The Stranger E-Book

Max Brand

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Staying alive is worth a thousand dollars a day to Oliver Wilton. That’s what he’s paying Lew Sherry and Pete Long as hired guns to keep him healthy. And after riding the range, the money looks more than just a little inviting. But before Sherry and Long can pocket their first wages, Wilton is murdered. And town men were never so sad to see their boss take a bullet in the brain as Sherry and Long. Soon the pair are riding a vengeance trail – out to catch the low-down killer who put them out a job... Renowned Western writer Max Brand does it again in the eminently enjoyable classic western „The Stranger „. Packed with enough action and twists and turns to please even the most die-hard fans of the genre.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIC

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER I

THEY were holding beef out of Clayrock, for the UX outfit. Eighteen hundred steers, strong with good feeding and apt to want their own way, were quite enough for two punchers to handle, even two like Pete Lang and Lew Sherry, whose range name was “Tiny Lew.” But the beef had had their fill of good grass on this day, and had been drifted enough miles to make them at once contented and sleepy. They began to lie down, slumping heavily to their knees, and so gradually down–unlike the grace of a mustang dropping for the night.

“Trouble and beef–that’s all you get out of a bunch like this,” said Tiny Lew, as he circled his horse quietly around the herd. “And we don’t get the beef,” he concluded.

“Shut up and start singing,” said Pete Lang. “Which if you was an orator, these shorthorns wouldn’t vote for you, anyway. Sing, darn you!” said Pete Lang.

“You start it, then. I got no singing in my throat tonight.”

Lang began, to the tune of “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean”:

“Last night as I lay on the prairie, And looked at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowby Would drift to that sweet by and by.

“Roll on, roll on; Roll on, little dogies, roll on, roll on; Roll on, roll on, Roll on, little dogies, roll on!”

“Will you quit it?” asked Tiny Lew plaintively. “It makes me ache to hear such mournful lingo.”

“You’ve got too much education,” said Lang. “I always told you so. If there was any nacheral sense born into you, it was read out in books. But there’s that speckled steer got up again. Will you sing him down, sucker, or are you gunna start wrangling until the whole herd begins to mill?”

Tiny Lew tipped back his head and his bass voice flowed in a thick, rich current, carefully subdued.

“There’s old ‘Aunt’ Jess, that hard old cuss, Who never would repent; He never missed a single meal Nor never paid a cent. But old Aunt Jess like all the rest To death he did resign And in his bloom went up the flume In the days of Forty-nine.”

The speckled steer lay down again with a grunt and a puff.

“A fine, soothin’ song is that,” sneered Pete Lang. “Let ’em have some more! You oughta be singing in a hall, Tiny.”

Tiny Lew, unabashed, continued his song with another stanza:

“There is ‘Ragshag’ Jim, the roaring man, Who could outroar a buffalo, you bet; He roared all day and he roared all night, And I guess he is roaring yet. One night Jim fell in a prospect hole– It was a roaring bad design– And in that hole Jim roared out his soul, In the days of Forty-nine.”

“I’ve had enough,” said Pete Lang. “Whistle to ‘em, son.”

Slowly, the two punchers walked or jogged their horses around the night herd, sometimes with low, soft whistles; sometimes they sang a word or two of a song and hummed the rest of it, and the great, fat steers, plump for shipping on the next day, quieted under the soothing of the familiar sounds, and with that human reassurance about them–like a wall to shut away danger of wolf or mountain lion, danger of the very stars and winds–they went to sleep.

Then the two punchers drew their horses together and let the mustangs touch noses.

“It’s quite a town, Clayrock, by the look of the lights,” said Tiny Lew.

“I’ve had my share of talking juice in yonder, under them lights,” remarked Pete Lang. “It’s got one trouble. The kind of red-eye they peddle there over the bar ain’t made for boys, but for growed-up men. You’d better keep away from that joint, Tiny.”

Tiny Lew stretched forth a hand and took his companion firmly by the back of his coat collar. Then he heaved Pete Lang a yard out of the saddle and held him dangling against the stars.

“Do I let you drop, you little, sawed-off son of a gun?” asked Tiny pleasantly.

