The Third Western Megapack

by Barker, S. Omar

  “A few weeks ago,” she smiled, “he would have rather died than turn mule-whacker.”

  “The trail shapes a man, one way or the other,” he said.

  Spindles clucked steadily against thimbles in the rolling wheels. There would be plenty of teamsters in Santa Fe willing to return and get the other wagons out of the valley, but the girl wasn’t thinking of that as she studied Brooke’s hawklike face, haggard now, hollows beneath his high cheekbones from the pain and hardship they had gone through.

  “When your wound heals, David,” she murmured, “I suppose you’ll be going back to your Cheyennes.”

  He smiled faintly. “I’ve wandered a long time, and after all, I’m really a white man. A white man should marry before he becomes a hermit of the Trail. I’ve always thought I’d want my wife to be a beautiful woman. And, Julie, those Cheyenne squaws don’t hold a candle to you.”

  TONY’S BANJO, by Carl Elmo Freeman

  The sheep collected loosely about the camp, and lay in the shade of the cedars, contentedly chewing their cuds. The prairie dogs in the little flat to the south, sat on their doorsteps and querulously contemplated these trespassers in their front yard.

  Antonio Salazar, the young Mexican herder, sat before his tent, strummed a battered banjo, and proclaimed to all and sundry that he was now out of bananas. But he did not let the temporary shortage of this tropical fruit depress him. His melodious soul clamored for expression; and he was rendering his interpretation of the composition in a sheepherder soprano and an interesting mixture of Spanish-English that in vaudeville would have guaranteed him a hundred weeks in big time.

  If the energy he expended in accompanying himself on the ancient banjo had been properly harnessed it would have moved a ton of coal three miles on a dirt road.

  But it took a lot of energy to get anything out of that banjo. Some day, when Tony got a lot of money, he was going to buy him one of those fancy banjos with genuine ebony fingerboard inlaid with fancy spots between solid silver frets, and a gold dishpan resonator on the back, and catgut strings.

  This old banjo only had one gut string and that was the “A.” The other four were of wire. And when stimulated by Tony’s dusky thumb, this “A” string gave forth its mellow “whong!” decidedly superior in tone qualities to the cheap wire strings. But he did not let the metallic twanging of those other strings annoy him.

  Even the fact that he did not remember all the words of that once popular banana ballad, was something else he did not worry about. He was somewhat of a composer himself, and he did not let his faulty memory deter him from putting an improvised solo over in his best style.

  “Tengo frijoles, y chili, tobacco,

  papel, Si, no tengo banano,

  dammit to hell-ll!”

  While the words did not fit the tune exactly, by slurring here and accentuating the Spanish intonation there, Tony produced a ravishing effect. And it seemed particularly to please the magpies in the top of a lightning killed piñon tree. Especially when he drew out the “hell-ll-ll,” in a quavering tremolo, did the squawking magpies in the gallery cry, “Here—here—here—here!”

  The drowsy sheep turned their heads and gave him their appreciative attention—all except an old highbrow sister who evidently did not consider a banjo a legitimate musical instrument, and who thought Italian was the only language in which vocal harmony could be produced. She expressed her deep and profound disdain for such low class stuff with a disparaging “Blah!”

  Deaf to everything but the applause of his dear public, Tony repeated the chorus as an encore.

  Again the old highbrow ewe voiced her derision with a “Blah!” A crow, isolated from the magpies in the gallery By another tree emitted a loud “Haw! Haw! Haw!”

  * * * *

  Right at that instant, Gus Taylor, the paymaster for the Old Abe Mining Company, came out of the Stockmen’s State Bank in Zero, twenty-three miles south of Tony’s camp. Gus Taylor carried a black bag containing thirty-one hundred and twelve dollars and eighty cents in small bills and coins properly proportioned to divide up correctly in the weekly pay envelopes at the mine.

  Gus stepped into his runabout and drove out of town. When he was near where the road divided, one fork leading north and the other east to the mine, Gus was conscious of a car purring behind him. He turned slightly to the right to let it pass.

