“Oh, we’ll tell him!” Ed Foster said. “And we’ll ride back into town in the mornin’ to see the fun.” He nodded to the other two Three S men. “Come on, boys. We’ll hit for the ranch and take this news to Sid. Mebbe Jake Walters will have a chance to catch up on his shootin’ practice.”
“If your friend Jake is the Three S lead-slinger,” Houston told him, “tell him for me that he’d better not start actin’ up in my direction. I can be tough, too.”
The Three S men almost choked. They stared at Houston an instant, then turned away to go out into the street. A moment later, hoof beats told that they had left for the ranch.
“Very pretty, Mr. Houston—and very dangerous,” Silky Gadley said, in a low voice, as he shuffled the cards again. “Maybe you know what you’re doin’. You impress me as a man who does. However, make no mistake about Jake Walters. He’s good with a gun.”
“So’m I,” Houston admitted. “I’d like to know who shot at me tonight, and why.”
“Well, there are not many men in town,” Gadley replied. “I heard the shot, but thought it was only somebody tryin’ to make noise. I can tell you one thing—none of the Three S men shot at you. Two of them were in here at the time, and Ed Foster was on watch over at the tradin’ post.”
* * * *
As they continued their game of stud, somebody entered from the street and went to the head of the bar. The man behind it served him. Houston looked at the man who had entered with interest.
“One of the local boys?” he asked Gadley.
“Yes. His name is Sam Finch. Brandell fired him for stealin’. Sid Jarles plans to set him up in a new store and put Brandell out of business.”
“So I’ve heard. Nervous cuss, ain’t he? He couldn’t have shot at me, for instance, ’cause of me buyin’ an interest in the tradin’ post? He couldn’t have known of it.”
“Sam Finch is always nervous,” Silky Gadley said. “He’s been around Vista about a year, and he’s been nervous all that time. When a man watches his back trail and shows a lot of interest in every stranger—”
“Yeah,” Houston broke in, nodding. “When he does that, he’s afraid that his past might catch up with him.”
A waddling fat woman came from the rear of the room with a big tray of food, put it upon one of the tables, looked toward Houston and grunted. Houston settled with Gadley and strolled over to the other table to eat.
He glanced toward Sam Finch, who still stood at the bar, and found Finch watching him. The man downed his drink at a gulp and left the saloon. Houston devoured the meal which had been put on the table.
Silky Gadley meandered to the front door and looked out, and as he returned he stopped beside the table where Houston was sitting.
“If you’ve really bought an interest in the tradin’ post—” Gadley said, his voice low.
“I have. I wasn’t foolin’.”
“You may be in for serious trouble, then. Sid Jarles has been running things with a high hand in this part of the country for some time. He’s got plenty of enemies, but his enemies haven’t had anybody to lead ’em.” Gadley added, thoughtfully, “They may be on hand, however, if trouble starts.” He raised his voice. “Well, Mr. Houston, come in and try your luck at poker when you’ve got some time. Maybe we can get a game goin’.”
“Thanks,” Houston replied. “I may do that.”
Gadley went back to his table, sat down and lit a cigar. Houston finished his meal, went to the bar and paid for it. The bartender eyed him as he made change, and spoke from the corner of his mouth so nobody else could hear:
“If you get into a brawl with Jake Walters, remember that he always squints his eyes quick-like when he’s goin’ for his gun.”
“Thanks,” Houston replied, picking up his change.
This town has been under Sid Jarles”, thumb so long that some folks are gettin’ tired of it. You’ll have friends,”
“Know who shot at me?” Houston whispered, as he got out materials to make a cigarette.
“No. Got no idea. May have been a mistake.”
Chapter III
Showdown Coming
Leaving the saloon, Houston looked up and down the street. Nobody was in sight. He went across to the trading post, to find Clara Brandell behind the counter.
“I put a ladder at the corner of the buildin’, and we’ve got the paint and brush ready,” Brandell said. “But mebbe you’d better stop and think about it.”
“I’ve already told some of the men in the saloon that I’ve bought an interest here. Now, I’ll do a little sign paintin’.”
He went outside and put the ladder into place, then took brush and can of paint and went up the ladder. An expert sign painter would have sneered at the result, but anybody could read it. When the work was done, the sign read:
Brandell & Houston
Trading Post
He replaced the ladder and took brush and can into the store.
“Bein’ some tired, I’ll go to the stable and get me some sleep,” he said. “See you in the mornin’. G’night!”
He left the trading post and strode up the street to the stable, to find Lew Dawes sitting in front of it, smoking a pipe. Dawes knocked the dottle out of his pipe as Houston appeared. “I fixed up that pile of hay outside the stall and tossed your blanket roll on it,” Dawes reported. “Reckon I’ll turn in myself. I sleep in the little room in the back.”
Houston nodded and went in. Yawning, Dawes barred the door behind them and went back through the stable.
Houston talked to his pony, then unrolled his blankets and made his bed. He got off his boots and half undressed, then rolled up in the blankets and fell asleep.…
* * * *
His pony’s, squeal awakened him. Houston was out of his blankets and on his feet with gun held ready almost as soon as he opened his eyes. But it was not a gun he needed with which to confront this peril.
Dense smoke was swirling through the old stable. Tongues of flame licked through the smoke in three places.
“Dawes!” he shouted. “Wake up!”
He got his boots on and ran to the rear of the building to the little room. A flash of flame showed him Dawes stretched on the bunk. Houston shook him and got him awake. Dawes was half choking because of the smoke.
“Stable’s afire!” Houston shouted at him. “Let’s get the horses out!”
The smoke was so dense in the big long room that they scarcely could see. Dawes ran to the wide front door while Houston got his own pony out of the stall.
“Houston!” Dawes’ shout reached him. “The door’s stuck! I can’t get it open!”
Houston led his pony through the smoke to the door and tried to help.
“Stuck, your eye!” Houston said. “It’s been fastened outside. We’re in a trap.”
“The rear door—”
They ran to that, stumbling through the smoke, gasping as it swirled around them. The rear door was fastened on the outside, too.
Dawes shouted again, and came through the smoke with a crowbar. Houston tore it from him, ran to the wide front door again, and attacked the heavy planks with the crowbar. The flames were spreading now and shooting from two of the windows. Houston thought he could hear men shouting outside.
He