Bullets for a Ranger: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ well lighted and boisterous. The bar was pretty well crowded, the orchestra already tuning up, the dance-floor girls gathered together, talking. Some of the gaming tables were occupied. A couple of roulette wheels were whirring, and the faro bank was going strong.

      “Sort of lively for so early in the evening,” Slade commented.

      “Payday for the spreads and for most of the other workers hereabouts,” Sheriff Ross explained. “They try to have ’em all hit together; good for business. Especially Doc’s.”

      “But not conducive to peace and quiet,” observed that worthy. “Well, here goes for that snort.”

      “And then something to eat,” Slade suggested.

      “I’m in favor of it,” said Doc. “I’m gaunt as a gutted sparrow. And Neale is always hungry—can’t get over his starvation days as a cowhand. Used to be so thin he couldn’t cast a shadow. Fat and sleek, now that he’s got his hand in the public till, but he still eats. Not that I’m complaining; I’m getting rich dosing him with stuff to take off some of the tallow. A pity he hasn’t got stronger arms.”

      “How’s that?” asked the sheriff, falling into the trap.

      “So you could push yourself away from the table before your belly shoves against it,” snorted Doc. “Fill ’em up, bartender.”

      The three repaired to a table, where they enjoyed a hearty meal. Afterwards they sat sipping coffee, and smoking and talking.

      Frog-lip Fogarty, the owner, came over from the end of the bar to join them. Ross performed the introductions, and Fogarty shook hands with a firm grip. An expression of perplexity crossed his good-natured, big-mouthed face as he regarded Slade.

      “Seems to me I ought to know you, cowboy,” he said. “I’ve either seen you before or heard of somebody who looks like you.”

      “Lots of folks look alike,” Slade replied noncommittally.

      Frog-lip did not appear impressed. “Anyhow, I’m sorry to see you in such bad company,” he sighed. “A sheriff and a doctor! All we need is an undertaker to make it perfect.”

      “And the chances are you’ll need all three in this rum-hole before the night is over,” the sheriff predicted. “I never knew it to fail.”

      “Could be,” admitted Frog-lip. “The boys are apt to get a mite rambunctious after a while, but I’ve a notion I can quiet them down if I have to. Well, enjoy yourself, gents, I’ll send over a drink.” He sauntered back to the bar, his step lithe and quick for so bulky a man.

      “Yes, he can usually quiet ’em down,” conceded the sheriff. “A nice jigger, but he can be plenty salty if necessary, and he’s got a couple of floor men of the same caliber.”

      The drinks were brought and placed beside the coffee cups. Doc and the sheriff downed theirs, the latter smacking his lips with appreciation. Slade left his untouched for the moment. His gaze was fixed on a rather striking appearing individual who had just entered.

      “That’s Eldon Parr I was telling you about,” said the sheriff.

      Eldon Parr was a big man with wide shoulders and abnormally long arms that hung loosely by his sides. He was good-looking in a rugged way, with craggy features, a thin-lipped but well-shaped mouth, and eyes of very light blue. His stride was assured, his bearing also assured, to the verge of arrogance. He wore clean overalls and a blue shirt open at the throat, but, unlike most of the gathering, no gun belt.

      As Parr neared the bar, a big cowhand, more than half drunk, detached himself from a group and accosted him. Slade could not hear what was said, but the effect on Parr was galvanic. His hand lashed out, and the flat of it took the cowboy across the mouth, sending him reeling back. He tripped over his own feet, slammed into a table and hit the floor amid a shower of bottles and glasses. Spitting blood and curses, he scrambled to his feet. His right hand flickered down and up; a black muzzle lined with Parr’s chest.

      The room echoed to the crash of a shot. The cowboy gave a howl of pain and doubled up, gripping his blood-streaming hand between his knees. His gun, one butt plate knocked off, lay half across the room.

      A long-barrelled Colt in each hand, one wisping smoke, Walt Slade swept the suddenly hushed crowd with his cold eyes. After one swift glance he holstered his guns with the same effortless ease with which he had drawn them, sat down and raised his brimming glass to his lips with a hand that did not spill a drop.

      Sheriff Ross let out a bellow of wrath. “Parr!” he thundered. “What the blankety-blank-blank do you mean by coming in here and slapping folks around! And as for you, Hodson, you came mighty, mighty close to having a cold-blooded killing to your credit. Parr isn’t even heeled. You’d better both be thanking Slade here for what he saved you from. And if I hear any more out of either of you, I’ll lock you up and throw the key away.”

      The words had a cooling effect on the antagonists. Sheriff Neale Ross was a cold proposition and known to be as good as his word.

      “Guess you’re right,” groaned the puncher, tenderly cherishing his throbbing hand. “That big feller with you, too. But if you’d had half your teeth knocked loose, you wouldn’t have felt so good, either.” He shot a venomous look at Parr.

      “I’m sorry, Hodson,” said the latter. “I shouldn’t have gone off half-cocked; but you shouldn’t have said to me what you did.”

      “Guess that’s right,” conceded Hodson. “I’m sorry, too. And if you don’t mind taking the left one—” He held it out, hesitantly. They shook hands.

      “That’s better,” said the sheriff.

      Doc Price lumbered across to the cowboy. “Let’s have a look at that lunch hook,” he said. “Nothing to it—just a hunk of meat knocked loose. Frog-lip, fetch the bandages and stuff you always keep handy.”

      A few minutes later the wound was dressed and bandaged. Somebody handed Hodson his fallen gun. He shook his head sadly over the smashed butt plate and holstered it.

      “Both of you have one on the house and forget all about it,” suggested Frog-lip, who was looking Slade up and down.

      He saw a tall man, taller even than Eldon Parr, with broad shoulders and a deep chest that slimmed down to a lean, sinewy waist, and a face that went well with the splendid form, a face dominated by long black-lashed eyes of very pale gray, cold but with little devils of laughter lurking in their clear depths. The rather wide mouth, grin-quirked at the corners, relieved somewhat the tinge of fierceness evinced by the prominent, high-bridged nose above and the lean and powerful jaw and chin beneath. The pushed-back “J.B.” revealed crisp, thick hair so black that a blue shadow seemed to lie upon it. An unusual and extremely handsome face, Frog-lip thought. The look of perplexity that he had worn was gone, replaced by one of understanding. He approached the table.

      “Feller,” he said in low tones, “betcha a hatful of pesos you ride a black horse.”

      “You’d win,” Slade smiled.

      “I knew it!” sighed Frog-lip. “I knew it! Didn’t I say all this table needed was an undertaker to make it perfect. I’ll send over another drink.”

      “Caught on quick, eh?” chuckled the sheriff as Frog-lip walked away. “Suppose СКАЧАТЬ