Clifford Simak - Dusty Zebra - And Other Stories

Burns spilled tobacco into the paper. “You see,” he said, “this is the first place I was ever ordered out of. If I let it happen to me, folks might get the idea I was just a saddle tramp.”

“I told you to vamoose,” the sheriff rumbled. “We got our bellies plumb full of slickers that come in with their guns tied down.”

Burns lifted the cigarette to his mouth, licked the flap, twirled it shut. His lips scarcely moved as he spoke. “Sheriff, the only way I ever argue is with my guns. Maybe you would like to…”

“Hold it,” warned the man with the fancy vest. He addressed the sheriff. “Look, Egan, he didn’t pick the fight, Kagel called him. Must have been out of his head or something. Burns here says he never saw the man before.”

“That’s what he says,” declared the sheriff, “but it sounds damn funny to me.”

“He had to defend himself,” argued the other. “Kagel had the first shot. He already had his guns half out when he yelled at Burns. Under those circumstances, I don’t see why Burns can’t stick around long as he’s a mind to.”

The sheriff started to speak, stammered. “All right,” he finally said. “All right, I guess that he can stay.”

He swung on Burns like a raging grizzly. “Only don’t go flourishing them guns. This here county is cleaning up and we don’t stand for off-hand shooting.”

Burns grinned sourly. “Just tell the boys not to prod me none.”

Brusquely the sheriff turned on his heel and headed for the door. Steve stood, looking after him. Funny, he told himself. Damn funny. That big bear of a sheriff folding up to fancy vest.

Fingers tapped him on the elbow and he turned around.

“Name is Carson,” said the man with the fancy vest, holding out his hand. “Joe Carson. Own this place.”

Burns put out his hand and shook. Carson’s hand was flabby and his handclasp matched it.

“Don’t mind the sheriff,” said Carson. “It’s near election time and he is on the prod. Always is, come election time. Looking for things that will help the votes.”

“Like rounding up the cow thieves?”

“Something like that,” Carson agreed. “Probably had those rustlers staked out for months ahead and hauled them in when it would do some good.”

Burns moved to the bar, Carson at his elbow.

“Good shooting,” the bartender told him. “Seen lots of it in my day. But nothing quite like that.”

“Thanks,” said Burns. “Slow, though. He got in the first one.”

“And smashed up the backbar,” declared the bartender, bitterly. “Damn it all, I do hate messy shooting. Neat and clean, I says. That’s the way to do it.”

“Go ahead, drink up,” invited Carson. “The bottle’s on the house.”

Burns poured a drink and downed it.

“Maybe you’re looking for a job,” asked Carson. “If you are, I’d like to talk to you.”

Burns hesitated. “Well, not a job exactly. I’m looking for a man.”

“Not Kagel?” asked Carson.

Burns shook his head. “A friend. Name of Custer—Bob Custer. Used to live around here.”

“You won’t find him, mister,” the bartender told Burns. “He up and pulled his freight a month or two ago.”

“One of the ranchers that were driven out?”

The bartender nodded.

Burns downed a second drink of whiskey. “Doesn’t sound like Bob,” he protested. “All hell couldn’t scare him out.”

“None of them had a thing to stay for,” Carson said. “Their cattle were gone and some of their places burned. They tried banding together, but it didn’t do no good. Didn’t have the men to protect themselves. When they were one place, the gang would strike at another. Only outfit that survived was Newman’s Lazy K. Newman had men enough to fight off the wild bunch.”

Burns shook his head, bewildered. “Funny that a bunch of cow thieves would go in for burning and killings. Mostly they’re just interested in cows.”

“Ranchers picked off a few of them,” said Carson. “Got their dander up. For a while…”

The batwings flapped and a voice drawled. “Just take it easy, gents. Keep on doing what you’re doing.”

Burns stiffened and the whiskey in the glass he held slopped onto the bar. In the mirror, he saw Carson’s face go white. The bartender stood frozen with a rag in one hand and a wet glass in the other.

“We’re holding up the bank,” the man in the doorway said, “and we don’t want any trouble.”

From down the street came the sound of a single shot.

“Somebody,” said the man in the doorway, “thought that we were fooling.”

“Apparently you aren’t,” Burns told him.

“If you think we are,” replied the voice, “just turn around and try me.”

Burns spun on his heels, knees folding beneath him so that he slid toward the floor, hands going for his guns. A bullet chunked in the wood above his head and the sound of the bandit’s coughing gun crashed through the stillness of the bar.

“Take it easy, bub,” said the bandit slowly. “Take it easy, bub. Stay right where you are.”

Burns’ guns, almost clear of leather, slid back as his fingers loosened.

“Take it easy, bub … take it easy, bub …”

The voice didn’t sound exactly right, muffled by the blue bandanna mask, but the words were right. How long had it been since he’d heard those words? Five years or more … seven … maybe more than that.

“O.K.,” said Burns. “I was a fool to try it.”

He hunkered on his heels, hands on the floor, studying the man. Tall, straight, with a jaunty angle to his hat and wisps of tawny hair sticking out beneath it. The gun hand was steady and the figure tensed, but the voice had been cool, full of self assurance.

A ripple of shots came from down the street. A horse’s hoofs started up and drummed into the distance.

“Steady,” said the man in the doorway. “Don’t get fidgety. One move and I’ll fill you with lead!”

Queer to be sitting here, thought Burns, while a bank robbery’s going on just a door or two away. Like spectators watching a horse race—or like a dream where a man sees something happening and can’t raise a hand to stop it.

Someone was shouting now, yelling out orders. A sixgun banged and a rifle barked. Hoofs drummed again, hoofs that became a thunder in the street.

The man in the door moved swiftly. A quick heel sounded on the steps and just outside a man yelled to a horse. The rolling rush of hoofs went past the saloon and thundered down the street. Gunfire broke loose, went along the street in a ragged wave.

Burns leaped to his feet, bounded for the still-swinging doors.

Two dozen horsemen were racing out of town, horses hunched down and humping like scared rabbits, kicking up a cloud of dust, while guns from doors and windows sent a hail of lead after them. There were no answering shots. There was no need of any. The retreating bandits were already out of range.

Burns heard Carson come out of the door behind him. Together they stood side by side, watching the swirl of dust move out of sight.

Burns shook his head. “Big bunch,” he said. “Bank robbers as a rule don’t ride that many together.”

“Smart way of doing it,” said Carson, almost admiringly. “Ride in and take over the town. Have it over and done with before a man can make a move.”

Down the street Sheriff Egan was bellowing, rounding up a posse. Up the street a few enthusiastic souls still banged away.

“Looks like the sheriff will have a chance to win another vote or two,” Burns said in a low tone.

The bartender had said that Bob Custer had pulled freight. But the barkeep had been wrong. For the man who had stood with leveled gun in the doorway of the Longhorn bar had been Bob Custer.