“Yeah—if they could shoot as straight,” Willie went on. “That was shore some fine shootin’.”
They fell into silence. It didn’t seem as hot, now that their thirst had been slaked. They rode at an easy trot, and the powerful black mule was able to keep abreast of the sorrel. The trail took them across the flat and around the point of a hill. For a few minutes, they lost it as it climbed the rocky stretches to a divide, then they picked it up again by skirting the rim of the higher ground.
Two hours passed, and the sun was swinging into the middle of the western sky. Willie rose in his stirrups with a low exclamation.
“There they are—jest goin’ down off the divide!”
Shorty was not tall enough to see. He leaned forward and pressed his knees against the mule’s sides. Chopin broke into a gallop, and Tumbleweed swung into an easy lope beside him.
At the rim of the divide, the partners drew rein and peered down a slope that was studded with cedars. Willie Wetherbee saw the skinning thieves first—four men who led an equal number of pack horses. He gave Tumbleweed the spurs and went down the rocky slant at breakneck speed.
“Yip-eee! Let ’em have it!”
Frame whirled his horse with a startled oath. A wild-eyed pair of riders were sweeping down upon them. The Sonora Kid’s hand flashed up, and the sunlight glinted on chill blue steel.
Frame went for his gun. He sent one shot roaring across the stubby cedars, then a bullet tore into his thick body and he toppled from his horse.
“I knowed it!” Harker shrieked. “I said we ought ter have killed ’em!”
Braang! The skinning thief jerked a gun from the holster at his left side and fired.
A bullet cut through the flap of Shorty’s jumper. Pete and Joe were pulling their horses behind the doubtful shelter of a clump of cedars, blazing away as they went.
Braang! Braang! Shorty and Willie lay low on the necks of their mounts and fired together.
Either shot would have killed Harker. The skinny man coughed. He fell forward, the saddle horn bumped him in the chest, and his horse shied in sudden terror of the death that rode the saddle. Harker slipped slowly off, his broken arm dangling limply.
More shots roared. Shorty reined the mule to the right. The Sonora Kid headed left around the cedar clump. Bullets whizzed angrily past them as they closed in behind thundering guns.
“Left fer the buzzards, eh?” snarled the little freighter, as he ducked under a branch and came face to face with the scarred, whiskered Pete.
The hide-stealer’s gun blazed almost in Shorty’s eyes, and the Stetson whipped off the freighter’s head. He jerked the trigger of his own .45, and there was an empty click.
Pete’s gun came up again. Pete’s tobacco-stained teeth were bared in a twisted snarl.
Shorty flung himself over the side of the mule and threw muscular arms around the outlaw’s neck. Both men crashed to the ground. In falling, Shorty had a fleeting glimpse of the swarthy-faced Joe toppling from his saddle, under the hoofs of his horse, and then the mule driver had his hands full.
Crash! He let go with his right arm and swung a choppy blow flush against Pete’s bearded chin. The hide thief’s gun cracked harmlessly in the air and clipped off a cedar branch. He went limp.
Shorty grabbed the .45 and climbed to his feet. He thrust his own gun back into its holster and stood panting hard, his tow-colored hair disheveled. Willie Wetherbee swung from Tumbleweed’s back and examined the fallen Joe.
“Dead,” he said shortly. “What yuh goin’ to do with that hombre?”
“Take him back to the Waggin Tongue with us,” Shorty panted. “We’ll make him drive them four pack hosses with the hides. I ain’t intendin’ to load another ounce onto my waggins after what them mules has been through—not until they’ve got a good rest. Look at Chopin—he craves more water!”
“Me, too,” chuckled the Sonora Kid.
HORSESHOES AREN’T ALWAYS LUCKY, by Sam Brant
Trouble with Buck Dailey was, he just didn’t seem to know his own strength. You take a man who is six feet four inches tall and weighs around two hundred and sixty pounds and you’ve sure got a big hunk of hombre. Which same was Buck Dailey. Due to his having been a blacksmith for so many years, most of all that weight was muscle.
