughtfully. Outwardly there had been no break with Tom Lester. But there had been a break. He smiled grimly. It was the first step.

  Farlin finished his coffee and went into his room. He closed the door carefully. The snub-nosed, two-barreled Derringer slipped like magic into his right hand. He put it on the table, took off his coat, brought out his cleaning kit, and thoroughly cleaned and oiled the deadly little weapon. He slipped it under one of the pillows on his bed.

  There came a light tapping at the door.

  Farlin whirled. “Yes?” he called.

  “Miss Louise is here, Mister Dan,” said the housekeeper through the door.

  “I’ll be right out,” said Farlin. He hastily smoothed his hair, and went out into the living room and to the front door.

  Louise Smith, a blonde of about Gladys Farlin’s age, was standing by her horse at the foot of the steps. “Oh, I . . . I didn’t want to disturb you, Mister Farlin,” she said, plainly flustered at his appearance. “I just came to see Gladys. We were going riding together.”

  “Why, she has already gone,” said Farlin, puzzled. “Were you to meet her here?”

  “I suppose so,” was the hesitating answer. “She said she would wait for me. We ride out every day, and . . . maybe she’s looking for me in town.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Farlin. “Susan!” he called sharply. “What time . . . how long has Gladys been gone?” he asked when the housekeeper appeared.

  “’Bout a hour, Mister Dan,” replied the woman, her eyes wide. “I thought she’d gone to meet up with Miss Louise here.”

  “She didn’t leave any word?” asked Farlin.

  “No, sir, nary a word. She just took her coffee an’ left before the man brought her hoss. Said she’d prob’ly meet him comin’ up. Isn’t it all right, Mister Dan?”

  “That’s all, Susan. You can go.” Farlin turned to Louise Smith. “Where do you usually ride of a morning?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Why, we usually ride east in the sunshine, and back along the creek,” replied the girl. “I guess Gladys decided to go earlier this morning. It’s the nicest morning we’ve had this spring, just about. I’ll catch up with her outside of town.” She turned to her horse.

  Farlin took a step forward and stopped. When the girl had mounted, he spoke again. “It’s natural I should be interested in what Gladys does,” he said, smiling. “I’m her father. Do you . . . ever meet anybody on these rides?”

  “Sometimes,” was the answer. The girl’s look of surprise was genuine. “Sometimes we meet riders going in or out of town, but we avoid them.”

  Farlin nodded. “I expect you’ll catch up with her,” he said. “And I’d like to have you girls ride together when you go out.”

  When she rode away, Farlin hurried into the cabin. He put on his coat and took the Derringer from under the pillow. Moving aside a picture, he put several rolls of bills in a wall safe. Then he took up his hat, left the cabin, and walked down into the town.

  Chapter Five

  After leaving the Red Arrow, Gladys Farlin slept but little. She learned, of course, that Lawson and his band were in Sunrise. The girls who depended upon percentage were jubilant at thought of big money to be spent, but Gladys merely viewed the prospect with disgust. She knew, too, that her father would be engaged at the table. This was disgusting, also, but it was the only life she knew on the north ranges.

  She was up for coffee at dawn and the dew was still upon the grass when, attired in a smart riding habit and cap, she walked down to the livery.

  “Going out to get acquainted with the sunrise,” she said gaily to Jules, the French-Canadian who looked after her horse. “How’s the Ghost this morning?”

  “He’s always ready to run,” Jules answered. “There’s never been a better horse in the barn, Miss Gladys. I’ll have him ready in a minute.”

  Gray Ghost was a splendid thoroughbred, built on lines of speed rather than endurance, nervous and temperamental, but reliable. Dan Farlin had bought the gelding from a racing breeder and had paid a price. Though the animal never had been put to the test, it was generally believed that the Ghost could very easily outdistance any horse thereabouts.

  Gladys rode out from town across the creek to the east plain as the sun was coming up. She had promised Louise Smith to ride with her this morning, but, after the events of the night before, she wanted to be alone. And the change in the girl as she swept out upon the prairie at a stiff gallop, with the keen morning breeze fanning a flush into her cheeks and the sun striking gold from the wisps of hair blowing from under her cap, was magical. Her eyes sparkled and she rode like youth rampant, which indeed she was. Crazy Butte was a swimming blot of pink and purple straight ahead, and Gladys traversed the open plain, spurning the trail that led south of the butte to join the road to Rocky Point, some forty miles away.


