GOPHERTOWN
Some towns "nestle" on the plain. Others, more aspiring, "roost" in the
hills. Gophertown squatted on the desert at the very edge of a range of
barren foothills. Its principal street was not much more than a
bridle-trail that led past eleven ramshackle cabins, derelicts of the
old mining days when Gophertown knew gold.
The population of Gophertown was of an itinerant order. This was not
always due to internecine disputes. Frequently a citizen became overbold
and visited his old haunts instead of remaining safely, even if
monotonously, at home. Train robbery was a sure passport to Gophertown's
protection. Man-killing lent an added distinction to an applicant for
hurried admission. Cattle-and horse-thieving were mere industries not to
be confounded with these higher professions.
Overland Red had once wintered in Gophertown. Immediately previous to
his arrival in Gophertown he had been obliged to maintain, in an
unofficial capacity, his former prestige as sheriff of Abilene. The town
of Abilene had sympathized with him heartily, but had advised him to
absent himself indefinitely and within the hour.
The general store and saloon of the old mining camp still stood at the
corner of the town facing the desert. A bleached and faded sign once
read, "Palace Emporium." The letters now seemed to be shrinking from
public gaze--vanishing into the wood as though ashamed of themselves.
The wording of the sign had been frequently and indifferently
punctuated. Each succeeding marksman had exploded his own theory, and
passed on.
Liquor was still to be obtained at the general store. Provisions were
occasionally teamed in and were made up of peculiarly conglomerate lots.
There were no women in Gophertown. There was little local gossip. There
was no regular watch kept on the outlands. Gophertown felt secure in
itself. Each man was his own argus. He was expected to know his enemies
by instinct. He was expected, as a usual thing, to settle his disputes
single-handed.
* * * * *
Silent Saunders was in the general store and saloon. He was disgusted in
that he had been unable to induce the citizens to ride out with him and
clean up Overland Red's claim. Overland had once been of them, even if
briefly. He had been popular, especially as he was then the quickest
man with a gun they had ever honored with their patronage. Also, the
Gophertown folk had recently received a warning letter from the
superintendent of a transcontinental railroad. They were not interested
in Saunders's proposal.
Saunders, coming from the saloon, was not a little surprised to see a
band of horsemen far out on the desert. He felt that their presence in
his vicinity had something to do with himself. He counted the horses.
There were six of them. He knew instantly that the riders were cowmen,
although he could not distinguish one from another. He beckoned to the
saloon-keeper.
"We could 'a' stopped that," he said, pointing toward the desert.
"Big bunch. One--two--three--six of 'em. _Big_ bunch to come visitin'
here."
Saunders gestured toward the cañon behind Gophertown.
The saloon-keeper shook his head. "Don't think most of our boys will be
back this week. Brandin' that bunch of new stock. Takes time to do it
right."
"Well, here comes Parks and Santa Fé Smith," said Saunders. "That makes
four of us."
"Mebby--and mebby not," said the saloon-keeper. "That depends. Depends
on the party that's callin' and who they're callin' _on_."
"There's Sago--just ridin' the ledge trail. That's five."
"'Lige and Joe Kennedy are up at the corrals," said the saloon-keeper.
"They would hate to miss anything like this."
"Mebby they won't, if that bunch gets past us," said Saunders.
"Seen the time when you could handle them alone, didn't you, Si?"
"Yes, and I can now."
"Nix, Si. Your gun arms ain't what they was sence Overland Red winged
you."
"How in hell do you know he did?"
"I could tell you more. But come on in and have one on the house. If I
was you, I'd set with my back to the door and be taking a drink. Red
Summers never shot a man in the back yet. If he's playin' for _you_,
why, that gives you a chance to pull a gun."
"How about you?" queried Saunders.
"Me? None of my business. I'm here to push the booze."
"And you'll do your collectin' with a gun, or go broke, if it's Red
Summers and his friends."
"Tryin' to scare me because you are?" asked the bartender.
"Red helped Kennedy out of a mix once. Kennedy is his friend."
"But Joe ain't here. What's gettin' into you? How do you know it is Red,
anyway? You act queer."
"I got a hunch," said Saunders.
"Then you want to go into action quick, for when a gunman gets a hunch
that he knows who is trailin' him, it's a bad sign."
Saunders drummed on the table with his fingers. The drink of liquor had
restored his nerve. Perhaps the riders were not coming to visit him,
after all. He rose and stepped to the door. The oncoming horses were
near enough for him to distinguish the roan outlaw Yuma--Collie's horse.
Her rider's figure was only too familiar. Saunders fingered his belt.
Unbuckling it, he stepped back into the barroom and laid the
two-holstered guns and the belt on the table.
Parks, from up in the cañon, rode up, tied his pony, and strolled to the
bar, nodding to Saunders. Following him came Santa Fé Smith, a
bow-legged individual in sweater and blue jeans. He nodded to Saunders.
Presently Sago, the Inyo County outlaw, came in, wheezing and
perspiring. Saunders stepped to the bar and called for "one all around."
As they drank two more ponies clattered up and 'Lige and Joe Kennedy
joined the group at the bar. "Hutch and Simpson are comin' afoot," said
Joe Kennedy.
"That leaves Wagner and the Chink to hear from," said the saloon-keeper.
"Wagner's sick. I don't know where the Chink is. Everybody seems to 'a'
got up in time for dinner, this mornin', eh?" And big Joe Kennedy
laughed. "This here bar is right popular jest now."
"Goin' to be more popular," said the saloon-keeper.
"That so?" exclaimed several, facetiously.
"Ask Saunders there," said the saloon-keeper.
"Friends of yours, Silent?"
"Yes. Friends of mine."
"Whole six of 'em, eh?"
"Whole six of 'em."
