Chuck Sales’ crowd which savored of cold efficiency. There was bad blood
between Sales and Mora, which is the usual thing between outlaw leaders,
both of whom desired supremacy. McKeever had a small following, but was
known personally as a hard man to handle. He seemed content to let Sales
and Mora fight it out.
Respect for the law is born in all men. There is a psychological
something that gives a peace officer a slight edge over the criminal.
Perhaps it is psychology of knowing that right will win. The outlaw,
regardless of his ability, hides from the law, knowing that sooner or
later he will pay the penalty, for down in his heart he fears the law
and when fear grips him he is no match for the man who is backed by
the right.
Blaze knew this. He knew nothing of psychology, but he knew that he
owned this slight edge over the outlaw. The shooting of Jim Clell had
affected him no more than if Frenchy had shot at a target. He did not
know Jim Clell. He wondered what would have happened had he and
Frenchy ridden into Wolf Butte and some one had demanded their guns.
Perhaps they would have done as Jim Clell did.
“She’s all in the point of view,” said Blaze aloud.
“Which is whatever,” admitted a voice at the door.
Blaze swung around. The man was hardly past thirty, broad of shoulders
and deep of chest. His hair and mustache were bleached to a light-straw
color and his eyes were pale blue. His face was burned to a brick-red
and his nose had been broken at some distant time, which left the high
bridge of the organ in such a position that it appeared to be falling
over into one of the eye-sockets. One of his cheeks was filled with
tobacco, the cheek on the same side as the falling nose, which gave him
a peculiar lopsided expression.
“Howdy,” nodded Blaze. “I forgot I spoke out loud.”
The man came inside and looked around.
“You the sheriff?”
“No, I’m the under-sheriff,” said Blaze. “Name’s Blaze Carlin.”
The man stuck out his hand.
“I’m Chuck Sales. I kinda want to git this sheriff business straight,
Carlin.”
Blaze shook hands with him.
“I heard two men talking about you this morning, Sales. You don’t like
Black Mora, it seems.”
Sales stared at Blaze.
“Do you like him?”
“I can live without him,” smiled Blaze.
“I hear yuh can,” nodded Sales. “Dad Henderson tells me that yuh hit
Mora in the ear with a beer glass and knocked him down. My ----, I
wish I could ’a’ seen that. Seems like I never happen to be around
when anythin’ pleasant is bein’ done.”
Sales seemed greatly disappointed. He walked back to the door and spat
out into the street.
“Somebody told me that yuh nailed Jim Clell today. What’s the idea?”
There was nothing offensive about Sales’ question; only mild interest.
“Wolf Butte needs law and order,” said Blaze, “and we’re goin’ to supply
it, Sales.”
Sales nodded and scratched his crooked nose.
“I dunno but you’re right. Wolf Butte is kinda ornery. I don’t like it
m’self, Carlin. It brings so ---- many crooks here that a honest outlaw
don’t have no chance to make a livin’.”
Blaze laughed, but Sales did not lose his serious expression.
“It’s a fact,” insisted Sales. “I don’t like this idea of ----in’ around
in the town. I’ve lost two ---- good men lately. It’s got so’s I’ve got
to watch behind and in front or git leaded.
“Yessir, it’s got so a feller has to gunfight somebody all the time to
have anybody respect him. I’m a horse-thief, Carlin. This ---- town is
spoilin’ my boys, don’tcha know it? I can’t git ’em sober long enough
to even steal a jackass.”
Blaze laughed joyously. Here was something different in outlaws--an
outlaw who was unafraid to acknowledge his profession to the law; an
outlaw with a well-developed idea of humor. Sales, in spite of his
crooked face, had a strong personality and Blaze wanted to know him
better.
“You sure comes to a strange place to make your complaints,” grinned
Blaze.
“No use goin’ to a saloon or grocery store, is there?”
“No-o-o,” drawled Blaze, “but yuh see we’ve kinda made up our minds to
chase every outlaw out of the country.”
