Shoot Him On Sight (9 page)

I rode through some passes in the mountains and found myself descending into a wide valley with more mountains, a great ridge of serrated peaks, which I later learned were called the Doladera Mountains, and crossing the Mexican Border in a series of crazily-tumbled rock buttes, known as Buzzard Buttes. It was almost in the shadow of that western range that Onyxton was situated. Now, I began to see a sort of trail leading to the town. Here and there it swerved to one side to curve around a big cottonwood tree or screw-bean mesquite. The grama grass looked full and juicy; it all looked like good grazing country to me, though as yet I'd spied no cows. Which, after all, was rather strange when I came to think of it. For the moment I just came to the conclusion that the country was as yet unsettled. Overhead, the sky was so blue it was nearly black.

Right soon I commenced to see some small houses and adobe huts along the way, and almost before I realized it I was following the trail into Onyxton. I rode through to the far end of the town and then turned back. It was larger than I'd expected: a long main street with four or five cross streets. Tough-looking? That was hard to see to a newcomer. There did seem to be an unusual number of men about, just lounging. All wore guns. I caught sharp glances from some of them as I walked my pony down the middle of the street. From one end of the town to the other, I saw only three older women, making their way along the sidewalk.

Saloons were more frequent than usual. There was an Onyx General Store and another general store, on opposite sides of the street, which was lined almost solidly with hitch-racks and ponies. I passed an Onyxton Bank, and Onyxton Livery Stable. Situated at the middle of the town was a two-storied frame building with a high false-front with painted wide letters across the top: ONYX SALOON & GAMBLING PARLORS. They sure overplayed that word, Onyx. Probably mined the stuff in the nearby mountains.

I swung down a cross street and saw railroad tracks. A block farther on, on a piled dirt foundation was a frame building, painted red, which bore a sign: T.N. & A.S. R.R. There were loading pens a mite farther on, so I figured somebody must ship cows from here. I turned my pony back toward the Main Street, and passed a small building and jail. There was a sign there too, bearing two words: TOWN MARSHAL. They looked freshly painted.

I finally pulled up before a barber shop, tossed reins over the hitchrail, between two other mounts, and entered the place, not knowing whether I'd get my throat cut or not. The barber was a skinny geek, just waiting for a customer. He nodded and I nodded and dropped into a chair. "Shave and crop the mattress a mite," I told him.

He said "Yessir," and got to work with his scissors and comb, working faster than I expected. Finally he lowered me back in the chair, and started to lather my face. I didn't go for all the silence. Usually barbers are talky. This one didn't have a word to say.

He'd lathered one side of my face when I said, "Onyxton doesn't look as tough to me as I've heard. I thought—"

Swush
! A brushful of lather filled my mouth. The barber said, "Sorry sir," and with a towel started to swab out my mouth. I sputtered some but didn't say anything. I could take a hint.

The razor blade commenced to ring across my bristles. The barber finally broke the silence. "This used to be a nice little town, sir."

"It did? What happened?"

His voice was low when he replied, "Somehow, I don't feel much like talking today, sir."

So, that was that. He'd said too much or too little. Not knowing where I stood, I don't suppose I could blame him. He gave me the usual bay-rum treatment and after paying him two-bits, I stepped out of the chair. He said, "Thank you, and drop in again—if you stay."

I didn't miss that, either. It sounded like he was giving me some sort of warning, if I were running on the straight side of the trail.

I stepped outside, half expecting to find my pony, saddle and rifle had disappeared. The sun was hot along the street. I glanced up against the blinding rays a moment. It must be close to eleven o'clock. I mounted and cut diagonally across the street to a livery stable, then dismounted. A man in overalls showed up. "Rub-down, feed and water," I told him. "I'll be back later."

On foot I started a saunter along the sidewalk, choosing the shady side. A few people nodded as I passed; the rest just looked me over. I could fairly feel the sharp glances that followed my progress. After a time I crossed over and entered one of the cleaner restaurants I'd noticed. Just a small place, with a few tables and a counter along one wall. I was, apparently, the only customer. I dropped down on a counter stool and a tired-looking individual took an order for steak, fried potatoes, tomatoes, pie and coffee, with various fixings.

While I ate he lounged wearily against his back counter and gazed out the window.

I ventured cautiously, "Mite too early for business, I suppose."

