The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories Read online

  “You’re an untested boy, Lon. Never killed a man. Never even held up a man.”

  “I’ll prove I can side you anywhere, Bart.”

  “There’ll be no turning back once you start. Only two of us, and scores watching to get us. You can kill twenty law officers in a row, and always there’ll be another to pop up. We’ll be fair game for their guns.”

  “I know that, Bart.”

  “I’ve got a neat hideaway ’bout ten miles up in the hills. Toted plenty of supplies there. I’m going to ride the trails on the other side of the ridge. Mine paymasters travel it, and there’re small towns to be looted. I had plenty of time in prison to make plans. I’ll make folks pay for the time I spent behind walls!”

  Inside the closet, Pop Hopper shivered at the vehemence in Bart Shields’ voice. He heard the outlaw continue:

  “I’ll give you a try, Lon. Listen, now! My pony cast a shoe. Take him to the blacksmith shop and leave him to get shod. Came back to the saloon and get us a jug of good liquor. Don’t forget to take my rifle out of the boot and fetch it. We’ll drink and talk and rest, and ride at dusk.”

  “I’ll ’tend to it all, Bart.”

  “This town’ll be my headquarters for grub and ammunition, and we’ll came here when we want to talk to other folks or have a spree. These people are tame; they’ll eat outen our hands. If lawmen get hot after us, the folks here will know better than to tell anything they’ve learned about us. Get goin’!”

  Pop heard the door of the shack being opened and closed. He got out of the closet quickly and hurried to the front of the store to watch. Lon Bell appeared, took Shields’ rifle from the saddle boot, untied the pony and led the animal down the street toward the blacksmith shop.

  Outside the door, Pop looked up and down the street. No resident of Desert Edge was in sight. Pop skipped across the street to the saloon, where Gus Swartz was alone at the moment. He told Gus what he had heard by listening in the closet.

  “Sam Ruskin always comes to the saloon first,” Pop concluded. “You tell him all about this. Sam will came over to the store when he leaves here and tell me what he thinks of it.”

  Back in the store, Pop continued watching. He saw Lon Bell return and enter the saloon, emerge soon with a jug and pass along the side of the store to the shack. Pop went out again and looked toward the west trail. He almost gave a shout of excitement when he saw Sam Ruskin loping into the end of the street.

  Pop watched Ruskin stop his pony in front of the saloon and dismount. He was a huge man with square shoulders and silvery hair, and his manner was that of a man quick to assume command and responsibility. Gus Swartz greeted him at the saloon door and ushered him inside.

  Pop knew Ruskin would stay there a short time, then cross to the store for his mail—Pop being the postmaster at Desert Edge. Hurrying back to the closet, Pop listened without shame to what was being said in the shack.

  “We’ll rest and talk and gulp a few drinks until almost sunset,” Bart Shields was saying. “I’ll go to the blacksmith shop myself to get my pony—want to be sure the smith does a good job. I’ll make friends with him. As I do that, you go to the saloon and buy drinks around, and try to make these folks like you. Understand?”

  “I see what you mean, Bart.”

  Pop listened a little longer, and was disgusted when he finally left the closet and went to the front of the store again. He was muttering, “Same old braggin’ and bluffin’! Feedin’ that youngster big lies and makin’ him like it.”

  Through the window, Pop saw that Desert Edge had come to life suddenly. Sam Ruskin’s arrival had caused that. Being a man of substance, Ruskin always bought drinks, and sometimes hired town men to do odd jobs at his ranch, a form of charity which salved their pride.

  But, more than that, the town men felt his prestige and power. They acted like timid children gathering around a father they trusted and knew would protect them. They accepted without question his judgment in local matters.

  Within fifteen minutes, Sam Ruskin crossed the street and greeted Pop.

  “Gus has told me about Bart Shields and this youngster,” he said. “You tell me what you know.”

  Ruskin listened calmly and without speaking as Pop gave him a long and complete recital of the day’s events so far. When Pop had finished, Sam Ruskin paced the floor a little.

  “Bart Shields must be driven from this district,” was Ruskin’s verdict. “We don’t want an outlaw making his headquarters hereabouts. And I think, from what you’ve told me, that maybe the youngster is worth saving. I’ll handle this thing when the boy comes to the saloon and Shields goes to the smithy to get his pony.”

