Streak nodded. “Plain enough,” he remarked.
“The sheriff,” said Buskirk, “was an honest man. They shot him down in
his office.”
“The Vigilantes don’t usually kill an innocent man,” remarked Streak. “I
heard they are operatin’ here.”
“But don’t yuh understand?” asked Buskirk quietly. “There’s no
Vigilantes. I mean, not honest ones. The sheriff was murdered.”
“Oh, I see,” nodded Streak. “Wolves in sheep clothing.”
“That’s it exactly. Will you meet with us?”
Streak smiled. In town ten minutes, and already included in some
mystery. He said, “I’ll be there, Buskirk--at dark.”
The man nodded and crossed the street, while Streak walked up past the
feed corral, and stopped to look at the new construction of the Eureka
Saloon. They were unloading the sections of a huge, mahogany bar from
freight wagons. The dismantled bar had been shipped by steamer from St.
Louis, and picked up from a Missouri River boat. A man said:
“The Eureka shore spent a fortune on that stuff. Imagine a mahogany bar
in Silver Butte. Pearls before swine, I calls it.”
Streak smiled and crossed the street to the one hotel in the town, where
he was lucky enough to get a room. The clerk said:
“Are you one of the new Eureka gamblers?”
Streak shook his head. “Do I look like a gambler?” he asked.
“Yuh can’t tell about looks. I see they’re bringin’ in real furniture
for the new saloon. Cost a lot of money. Jim Flack is a top gambler,
but he’ll have plenty of action, buckin’ Zero Brant. Brant jist about
runs Silver Butte. We wondered why he didn’t try to stop Jim Flack
from buildin’ the Eureka, but maybe he figures to break Flack in one
swipe.”
“What do you mean by that?”asked Streak.
“Nothin’, stranger. Mebbe I talk too much--I dunno.”
Streak went back to the doorway, watching the activity on the street. A
young cowboy was standing just away from the doorway, and a girl came
down the street to meet him. She was pretty, but looked tired. There was
so much noise on the street that they did not expect to be overheard.
“I’ve been watchin’ for yuh, Mazie,” the boy said. “Near the Silver
Dollar.”
“I couldn’t get away, Joe,” she replied wearily. “They wanted me to
learn a new song.”
“Let’s pull out,” the boy suggested. “Mazie, I’ve got folks down in
St. Louis. We can get married and go there. We don’t have to live in
this hell hole.”
* * * * *
The girl’s smile was as sweet as anything Streak had ever seen, but
she shook her head. “Not yet, Joe. We haven’t enough money. Mr. Flack
offered me more money to sing in the Eureka, but I don’t know what to
do. Zero Brant heard about it, and he told me I’d better stay with
him, if I know what’s good for me. What do you think I should do,
Joe?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Brant is a bad man and he might do you
dirt. Better wait and see what happens when the Eureka opens.”
They drifted away together into the dust cloud which hung like a pall
over Silver Butte. Streak Malone drew a deep breath. Love in a place
like this! He was curious to see “Zero” Brant, the bad-man. He walked
toward the Silver Dollar.
Zero Brant was worth more than a passing glance, as he stood at the bar
in the Silver Dollar Saloon. There were big men in there, but Zero Brant
dwarfed them all. Clad in the raiment of a typical gambler, he looked
like the common conception of a cave-man, huge of arm and limb, slightly
stooped, a bullet-shaped head on a thick neck, green, predatory eyes,
and a face of solid granite.
Gripped in one corner of his gash-like mouth was a frayed-out cigar,
while in one huge paw he held a glass of liquor. No man had ever whipped
Zero Brant. He and his gunmen ruled Silver Butte. It was a small domain
for a king like Zero, but he had ideas. It was a starter--and the West
was young. The huge room was overflowing with construction workers,
cowboys, buffalo hunters and the usual riffraff which followed the
construction work.
A woman came down through the crowded room, and the men moved aside
to let her pass. Swishing silks and glittering jewels marked the
passing of Conchita. She was a striking figure in that tawdry place,
the offspring of a Spanish father and an Irish mother. Someone had
once said, “I didn’t know that the Devil was Irish.”
Rounded, big hipped, small ankles and small feet, she moved with the
grace of a tigress. Like the girl in Service’s poem--“She knew by
heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity.”
Zero Brant scowled. He didn’t like to have Conchita in the Silver
Dollar in the daytime. She was his roulette attraction, and she drew a
lot of players. She didn’t look so good in daylight. Men stared at her
as she came up to Brant and took the glass out of his hand. Neither of
them spoke. She faced the crowd and sipped from his glass.
“I have some information from El Chuchilla,” she said quietly.
“What?” breathed Zero Brant.
“A man named Streak Malone came today. They say he has the nerve of the
devil. They are having a meeting tonight at Buskirk’s house and they are
going to try and appoint Malone the marshal of Silver Butte.”
“What else did El Chuchilla hear?” asked Brant.
Conchita toyed with her glass, a smile on her painted lips.
“They say,” she replied, “that Streak Malone will have fifty men behind
him--fifty guns.”
“I’m bossin’ Silver Butte,” replied Brant coldly. “Fifty or five
hundred--who cares? I’ll handle this job.”
“What about the Eureka?” asked Conchita. “They’re moving in the mahogany
today.”
“Stay out of this,” growled Zero. “This is a man’s job.”
“They tell me that Streak Malone is a man,” she said, as she placed the
empty glass on the bar, and walked away, her head high.
Zero Brant scowled. Conchita was his woman, but she was no slave. She
would drop him in a minute, if the going got too tough, and he knew it.
So they were going to appoint a marshal for Silver Butte, were they?
Zero spat out the frayed cigar. All right! Silver Butte would find out
that Zero Brant was still the boss.
He found the little Mexican Monte dealer, El Chuchilla, the Knife, and
drew him aside. The Knife was a featherweight in size, but notorious for
his ability in throwing a blade. He was also Zero Brant’s spy. Brant
said:
“Listen, you! Be at that meetin’ tonight.”
“_Por Dios_--no!” gasped the Mexican.
“There’s goin’ to be a crowd,” said Brant. “You can get in. I want
information of what happens.”
“No,” replied the Mexican stubbornly.
“Scared?” queried Brant sarcastically.
“_Si._ My friend, I know those Strick Malone, and he know me.”
“Yea-a-ah? That’s better. Where did you know him?”
“Medora. I am seek for broken bone t’ree month. I have leetle tro’ble
een saloon. Those Malone don’t tak’ joke. He t’row me twenty feet
t’rough a weendow.”
Zero Brant grinned. “I’ll send somebody else. You keep away from Streak
Malone. I need yuh.”