Shoot Him On Sight

I'd been watching Senator Whitlock, admiring the way he mixed easily with the others, as he stood, back to bar, idly surveying the room and drawing on his cigar, but when I caught sight of Webb Jordan I wanted to slide suddenly under the table at which Cal and I were sitting.

Cal said, 'Huh—a lawman. Wonder what brings him here?'

I scarcely heard him. I slid down in my seat and, without thinking, my hand went fast to my Colt butt.

Cal didn't miss the movement. He said sharply, suspiciously, 'What's up? You mixed in some trouble with the law?' He started to rise from the table, as though not wanting any part of me. My hand was still on my gun-butt, and I was shaking all over.

Jordan paused just within the swinging doors, steely glance sweeping around the room. I'd pulled my hat low on my forehead. Had Jordan spotted me, recognized me?

Then his gaze swept on past, and for the moment I breathed easier. His head came back to the center of the room, eyes now on the Senator as he advanced, manner easy and confident. Well, maybe there'd be no trouble. Cautiously, Cal had resumed his seat at my side. 'You looked damn' queer for a minute there—' he started.

His words scarcely registered. I was still eying Webb Jordan, wondering how I could get out of the saloon without being noticed.

'Senator Cyrus Whitlock, I believe,' Jordan was saying.

And that was as far as he got.

There came the sudden explosive roar of a six-shooter, a sound I couldn't quite place for a moment. The dawning smile on the Senator's face vanished and was replaced by a look of alarm as he took one step forward. Jordan swerved violently to one side, then crashed to the floor and lay without movement. Black powdersmoke swirled through the room. There was just an instant's silence, then voices broke loose, excitedly asking who'd done the shooting. Everyone was talking at once. Sudden yells sounded outside, along the street.

Without thinking, I had leaped from my chair and knelt at Webb Jordan's side. He was sprawled partly on his side and I could see the dark spreading stain between his shoulder-blades. His eyes were closed.

I yelled to somebody to get water, whisky. A glass was thrust into my hand. I held Jordan's head on my lap trying to get a few drops between his lips. Momentarily, his eyes fluttered open, and he recognized me. 'So I do— get to thank —you—' he began, then became unconscious.

I glanced up. Heads were crowded all around above me. Somebody said excitedly, 'What did he say—?'

I ignored that and snapped the usual plea to get back and give the man air. 'And for God's sake, send for a doctor—fast!'

'I already sent a man for Doc.' It was Hub, the fat bartender speaking.

'What in hell's going on here?' a new voice cut in.

I glanced up. A tall, bearded, deputy-sheriff pushed in when the crowd moved back. Someone brought a folded blanket to place beneath Jordan's head. I didn't like Jordan's looks. All the color was drained from his face and his breath was coming with difficulty. I got slowly to my feet and faced the deputy.

'Some—somebody shot Webb Jordan,' I stammered.

'Friend of yours,' the deputy snapped.

'Sort of—I just met him once before, sometime back, and—'

'But who did it?' the deputy demanded impatiently.

A dozen voices tried to reply at once, but no one seemed to know. The deputy frowned with exasperation. I said, 'Sounded to me like the shot come from near the doorway.'

That raised another clamor. Various men had various ideas of the source of the shooting—all different.

Hub, the barkeep, cut in. 'It come from beyond those swinging doors—' he commenced.

Then the Senator's voice, quiet and even, interrupted, and the rest of the room quieted. 'If you'll allow me to speak a minute, Mr. Deputy, I believe I can clear up a few details. Deputy U.S. Marshal Jordan had just entered through the doorway—'

'Deputy U.S. Marshal Jordan?' the deputy cut in. 'Is that who he is?— Oh, yeah, I didn't notice his badge right to first. Friend of yours, Senator?'

'We've met on a few occasions. That's neither here nor there. As I started to say, Jordan had just entered, when I saw this man'—and he pointed to me—'reach to his holster. Then Jordan spoke to me and an instant later came the shot.'

I was stunned. 'You claiming I shot Jordan?' I demanded, after a moment.

'What else can I believe?' the Senator said. 'I saw you reach for your six-shooter—'

'That's no sign I shot him,' I snapped angrily. 'And how do you know I was reaching for my holster? My hand was below the table—'

'You admit that, eh?' the deputy scowled. 'Lemme see that hawg-laig of yours.'

He reached over and jerked my forty-four from its holster, without waiting for me to hand it to him, and thrust the end of one little finger into the gun barrel. The finger emerged powder-grimed. He examined the cylinder.

'Four loads and two empties,' he announced. He shoved my gun into the waistband of his pants. 'All right, explain, feller.'

'I always carry my hammer on an empty shell—' I started.

'So do a lot of other fellers. Now how about that other empty?'

I was bewildered, couldn't think for a moment, then I remembered. 'Oh, yes, on the way here today, I took a shot at a rattler—'

'Expect us to believe that?'

'—and I reckon I just forgot to reload.'

'Naturally,' the deputy said sarcastically. 'Did you get the rattler?'

'No—missed him, complete.'

'You're thinking fast, feller,' the deputy said nastily. 'Now we won't have to go out looking for a dead rattler to make an alibi for you. By the way, what's your name?'

'Willets, Joe Willets,' I lied and on further questioning gave him the story I concocted to cover my presence in Deosso Springs.

The deputy nodded shortly. 'I'll have to place you under arrest, Willets,' the deputy said. 'If you're smart, you'll come quiet—'

'Just a minute, Larry.' It was the bartender's slow, heavy voice. 'I've been trying to get a word in edgewise, but everybody gabs so much I can't get to be heard. Larry,'—to the deputy—'you got no call to arrest Willets. He didn't do the shooting—'

Cal put in, 'I was sitting right next to Willets. I know damn' well he didn't shoot the marshal.'

I shot him a grateful glance. Hub and the deputy were both trying to speak, when the doctor arrived, a spare elderly man with rimless glasses. Silence fell while the doctor made an examination of the unconscious Jordan. Finally, he rose, wiping his hands on a bandanna.

'Looks pretty hopeless,' he announced, 'but get him down to my office and I'll see what can be done when the slug is probed out. I don't figure there's much hope, though.'

He beckoned to a couple of men, who picked up Jordan's body and carried it out the doorway, the doctor following.

Immediately the babel of voices recommenced and again Hub's slow heavy tones cut through. 'Larry, you're just a-wastin' time here. If you got the sense Gawd give you you'll get after that Hondo hombre—y'know, Hondo Crowell, he calls hisself—'

'What's Crowell got to do with this?' Larry, the deputy demanded. 'I ain't even seen him around here—'

'You'd best keep your eyes open, then,' Hub said, exasperated. 'He was in here before supper time with them two pals of his. They left, but I seen Hondo again, all right, all right. It was him that fired the shot that downed Jordan.'

'You sure of that, Hub?' the deputy asked.

'Certain, I'm sure,' Hub growled. 'Wouldn't go to the trouble of talkin' 'bout it, if I wa'n't. I'd looked up when Jordan came in, had my eyes on one of them bat-wing doors at the doorway. One of them doors has been sort of stickin' lately and don't swing complete closed as it should, on occasion. Reckon some oil is needed. Anyway, I was watching that door and it closed all right, and then I see a Colt barrel shoved over the top. Before I could do anythin', it was fired.'