The Two-Gun Man E-Book

Charles Alden Seltzer

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Along with Zane Grey and William MacLeod Raine, Charles Alden Seltzer is remembered today as an originator of what’s often called the formula western. In it, a cowboy hero, who is fast with a gun, meets and subdues a vicious villain and who also wins the heart and hand of a pretty sweetheart. „The Two-Gun Man” has all these elements firmly in place. It is set at an unspecified time in the open ranges of the Southwest, somewhere in the neighborhood of Raton and Cimarron, New Mexico. Rustlers are stealing Two Diamond cattle, and the manager is fit to be tied. The range boss claims it’s the neighbor, but there’s no proof. Everyone finds the neighbor’s sister desirable, but she finds everyone tedious. Will lies, jealousy, double dealing, and maybe even a cold-blooded killing keep Ned Ferguson from uncovering the truth?

Leseprobe

Contents

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

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.

CHAPTER II

THE STRANGER SHOOTS

The stranger seemed taller on the ground than in the saddle and an admirable breadth of shoulder and slenderness of waist told eloquently of strength. He could not have been over twenty-five or six. Yet certain hard lines about his mouth, the glint of mockery in his eyes, the pronounced forward thrust of the chin, the indefinable force that seemed to radiate from him, told the casual observer that here was a man who must be approached with care.

But apparently the shooter saw no such signs. In the first glance that had been exchanged between the two men there had been a lack of ordinary cordiality. And now, as the rider slid down from his pony and advanced toward the center of the street, the shooter’s lips curled. Writhing through them came slow-spoken words.

“You runnin’ sheep, stranger?”

The rider’s lips smiled, but his eyes were steady and cold. In them shone a flash of cold humor. He stood, quietly contemplating his insulter.

Smiles appeared on the faces of several of the onlookers. The tall man with the grave face watched with a critical eye. The insult had been deliberate, and many men crouched, plainly expecting a serious outcome. But the stranger made no move toward his guns, and when he answered he might have been talking about the weather, so casual was his tone.

“I reckon you think you’re a plum man,” he said quietly. “But if you are, you ain’t showed it much–buttin’ in with that there wise observation. An’ there’s some men who think that shootin’ at a man is more excitin’ than shootin’ at a can.”

There was a grim quality in his voice now. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes cold and alert. The shooter sneered experimentally. Again the audience smiled.

But the tall man now stepped forward. “You’ve made your play, stranger,” he said quietly. “I reckon it’s up to you to make good.”

“Correct,” agreed the stranger. “I’m goin’ to show you some real shootin’. You got another can?”

Some one dived into the Silver Dollar and returned in a flash with another tomato can. This the stranger took, removing the label, as the shooter had done. Then, smiling, he took a position in the center of the street, the can in his right hand.

He did not draw his weapon as the shooter had done, but stood loosely in his place, his right hand still grasping the can, the left swinging idly by his side. Apparently he did not mean to shoot. Sneers reached the faces of several men in the crowd. The shooter growled, “Fourflush.”

There was a flash as the can rose twenty feet in the air, propelled by the right hand of the stranger. As the can reached the apex of its climb the stranger’s right hand descended and grasped the butt of the weapon at his right hip. There was a flash as the gun came out; a gasp of astonishment from the watchers. The can was arrested in the first foot of its descent by the shock of the first bullet striking it. It jumped up and out and again began its interrupted fall, only to stop dead still in the air as another bullet struck it. There was an infinitesimal pause, and then twice more the can shivered and jumped. No man in the crowd but could tell that the bullets were striking true.

The can was still ten feet in the air and well out from the stranger. The latter whipped his weapon to a level, the bullet striking the can and driving it twenty feet from him. Then it dropped. But when it was within five feet of the ground the stranger’s gun spoke again. The can leaped, careened sideways, and fell, shattered, to the street, thirty feet distant from the stranger.

Several men sprang forward to examine it.

“Six times!” ejaculated the tall man in an awed tone. “An’ he didn’t pull his gun till he’d throwed the can!”

He approached the stranger, drawing him confidentially aside. The crowd slowly dispersed, loudly proclaiming the stranger’s ability with the six-shooter. The latter took his honors lightly, the mocking smile again on his face.

