Shoot Him On Sight

to the bartender, 'Make sure it's a cold one, Turk.'

The men at the bar swung around, jaws agape. Turk shot me a resentful glance, then grunted a short, 'Yessir.'

I probably should have kept my mouth shut; people would think I was trying to run the Onyx, or something. I noted the bottle was cold-beaded when Turk carried it down to the stranger. The man didn't bother with a glass, but uptilted the bottle to his lips. Three long swallows, then he put down the bottle, turned to me and nodded, briefly. 'Thanks, cowboy.'

'Don't mention it,' I answered just as short.

I switched around in my chair, back to the man, and paid no more attention, until argumentive voices reached my ear. I turned to see what was going on. Three of the customers were gathered close to the stranger, and I could see—Tawney, was it?—getting red in the face, but trying to avoid a quarrel the other three seemed intent on picking. It looked as though Tawney had finished his drink, and was on the point of leaving when the three stopped him.

One of the men was saying, 'Aw, hell, why don't you just get out? You ain't wanted in these parts. Use your head, or you'll be sorry, Tawney.'

I saw Hondo Crowell edging along to get in on the argument. That didn't look good to me, though the whole business had probably been arranged for him to do just that.

'He'll be sorry if he lives that long,' Crowell said nastily.

Tawney pretended not to hear. I could see he was anxious just to leave, without trouble, but by this time he was ringed in.

Another man said, 'Look here, Tawney, get smart. Mr. Webster offered to buy your spread. Take your money and git while the gittin's safe.'

Tawney ignored that too, and started to push past. Hondo Crowell shifted his big bulk in front of Tawney. 'Aw, you're just a goddam Mexican lover, Tawney.'

'The Mexicans are my friends,' Tawney said curtly. 'And better men than you'll ever be.'

'By Gawd!' Hondo was working himself into a rage. 'You can't say that to me, Hondo Crowell,' he roared, 'you—' And he called Tawney a name that no man likes to take.

It came then, almost faster'n than I could follow the movement of Tawney's clenched fist. The blow struck Crowell squarely below the eyes, a mite too high to be effective, but hard enough to send Crowell sprawling to his haunches on the floor.

Now, I knew trouble couldn't be avoided any longer.

X

I tensed, waiting for what would come next. Cursing like a madman, Crowell was scrambling up from the pine floor. For an instant he stood swaying unsteadily, shaking his head to clear it. His nose looked as though it had been pushed to one side and I saw blood running down his chin.

Another man jumped in with a loud, 'You ain't going to hit no friend of mine, Tawney, and think you can get away with it—'

'That's right,' another chimed in. 'You been lookin' for trouble, Tawney. Now you're goin' to get it.'

The men remaining at the bar looked interested, nothing more. Turk was leaning on one hand, elbow on bar, a nasty grin on his face, so there went that damned temper of mine again.

I rapped sharply on the table and got to my feet. 'Cut it out!' I snarled, Inwardly quaking.

Crowell had staggered back to the bar, bracing himself, still somewhat groggy, but already I saw his right hand sneaking down to his gun-butt. The others spun around, eyes darting questioning looks at me. My voice had seemed to clear the air slightly. There was a short silence, with all but Crowell looking a trifle uncertain.

His hand had ceased to move toward his gun. Now he bellowed hotly, 'What's your gripe, mister?'

I drew my six-shooter and placed it on the table in front of me, close to hand. 'Two things,' I snapped. 'You're one of 'em. I don't like you and I don't like anybody that does.' Sure, I knew I was making a deadly enemy, but I didn't want him for a friend. Anyway, I'd gone too far to stop now. 'The second, only rats gang up on a victim. I don't like that either. Now, anybody got any objections to my remarks?' I waited. No one said anything. 'All right,' I continued, 'let's have a little quiet around here.'

I replaced my gun in holster, thinking, Migawd, what a bluff! And I was making it stick. I spoke curtly to Tawney: 'All right, mister, you'd best slope out of here, while the going is good.'

Tawney pushed past the others and started for the exit. As he passed my table he said, 'Much obliged.'

'Por nada,' I replied, 'for nothing.'

He passed through to the street. My heart was going bangety-bang and I could feel the hot sweat running down from my armpits, as reaction set in. But so far, I had it made. One of the men returned to the bar. Crowell and another left the barroom for the outside. Neither looked at me as they went by, though I'd been expecting threats. Probably now I'd have to be on the outlook for some back-shooting skunk. It wasn't a healthy prospect.

A clock ticking above the wall said two-thirty and I wondered if no one had located Shel Webster. I was still half hoping that Topaz might return, but she didn't show. I didn't want any more beer and I figured I might as well go out and navigate around town some more.

At that moment there was a movement at the doorway leading into the gambling parlors, and a tall, wide- shouldered blond man entered the barroom. His hair was so blond it appeared white, though his face was deeply tanned. His woolen trousers came down to highly polished boots. It was his coat that interested me: from a slight bulge over the left breast I guessed he was packing an underarm-gun. He wasn't wearing a hat. His nose was straight above a clean-shaven chin, his mouth a thin straight line. Eyes pale blue.

I guessed who he was even before I heard the servile greetings of Turk and other men at the bar. He scarcely noticed them while he conversed low-voiced with Turk a few minutes, then wheeled and came straight to my table, dropping into a chair across from me.

'I'm Sheldon Webster,' he said quietly.

'So I heard. That gang at the bar sounded like they'd rehearsed the act—'

'You?'

I smiled thinly. 'Do you have to ask?'

He eyed me narrowly. 'Maybe not, Cardinal. All right, you said you wanted to see me. What's on your mind?'

'I was told to get in touch with you if I ever get down this way.'

'Who told you that?'

'Friend of yours—so he said.' I picked a name out of thin air. 'Feller named Jim Flecker. He said you could take care of me if I got jammed up.'

Webster scowled. 'Flecker? Flecker? I can't seem to remember the name.'

I hadn't expected him to, of course. 'Maybe it's convenient to forget some names.'

'Maybe,' he conceded. 'But I still don't recollect—'

'Forget it,' I yawned. 'Mebbe I came to the wrong place.'

'Now don't jump to conclusions,' he said. 'If I can, I'll help you in any way. What's on your mind? I can generally arrange things for friends in Onyxton. What do you want?'

'I figure to stay a spell. Where's the best place to sleep?'

His jaw dropped. 'Is that all you wanted to speak to me about?'

'What else?'

'I can think of a lot of things,' he said disgustedly.

'Meaning what?' I snapped.

'For one thing you want protection. The law is hot on your trail for the murder of Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan. You'd like me to cover for you—'

'You're wrong, Webster,' I stated coldly. 'I didn't kill Jordan.'

He sneered. 'You'll be telling me next who did?'

'That's easy. Hondo Crowell killed him—your jackal, Crowell.'