Malone did not speak to these men because he didn’t know any of them,
except by name. Zero Brant was at the far end of the bar, talking with
one of his gamblers, and Streak nodded to him. Then he heard Corteen
saying:
“So they’ve got law and order here, eh?”
One of the men said, “Such as it is. They appointed a man as marshal,
but one man won’t do much.”
“The Vigilantes killed the sheriff,” remarked Corteen.
Streak stopped short and turned around. Corteen was watching him, and
their eyes met.
“The sheriff was murdered, if you want the truth, sir,” Streak said.
“That’s not what I heard, Marshal.”
“So you know who I am,” remarked Streak coldly. “We’re even, Corteen.”
The tall gambler barely moved his lips, as he said, “I don’t like the
way yuh said that, my friend.”
“Could it be that you’re a little ashamed, Corteen?”
The gambler’s face tightened perceptibly, his hands dropped to his
sides. He had two holstered guns under that long coat, the butts
close to the front, ready for a cross-draw. The thumbs and fingers of
both hands gently touched the edges of that open coat. Then he leaned
forward a little.
“This town ain’t big enough for the both of us, Malone,” he said
harshly. “By sundown it’ll be too small. We can’t both stay here.”
“I’ll be here--watchin’ it shrink, Corteen.”
“I hope you have written a will,” said Corteen coldly.
Streak Malone smiled slowly. “I’ll make yuh a gamblin’ proposition,
Corteen. We’ll both make out our wills, leavin’ everythin’ to the
winner.”
“What’s the idea?” asked Corteen curiously.
“I’d like to inherit that vest. You probably stole it, but--”
“I what? Why, you streak-haired--”
Corteen forgot the sunset deadline. He went for his crossed guns.
Men fell away from behind him, as his hands flashed up, but Streak’s
draw--they didn’t see it. Corteen’s guns were still only waist-high,
when Streak’s forty-five blasted from his hip.
The tall gambler jerked back, his eyes tightly shut. His fingers
relaxed and the two guns fell to the floor. Slowly his knees bent and
he collapsed.
Streak had stepped back, cocked gun still at his waist-line, his eyes
searching the men in the room. Monk Moore’s eyes widened a little, but
there was no other sign of shock or emotion. Zero Brant had jumped away
from the bar, staring at Corteen, flat on the floor.
“Well, there’s one gun yuh won’t have to pay for, Brant,” said Mack
Shell’s voice, and then he continued quietly: “All right, Streak--I’m
behind yuh.”
“Thank yuh, Shell.”
Brant didn’t speak, no matter what he thought. He had seen the deadly
efficiency of the new marshal of Silver Butte.
One of the men said flatly, “Corteen reached first.” That remark settled
any argument as to the aggressor.
Shell said, “Brant, you brought him here--you take care of him.”
Streak turned and walked out, but Mack Shell didn’t have the same
confidence in that gang; he backed out. They met outside and walked
over to the office.
As they stopped in front of the office to look back at the Silver
Dollar, Mack Shell said, “You spoke a language they understand,
Streak. Dan Corteen was fast with a gun but you beat him. Ten
minutes ago you was known as the fool who took a dangerous job. Now
yuh’re Streak Malone, marshal of Silver Butte, who wouldn’t wait for
sunset.”
“I’m sorry,” said Streak. “I don’t want to kill anybody but he was out
to kill me.”
“I heard it all,” declared Mack Shell. “I was right behind yuh. Dan
Corteen started it, thinkin’ you’d crawl--and yuh didn’t. Forget Dan
Corteen. He’s had it comin’ a long time, Streak.”
“I guess you’re right, Mack.”
“I know this kind of a deal. Corteen was here to get you. The next one
won’t give yuh a break--yuh’re dangerous. I got a good look at the
expression on Zero Brant’s face, and the sand was spillin’ out of his
craw. You killed his pet monkey and he don’t like it.”
* * * * *
It was nearly dark that evening, when Streak Malone ran face to face
with the woman who got off the stage that day. She was just leaving
the hotel entrance. She stopped short, staring at Streak.
“Who are you?” she asked throatily. Streak smiled slowly.