“I’ll have your gizzard out for this!” declared Pete Lang, keeping his voice equally low, for fear of disturbing the steers.

Tiny deposited him back in the saddle.

“It’s so long since I’ve had a drink,” said Tiny, “that I’m all rusty inside. I’m lined with red rust, two inches deep. I’m more full of sand than a desert. A couple of buckets full of red- eye would hardly be heard to splash inside of me, Pete.”

At this, Pete Lang chuckled.

“Look here,” said he. “You go in and tip over a couple. These here dogies are plumb sleepy, and I can hold ’em till morning. Go in and tip over a couple, and then come back and I’ll make a visit for myself, before morning.”

The big man glanced over the herd. Every steer was down. Now and again, the sound of a horn clicked faintly against a horn, or a tail swished could be heard distinctly, so still was the night!

“I’d better stay,” said Tiny Lew, with indecision.

“You drift, son,” replied his companion. “Besides, you’re only a nuisance, tonight. The thoughts that you got in your head, they’d disturb the peace of a whole town, let alone a night herd like this. Get out of here, Tiny. You’ve near strangled me already.” He touched his throat, where the strain of his collar had chafed the skin when Sherry had lifted him from the saddle. The big fellow slapped Lang on the shoulder.

“So long, Pete. Wish me luck, and no fights, and a safe return.”

“All right,” said Lang, “but I warn you that a mule makes a safer ride than a hoss into Clayrock–there’s so many quicksands and holes in the ground. Don’t find no friends, and don’t stay to make none, but just tip down a couple and come on back.”

“Right as can be,” said Tiny Lew, and turned his pony’s nose toward the lights of town.

He rode a pinto, only fifteen hands high, but made to carry weight, even weight such as that of Tiny, and tough as a mountain goat. They split straight across country, jumping two fences that barred the way, and so entered at last the first street of Clayrock. It was a big, rambling town, with comfortable yards around the houses, and as Tiny Lew rode in, he could hear the soft rushing sound made by sprinklers on the lawns; he could smell the fragrance of the gardens, too, and the umbrella trees stood in shapely files on either side of the way.

“Civilized,” said Tiny to himself. “Pete was stringing me along a little.”

He came to a bridge over a little river and, in spite of his hurry, he reined in his horse to watch the flash and swing of the current as it dipped around a bend in the stream. There was sufficient distance from the arched center of the bridge to the nearest houses to enable him to look about him, over the head of Clayrock, as it were; and he saw that the town was snuggled down among the hills–easy hills for riding, he judged, by the round outlines of the heads of the hills. Only to the south there was a streak of darkness against the higher sky, and the glimmer of a number of lights which he thought, at first, must be great stars.

But then he realized that stars cannot shine through such a dark cloud, and finally he was aware that it was a flat-faced cliff that rose over Clayrock–the very features of which gave the town its name, of course! The select center of the town, no doubt.

Tiny Lew went on. He had no desire to see select centers, but presently, on the farther side of the river, he found the houses closer together. The gardens ended. People were in the streets. He passed a moving-picture house where the sign was illuminated with crimson lights. And so he reached the Parker Place.

There were two larger hotels in Clayrock, but they were not like the Parker Place. It stood off a bit by itself, on a hummock, so that it was able to surround itself with a narrow wedge of lawn or garden, and it had a beaming look of hospitality. Tiny Lew Sherry did not wait for a second thought, but turned in the head of his mount toward the stable. There he saw his horse placed at a well-filled rack, and went into the hostelry.

No sooner did he push open the door than he heard a chorus sung in loud, cheerful voices–the chorus of a range song, which made him feel at home at once. He went into the bar. A dozen punchers reached out hands for him, but Sherry broke their grips and went on into the gaming room. He knew that he was too sober to drink with fellows such as these.

In the rear room there was not a great deal of light except for three bright pools of it over the three tables which were occupied; but there was comparative quiet. That is to say, the roar from the bar was like the noise of a sea breaking on a hollow beach. It was so loud that the bartender had to ask twice what he would have.

Sherry had no chance to answer for himself. From the next table rose a slender form–a tall and graceful man who tapped the bartender’s shoulder.

