“How come this Jarles is so powerful that folks do as he says?”
“His Three S outfit is the big one hereabouts,” Dawes explained. “Jarles has a top-hand, name of Jake Walters, who’s a cold-blooded killer, and some hard hombres roost in the Three S bunkhouse.”
“That’s the kind of thing that gets me riled!”
“Well, I’ve explained the situation to you, Mr. Houston. From now on, you’re on your own.”
“Thanks for your good intentions, Mr. Dawes. Whatever they’re worth, you can add the amount to my bill. I’ll be goin’ up the street now.”
“What’ll I do with your pony, Mr. Houston, if you never come back?”
“Oh, I’ll come back,” Houston promised.
* * * *
The last colored streak of sunset had disappeared, and the swift dusk had come. Houston hitched up his overalls and chaps, adjusted his gun-belt and holster, and settled his hat on his head firmly. He strode off down the street like a man with a purpose, his boot heels thumping the walk in a steady rhythm.
As he passed the end of a narrow space between two of the buildings, a jet of amber flame suddenly split the gloom of the gathering night, a gun cracked, smoke swirled, and a bullet zipped past within scant inches of Houston’s head.
Houston reacted to the unexpected attack like a man not unaccustomed to such an event. He darted aside to get past the danger spot before a second shot could come, whipped his own gun out as he moved, and held it ready as he crouched and tensed.
No foe appeared to shoot it out with him. Houston heard boots thumping the ground, with the sounds dwindling rapidly, and realized that the man who had fired and missed was running away. Houston sped after him through the narrow dark space between the buildings. He emerged behind them and halted in the darkness close to a wall. He saw nobody, heard nothing. His unknown assailant had escaped into the gathering night. He could have dodged into one of the buildings, or got around one of them and reached the street.
The attempt at cowardly assassination enraged Houston. It puzzled him, too. This was foreign country to him, and as far as he knew no citizen of Vista ever had seen him before or knew the reason for his visit to the town now. There was a chance he had been mistaken for somebody else, but Houston could not make himself believe that.
The shot had been heard by a few. But since it had not been followed by other shots, or by howls of rage and pain, indicating a brawl, it attracted little attention. A few men called questions to one another concerning it, then there was silence. A gunshot was nothing to startle Vista.
Crouching against the wall in the darkness with weapon held ready, Houston watched and listened for a time. Then he went back between the buildings to the street and peered out cautiously.
He saw two men lounging in front of the saloon on the opposite side of the street and one leaning against a post of the wooden awning in front of the store on this side. Nobody else could be seen. Lights burned in the store and saloon, throwing streaks of faint illumination upon the walks.
Houston holstered his gun and started along the walk toward the store. He was alert and ready for a quick move. His unknown enemy might try to strike from ambush again.
He noticed the man leaning against awning post leave it to saunter across the walk and take up a new position beside the store door. The streak of light revealed him as a fairly young man in worn range clothing, with a gun swinging against his hip.
Houston paced on and swung across the walk toward the store entrance. The man standing on the porch there put up a hand to stop him.
“You don’t want to go in there, hombre,” he said.
“But I do,” Houston replied. “I’m fresh out of smokin’ tobacco.”
“Let’s try it another way, amigo. You’d better not go in. You can get tobacco in the saloon. You’re a stranger, so mebbe you don’t understand. Sid Jarles, who owns the Three S outfit, don’t want anybody tradin’ with Tom Brandell.”
“I don’t know Sid Jarles, and don’t care a hoot what he wants,” Houston said. “I’m goin’ into this tradin’ post—”
“If you try it, I’ll have to stop you.”
“If you try to stop me, there’ll be fireworks. Once my mind’s made up, I ain’t easy to stop, and it’s made up now. And I’m extra mad about somethin’, too, so you’d better stand out of my path, pronto.”
The man on the porch dropped his right hand swiftly to his holster as if answering a challenge. But the muzzle of Houston’s gun was jabbing him in the stomach before he could draw.
“Paws in the air!” Houston ordered, “I’ll just take your hardware, lest you let it lead you into trouble.”
Houston’s left hand darted forward and took the gun from the other man’s holster. He stepped back and, still watching the man before him, lifted the gun and sniffed at the muzzle.
“It’s a good thing for you, hombre, that this gun ain’t been fired durin’ the last few minutes,” he said.
He dumped the shells and hurled the empty gun far out into the dusty street. Then Houston holstered his own weapon.
“You’ve cooked up a mess of trouble for yourself,” the enraged man on the porch said.
“I love trouble, hombre,” Houston told him. “Get away from that door now, or I’ll drag you away.”
The man started to move aside. But suddenly he whirled, and his fists came up as he launched himself forward. At the same instant, he shouted to somebody in front of the saloon. Neither of them saw the horrified face of the girl who appeared in the doorway.
Houston didn’t bother to go for his gun again. His fists smashed into his would-be assailant’s face, one after the other, like twin pile-drivers. The man on the porch tottered, and Houston spun him around and sent him flying through the porch rails, smashing them, to sprawl in the dust in the street. Then he entered the store, closing the door which the fleeing girl had left open.
Chapter II
Dangerous Partnership
A man and the girl who had been at the door stood behind the counter. Tom Brandell, the owner of the trading post, was emaciated, grayish-looking, weakened from a long illness. Clara, his daughter, was tall and slender and rather good-looking. What Houston liked about her immediately was her air of defiance.
“You’re a stranger,” she said. “We saw that little fuss at the door. If it was a Sid Jarles trick to get a man in here and—”
“Whoa, and back up!” Houston interrupted.
“Who are you to tell me to whoa and back up?” she demanded.
Houston grinned at her. “First off, I’m an hombre who wants a sack of tobacco, so I can make myself a cigarette.” He tossed a coin on the counter.
The girl turned to a shelf, got the tobacco, and put the coin into the till. But her face was as severe as she could make it, and she watched him closely.
“Never saw a person as suspicious as you seem to be,” Houston told her. “Can’t blame you, though, the way I understand things are.” He faced the man. “Are you Tom Brandell?”
“I am.”
“Got a letter for you, then.”
Houston took a letter from his shirt pocket and slipped it across the counter, then calmly began making a cigarette.
Brandell ripped the letter open and read it. “Why,