“I’m lookin’ for a man who can shoot,” said the tall man, when the last man of the crowd had disappeared into the saloon.

The stranger smiled. “I reckon you’ve just seen some shootin’,” he returned.

The tall man smiled mirthlessly. “You particular about what you shoot at?” he inquired.

The stranger’s lips straightened coldly. “I used to have that habit,” he returned evenly.

“Hard luck?” queried the tall man.

“I’m rollin’ in wealth,” stated the stranger, with an ironic sneer.

The tall man’s eyes glittered. “Where you from?” he questioned.

“You c’n have three guesses,” returned the stranger, his eyes narrowing with the mockery that the tall man had seen in them before.

The tall man adopted a placative tone. “I ain’t wantin’ to butt into your business,” he said. “I was wantin’ to find out if any one around here knowed you.”

“This town didn’t send any reception committee to meet me, did they?” smiled the stranger.

“Correct,” said the tall man. He leaned closer. “You willin’ to work your guns for me for a hundred a month?”

The stranger looked steadily into the tall man’s eyes.

“You’ve been right handy askin’ questions,” he said. “Mebbe you’ll answer some. What’s your name?”

“Stafford,” returned the tall man. “I’m managin’ the Two Diamond, over on the Ute.”

The stranger’s eyelashes flickered slightly. His eyes narrowed quizzically. “What you wantin’ of a gun-man?” he asked.

“Rustler,” returned the other shortly.

The stranger smiled. “Figger on shootin’ him?” he questioned.

Stafford hesitated. “Well, no,” he returned. “That is, not until I’m sure I’ve got the right one.” He seized the stranger’s arm in a confidential grip. “You see,” he explained, “I don’t know just where I’m at. There’s been a rustler workin’ on the herd, an’ I ain’t been able to get close enough to find out who it is. But rustlin’ has got to be stopped. I’ve sent over to Raton to get a man named Ned Ferguson, who’s been workin’ for Sid Tucker, of the Lazy J. Tucker wrote me quite a while back, tellin’ me that this man was plum slick at nosin’ out rustlers. He was to come to the Two Diamond two weeks ago. But he ain’t showed up, an’ I’ve about concluded that he ain’t comin’. An’ so I come over to Dry Bottom to find a man.”

“You’ve found one,” smiled the stranger.

Stafford drew out a handful of double eagles and pressed them into the other’s hand. “I’m goin’ over to the Two Diamond now,” he said. “You’d better wait a day or two, so’s no one will get wise. Come right to me, like you was wantin’ a job.”

He started toward the hitching rail for his pony, hesitated and then walked back.

“I didn’t get your name,” he smiled.

The stranger’s eyes glittered humorously. “It’s Ferguson,” he said quietly.

Stafford’s eyes widened with astonishment. Then his right hand went out and grasped the other’s.

“Well, now,” he said warmly, “that’s what I call luck.”

Ferguson smiled. “Mebbe it’s luck,” he returned. “But before I go over to work for you there’s got to be an understandin’. I c’n shoot some,” he continued, looking steadily at Stafford, “but I ain’t runnin’ around the country shootin’ men without cause. I’m willin’ to try an’ find your rustler for you, but I ain’t shootin’ him–unless he goes to crowdin’ me mighty close.”

“I’m agreein’ to that,” returned Stafford.

He turned again, looking back over his shoulder. “You’ll sure be over?” he questioned.

“I’ll be there the day after to-morrow,” stated Ferguson.

He turned and went into the Silver Dollar. Stafford mounted his pony and loped rapidly out of town.

CHAPTER III

THE CABIN IN THE FLAT

It was the day appointed by Ferguson for his presence at the Two Diamond ranch, and he was going to keep his word. Three hours out of Dry Bottom he had struck the Ute trail and was loping his pony through a cottonwood that skirted the river. It was an enchanted country through which he rode; a land of vast distances, of white sunlight, blue skies, and clear, pure air. Mountains rose in the distances, their snowcapped peaks showing above the clouds like bald rock spires above the calm level of the sea. Over the mountains swam the sun, its lower rim slowly disappearing behind the peaks, throwing off broad white shafts of light that soon began to dim as vari-colors, rising in a slumberous haze like a gauze veil, mingled with them.