“Not the regular poison, but some of mine,” said he. “I can see that you’ve made a voyage and have just come to port, partner. And a good thirst like that shouldn’t be thrown away on the filth they have behind the bar, out yonder.”

Sherry was willing to agree. He thanked the stranger and asked him to sit down; as a matter of fact, he already was seating himself, uninvited.

The drinks were brought. The stranger raised his glass, and Sherry saw that the lean, brown hand of the other shook a little.

“Drink deep!” said he.

And Sherry drank, but his mind was troubled.

CHAPTER II

HE was troubled for several reasons, any of which would have been good enough, but the main one was a sort of savage keenness in the eye of the other. He was a lank man, with a yellowish skin, and a proud, restless way of turning his head from side to side; and in this head there was the most active and blazing pair of eyes that Sherry ever had seen.

“You hail from where, stranger?” asked this fellow.

“I’ve been punching cows for the UX outfit,” said Sherry. “What’s your line?”

“You punch cows?” said the other, dwelling on this answer before he made his own reply. “I’ve seen my storms, but I’ve never had to duck into such a rotten port as that to weather them. Cow-punching!”

He laughed shortly, and the gorge of Sherry rose. But, like most big men, it took a long time to warm him thoroughly with anger. He was willing to waive the peculiarities of a stranger, particularly since he was drinking this man’s liquor.

“You’ve never been a sailor?” the host asked.

“No,” said Sherry.

“You’ve never lived, then,” said the other.

“What’s your name?” said Sherry.

“My name is Harry Capper. What’s yours?”

“Sherry is my name. I’ll let you into the know. Some of the boys around here would take it pretty hard if they heard you at work slamming punching as a trade.”

“Would they? Would they?” snapped Capper, his buried eyes blazing more brightly than ever.

“You have to do the things you find to do,” said Sherry with good humor. “Besides, you couldn’t sail a ship through this sort of dry land.”

He laughed a little at his own remarks, but Capper refused to be softened.

“I thought that you looked like a man who would be doing a man’s work. There’s no work off the sea. There’s no life off the sea–except on an island!”

He laughed in turn, with a sort of drawling sneer. Sherry made up his mind that the wits of Harry Capper were more than a little unsettled.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Capper, “I’ll spot any landsman ten years, and show him more life in half the time at sea. Rough and smooth. Into the wind and with it! What does a landsman ever get a chance to do? But suppose you have four thousand tons of steel under you, and the steel loaded with a cargo, and the engines crashing and smashing, and a rotten crew to work the craft, and leagues between you and your port, and a fortune if you get to it–well, that’s living!”

“You’ve commanded a ship?”

“I never sailed in command, but I’ve been first officer to bring more than one ship home. You don’t always finish where you start. That’s one thing about the sea, too!”

Again he laughed, and more than ever Sherry was convinced that this man’s brain was addled. He would have liked, too, to hear something about the steps by which the other had risen to the command of vessels when he sailed in subordinate roles. He had no opportunity, for suddenly Capper started to his feet.

He sat down again, almost at once. His nostrils quivered, and his eyes flared more villainously than ever; he was staring at Sherry with an almost murderous intensity as he said: “I’ll show you some of the things that you learn at sea. Look at the fellow just coming into the room. He looks like a swell, don’t he?”

Sherry saw a man of middle age come into the room and stand for a moment near the door, drawing off his gloves slowly. He had a fine, thoughtful face, a most magnificent forehead, and the whole bearing of a quiet gentleman who lives more inside himself than in the world.

“You’d say that a fine gentleman like that wouldn’t talk to a bird like Harry Capper, beachcomber and what not?”

“And will he?” asked Sherry, beginning to feel a good deal of disgust.

“I think he will–if I ask him,” said Capper. “You’ll see now.”

He turned suddenly in his chair.

“Hello,” said he. “Come over and have a drink with me.”

The newcomer started a little at the sound of this voice, but now he replied courteously: “I’m not drinking, Capper. Thank you.”

The sailor laughed in his unusually disagreeable manner.

“You’d better think again!” he said with a great deal of ugly point.

The other hesitated for a moment; then he came to the table and sat down.

“This here is by name of Sherry,” said Capper. “And this is Oliver Wilton, an old messmate of mine. Ain’t you Oliver?”

