MIKE, THE KILLER.
Mike went over to the Ace of Spades and played draw poker until he saw
Kentuck push back from his stud game. They sauntered to meet at the
bar, had a couple of rounds, then drifted slowly outside to where some
chairs were lined up against the 'dobe wall in the shade. They moved
two chairs away from the rest and sat down, tilting back against the
building.
"I did 'er," said Mike, lighting a cigarette. "He's havin' sand for
breakfast."
"Yeah? Any trouble?"
"Not much. He had a rod up his sleeve and hung it on me at first.
Something made him suspicious, I guess. Anyway, I bulled him out of it,
and finally I slipped a sparkler into him. It was a pretty throw, all
of thirty feet. He couldn't dodge it, and--"
"Forget it, Mike," said Kentuck, "long as it's done. Did you go through
him?"
"Naw--I didn't have time."
"What's that?" demanded Kentuck, his chair coming down heavily on the
ground. "What do you mean by that?"
"Aw, it wasn't anything. I was just stoopin' over to get my knife,
when somebody way up in the hills began crackin' down on me with a
high-powered rifle. I high-balled it outta there."
Kentuck's face was impassive as he asked:
"How far away were they, Mike?"
"Way up on the side of the hill. Hell, they couldn't see me or what it
was all about."
"Then why did they shoot at you?" asked Kentuck. "You say you left your
knife, also?"
"Sure I did. So would you or any one else," answered Mike, with a grin.
"You're thinkin' about finger-printin'. They send 'em in, and they
correspond with a guy named Goofy alias Gafoozalum, who went to Copper
John. My name is Mike Maloney--but what's that got to do with them
suspectin' me?"
Kentuck looked at him as if he were a new kind of bug. "You were picked
up the other night with the Kid," he said. "You have been seen around
here with him; you drove out of town with him, and you got back alone.
Instead of choosing a place where you'd be safe and could leave him for
the coyotes to play with, it seems as if you picked out a spot like a
theater stage. You must have softening of the brain. I understood that
you knew your business."
"I do," snarled Mike. "All that is applesauce. We was way up a cañon."
"This man that shot at you--what would he do, just as soon as he made
sure you'd pulled out?"
"He'd come down and take a look," said Mike, with a grin, "and find the
Kid with a knife in him. What of it?"
"Then what would he do?" went on Kentuck, ignoring Mike's flippancy.
"Go and holler for some of them damn rangers or border patrol cops,"
answered Mike. "What the hell can they do?"
"And I picked you out!" said Kentuck softly. "Mike, you see the border?
Well, you stay on this side of it, understand? They'd have to frame
with the rurales to get you, or else go through all the red tape of
extradition. I'm in good enough to stop any frame, I guess. It may be
that they won't think the Kid important enough to make any fuss over,
at that. They'll put it down to a gang killing, and let it go."
"I got to go over and get my car and clothes," said Mike. "I ain't
afraid of any of those damn rube cops. I'll come over, if you say so."
"I do; very much so. And at that, I think you had better pull out for
Tepoca instead of hanging around here."
"Whichever you say," answered Mike, with a yawn. "It makes no
never-mind to me, as long as I get mine."
* * * * *
He had a couple more drinks, some lunch, played a little more poker,
then leisurely sauntered across the line into United States territory,
without any thought of fear. Going to the garage where he kept his car,
he paid his bill, drove around settling several small accounts, and
finally about four o'clock drove up to the curb in the quiet little
side street where he had a room in one of the ornate little bungalows.
He stepped out of the car and reached in for his coat, which had been
on the seat beside him. Tossing it over his left arm, he crossed the
sidewalk. As he put his foot up to take the one stone step leading from
the sidewalk to the bungalow walk, he stopped.
From between his bungalow and the next came Arizona Ranger Earpe, his
gun on his right hip, hanging low and a little to the front. It was a
Colt .45 with mother-of-pearl handle, once the gun of the famous Wyatt
Earpe. Earpe stopped twelve feet away from Mike:
"I have a warrant for your arrest, Maloney. Put your hands up!"
The little gangster looked steadily at Earpe. Here was the man who had
called him a little mangy coyote. His car was at the curb; there were
plenty of safe places beyond the line; and, best of all, his gat was in
the side pocket of the coat hanging over his left arm. It was within
two inches of his right hand, which had been raised to put a cigarette
in his mouth when he froze at the sight of Earpe.
He could see that Earpe's right hand hung loosely at his side, four or
five inches away from his gun butt. Two inches for him, and five for
Earpe; the safety was off his automatic, as always; the butt was up,
and he could cut loose through the pocket. All of this went through his
brain in the flash of time that Earpe said "Put your hands up!"
All his mean and crooked life he had been fast--fast as a jockey, fast
as a fighter; he was quick with a gun and quicker with a knife. Now,
as he made his decision, his right hand went in to the loosely hanging
pocket of the linen coat, already opened and sagging with the weight of
the .38 caliber automatic.
He put every ounce of speed he had into the effort. It was as light and
quick as the dip of a swallow in the twilight.
As the cloth raised his eyes lighted with unholy joy--to be closed
forever in darkness as a .45 Colt lead bullet crashed between them.
The city gangster, killer, and bad man had tried out his swiftness
against the hard-riding, clean-living, clear-eyed ranger, down in the
southwest, where gun swiftness was common and the Earpe family noted.
He lost.
Jimmie Earpe stood looking down at the man he had killed in
self-defense, smoke still curling from his .45.
"You may have been little, and you may have lived like a mangy coyote,
but you shore died game, feller," he said softly.