  But it did not pass. Instead, the big car slowed up when its front wheels were slightly in advance of the runabout, and Gus was crowded out into the sand.

  Gus did not suspect that he was being held up. It was not till Bambino Conti jumped from behind the wheel of his purring car, and brandishing his heavy automatic, that Gus recognized his intent.

  Even then he was not certain, and held his fire till Bam shot.

  Splinters of glass from the windshield struck Gus in the face and eyes and he could not see to shoot. Involuntarily he dropped his gun and put his hands to his eyes. Bam rushed in and struck him on the head with the heavy automatic.

  Gus slumped down, and his head and arm hung out over the car door.

  Bam drew back ready to strike again at the first move; then, satisfied with his if work, he grabbed the black bag from the seat beside the unconscious man, jumped into his car and raced into the north fork of the road.

  As Bam’s car made the turn, he looked back to see if his victim was stirring. His front wheels, being slightly turned to the left to make the turn, ran out of the road, dropped into a ditch from which the dirt had been scraped to crown the highway, and jumped up on the fourteen inch bank.

  Bam jerked the wheel before the hind wheels ran up on the bank and they skidded along till the front wheels bounced down in the ditch again.

  This sudden twisting of the frame of the car pinched the insulation off the electric wire running from the switch on the dash to the distributor under the hood, and caused a short. This was slight at first, and the irregular firing of the engine Bam attributed to carburetor trouble. He toed down the feed and tried to suck through any dirt that might be stuck under the needle valve.

  That seemed to help. The motor settled to a regular purr for a time. Then, the electricity jumping from the scarred wire to the metal body, generated enough heat to melt the rubber, and the current was completely grounded.

  The big car was going downhill; its momentum carried it on down, and up on a small rise.

  There Bam got out, cursing, and hunted for the trouble. He examined the carburetor, the vacuum tank, and then noticed his amperage dial on the dash was showing a heavy discharge.

  Then, it was several minutes before he found the short. It was just where the wire ran through a hole drilled in the all metal body, below the cowl. The wire was too short to be changed, and Bam had nothing with which to wrap it. So he crammed a short lead pencil in under the wire to hold the bare copper off the metal.

  Then, just as he came into a clump of cedars and saw a bunch of sheep off to the right of the road, the pencil shook out, fell forward under the hood and slid across the greasy dustpan and dropped to the ground.

  The motor died and Bam broke into curses. He caught sight of a dirty tent marking Tony’s sheep camp, and ran toward it.

  * * * *

  In the meantime, Tony had completed his repertoire. Something had disturbed the sheep on the opposite side of the herd, and he had walked out around to see what it was. There, he had seen a coyote slinking away, and had followed it a short distance to make sure it had not stopped to return when he was gone.

  From a slight elevation among the cedars, he saw the car stop near his camp. He caught sight of Bam as he set out at a run toward the tent.

  Thinking it was El Patron Joe Thomas, bringing him some provisions, Tony hurried to camp.

  Just as Tony came up out of a shallow gully he saw Bam running back to his car. Tony hurrie
d to the tent, and there he saw his beloved banjo ruined; a square section of the calfskin head was slashed out, the bridge lay crushed by a careless heel and the gut “A” string was gone!

  Tony grabbed his beloved instrument, gazed upon this wanton destruction, and seethed with righteous wrath.

  Suddenly he determined to follow that hombre and demand restitution. He knew it would never do for him, a lowly Mexican sheepherder to attack a “reech Americano” with an automobile. That the Americano could kill him and tell everybody that he found a sheepherder dead in the road, Tony knew. So he approached Bam carefully.

  Bam was bent over, with his head and shoulders through the right front door, intent upon tying the gut string around the piece of calfskin he had curled about the damaged wire. He did not know of Tony’s presence till he heard his angry voice.

  “Por que you bust my banjo all to hell?” demanded Tony.

