"This ain't no way to treat a visitor. Did you hear what that soak called me?"
"Shore, an' he got yu right," the marshal replied.
"If I had my gun ..."
"Here she is--I don't want her--got two better ones." The fellow snatched the weapon eagerly, hesitated a bare second, and then--as he discovered it had been unloaded--thrust it into his belt with a curse.
The marshal laughed.
"I'm growed up," he said. "Get agoin' an' keep agoin'our graveyard is middlin' full." The cold, ironic tone carried conviction. The speaker waited while the fellow found his pony, mounted, and was gathered up by the gloom. Returning to the saloon, he found Sloppy sprawled across the table in a half-stupor. Hoisting him to his feet, he piloted the drunkard out and down the street to a stout log shack standing next to the marshal's quarters, pushed him in and turned the key of the big padlock. When he entered the Red Light again, the proprietor met him with an approving smile.
t'Slick work, marshal. What you done with the pilgrim?"
"Sent him on his way, not exactly rejoicin'. A cheap tinhorn, lets the other fella win till he's too pie-eyed to notice crooked play. We can do without his kind."
"We can that. Where's Sloppy?"
"Sleepin' it off in the calaboose. I'll deal with him in the mornin'."
Chapter II
UNEVENTFUL days slid by, and the marshal's reputation grew. His calm demeanour, ready smile, and brevity of speech afforded a striking contrast to the bullying, loud-voiced, intemperate peace-officers so frequently found in frontier settlements. Sloppy became his slave and, to the amazement of all, a sober man. He had appointed himself general factotum to his preserver, doing all the domestic duties at the quarters which Welcome provided for its representative of the law.
But the popularity of the new officer was by no means universal; Jake had his following, and though he made no open move, he was not idle. Nippert had news of this when, about a week after the appointment, a visitor strode into the Red Light and greeted him gruffly. Tall, heavily-built, little more than thirty, he had a puffy, clean-shaven face, small bloodshot eyes, and a weak sensuous mouth, the downward droop of which gave him a petulant expression.
"'Lo, Sark, anythin' troublin' you?" the saloon-keeper asked.
"I hear you've given the post o' marshal to a stranger."
"You heard correct."
"Then you gotta make another change."
"When did you buy it?" Nippert asked ironically. "Buy what?" Sark snapped.
"This town." The rancher glared. "Jake had the job comin' to him."
"Jake has a lot comin' to him," was the retort. "He'll be lucky if he ain't here when it arrives."
"Quit foolin'," Sark said angrily. "What d'you know about this outsider?"
"Mighty little, but we knowed a deal about Jake, an' there you have it." Nippert grinned as the door was darkened. "'Lo, marshal, meet Mister Sark, o' the Dumb-bell ranch." The cattleman spun round and stared at the new arrival, his beady eyes clearly conveying hostility, but they soon fell before the steady gaze which met them. Neither man put out a hand.
"Mister Sark was sayin' I oughta bounce you an' give the job to Jake," the saloon-keeper went on.
"I said you had acted unwisely, an' unfairly to Mullins," Sark corrected. "He's the better man."
"An' me a stranger to yu," Sudden said softly.
"He can shoot quicker an' straighter than anyone in these parts," the rancher asserted meaningly.
"Well, that makes it easy for him--mebbe," the marshal retorted. "All he has to do is--prove it."
"He'll do that, give him the chance," Sark promised, and with an ugly scowl, slouched out.
Nippert looked a little apprehensive. "Jake's mighty good on the draw," he offered.
Sudden's smile was enigmatic. "He shall have his chance, but not in the way that fella thinks. I reckon there's others around here who fancy their shootin' some?"
"Shore is."
"Good, we'll stage a li'l contest." He went on to explain his proposal, and as he listened the saloon-keeper's face expanded in a broad grin.
So, in the Red Light that evening, the saloon-keeper contrived to start an argument on marksmanship, always a fruitful topic of interest among Westerners.
"I reckon shootin' ain't what it used to be," he opined. "Where are you goin' to find fellas like Bill Hickok, Doc Holliday, an' the Earps, to name on'y a few?"
"Right here in thisyer town--mebbe," Jake retorted. "I'm holdin' that the doin's o' the ol'-timers ain't lost nothin' in the tellin'--tales don't as a rule." Nippert, who had been angling for this, smiled genially. "Boys, we'll try it out," he said. "Welcome ain't had much excitement recent an' a gun-slingin' match, free to all comers, oughta be interestin'. I'll put up fifty dollars as a prize. It'll take place the third day from now; I guess some o' the Bar O an' Dumb-bell outfits'll want to take a hand." The proposal was received with acclamation and wagering on the result began immediately, Mullins being easily the most fancied competitor. This swift popularity was fully in accordance with his own views.
The news of the contest spread rapidly, and despite the fact that the result was regarded as foregone, there was a goodly gathering to look on or take part. John Owen, of the Bar O, with Reddy, his foreman, and some of the punchers had ridden in. Sark brought a half-dozen of his riders, craggy-featured, rough-looking, and rather older than those from the other ranch. The two groups kept apart, for there was no friendship between owners or outfits.
The crowd was congregated in front of the calaboose, on one of the stout timbers of which a card--the five of diamonds--had been nailed breast-high. From this, Nippert stepped twelve paces and laid down a short board.
"Reckon that's about right," he said. "What d'you say, John?"
"Seems fair to me." The owner of the Bar O was a tall, thin man in the middle fifties, with a long face on which a smile was seldom seen. His black coat, dark trousers thrust into the tops of his spurred boots, and soft felt hat added to the gravity of his appearance.
"Who are you aimin' to gamble on, Red?" Owen asked.
"Well, they all 'pear to think there's on'y one man in it, but I got my own notions," the young man replied. "Hey, Jake, what odds yu offerin' on yoreself?"
"I ain't heard the conditions yet." At that moment Nippert held up a hand for silence. "Entrants will stand on the board, draw an' fire on the word from me. One shot only, an' any hesitation will disqualify," he announced.
Mullins laughed. "Snap-shootin'--that suits me fine. You can have four to one, cowboy."
"Take yu to five dollars."
"Chicken-feed, but every little helps," Jake said insolently. "Any more donations?"
"I'll take the same bet--twice," Owen said quietly. "An' I'll go you--once." The layer of odds spun round and saw that the last speaker was Sloppy. "You?" he jeered. "I don't trust wasters." Sloppy searched his clothing, produced a crumpled bill, and gave it to Owen. "Now you cover that," he challenged. "Me, I don't trust--anybody." Jake's face was furious. "Why, you drunken little rat " he began, but the rancher intervened.
"He's put up his stake, an' it's on'y fair for you to do the same," he pointed out.
Having no wish to quarrel with the Bar O man, the bully handed over the twenty. "You won't have it long," he boasted, and turned to his latest client. "As for you, next time yo're starvin' don't come to my place beggin' for a square meal."
"Nobody never does git a square meal there, even if they pay for one," Sloppy retorted, with unusual hardihood.
The bystanders sniggered, for Jake's "place" was the local eating-house, grandiloquently styled "The Welcome Restaurant," and famous for neither quality nor quantity. Jake opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again as the marshal came up to greet Reddy and be presented to his employer. They shook, and the rancher's eyes travelled from the lean face to the worn butts of the guns in his belt.