“Zasso?” Sales shifted his tobacco and squinted at Blaze. “Well, I’m
bettin’ that you’ll make one ---- of a stagger at it, Carlin. You look
to me like the kind of a whipoorwill what will do somethin’ except
talk.
“I reckon you classes me with the rest of ’em, which is right and
proper, but I ain’t goin’ to run ’til I has to. I’m willin’ to tell
yuh that neither me nor none of my men will ever shoot yuh in the
back. Mebbe we’ll give yuh a run, face to face--mebbe not. I know
the order you’ve put out, but I’m askin’ yuh to let me keep my gun,
’cause yuh might need it.”
Blaze smiled into Sales’ crooked face and nodded.
“I reckon you can hang on to your gun--for a while.”
“Much obliged,” nodded Sales seriously and walked out.
Blaze did not understand what Sales had meant, when he said that Blaze
would, or might, have need of his--Sales’--gun. Blaze had no desire to
take Sales’ gun, in spite of the fact that Sales was notorious. Sales
did not look, act nor talk like a fighter; yet the man in the restaurant
had rated him above Black Mora.
Blaze leaned against the doorway, watching the street. Wolf Butte was
beginning to warm up to the afternoon round of pleasure. A fist-fight
was in progress farther up the street and the closely packed audience
were cheering and jostling for a closer view. The creaking of a wagon
caused Blaze to turn his head.
Coming up the street was a mismated team of mules, hitched to a wagon,
on the seat of which sat a woman and a little girl. The woman’s face was
hidden by a sunbonnet, but Blaze could see that the girl was a pretty,
tangle-haired thing, frail as a flower. The woman drove the team to the
front of a store, where she tied the mules and went into the store.
As she started into the door, two men came out. They looked closely
at her, and one of them went back and peered inside. He spoke to his
companion and they both laughed as they went back inside. Blaze
wondered why they had watched her. He knew that she had not spoken
to either of them as she passed.
Blaze shut the office door and walked to the store. The woman was
leaning on a counter, talking to the proprietor. The two men were
standing near her, looking down at the child, which was clinging to
her skirts. Blaze heard enough to know that the woman was crying.
The two men looked closely at Blaze, but he gave them only a glance.
The proprietor glanced past her, his eyes filled with pity. Then he
put his hand on her shoulder and said softly:
“Mrs. Wheeler, go over to my house, will yuh? My old woman will be
mighty glad to see yuh and you’re welcome to stay as long as yuh
like--you and the little girl.”
The woman made some reply and turned around. She did not look at Blaze,
but he could see that she was both young and pretty; but her face was
gray from suffering.
“Just tie the team to the gate,” called the storekeeper. “I’ll see that
they are taken care of.”
The woman nodded and went on. The two men lounged out behind her and
stood in front of the building until she drove away. The storekeeper
shook his head wearily and turned to Blaze.
“Carlin, my name’s Delaney. I was out there last night with the judge.”
Blaze held out his hand.
“Glad to meet yuh. What’s the matter with the woman--if it’s any of my
business?”
“God knows it is, Carlin. That’s Mrs. Wheeler--Jack Wheeler’s wife.
Lives down on Cactus Creek, where they was gettin’ a good start. Honest
man was Jack Wheeler and he was one of our organization. Quiet, sober,
minded his own business. He--wait a minute.”
Delaney turned away to sell a man some tobacco, but came back to Blaze
when the man had gone.
“Last night or this morning the vigilantes took Wheeler out of his home,
Carlin. There ain’t a tree within three miles of there. Know what they
done? They tied his grindstone around his neck, like you’d rope a stone
to a pup’s neck, and drownded him in a deep pool.
“One man was guardin’ Mrs. Wheeler and the kid, but he got interested
in the murder and she and the kid got away. They hid in some weeds and
heard the guard get cussed for lettin’ ’em get away. The gang hunted
until daylight, but gave it up and went away. As soon as she was able
she hitched the mules and drove here.”