  When the girl had ridden halfway to the butte, about five miles, she turned southward toward the fringe of green that marked the course of the stream from Sunrise to the river. She had thought of nothing in particular, had virtually left her lot behind in town. Now the sense of her position returned and she was conscious of a growing feeling of resentment toward her father. Handsome Dan, the gambler, he was up here, Mr. Farlin in the south. To the Crazy Butte denizens and visitors she was Handsome Dan’s girl. “Wait till you hear her sing!” How often she had overheard that remark by a regular addressed to a newcomer. And how she hated it.

  The cottonwoods and willows were close when she turned back along the creek. And then the unexpected happened.

  Gladys was not without her dreams of romance, which the wide, free country inspired. Instinctively she reined in her mount as a horseman burst from the trees before her. First glimpse of his laughing eyes, his tall, slender figure, his graceful posture in the saddle as he brought his horse to a halt before her, the sweep of his big hat uncovering a shock of chestnut hair, told her that here was no ordinary cowpuncher or longrider or . . . no, she couldn’t place him.

  “And they told me this country up here was tough.” The words came in a deep, musical voice and his black brows arched.

  Gladys could not resist his flashing smile. “It may be tougher than you think,” she heard herself saying flippantly.

  He shook his head soberly. “It can’t be very tough with girls like you around,” he said. Then hastily: “Don’t peg me as being fresh. I’m just stunned with surprise and delight, that’s all.” A slight bow and the smile again, and Gladys noted he was young, superbly mounted, dressed in expensive taste. The butt of the gun that protruded from the flap of the black holster on his right was ivory-mounted. On the rear of his saddle was affixed a neat pack done up in a yellow slicker. A saddlebag snuggled under his left leg. Saddle and bridle were silver-mounted. A red stone gleamed on the little finger of his left hand.

  It took but a short space of time for Gladys to note these details, but each of them aroused her interest.

  “Who told you this country was tough?” she asked curiously.

  “Why . . . isn’t that Crazy Butte over there?” the youth countered, looking to the east.

  She nodded. “You’re a stranger here?” she said.

  “And isn’t there a town called Sunrise around here close?” he asked, ignoring her suggestion.

  “About five miles west on this creek,” she replied.

  He put on his hat. “That’s where my ticket reads,” he announced. “Funny pair of names, Crazy Butte and Sunrise. But there’s nothing funny about you. I suppose you live around here.” He nodded gravely.

  Gladys laughed. “I live in Sunrise,” she told him, “and there’s nothing funny about that town, stranger. Whoever told you that town is tough didn’t side-step the truth any. You aim to stay or just visit?”

  “That’ll depend,” he said soberly. “You see, I don’t know anybody around here except you,” he added with an infectious grin.

  “And you better wait until you get acquainted with me,” she retorted with a toss of her head.

  He rested both hands on the horn of his saddle. “Young lady,” he said impressively, “my name is Jim. Not James, understand . . . just Jim.” He said this with such dignity, genuine or assumed, that the girl, though tempted to giggle, didn’t.

  “Now,” he went on, lifting his brows a trifle, “you . . . oh, by the way, have you got any relatives named Jim?”

  “Not that I know of,” replied Gladys, thoroughly delighted at being entertained by a strange man who was so obviously clever.

  “All right,” he said in a tone of finality. “From now on, as long as I’m around here, I’m the only Jim so far as you’re concerned. Is that a go?”

  “A . . . what?” Gladys gasped out.

  “Now you’ll think I’m fresh again,” he complained. “You said I’d better wait till I got acquainted with you, and how will I get acquainted with you unless I draw you out of yourself? Here I am”—he waved a hand to the four winds—“a stranger in a strange land. I cross a creek and ride out of the trees to come upon a beautiful girl. Now just how dumb would I be if I didn’t try to become acquainted with her? And you don’t look so tough,” he finished with another grin.

  “I’m not so soft, either,” she said slowly. “You act as if you’d had plenty of experience being a stranger in a strange land, and, if you get fresh in Sunrise, boy, they’ll soon salt you down.”

  His eyes flashed with a light she had not seen in them before. “If there’s anything I hate, miss, it’s monotony,” he said, smiling. “Will you hate me if I ask you to swap names?”

  “I’m not making that kind of a trade on a chance meeting,” replied Gladys. “But I would like to ask you something, and this time it’s you who may think that I’m being fresh.”

  “Not on your life, girlie,” he sang quickly. “I’ll tell you anything I can . . . and ask no questions as to who you are in the bargain.”