"Well, we won't butt in. We'll give you lots of room."
Saunders said nothing. He paid for the liquor, and, stepping to the
table, sat with his back to the doorway. In front of him lay his guns,
placed handily, but with studied carelessness. He leaned naturally on
one elbow, as though half asleep. His hat was tilted over his brows.
From outside came the jingle of spurs and rein-chains and the distant
sound of voices. Saunders began leisurely to roll a cigarette. He laid a
few matches on the table. Several of the men at the bar grinned
knowingly.
Then came the gritting of heels on the hardpacked trail and Overland
Red stood in the doorway. "Mornin', gents--and Saunders," he said,
glancing at the figure seated back toward him.
"Hello, Red!" exclaimed Joe Kennedy. "Out early, ain't you. Have a
drink."
"Not out too early. Hello, Lusk!"
"How, Red," said the saloon-keeper.
"Where's your friends. Ask 'em in," said Kennedy.
"Shall I ask 'em in, Saunders?" queried Overland, his voice edged with a
double meaning.
"Not on my account," said Saunders over his shoulder.
"All right. Let's have a drink, boys."
Even "Go-Light" Sago, the vilest of the Gophertown crew, admired
Overland's coolness in turning his back on Saunders and facing the bar.
For a second Saunders's fingers twitched. He glanced up.
Joe Kennedy was looking at him over his glass of whiskey. "Ain't you
drinkin', Silent?" he asked.
"With some folks," said Saunders.
Overland whirled round. "Have a drink with me, then."
Saunders laughed.
"Then you don't smoke either, while I'm here," said Overland, his hand
on his hip.
"That so?"
"Yes, that's so! When you try to pull that old bluff of a match-game on
me, wait till I'm a hundred and four years old, Silent. That gun-trick
died of old age. Think up a new one."
"Ain't you talkin' a little loud for polite sassiety?" questioned Sago,
addressing Overland.
"Seein' you're the only one that thinks so, I reckon not," said
Overland.
"Then," said Sago, moving slightly from the bar, "Saunders smokes."
It was an open declaration of war. Sago, the Inyo County outlaw, sided
with Saunders.
According to the ethics of gunmen, Saunders was not armed. He was not
"packing iron." His weapons lay on the table within reach, but he knew
Overland would not precipitate matters by shooting him down where he
sat. He glanced at Sago. The other winked.
"Then I smoke," said Saunders, and reached for a match. He shot from the
hip, swinging his guns sideways. The stutter of Overland's automatics
mingled with the roar of Saunders's heavy Colts.
Sago, jumping clear, pulled his gun. Kennedy clutched his arm. Saunders
slid from his chair, coughed horribly, and wilted to the floor. Overland
backed toward the door, both guns leveled.
Sago, jerking his arm free, threw two shots at Overland, who replied
with a rippling tattoo of the automatics. The Inyo County outlaw sank to
his hands and knees. Then Overland leaped through the doorway. The
Moonstone riders spurred toward the saloon, thinking that the quarrel
had provoked too many guns. Overland tried to stop them, but they were
hot for fight.
"It's a clean up!" yelled Parks, running out of the saloon and mounting
his horse. "You framed it, you red-headed son--" He got no further.
Brand Williams, thundering down at the head of the Moonstone riders,
threw a level shot that cut through Parks, who wavered, but managed to
wheel his horse and fire at Overland Red. Then the outlaw slid from the
saddle clawing at it as he fell.
The Gophertown men poured from the saloon, and, seizing their ponies,
circled round to the back of the building, firing as they retreated.
Miguel spurred his big pinto in among them and emptied his gun. He rode
out at a lope, reloading. The front of his flannel shirt was shot away,
but he was not aware of it.
Billy Dime coolly sat his horse and "drew fine" at each shot, till a
leaden slug drilled his gun-arm. He swore profusely, and wisely spurred
out of range.
"I got one!" cried Miguel, swinging shut the cylinder of his gun. "I go
get another one."
"Give 'em my com-pli-ments," said Dime, winding a handkerchief round his
arm and knotting it with one hand and his teeth.
Williams, keeping under cover, fired slowly and with great precision.
Overland Red, utterly unable to manage the Yuma colt under fire, rode up
to Williams. "Let's call it off, Brand. I got my man. They was no need
of the rest of it. How did it start, anyhow?"
"That's about what the kid said when he let go the wagon on top of the
hill. I counted five Gophers down. Billy's hit, and Miguel's goin' to
be, the dam' little fool. Look at him!"
The Gophertown men were drawing away toward the cañon. They turned
occasionally to throw a shot at Miguel and Pars Long, who followed them.
Bud Light sat his horse, gazing solemnly at the stump of his gun-finger.
His shirt was spattered with blood.
Suddenly Williams raised a shrill call. The Moonstone boys wheeled their
ponies and rode toward him. Williams pointed up the cañon. Down it rode
a group of men who seemed to be undecided in their movements. They would
spur forward and then check and circle, apparently waiting for their
friends to come up to them. "It's the rest of the Gophertown outfit. We
might as well beat it," said Williams. "This here thing's gettin' too
popular all to once."
"Did that guy get you?" asked Williams, nodding to Overland.
"Not what you'd notice," replied Overland. "We'll take a drink on the
house. She ain't so tidy as she was."
"Neither is the guy behind the bar," said Bud Light, pointing with the
stub of his finger to Lusk's face. The saloon-keeper had been hit between
the eyes by a chance bullet.
"He's where he belongs," said Williams. "So is this one." And Williams
touched Saunders's body with his boot. "Let's drink and vamoose."
"Here's to the kid!" cried Overland, strangely white and shaky.
"Here's hoping!" chorused the Moonstone riders.
[Illustration: IT'S A CLEAN-UP]