Produced by Al Haines
THE TWO-GUN MAN
BY CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER
Author of "The Range Riders," "The Coming of the Law," etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS -------- NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY
ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL, LONDON, ENGLAND
All rights reserved
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE STRANGER AT DRY BOTTOM
II. THE STRANGER SHOOTS
III. THE CABIN IN THE FLAT
IV. A "DIFFERENT GIRL"
V. THE MAN OF DRY BOTTOM
VI. AT THE TWO DIAMOND
VII. THE MEASURE OF A MAN
VIII. THE FINDING OF THE ORPHAN
IX. WOULD YOU BE A "CHARACTER"?
X. DISAPPEARANCE OF THE ORPHAN
XI. A TOUCH OF LOCAL COLOR
XII. THE STORY BEGINS
XIII. "DO YOU SMOKE?"
XIV. ON THE EDGE OF THE PLATEAU
XV. A FREE HAND
XVI. LEVIATT TAKES A STEP
XVII. A BREAK IN THE STORY
XVIII. THE DIM TRAIL
XIX. THE SHOT IN THE DARK
XX. LOVE AND A RIFLE
XXI. THE PROMISE
XXII. KEEPING A PROMISE
XXIII. AT THE EDGE OF THE COTTONWOOD
XXIV. THE END OF THE STORY
THE TWO-GUN MAN
CHAPTER I
THE STRANGER AT DRY BOTTOM
From the crest of Three Mile Slope the man on the pony could see the
town of Dry Bottom straggling across the gray floor of the flat, its
low, squat buildings looking like so many old boxes blown there by an
idle wind, or unceremoniously dumped there by a careless fate and left,
regardless, to carry out the scheme of desolation.
Apparently the rider was in no hurry, for, as the pony topped the rise
and the town burst suddenly into view, the little animal pricked up its
ears and quickened its pace, only to feel the reins suddenly tighten
and to hear the rider's voice gruffly discouraging haste. Therefore,
the pony pranced gingerly, alert, champing the bit impatiently, picking
its way over the lumpy hills of stone and cactus, but holding closely
to the trail.
The man lounged in the saddle, his strong, well-knit body swaying
gracefully, his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, narrowed with
slight mockery and interest as he gazed steadily at the town that lay
before him.
"I reckon that must be Dry Bottom," he said finally, mentally taking in
its dimensions. "If that's so, I've only got twenty miles to go."
Half way down the slope, and still a mile and a half from the town, the
rider drew the pony to a halt. He dropped the reins over the high
pommel of the saddle, drew out his two guns, one after the other,
rolled the cylinders, and returned the guns to their holsters. He had
heard something of Dry Bottom's reputation and in examining his pistols
he was merely preparing himself for an emergency. For a moment after
he had replaced the weapons he sat quietly in the saddle. Then he
shook out the reins, spoke to the pony, and the little animal set
forward at a slow lope.
An ironic traveler, passing through Dry Bottom in its younger days,
before civic spirit had definitely centered its efforts upon things
nomenclatural, had hinted that the town should be known as "dry"
because of the fact that while it boasted seven buildings, four were
saloons; and that "bottom" might well be used as a suffix, because, in
the nature of things, a town of seven buildings, four of which were
saloons, might reasonably expect to descend to the very depths of moral
iniquity.
The ironic traveler had spoken with prophetic wisdom. Dry Bottom was
trying as best it knew how to wallow in the depths of sin. Unlovely,
soiled, desolate of verdure, dumped down upon a flat of sand in a
treeless waste, amid cactus, crabbed yucca, scorpions, horned toads,
and rattlesnakes. Dry Bottom had forgotten its morals, subverted its
principles, and neglected its God.
As the rider approached to within a few hundred yards of the edge of
town he became aware of a sudden commotion. He reined in his pony,
allowing it to advance at a walk, while with alert eyes he endeavored
to search out the cause of the excitement. He did not have long to
watch for the explanation.
A man had stepped out of the door of one of the saloons, slowly walking
twenty feet away from it toward the center of the street. Immediately
other men had followed. But these came only to a point just outside
the door. For some reason which was not apparent to the rider, they
were giving the first man plenty of room.
The rider was now able to distinguish the faces of the men in the
group, and he gazed with interested eyes at the man who had first
issued from the door of the saloon.
