Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

"I thought you was crooked! The last five decks you produced are all marked the same! Yore a damn tinhorn gambler, mister!"

"I resent that!" cried the pallid one.

"Resent?" roared Satterlee. "Listen! This is a white mans country! Gentlemen play poker hereabouts, not card sharps! Get out of this place, get out of my sight! I've been watchin yore style plenty long and I've plumb paid for the privilege o' exposin' you! You be out of this country by to-morrow mornin' or I'll personally see you run out!"

"I resent that!" repeated the man. "I will not allow any man—"

"Get out!"

The gambler looked about him and found no comfort. The crowd, without inspecting the cards, instantly took Satterlee's words; for Satterlee was a blunt and certain man. So the gambler, as white as death and quite shaken, disappeared into the bar. Satterlee growled like an angry bear. "Who invited that sharp to play in this hotel?" Then he saw Jim Chaffee. "I'm goin' home, Jim. You ready to ride?"

"Yeah."

"Meet you here in ten minutes," muttered Satterlee. He cruised through the lobby and to the street. Jim idly followed. What had happened to the gambler? On the porch of the hotel he pondered a moment, shaking his head. Suddenly he sprang to life, running toward the stable where Satterlee had gone for his horse.

"I'm a blamed idiot for leavin' him—"

A shot roared out of the stable's mouth; a shot and a solitary cry. Jim Chaffee raced onward. Men poured into the stable before him. A lantern bobbed through the air. And before he got to the place he heard a single, gruff sentence. It hit him like the impact of a bullet and left him with a sensation of physical sickness.

"Satterlee. He's dead."

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Jim Chaffee's thoughts shot far ahead of the catastrophe; out of the recesses of his mind came pouring all those stray side lights, all those significant gestures and stray words and puzzling circumstances that had caught his attention during the last twenty-four hours in town. Mack Moran raced by him, bound for the stable, gun half raised and crying: "Come on, Jim, we got to get the—" The rest of that sentence was passionately lurid. Yet Jim Chaffee remained rooted. Mystery and vengeance beat heavily along the dark reaches of the stable. Maybe the gambler Clyde had killed Satterlee in the heat of a quarrel but a few moments gone. Maybe, but there were others in Roaring Horse to be accounted for as well. Accounted for now, instantly. He doubled back to the hotel, shouldering roughly through a gathering crowd. He ran across the porch and into the Gold Room. Nobody there; but when he reached the doorway leading to the hotel bar he found the gambler downing a stiff glass of whisky. The man's face was as pale as ivory, and his eyes were wide and brilliant against the light. He shoved the empty glass across the bar, knuckles white with pressure. He was fighting his nerves, Chaffee saw that. And when the gambler discovered Chaffee watching him he threw back his head like some cornered animal.

"Where you been?" challenged Chaffee.

"None of your damn' business!" snapped the gambler. "You're not putting me on any cross!"

"He came in here from the side door like a shot out of a gun," accused the barkeep, heavy and foreboding. "What happened?"

The gambler turned away and went rapidly up a set of stairs leading from the bar to the second story of the hotel.

"You better get that dude now if yuh want him," warned the barkeep.

But Jim Chaffee was already leaving the place. "He'll be there when we want him. He can't get out of the hotel." Down the street he ran, aiming for the Red Mill saloon. Everybody seemed to be collecting in the stable; inside the Red Mill was but one man—the owner.

"Callahan, was Theodorik Perrine in here when that shot was fired?"

The owner shifted a cigar in his mouth and studied Chaffee with a surly regard. "Why should I be tellin' what my customers do?"

"I'm askin' you once more," snapped Chaffee. "Your reputation ain't any too sweet to buck this affair."

"I ain't beholden to you!" cried Callahan. "I ain't beholden to the Stirrup S outfit none whatsoever! You go plumb straight—"

Chaffee smiled bleakly. "I'll give you a last chance. Come across quick or I'll tear this contraption apart. I don't bluff, Callahan! Was Perrine in here when that shot was fired?"

"No," grumbled Callahan.

"Was he here five minutes before the shot was fired?"

"Yes, and I ain't answerin' no more of yore questions, see? I'm protectin' myself."

Jim Chaffee left, crossing to the town's other large saloon, Ruby's Pet. As elsewhere, the place was deserted save for the man behind the bar.

"Was Perrine here when that shot went?" demanded Chaffee.

"No, he wasn't, Jim. A couple of his gang was, though. But they sifted out pritty damn' quick when they heard it. Who's dead?"

Chaffee told him, striding through the swinging doors. Where was Perrine? Earlier in the evemng he had noted the big man's horse, along with those of the rest of that gang, huddled by the Red Mill hitching rack. All were gone now. If they had all left town it had been done hurriedly and quietly. Debating a moment on this he saw a part of the crowd at the stable break away and rush down upon the hotel. He understood the meaning of that and, not exactly sure of his part in this piece of retribution, followed. Every Stirrup S puncher, with a scattering of others, rushed into the place. Mack Moran was issuing orders. "Couple of you boys watch this main stairs. Couple more go back of the place and watch he don't depart thataway. Now—"

The barkeep called through the Gold Room. "He went up thisaway, gents."

The outfit swarmed into the bar and aimed for the stairs. Jim Chaffee reached Moran. "What are you cookin' up now, you blamed fool?"

"What you figger, Jim? He's goin' to swing! He ain't got a Chinaman's chance to get away with it! Don't yuh argue none with me—hell, he's red-handed—"

The foremost men of the Stirrup S outfit were preemptorily halted by a call from above.

"Stay there—don't climb another inch! You're not going to put me on the cross! First man that tries it is going to get killed! You hear that? I didn't shoot Satterlee! I swear I didn't! Don't come any farther!"

It was the gambler, out of sight on the upper landing, yet commanding them by his higher position.

"Cut this out, boys," urged Chaffee. "We ain't so sure he did it. There's others just as likely. He'll go to jail while we get some better dope."

"No, he don't go to no jail," contradicted Mack, so thoroughly enraged that not even the affection he felt for Chaffee would sway him. "Some o' you jaspers go around the front way. He ain't bluffin' me! I'm walking straight up this stair! Lemme through!"

"I'm warning you!" yelled the gambler, voice as shrill as the scrape of a file. "I won't be taken! Where's the sheriff—I want to talk to him."

"Stop this foolishness," said Chaffee. "We don't do no such lynching. We ain't sure."

The calm voice of William Wells Woolfridge came from behind. "Let me through this way, boys. I want to talk to Clyde."

They made a path for him reluctantly. Though the Stirrup S outfit detested Woolfridge for his Eastern airs, his position commanded a certain respect. Mack Moran was not above speaking plainly, however. "It won't do you no good. We're goin' to take him out and leave him cold."

"Let me talk to him," said Woolfridge, never varying the softness of his speech. At the foot of the stairs he called up. "Clyde."

"I won't be taken, Mr. Woolfridge," the gambler answered. The man had the sound of wild desperation about him. "I will not!"

"That's all right, Clyde," said Woolfridge soothingly. "I want to have a talk with you. I'm coming up."