“Reckon they wanted her?” queried Blaze.
Delaney nodded slowly.
“I reckon so, Carlin. Women--her kind ain’t plentiful.”
“Drowned like a pup,” muttered Blaze slowly. “Delaney, I don’t reckon
that ---- is fit for the man who would do a thing like that. Don’tcha
think the devil’s got a little honor left? Where does the soul of a
man like that go to, anyway?”
Delaney shook his head.
“I dunno. Mebbe they’ll come back to Wolf Butte. It’s beginnin’ to----”
Came the dull snap of a pistol shot. Blaze rushed to the door with
Delaney right behind him. A scattered bunch of horsemen threw up a
dust-cloud in the middle of the street, which prevented Blaze from
seeing just what was going on beyond them.
Out of the dust-cloud came a man, running, looking back and swinging a
pistol in his hand. Suddenly the running man jerked sidewise, stumbled
and fell sprawling, while from beyond him came the crack of a rifle.
The horsemen drew aside. Down the street came Frenchy, running
carefully, the Winchester held in both hands. Straight to the fallen
man he went. He picked up the man’s pistol, shoved it inside his belt
and came straight toward Blaze and Delaney, ignoring the man he had
shot.
Men ran into the street and picked up the disabled outlaw, taking him
into one of the saloons. Frenchy had a smear of blood across his cheek
and blood was running from the back of his right hand.
“De sonn-of-a-gonn, she’s fool me!” he panted. “She’s have anodder gun
inside de vest. Ba gosh, I’m get dat gun, jus’ de same. Dis new gun be
de good wan, Blaze.”
Frenchy trotted back to the stable, while curious eyes followed him. He
had hit a running man--running through a dust cloud, at a hundred and
fifty yards, and with one shot. There was something sinister about a man
who could shoot like that and then ignore his victim, except to collect
his pistol. It savored of an Indian killing for a scalp. Wolf Butte had
become serious regarding the new sheriff.
Delaney had been watching the men carry the fallen outlaw away and now
he turned to Blaze.
“Carlin, I haven’t a bloodthirsty spot in my soul, but I could do a
scalp-dance right now. That was Buck Law, Bill McKeever’s pardner. Buck
is part Shoshone. McKeever is one of the worst killers in the territory
and he’ll sure be dancing Ditteau’s hair when he hears of this.”
Blaze smiled.
“Frenchy’s hair is on kinda tight, Delaney. He’s got the biggest heart
in the world, Frenchy has. If you told him about the Wheeler family he’d
be bawlin’ like a calf. Can’t stand sufferin’, somehow--not when it’s
women and kids, but he does love a fight. If yuh ever see him goin’ into
action, watch him close. He’s fast with a gun--fast as a streak, but
it’s the speed of a fox.
“Didja ever see one of them magic fellers--sleight-of-hand? Yuh did?
They ain’t so fast, Delaney, but they makes yuh look at somethin’ else
while they does the trick. Frenchy is always doin’ somethin’ just ahead
of his draw. I saw him do it when he shot Jim Clell.
“He said to Clell--‘You leave your gun with me,’ just like that, and all
the time he had his left hand half-closed, shufflin’ his fingers like he
was goin’ to crumble up somethin’ and throw it at Clell. Clell kinda
talked like a man in his sleep, tryin’ to watch that hand and Frenchy’s
other hand too. Clell went for his gun, but it was too late. His motion
was made like he had just happened to remember it and Frenchy beat him a
mile.”
“They tell me that you _sabe_ the six-gun yourself,” observed Delaney.
Blaze smiled and shook his head.
“Not too well. I need an even break, Delaney. I hate to shoot a man. It
always seems to me that it ain’t right to cut a man off. When a feller
fights his way up to my age, sufferin’ things and enjoyin’ things and
just livin’ along it don’t seem right for a man to cut him short with a
pinch of powder and a pellet of lead. I wonder if anybody deserves it.”