“I am Streak Malone, marshal of Silver Butte, ma’am.”
“Streak Malone?” She shook her head and repeated it again, under her
breath.
Streak said, “Ma’am, I’d advise against yuh goin’ out on the street
alone.”
She smiled thinly and said, “I expect to deal faro at the new Eureka and
I must see a Mr. Flack.”
“No matter what yuh do for a livin’, this street ain’t safe,” Malone
declared. “I’ll take yuh over there, if I may.”
“Thank you, Mr. Malone.”
They reached the other side of the street and stopped in front of
the Eureka. Streak noticed that she still seemed to look at him in
amazement, tinged with disbelief.
“Be careful, ma’am,” he said. “Jim Flack is all right, but conditions in
this town are very bad.”
“Thank you, but I shall do very nicely, I’m sure. By the way, I believe
you had a little trouble with Dan Corteen today.”
“You knew him?”
“Oh, no, I merely met him on the stage. Thank you for bringing me over
here.”
“You are very welcome, ma’am.”
“I am Clare Ames,” she said simply. “Names don’t usually mean much out
here.”
Streak laughed. “Yuh mean--you change ’em often?”
“Not too often. For instance, you were probably not christened Streak
Malone--or even Malone.”
Streak smiled slowly. “A child has little chance to select a name,” he
said. “Parents very often give children names that they detest later on
in life, so they can’t blame us for takin’ one that we like better.”
“Or one that is safer.”
Streak looked at her curiously. “Yes,” he said, “I believe that is true,
Miss Ames. Good luck to you and your new job.”
“Thank you, Mr. Malone.”
Streak walked to the edge of the rough sidewalk, his eyes very
thoughtful. Why did that woman say, “You were probably not christened
Malone,” he wondered. Why did she look at him, wide-eyed? He had never
seen her before she came to Silver Butte.
There always was a lot of activity in Silver Butte at night.
Construction men, off shift, thronged the street, many of them
intoxicated. Fights started and ended without interference. The jail
was too small to think of starting a crusade against mere personal
fights. Tomorrow night the new Eureka would open, which would, no
doubt, start trouble. Streak Malone realized the enormity of his
job. He had won his first encounter, but he knew, as Mack Shell had
said, they would not give him a break next time.
He managed to cross the street to his office where he found Mack Shell,
carefully oiling his six-shooter. The little outlaw smiled slowly, and
Streak knew that he had seen him taking Clare Ames across the street.
“She’s dealin’ at the Eureka tomorrow night,” Streak said.
“So Jim Flack is goin’ to use female bait, too, eh?” remarked Shell.
“Yuh know, I’m afraid that Brant is goin’ to have plenty competition,
Streak. That little singer--the one they call Mazie over at the Silver
Dollar--has quit Brant and will sing at the Eureka. The men are crazy
about her singin’.”
“Have you got a puncher in yore outfit, sort of a kid, named Joe?” asked
Streak.
“Yeah. Joe East.”
“I heard him talkin’ with that singer. He wants her to marry him and go
back East.”
“He does, eh? Yuh know, one of my boys told me that Joe was shinin’
around her but I didn’t believe it. Joe’s just a kid. He ain’t one of
my regular gang, Streak. He just works with cows.”
“What did yore boys say, when yuh told ’em you was a lawman?”
* * * * *
The outlaw hesitated, then shoved back his sombrero and scratched his
head.
“Thought I’d gone crazy,” Mack Shell grinned. “But I explained the whole
thing, and they’re behind us. If yuh don’t mind, Streak, I’ll sleep here
in the office tonight. There might be bushwhackers along the road to my
ranch and, anyway, somebody might try to put up that sign again on the
door of the office.”
Streak was in no mood to go to bed and yet he realized the danger of
that main street at night. Men were still working at the Eureka when
he went over there, polishing the long bar, putting the final touches
on the gambling paraphernalia. It cost Jim Flack a pretty penny to
have all that shipped to Silver Butte.
He found Flack, a tall, saturnine gambler, watching the men. His
greeting to Streak was very friendly. He said: “Glad you came over
Malone. I heard about that trouble in the Silver Dollar, and the
folks are showing a lot of confidence in you as marshal of Silver
Butte.”