The other made a little gesture which might have expressed assent, or simple irritation.

“Sure, he’s a messmate of mine,” said Capper. “We’ve sailed around the world together. We got a lot of the same charts in our heads. We’ve seen places. We’ve seen Bougainville Island, and Choiseul. And Treasury Island, and Tonongo, and Buena Vista, and San Cristoval. Have we seen them, mate?”

He reached across and slapped the shoulder of Oliver Wilton, and the latter winced from the touch of the sailor. He had refused whiskey and was merely making a pretense of sipping his beer, while he watched Capper with an extraordinary expression which, Sherry thought, contained elements of disgust, fear, and keen anger.

And the surprise of Sherry grew. It was beyond words amazing that a gentleman should submit to such familiarity from such a fellow as Capper.

“But Oliver left the sea,” said Capper. “You don’t mind if I call you Oliver, do you, Oliver?”

“I suppose not,” said the other.

Capper grinned with delight at the torment he was inflicting.

“Of course, you don’t mind,” said he. “Not a good fellow and a rare sport like you–why, the things that we got to remember together would fill a book, and a good fat book, at that! Am I right, old man?”

Oliver Wilton bit his lip.

“Closed-mouth old boy he is,” said Capper, “but always willing to stand his round of drinks. Slow in the talk, but fast in the drinking was always his way.”

At this broad hint, Wilton presently ordered a round of drinks, and Sherry could not help noticing the curious glance which the waiter cast at the sailor and at Wilton who would sit at such a table.

“You’re not taking more than you can hold?” said Wilton to the sailor.

“Me?” chuckled Capper. “I always got room in my hold for the right kind of goods to be stowed away in an extra corner. Always! So bring on the new shipment!”

The drinks were duly ordered, and then Wilton said suddenly: “I’ll see that they fill out of the right bottle. They have a way of substituting in this place!”

He got up and hurried from the table.

Capper leaned back in his chair, his face filled with malicious satisfaction.

“He’s a rum old boy, eh?” said he. “But he’s on the hook. Oh, he can wriggle if he wants to, but he can’t get off the hook! It’s stuck into his gills! I suppose,” he went on, his face flushing with a sort of angry triumph, “that there’s nothing that he wouldn’t give me, if I asked for it. I start with asking for a drink, but I might ask more. Oh, I might ask a whole cargo from him. But he’s got that good a heart that he never could turn down an old shipmate!”

He laughed again in that peculiarly disagreeable manner of his, and Sherry stirred in his chair. He had had enough of this company and he determined to leave after the present round. Moreover, Pete Lang would be expecting his return before long.

Wilton came back, himself carrying the tray.

“There you are,” said Capper. “I told you he was a rare old sport. Pay for the drinks and play waiter to bring ‘em, too. That’s his way. Big-hearted and an open hand for all. That’s him, always.”

Wilton set down the drinks.

He seemed much more cheerful, now; though Sherry could not help suspecting that there was something assumed in the present good nature.

But he sat down and offered the glasses with a smile.

“Good luck and good health to you, Capper,” said he, “and to you!”

“Why,” said Capper, leaning a little over the table, “that’s a kind thing, sir. A mighty kind way of putting things. And here’s to you, with all my heart!”

It seemed that Capper was genuinely moved by the cheerful manner of the man he had been tormenting, and he showed his emotion in his voice.

Sherry, in the meantime, with a nod to the others, picked up a glass, in haste to be done and away.

Half the contents were down his throat before he heard the exclamation of Wilton: “Hello! That’s not your glass!”

At last, he lowered the glass. It had had rather a bitter taste, he thought. Capper, in the meantime, had finished the glass he had taken up, and hearing the alarmed exclamation of Wilton, he now snatched the one from the hand of Sherry and swallowed off the contents, saying, with his brutal laugh, “I’ve got to have my own, of course!”

Sherry, half disgusted, stared at Capper. His temper had been frayed thin by the repeated insolence of the other, and now the striking muscles up and down his arm began to tighten.

“I ain’t had enough drinks,” said Capper suddenly, “to make me feel so dizzy. I–”

He half rose from his chair and slumped heavily back into it, his head canting over upon one shoulder.