He looked at me a long minute, then, "It's always too early for business in my place—nowdays," he said sourly.

"Yeah? Your fodder's good. I don't see why—"

"It needs more than good fodder to stay in business in this town, mister. I'd sell out if I could, but I keep hangin' on at a loss. I won't sell at a thievin' price."

"I don't get that."

His resentment burst forth. "A pack of wolves is runnin' this town—driving all decent people out. That goddam Sheldon Webster—and he should be called Shell-game Webster —won't be satisfied until every business in this town is run by his men, and—" He stopped suddenly, grew wary. "Some-times I talk too much for my own good. Forget I said anything, will you?"

I nodded. "If you want it that way. But if this town is being run by crooks—"

"Crooks?" he burst out. "Hell, mister, step out on the sidewalk, spit in any direction and you're almost certain to hit one." He paused, "You just ridin' through?"

"Could be. Maybe not."

"The more fool you, if you stay," he said bitterly. Then, cautiously, "There's a hell of a lot of strangers arrive hereto stay. They all take Shel Webster's orders, if they remain."

"Who is this Webster?"

"Owns the Onyx Saloon, dance hall and gambling parlors. Buys up other businesses, cheap, puts his own men in to run 'em. Shelters men who oughter be hung or in the pen—oh, hell!"

"A Mexican friend of mine come through here some time back and was shot at before he left. He said there was a deputy here—"

"Mexican? I ain't surprised. Webster is runnin' 'em out of Onyxton, fast as he can. He don't like 'em. Claims the U.S. Government should go right down and take over the hull country. Damn fool talk! If he only knowed it, he'd realize that Mexicans is part of the backbone of this hull range."

"But the deputy—"

"Deputy?
Phaugh!"—
disgustedly. "That yellow-spined jellyfish. County sheriff sent him down here to take control. Webster and his bullies had the feller skeered out in two weeks. He never did come back, nor did anybody to take his place. Finally, Webster pulls a real pious face and insists we must have some law here. And he appoints one of his own crew as marshal. The hull business was a farce."

"I should think you'd think twice before making accusations to a stranger."

"Yeah, I probably should, but I reached the point where I just don't give a damn what happens. Sure, I been expectin' trouble, but I ain't a big enough chunk of sand in Webster's ointment to have him set his top men on me—and the lower scuts know I keep my double-barl'd scatter-gun handy. But I ain't no doubt they'll get me in time, if I don't leave. And I'm dam'd if I'll be druv out."

He filled me a second cup of coffee without being asked. We talked a few minutes more, then I paid for my meal and stepped out to the street once more.

Again, I felt the sharp glances as I headed toward the livery stable, not antagonistic—not yet. More like men were wondering just which direction this strange cat intended to jump. It gave me a queer feeling between the shoulderblades, and I began to feel that slow blanket of fear enshrouding me again.

. But what was I to do? I'd come here to avoid the law. I'd have to stay for a spell. I'd be sure to be recognized eventually with all those yellow reward bills fanned out for my scalp. And then I had another thought. The bills had termed me fast with a gun, vicious, a killer. There was a chance I could turn them to my advantage. The average gunman, crook, isn't too smart. Was there any reason why he shouldn't believe all the things said about me? I thought not. So the best thing to do was appear to live up to the reputation I'd been given. So long as I was thought really bad, it might save me a lot of trouble, if I staged some sort of tough act.

I smiled to myself, thinking, can I run a bluff of that sort, bluff others into thinking I'm as bad and gun-fast as my rep? Well, it was worth trying, anyway. In a town like Onyxton, I didn't know what else I could do. But if I were forced into a showdown against some fast gun, it would soon be realized what a sham I was. I made up my mind: until someone stopped me, I was Cardinal—gunslinger!

I reached the livery and looked over my pony. I hadn't any kick on his treatment. I adjusted the stirrup straps, checked the cinch, and tossed a buck to the liveryman.

"Glad to take care of you anytime, Mister—Mister—" he said, as I stepped up to the saddle.

"Name's Cardinal," I said carelessly.

"You expecting to stay with us a spell?"

"I reckon." I'd started to move out of the stable.

"Got a job, eh?"

I checked my pony a moment. "There's always an opening for my kind of work."

"The same bein'?"