  Bam jumped back, jerked his automatic and shot. But his rapid movements were not conducive to accuracy and he missed—at three paces!

  Tony ducked, dodged around the front of the car, and Bam shot again.

  The bullet hit the radiator cap and glanced off, whining. Bits of lead struck Tony on his left ear and neck.

  Tony stumbled over a rock. He grabbed it up and threw.

  Bam had to dodge and he struck his head against the comer of the open door. Blood gushed from a gash in his right eyebrow. He snarled a curse and snapped a shot at Tony’s hat showing just above and across the cowl from him. But the bullet hit the sidelight and smashed the glass.

  Tony dropped to the ground and his right hand came up full of sand. He saw Bam wipe at the blood now running down from the gash into his eye and threw. The sand struck Bam in the face and some stuck in the bloody eyebrow.

  Bam shot again, but hit the steel frame of the windshield, and the bullet glanced up and lodged in a bow of the top.

  Tony crouched and slipped behind the car. His banjo struck the edge of the rear fender as he did so, and he jumped nervously. He wanted to run, but dared not, as he knew Bam would shoot him in the back.

  Bam was mouthing curses as he dabbed at his eyes with his greasy hand. In so doing he smeared the blood and grease over his face and nose, and some of the sand which was adhered to the blood in his eyebrow, he wiped into his right eye already full of blood and tears.

  Bam held the eye shut to keep the sand from scratching when he moved the eyelid, and determined to kill the damn’ greaser at once. He knew he could not shoot straight with his left eye, and slipped back beside the car intending to surprise the Mexican at close quarters.

  Tony, behind the car, was crouched and peeping under. He saw the feet coming. He raised up, looked about for some means of escape, then drew back the banjo, and with the neck in both hands he waited.

  When Bam’s head came round the car, Tony brought the banjo down with all his strength.

  Instead of the banjo striking edgeways, it struck flat. Bam’s head came up through the eleven inch hoop. The splintered maple extension of the neck through the hoop had scraped down his forehead and nose.

  Bam staggered. His finger contracted on the trigger and the gun belched a slug into the gas tank. Tony lashed out a foot and kicked Bam’s thick wrist, and the gun fell in the sand.

  Bam ducked his head and with his hands tried to lift the metal bound hoop from about his neck. But Tony pulled and Bam’s head was jerked forward; his eyebrows jammed against the hoop in front, and the gash was deepened.

  Bam swung a hamlike fist at Tony’s chin, but missed. The broken, fine wire “B” string stood out from the pegs and slid between his second and third fingers and cut into the flesh.

  Tony pushed on the banjo to hold him off and jammed the splintered stub of maple into the corner of Bam’s mouth.

  Then, as Bam tried desperately to free himself of the hoop, Tony put his foot in Bam’s stomach and jerked.

  The maple neck came free of the hoop. Bam staggered to one side and Tony lurched backward.

  Bam shoved the hoop up over his head and threw it at Tony. Tony dodged and Bam’s foot struck the automatic in the sand. He stooped to get it just as Tony brought the maple neck down on his head. Bam slumped across the gun and Tony stood dumbfounded at what he had done.

  * * * *

  In the meantime, Jackson, manager of the mining company, came along the road from the mines and found Gus Taylor slumped across the door of his car and blood all over the running board.

  Jackson instantly recognized the conditions. He pushed Gus over in the seat, jumped behind the wheel, backed the car out of the sand, turned it around land dashed into Zero.

  When the doctor began pressing about the wound, Gus came to enough to tell what had happened. The sheriff, Pete Johnson, his deputy and Jackson jumped into the doctor’s car and struck out after the holdup.

  At the forks of the road, Bam’s car tracks were clear and distinct. Then, farther on where he had stopped to tinker with the carburetor, his shoe tracks showed he had had engine trouble.

  The doctor’s car was an expensive one and fast. The sheriff stepped on her and sped on to see Bam’s car standing in the road beside a bunch of sheep. And there was Tony trying to attach a battered banjo hoop to a splintered maple neck.

