Maverick Marshall Read Free

spurs through the dust. Without sighting his quarry he pushed through the batwings into Gruden’s Opal Bar, braced against the racket that rolled against him like a wave.
    All the games were in full swing. Men stood bellying the bar six deep. There were a lot of strange faces but not the one he was hunting. A couple of men suddenly flanked him, grinning. One of these was Kelly, a man Frank had used to punch cows with — narrow-chested, fiddle footed, always looking for something he didn’t have, but a fair enough hand in a pinch or a bender.
    “Man,” Kelly said, “you’re sure stickin’ your neck out!”
    Frank passed it off and shot a glance at the other one. This was Gurden’s chief bouncer, a fellow called “Mousetrap” who would tip the scales at about 280 and fancied himself pretty slick with a gun. He was new around here, a recent investment on the part of Chip Gurden.
    “Better sign me up, Frank,” Kelly said, “while you’re able.”
    Frank grinned and, using his elbows, moved up to the bar.
    Scowls twisted faces colored by resentment. Frank picked up a bottle and thumped the bar top for attention. Turning his back against the wood he faced the packed room and called out, “As of twelve noon tomorrow there will be no pistols carried where whisky is served. All guns will be left with the barkeep. That’s a new town ordinance and it’s going to be enforced.”
    He went out through an ominous silence.
    The night felt cold against his face. He felt a chill digging into the small of his back.
    Bill Grace, Kimberland’s range boss, came along with a couple of punchers, showing no surprise at the sight of Frank’s star. He stared up at Frank’s face with the briefest of glances, jerked a nod and went on. The punchers looked back. Frank saw one of them grinning.
    Cutting around the Blue Flat he stepped in through the rear, still without catching sight of Tularosa. He stood a bit, thinking. The fellow might be over at Minnie’s or following his bent in the dark of some alley. He might be at the blacksmith’s or feeding his face in the New York Cafe, though this last was out of bounds. Frank found himself listening for gunshots.
    The Flag didn’t have as much flash as Gurden’s which flaunted framed women without clothes above its bar and a bevy of live ones not clad a heap warmer. This place wasn’t as noisy though money was changing hands pretty regular. Young Church, old Sam’s son, was at the bar getting rapidly plastered. Arrogance lay in the flash of his stare and when he saw Frank a surge of roan color rushed into his cheeks. He pushed away from the bar, still carrying his bottle, and reeled toward Frank.
    Frank said, “Hello, Will.”
    Eyes ugly, Will Church floundered to a stop three feet away and glared belligerently. He indulged the manners of a drunken hidalgo surveying a truant peon. “You were told to stay out there at Bospero Flats.”
    “That’s right,” Frank said.
    “Then why ain’t you out there? You think those cows’ll stay hitched without watching’?”
    Some of the nearer noise began to dim away as men twisted around or looked up from their cards. Frank’s eyes flattened a little. “If they’re worryin’ you, Will, perhaps you’d better go see to them.” Frank’s hand brushed the star that was pinned to his shirtfront.
    The wink of the metal suddenly caught Church’s attention. He showed a sultry surprise. His mouth twisted with fury as men back of him shifted, the sound of this seeming as a goad to his temper. As heir apparent to the second largest spread in the country young Church wasn’t accustomed to being talked back at. His cheeks began to burn. He had never liked Frank anyway.
    Frank, smiling meagerly, was turning away when Church lunged for him, lifting the bottle. Frank’s head whipped around. Ducking under the bottle he came up, tight with outrage, hammering four knuckles to the point of Church’s chin. It sounded like a bat knocking a ball over