The Third Western Megapack

by Barker, S. Omar

  That was the way old Zim Yager had found him, bound and gagged, with the half-finished sketch lying beside him. That same night, the masked bandit had stopped the stage in Cutter’s Pass and had taken money and other valuables from the passengers and the driver.

  * * * *

  Marty sighed as he headed his horse for the rundown little ranch that his father had left him. He wondered as he rode along what had ever possessed him to tell Chillie that he’d set a trap for the bandit. Chillie would spread his boast all over town, and the first thing Marty knew, everybody would be kidding him about it. Even the masked bandit would get a big laugh, for it seemed probable that the outlaw was a local man.

  Now, if Marty only had a clear picture of the man in his mind, there might be a chance—

  He jerked the pinto to a stop, and a slow smile spread across his wide mouth. Maybe that was the answer! Maybe he had something there. Then he shuddered and the smile vanished from his face.

  His scheme would make him a marked man as far as the bandit was concerned. Marty realized just how good this outlaw was with a sixgun. The man had done some fancy shooting just for effect—like the time he’d put two neat holes through the crown of Sam Wheeler’s Stetson the night he’d taken Sam’s cattle money. A week later, he’d shot a gun out of Fred Piney’s fist, and another time he’d shot the head off a running rabbit just to show he could put a bullet any place he wanted to.

  Marty stared into space. He was remembering the unhappy light in Katy’s blue eyes, the break in her voice. And he remembered the sneer on Chillie Walrath’s handsome face. Suddenly he clamped his teeth together, squared his shoulders and wheeled his horse back toward Cat-tail Springs.

  Regardless of the danger involved, he knew he was going to try to take the unhappy look out of Katy’s eyes, maybe rub the sneer off Chillie Walrath’s face. As for the lawman’s badge—whether or not he’d wear it again wasn’t so important, but at least he wanted to square himself with old Zim Yager.

  “Inky” Platt was setting type in the musty office of the Cat-tail Springs Gazette when Marty walked in through the screenless door. The old printer straightened up and eyed Marty over the rims of his spectacles.

  “Glad yuh come in,” he cackled. “There’s allus two sides to a story. I wanted to hear yore side of what happened in the pass before I printed it in the paper.”

  “I guess there ain’t two sides to this story,” Marty said. “I was so wrapped up in drawin’ old Flattop with the sun settin’ over it that I plumb forgot what I was sent out there for. The next thing I knew, I was tied up tighter than a steer for brandin’.”

  “Nothin’ like bein’ honest about it, Deputy.” Platt grinned.

  “I’m no longer the deputy,” Marty returned sadly. “For that an’ a couple of other reasons, I’m plenty sore at that masked owlhooter. That’s why I’m here. I come for a dozen sheets of paper, Mr. Platt. Big sheets, like yuh print the paper on.”

  Inky Platt took off his glasses and stared at Marty.

  “For why would yuh want all that paper?” he clucked.

  “To draw on,” Marty told him.

  “Draw what?”

  “Pictures of that masked bandit. Life-sized pictures. About six of ’em, showin’ him in different poses an’ at different angles just like I saw him while he was tyin’ me up.”

  “Why would yuh want to do that?”

  “I’m goin’ to show these drawin’s to everybody in this part of the country,” Marty said in a hard, flat voice. “Even if this coyote did keep his face hid, somebody’s goin’ to recognize somethin’ about him in one of these pictures. Somethin’ that’ll give him away. Like the way he stands, or bends over. Or uses his arms, or hunches his shoulders. Things like that he can’t hide behind a mask.”

  The printer’s eyes narrowed, and a slow grin began to spread out on his thin face.

  “Maybe yuh got somethin’ there, Marty,” he said. “Ain’t much question but what this bandit is a local man. Maybe someone will see somethin’ in yore drawings that’ll give a lead to the feller. Yuh saw him plain, eh, Marty?”

  “As plain as I see you,” Marty lied. “Even got a feelin’ I ought to know him. Maybe when I get to work on them pictures, it’ll come to me who he is.”

  “Care if I run a story about all this, Marty?”

  Marty grinned. He’d been hoping for that question.

