“But there’s a poster in his office that says you’re wanted,” protested Lippy. “It says you killed three cops in Chicago. He read it.”
“Well, who cares about three cops?” cried Howdy. “That’s Chicago’s lookout, that is. And if this sawed-down, black-livered—”
“But it says there’s a reward,” said Lippy.
“How much?”
“Fifteen hundred dollars. He’ll do anything for that much money. It says to ship your body back and collect.”
“Well, there’s the hole in that. Everybody knows you couldn’t ship a guy from here to Chicago and still recognize who he was. You know that. Here it is summer—”
“Please,” begged Lippy. “You get out of town quick before we have to plant you.”
“Nope,” said Howdy. “I’ll see Powderville through. I’ll rid this fair city of the foul clutches of this steer-faced octopus. Gentlemen, before I see this man, before we measure his length in dirt, what say we adjourn for a drink?”
“All right,” said Lippy in a shaken voice. “We still got fifteen minutes before the bars close.”
Everybody was glad to see Howdy Johnson back, but not a single man failed to beg Howdy to leave Powderville. Howdy, they said, had never been known as a quick-draw, flashy gunfighter, and killing three cops in Chicago certainly could not be considered more than casual practice. Any man in the town of Powderville could have done that. Even Fanner Jones, they said, had bagged himself more than that in one day, and Fanner Jones was called Fanner because he couldn’t fan.
No sir, said public opinion, Howdy was a damned fool to come back at all, especially when he had a reward on him. Howdy was just another bait for the Gila Monster to gobble up. It was a shame, everybody agreed, for Howdy to swell Gilman’s purse by fifteen hundred dollars. It almost canceled out Howdy’s civic pride.
At six the bar closed as per the directions of an erratically printed sign bearing Gilman’s name, which was posted on a two-by-four just inside the door.
The men in the Crystal Palace, some twenty of them, nervously eyed Howdy and kept away from in back of him, just in case Gilman should glance in at the door. The more morbid citizens wandered in from the street and took seats along the wall.
Howdy had been talking with loud assurance, occasionally patting his holster, eternally pounding his hairy fist on the sticky table top. At six sharp, according to Lippy’s watch, Howdy stood up. Everybody thought he looked a little nervous, though it was rather dim and it was hard to tell.
“If you’ll pardon me, gents,” said Howdy, “I think I’ll take a stroll around. I ain’t seen this fair city for eight whole months, and I craves to satisfy my artistic appetite.”
Elbows nudged ribs. Men looked wise. Howdy turned and walked slowly out of the back door.
In a relieved way, Lippy said, “I was hoping he’d light out. I didn’t want to see him murdered.”
“Me neither,” said Poison, “but I wish he hadn’t convinced me about coming back. Now I got all that drive to make over again. Here I wasted three weeks and nothing at all to show for it. But still, I’m happy he didn’t stay.”
Fanner Jones sneered, “He talked pretty big for a while there, didn’t he?”
A stranger at the bar chuckled about it and said, “This Gila Monster must be pretty bad if a man lights out before he even sees him.”
“You said it, mister,” said Lippy. “He’s the toughest—”
“Shhhhh,” hissed Poison.
Gilman could be heard outside. Boards cracked and splintered from his weight on the walk. The steps into the saloon groaned. The doors slammed inward and jarred loose their slats and there stood the Gila Monster, eyebrows close together and hovering like thunderheads.
“Is a gent named Howdy Johnson in here?” snarled Gilman.
“Er . . . aw . . . uh . . . he just left,” croaked the barkeep.
“Just left, did he? Well, you tell him, if you see him, that I want a talk with him. I want to convince him that this Powderville is the most peaceful, law-abiding town in the state. You tell him I invite him over any time he wants. There ain’t no posted gunslinger going to sneak into Powderville while I know it.”
“Of course not,” said Lippy.
“What?”
“I said . . . I said, ‘Of course not!’”
