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The Western Megapack is copyright
© 2011 by Wildside Press LLC.
Cover art by Gennady Poddubny.
All rights reserved.
“His Kind of Hellion,” by Johnston McCulley, originally appeared in Complete Western Book, June 1957.
“Texas John Alden,” by Robert E. Howard, originally appeared in Masked Rider Western, May 1944.
“The Outcasts of Poker Flat,” by Bret Harte, originally appeared in Overland Monthly, January 1869.
“Thieves of Black Rock Desert” was originally published in Masked Rider Western, December 1946.
“The Rattler Roundup,” by Lee Bond, originally appeared in Texas Rangers, January 1949.
“Left fer the Buzzards,” by Allan R. Bosworth, originally appeared in Wild West Weekly, Oct. 21, 1933.
“Horseshoes Aren’t Always Lucky,” by Sam Brant, originally appeared in Texas Rangers, April 1946.
“Gun-Whipped!” by Carmony Gove, originally appeared in Triple-X Western, January 1932.
“A 22-Gun Ranger Walks,” by Raymond S. Spears, originally appeared in Texas Rangers, January 1947.
“Ranger Style,” by J. Allan Dunn, originally appeared in Wild West Weekly, August 11, 1928.
“Plumb Amusing,” by Jackson Cole,” originally appeared in Masked Rider Western, June 1949.
“No Report,” by S. Omar Barker, originally appeared in Ace-High Magazine, April 1931.
“El Tiro di Gracia,” by Colin Cameron, originally appeared in Action Stories, September 1924.
“The Philosophy of Gray Eacle,” by Wolcott LeClear Beard, originally appeared in All Story Weekly, November 9, 1919.
“Sixguns to Bowie,” by Robert J. Hogan, originally appeared in Exciting Western, September 1949.
“Desert Judgment,” by E. Hoffmann Price, originally appeared in Six-Gun Western, October 1950.
“The Trail Trap,” by T.W. Ford, originally appeared in Western Action, November 1943.
“Gun-Queen of the Spanish Grant,” by Joseph Chadwick, originally appeared in Lariat, March 1950.
“Hopalong’s Hop,” by Clarence E. Mulford, originally appeared in Pearson’s Magazine, November 1912.
“Demons of Disaster,” by Johnston McCulley, originally appeared in Masked Rider Western, March 1946.
“War on Bear Creek,” by Robert E. Howard, originally appeared in Action Stories, April 1935.
“Brand of the Red Warrior,” by Ike Boone, originally appeared in Indian Stories, Fall 1950.
“Fetch Me Brannon’s Ears,” by Seven Anderton, originally appeared in Double Action Western, January 1955.
“The Luck of Roaring Camp,” by Bret Harte, originally appeared in Overland Monthly, August 1868.
“Invitation by Bullet,” by Ernest Haycox, originally appeared in Short Stories, April 25, 1929.
HIS KIND OF HELLION, by Johnston McCulley
Early that morning, a rider strange to the locality emerged from the swirls of mist lifting over the wasteland and loped into the sleepy little community known as Desert Edge. Nobody showed along the town’s one street, and the hitchrails were empty. Old Pop Hopper, always an early riser, was just opening the front door of his store.
Pop glanced up quickly when he heard the sound of hoofbeats. He squinted at the rider over the tops of his steel-rimmed spectacles, giving him a swift but keen appraisal. In Desert Edge, strangers were few and generally of the same sort. And it was Pop’s quick guess that this one would follow the usual pattern.
For the rider began the customary routine. He dismounted stiffly with all the symptoms of saddle fatigue and drowsiness, and tied his jaded pony to the hitchrail, using the standard quick-getaway knot. And he gave a searching look at his back-trail as if expecting to see signs of pursuit.
Pop mused, Well, here’s another of ’m hot on the dodge and hittin’ for the hills with a lawman in pursuit. Ridin’ the bitter road at the end of which a hombre finds either a bullet or a rope.
