Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) Read Free

under false colours, but that was too common in the
West to have much significance, and he liked the man. Moreover, he was grateful
for the opportunity to turn down Mullins, whom he regarded as something lower
in the scale of Nature than the Gila monster. So, when the Bar O riders
arrived, he duly presented the new officer under the name given. Reddy’s eyes
twinkled.
                 “We’ve
met,” he said, and then, “Jake looks like someone had trod on his tail.” They
all laughed and, at Nippert’s invitation, lined up at the bar and drank with
the man who had been put in power —as they well knew—partly on their account.
When Gowdy had departed to placate his daughter, Rapper drew the saloon-keeper
aside.
                 “Good
work, Ned,” he complimented. “We won’t have no trouhle
with the Bar O from now on; Jim has made a hit with them.”
                 “Quick
thinkin’ will beat quick shootin’ off’n as not, an’ the two of ‘em is a
combination hard to win against,” Nippert replied. “ Them guns he’s totin’ don’t look exactly new. Jake will be difficult, but I figure
this fella can take care of hisself.” The evening passed off quietly enough.
                 In
the course of it, the newcomer met most of the townsmen, and, save for the
rougher faction which disapproved of restraint as a matter of course, created a
favourable impression. He spoke and drank sparingly.
                 One
incident alone called for the exercise of authority, and it occurred in the Red
Light.
                 Two
men were playing cards, a doubtful-looking stranger who had ridden in late and
a citizen known as “Sloppy,” reputed to be rarely sober.
                 The
marshal strolled over and stood watching the pair. Presently what he had
anticipated happened: the Welcome player had won at first, but now he began to
lose, and as the pile in front of him diminished, his caution and temper
followed his cash. A further reverse which would have nearly wiped out his
winnings proved the last straw and in a drunken fury he hurled an accusation
calling for only one reply. Rasping an oath, the other man rose and reached for
his gun, only to find an empty holster. A calm voice said.
                 “I’ve
got yore shootin’ iron, hombre. The door is straight ahead.” Out of the corner
of one eye the trouble-maker saw the marshal just behind him. A gentle jab in
the short ribs from the muzzle of his own weapon apprised him that he was
helpless, and with a lurid epithet he moved forward. Outside the saloon he
ventured a protest:
                 “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.
                 “Slick work, marshal. What you done with the pilgrim?”
                 “Sent him on his way, not exactly rejoicin’. A cheap tinhorn,