“Your tone wasn’t very civil,” snapped Gilman, fingering his gun hopefully. “You— Say, you’re Poison Peters! You there. What’s the idea of trying to run out on Powderville, huh? Well, you showed sense. You come back.”
“I . . . I’m leaving pretty quick,” said Poison.
“That’s what you think,” roared Gilman. “You’re going to open up the Bucket-o’-Blood, so help me. Come on, come on. Pay up. To open a saloon in Powderville costs just one hundred dollars.”
“But I . . . I had a saloon open here and . . .”
“You callin’ me a liar?”
“No, no, no. No, of course not! A hundred dollars, you said? There.”
“That’s better,” said Gilman, grinning ghoulishly and pocketing the cash. “Now you can open up any time you like. You can’t sell liquor here after six. But still, you opened up today, so I’ll have to have the additional fifty dollars that’s charged all law-abiding saloonkeepers today.”
“B-B-But I haven’t—”
Gilman swooped and sank pitchfork fingers into Poison’s shoulder. Poison’s chair threw him and Poison lit in the sandbox. Gilman’s eyes were alight with glee.
Poison quickly fished out fifty dollars and paid.
“That’s better,” chuckled Gilman. “That’s better. We got to have taxes for roads and schools and things.”
The stranger at the bar smiled and said, “I didn’t see any schools, nor roads either for that matter.”
Gilman turned carefully. He slouched forward and looked down upon the crown of the stranger’s hat.
“Who the hell are you?” said Gilman pleasantly.
“I’m riding advance of the Slash Bar trail herd,” said the stranger.
“Now that’s fine, Mr. Trail Boss,” said Gilman with an affable snarl. “I got a nice town here and you’ll stop, of course.”
“I don’t think so,” said the stranger. “I see you’re still alive and so I think we’ll head for Dead Horse Hole to water.”
“No water there, brother. At least, what is there got poisoned last month by a couple wolfers, so I hear. You’ll stop in Powderville and like it.”
That settled, Gilman took a drink, grinned like a crocodile and said to the room in general, “If you see this Howdy Johnson, tell him he’s plumb careless with his horseflesh and his saddlebags. You tell him, if he wants them, to come and see me about it. You tell him he ain’t got a thing to be scared of as everybody knows how humane I am. You tell him I don’t like to see men suffer none and so I always blow their hearts through their spines the first shot to prevent pain. That’s my message, gents. The evil elements of society ain’t got a chance in Powderville and they knows it from the Pecos to Hudson Bay.”
Steps groaned, the sidewalk creaked, Gilman was gone.
The saloon was held in the grip of chilly silence. The only sound in Powderville came from the faraway blacksmith shop, and the hammer and anvil sound reminded everybody of a coffin maker’s trade.
Soon incautious Howdy would be ferreted out. Soon there would be a shot. Powderville would file out to view the last remains of Johnson.
Poor fellow.
Night progressed. A prairie wind came up and whined dismally around the scabby buildings as though saddened by the contamination. Oil lamps flickered. The road was a patchwork quilt of yellow and black.
And still no shot.
And still no Howdy.
Hours were nerve-stretching racks. Men huddled
in silent, tight groups in the dingy shacks, still listening, unwilling to walk outside lest any one of them be mistaken for the Gila Monster’s quarry.
And still no shot.
At midnight Lippy whispered to Poison, “He must have left the country.”
“On foot?” said Poison.
“He might of stole a hoss,” said Lippy.
“I guess you’re right, Lippy. Blood and bone can stand just so much.”
The listless barkeep said, “I knew it was too good to be true. Howdy knowed he wasn’t good enough. Lucky he got away in time, I says. No use for this here Gila Monster to carve all the butt from his irons.”
The lingering stranger grinned. “He talked big while he lasted. But looks to me like it’d take more’n air to blow down this here Gilman. You couldn’t hire my boys to tangle with him. Not for a million million, you couldn’t. Still, it ain’t tasteful for a man to brag like that.”
“I guess it ain’t,” said Fanner Jones. “I always knowed that Howdy was a lot of wind.”