Ferguson’s gaze wandered from the trail to the red buttes that fringed the river. He knew this world; there was no novelty here for him. He knew the lava beds, looming gray and dead beneath the foothills; he knew the grotesque rock shapes that seemed to hint of a mysterious past. Nature had not altered her face. On the broad levels were the yellow tinted lines that told of the presence of soap-weed, the dark lines that betrayed the mesquite, the saccatone belts that marked the little guillies. Then there were the barrancas, the arid stretches where the sage-brush and the cactus grew. Snaky octilla dotted the space; the crabbed yucca had not lost its ugliness.

Ferguson looked upon the world with unseeing eyes. He had lived here long and the country had not changed. It would never change. Nothing ever changed here but the people.

But he himself had not changed. Twenty-seven years in this country was a long time, for here life was not measured by age, but by experience. Looking back over the years he could see that he was living to-day as he had lived last year, as he had lived during the last decade–a hard life, but having its compensations.

His coming to the Two Diamond ranch was merely another of those incidents that, during the past year, had broken the monotony of range life for him. He had had some success in breaking up a band of cattle thieves which had made existence miserable for Sid Tucker, his employer, and the latter had recommended him to Stafford. The promise of high wages had been attractive, and so he had come. He had not expected to surprise any one. When during his conversation with the tall man in Dry Bottom he had discovered that the latter was the man for whom he was to work he had been surprised himself. But he had not revealed his surprise. Experience and association with men who kept their emotions pretty much to themselves had taught him the value of repression when in the presence of others.

But alone he allowed his emotions full play. There was no one to see, no one to hear, and the silence and the distances, and the great, swimming blue sky would not tell.

Stafford’s action in coming to Dry Bottom for a gunfighter had puzzled him not a little. Apparently the Two Diamond manager was intent upon the death of the rustler he had mentioned. He had been searching for a man who could “shoot,” he had said. Ferguson had interpreted this to mean that he desired to employ a gunfighter who would not scruple to kill any man he pointed out, whether innocent or guilty. He had had some experience with unscrupulous ranch managers, and he had admired them very little. Therefore, during the ride today, his lips had curled sarcastically many times.

Riding through a wide clearing in the cottonwood, he spoke a thought that had troubled him not a little since he had entered Stafford’s employ.

“Why,” he said, as he rode along, sitting carelessly in the saddle, “he’s wantin’ to make a gunfighter out of me. But I reckon I ain’t goin’ to shoot no man unless I’m pretty sure he’s gunnin’ for me.” His lips curled ironically. “I wonder what the boys of the Lazy J would think if they knowed that a guy was tryin’ to make a gunfighter out of their old straw boss. I reckon they’d think that guy was loco–or a heap mistaken in his man. But I’m seein’ this thing through. I ain’t ridin’ a hundred miles just to take a look at the man who’s hirin’ me. It’ll be a change. An’ when I go back to the Lazy J––”

It was not the pony’s fault. Neither was it Ferguson’s. The pony was experienced; behind his slant eyes was stored a world of horse-wisdom that had pulled him and his rider through many tight places. And Ferguson had ridden horses all his life; he would not have known what to do without one.

But the pony stumbled. The cause was a prairie-dog hole, concealed under a clump of matted mesquite. Ferguson lunged forward, caught at the saddle horn, missed it, and pitched head-foremost out of the saddle, turning completely over and alighting upon his feet. He stood erect for an instant, but the momentum had been too great. He went down, and when he tried to rise a twinge of pain in his right ankle brought a grimace to his face. He arose and hopped over to a flat rock, near where his pony now stood grazing as though nothing had happened.

Drawing off his boot, Ferguson made a rapid examination of the ankle. It was inflamed and painful, but not broken. He believed he could see it swelling. He rubbed it, hoping to assuage the pain. The woolen sock interfered with the rubbing, and he drew it off.

For a few minutes he worked with the ankle, but to little purpose. He finally became convinced that it was a bad sprain, and he looked up, scowling. The pony turned an inquiring eye upon him, and he grinned, suddenly smitten with the humor of the situation.