“Every time I see Buck, he reminds me of a mountain looking for some place to settle down.” old Jeff Lester was right fond of saying. “It’s no wonder he don’t ever tote a gun. All he needs to do is just fall on a badman and crush him to death.”
Lester owned the general store in the thriving little cowtown called Wagonville—population thirty-two humans, forty horses, seven dogs and two cats. The town boasted of the general store, a saloon, the blacksmith shop, a feed and grain store, and a bank.
Of course there weren’t enough people in town to keep the bank going, but since it was the only place where all of the ranchers within a hundred miles or so around could deposit their money, cash checks or get loans, the Wagonville Bank was doing all right.
Will Johnson, president and owner of the bank, claimed that having the blacksmith shop the next building to his place of business sometimes was almost more than he could stand. A blacksmith shop going full blast is not what could rightly be called a place of peace and quiet.
“Buck Dailey makes so much noise that I can’t hardly sleep days,” Johnson told the patrons of the Glad Hand Saloon, one evening, and then waited for the other men at the bar to laugh. The banker loved a joke—if he told it.
The bartender and a couple of small ranchers laughed like it was the funniest thing they had ever heard, but some of the other men didn’t even smile. In their estimation Johnson was fat and lazy and they thought his two tellers were the ones who did all the work around the bank. It was their idea the naps he took during the day probably were disturbed by the noise coming from the blacksmith shop.
Buck Dailey, the blacksmith, was standing down at the far end of the bar, with his back to the group around the banker, and he hadn’t heard what Johnson said. He wouldn’t have minded, if he had heard it. He owned the smithy—building and all—so the bank couldn’t force him to move.
Besides the blacksmith had something else on his mind. There were a couple of strangers standing near him at the bar and he didn’t like their looks. They were both dressed in worn range clothes with their holsters tied down, and to him they appeared to be a pair of gunsharps who were just hankering for trouble.
“Big feller, ain’t he,” said the smaller of the two men, looking at Dailey. “I’ve seen a tub of lard that was big, too.”
Scowling, the second man stared at the blacksmith. “Yuh shouldn’t say things like that, Frisco,” he said. He was almost as tall as Dailey, but not as heavy. “It ain’t nice to go around insultin’ a tub of lard like that.”
“Reckon you two gents must be strangers in town.” Dailey finished off his drink and put down his glass, then stepped closer to the two men. “Such being the case permit me to welcome you to Wagonville. Buck Dailey is my name.”
“I’m Bull Malton,” said the tall man. “And this is Frisco Reed. When we need anybody to welcome us, we’ll let you know.”
“That’s right,” snarled Frisco Reed. “Besides, my Paw told me never to talk to strangers—’specially when I don’t like their faces.”
Usually Dailey was a quiet man who tried to keep out of trouble but for some reason he could see these two strangers were deliberately trying to pick a fight with him. He didn’t like Malton and Reed and he was getting mad.
It was “Bull” Malton who made a fatal mistake. He suddenly snarled and reached for his gun as if Dailey had said something to him that called for shooting. “Frisco” Reed also lowered his hand toward his holster.
“You been askin’ for it,” Dailey said.
He reached out, caught both men by the necks and banged their heads together good and hard. Malton and Reed had drawn their guns, but Dailey shook the two men so hard that the weapons dropped fro
m their grasp and hit the sawdust covered floor with loud thuds.
Holding them by the necks with either hand the blacksmith rushed the two men across the room toward the swinging doors of the saloon. He released Bull Malton first, at the same time giving him a kick that sent him hurtling through the doors. Frisco Reed followed.
Dailey dusted off his hands and turned back. The other men in the room were motionless, watching him in amazement. Will Johnson frowned.
“What’s the idea, Buck?” demanded the banker. “Why did you throw those two men out? They didn’t seem to be making any trouble.”
“That’s what you think, Johnson,” said Dailey.
He didn’t bother to explain. Most of the men in the barroom were his friends, and he was sure they believed he had done what he considered to be right. In his opinion Johnson always did have a way of sticking his nose into other people’s business, and expressing his ideas on the subject before he knew what it was all about.
Dailey picked up the guns and handed them to the bartender. He was still angry, so he said the first thing that entered his head.