“Gents,” said Sherry, “I’ve gotta leave you. I’ll pay for a round, but then I have to start back–”

He rose in turn, and then a stunning darkness struck him back into his chair and he heard a voice, apparently from a great distance, saying: “Here is a pair of helpless drunks. What will you do with them?”

CHAPTER III

FLASHES of sense returned to Sherry, thereafter. He knew that he was being dragged, half carried, to another place. He knew that he was allowed to slump heavily to the floor. And after that, he had a sense of cold and darkness. When he was able to get to his knees, his eyes were still half open, half shut, and it was at this time that he heard the crash of a revolver, inhaled the pungent fumes of burned powder, and was dimly aware of the red spitting of fire.

That aroused him fully and quickly to his senses, and starting to his feet, he stumbled upon a revolver which lay upon the floor before him. He picked up the gun and found the barrel warm to his touch, and a wisp of smoke floated in the deep, narrow gullet of the weapon. It was his own revolver! He knew it by four significant notches which he had filed into the handles of it for certain reasons best known to himself.

Startled by this, he stared about him, and then he saw the stranger, Capper, lying on his side against the wall, with a crimson trickle of blood down his face, and an ugly, purple- rimmed blotch on his forehead.

He was dead, and Sherry knew it at a glance. He did not go near the dead body; but he looked wildly about him. There was only one means of escape, but that appeared a simple one–a large window at the farther side of the room. To this he ran. It was locked!

But what was that to Sherry? Outside, he saw the ground; by fortune he had been placed upon the lowest floor of the hotel, and he was a mere stride from freedom.

A hand struck at the door.

“What the dickens is up in there?” asked a rough voice.

For answer, Sherry took his Colt by the barrel and with the heavy butt of the gun he smashed out a panel of the window. A second stroke brought out three more, and a third opened a gap through which he could easily make his exit; but at this moment the door was sent open with a crash.

Sherry whirled against the wall, his Colt ready. It was not the first time that he had had to fight his way out from a tight corner, but apparently the hotel keepers at Clayrock were more thoroughly prepared for trouble than the hotel keepers of other communities. No fewer than five men charged through the doorway, and Sherry, in his first glance, saw a sawed-off shotgun–most convincing of all persuaders–a rifle, and three leveled revolvers.

Courage is admirable, and fighting skill is delightful in its full employment, but even a disposition such as that of Sherry could see that this was not the time to strike back. It was better to be armed with a conscious innocence than to use his gun.

“Stick up your hands!” came the grim order.

And he obeyed quietly.

They found the dead body at once. There was an outbreak of exclamations. They herded Sherry into a corner of the room and took his gun away from him; an armed guard stood upon either side, while the other three lifted the dead man and placed him on the bed.

“He’ll never be deader in a thousand years than he is now,” pronounced one, whom Sherry recognized as the waiter who just had served him.

“And what’ll we do with this bird?” asked another.

“Stick him in jail.”

“Why in the jail? Here’s his gun warm in his hand! Judge Rope is about good enough for this bum!”

“Bill is right,” said another. Then: “What you gotta say about this, stranger?”

Before Sherry could speak, a quiet voice said through the shattered window: “If you boys will listen to me, I think I can explain this.”

“It’s Mr. Wilton,” said the bartender, attempting to convey an air of much respect.

They wrenched open the rest of the broken window, and Wilton climbed easily into the room.

“I was half afraid that something like this would happen,” said he. “That man is entirely innocent; unless you want to hang a man for self-defense. I knew that dead man. His name was Capper. He sailed before the mast on a ship which I commanded. And when he sent up word to me today that he was in town, I came to see him. He was always a wild, reckless fellow. A little wrong in the head, as a matter of fact. I was afraid that he might get into mischief, and so I came down to take what care of him I could. I even had a drink with him, and it was the drink that polished off the pair of them. When they were carried in here, I wanted to follow, but the door was locked. So I walked around into the garden to look through the window. A very lucky thing that I did! I saw Capper, like a mad creature, as he was, throw himself at this fellow while he was still half conscious. He barely had sense enough to defend himself. You see the bruise on his forehead, where Capper struck him. Capper was a madman. Mad with drink, no doubt. He managed to tear the gun out of the holster of Sherry, here. But that brought Sherry out of his whiskey sleep. He grabbed the gun back and knocked Capper away, and when Capper started to rush in again–he shot him dead.”