  She knew it was a challenge but refused to meet it. He would learn only too soon who she was, and the thought irritated her.

  “You don’t have to answer me,” she said. “What are you going to Sunrise for?” She turned her gaze from his direct look.

  “That is a leading question,” he said, “and the peculiar thing is that I don’t just know. I’m up here to look around, and I’ve heard this place Sunrise shouldn’t be missed. Does that cover it?”

  “It’s pretty vague,” said Gladys thoughtfully. “I thought maybe you were looking for work, or something like that, although it doesn’t seem so probable the more I consider it. If you’re looking for what’s called a good time, you can get a certain brand of it in Sunrise. I don’t know why I should talk to you like this, or why I should talk to you at all. I expect you can take care of yourself. But there is a tough crowd in Sunrise, and . . . well, you can guess the rest.”

  She flushed as he beamed upon her. “You’re the straight goods,” he said impulsively. “What you’re doing, girlie, is warning me to watch my step. Coming from anybody else, I might not pay much attention. But, coming from you . . . .”

  “You mustn’t make light of everything up here,” she interrupted. “You needn’t thank me, and I don’t want empty compliments. I get them by the gross. You’ll find out why soon enough.”

  “You’re mistaken in the party you’re talking to, miss,” he said, and there was no doubting his seriousness. “I don’t sprinkle empty compliments around promiscuous . . . nor idle talk, either. You’re the closest to fair weather I’ve seen in many moons of riding. If that fact bothers you, just forget it.” He looked west and straightened in the saddle.

  Gladys followed his gaze and caught up her reins with a low exclamation. Two men were riding toward them at a charging gallop. From the north another rider was cutting down, and Gladys recognized her friend, Louise.

  “I reckon I better be chasing along,” said the stranger who called himself Jim. “Maybe this is the reception committee.” There was a whimsical note in his voice. “I don’t suppose anybody’s barred in Sunrise,” he said, looking at her with the laughing eyes she had first seen. “Remember, I met you and was asking you the way to the nearest town. It happens to be Sunrise, that’s all.”

  “It’s my father and Sheriff Mills!” Gladys exclaimed as she recognized the men. Then her head went up and her eyes flashed. “It’s none of their business if . . .”

  “If you want to direct a stranger, girlie,” he put in. “Remember that. Take it easy and maybe I’ll get a chance to see you in town. I reckon we’re better acquainted now.” He touched the brim of his hat in salute and quickly spurred his horse toward the oncoming riders.

  Sheriff Mills held up a hand as he approached and the stranger checked his horse. He knew a sheriff when he saw one, apparently, for his interest seemed to center at once on Dan Farlin.

  “Where to, stranger?” asked Mills, surv
eying him keenly.

  “The next town,” said the newcomer cheerfully. “I hear it’s called Sunrise and is somewhere along the creek.”

  “Where are you from?” It was Farlin who put the question in a curt voice, and he knew better than to put such a query to a stranger at first meeting.

  The lone rider surveyed him coolly. “I can understand the sheriff, here, asking me something,” he said in a pleasant voice that belied his look, “but in your case I’ll have to know who’s asking for information.”

  Farlin’s face hardened. “I happen to be the father of that young lady you were talking to down there,” he said sternly.

  “In that case,” said the stranger with a winning smile, “I’ll have to tell you that you have a very courteous daughter. She was kind enough to give me my directions. I’m from down below”—he gestured toward the south—“which covers a lot of territory. You can take your pick. I’m riding my own horse, wearing my own clothes, and I’m paying my way with my own money . . . which has passed me clean to date.”

  Farlin could think of no immediate reply. He saw Gladys and her friend riding toward town above them on a swell of the prairie.

  “Feel the same about your name, I suppose,” drawled Mills.

  “My name is Jim Bond,” was the reply. “And my word is as good as my name. You make your headquarters in Sunrise, Sheriff?”

  “I’m close enough,” said Mills dryly. He had been studying Bond intently. Now he turned to Farlin. “Reckon I’ll be riding on, Dan. Your girl is safe enough. Maybe you’ll want to steer this visitor into town and help him with his spending. So long.”

  Farlin gave the sheriff a dark look as the official rode off, and this was appreciated by Jim Bond.

  “Nice party,” the latter observed.

  Dan Farlin favored him with a frown. The gambler was annoyed at the peculiar situation in which he found himself. After all, his daughter was the only person who could throw him off his mental balance, even temporarily, as in the present case. It now was up to him to make the best of it. He would speak to Gladys later.