Pop guessed the newcomer was in his late teens or early twenties. He had a hefty body moved with youthful awkwardness but here was a mere kid believing himself to be a grown man, Pop thought. Didn’t know a man has to grow in mind as well as in body. Probably had the idea he could bluff the whole world and all the folks in it. Hated honest work, no doubt. Thought he could blaze a path of glory through life with a gun.
Pop noticed that the lower portion of the newcomer’s attire was as would be expected—fairly new overalls and spurred high-heeled boots a little scuffed. But the upper part was certainly dude stuff. Pop observed a shirt of bright hues adorned with heavy hand embroidery, a coat with a fancy collar, and a peaked sombrero with a carved leather chin strap and a wide band decorated with Indian beads. Some little Mexican sweetheart had been left behind to cry her pretty eyes out, Pop decided.
The rider wore the regulation gunbelt, however, with cartridge loops filled and a .45 sagging his holster. And his mount was a dappled sorrel and gray: at a distance of a quarter mile that pony would blend into a parched open country background and a simply disappear—a good sort of pony for a hill rider with a posse after him.
Pop thought, now here’s a snappy young squirt who has an idea he’s real bad. Might be at that—some of them are. And others are just startin’ to ride the hill trail and might be turned aside in time to save them. This is Sam Ruskin’s day to come to town; he’ll size up this young buddy quick enough.
Sam Ruskin was a man with a history. He had the biggest ranch in the district, where he had settled down after years of an adventurous life. Desert Edge citizens looked to him for advice and guidance. He was the arbiter in their disputes and the guardian of their peace and morals.
Pop continued to watch the newcomer as he stretched to relieve his body of saddle weariness. He slapped dust from his shoulders and shook it out of the folds of his neckcloth. He tilted his sombrero at a rakish angle, hitched up his overalls, adjusted his gunbelt and holster, removed his riding gloves and tucked them under his belt on the left side, strode over to Pop and asked, “Is this place Desert Edge?”
“What there is of it,” Pop confirmed.
He straightened his stooped shoulders slightly, shoved his spectacles up on his nose, retreated into the store and went behind the counter. The stranger followed, sagged wearily against a convenient sugar barrel, and began building a cigarette.
“Tired?” Pop inquired.
“I’m tired and sleepy and hungry, all three. Can you have your wife rustle me up a mess of hot grub?”
“Nope. Just now I’m wifeless. But I can stoke up the stove and cook a mess of breakfast for us both.”
“Well, that’ll be fine. Get busy!”
“Why are you in such a fiery hurry? You ridin’ straight through?” Pop probed.
The boyish stranger eyed him belligerently. “I don’t like questions except when I ask ’m myself. How about a little eye-opener? My flask is dry.”
“Gus Swartz runs that saloon across the street, hasn’t unlocked his door for the day yet. But I can give you a little taste from my own private bottle.”
Pop put the bottle and a tumbler on the counter, and turned to the stove. He scratched
a match on the seat of his pants and lit the laid fire. Meanwhile, the stranger filled the tumbler and half emptied it with a great gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said:
“You can call me Lon Bell and you’ll be naming me correct. And, since you appear so anxious to know, I’m not riding straight through. Where can I put up my pony?”
“In the little corral right behind the store. Just stack your saddle and hang your bridle on the fence. Pump some water into the trough, and toss over a jag of hay. Everything free ’cept the hay, which’ll be two bits a day.”
“Don’t go to worrying about your two bits. I pay my way. I got into a right stiff poker game not long ago, and my money belt is stuffed. I had to gun down an ornery cuss who accused me of cheat work, before I hit my saddle.”
Pop nodded. He was thinking: Here we go! Bluffin’ and braggin’. It’s time for me to take this brash youngster down a peg. So, “How are things shapin’ up these days down Mex border way?” Pop asked, gently.
Lon Bell gave a quick start and whirled toward him. “How’s that? Who says I came from down Mex border way?”
“It’s plain enough. Your shirt, coat and hat say it. And I know you came here from the south.”
“How could you know so much?”
“Well, it’s like this—a rider can’t get into Desert Edge from that direction ’thout comin’ across Mineral Creek. It’s named that ’cause it flows through a canyon where the ground’s filled with minerals that turn the water reddish and make red mud.”