He made a pause here. Silence and then a murmur of surprise followed this statement.

“Funny, I didn’t hear no racket in here,” said someone.

“They weren’t shouting,” said Wilton. “Their brains were too filled with whiskey fumes for that. And, after all, the finish came in about two seconds–before I could get in through the window, in fact! Sherry seemed to come to his senses. He saw the dead body and made for the window, and started smashing it open. He saw, of course, that the case looked black for him, and he didn’t know that he’d had a witness who could clear him.”

There was a general murmur again; it was of pure assent except for one bearded man, wearing a heavy plaid raincoat. He was a rough customer, with a growth of beard of several days’ ripeness upon his chin, and overhanging brows, from beneath which he peered earnestly out at the others. Now he advanced upon big Lew Sherry and stood before him with his legs well braced, and his hands upon his hips.

“Boys,” he said, “before you let this gent loose, I want to tell you a few things about him.”

“Go on,” said the bartender, who seemed to be in charge of the crowd.

But others were gathering, and the room was full of pushing people.

“If a dog bites once,” said the man in the raincoat, “you call it bad luck and let him go. If he bites twice, you shoot him, I take it?”

“Go on,” said the bartender. “What are you driving at?”

“I’ll show you in a minute.”

He turned back upon Sherry.

“You know me, Tiny?” said he.

Sherry had worn a dark scowl from the moment he first eyed the other. He hesitated now, but at length he said: “I know you, Jack.”

“And how did you come to know me?” asked the other.

“By breaking your jaw for you,” said Sherry. “I see you wear a lump on the side of your ugly face still.”

The man of the raincoat grinned in a lopsided fashion.

“And how did you come to bust my jaw?” asked he, while all grew hushed with interest, listening to this strange conversation.

“Because you jumped me,” said Sherry, “and you well know that you did, Jack!”

“I jumped you,” admitted the other. “And why did I jump you?”

“Ah–that’s what you’re driving at, is it?” asked Sherry.

“It is! Why did I jump you?”

“Because–” began Sherry.

“Listen to this,” exclaimed the other.

“Because,” said Sherry in repetition, “I killed one of your cousins, and shot up another pair of them!”

An exclamation greeted this statement.

“You hear him?” asked Jack.

“It was fair fight,” protested Sherry.

“Mind you, gents,” said Jack. “The four of them was in one shack. They’d been felling some timber above the rest of the gang. In that there shack they had the fight. He claims that he killed one of the three and laid out the other two. They wasn’t babies, any of those three. I ask you, does it seem nacherel and to reason that he could do it by fighting fair–this gent, mind you, that’s just plugged a drunk through the head?”

Sherry looked swiftly around the encircling faces, and all that he saw appeared grim reading indeed to him.

“I got no grouch against this here bird,” said the bartender, “but it looks like sense in what Jack says. When a dog bites twice–it shows a habit!”

Sherry searched his mind for an answer, but he found none.

Then the quiet voice of Wilton broke in: “It seems to me, men, that you might ask what happened after this shooting scrape at the lumber camp. Did this man bolt?”

“There’s a question,” said Sherry. “You can answer that, Jack. Did I run for it?”

“You come into camp and bragged about what you’d done,” said Jack. “You come in with a cock-and-bull yarn.”

“Did I take care of the two boys that were laid out but not dead?” asked Sherry. “Or did I leave ’em to bleed to death, as I might’ve done?”

“You come in an’ bragged!” repeated Jack, furious at the memory. “I ask you boys to use your common sense. And here you got this gent red-handed. It ain’t the first killing. And the one I tell you wasn’t the first, either. Here’s his gun!”

He snatched Sherry’s gun and held it high.

“There’s four notches filed in this here. Tell me, was they filed for fun, Sherry?”

He waited, then he answered himself with: “And there’ll be five notches in there tomorrow!”

At this, a decidedly stern rumble of anger ran through the listeners. It was after the palmy days of outlawry when gunmen were rather more admired than condemned. Law had entered the West; and the gunman was an unpopular character.

