Shoot Him On Sight

come. Several men were yelling excitedly and heading in the direction of one of the telegraph poles, where Hondo Crowell was cursing and clutching frantically at his forearm, near a pole behind which he'd been hiding, waiting for my appearance from the station.

And a short distance beyond Hondo Crowell, now surrounded by a half dozen men, was—Great Guns!—Miguel Serrano, six-shooter still in hand! Where had he come from?

'Mike!' I exclaimed loudly and broke into a sprint to meet him.

We arrived at about the same instant where Hondo Crowell was sagging back against the telegraph pole, blood soaking one shirt sleeve, and moaning for somebody to get a doctor before he bled to death.

'Ain't no doc here, as you well know, Hondo,' one of his pals was saying. 'Just that drunken vet.'

The men were looking warily at Mike and me. A couple of them slunk away. Mike and I exchanged quick greetings. We didn't dare let go our guns long enough for more than that. Powdersmoke still drifted in the air. Crowell's six-shooter lay on the earth, where he'd been forced to drop it when Miguel's shot tore into his arm.

I turned to Crowell. 'What in hell did you think you were doing, Crowell? If you crave to draw on me, let's do it in the open, with fair warning to both sides.'

'Wa'n't shootin' at you,' Crowell groaned. 'Just doin' some target practice, when—'

'He lies, Johnny,' Miguel interrupted. He switched to Spanish: 'I had been seeking you, when I saw this cabrone leveling his gun in your direction, just as I saw you. I called a warning, but it came of a tardiness. I could not stop this hombre's firing, but my shot made a distraction of his aiming. And so he missed.'

So now I had to run a bluff for Mike, too. 'But you just struck his gun-arm, Miguel. Never have I seen you do such poor shooting.' I switched to English for the benefit of the others. 'Mike, that's the worst shot you ever made. I'm surprised when you throw down on a man and can't come closer than that to wiping him out. Probably you're using some defective ca'tridges.'

Mike's jaw dropped. 'But, Johnny, I aimed—'

'At his body, sure,' I cut in. 'I've never known you to do anything else. Just say that Crowell's lucky. If he lives long enough, he'll be able to boast to his grandchildren that he was once thrown down on by the famous Fanner Serrano, and lived to tell the tale.'

Mike looked bewildered, but before he had a chance to talk further, a fat man with a marshal's badge pinned to his shirt came waddling up. 'What's the trouble here?' he demanded pompously.

'No trouble for my pal,' I stated easily. 'He just shot the gun out of Hondo Crowell's fist, when he saw Crowell trying to pot-shoot me from behind a telegraph pole. You'd best run Crowell in, Marshal.'

'Who are you?' the marshal asked.

'Name's Cardinal. This is my friend, Fanner Serrano. The famous gun-slinger from Texas. You've heard of his speed.'

Mike blinked puzzledly, but didn't say anything. The fat marshal drew back a little. 'Heard of you, too, Mister Cardinal,' he said respectfully, nodding. He swung on Crowell. 'This true, Hondo?' he demanded sternly.

But Crowell could only groan. 'Get me to the Doc. I'm bleedin' to death.'

Grunting, the fat marshal stooped, retrieved Crowell's gun and stuck it in holster. He acted as though he didn't know what to do next. 'Shel—Mister Webster, ain't goin' to like this a bit. He wants a peaceful town and I'm supposed to—'

'Slam Crowell in a cell, if you know your duty,' I snapped tersely. 'I don't figure he's as bad hit as he makes out—'

'I dunno—' The marshal shoved the sombrero to the back of his head and scratched uncertainly. 'Hondo is supposed to be Mister Webster's—that is, he's on Mister Webster's payroll—'

'You any proof I'm not?' I snapped.

At that moment I saw Shel Webster striding toward us. Somebody must have carried news to him of what had happened. He was wearing a black, flat-crowned sombrero now, and beneath his unbuttoned jacket I spied the bulge caused by his under-arm gun. He looked hot, angry.