“If Mr. Johnson’s friends come back,” he told the bartender, “give them their guns. I’m going home to bed.”
“My friends!” exclaimed Johnson excitedly. “What do you mean by that, Dailey? I never saw those men before in my life. The idea of accusing me of associating with a couple of owlhoot riders.”
“You seemed right certain they weren’t aimin’ to make any trouble,” said Dailey. “A little too shore of it, the way I figger.”
He turned and stalked out of the saloon. He did not even hear what the banker shouted at him. He reached the street. There was no sign of Malton and Reed out there.
Dailey walked on along the plank sidewalk until he came to the blacksmith shop. He unlocked the front door and went in, locking the door behind him. He went through the shop and opened the door leading to his living quarters in the rear. Here he undressed and climbed into his bunk and slept peacefully until morning.
Early the next day Buck Dailey was busy at work in the shop. A waddy from the nearby Rocking A had brought in a horse that needed new shoes all around. If the two gunslingers were still around town, the blacksmith hadn’t seen any sign of them.
“Reckon it will be a big day in town today,” said the Flying A waddy. “It’s the first of the month, so all the ranches will be payin’ off the hands.”
“So it is.” Dailey glanced at a calendar on the wall. “The first of July! Shucks, time shore does fly! Why, it seems like only yesterday when it was June.”
The waddy laughed and then grew serious.
“Reckon there will be a lot of money drawn out of the bank today,” he said. “What with the ranch owners all getting cash for the payrolls.”
“Shore will.” Dailey finished shoeing the horse. “There you are, Jim. All done.”
Drawing out a handful of silver dollars, the waddy paid for the job then mounted his horse and rode away. It was not eight o’clock yet and the bank didn’t open until nine. Wagonville was quiet, for the men from the ranches had not as yet arrived in town.
Dailey went to the door of the blacksmith shop and stood there resting for a few minutes. He had to finish up some work he had been doing—making a new front axle for a ranch wagon—but there was no hurry about that.
Four riders appeared at the upper end of the street which was close to the bank and the blacksmith shop. Bandanna masks hid the lower part of their faces and the brims of their hats were pulled down so that their eyes were in shadow.
They rode swiftly to the front of the bank and here two of the masked men swung out of their saddles, handing their reins to the other two who remained on their horses.
At first sight of the four men Dailey had ducked back into the blacksmith shop where he could watch without being seen.
“Bank robbers!” he muttered. “And me with no gun. All the same I’ve got to find some way to stop them!”
Two of the masked men disappeared inside the bank. Hastily Dailey looked around the blacksmith shop, seeking some sort of weapon. He spied a small keg of nails and grabbed it up. He rushed to the door. One of the masked men holding the horses was sitting in the saddle with his back toward the blacksmith shop.
Dailey stepped out of the shop and tossed the keg of nails at the nearest bandit. The keg struck the man in the back with such force that he was knocked out of the saddle. In falling, he dropped the reins of the horse he had been holding.
“Bank robbers!” shouted Dailey loudly. “Bank robbers!”
The second mounted masked man fired just as the blacksmith ducked back into the shop.
The bullet whistled by Buck Dailey’s ear. He grabbed a handful of horseshoes and ran to the door. He flung one of the horseshoes. It struck the mounted bank robber squarely in the face just as he let fly a second shot at the blacksmith. The masked man’s bullet went wild.
Dailey threw another shoe. The blacksmith was the champion horseshoe pitcher of the little town and his aim was true. The shoe hit the masked man on the head and knocked him unconscious. He fell forward over the neck of his horse.
Men appeared from buildings up and down the street with guns ready in their hands. They had heard Dailey’s shout and the roar of the bandit’s gun. The four horses of the bank robbers went tearing down the street—the unconscious man still in the saddle on the fourth horse.
The other two bandits dashed out of the bank, each with a sack filled with money in one hand and a Colt in the other. Dailey jumped back into the blacksmith shop as they saw him and raised their guns. Bullets broke the glass in one of the windows of the shop and thudded against the wooden sides of the building.