  “What the hell!” exclaimed the sheriff, as his car skidded to a stop.

  “He busta my banjo,” moaned Tony. But no one heard him.

  “Holy sufferin’ cats, look at that guy’s face!” exclaimed Pete Johnson, deputy. “Looks like he’s been sacked with a mountain lion!”

  “He busta my—”

  “Here it is,” called Jackson, taking the black bag out of Bam’s car. He snapped it open and pawed at the contents.

  “He busta—”

  “It’s all here,” Jackson added.

  “Here, hombre,” spoke up the sheriff. “Did you do this?”

  “Si Señor; he busta my banjo!” wailed Tony.

  “There’s his gun!” exclaimed Pete, grabbing the stock of the automatic which stuck out from under Bam’s hip.

  “Did you capture him with nothing but a banjo?” demanded the sheriff.

  “I no go to keel heem, Señor, but he busta my—”

  “Hell!” exclaimed Pete, as he wiped the blood from Bam’s face. “It’s Bam Conti! There’s a thousand dollars reward for him!”

  Tony had stuck the battered hoop back on the splintered stub of the neck and was pulling one of the wire strings down to tie the hoop in place. He was all but weeping.

  “We’ll see that this hombre gets it. They’ll not crawfish outa payin’ it either!” the sheriff growled.

  “Jus’ look at my banjo,” moaned Tony. “All bus’ to hell!”

  “I’ll buy you a new one,” promised Jackson. “The best that’s made. You surely earned it.”

  And Jackson did. Tony now has a fine banjo with gut strings and a dandy leather case to keep it in. And he has nearly two hundred nice ewes of his own which act the part of a very apreciative audience on the ground floor; but Tony still gets most of his inspiration from the magpies in the gallery.

  FINGERS ON THE TRIGGER, by S. Omar Barker

  Old Mart Elkins was lost. For the last three hours he had realized it and had been shooting off his .45 at little intervals, and then listening for a possible answer. None came. Gray fingers of approaching twilight crept into the dark timber where he rode in the cold, fine sifting snow. Frost had whitened his brows and his gray mustache drooped stiff and white and heavy. His feet ached with the cold and his hands were wet and freezing—so numb already that he could not cup them to make a fire in the high mountain blizzard. Nevertheless he continued to urge his worn out horse through the deep snow.

  Finally, with darkness almost upon them, the poor pony seemed to give out entirely, Elkins dism
ounted and tried to lead him. The pony, however, pulled back, floundered about on his tired legs and fell into a snow drifted windfall of logs where he could not get up. The old cattleman tugged and heaved at him futilely and then finally, with the last cartridge in his six-gun, put the pony out of his misery.

  Then he went floundering on afoot, circling as best he could the perilous coves at the heads of canyons that were great chasms of soundless white; for he remembered having heard that in a spruce fringed valle at the head of one of these canyons—a fork of Bear Creek perhaps—there was a comfortable chunk of a log cabin, once the lodging of a Forest Service fire lookout in summer, but of recent years deserted.

  Suddenly he came upon it, huddled down like some squatty hibernating animal between two snow laden firs. But what made the chilled blood leap warm again in his veins was not merely the cabin; it was the curl of smoke from its stone chimney. Even numbed as he was with the cold, Mart Elkins wondered what could have brought any man so far back up here in the snowbound woods to live.

  He hallooed hoarsely. The hewn door of the cabin creaked open to a narrow six-inch crack, and stopped. The blue barrel of an automatic stuck out suddenly through the warm air that rushed forth from the door, and above it appeared a man’s face, shaggy like a bear with whiskers.

  “Keep travelin’!” commanded a snarling voice. “I ain’t wantin’ no company!”

  But the half frozen old cattleman was already heading in at the door, walking unsteadily. He stopped in astonishment.

  “I’m freezing, man!” he exclaimed. “Ye’ve got to let me in!”