  “No,” he answered. “By the time yore next paper comes out, I’ll have them pictures mostly finished and ready to show people.”

  Old Inky Platt bundled up the big sheets of paper and refused to take any money for them.

  “It’s on the house,” he said, “an’ good luck!”

  * * * *

  The Gazette came out on Thursday noons. Marty rode into Cat-tail Springs right after dinner the Thursday Old Man Platt printed the story. He didn’t bother about getting a copy of the paper; it wasn’t important how the story read. The important thing was how people would take it, whether or not they’d believe it was possible to recognize the masked man from Marty’s drawings.

  He left his horse in front of the Stag Saloon and pushed in through the bat-wings. A sudden hush filled the smoky room, and a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on him. He angled up to the bar and ordered a glass of beer, knowing that the men had been discussing him and the write-up before he’d barged in.

  Jim Pierce, the barkeep, made a swipe at the counter with a wet rag.

  “Quite a write-up you got in the Gazette, Marty,” he said.

  Marty studied his foaming glass of beer.

  “Ain’t seen this week’s paper,” he murmured.

  A deep silence played around the room until someone croaked, “Yuh got them pictures with yuh, Marty?”

  Marty let his eyes wander lazily about the place. Sam Wheeler and Fred Piney, both victims of the masked bandit, were among those present. Old Zim Yager stood on his stubby legs near the rusty iron stove. Even Chillie Walrath was in the room, hunched over a card game with a couple of cowpokes.

  “What pictures?” Marty asked innocently.

  “Them pictures of this masked gunman. The ones the paper tells about.”

  “Oh, them.” Marty sipped his beer and smacked his lips. “Why, no,” he said at last. “It takes considerable time to draw life-size pictures like that. But give me another three or four days and I’ll have em.”

  Chillie Walrath had raised his handsome head, and there was an un-handsome sneer on his lips.

  “Got any sunsets mixed up with them pictures?” he asked.

  A chuckle or two went up over the room. Everyone knew how the bandit had caught Marty drawing the sunset over Flattop.

  Marty felt his fingers tighten around the beer glass. Chillie had a way of getting under his hide, making the muscles knot up in his arms and shoulders.

  “Maybe,” he answered evenly. “Maybe not.”

  “Yuh know,” Fred Piney said, “yore idea sounds reasonable to me. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me none if it worked. An’ I shore hope it does!”

  Sam Wheeler pulled his Stetson from his gray head and put his fingers through the two bullet holes in the crown.

  “Marty,” he said in a flat voice, “this hombre can shoot. Did yuh ever stop to think yuh might be stickin’ yore neck out, tellin’ the world what yuh aim to do?”

  Marty frowned at his glass. “I’ve give that some thought, Sam,” he said slowly. “I reckon a man has got to take a certain amount of risk sometime durin’ his life.”

  * * * *

  Chillie Walrath laid down his cards and grinned.

  “I don’t think Marty’s got anythin’ to worry about,” he said. “The whole thing sounds kinda crazy to me. I figure it will sound the same way to this masked bandit if he ever hears about it.”

 
“An’ again, it might not,” Wheeler muttered.

  Marty set his glass on the counter and faced Chillie squarely. He started to make a hot retort, but changed his mind. After all, he’d come here to find out what people thought about the story old Inky Platt had run in the paper, not to pick a quarrel with Chillie Walrath although there was plenty of cause for one.

  “Well, sir,” he said to no one in particular, “yuh’d be surprised how natural a life-size drawin’ of a man can look. Of course, it may be that nothin’ in these pictures will give anybody any ideas. But again—”

  He let his sentence end there, turned on his heel and walked out into the early afternoon sunlight.

  Old Zim Yager followed him and caught up with him at the end of the board walk in front of Appleman’s Feed Store.

  “Marty,” he growled, “you told me yuh didn’t see enough of that hombre to have a idea of what he was like!”

  “I hope yuh ain’t told no one that,” Marty said anxiously.

  “No, I ain’t. But I don’t get this picture idea.”

  Marty shoved doubled fists into the pockets of his levis and glared down at the runty sheriff.

  “Just let me go ahead an’ do my drawin’, Sheriff,” he said, “an’ don’t let it worry yuh.”