Blaze shook his head and continued:
“I reckon it’s got to be done though, and I also reckon that Fate wrote
in the big book that me and Frenchy Ditteau was to come here and make a
clean-up. I hope the big book has more pages about us after this chore
is done.”
“I sure hope so,” nodded Delaney. “I sure do, Carlin. I reckon I’ll
get some of the boys to go down there and help me bury Jack Wheeler.
His wife dragged him out of the creek and put him in the house.”
“My ----!” exclaimed Blaze, “I--I reckon some men deserve worse than a
pellet of lead--and I won’t feel sorry if I have to pull the trigger.”
* * * * *
Blaze turned and walked back to the office. As he walked up to the
door a bullet whistled past his face and thudded into the casing. From
across the street came the muffled thump of a pistol shot. One of the
three front windows of the Eureka’s second story was open, but the
cheap, print curtains were drawn together.
Blaze whirled on his heel and went straight toward the saloon, walking
swiftly. He was deadly cool, ignoring the chance of another shot. This
was no time to back down; no time for anything except swift action.
Blaze had not reached the door, when another pistol shot seemed to jar
the building, but no bullet came his way. He walked inside. Men looked
at him, but it was evident that none of them in the big room connected
his coming in any way with the pistol shots. The room was in an uproar,
as two men quarreled over a misplaced bet on a roulette combination,
and it is doubtful if any one in the room had heard the two shots fired
upstairs.
Blaze walked straight for the stairway, which led to a balcony. The
second story of the Eureka was not divided off by a ceiling from the
lower floor, but was a rectangle of rooms leading on to a balcony.
Blaze trotted up the stairs and had just turned toward the front rooms
when a man stepped out of a door on to the balcony. Blaze stopped and
his hand dropped to his gun. The man turned his head and slowly closed
the door, then turned to face Blaze.
It was Chuck Sales. Had Sales fired the bullet which almost hit him?
Blaze touched the butt of his pistol ready to draw, but Sales made no
move toward his gun. He glanced over the balcony rail, looking over
the crowd. He lifted his head and smiled at Blaze.
In spite of himself Blaze smiled in return. There was something
contagious about that humorous smile, the lopsided nose and the face
overbalanced with the enormous chew of tobacco. Sales sauntered slowly
up to Blaze, turned sidewise and lifted his right elbow, disclosing a
heavy Colt gun which was shoved between his belt and body. Blaze lifted
it out and glanced at it. One shot had been fired.
“He made a mistake,” said Sales softly. “Good shot he was, but he had to
shoot left-handed. Never shoot a snake to cripple it, Carlin, ’cause yuh
must remember that yuh got to kill it to ruin its fangs.”
Sales walked slowly around to the stairs and went down into the crowd.
Blaze shoved the gun into the waistband of his pants and watched Sales
go to the roulette layout and buy chips.
Blaze knew that there was no use going to that room. Sales had killed
Mex Free; there was no question of that. Free had hid up there and tried
to kill Blaze, shooting with his left hand. Blaze remembered what Sales
had said about the need he--Blaze--would have of Sales’ gun.
A couple of dance-hall girls came out of a room next to the one Sales
had been in. They stopped at the door and looked at Blaze, as if afraid,
but Blaze smiled at them and they walked past him. To Blaze, a woman was
a woman, no matter what else she was, and he lifted his hat and bowed as
they went past.
One of them giggled foolishly, but the other stared at him for a moment,
turned her painted face away as if embarrassed and went down the stairs.
She was not a young woman, but there were traces of former beauty in her
face in spite of the glaring rouge and the penciled lines. Blaze
remembered her. She was the woman who laughed, when he hit Black Mora
with the beer mug.
He went back down the stairs and out through the crowd. Frenchy was
walking toward the office, carrying his rifle in the crook of his arm,
and Blaze crossed to meet him at the door.
“Somebody she’s try to mak’ fool from me,” grinned Frenchy. “Nobody come
to de stable now. I’m t’ink somebody’s tell about me--Frenchy Ditteau.
