The Cowboy MEGAPACK ®. Owen Wister

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      Dangerous Partnership

      A man and the girl who had been at the door stood behind the counter. Tom Brandell, the owner of the trading post, was emaciated, grayish-looking, weakened from a long illness. Clara, his daughter, was tall and slender and rather good-looking. What Houston liked about her immediately was her air of defiance.

      “You’re a stranger,” she said. “We saw that little fuss at the door. If it was a Sid Jarles trick to get a man in here and—”

      “Whoa, and back up!” Houston interrupted.

      “Who are you to tell me to whoa and back up?” she demanded.

      Houston grinned at her. “First off, I’m an hombre who wants a sack of tobacco, so I can make myself a cigarette.” He tossed a coin on the counter.

      The girl turned to a shelf, got the tobacco, and put the coin into the till. But her face was as severe as she could make it, and she watched him closely.

      “Never saw a person as suspicious as you seem to be,” Houston told her. “Can’t blame you, though, the way I understand things are.” He faced the man. “Are you Tom Brandell?”

      “I am.”

      “Got a letter for you, then.”

      Houston took a letter from his shirt pocket and slipped it across the counter, then calmly began making a cigarette.

      Brandell ripped the letter open and read it. “Why, this is from my old friend, Jim Penroy!” he said.

      “Yeah,” Houston agreed. “Mr. Penroy raised me from a pup, and I’d die for him, if that means anything to you. He got your letter tellin’ about the trouble here, and about you not bein’ well enough to put up a fight. He couldn’t come hisself, him recoverin’ from a broken leg. Anyhow, he ain’t tough enough in a ruckus—too tender-hearted. I’m tough. So he sent me to do the fightin’.”

      “So he says in the letter. You’re Ned Houston?”

      “Yeah. Got in a short time ago and stabled my pony. Somebody took a shot at me as I was comin’ along the street. I can’t make that out. Nobody here knows me, or why I came.”

      “I’ll explain the situation,” Brandell said.

      “Waste of time,” Houston said. “I know the gist of it, and that’s enough.”

      “The man you handled outside is a Three S man, named Ed Foster,” Clara Brandell put in. “Two more are across the street. Some of them watch the post all the time. This trouble—it’s serious. If you try to help us, you’ll be in danger.”

      “Fine!” Houston said. He fumbled beneath his shirt, opened a money-belt, and from it took a document and a bank draft. “Jim Penroy figgered everything out, Mr. Brandell. Here’s a partnership paper you can finish fillin’ out and sign, and here’s a draft for two thousand dollars. The idea is that I buy a share in this tradin’ post, under my own name and usin’ Jim Penroy’s money.”

      “Why should Dad sell you a share?” Clara asked.

      “It’s simple, when you think it out,” Houston told her. “A man has a right to protect his own property.”

      Brandell’s eyes glowed. “That’s it!” he said. “It would make everything legal. I’ll fill in this agreement right away, Mr. Houston.”

      “The name’s Ned—to both of you. Open a small can of paint and get me a brush. I’ll change the sign to read “Brandell and Houston” soon as I get around to it. And over in the saloon, I’ll announce that I’ve bought in as your pardner. Then there can’t be any mistake.”

      “You’ll walk into danger if you go to the saloon,” Clara said. “When Jarles learns you’re a partner here—”

      “I reckon you don’t read much, Houston broke in. “You don’t seem to know any word except ‘danger’.”

      “Is that so!” she flared. “Let me tell you—”

      “Spunky, huh?” Houston said. “That’s fine. Clara, we’re goin’ to get along. Of course, Mr. Brandell, you understand you can call the pardnership off if you want as soon as this trouble is over—simply hand back the draft and tear up the agreement.”

      Houston turned toward the door.

      “Where are you going now?” Clara asked.

      “To the saloon. The stableman said I could get a meal there.”

      “Clara will cook you somethin’,” Brandell said.

      “But I want to go to the saloon. I aim to learn who shot at me, and why, and get acquainted with my enemies. I’ll sleep in the stable tonight, and be here bright and early in the mornin’, Early, anyhow. Then we can make plans. Oh, yeah! I’ll be back later to paint that sign. You have the paint and brush ready, and a ladder.”

      * * * *

      As Houston strode across the street, two men who had been standing in front of the saloon dodged into it. One was Ed Foster, the man Houston had handled at the store door.

      Puffing on the cigarette he had made, Houston entered the saloon and stopped at the head of the bar. A man was behind the bar, Ed Foster was with a couple of others in the rear, a gambler played with a deck of cards at one table in a corner, and three men of the town were sitting at another table with drinks in front of them.

      The man behind the bar looked at Houston questioningly.

      “Mr. Dawes, at the stable, said I might get a good meal here,” the Texan said. “I’m hungry enough to tackle one.”

      “I’ll have the women get you somethin’,” the man behind the bar said. “Want some red-eye?”

      “Not now, thanks,” Houston told him. “I’ll wait for the grub.”

      He strolled the length of the room. Ed Foster and the two other Three S men eyed him venomously. The townsmen glanced at him once, then continued their conversation. The professional gambler had an expression of hope in his face.

      “You don’t seem to be busy,” Houston said.

      “Not so busy,” the gambler replied. “Have a chair and try your luck. My name’s Gadley, commonly known as ‘Silky’ because once I owned a silk shirt. That wasn’t in Vista. That was in a town where men risked a dollar now and then.”

      “Deal a little two-handed stud,” Houston said, bringing forth some money. “My name’s Houston. just got in from Texas. Got a little business to ’tend to here.”

      They began playing stud in a listless manner. Houston glanced at the Three S men frequently as they stood at the bar in whispered conversation, and Silky Gadley watched Houston. The gambler was a tall, thin, middle-aged man fastidiously dressed, and had the icy manner peculiar to his kind.

      Somebody shot at me before I’d been in town fifteen minutes,” Houston said, so the СКАЧАТЬ