Lippy stood up. “No sense waitin’ any longer. The light’s gone out in Gilman’s office. I’m for beddin’ down.”
The citizens of Powderville agreed with him, as it was long after midnight. Besides, you couldn’t see to dig until morning. And Howdy Johnson, for all his talk, had undoubtedly hit trail.
Morning came and found Powderville still viced in silence. The gray tombstone buildings stood mute and forlorn upon the prairie, holding forth no promise. Powderville had died. Only the ghosts of memory prowled, and even they were hushed lest they displease Gilman.
That day found Gilman in high spirits. He spent a great deal of his time laughing—or rather, emitting a nasty buzz-saw sound which passed for laughter.
He told the Powderville citizens one and all that a thorough search of the place had not revealed a trace of the missing man. He told Powderville that the mere mention of the Gilman name was enough to make criminals shudder from Maine to California. He said he had kept his promise. Six months before, he had entered the town. He had stated that Powderville needed taming. This flight of a gunman would stand forever as the lasting and final proof to the law-abiding reputation of Powderville.
And though the town mourned in private, it was quick to agree that Powderville was obviously and forever tamed.
Toward evening the Slash Bar herd could be seen in the distance. The brown dust cloud stopped a good mile from the town and settled there. Soon the chuck wagon could be seen spewing black smoke, and riders came in and turned their horses into the remuda.
In vain Powderville waited for business, but by five-thirty it was quite apparent that none of the Slash Bar crowd wanted anything to do with a thoroughly tamed cow town run by such a thoroughly untamed, self-elected marshal. The Slash Bar would use the water hole out there, would push through to the railroad in the north, without enriching Powderville by so much as a plugged peso. As Powderville had been built and run by and for trail herds, this was a signal of ultimate and speedy ruin.
Long-faced merchants moped in their doors. The worthy citizens whittled disconsolately on steps. The Gila Monster lounged in his office, not in the least perturbed.
At five-thirty-five, the reopened Bucket-o’-Blood received a horrible shock. The gentlemen gathered there, already in the lowest depths of melancholy, were shaken.
Howdy Johnson stepped into the back door.
He walked to a table.
He sat down.
He ordered a drink.
Poison tried to pour it for him, but the amber fluid splashed on the bar from the wobbling bottle, unable to hit the shaking glass.
Petrified, the other customers sat right where they were and stared.
“Howdy, Poison. Looks like the Slash Bar crowd is staying on its bed-ground.”
Poison swallowed hard. It was gruesome, the way Howdy sat there talking about such small matters. In a matter of minutes Howdy would be stretched on dark-stained boards and the silence of the town would be cut by scraping shovels.
Poor fellow.
“We . . . we thought you’d left,” said Lippy.
“Me?” said Howdy. “ME? Leave Powderville? I should say not. I should say not.”
“But Gilman said—” moaned Poison.
“Pish for what Gilman said,” replied Howdy in an airy way. “Gentlemen, I stated last night that I was going to save Powderville from the talons of this stinking buzzard. That I aims to do. Powderville, gentlemen, will live again. In the rosy future, I foresee a rough, tough, wild and hilarious existence.”
“P-P-Please,” said Poison. “Beat it, Howdy, I couldn’t stand to see you shot. Look here, Gilman will be in at six to make sure I’ve closed the bar and to collect the take. He’ll see you and kill you. Honest he will, Howdy. I got a look at that reward poster and it sure has put him hot on your trail. It says you’re bad. It’s a direct challenge to Gilman’s gunning ability. If he don’t shoot you, he’ll lose prestige, so you can see for yourself that there ain’t no way for you to talk yourself out of it. At six—”
“At six,” beamed Howdy, “you go right on dispensing drinks.”
“WHAT?”
“You heard me,” said Howdy. “Gentlemen, the curfew will not ring tonight.”
“Oh, yes, it will,” said Lippy. “Gilman will see to that.”