Ho, ho, ho! One feller she’s git mad for me, Blaze, and she’s talk bad.
I’m tie her up and teach her de sof’ language. Frenchy Ditteau she’s
hedg-u-cate, ba gosh!”
Blaze told him of Free’s attempt to kill him and Frenchy listened
open-mouthed to Blaze’s tale of Chuck Sales’ assistance.
“I’m hear from him,” nodded Frenchy. “De stableman she’s talk about
Sales. I’m t’ink dis Sales be sonn of a gonn for fight.”
Blaze told him of the Wheeler family, and at the finish of the tale,
Frenchy’s whiskers quivered with anger.
“De leetle kid, Blaze? His papa drown wit’ grandstone? De man what do
dis mus’ be find. Firs’ de cripple ol’ man killed, den de hones’ papa.
Frenchy Ditteau she’s on war-path, ba gosh!”
A group of horsemen rode past the office and swung over to the
hitch-rack near the Square Deal Saloon. Riding in the lead was Black
Mora, his ape-like shoulders hunched, looking neither to the right
nor left. They tied their horses and clattered into the saloon.
Blaze stood in the doorway watching them go in. Several men came out of
the Eureka, among them being Chuck Sales. One of the men spoke to Sales,
who nodded and started for the Square Deal. Blaze turned to Frenchy.
“Black Mora and his men just went into the Square Deal, Frenchy. Chuck
Sales is headed for there, too.”
“Ba gosh,” chuckled Frenchy, “I’m mak’ t’ink de grizzly git fed quick
now. We go dere, Blaze.”
They crossed the street and went in behind Sales. The men who had been
with Sales went in behind them.
Black Mora was leaning on the bar, a glass of liquor in his hand,
listening to a man who was telling what Mrs. Wheeler had told Delaney.
It was one of the two men who had followed her into the store. The man
was finishing his story and imparted the information that Delaney was
going to take care of the woman and little girl. Black Mora shrugged
his shoulders.
“Why do you tell me these things?” he asked sourly and threw the glass
of strong liquor full in the man’s face. The man staggered back, his arm
across his face, as if warding off a blow.
“Wimmin and kids don’t interest me none!” growled Mora. “What do I care
a ---- about ----”
Mora turned his head and looked full at Sales. The crowd drew away,
expecting serious trouble. This was the first time that Sales and Mora
had faced each other, and every one knew that there would be blood spilt
when they met.
Sales was smaller than Mora, yet Sales was by no manner of means a
small man, compared with the other men in the saloon. Mora’s face was
half-smiling insolently as he looked at Sales, but Sales’ crooked face
did not lose its indifferent expression.
Then Sales spat deliberately on Mora’s boots. It was an unforgivable
insult, yet Mora did not move. The smile faded from his lips and his
eyes drew down to mere slits. Mora knew that Sales was a killer--knew
that to reach for a gun would be suicide. His eyes shifted down for a
fraction of a second. Sales was smiling now, his tobacco-satined teeth
showing through his upcurled lips.
“I killed Mex Free, your best man,” said Sales softly, ominously. “He
kicked like a chicken with its head cut off.”
Still Mora did not move. His eyes shifted for an instant, as if seeking
a chance to get out of this encounter. Then Sales laughed.
“I’ve got yuh, Mora. I could kill yuh before yuh could move. My men
are behind your men, Mora, and they can’t help yuh none. You need
help, Black Mora. Want to run the country, eh? You big bully! You’re
scared of death right now, but I’m not goin’ to kill yuh--yet. You’re
bigger than I am, Mora, but I’m the better man. Take off your gun and
fight like a man, you lousy, mud-colored coyote!”
It was unthinkable. Black Mora swayed away from the bar, licking his
lips. His face broke into a wolfish grin. Mora had fought with his
hands and knew something of his own strength; knew that he could crush
an ordinary man, as a grizzly crushes a sheep.
