Silver Butte came to life early in the morning. Or it may be that Silver
Butte did not go to bed. The door of the sheriff’s little office was
open, and the sign was gone. Streak Malone was sitting on a corner of
the desk, wondering why he had ever been foolish enough to listen to the
pleadings of those men last night and accept the appointment as marshal
of Silver Butte. The men represented what was left of law and order.
There were men from the construction camps, asking for a square-deal for
their men, business men, asking protection for their women and for their
business. There were other men, too, watching, listening, asking
nothing. Streak had said:
“Friends, I appreciate conditions in Silver Butte. No one man can do
this job. I have only two eyes. Is there anyone in this room who will
stand at my back--act as my deputy?”
Not a person had responded. Streak said, “I reckon it’s worse than I
thought. I’ll find my own deputy. You gents represent the law element
of Silver Butte. I want you to vote me the right to shoot first and
hold trial afterwards.”
The vote was unanimous.
So Streak Malone, a stranger in the town, was appointed marshal. Streak
was no fool--he realized the odds. A bullet, a well-placed knife--and,
as he had said, he only had two eyes. Leaning against the rough wall of
the office was the sign, CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE VIGILANTES. Streak had
torn it off the wall. It was his defiance to the killers who masqueraded
as the law.
A man stopped in the doorway, and Streak looked up quickly. This man
was of medium height, slender, long-haired, hard-faced. He, too, wore
his gun. Streak knew who he was. A man had told Streak that this man
was Mack Shell, leader of his own outlaw gang, reputed very fast with
a gun.
They eyed each other closely, and then Shell’s eyes shifted to the sign.
“Opened up again, eh?” he remarked dryly.
Streak nodded. “I’m the marshal,” he said quietly.
“Yeah? What do yuh aim to do, Malone?”
“Bring law and order to Silver Butte.”
Mack Shell started to laugh, but stopped and began rolling a cigarette.
Streak said:
“You’re Mack Shell. Are you backin’ Zero Brant?”
Shell spat viciously. “Back that wolf?” he snorted.
“He claims that he’s the boss of Silver Butte.”
“Suits me--I don’t live here.”
Streak looked thoughtfully at the outlaw. “You’ve taken over a cattle
ranch only a few miles from here, Shell,” he said. “This will be your
town. When you come here, do yuh want a boss?”
Shell looked coldly at Streak. “Nobody bosses Mack Shell.”
“It will be you or Zero Brant some day, Shell. Good folks won’t come
here--folks with women and kids. There are other kinds of women, Shell,
beside the kind at the Silver Dollar. A decent woman ain’t safe on the
street.”
“She shore ain’t,” agreed Shell. “But that hasn’t got a thing to do with
me. I ain’t got a woman.”
“Look at it like this,” suggested Streak quietly. “You had a
mother--maybe a sister, Shell. They’d--”
Mack Shell flung his cigarette into the street.
“Don’t preach to me!” he snapped. “I’m forgettin’ things like that. I
ain’t backin’ Zero Brant, if that helps yuh any.”
“It doesn’t help enough,” said Streak. “You’re a man with a rep, Mack
Shell, and I need yore help.”
“My help?” Mack Shell laughed harshly. “I don’t understand that remark,
Malone. What do yuh mean?”
“I want you to act as my deputy.”
For a moment the outlaw stared at Streak, his jaw sagging.
“You--what?” he gasped. “Deputy? Are you plumb crazy?”
“No, I’m perfectly sane.”
* * * * *
Mack Shell laughed again and began making another cigarette. It was a
preposterous idea. Living for years, only a jump ahead of the law, and
now--
“I’d be a bust as an officer,” he said. “Mack Shell, deputy marshal--a
lawman! What made yuh ask me, Malone?”
“I need an honest man.”
“Honest man? Malone, don’t you know my rep?”
Streak Malone smiled slowly. “You may be a rustler and horse-thief, Mack
Shell,” he said. “I don’t know. A man told me that you never broke your
word. I have my own code of honesty, and maybe it conflicts with the
law, too. I don’t care about yore rep. I want you to act as my deputy.”
Mack Shell didn’t smile now. He looked closely at Streak, his brow
furrowed. The stage from Whitewater was coming in, ploughing through
the dust, pulling up at the stage-depot, only a short distance from
where Streak and Mack were standing. Two men got out of the stage,
and one of them turned to assist a woman to alight. They exchanged a
few words, after which the man picked up the baggage belonging to the
woman. They talked for a moment with the driver, who directed them to
the hotel, and they came down past the office.
One of the men was tall and swarthy, well-dressed, while the other man
was short, long-armed, broad of shoulder, with the face of an ape. His
head was rather round, small eyes, deep-set on either side of a broad
nose, and with the widest mouth Streak and Mack had ever seen. When he
laughed at some remark of his companion, one expected to see canine
teeth.
The woman, slightly over-dressed and wearing a huge picture-hat, was
beautiful, except that she wore too much paint and powder. The woman
turned her head and looked straight at Streak as she walked past
with the two men. For a moment her eyes snapped wide in amazement or
horror. She stumbled into one of the men and might have fallen had
not the ape-like one grasped her quickly.
Then they went on to the hotel entrance. Streak and Mack looked at each
other curiously.
“That lady must have known you, Streak,” Mack said.
Streak shook his head, his brow furrowed. “I never saw her before in my
life, Mack. What went wrong with her? Do I look that bad? She looked
scared to death.”
“Kind of funny,” mused Streak. “Maybe you look like the husband she ran
away from.”