I laughed softly. "Where can I find Shel Webster?"

"Down at his place, mebbe. Or mebbe you'll find him lally-gaggin' in the dance hall with Topaz."

Who the devil was Topaz? I wondered. Oh, well, I'd learn in time. I touched spurs to the horse and moved out.

"Say," the livery man called, "What did you say your name was? Cardinal? Is that right? John Cardinal?"

"My friends call me Johnny," I told him.

A broad smile crossed his features. "By Gawd, I allus said you'd be showin' up here, sooner or later. Welcome to Onyxton, Johnny. We've heard a lot about you."

I allowed a certain coldness to enter my voice. "You'll probably hear a lot more before I leave too. I didn't come here to sit on my hands and loaf."

I moved on, out to the street.

Walking the pony along the street, I stopped next at the tierail of the Onyx bar, dropped reins over the rack and stepped up to the sidewalk. I pushed through the batwing doors of the saloon and paused inside a moment to adjust my eyes to the dimmer light. It was a good-sized room, larger than the majority of saloons. There were windows at one wall; a window and door at the back. I glanced toward the long bar. Only a few men were there, all wearing guns. Then I got a shock. Standing at the far end was a girl, all alone. Before her on the bar was a tall glass containing a brown liquid. It wasn't whisky. Looked more like sarsaparilla. For some reason I hoped it was, I don't know why. But, in the brief glance I had, she looked like a nice girl, a beauty in fact. Our eyes didn't even meet and I didn't want to appear too inquisitive. I continued up to the bar and asked the bartender for a bottle of beer. He was a beetle-browed individual with a nasty scar along one cheek. A white apron was tied about his bulging middle. He looked narrowly at me as he set out a bottle and glass.

"Glad to make your acquaintance, stranger," he said, proffering one hairy paw across the bar.

My right hand was on the bottle, so I failed to see his paw.

After a moment he withdrew it, saying, "I'm Turk Hofer."

"That so," I said idly. "When did that happen?"

He stared dumbly. "When did what happen?"

"When did you take over?"

"Wha-what-? I said I'm Turk Hofer."

"Oh, what did you take cover from?"

The barkeep's face grew red. From the far end of the bar I caught what sounded like a giggle. Then he realized he was being kidded. "It's my name. Turk Hofer. Funny, ain't you?" Other men along the bar were snickering now.

"I don't feel funny when I get a bottle of beer warm enough to take a bath in."

Turk Hofer bristled. "Don't you know ice is expensive?"

"So is warm beer, if I pay for it. Which same I don't intend. I like my beer chilled—but not frozen. Understand?"

He glared at me a moment, then removed the warm bottle and replaced it with one dewy on the sides. I could have laughed in his face, but didn't dare, having to maintain the cold, stern attitude. I poured the beer. It was just right.

After a moment, Hofer said, "You didn't give me your name, mister."

I eyed him a moment. "Why waste time telling me what I already know?"

"Well, we like to know who comes here."

I set my bottle on the bar. "Who in hell is 'we'?" I snapped.

He moved back a pace. "Well, we is—well, you see, gents—"

"Never heard of him," I said shortly. "What do you figure you're doing, taking the census?"

Again that giggle from the far end of the bar. I glanced around, but she had her head bent over her drink. Hofer's face was almost purple. "I ain't tryin' to start no argument, but if I don't know your name how can I interduce you to the boys at the bar, so's you can all have a drink friendly-like?"

I fixed him with an icy stare. "What gives you an idea I want to meet any boys—or men, either?"

He started to splutter and a couple of men farther along the bar began to look belligerent. At that moment the livery stable man came slithering in, hurried up to one of the "boys" at the bar, and went scurrying out again, nodded to me as he passed. The men at the bar gathered closer, and I noted that the belligerent looks had disappeared. Well, the town was beginning to learn who I was, anyway.

I turned my back on Hofer and strode across the room to a big blackboard nailed to the wall. On it were fixed hundreds of "Wanted" bills, offering rewards for outlaws, some tacked over others, many fly-specked, tattered and soiled. I mused it was only natural that Onyxton would want to keep track of wanted men. My gaze ran quickly over the collection, seeing several bearing my own name. Spotting the one offering the reward for the capture of John Cardinal, for the murdering of Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan, I reached up and tore it from its fastenings.