Across the street in front of the general store, old Jeff Lester raised the rifle he had picked up and fired. One of the masked men dropped with a bullet in his heart. The other went down, wounded in the leg as the store keeper triggered a second shot.
“Nice shootin’, Jeff,” yelled Dailey as he stepped out of the shop. “You got them both.”
Men came running to the scene and the masks were removed from the faces of the bank robbers. The dead man was Bull Malton, and the man Lester had wounded in the leg was Frisco Reed.
“Thought so,” said Dailey. “That’s why they tried to pick a fight with me in the saloon last night.” He moved toward the open front door of the bank. “Come on, let’s see what happened in here.”
He stepped into the bank with some of the other men following him. They found Will Johnson in his office. He was bound and gagged. Two of the men quickly released the bank president.
“Those robbers,” exclaimed Johnson. “They got in here, tied me up and gagged me, and then robbed the vault.”
“Shore,” said Dailey, looking at the banker. “But you figgered they would get away with the cash. Reckon you must have been short of bank funds and had to do somethin’ about it before the ranchers started drawing on their accounts as they always do on the first of the month.”
“What are you talking about, Dailey?” snarled Johnson. “It sounds crazy to me.”
“You must have made a deal with Malton and Reed and a couple of their outlaw pards to rob the bank,” said Dailey. “My shop was too close and you were afraid I’d notice something suspicious, so those two had orders to pick a fight with me in the saloon and down me if they could.”
“Might be a lot to that,” said Jeff Lester, who was among those listening. “Those men didn’t seem drunk, and yet I saw them go for their guns before yuh grabbed them last night, Buck.”
“Right.” Dailey nodded. “And Johnson acted like they were his friends first off. Then he denied it because he said he resented anybody thinking he would associate with a couple of owlhoots. I didn’t know they were owlhoots until Johnson said so.”
“We have been short of cash here in the bank,” said one of the tellers, who had just arrived on the scene. “I noticed that. Furthermore Mr. Johnson has been doing a lot of gambling over in the
railroad town lately.”
“It’s a lie,” shouted Johnson. He glared at Frisco Reed who had been brought into the bank. “I had nothing to do with the robbers.”
“Then how did Reed and Malton get into this bank?” demanded Dailey. “You were the only one here. The bank isn’t supposed to open until nine, and yet they walked in at eight without breaking the door down.”
“You might as well admit the whole thing, Johnson,” said Frisco Reed. “With Bull dead and the other boys captured I shore ain’t goin’ to be blamed for this alone.”
“And if you hadn’t started tossing those horseshoes and stuff they might have got away with it, Buck,” said Lester, looking at the blacksmith in admiration. “I saw yuh when yuh started that.” He grinned sardonically at the banker. “Looks like horse shoes aren’t lucky for yuh, Johnson.”
GUN-WHIPPED! by Carmony Gove
The Silver Spur bar was busy for a mid-week night. Most of the gambling tables were going, too. Old Bill Tope tilted his chair back against a post. Slightly to his left a five-handed poker game was in session. Tope didn’t like the nasty squinting of Snake Furgeson’s eyes; Furgeson had too many notches on his gun.
“An’ that Petey boy hain’t got th’ sense to keep from hornin’ right into trouble,” Tope muttered to himself.
An abrupt, heavy-fisted slapping of hands at cards jarred the table. Each poker player suddenly kicked back his chair and was solidly on his feet.
Three of the players backed away quickly, leaving only Snake Furgeson and young Malone. Snake’s gun was jutting out from his right hip, its big black barrel ready to spit a slug through Pete Malone’s chest, across the table.
“He ain’t heeled, Snake.”
Old Bill Tope was still tilted back against the post. Apparently he hadn’t moved, yet his old-fashioned Colt forty-four was steadied across one of his cocked-up knees. A fannin’ gun—that Colt. No need of pulling a trigger; there wasn’t any, anyway. The hammer had to be fanned with the heel of the other hand, or thumbed back with the thumb of the gun hand. Tope had the hammer back, now. All he had to do was let his thumb slip and the old cannon would drill Snake Furgeson through the heart.
The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories Page 10