Streak laughed and shook his head. “It beats me,” he said.
“Them two men,” said Mack slowly, “are pretty bad characters, Streak.
The tall one is Dan Corteen, and the other one is Monk Moore. They’re
both killers. If you’d like to know, I’d say that the lady is in bad
company.”
“I’ve heard of both of them,” said Streak. “I wonder why they came to
Silver Butte.”
“Watch ’em,” advised Mack Shell. “You’ll find out that they’ll go
straight to Zero Brant.”
“Why would he import gunmen?”
Mack Shell laughed. “You’ve seen the new saloon goin’ up over there.
That’s Jim Flack’s place. A year ago Jim Flack owned the Sundance
Saloon. Jim’s on the square, and he ran square games. Well, one night
his place burned, and Jim Flack was shot. He was laid up for weeks.
In the meantime Zero Brant built the Silver Dollar over the ashes of
the Sundance.
“The men will back Jim. Because he runs square games and don’t doctor
his whisky, all the railroad men will come to his place. Zero Brant
knows this--knows that if he starts trouble with the new Eureka
Saloon, the men will back Jim Flack. That’s why Brant is gettin’ all
the gunmen he can handle. With Jim Flack’s place runnin’, Zero Brant
will go broke--and he knows it.”
Streak smiled. “I reckon I bit off quite a chew, Mack.”
“Yeah, and I flung in my lot on a bit of hot trouble, too. But I knew
what I was doin’. You didn’t.”
“You mean you’ll take the job?” asked Streak quickly.
“Yeah, I reckon I’ve taken it, Streak. Yuh’re right--some day some
decent folks might want to live here--folks with good women--and kids.
I’d forgotten about things like that.”
* * * * *
Streak started to say something, but at that moment Zero Brant stepped
into the doorway which was almost too small for his huge bulk. He looked
sharply at Mack Shell, but spoke to Streak.
“I’m Zero Brant,” he said. “Shell knows me. I understand that you are
the new marshal of Silver Butte.”
“That’s a fact,” replied Streak.
“Not that it makes any difference, but what do you intend to do,
Malone?”
Streak’s jaw tightened at Brant’s open sarcasm but he replied civilly,
“I’m goin’ to try and bring order and decency to this hell-hole of a
town, Brant.”
“Well!” snorted Brant. “That’s a fine way to speak of Silver Butte.”
“Has it ever been anything else?” queried Streak.
Zero Brant’s eyes shifted to Mack Shell, who seemed just a bit amused
over the exchange of words. Brant said:
“Where do you figure in this deal, Shell?”
“I’m the deputy marshal, Brant. Just appointed.”
“You? Well, of all the crazy--”
“Your loop’s draggin’,” warned Shell coldly. “I’m the deputy, Brant, and
it might be well to remember it.”
“All right,” said Brant. “It just seemed--sure, it’s all right. Why not?
I didn’t come over here to quarrel over the job, but I do want to make a
complaint. After all, I’ve got rights.”
“Complaint?” asked Streak curiously.
“That’s what I said--complaint. Silver Butte ain’t big enough for two
big saloons. Splittin’ the business will hurt my place, but Jim Flack
don’t want a split--he wants it all. They’re lyin’ about my place,
tryin’ to turn the construction crews against me. Flack wants to boss
the town--run me out of Silver Butte--even burn me out, if nothin’
else works. I demand protection by the law.”
“Comin’ from you,” said Mack Shell slowly, “that’s funny.”
“Don’t say they can’t!” snapped Brant angrily. “They burned the Sundance
and shot Jim Flack. Almost killed him, too.”
“We all know that, Brant,” said Shell. “We also know that you was here
weeks before that, tryin’ to get started. When the Sundance burned, you
started buildin’ the Silver Dollar Saloon on that same spot, almost
before the ashes were cold. Who paid to burn the Sundance has never been
proved, but I heard that it was a paid job.”
Brant ignored the implication that he had a hand in the burning of the
Sundance. He said:
“Do I get the backin’ of the law, Malone?”
“When you can show me that you deserve it--yes,” replied Streak. “But
the law ain’t backin’ crooked play, Brant.”
“Are you accusin’ me of runnin’ crooked games?”
“_I_ do,” said Mack Shell quickly. “Malone ain’t been here long enough
to know what yuh do, Brant.”
“I see,” muttered the big gambler. “So that’s the help I’ll get from the
law, eh? I thought that the law meant a square-deal for everybody. As
far as the Eureka and their bunch of tinhorns are concerned, I’ll handle
my own case. And as for you two--I don’t want yore help. I’ll make my
own laws, and enforce ’em, too. Malone, you and yore gun-fightin’ deputy
can stay on this side of the street. I’ll handle the other side.”
Zero Brant turned and went out into the busy street. Streak laughed
quietly. He said, “I wonder if he thinks we’ll honor his deadline,
Shell.”
“He knows we won’t, Streak. Brant is no fool. I’m goin’ out and find
my boys. I won’t be goin’ out to the ranch for a few days, and there’s
things I want done. See yuh later, Streak.”
It was late in the afternoon when Streak Malone went into the Silver
Dollar. The place was about half-filled at that time of day. There
were several men at the long bar, and among them were Dan Corteen and
Monk Moore.
Corteen was wearing a long, broadcloth coat, patent-leather boots, a
wide-brimmed, black hat and the fanciest vest Streak Malone had ever
seen. It was a riot of color, with flashing buttons. The tall gambler
looked at Streak through narrowed eyes as Streak came in past the
bar.