Novel 1955 - Heller With A Gun (v5.0) Read Free Page A

of the West had passed through.
    It was here that Calamity Jane was fired from her job as a government packer, for drunkenness. And here, at various times, had stopped such men as Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp, Sam Bass, Joel Collins, Scott Davis, Seth Bullock, Big-Nose George, and Lame Bradley.
    In short, the patrons of Hat Creek Station were men with the bark on.
    Swinging around the barn to the door, Mabry stepped from the saddle, pulled the pin from the latch, and, swinging wide the door, herded the two horses in ahead of him. Then he pulled the door shut and fastened it securely.
    Standing behind his horse, he remained there until his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness within the vast barn. When he could see again, he located an unoccupied stall and stripped the saddle and bridle from the black.
    Then he untied the wounded man from the saddle of the buckskin and helped him to the ground.
    The man wilted then, scarcely able to keep his legs under him.
    â€œCan you walk?”
    The man looked at him sullenly. “I can walk.”
    â€œThen you’re on your own. You cross my trail again and I’ll finish the job.”
    The man turned and staggered to the door, almost fell there, but caught at the door to hold his balance. Then he pushed it open and walked out into the snow.
    Mabry turned back to his horse and carefully rubbed him down, working over him patiently and with care.
    Somewhere a door closed and Mabry heard a man coming down the wide aisle between the two rows of stalls.
    The hostler was a tall man with an unusually small face, very round and clean shaved.
    He halted, staring into the darkness of the stall where Mabry worked.
    â€œCome far?”
    â€œNo.”
    The hostler puffed on his pipe. He had never seen this man before and it was indiscreet to ask questions, but the hostler was a curious man—and he knew that beat-up buckskin.
    He gestured. “Ain’t in good shape.”
    â€œBetter shape than the man who rode him.”
    Griffin, the hostler remembered, was considered a very salty customer in some circles. He must have cut himself into the wrong circle.
    â€œHe has friends.”
    â€œYou?”
    â€œShuckins, man. I’m just hostler here. Knowed Pete, like most folks.”
    Mabry had removed the scarf from around his hat and the sheepskin coat hung open. The hostler had seen the guns.
    â€œAdmire to know what happened.”
    Mabry picked up his rifle and saddlebags with his left hand. He did not exactly gesture, but the hostler decided not to leave any room for doubt. He preceded Mabry to the door.
    When they reached it, Mabry said, “He laid for me.”
    The hostler had suspected for a long time that Griffin was one of that crowd. Knew it, in fact, without having a particle of information. So he laid for the wrong man.
    Mabry stepped out into the cold. The thermometer beside the door read forty degrees below zero.
    â€œMan around called Benton. Him an’ Joe Noss. They’re partial to Pete Griffin.”
    â€œThanks.”
    Snow crunched under his boots as he crossed to the station and lifted the latch. He pushed open the door and stepped into the hot, smoke-filled air of the room.
    There was a smell of rank tobacco and drying wool, a shuffling of feet and a riffling of cards. The potbellied stove glowed with heat and five men sat around a table playing poker with several onlookers. All the seated men had removed their coats. They wore wool shirts and suspenders.
    From an adjoining room there was a rattle of dishes, and Mabry saw another door that led off to the left of the bar. He remained where he was, taking time to study the occupants of the room. His open coat revealed the guns, and he wore no glove on his right hand.
    Somebody coughed and somebody else said, “I’ll take three cards.” Chips clicked, feet shuffled.
    Alone at the bar was a man who wore a cloth coat, narrow at the waist with a wide fur collar. He had a round fur