  “Lon Bell has the idea that Bart’s the salt of the earth,” Pop remarked.

  “Kid hero worship, that’s what it is. Hope so at least, for the boy’s sake. Every youngster passes through that stage. You come to the saloon when you see Shields go to the smithy. Get where you can dodge quick if there’s trouble. If I happen to ask you a couple of questions over there, just answer the plain truth. I’ll get my mail later.”

  Pop watched Ruskin cross the street again, and enter the saloon. And Pop noticed that, before entering Gus Swartz’ place, Ruskin extracted a .45 from its holster and examined it methodically, then returned it to its leather holster.

  During the next couple of hours, Pop retreated to the closet twice. The first time he heard more of Bart Shields’ bragging. He waited on a couple of town men who bought carefully on credit based on promise of a few days’ work at Ruskin’s ranch. He made a packet of Ruskin’s mail, and went to the closet again.

  “Saddle your pony, Lon, and tie him in front of the saloon,” Shields was saying. “Go in as I said, and make friends. I’ll get my pony at the blacksmith’s shop and come there and join you. Better get at it now.”

  Pop heard Lon Bell leave the shack, and hurried back into the store. When he saw Shields pass the door and go toward the smithy, and Lon Bell lead his pony into the street, he went out, closed the store door, and crossed to the saloon. There would be no customers now, he knew; and he didn’t lock the door—no thieves resided in Desert Edge.

  Pop entered the saloon as Lon Bell was hitching his pony, exchanged glances with Ruskin, and went to the foot of the bar. Gus Swartz put out bottle and glass, and Pop poured a drink. He saw Lon Bell swagger in from the street, his sombrero on the back of his head and his thumbs hooked into his belt.

  “Howdy, stranger!” Ruskin greeted the youngster. “Hit the bar and have a drink on me.”

  “And who’re you?” Lon Bell asked.

  “Name’s Sam Ruskin. Own a big ranch a few miles out of town. If you’re looking for work, I’ve got a peg in my bunkhouse where you can hang your hat. Work not too hard, pay and grub above the average.”

  “I’m not looking for a cowpoke’s job.”

  “Turn in here and have a drink on me, anyhow. Gus, serve our young friend.”

  Mindful of Shields’ injunction to make friends, Lon Bell stood beside Ruskin at the bar and poured his drink. In a lower voice, Ruskin told him:

  “You’re traveling in bad company, son. Bart Shields, I mean. Got out of prison recent. He’ll be in trouble again before long, you can bet. Want to be pulled into bad trouble along with him?”

  “I pick my own friends, mister. And who are you to run down a man like Bart Shields?”

  “If he’s a man, the breed is getting worse every day,” Ruskin commented drily.

  “He’s my idea of a man. Not afraid of anything. Kicks over the traces and runs wild in the world. Shoots his way out of tight corners, takes a whatever he wants, laughs at the lawmen who chase him.”

  “He didn’t laugh when they caught him and sent him to prison.”

  “He explained that to me—a punk who sided him gave him a cross,” Lon Bell declared.

  “No doubt he told you a lot of a stuff, son. Now listen to the truth. It’s on the record that Bart never shot but one man, and he was another outlaw arguing with Bar
t about a division of loot. Bart Shields wasn’t even arrested, because the Law was glad he shot the other man and saved the state the expense of a hanging. That’s the truth.”

  “It is, huh?”

  “And here’s some more of the truth, son. Bart Shields is no hero, like you seem to think. He never faced a man and gave him an even chance. He’s always sneaked up on his man, holding a gun on him. A common, cowardly holdup man.”

  “You seem to know a lot,” Lon sneered at him.

  “I do know a lot, boy. I run a big ranch now, but I haven’t done that always. I lived plenty of excitement before I got wise to myself and life. I’ve killed men, and I spent eight years behind prison walls—two terms.” He glanced along the bar. “Pop!” he called. “Tell this youngster how many men I’ve killed.”

  “I know about some of them,” Pop admitted. “There’s the time those five had you cornered in Mesaville. Had their hardware out, too. You drew and started shootin’. Killed three with a single shot each, and wounded the other two. Still had one slug left in your gun. And you only got a shoulder scratch.”

  “That’s right,” Ruskin agreed.