  “Another thing,” Zim went on, unruffled by Marty’s words. “If that jasper gets a idea you can expose him, yore life won’t be worth a lead dime. Not that it’s worth much more’n that now, but—”

  “Thanks,” Marty said dryly. “I realize I ain’t much, but I can still draw pretty good pictures. Yuh ought to see the one I made of you, Sheriff. An’ of Fred Piney an’ Sam Wheeler. Life-size, too.”

  * * * *

  With that, he turned and walked away from the gaping oldster. Grinning a little at the memory of the blank look on old Zim’s face, he climbed into the saddle and headed back home. He had an idea that the next few hours would tell whether or not his scheme was any good.

  Once inside the old ranchhouse, Marty gave a last look around to make sure that things were just as he’d left them. He even tested the contraption he’d rigged up to open the bedroom door. It worked perfectly. Then he went into the bedroom and lit a lamp that he’d set up on a high stool. He made sure that the window shades were tightly drawn.

  Smiling mirthlessly, he returned to the kitchen and shut the door between the two rooms, being careful to keep the latch open. Knowing that his gun was of no use against the speed of the masked bandit, he unbuckled it and hung it on a nail back of the stove. After this, he sharpened a pencil, stretched out in the middle of the floor and began to draw a man’s head with the face hidden behind a mask.

  Now, he’d come to the hardest part of his plan—the waiting. And there was no telling how long he might have to wait. The payoff might come tonight. Or, perhaps, not for several nights. But Marty had a feeling that it wasn’t far away.

  An hour later, he was still working on the drawing. It didn’t suit him. With an impatient shrug, he wadded up the piece of paper and tossed it into a corner. He spread out another sheet on the floor, resharpened the pencil and started in again.

  A slight scraping sound just outside the front door reached his ears. It sent a tingle of cold fear along his nerves, but he didn’t lift his head. He felt the door being opened behind him, but still didn’t glance up. His pencil went through the paper into a crasck in the flooring, and the lead broke with a little pop. Marty swore softly.

  He sat up then, fished out his knife and began to sharpen the pencil. A shadow crossed his line of vision, and he lifted his eyes and saw what he’d expected to see—a man standing in the open doorway. He knew the man had been there for some time, watching him, but he let his face go slack with surprise and fear, and stumbled to his feet.

  “Hold it!” the man rasped.

  Marty’s eyes traveled over the long length of the man. The run-over high-heeled boots, faded blue overalls tucked in at the boot tops, long arms with glove-covered hands, in one of which a sixgun was held steadily and centered on Marty’s middle, The man’s faded jumper fitted tightly across his wide shoulders and buttoned up under the chin. And through slits in the black mask over the man’s face were a pair of glinting, burning eyes.

  Marty shot a wild glance toward his own gun hanging on the wall. The masked man’s eyes followed his glance, and a hoarse chuckle came from behind the black cloth.

  “That gun wouldn’t do yuh no good if yuh had it,” the outlaw said.

  “I ain’t got no money,” Marty pleaded, leaning weakly against a chair. “I—”

  “Where are them pictures?”

  Marty licked his lips. “Pictures?”

  “I read Old Man Platt’s paper,” the man returned harshly. “I know all about them pictures. Yuh’ve done yore last drawin’, hombre—sunsets, or what-not!” Marty’s legs seemed to give way, and he had to catch himself against the chair. The chair scraped across the floor a few inches. It was fastened by a black thread to the contrivance that opened the bedroom door. Now the door slowly swung inward, and the light from the lamp flooded through it.

  “You walked into a trap, mister!” Marty barked.

  The man’s eyes whipped to the open door. What he saw made him gasp. His gunhand moved an inch and then froze.

  Three men stood just inside the bedroom door, with the light striking their grim faces. The first man was old Sheriff Zim Yager, Backing him were Sam Wheeler and Fred Piney. Each man held a gun, and the guns were centered on the masked bandit.

  The outlaw cursed softly. Slowly his hands lifted ceilingward.

  “I made sure there wasn’t any hosses here,” he mumbled. “An’ now—”

  He whirled back against the wall, bringing his gun around toward the open door. The room rocked with the blasts. The three men in the doorway stood their ground, but they didn’t shoot. The masked bandit triggered his last shot, laughed crazily and flung his empty gun at the sheriff’s face.