A buzz of wonderment from the crowd. Was Sales crazy? Frenchy stepped in
front of Mora and held out his left hand.
“I’m tak’ de gun,” he announced. “I’m collect now.”
Mora’s hand had dropped to his belt-buckles, but now he stopped and
stared at Frenchy’s face, then at the hand before him which was opening
and shutting nervously. He hesitated. Would he give up his gun to the
sheriff? His hand jerked nervously away from his belt-buckle as he
looked at Frenchy’s hand. Others watched the hand, but Blaze watched
Frenchy’s right hand, which had gripped the butt of his pistol, ready
for a draw. Then Mora shook his head.
“All right. I don’t care a ---- who takes it.”
He handed Frenchy the belt and gun, little thinking how close he had
come to missing his fight with Sales. Blaze stepped forward and faced
the crowd.
“Gents, this is going to be a fair fight. When a man goes down the other
stays off and gives him a chance to come back. They fight only on their
feet. Understand?”
Sales, stripping off his shirts, flashed Blaze a look of gratitude. It
gave him a chance against this ape-man. Men threw chairs and tables
aside, clearing a large space. Word of the battle traveled fast, and in
a few moments there was a steady stream of men trying to claw their way
inside to see the fight.
A man offered big odds on Mora, but there were no takers. Nobody
considered that Sales had a chance.
“He can’t reach Mora’s head!” yelled a voice.
“Put Chuck on a chair!” yelled another. “We want to see what he looks
like.”
The men stripped quickly. Mora was even more ape-like, stripped. His
body was corded with muscles and his skin was a deep bronze. Sales
was broad of shoulder, narrow of waist and hip and his muscles were
small compared with those of his antagonist, but Blaze noticed that
Sales’ muscles were long and supple, while Mora’s were corded.
There was no time lost in preliminaries. Mora was ready first, moving
to the center of the cleared space. His head was hunched forward on
his short neck, his big hands opening and shutting as he waited for a
chance to wipe out the insult.
Sales sized Mora up and then shot a glance around the room.
“Come on!” growled Mora, like a hungry bear.
Sales laughed and stepped forward, slightly crouched, both arms swinging
easily, hands half-open. His long muscles rippled easily with the swing
of his arms. Mora stepped to meet him and quick as a flash Sales slapped
him across the mouth with his open hand. The blow had been cat-like in
its speed and it cut Mora’s lips. Before Mora could recover, Sales
slapped him across the bare chest. It was as if Sales was playing tag
with him.
Mora cursed and launched a mighty blow at Sales, but it passed over
Sales’ head, cleverly ducked. Men crowded closer, muttering. This was
not according to their calculations, but there was no cheering.
The two men were circling each other now. Blaze noticed that Sales kept
a perfect balance, while Mora seemed more clumsy, top-heavy. Mora swung
again, a wide sweeping smash. Sales blocked it with the point of his
elbow, catching Mora’s swinging arm between elbow and wrist. It seemed
to take all the power from Mora’s arm for a moment, and Sales shot a
straight right to his mouth.
Mora retreated slowly, his face contorted with rage. Then he sprang
forward like a tiger, seeking to circle Sales with his long arms.
Instead of evading them, Sales lunged forward to meet the attack.
Sales’ right hand flashed forward and upward, with the weight of his
body behind it, and buried itself at the point of Mora’s breastbone.
The circling arms slithered weakly off his shoulders, as Mora lopped
forward from the waist, staggering blindly. By superhuman effort he
kept his feet, but his swaying face was a green mask of agony, his
mouth stretched wide for air.
Sales moved swiftly, uppercutting with both hands to Mora’s face.
Measuring his distance, keeping pace with the backward moving Mora,
he smashed in short-arm uppercuts, with the regularity of a machine;
uppercuts which did not paralyze, but cut and bruised. Sales was
marking Mora for life.
He drove Mora through the crowd until he backed him against the wall.
Then Sales set himself for the final punch, while Mora, sobbing,
slobbering, tried to cover his face with helpless arms.