  “Then when that ornery cuss tried to ambush you. You dodged behind a rock when he missed, stalked him, faced him and dared him to draw and killed him when he did. I know of maybe three others—”

  “That’s enough,” Ruskin interrupted. He faced Lon Bell again. “Then I learned a man could have excitement even while running a ranch. I’ve got fifteen men in my bunkhouse. If an outlaw gets busy around these parts, we make ourselves into a posse and go after him. Then we’re riding the hills and risking death and doing things outlaws do—but on the side of the law. That’s neater, boy.”

  Lon Bell laughed a little. “You think I’m swallowing all this stuff. Bart Shields could walk in here now and make you stick up your hands and shove you around.”

  “You think so. If Bart Shields walked in here now, I’d make him step around. Still think he’s a hero, do you? Bart Shields is only a cowardly sneak. Sticks a gun in a man’s back and robs him, then hits his saddle and rides. A braggart and a liar as well!”

  The town men suddenly quit the bar and dashed across to the opposite wall. Pop blinked at what he saw in the doorway. And he knew Sam Ruskin had seen the same thing in the mirror behind the bar.

  From the doorway came a stentorian roar: “Who’s callin’ Bart Shields a sneak and liar?”

  Ruskin did not go for his gun, did not whirl around. To Lon Bell, he said quietly, “Step aside out of harm’s way, boy.” Then he turned slowly, deliberately, and faced the advancing Bart Shields.

  Those who watched saw Bart Shields come to a dead stop. He gulped, his eyes bulged.

  “You—Sam Ruskin!” he said.

  “Did you come here looking for me, Bart?” Ruskin asked.

  “Why—why, no. I don’t feel any ire against you. I—I was just passing through.”

  “That’s a right good idea, Bart. Just pass through—and keep going! Get out of these hills and stay out, or I’ll come after you with my riders! You won’t make Desert Edge your hangout while I’m around here. Trying to pick up a youngster and turn him bad, are you? Planning to leave him holding the bag if you get in a jam.

  “He thinks you’re a hero. Been swallowing your lies. You’re cowardly crowbait, Bart. You’re a stinking, double-crossing loud-mouth. My gun’s in its holster, Bart. If you don’t like the names I’m calling you, draw and start something. Go ahead—draw!”

  Bart Shields stood rigid. His hands made no move toward his holsters. He gulped again. “I didn’t come here to have any trouble with you,” he mouthed.

  “Get in your saddle then and travel! And use your spurs! If I learn you ever come to these parts again, I’ll look you up.”

  “I—I’ll ride, Mr. Ruskin. I won’t bother anybody around here.” He started backing toward the door. “Let’s go, Lon.”

  Lon Bell looked at him open-mouthed. “I don’t think I want to side you, Bart,” he said. “You go on.”

  Ruskin took a step forward. “And if you feel inclined to draw and open up after you’re in the saddle, Bart, just go ahead and do it. I’ll be out on the walk, giving you a chance.”

  With fists against his hips, Ruskin stood in the doorway. Bart Shields unhitched his pony, got into the saddle, and turned and rode up the street toward the hills. He did not look back.

  Ruskin turned back, into the saloon. “Serve everyone, Gus,” he ordered Swartz. “And you, youngster—that peg in my bunkhouse wall is still empty, if you want to hang your hat on it. You’ll have plenty of excitement riding for me.”

  “I’ll take the job, sir.”

  “Good! Finish your drink, then go with Pop to his store and get my mail and a big sack of hard candy for the bunkhouse boys. Then water my pony at the blacksmith’s trough. By that time, I’ll be ready to ride.”

  Lon Bell nodded. He walked with Pop out of the saloon and across the street to the store. As Pop got the mail and sacked the candy, Lon Bell said:

  “He’s some man, this Mr. Ruskin. He really kill all those men the way you said?”

  “Them and a few more.”

  “And served time in prison, then turned honest, huh?”

  “Let’s get it right, boy,” Pop said. “He killed all those men when he was deputy sheriff and afterward, sheriff. And sure, he spent eight years behind prison walls. Two terms, like he said—he was the warden.”

  TEXAS JOHN ALDEN, by Robert E. Howard

  I hear the citizens of War Whoop has organized theirselves into a committee of public safety which they says is to pertect the town agen me, Breckinridge Elkins. Sech doings as that irritates me. You’d think I was a public menace or something.