“What of it?”
“Your pony’s legs are plastered with dried red mud from the knees down.”
“You seem to notice things right well.”
“A man can learn a lot that way,” Pop replied.
“Sometimes he can learn so much it gets dangerous. To save you from wearing your hair thinner than it is already by doing a lot of guessing work, I’ll explain a few things to you. I’m not on the run, like maybe you s’pose. I came here to meet up with a man, and probably got here ahead of him. His name is Bart Shields. You ever hear of him?”
Pop gulped suddenly like a man with a parched throat. He was bending over the stove at the moment, poking at the firebox, otherwise his countenance might have betrayed to the newcomer that his words had caused a slight shock.
“I’ve heard the name,” Pop confessed, without turning around as he spoke. “Bart Shields got sent to prison for armed robbery. Held up a mine paymaster. He rode the hills with a couple of other bandits. They ran posses ragged for a time, but finally got nabbed. So Bart Shields is out of prison, is he?”
“He got out about two months ago,” Lon Bell explained. “It’s guessed that he had plenty of loot cached away somewhere. He bought for cash a good pony and gear, and guns and shells and supplies.”
“And you’ve come here to meet him?”
“That’s right.”
“Please do me a favor,” Pop begged the young newcomer. “If you’re aimin’ to gunfight him, do it in the street. I don’t yearn to have my store shot up. And Gus Swartz wouldn’t want his saloon mirror and bottles and glasses smashed. ’Tain’t neighborly to come ridin’ into a town and ruinin’ people’s property.”
Lon Bell laughed. “You needn’t worry about that. It’ll be a friendly meeting between me and Bart Shields. We planned to meet here. We’ve got business to talk about.”
“As far as I ever heard, the only business Bart Shields ever had was bein’ a bandit. How come you’re meetin’ him here?”
“Maybe I’d better not talk too much about Bart’s affairs; he might not like it,” Lon Ben said. “How about that food?”
Pop already had the coffee started, and was busy slicing salt pork and cold boiled potatoes into a huge skillet. “You’ll have just time enough to turn your pony into the corral,” he replied.
Lon Bell hurried out of the store.
He unhitched his pony with a single jerk of the reins and led him around to the corral. When he returned, he helped Pop devour the meal. Then he asked:
“Where’ll it be safe for me to flop for a couple of hours to catch up on sleep?”
“There’s a cot in the shack behind the store. You’re welcome to use it.”
“Thanks. If anybody gets inquisitive about me, you tell’m I always sleep light and wake easy, and my hardware is always close to my hand.”
“I’ll tell them that.”
“If Bart rides in, tell him to wake me, but be careful how. Tell him to yell loud before he gets too near, or I may come up half awake and with my gun smoking. I’d sure hate to kill Bart by mistake.”
Pop showed him the shack and cot and returned to the store. He glanced through a window and saw Gus Swartz opening his saloon. Pop crossed the street and told Swartz the entire story.
“It’s plain to me,” Swartz decided. “Bart Shields is planning to ride the hills again, and he’s recruited this brassy youngster to side him.”
“Could be like that,” Pop agreed.
“Maybe Shields plans to make Desert Edge his headquarters, and come here for supplies and to have his sprees. That’d make this place look like a badman’s hangout. Shields would expect us to help and hide him at times. We don’t want that.”
“We don’t,” Pop agreed again. “I ain’t hungerin’ to step outside the law even an inch. Sam Ruskin is the man to handle this. He should be in town today. We’ll put it up to him.”
So Desert Edge began another day. Aside from Lon Bell’s arrival and the rumors it caused, there was no unusual activity.
The community, where the wasteland met the hills, had only about a score of regular inhabitants, mostly old timers waiting for their last sun to go down. They did odd jobs when they found any and lived frugally on the proceeds. Trade came from ranches on the slopes of the hills, and kept alive Pop’s store, Gus Swartz’s saloon, and a blacksmith shop.
