Clifford Simak - Dusty Zebra - And Other Stories

“You betcha,” said Raymond. “We pass up the gray one.”

“And take it easy,” warned Burns. “Don’t bring the whole town down on top of us. Better ride east. That west country, toward the hills, may be full of Carson’s gunslicks.”

“Sure Mike,” said Raymond.

He moved away and his three companions followed. Burns stood watching them. A few yards away they stopped again, lifted hands in salute. Burns waved back at them, then turned and cat-walked swiftly through the darkness behind the buildings.

A smoky lantern set on the dump burned dimly in the back room of the Tribune. Humphrey, perched on a high-legged stool, was busy setting type, the bulldog pipe clenched between his jaws.

Standing just outside the window, Burns stared in at the editor, then moved softly to the back door.

From down the street came a startled yelp, a shot, then the wild clatter of hoofs building up some distance. Another shot boomed hollowly and silence came again, a thick and breathless silence that hung above the town.

The back door shrilled open on screeching hinges and Humphrey appeared within the frame staring at the darkness.

“I’m coming in,” Burns told him softly, “and don’t make a squawk.”

Humphrey started, then saw Burns.

“Oh, it’s you again.”

Burns strode across the doorway, shut the door behind him.

“I thought I heard some shooting out in back,” said Humphrey.

“It was up in front,” Burns told him. “The cow thieves just escaped.”

He clacked his tongue. “And that pretty gallows, standing out there waiting.”

Humphrey relit his pipe, eyes fixed on Burns, face lighted up by the flaring match.

“You haven’t got a gun back here?” asked Burns.

“Nope,” said Humphrey. “Got one up in front.”

“Just was going to warn you not to try to use it if you had,” Burns told him. “I came to do some talking.”

Humphrey motioned at the pot-bellied stove in the center of the room and the battered coffee pot that perched on top of it.

“How about a cup?” he asked.

Burns nodded.

Humphrey paced to the stove, lifted the pot.

“Don’t ever be a newspaperman,” he said. “Hell of a job. You work all hours of the day and night.”

“I just sort of wanted to ask you,” declared Burns, “why you stepped in and saved my hide tonight.”

Humphrey wrinkled his brow. “Revulsion, I guess. Get tired every now and then of Carson’s high handed ways. Runs the town, you know. Have to play ball with him, but shooting a man in cold blood is just a bit too much.”

“Aren’t you just a bit afraid he’ll think it over some and get hostile about you pulling a gun on him?”

“Maybe,” admitted Humphrey. “But, hell, that’s the only kind of language a hombre like Carson understands. And if he wants to argue about it, he knows where to find me.”

Humphrey sucked noisily on his pipe, squinted quizzically at Burns. “Aren’t you taking a chance, my friend? Sitting around like this with me.”

“You mean you figure I’d ought to be building up some miles—why I’m still hanging around these parts?”

Humphrey nodded. “That is precisely the thought that went across my mind.”

“Can’t do it,” Burns told him. “Got a date with Carson.”

“What you so steamed up over Carson for?” demanded Humphrey. “Here you ride cold into town and before a day is over you’ve worked up a feud with our leading citizen.”

“I’m against anyone who drives his neighbors out,” said Burns. “Don’t take very kindly to shooting up a peaceful valley and running off cattle and burning houses. Don’t seem very honest to me.”

“Well, I be damned,” declared Humphrey. “Why didn’t I think of it before. Seems natural now, of course. Figured everything wasn’t on the square, but I never figured Carson would have the gall to do a thing like that.”

“He covered up his tracks right good,” said Burns. “Seems to have most of the people fooled. Reckon you all thought it was a gang of night riders.”

Humphrey hesitated. “Yes, I guess so. Although it seemed sort of funny to me that four puny Mexicans could raise quite so much unadulterated hell.”

“They didn’t,” Burns told him. “Carson’s gunslicks out on the Lazy K were the ones that did it. Them Mexicans were just the scapegoats. Served two purposes really. Covered up Carson’s tracks and served as bait to keep Carson’s sheriff snug in his office. Carson could have fixed up a crooked election and elected him anyway, but it was simpler this way. Easier to fool the people into voting for him.”

Humphrey squinted at Burns in the dim lantern light. “How come you dealt yourself a hand?” he asked. “Custer or some of the others send for you?”

“Nope,” Burns told him, “I’m looking for a place to hang up my guns.”

“Far as I can see you ain’t fixing on hanging them up right away.”

Fists hammered on the front door and Humphrey spun about.

“Quick,” he hissed at Burns. “Out you go.”

Burns did not move, stood watching Humphrey walk swiftly for the door. Then he stepped out of sight of the door, into the shadow of the shop.

The front door grated open and a voice boomed at Humphrey.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

“Come in, Osborne,” said Humphrey.

Osborne—that would be the banker, Burns knew. Soft footed, he ducked around the press and type cabinets, moved closer to the door between the front and back rooms.

A chair creaked under Osborne’s weight and the man spoke again.

“I suppose you know that Burns escaped.”

“Hadn’t heard of it,” said Humphrey. “Been back in the shop, catching up on some work I had to do.”

“Well, he did,” growled Osborne. “Took the Mexicans with him.”

“Imagine Egan is fit to be tied,” said Humphrey.

“Carson is the one that’s really sore,” said Osborne. “If you hadn’t interfered out there tonight Burns would have been out of the way for good and all.”

The banker cleared his throat. “I been sitting up going over the bank records,” he said. “I find you owe us quite a bit of money.”

“A thousand dollars,” said Humphrey.

“Plus interest,” Osborne pointed out.

“You told me to forget the whole thing until I was in shape to pay it.”

“Right,” said Osborne. “We liked you. But in view of the present situation, something will have to be done about it. The note already is ninety days overdue.”

“There isn’t a thing I can do about it,” said Humphrey.

“Then I’ll have to start some action,” said the banker. “I been letting it ride along because you seemed a smart young fellow …”

“Because,” asked Humphrey, “I kept my mouth shut?”

Silence swept the office, a tense and terrible silence.

“Kept my mouth shut,” said Humphrey, finally, “about you and Carson and Egan taking over the valley.”

Osborne sighed and his chair creaked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It would have been nice to have let you keep on living. Just running you out of town would have been enough. But after this …”

Burns’ hand snatched out for a short steel bar that lay on the make-up stone, was at the door in two quick strides—all poised.

Osborne still sat in the chair across the desk from Humphrey, but he held a sixgun in his hand. Humphrey, half risen from his chair, was frozen, half standing, hands clenching the desk edge, white face staring at the weapon’s muzzle.

Burns hurled the bar with terrific force. It whistled in the air, whirling end for end, smashed with a crunching sound into the banker’s gun arm.

The arm flopped down and dangled, the gun spilling from the trailing fingers to clatter on the floor beside the fallen bar. Osborne sat motionless, as if stunned, still staring straight ahead.