  I’m purty dern tired of their slanders. I didn’t tear down their cussed jail; the buffalo-hunters done it. How could I when I was in it at the time?

  As for the Silver Boot saloon and dance hall, it wouldn’t of got shot up if the owner had showed any sense. It was Ace Middleton’s own fault he got his hind laig busted in three places, and if the city marshal had been tending to his own business instead of persecuting a pore, helpless stranger, he wouldn’t of got the seat of his britches full of buckshot.

  Folks which says I went to War Whoop a-purpose to wreck the town, is liars. I never had no idea at first of going there at all. It’s off the railroad and infested with tinhorn gamblers and buffalo-hunters and sech-like varmints, and no place for a trail-driver.

  My visit to this lair of vice come about like this: I’d rode p’int on a herd of longhorns clean from the lower Pecos to Goshen, where the railroad was. And I stayed there after the trail-boss and the other boys headed south, to spark the belle of the town, Betty Wilkinson, which gal was as purty as a brand-new bowie knife. She seemed to like me middling tolerable, but I had rivals, notably a snub-nosed Arizona waddy by the name of Bizz Ridgeway.

  This varmint’s persistence was so plumb aggravating that I come in on him sudden-like one morning in the back room of the Spanish Mustang, in Goshen, and I says:

  “Lissen here, you sand-burr in the pants of progress, I’m a peaceable man, generous and retirin’ to a fault. But I’m reachin’ the limit of my endurance. Ain’t they no gals in Arizona, that you got to come pesterin’ mine? Whyn’t yuh go on back home where you belong anyhow? I’m askin’ yuh like a gent to keep away from Betty Wilkinson before somethin’ onpleasant is forced to happen to yuh.”

  He kind of r’ared up, and says: “I ain’t the only gent which is sparkin’ Betty. Why don’t you make war-talk to Rudwell Shapley, Jr.?”

  “He ain’t nothin’ but a puddin’-headed tenderfoot,” I responded coldly. “I don’t consider him in no serious light. A gal with as much sense as Betty wouldn’t pay him no mind. But you got a slick tongue and might snake yore way ahead of me. So I’m tellin’ you——”

  He started to git up in a hurry, and I reached for my bowie, but then he sunk back down in his chair and to my amazement he busted
into tears.

  “What in thunder’s the matter with you?” I demanded, shocked.

  “Woe is me!” moaned he. “Yuh’re right, Breck. I got no business hangin’ around Betty. But I didn’t know she was yore gal. I ain’t got no matrimonial intentions onto her. I’m jest kind of consolin’ myself with her company, whilst bein’ parted by crooel Fate from my own true love.”

  “Hey,” I says, pricking up my ears and uncocking my pistol. “You ain’t in love with Betty? You got another gal?”

  “A pitcher of divine beauty!” vowed he, wiping his eyes on my bandanner. “Gloria La Venner, which sings in the Silver Boot, over to War Whoop. We was to wed——”

  Here his emotions overcome him and he sobbed loudly.

  “But Fate interfered,” he moaned. “I was banished from War Whoop, never to return. In a thoughtless moment I kind of pushed a bartender with a clawhammer, and he had a stroke of apperplexity or somethin’ and died, and they blamed me. I was forced to flee without tellin’ my true love where I was goin’.

  “I ain’t dared to go back because them folks over there is so prejudiced agen’ me they threatens to arrest me on sight. My true love is eatin’ her heart out, waitin’ for me to come and claim her as my bride, whilst I lives here in exile!”

  Bizz then wept bitterly on my shoulder till I throwed him off in some embarrassment.

  “Whyn’t yuh write her a letter, yuh dad-blamed fool?” I ast.

  “I can’t write, nor read, neither,” he said. “And I don’t trust nobody to send word to her by. She’s so beautiful, the critter I’d send would probably fall in love with her hisself, the lowdown polecat!” Suddenly he grabbed my hand with both of his’n, and said, “Breck, you got a honest face, and I never did believe all they say about you, anyway. Whyn’t you go and tell her?”

  “I’ll do better’n that if it’ll keep you away from Betty,” I says. “I’ll bring this gal over here to Goshen.”