  It was then that Marty DeLong lifted the chair and brought it down on the masked man’s head. The chair splintered, and the outlaw crumpled to the floor. Marty lifted the chair for a second blow, but it wasn’t needed. The man was out cold.

  Stooping over, Marty pulled the black cloth from the man’s face. Except for the bruise, the face was handsome and un-marred. It belonged to Chillie Walrath!

  * * * *

  Late that night, Marty sat in the Pinto County jail office, facing old Zim Yager. Sitting in chairs against the far wall were Sam Wheeler and Fred Piney.

  Old Zim shoved up on his stubby legs and took a shot at the spittoon. He stamped across the small room, stopped in front of the iron-barred cell door and glared in at Chillie Walrath. Then he faced about and glared at Marty.

  “I’ll be a dad-blamed baboon!” he said again for the tenth time. “Marty, let’s see them pictures.”

  Marty unrolled a bundle of paper and held up the top drawing. It showed Fred Piney, life-size, holding a sixgun.

  Piney swore and sat up straight.

  “That’s shore me!” he exclaimed.

  Marty held up the second drawing.

  Sam Wheeler’s eyes bugged.

  “Can yuh beat that? Why, it’s like lookin’ in a lookin’ glass!” he sputtered. “It’s mighty good, Marty,”

  “Sure it is,” Marty admitted. “Just ask Chillie. When he saw ’em hangin’ just inside the bedroom door, he even

  emptied his gun at these pictures.”

  Marty unrolled the third picture, and a grin crossed his wide mouth.

  “Sorry about yores, Sheriff. Looks like I’ll have to make a new head for it an’ patch up some bullet holes. After Chillie emptied his gun, he threw it at your head an’ tore it plumb off.”

  “I don’t give a hoot about that,” Zim growled. “What I want to see
is what yuh got drawed on that fourth sheet of paper.” Still grinning, but feeling mighty nervous about this fourth and last picture, Marty unrolled It and held it up where the light hit it squarely. A girl smiled out at the sheriff. A rather small girl, pretty and warm-eyed, with fine features and a crown of soft hair. She wore a wedding dress, and beside her stood a young man with a lean, brown face and a deputy’s star pinned on his shirt front.

  The girl was Katy Yager, there could be no doubt about that. And the boy was Marty DeLong.

  A slow flush crept up into old Zim Yager’s leathery face. For a moment it looked as if he might blow his top. Then a grin started in his eyes and spread down to his mouth.

  “I’ll be danged if I don’t like that picture, Marty,” he chuckled. “I reckon yuh’d better go show it to Katy, pronto. But before yuh go, mebbe yuh’d better pin this deputy badge on yuh so’s she won’t make no mistake about who the man in the picture is.”

  Marty DeLong didn’t wait to hear another word. Two minutes later, he was showing the picture to Katy and seeing in her eyes a deep happiness that told him just what he wanted to know.

  MEN WHO MADE THE WEST, by Earle Wilson

  Since early morning Jack Omohundro had been wading the Virginia marshes, and his game bag was bulging. The rapid approach of night, however, with a swirl of snow powdering the air, made more hunting impossible, and the boy decided that it was time to strike the trail for home. Lifting his head he gave a clear loud whistle. In answer a dog came running through the dusk to his side. The lad stooped and took the wild duck which the dog held in his mouth, then affectionately patted the animal’s rough brown back.

  “Good Rex,” he said. “Not a bad day’s shooting we’ve had. Eh, old fellow?”

  Stuffing the duck into his bag and slinging his rifle across his shoulders Jack walked rapidly through the woods, finding his way with ease through the familiar region. Although only a stripling of fourteen he was an expert woodsman, a fearless rider, and a crack shot. At the neighborhood shooting matches he seldom failed to win the prizes, and his marksmanship often put turkey and deer on his parents’ table. A gale was blowing off the ocean, howling madly through the bare autumn trees, and the thought that a storm was imminent caused the lad to quicken his steps. Suddenly, during a lull in the gusty wind, Jack heard a sound which brought him up short in his tracks.