“Thank you,” said Streak soberly. “You’ve spent a lot of money to build
and operate this place. That bar must have cost a small fortune, alone.”
“I want to make this place permanent, Malone, but I’m afraid it might
not work out that way. You know something of the conditions, and they
are not good. I want to operate honest games and sell good liquors,
but I don’t know.”
“I know what yuh mean, Flack--and they’re not good prospects.”
“A man told me,” remarked Flack grimly, “that I’d be serving drinks
off a pine table after the opening--if I lived. I don’t like things
like that, Malone.”
Streak looked around the big room. Everything was of the best. He
admired the long ornate back-bar, the mirror gleaming in the lamplight,
reflecting back the glitter of expensive glassware.
In size, it was smaller than the Silver Dollar, but there was no
comparison as to appointments.
“You’ve been quite a while in buildin’ this place, Flack,” Streak
said. “It took a lot of time and money to get it furnished. Has
anybody interfered in any way in the buildin’ or haulin’ in of all
the furniture?”
“Not a soul,” replied the gambler. “I’ve thought of that. It would have
been easy to smash the furniture on those wagons, to tear down what I’ve
built. Why did they let me do all this if they objected to me operating
here?”
“Maybe it’s all talk,” suggested Streak.
“I hope it is. I don’t want trouble.”
Flack walked over to the group of workmen, paid them off in cash and
came back to Streak. They were alone in the Eureka now.
Flack said, “I’ve tried, but haven’t been able to find a man to act as
watchman. Malone, I believe they are afraid to take the job.”
He took Streak to the back of the place and showed him the little
office. Off the office was a small room, furnished, with a single-bed,
rough table and a chair.
Streak said, “Are you goin’ to sleep here?”
Flack shook his head. “No,” he said. “I have a room at the hotel. The
watchman can use the bed during the day.”
“Do yuh mind if I sleep here tonight?” asked Streak.
Flack looked curiously at Streak, but nodded. “I’d be mighty glad if
yuh would,” he said. “If you want to leave, that front door is on a
snap-lock. It will lock behind you.”
After a few moments Flack told him good night and went out. Streak
kicked off his high-heel boots, and stretched out on the new blankets,
smoking a cigarette, trying to figure out just what to do in order to
change conditions in Silver Butte. He had finished his cigarette, but
not his ideas, when he heard men walking the length of the saloon,
their boots sounding hollow in the room. The office door was opened,
men came in and closed the door, and he heard them light the lamp.
* * * * *
The partition between the two rooms was thin, and he could hear
everything that was said. There was a small window in the little
bedroom, but the only door opened into the office. The men in the
office were silent for several moments, then one said:
“All right, Flack. You know why we brought yuh here, of course.”
“Sorry,” replied Jim Flack coldly, “but I do not. When masked men force
me at the point of a gun to open doors and go with them, I believe they
should do the explaining.”
One man laughed harshly. “You ain’t that ignorant, Flack. Here is a
bill-of-sale, and we want yuh to sign it. Go ahead and read it--we
can wait that long. Nobody knows yuh’re here, so take all the time
yuh want.”
Noise from the outside drifted into the place, but there was no sound
from the other room, until Flack’s voice said:
“Sorry, but I won’t sign this, gentlemen.”
“Yuh won’t, eh? Listen, Flack--you sign it--or die here.”
“And if I do sign it, I also die, eh?”
“Oh, shore. But not here. You’ll just disappear.”
“I don’t get the idea of this bill-of-sale.”
“Still ignorant, eh? You fool! Why do yuh reckon we let yuh go ahead and
build this place, and furnish it? We could have stopped yuh any time we
wanted to, but we figured that we’d let you pay all the bills, get
everythin’ all ready, and then we’d take it over. See the idea, Flack.
The bill-of-sale is to Buck Smith? Names don’t mean anythin’, my friend.
Go ahead and sign it.”
“No!” snapped Flack. “If you intend killing me, why should I sign it?
That would legalize the transfer. Go ahead.”