I got his ear before the others saw him. 'Dammit, Webster,' I snapped, 'I thought you were going to give orders your jackals were to lay off and not try to collect rewards on my scalp.'

'I've done that,' he stated coldly. 'What's gone wrong?' I started to tell him, so did three other men, besides the fat marshal. 'I can't hear everything at once,' Webster scowled. 'Marshal, you stay. The rest of you loafers get the hell out of here.' The on-lookers started to slink away. 'Now, what happened?'

I told him, ending, 'My pal, here, shot the gun out of Crowell's hand, just as Crowell was about to plug me.'

Webster swung on the groaning Crowell. 'That right, Hondo?'

Feebly Crowell shook his head. 'All—a mistake,' he moaned.

'Christ!' Webster snapped. 'I know you and your mistakes. One of these days you'll make one too many.' Brutally, he seized Crowell's wounded arm, disregarding the man's sudden yelp of pain, and ripped back the shirt sleeve. There was a lot of blood all right, but it had started to congeal. Webster looked disgusted. 'Hondo, you've got nothing to cry about. Just a mite of skin lost.' He turned to the marshal. 'Take Hondo down to that horse doctor, tell him to spit some tobacco juice on that wound. Hondo'll be hunky-dory, come morning. I'll talk to you then, Hondo. Now, get going!'

The tubby marshal took Crowell by the arm and led him in the direction of the main street. Webster gazed after them a moment, contempt in his features. He swung suddenly back to me. 'So Crowell took a shot at you, and you think it was on my orders.'

'You got any proof it wasn't?'

'You can ask Crowell when he's able to talk.' I jeered at that. 'Now you know better than to say that, Shel.'

A thin smile touched his lips. 'Perhaps you're right. And your friend shot the gun out of Crowell's hand—'

'If Mike hadn't been using some defective ca'tridges, Crowell would have been a deader by this time.'

'So?'—disbelievingly. So far Webster had ignored Mike. Now he turned and stared at him a moment, then swung back to me. 'Who is he?'

I looked as though I couldn't believe my ears, 'Shel Webster! Do you mean to tell me you've never heard of Fanner Serrano? I just can't believe it. Hell, man, there's not a faster gun in the whole southwest country. You think I'm fast. Fanner's speed makes me look like I was slowed down by paralysis. I figure he'll fit in here. That's why I hired him as my body-guard—'

'Body-guard?' Webster looked startled.

'Naturally. He's kept out of sight, but had his eye on me ever since I hit town. Y'know, I couldn't be sure you were throwing a straight rope when you said you'd order your men to lay off me. And lucky for me I wasn't sure.'

Mike wore a poker-face, but I knew damn well he was puzzled as the devil about what I'd said. Mike still had his six-shooter in his hand, apparently having forgotten to put it away. Now he holstered it.

'And you ought to see Mike handle two guns at once,' I went on glibly. 'Right now he's under-armed, if anything. You catch what I mean by 'under-arm', don't you Mike?'

Mike nodded soberly, and I caught the quick flash of his gaze toward the bulge in Webster's jacket. So he was warned, anyway.

'For God's sake, Cardinal,' Webster said coldly, 'quit throwing buffalo-chips around. I refuse to swallow such a tale. Never yet have I seen any reward bills with Fanner Serrano's name on 'em.'

'Proving how smart he is,' I laughed. 'That's Fanner's method. He hits and makes his getaway before anybody can get any proof who's done the killing. That's why I figure he'd work in here.'

'In what way?' Webster scowled.

'Yesterday, we talked over a certain price on that man, Tawney—'

'That's something else,' Webster burst in. 'You rode out of town with Tawney, yesterday, real friendly-like —'

'So you had me spied on,' I protested.

'I'd be a fool if I didn't. What was back of that?'

'Dammit, Webster, I told you you'd gone about that business wrong. You asked me what I'd do. I told you I'd get acquainted with the hombre, first, and then make plans.'