The Cowboy MEGAPACK ®. Owen Wister

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      Leaving the saloon, Houston looked up and down the street. Nobody was in sight. He went across to the trading post, to find Clara Brandell behind the counter.

      “I put a ladder at the corner of the buildin’, and we’ve got the paint and brush ready,” Brandell said. “But mebbe you’d better stop and think about it.”

      “I’ve already told some of the men in the saloon that I’ve bought an interest here. Now, I’ll do a little sign paintin’.”

      He went outside and put the ladder into place, then took brush and can of paint and went up the ladder. An expert sign painter would have sneered at the result, but anybody could read it. When the work was done, the sign read:

      Brandell & Houston

       Trading Post

      He replaced the ladder and took brush and can into the store.

      “Bein’ some tired, I’ll go to the stable and get me some sleep,” he said. “See you in the mornin’. G’night!”

      He left the trading post and strode up the street to the stable, to find Lew Dawes sitting in front of it, smoking a pipe. Dawes knocked the dottle out of his pipe as Houston appeared. “I fixed up that pile of hay outside the stall and tossed your blanket roll on it,” Dawes reported. “Reckon I’ll turn in myself. I sleep in the little room in the back.”

      Houston nodded and went in. Yawning, Dawes barred the door behind them and went back through the stable.

      Houston talked to his pony, then unrolled his blankets and made his bed. He got off his boots and half undressed, then rolled up in the blankets and fell asleep.…

      * * * *

      His pony’s, squeal awakened him. Houston was out of his blankets and on his feet with gun held ready almost as soon as he opened his eyes. But it was not a gun he needed with which to confront this peril.

      Dense smoke was swirling through the old stable. Tongues of flame licked through the smoke in three places.

      “Dawes!” he shouted. “Wake up!”

      He got his boots on and ran to the rear of the building to the little room. A flash of flame showed him Dawes stretched on the bunk. Houston shook him and got him awake. Dawes was half choking because of the smoke.

      “Stable’s afire!” Houston shouted at him. “Let’s get the horses out!”

      The smoke was so dense in the big long room that they scarcely could see. Dawes ran to the wide front door while Houston got his own pony out of the stall.

      “Houston!” Dawes’ shout reached him. “The door’s stuck! I can’t get it open!”

      Houston led his pony through the smoke to the door and tried to help.

      “Stuck, your eye!” Houston said. “It’s been fastened outside. We’re in a trap.”

      “The rear door—”

      They ran to that, stumbling through the smoke, gasping as it swirled around them. The rear door was fastened on the outside, too.

      Dawes shouted again, and came through the smoke with a crowbar. Houston tore it from him, ran to the wide front door again, and attacked the heavy planks with the crowbar. The flames were spreading now and shooting from two of the windows. Houston thought he could hear men shouting outside.

      He smashed one of the planks and began prying at the others with the crowbar. The men outside were calling to one another in alarm. Houston got off one of the planks and tore away at another. He howled at the men outside, and two came running from the blacksmith shop with tools.

      “Get your horses!” Houston shouted to Dawes.

      The door was smashed in. But had the building been frame instead of adobe, they never would have gotten out. Houston took his pony through the door and handed the halter to the nearest man, then plunged back inside to help Dawes, calling for the others to come and help. Dawes was down and unconscious because of the smoke.

      They got Dawes outside, and finally got the four horses outside which had been stabled. Black smoke was rolling through the windows and door. Hay and straw were burning. The rafters and window frames were afire. There was nothing to do except let the fire burn itself out.

      Houston examined his pony and found him unharmed. As the smoke thinned, he managed to get his bridle and saddle and some of Dawes’ stuff outside the barn, with the men helping.

      * * * *

      Dawn came to show a smoking, gutted stable. The rear door had not burned, and they found it had been barricaded as the front door had been.

      “Plain enough!” Houston said. “Somebody wanted us to be burned to death, or killed by smoke. Wanted it for me, I mean, and didn’t care if Dawes went along with me.”

      Dawes, still half sick and with his eyes flaming with rage, stood beside him.

      “This is enough!” the stableman howled. “I’m bucklin’ on a gun soon as I can find one! I ain’t had any hand in the ruckus around here, but now I’ve been dragged into it. When my stable is set afire and ruined, and me almost killed, it’s time for me to get in the fightin’! Time for men in Vista to run their own business and not be dictated to by anybody.”

      He mentioned no names. But everybody knew he meant Sid Jarles and the Three S bunch.

      * * * *

      Houston ate breakfast at the trading post and praised Clara Brandell’s cooking until the girl’s eyes glowed. Houston’s pony was tied to the hitch-rail out in front. He had his gun-belt and gun, but had lost his blankets, coat, and hat in the fire.

      Dawes had calmed down some after turning his rescued horses into the town’s makeshift corral. He and some of his friends were cleaning up the debris at the stable and burning it. The stable was nothing now but fire-scorched adobe walls.

      Men of the town were walking around and talking to one another in low tones. They glanced often at the mouth of the south trail, from which direction Sid Jarles and his men would come if they rode into town.

      “Somebody sure tried to burn me to death,” Houston told Brandell and Clara. “I like to do my fightin’ out in the open.”

      “There’ll be trouble when Sid Jarles comes to town—and he’ll come,” Clara said.

      “I’m hopin’ so,” Houston declared. “I want to see that hombre.”

      “He’ll probably have his killer, Jake Walters, with him,” Brandell warned. “Some more of his men, too. Ned, this is—well, I’m a little afraid for you.”

      “Shucks!” Houston scoffed. “You just ’tend to the tradin’ post. And you, Clara, keep out of dangerous places. My name’s on the sign now, and I’ve got a right to defend my property and business. I’m mad, too, which helps a lot. Bein’ shot at from the dark, and then somebody tryin’ to burn me to death—that’s enough to make any man mad.”

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