Rufe, studying the saloon in the midday sun, was not aware of the heavens at all. Neither was Jud, who had a hunch about those two men who had accompanied Chase and Harris to the saloon from the abstract office.
“Land peddlers, or maybe they got a ranch they’re trying to work off on him.”
The purpose of those men did not interest Rufe. His concern had to do with how much longer they would be at the bar with Arlen Chase. He said—“Hell.”—in deep disgust, and straightened up. “Let’s go get a beer.”
They went up to the saloon, entered, found about a dozen or fifteen other men already lined up for a noonday drink or two, and took a position at the lower end of the bar, watching the men at the upper end, which included Chase and Bull Harris.
The gunfighter acted bored. He had a thick sandwich in one hand and a tall, sticky glass of amber beer in front of him atop the bar. He was looking out over the room. His piercing, sweeping glance reached down as far as the lowest end of the bar, paused only momentarily upon a pair of faded cow-boys down there, who looked as run-of-the-mill as it was possible for range riders to look, and swept elsewhere.
Eventually Chase turned upon the pair of fast-talking men and spoke tersely. Afterward, the two strangers pulled away from the bar, exchanged a few more words with Chase, then departed.
Rufe sighed and nudged his partner. Jud let the strangers get completely out of the saloon before he stepped back and started up the room.
Rufe made some hard calculations. Jud would have to get Chase outside, out into the roadway, without Harris trailing along, before anything could be accomplished.
But Rufe decided Harris would probably drift right along with them, and with a firm conviction that he was not going to allow this to happen, if he could possibly prevent it, he picked up his beer glass and also shuffled up in the direction of the upper end of the bar, except that he turned in midway, just below the food dishes, and leaned there.
Jud made his approach casually. Rufe saw Chase look around as Jud addressed him. Harris, too, looked around, but Harris had already made his assessment of Jud, the worn-looking, down-and-out range rider, and Harris turned back to the bar to hoist his beer glass and drink.
Chase listened to Jud. Rufe saw the cowman’s harsh brutish profile relax as he listened, the heavy mouth begin to tilt slightly with condescension, with scorn, and finally Chase gave a short answer to Jud, and Rufe’s partner smiled. Evidently the cow-man had either agreed to hire Jud, or offered that kind of encouragement. Jud then spoke again, and this time Chase finished his drink, and turned away from the bar—and Rufe held his breath.
Chase was going to walk out of the saloon with Jud. Harris looked around, eyed the pair of men a moment, then turned back to finish his beer. Rufe’s right hand sank gently down to his hip holster. He braced himself to keep Harris inside—then the gun-fighter casually reached for another pair of bread slices and went to work making another sandwich, while Chase and Jud crossed the room.
It was going to work!
Rufe forced himself to turn very gradually, very indifferently, to watch the pair of men heading for the door.
Outside, someone let off a high yelp. Several other loud voices suddenly erupted too. Rufe could feel perspiration popping out beneath his shirt. Bull Harris, half-made sandwich in one hand, twisted to look toward the door. So did just about everyone else inside the saloon.
Arlen Chase took two swift strides, grabbed the doors, and shoved through, then stopped dead in his tracks. Rufe could not see much past the cowman’s frame, but he saw enough. Several excited men were leading a pair of filthy, limping, utterly bedraggled men down the center of the roadway. Rufe recognized them both. Ruff and Abe Smith!
Rufe felt like swearing. Evidently Jud had recognized the rescued prisoners from the bootleg hole, too, because, without warning, he suddenly reached and gave Arlen Chase a violent punch, knocking him out through the doors and into the roadway.
Rufe was turning when he saw Bull Harris drop his sandwich and suddenly whip around to lunge clear of the bar to face Jud. Rufe stepped away and called.
“Harris!”
The gunfighter whirled, struck instantly by the menace in that shout. Somewhat southward, behind Rufe, two quick-thinking men, lunging frantically to be out of the line of Harris’s fire, knocked over two chairs and a table.
Harris was reaching for his gun as he whirled on Rufe. No one could fault Bull Harris’s draw. Rufe was already drawing when he shouted, and, although his Colt was clear of leather and tilting into position, the gunfighter’s weapon was coming around to bear even faster—then Harris’s Colt with its shiny ivory handle slipped in his palm, just as Rufe fired.
Bull Harris was knocked half around by solid impact. He fell against an iron stove, knocking it away from the stovepipe. Soot billowed around as the gun-fighter went down and rolled half under a card table.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Throughout the barroom men were frozen in position, staring, most of them with no inkling any-thing at all was wrong until Rufe’s gun went off. Even the barman, who had been alerted by Rufe’s shout, hadn’t had time to reach for the scatter-gun beneath his countertop, and now it was too late.
Rufe stepped sideways to be well clear of the bar, and faced half around so he could keep most of the patrons, and the bartender, in sight. Not one of them moved a hand, least of all the barman.
An old man, wearing a long coat despite the rising summer heat, shuffled ahead from shadows along the back wall, and leaned down, staring at Bull Harris. He looked like the Grim Reaper himself, until he put down a hand to touch the ivory-stocked Colt of the dead gunfighter, then he raised up, rubbing his fingers together and said: “Butter. By God he had butter on his fingers. It’s all over the handle of his gun.”
That, then, accounted for Harris’s fatal slip when he was swinging his weapon to bear on Rufe.
No one said a word, but they all watched the old man pick up Harris’s six-gun by the barrel, amble to the bar, and drop it there “Look for yourselves,” he cackled. “Butter, by God!”
From the roadway men were shouting, and Rufe used the small distraction along the bar to hurry outside. There was no sign of either Arlen Chase or Jud, but a lot of men were heading for the saloon to see what that gunshot had been about. Even the men who had found Pete Ruff and Abe Smith in the old shed were deserting their rescued men to hasten forward.
Rufe headed out through the throng, grabbed Ruff’s arm, swore at old Smith, and aimed them in the direction of the jailhouse at a gun-prodded run, expecting any minute for someone to bounce forth from the saloon, yelling for townsmen to stop that man with the gun in his hand.
It did not happen, but, when Rufe was unlocking the jailhouse, a lanky range rider walked out of the saloon and stood there, looking left and right, until he saw Rufe shove the two men into the jailhouse, then the cowboy watched, still without opening his mouth, until Rufe also went inside, then the range man turned back into the saloon to carry the news that they wouldn’t have to go on a manhunt, at least, because that feller who killed Bull Harris just entered the jailhouse with a couple of other fellows.
Rufe was wringing wet, but calm. He barred the door from inside, snarled for Ruff and Smith to back away, then got the cell-room keys and took his latest prisoners down to lock them into cells, also. Neither man offered so much as a single word of protest. Both of them knew a man primed to kill when they saw one.