Swift-shooting Streak Malone enlists his legendary guns in a
hot-lead campaign to clean up the terror town of Silver Butte!
I
Very well known to the Frontier are the words:
“The Vigilantes are operating in Silver Butte, and have already killed
the sheriff.”
That statement was repeated in far-flung places in the West--around the
camp-fires of the buffalo hunters, at the chuckwagons with the trail
herds, and in the hideouts of the outlaw clan. Men, working outside the
law, avoided the Vigilantes.
Silver Butte! A booming railroad town. A huge bridge, a long tunnel,
miles of cuts and fills would assure Silver Butte of a long-time
payroll. Silver Butte had been known as a bad-man’s town.
Down along the rough roads, cut deep by freighter’s wagons, came
“Streak” Malone, tall in his saddle, riding a tall, blue-gray outlaw
horse--a horse with the head of a rattler and the disposition of the
Devil. Only Streak Malone could touch this brute, which obeyed every
signal from its master.
Malone was just over six feet tall, lithe as a cat, ruggedly
handsome, his coal-black hair split in the center with a two-inch
streak of pure white. His high-crowned sombrero was decorated with a
wide, silver-studded band, his vest was beaded in intricate designs,
and his shirt was of almost-white doeskin, a present from a Sioux
woman. He wore black boots with silver spurs, and his holstered gun
was silver inlaid by a master silversmith.
No one knew where Streak Malone came from. He never spoke of his past,
and he came into the West several years ahead of the railroad. He was
barely thirty years of age, but his face held deep lines, and his eyes
were deep under heavy brows.
A hard pair, this streak-haired man and the outlaw horse, but Streak
Malone was never outside the law. Horse-breaker, trapper, buffalo
hunter, gambler--he never stayed long in any place. Something seemed
to lure him on, and now he was riding into Silver Butte. He, too,
had heard of the Vigilantes of that part of the Territory, but the
Vigilantes conveyed no fear to Streak Malone.
Until the coming of the railroad, Silver Butte was merely a cowtown
with one short crooked street, but now it was a booming place of
tent-houses, shacks of every description, and more building every day.
The main street was ankle-deep in dust, teeming with freight wagons,
pack outfits, cowboy riders and a few lighter vehicles.
The biggest building was the Silver Dollar Saloon and Gambling Palace.
Less than a block away was another large building, nearly completed,
with men working feverishly. A huge sign, ready to swing into place
read: EUREKA SALOON AND GAMBLING HALL.
* * * * *
Streak Malone was almost obliged to ride over the wooden sidewalks, in
order to avoid the traffic. In front of the stage office a man yelled
his name, and he drew up. He vaguely remembered seeing the man in
Bismark a year ago, and waved a greeting.
He found an opening between two freight wagons, and spurred across the
street and continued on to a feed-corral. The man in charge said:
“Turn yore horse loose in the corral, stranger, and hang yore saddle in
the stable.”
“Wait a minute, my friend,” replied Streak. “I’ve got to have a stall
for this horse, and I’ll take care of him myself.”
“Ain’t the corral good enough?” The man was inclined to resent Streak’s
words.
“This horse will try to kill any man who touches him,” explained Streak.
“Tell everybody to keep away from him.”
“I’ve got an empty stall,” said the man. “Much obliged.”
Streak walked out of the stable and met the man who had called to him.
Streak looked closely at the man, who spoke quietly.
“I own the general store here,” said the man. “You’re Streak Malone. I’m
Jim Buskirk.”
“I remember you,” said Streak. “Bismark, a year or so ago.”
“Good! We’ve been lookin’ for a man like you, Malone.”
Streak’s eyes hardened, and his right hand dropped naturally over the
butt of his holstered gun. The man grinned and shook his head quickly.
“Nothin’ like that,” he said quietly. “Come to my store at dark, and
I’ll take yuh where we can talk to other men.”
“I don’t reckon I understand this deal, my friend.”
“Look across the street at that sign on the sheriff’s office.”
It was painted in big, black letters and read: