The Cowboy MEGAPACK ®. Owen Wister

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СКАЧАТЬ Pete Malone grinned across their breakfasts at Wiggin, a couple of days later.

      “Tomorry night?”

      “Yep,” Pete answered. “That’s the Saturday night I’m talking about.”

      “Yo’ dangbusted young idjit,” Bill Tope snapped and began to argue.

      Arguing didn’t do any good. Bill Tope could fire him, if he wanted to; he was the foreman. But Pete Malone was going into town the next evening.

      Secretly, old Bill Tope looked at the slender youngster and began making plans. That Petey boy had guts. He had liked young Petey Malone, ever since the boss had sent him down here.

      It was Tope, who grew restless as Saturday evening arrived. A Mexican vaquero had been hired to night-ride the herd, and Sime was sent into town an hour in advance.

      Sime was waiting at the hitching-rail, on the near side of the first store building, when old Bill Tope, Pete Malone and Wiggin rode in, shortly after dark.

      Sime had been nosing around. Snake Furgeson was in town. And he had a couple of his buddies trailing along with him, close up. But Snake wasn’t in the Silver Spur; he was over at Botler’s corral, dealing for some horses.

      “But he’ll be over to th’ Silver Spur, right soon, ’cause he give me an invite to sit in a poker game. Asked me if I was by my lonesome. Course I was—right then.” Sime chuckled as he finished.

      “Eh-heh. Kinda s’picious, wasn’t he?” Tope scratched his stubbly chin and gave some orders.

      Wiggin was to loaf outside the front door of the Silver Spur; Sime by the side door, through which Snake would probably enter, coming from Botler’s corral. If either saw Snake approaching, he was to step inside quickly. That would give Pete warning.

      Tope, himself, was sticking with Pete. They went right to the Silver Spur and entered. Tope passed a few “howdys” around and slumped into his favorite chair against a post. Pete stood leaning back against the bar, rolling a cigaret. He kept sharp lookout on the doors.

      Pete snapped a match, lit his freshly rolled cigaret and puffed out a cloud of smoke. Over the heads of the crowd, he saw Sime’s big gray hat. Snake Furgeson was coming.

      Pete’s nerves began to tingle, his jaw muscles hardened. He saw Snake moving toward him. The crowd opened up a path and then made for the doors. The bartender disappeared behind his mahogany fortification.

      “Howdy, Snake Furgeson,” Pete made a futile attempt at one of his friendly grins.

      Old Bill Tope, over against his post, groaned aloud. Petey Malone had sure put the showdown up to Snake. But he was standing there with his right fist shoved down into his pants pocket, when it should have been fumbling at his left vest pocket right above his gun.

      “I told you that—”

      “That you were coming at me smoking, on sight. Well—start smoking!” Pete leaned forward, tense, and Snake went for his gun.

      Crack! Petey Malone had jerked his right hand from his pants pocket. His little automatic had spit a bullet through Snake Furgeson’s right forearm as he made his cross draw.

      Snake’s heavy gun roared harmlessly, jetting its slug through the floor. Another sharp crack, as Pete drilled Snake high up on the right shoulder. Then came a second roaring of a heavy gun.

      Old Bill Tope scrambled to his feet. His chair had been kicked from under him. Close beside Tope, one of Snake Furgeson’s followers was twisting and crumpling to the floor, a heavy bullet through his thigh. Tope booted a drawn gun from the falling man’s hand, and wheeled with his own gun ready. Then he stopped, staring, his mouth agape.

      Petey Malone was leaning lazily against the bar once more. His right hand had slipped back into his pants pocket; while in his left was his new six-gun, swinging back and forth, threatening the scanty remains of the crowd.

      That last roar had come from Pete Malone’s big gun. He had gone for it backhanded, with his left, and dropped the man who was planning to put Tope out of business.

      Snake, himself, was still on his feet. A thirty-two bullet won’t floor a big husky man. His right arm hung useless at his side; his gun was on the floor. His left hand was clapped over the little hole high up in his right shoulder.

      Old Bill Tope hitched his belt a bit higher. He high-stepped toward Snake, like a banty rooster.

      “Well, Snake, looks as how yo’ started smokin’

      once too offen. An’ no more pottin’ at us from th’ brush. Savvy? ’Cause we got up-to-date artillery, what shoots right or left, back’ards or for’ards.”

      Snake began backing toward the side door. Tope, now satisfied that Snake’s nerve was gone, let out a yell, slipped his gun and fired through the floor. Snake dove out the door.

      “Come on, Bill. Snake ain’t got no fangs no more. Petey’s done busted ’em off right down to th’ roots.”

      “Eh-heh, Sime. Just a minute. I want Petey to write a letter for me an’ order me one of them there pocket pistols like his’n. Danged thing might come handy some time. ’Cause I’m gettin’ ’long in years, gettin’ kinda slow on th’ draw.”

      EASY MONEY, by Ben Frank

      Money being something we can always use here on the WL range, it is my old saddle-mate and partner, Wintergreen Wilson, who thinks up the idea of us learning dudes to be cowboys by a correspondence course. So we raise all the cash we can and advertise in the big city Sunday papers. HOW TO BE A COWBOY IN TEN EASY LESSONS BY MAIL, the ads say. SEND TEN DOLLARS CASH PRONTO!

      Wednesday morning at the breakfast table, Wintergreen sops up the last of his molasses with a biscuit and says, “Lywell, leave us up and be going to pick up the answers to our ads.”

      Looking, as usual, like he is about to fall apart, he ambles from our ranch house, which also looks like it will fall apart, and I follow. We rope our broncs and begin to saddle. “Lywell,” he says, “when you stop to think how many dudes there is who wish to become cowboys at ten smackers a head—”

      “Easy money,” I say, climbing aboard my cayuse.

      “Wait,” he says. “I forgot somethin’ to get our mail in.”

      He bow-legs it into the house and returns with an empty flour sack. “This oughta hold most of it,” he says. He swings into the saddle, and we head along the trail for Putantake at a easy lope. “Lywell,” he says, smiling happy, “only a man with brains would have thunk up this easy way to get rich an’—uh-oh, ain’t that Orv an’ Neff Paschal cuttin’ our trail?”

      “Yes,” I say, uneasy, for the Paschal brothers are two gents who own the Double-X and go around well-armed and with chips on their shoulders. “But who is the third gent?”

      Puzzled, Wintergreen shakes his head, almost losing his hat, which is so big it would fall down over his face if his ears did not stick out like handles on a beer mug.

      Presently the Double-X outfit angles up to us.

      “Hello, boys,” Orv says, СКАЧАТЬ