Howdy took out a big silver watch and laid it face up before him. Behind it he ranged a rank of full glasses. He marked the time.
Five minutes passed, making it twenty minutes to six.
Howdy took a drink.
Another five minutes crept by.
Howdy took another drink.
“Three drinks to go,” Howdy informed them. “By the way, it’s sure sinful the way the evil sleep. I heard a lot said about the snoring of the just, but there ain’t nothing in it at all. . . .”
Five long minutes.
Another drink.
The tic-tic-tickety-tic of Howdy’s watch raced merrily along. Powderville drifted slowly in, pale of face and jittery, watching the man soon to be a corpse.
“You got five dollars?” said Lippy.
“Sure, I got five dollars,” said Howdy.
“Then we won’t have to take up a fund,” mourned Lippy.
Five minutes.
A drink.
Tic-tic-tickety-tic went that awful watch.
Citizens carefully left a wide path between Howdy and the door, and left the space from his back to the wall scrupulously vacant.
Citizens carefully left a wide path between Howdy and the door, and left the space from his back to the wall scrupulously vacant.
Howdy hummed a little song.
Six o’clock.
The last drink went down.
Howdy sat entrenched behind the watch and the empty glasses. He did not bother to listen or keep an eye on the door.
Poison nervously began to put away the bottles.
“No need of that,” said Howdy. “That Slash Bar outfit will be in here before the night’s out.”
The crowd watched him closely as though he were a man of quite a different race, a sideshow freak. They only lacked the purple-gray gloves to be thirty pallbearers.
“He’s late,” whispered Lippy.
Tic-tic-tickety-tic.
Creak, creak, creak came Gilman’s footsteps on the walk. The planks groaned, the porch sagged in terror, the swinging doors volleyed and there stood the Gila Monster.
There are men who will say that a silver-tip grizzly raised upright to the height of eight feet is a terrifying sight, but wiser men know that anyone making that declaration had never seen Gilman.
His boots reared out of the floor like two gigantic redwood stumps. His legs went upward like telegraph poles. His body hulked skyward l
ike Pike’s Peak. His head filled a hat big enough to make half a dozen tents. And his arms hung down like two boa constrictors ready for the kill.
His lantern-globe eyes had caught the full blow of Howdy’s presence. He looked carefully, leaning forward, looked away and stabbed his awful glance again.
A smile opened a gash like the Grand Canyon on the Gila Monster’s face. His arms began to swing and he wet his lips with a tongue as black and long as a muleskinner’s whip.
A sound started way down in the caverns of his belly, rumbled upward, shaking the whole room, and emerged so loud a laugh of glee that it cracked the mirror over the bar.
Leather groaned as his holsters were relieved of the weights of his twin cannon. He spun the guns by the trigger guards.
“You’re getting an even break!” thundered Gilman, centering his sights on Howdy’s heart. “You draw!”
Howdy sat stiffly. It was difficult for him to move.
He snapped out his Colt.
Twin blasts streaked away from the Gila Monster’s muzzles.
Howdy jerked backward and sagged over his table in front.
Gilman chuckled and the room quivered. He blew the smoke from the muzzle and cylinder, lazy and lethal.
Everybody stared at poor Howdy. Two holes were in his vest, just over his heart. His gun lay slackly in his stiff hand upon the table top.
As though in his death agony, Howdy’s fist clenched spasmodically.
A look of stony surprise crept down like a mask over the Gila Monster’s face.
Gilman staggered.
A third eye was blue and blind in his forehead.
Knees buckling, gun falling, shoulders slouching, Gilman dropped. He toppled slowly like a felled tree at first. Then faster.
At full length he hit. The floor crunched beneath his weight. His legs doubled and shot out straight again, making his spurs jangle.
His hands slowly relaxed.
“They’re dead,” whispered Lippy.
The citizens crept fearfully forward and stooped over the collapsed giant. Boots and hands rolled him over. His arms fell limply outward, his black mouth was agape, his eyes were fixed in a steely stare.
The Baron of Coyote River Page 7