At last Sherry said loudly: “Gents, you’re on the wrong trail. This Jack, here, is trying to run me up a tree. I’ll tell you the honest truth. There’s not a notch there that isn’t for the finish of a white man in a fair fight. And that’s straight, so help me!”

This speech made an obvious impression, and Sherry could see the effect, as he looked about over the faces of the listeners. He noted that Wilton stood a little apart from the others–or rather, out of an apparent respect for him, the rest would not rub elbows too closely with their superiors. As for Wilton himself, he seemed to be watching this scene as he would have watched something on a stage, in which he had very little concern. There was even a faint smile on his lips, from time to time, as he followed the different arguments.

Jack was not to be downed. “White men?” he exclaimed. “And what else have you accounted for?”

Sherry saw that he had led himself into a corner, but he added quietly, in reply: “I’ve been in Mexico, boys. And I’ve had to live in Louisiana among some unpeaceable gents. That’s all that I got to say about that.”

“It looks sort of black for you, Sherry,” said the bartender. “Though I’ve got nothing against you.”

“It’s gunna look blacker for him,” insisted Jack. “It’s gunna look black as choking for him, before we get through with him. This ain’t a jay town that’s to be buffaloed and talked down by a slicker like this Sherry! He’s an educated gent, too. Reads a lot. Knows a lot. How did he ever have to leave home, I’d like to ask? I tell you, if you knew the inside of this one, you’d find it hotter’n cayenne pepper!”

Jack had piled up his points with some adroitness and there was no mistaking the hostile air of the crowd when Wilton interrupted the proceedings again, to ask: “If he came into camp, how did he happen to get off, up there, without trouble?”

“There was trouble,” said Jack. “But he was the pet of the boss of the show. And that got him off. There was a lot of trouble, but this Sherry is one of those sneaks that always aims to play in with the straw boss, darn him and all his kind!”

This stroke produced another thunder, more thunderous than the rest.

“But suppose,” said Wilton, “we find out just what story was told by both sides when they came into the camp that day?”

“The kids told a straight yarn,” said Jack. “They told how they’d been sitting around having a little poker game in the evenin’. Sherry lost. Like the yaller quitter that he is, he grouched. They shut him up. He scooped for the money with one hand and begun shooting with the other before any of them could reach for their guns.”

“Well,” said Wilton, “but isn’t it odd that a straight story like that could be disbelieved?”

“Because the boss ran the show and ran it crooked, to help Sherry!” declared Jack. “There ain’t much difference between the speed of anybody’s draw–hardly a fraction of a second! How could one man do that work against three, and come off hardly scratched?”

The patience of Sherry, which had been fairly well maintained up to this point, now was ended, and he flared forth: “Jack, if you think there’s very little difference in the speed of a draw, I invite you–and any friend of yours–to stand up to me inside of ten paces, and we’ll start the draw with an even break!”

Jack was so staggered by this proposal that he actually took a backward step.

“One of the three did no shooting at all,” said Sherry grimly. “He died while he was lugging out his gun. The second feller got in one as he dropped, and the third got in two. And here’s the proof of it. Here’s the first one!”

He touched a white scar that clipped the side of his cheek. “Here’s the second one!”

He pulled up his left sleeve and exposed a forearm white as the skin of a baby. He doubled his hand, and beneath the skin appeared enormous, ropy muscles, bulging so that they threatened to leap through the skin. Against that setting, turned still whiter by the contraction of the great muscles which stopped the flow of blood, appeared a large purple patch.

“That was the second shot that plugged me,” said Sherry. “And as for a third, it’s along the ribs of my left side, and it left a mark you all can see!”

Silence followed. Eyes turned slowly to Jack, who protested eagerly: “He could have picked up those marks in any fight. He admits that he had plenty of them, all over the world!”

The voice of Sherry was low and bitter:

“You yellow dog!” said he. “You know that I was dripping blood when I got to camp. And that was why you jumped me. You never would have dared, otherwise. You forgot that my right hand was still ready for you.”

Jack bit his lip, and his keen eyes flashed from side to side, seeking for a new idea, but before he could find it, the big man continued quietly: