Clifford Simak - Dusty Zebra - And Other Stories

“Way for the Hangtown Rebel!” was originally published in the May 1945 issue of Ace-High Western Stories . Cliff Simak’s journals do not mention that he ever wrote a story with that title, and it seems likely that the title was a concoction of the editorial staff of the magazine—but one journal does show that Cliff was paid $150 in 1945 for a story called “Gunsmoke Letter,” and the action in this story is indeed precipitated by a letter (of course, that could be said about “Gunsmoke Interlude,” too …).

Another point of interest is the fact that the saloon owner in this story was named Joe Carson—Carson was the first name of Cliff’s younger brother, and his name turns up in a number of Cliff’s stories, particularly in the early years of Cliff’s career …

The gallows were grim and shining new with the yellowness of lumber that had never braved the elements. Like a deliberate signboard of warning, they stood in the vacant lot, gleaming in the sun.

Steve Burns’ hands tightened on the reins and even though the day was bright and warm, he felt the coldness of the challenging gallows.

“Getting fancy,” he told himself, staring at the gallows. Most places were satisfied with a good stout cottonwood. But not Skull Crossing—they had this man-made apparatus that was evidently ready for business.

Slowly Burns swung the horse around and headed down the street.

Burns pulled up in front of the livery barn and spoke to an oldster tipped back on a chair.

“Got some extra hay and oats?” he asked.

“Yup,” the man told him and then added, “the saloon’s just down that dirt street.”

Burns grinned and slid from the gray, handing over the reins.

“Was looking at that contraption up the street,” he said. “Must be expecting some heavy business.”

The livery man spat through a broken front tooth. “Already got the business. Fixing to string up some ornery hombres the sheriff caught out in the hills. Mex gang that’s been raising hell for a year or two. Dang near cleaned out the valley.”

“Noticed some abandoned ranches coming in,” said Burns. “Wondered what it was all about.”

“Yup,” declared the man. “Getting so it wasn’t safe to go out nights. Hay stacks burned. People killed. Cattle all run off.”

“So the ranchers up and left,” said Burns.

“That’s it, stranger. Spent a lot of time trying to hunt down the lobos, but they never found their hideout. Bad country, them hills out back where they holed up.”

“But the sheriff found the gang.”

The livery man spat through the broken tooth again. “Tell you how it is, stranger. Sheriff sort of works up a little extra steam every time election date gets close.”

“Think I’ll head for a drink,” said Burns and walked down the empty street.

After the blaze of sun outside, the interior of the Longhorn bar was a place of shadows. Burns stopped just inside the swinging doors, stood blinking until forms began to take dim shape. The bartender leaned on the bar, staring out the window. In one corner some men were playing cards and others stood around and watched.

Burns strode toward the bar. “Set it out,” he told the barkeep. “I aim to cut some dust out of my throat.”

The bartender moved deliberately, reaching for a bottle.

“ Burns!” The word snapped like a whip across the room.

Steve spun from the bar, hands streaking for his guns.

In the dim light he saw one of the men who had been watching the game coming toward him.

The man’s face was a blur and his body blended with the shadows that still hung in the corner. But there was no mistaking the poise of the body, no question about those moving hands, already hitting leather.

Burns’ mind clicked blank with sudden concentration, everything else wiped out except that figure in the center of the room. Time stretched taut in the brittle silence and Burns, watching the smudge of the other’s face, knew that his own hands were moving swiftly, that his guns were coming out…as if by rote.

Burns dodged swiftly and behind him he heard the crash of shattered glass as a bullet swept past his cheek and hit the backbar.

Then Steve’s own guns were now talking, bucking against his wrists, coughing with a twin precision that set the glasses to jiggling on the bar.

Before him the smudge of face bent forward, hung for a single instant as the shadowy body jerked to the impact of the bullets, then slid to the floor.

Steve let his hands fall to his side, smelled the acrid smoke that trickled from his gun barrels, stared at the black, hunched thing in the center of the room.

Men were stirring out of the corner, plainer now that his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, moving slowly and cautiously, with their hands hanging at their sides.

Feet pounded on the porch outside and the batwing doors smashed open. A huge man entered and walked toward Steve Burns. Wary, with thumbs hooked in his gunbelt, and the sunlight from the open doors striking fire against the nickel-plated star pinned upon his vest.

He stopped six feet away and stared, eyes squinted until they were little more than slits. He nodded at the guns.

“You’re handy with them things.”

“Only when I have to be,” Burns answered.

“How come that Kagel knew you?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Steve replied.

“He called you by name,” the sheriff growled. “You must have met him somewhere.”

Burns shook his head. “He had my name, all right. But I don’t recognize his handle. Maybe it’s a new one.”

“Maybe if we rolled him over,” suggested a voice and Burns’ eyes flicked toward the man who’d spoken. Squat, square of shoulders, smooth. Pearl stickpin gleaming in the black cravat that bunched above the ornate vest.

Slowly Steve holstered his guns. “Let’s take a look,” he said. “I’ll tell you if I know him.”

It was the last thing that he wanted to do, he admitted to himself. But it was a thing he had to do. One suspicious move and the burly sheriff would be making trouble.

They moved across the floor to stand above the dead man. Callously, the sheriff turned the body over with his toe and it flopped grotesquely on its back, arms flung out, limp head lolling.

Burns’ face felt stiff, as if a mask had enclosed his flesh. He couldn’t show the slightest flicker of expression, he knew, for the sheriff would be watching with those squinted eyes.

Slowly he shook his head. “Never saw him before,” he said. “Can’t imagine who he is.”

And that, he told himself, was the damnest lie he had ever told. For there was no doubt about the dead man on the floor. His name wasn’t Kagel, of course, and he looked some older than the day that he had left Devil’s Gulch, swearing vengeance on the man who drove him out.

“I think I’ll get that drink,” said Burns.

“Just a minute,” the sheriff called.

Burns stood silent, while the star-man squinted at him.

“Figuring on staying for a while?” the sheriff asked.

“Hadn’t thought about it, sheriff.”

“Take my advice,” the lawman told him. “Have a drink and get some grub. Have a sleep if you really need it. But then you better slope.”

Burns reached into a vest pocket, hauled out a sack of tobacco. His fingers shook a little as he thumbed the book of leaves.

“Ordering me out?” he said.

“I’m giving you some time.”

“I think I’ll stay a while,” Burns told him calmly.

The sheriff’s face flushed and his fingers twitched impatiently toward his guns, but his thumbs stayed anchored on the belt.