The man was tall--nearly as tall as the rider--and in his every
movement seemed sure of himself. He was young, seemingly about
thirty-five, with shifty, insolent eyes and a hard mouth whose lips
were just now curved into a self-conscious smile.
The rider had now approached to within fifty feet of the man, halting
his pony at the extreme end of the hitching rail that skirted the front
of the saloon. He sat carelessly in the saddle, his gaze fixed on the
man.
The men who had followed the first man out, to the number of a dozen,
were apparently deeply interested, though plainly skeptical. A short,
fat man, who was standing near the saloon door, looked on with a
half-sneer. Several others were smiling blandly. A tall man on the
extreme edge of the crowd, near the rider, was watching the man in the
street gravely. Other men had allowed various expressions to creep
into their faces. But all were silent.
Not so the man in the street. Plainly, here was conceit personified,
and yet a conceit mingled with a maddening insolence. His expression
told all that this thing which he was about to do was worthy of the
closest attention. He was the axis upon which the interest of the
universe revolved.
Certainly he knew of the attention he was attracting. Men were
approaching from the other end of the street, joining the group in
front of the saloon--which the rider now noticed was called the "Silver
Dollar." The newcomers were inquisitive; they spoke in low tones to
the men who had arrived before them, gravely inquiring the cause.
But the man in the street seemed not disturbed by his rapidly swelling
audience. He stood in the place he had selected, his insolent eyes
roving over the assembled company, his thin, expressive lips opening a
very little to allow words to filter through them.
"Gents," he said, "you're goin' to see some shootin'! I told you in
the Silver Dollar that I could keep a can in the air while I put five
holes in it. There's some of you gassed about bein' showed, not
believin'. An' now I'm goin' to show you!"
He reached down and took up a can that had lain at his feet, removing
the red lithographed label, which had a picture of a large tomato in
the center of it. The can was revealed, naked and shining in the white
sunlight. The man placed the can in his left hand and drew his pistol
with the right.
Then he tossed the can into the air. While it still rose his weapon
exploded, the can shook spasmodically and turned clear over. Then in
rapid succession followed four other explosions, the last occurring
just before the can reached the ground. The man smiled, still holding
the smoking weapon in his hand.
The tall man on the extreme edge of the group now stepped forward and
examined the can, while several other men crowded about to look. There
were exclamations of surprise. It was curious to see how quickly
enthusiasm and awe succeeded skepticism.
"He's done it, boys!" cried the tall man, holding the can aloft.
"Bored it in five places!" He stood erect, facing the crowd. "I
reckon that's some shootin'!" He now threw a glance of challenge and
defiance about him. "I've got a hundred dollars to say that there
ain't another man in this here town can do it!"
Several men tried, but none equaled the first man's performance. Many
of the men could not hit the can at all. The first man watched their
efforts, sneers twitching his lips as man after man failed.
Presently all had tried. Watching closely, the rider caught an
expression of slight disappointment on the tall man's face. The rider
was the only man who had not yet tried his skill with the pistol, and
the man in the street now looked up at him, his eyes glittering with an
insolent challenge. As it happened, the rider glanced at the shooter
at the instant the latter had turned to look up at him. Their eyes met
fairly, the shooter's conveying a silent taunt. The rider smiled,
slight mockery glinting his eyes.
Apparently the stranger did not care to try his skill. He still sat
lazily in the saddle, his gaze wandering languidly over the crowd. The
latter plainly expected him to take part in the shooting match and was
impatient over his inaction.
"Two-gun," sneered a man who stood near the saloon door. "I wonder
what he totes them two guns for?"
The shooter heard and turned toward the man who had spoken, his lips
wreathed satirically.
"I reckon he wouldn't shoot nothin' with them," he said, addressing the
man who had spoken.
Several men laughed. The tall man who had revealed interest before now
raised a hand, checking further comment.
"That offer of a hundred to the man who can beat that shootin' still
goes," he declared. "An' I'm taking off the condition. The man that
tries don't have to belong to Dry Bottom. No stranger is barred!"
The stranger's glance again met the shooter's. The latter grinned
felinely. Then the rider spoke. The crowd gave him its polite
attention.
"I reckon you-all think you've seen some shootin'," he said in a
steady, even voice, singularly free from boast. "But I reckon you
ain't seen any real shootin'." He turned to the tall, grave-faced man.
"I ain't got no hundred," he said, "but I'm goin' to show you."
He still sat in the saddle. But now with an easy motion he swung down
and hitched his pony to the rail.