An hour after Lon Bell had retired to the shack, Bart Shields rode into town and stopped at the hitchrail in front of the store. Pop watched his arrival through a window. He recognized the outlaw at once, having seen Shields before when the latter had been in the custody of the sheriff.
Shields was middle-aged, stocky in body, wore a heavy black beard, rumbled when he talked, and glared at everybody and everything. Two guns dangled from his belt with holsters tied down, and a rifle was in his saddle boot. His pony was a tough-looking roan.
Pop thought, prison didn’t change this hellion much, or tame him either. It’s more than likely he’ll take up his outlawin’ again, like Gus said. Prob’ly feels he should get square with other folks of the world for givin’ him his just deserts.
Bart Shields had come to town from the hills, and was riding light. No pack mare lumbered along behind his pony, so he hadn’t come to get any great quantity of supplies, Pop decided. The outlaw tied his pony, glanced up and down the street, and swaggered into the store.
He fixed Pop with a squint-eyed glare, and his voice was a deep rumble when he announced, “I’m to meet a young hombre named Lon Bell here.”
“He’s arrived,” Pop reported. “Had his breakfast, put his pony in the corral, and is sleepin’ in my shack. Said he expected to be joined by a man.”
“I’m the man—Bart Shields. Maybe you know about me. Got out of prison a few weeks ago. You needn’t be scared. I’m not here to make trouble. If the folks here treat me right, I’ll treat them right. If they don’t—” He left the threat hanging unvoiced.
“I aim to treat everyone right,” Pop told him.
“That’s a good way to keep on living. Where’s this shack Lon Bell is sleeping in?”
“Rear of the store. He said to warn whoever asked for him to yell loud and wake him ’fore they got too near. Said otherwise he might wake up startled and with his gun smokin’ and make a mistake.”
“He’ll make a sad mistake if he does that with me,” Bart Shields rumbled.
“Maybe you’d better be a mite careful,” Pop suggested. “From what he
told me, he’s one of them young border hellions. Always shootin’ folks for the fun of it. Said he had to gun down a man and hit his saddle after a hot poker game.”
“Him a border hellion?” Shields’ laugh was raucous. “I heard about that poker game. They caught him with an ace in his cuff. Instead of slinging lead when they started after him, he fired one shot, hit a man in the arm, and rode.”
“Maybe I got a wrong idea from his talk.”
“You sure did. He’s only a young squirt who wants to hit the hill trail, and wants to side me. I told him to meet me here and we’d talk it over. Thought maybe I can use him as a sort of chore boy.”
“My, my! It’s sure easy to be mistaken in a hombre. I thought he was a reckless young hellion.”
“Show me where he is,” Bart Shields ordered.
Pop showed him the shack, and Shields yelled until Lon Bell came to the doorway. Pop watched Shields go into the shack and close the door, and heard the rumble of voices.
Passing through the store, Pop went into the street and looked along the west trail. No rider was in sight; Sam Ruskin already was behind schedule. Pop wished he would hurry to town.
Pop muttered, “in a case like this I s’pose a man’s entitled to do things he maybe wouldn’t do otherwise, considerin’ he’s the right kind of man. ’Tain’t polite to eavesdrop on private talk. But it might be all right when it’s for the general good. . .”
He went to his living quarters in the rear of the store, and got into a closet. The shack was attached to the main building at that point, and the walls were thin. Pop could hear bits of conversation.
“I might decide to take you with me, Lon,” Bart Shields was saying. “But you’ll have a lot to learn. I wouldn’t want you to fail me in a tight corner.”
“I’d never do that, Bart,” Lon Bell promised.
“You’d never do it more than once,” was Shields’ rumbled threat. “Why do you want to ride with me?”
“You’re my kind of man, Bart. I guess you’re what I’d call my idol. Not afraid of anyone nor afraid to do anything you want to do. Make other men step around. The way you ride into a town, hold up a bank or saloon or store, spray some lead and hit your saddle! Everyone afraid of you. You laugh at ’m and dare ’m to draw. I want to be like that, Bart.”
The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories Page 1
