Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

"It favors me in most things," agreed Manners casually. "But why didn't you make a struggle for it?"

"Never spend my strength on a losing fight," drawled Charterhouse, reaching around for a free-lunch sandwich.

"To fight another day, eh?" suggested Manners and studied his opponent with an increased attention. "That's not a bad way of looking at things. Well—"

The saloon was stunned by the roar of a revolver at the very doors. A thick yell smashed over the plaza, a man cried for help dismally. Another gun spoke, splintering the saloon's upper wall and then Angels was trembling as the two factions raced for shelter, and the burst of bullets grew. Standing in front of the crowd within Studd's, Clint saw the sweeping reaction, a paling, a darkening, a contraction of faces. John Nickum started for the door, but Buck Manners pushed him aside.

"Stay put, John. I'm the only neutral in the place. You buzzards in here stay humble. This is only some private quarrel that's exciting a few other damn fools. I'll settle it—" His long frame dived through the door and Charter-house heard a sharp, staccato order whip all around the plaza.

"Stop this nonsense! Drop those guns, you skittish fools! Can't a couple fellows stage a fight without drawing in the whole of Casabella county? Cut it out—cut it out! You, yonder by the water trough, pull down that piece. If I take a hand in this, somebody's going to drop. All hands come out of shelter."

John Nickum was planted in front of the exit, fire flashing beneath his bushy brows, cowing the saloon bunch to uneasy silence. A last shot cracked across the plaza and silence fell. Nickum spoke grimly. "Box M, get to your horses. I have given my word we will ride peacefully out of town today. But I want this county to know that if war is the desire of certain elements, war is what they shall have! Outside, Box M!"

Nickum's men pushed eagerly through the doors, leaving a handful of strangely quiet loungers behind. Nero Studd's single, flat tones struck clear through the long room. "Everybody humble. I want no guns drawn in my establishment. The man who violates that rule answers personally to me. Sit down, Flake, and finish your drink."

Charterhouse, holding half a sandwich in one hand, passed out of the place and stopped on the walk. Somebody was cursing Box M with a lurid violence back there and was in turn cursed into meekness by Studd. The plaza was alive with milling men; gunpowder swirled down the porches and a few paces off a man rolled awkwardly into the hot sun and emitted a strangled cry. Nobody paid him the least attention as he drew his last breath and died. Nickum was bellowing at his followers; Box M swung into a semimilitary column, watchfully quiet. Buck Manners galloped past the saloon leading a riderless horse which he led to an adjacent store. A girl stepped out, laden with packages; Manners bent over to take them, smiling at her and receiving some sober reply; then she was up on her horse with one graceful move and the cavalcade moved away, leaving Angels in a haze of dust and with the taint of blood.

Standing there, soberly thoughtful, Charterhouse was conscious that an element of strength had left the town, leaving it the worse for company. The men now moving restlessly toward the dead individual were not of the same clean-cut class at all, their faces belonged to a type Charterhouse had seen too often not to recognize. A loud, bitter prophecy came down the street to him. "They got Neal, damn 'em! It was the fool's own fault for trying to wash his dirty rags on a day like this! But they got him—they fired the first shot—and it ain't going to be the last by a hell of a lot! Where's Shander, where's Studd?"

A ffimsy man with weak, stooping shoulders came along toward the saloon and somebody spoke his name. "Shander—say, Shander, come over here!" But the man said, "Shut up!" and cast a black glance at Charterhouse. The next moment he was inside Studd's. Charterhouse ambled across the plaza, stopping at the water trough to wash down the last of the sandwich. Going into the grateful coolness, he went for his horse. The stall was empty and his saddle and gear missing from the pegs.

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Clint's first reaction was to race for the back way, flash a glance into an empty corral and sweep the level land in all directions. Nothing to be seen. Galloping back to the street, he let his eyes roam along all the horses in the plaza. The stable roustabout was just limping over from the saloon, dull face twitching with excitement. He stiffened when Charterhouses's hard challenge hit him.

"Where's my horse and gear? You been fiddling with something that don't belong to you?"

The roustabout was plainly startled. He broke into a trot and passed Charterhouse to spot the vacant stall. "Oh, gosh 'lmighty! Right from under my nose! Mister, I wasn't gone more'n a minute—right after the shooting! Say, look in the street. Somebody's playing a little joke on you."

"The joke ain't on me," Charterhouse grunted, boiling angry. "You've only been gone a minute, is that it? Then my outfit is somewheres around Angels. If I've got to tear this joint apart—"

"I wonder," began the roustabout, then clicked his teeth together. He shrugged his shoulders, pointing to a sign overhead: ALL PROPERTY LEFT HERE AT OWNER'S RISK. "Too bad, mister. But there's been a powerful crowd in Angels today. I'm sorry I was away, but it wouldn't 'a' done me no good if I was here. If a fellow had wanted that horse, he could of took it and told me to butt out. Pm only working here."

"Who owns this joint?"

"Studd."

Studd and Shander were crossing the plaza at that particular moment, deep in talk. Charterhouse waited until they reached the walk and then addressed the saloonkeeper curtly. "You may not be responsible, Studd, but that don't help me. Somebody's made off with around five hundred dollars of my horseflesh and gear. What do you aim to do about it?"

Studd jerked up his head in surprise. "Stole a horse from my stable? Like hell! Corbin—where was you?"

"I only left the place a minute to get me a snifter," said the roustabout sullenly. "I guess I got that right, when I work sixteen hours a day."

Studd pushed the man aside and walked in. Shander's brilliant eyes skimmed over Charterhouse. "You the fellow old Nickum talked uncivil to?"

"What of it?" retorted Charterhouse. "What's that got to do with my horse?"

"Nothing or everything," rasped Shander. He looked like a man physically ill; and in truth his skinny body was nothing but a shell. Joints showed through his loose clothing, his pigeon shoulders were too small for his head. The very brightness of his eyes seemed unhealthy. "Nothing or everything. You'll learn a lot if you stay around Casabella much."

"I'll stay till I find that horse, you just lay a bet on that," stated Charterhouse bluntly. Nero Studd came back in time to hear it, and he nodded.

"I don't blame you a bit. That horse made a pretty sight. Saw him myself."

"Well, what do you aim to do about it?" pressed Charterhouse.

Studd assumed an inscrutable air and looked at Shan-der. Charterhouse thought some kind of signal passed between them, though there was nothing definite about it. Then the saloonkeeper turned to inspect this tall man of the range more thoroughly.

"I can't replace your outfit. But I'll give you a good pony and good leather to sashay around and see can you find any trace of the thief. If you ain't lucky, I'll stand responsible for the difference in price. How's that?"

"Get me an outfit. I'm going to move. Won't be the first time I've trailed. I'll find my rig if I have to settle down and raise a family in Casabella."

Studd shifted to the roustabout. "Get the bay, Corbin, and my best leather. Hustle along, the gent wants to ride. Hell of it is there won't be no tracks to do you any good, Charterhouse. Ground's all muffled up with men coming and going today. Damned if I ain't sorry."