Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933)

 
          
“Too
many strangers, that’s the trouble in this here one-eyed burg.”

 
          
The
hoarse, sneering voice rang out like a challenge, which indeed it was, and the
speaker’s bloodshot, savage glare roamed round the room as though daring those
present to refute his statement. He was a big fellow, blue-shirted, with
trousers stuffed into the tops of his high boots, and he wore two guns; a
slouched hat partly shaded his bloated, unshaven face. A deepening scowl
further detracted from his looks when the continued hum of conversation showed
that his remark was being ignored, and the beady eyes glinted evilly. So that
was it, huh?

 
          
Well,
he’d let them see that someone had to sit up and take notice when “Pug” Parsons
spoke.

 
          
Though
it was yet afternoon, the bar of the Palace Saloon was fairly well patronized,
and the crowd was typical of the Western frontier settlements of that day:
tradesmen, teamsters, riders from the neighboring ranches, gamblers, a few
Mexicans, and a leavening of hard-bitten citizens into whose means of
livelihood it would not have been wise to probe. Most of these Parsons knew by
sight at least, but there was one whom he had not seen before. Still in his
early twenties, slim of hip and broad of shoulder, the stranger leant against
the bar with the easy pose of the athlete. His cowboy rig, though worn, was
neat, his shirt and the silk handkerchief slung round his neck were clean, and
the grey “two-gallon” Stetson pushed back on his head was nearly new. He also
sported two guns, the ends of the holsters tied with rawhide strings to his
leathern chaps. His lean, shaven, deeply-bronzed face and black hair gave him
almost the appearance of an Indian, but the high cheekbones were missing and
there was a quirk of humor about the grim mouth which softened the out-thrust
of jaw and level, grayish-blue eyes. Parsons absorbed these details and came to
his own conclusion.

 
          
“Dude
puncher, tryin’ to put up a two-gun bluff,” he muttered. “Reckon I’ll call it.”
He turned to the proprietor of the place. “Who’s the yearlin’?” he asked, with
a nod towards the unconscious cowboy.

 
          
The
saloon-keeper, a short, stout man of middle age, with a pleasant but weak face,
looked in the direction indicated. “New to me,” he said. “Rid into town
‘s’afternoon.” Then, divining what was in the other’s mind, “Aw, leave the boy
be, Pug; he ain’t doin’ no harm. Looks as if he mightn’t be too easy rode
neither, an’ I don’t want
no
trouble here now I got
them new glasses.”

 
          
He
glanced pridefully at the three gaudy, gilt-framed mirrors decorating the back
of the bar. His warning precipitated the calamity it was designed to prevent.
The big man’s face bacame suffused with passion. Snatching out a gun, he fired
point-blank at the centre mirror, defacing its shining surface with a great
jagged star and bringing down a clatter of broken glass.

 
          
“That
for yu an’ yore damn mirrors,” he snarled. “Mebbe it’ll larn yu that we ain’t
goin’ to drink cheap liquor so’s yu can admire yoreself. Another yap outa yu
an’ I’ll serve the other two the same an’ close yore joint.”

 
          
The
saloon-keeper dared not reply—he knew the threat was no vain one. The gunman
had only to let it be known that to drink at the Palace would be to incur his
displeasure, and few in the town would run the risk; there were other saloons.
Parsons swung about, his fierce gaze travelling over the company and finally
resting on the indifferent figure by the bar.

 
          
“Hey,
stranger!” he called.

 
          
The
cowpuncher looked up. “Speakin’ to me?” he asked quietly.

 
          
“Shore
I am,” the other roared. “Ain’t yu the on’y stranger here?”

 
          
“Can’t
say,” the cowboy replied, adding with a ghost of a smile, “
yu
see, they’s all strangers to me.”

 
          
Someone
sniggered, and Parsons, suspecting he was being made fun of, growled out an
oath.

 
          
“Don’t
git festive with me, fella,” he warned. “It ain’t considered wise. What yu
smash that mirror for, huh?”

 
          
This
astounding accusation was followed by a silence broken only by little
scufflings as men unobtrusively slid out of the possible line of fire; with Pug
on the warpath, it behoved the bystander to take precautions; usually the brute
got away with his bullying, but this time…

 
          
“‘Pears
to me Parsons may’ve picked the wrong man—that boy looks a plenty cold
proposition,” a poker player whispered to a neighbour.

 
          
“If
he downs Pug this yer town won’t go inta mournin’,” was the reply. “‘Bout
time
that big bear had his claws cut.”

 
          
The
subject of the conversation still lounged carelessly against the bar, a smile
on his mobile lips, but there was no humour in the cold, narrowed eyes.

 
          
“So
I busted her?” he said softly. “Well, what yu aimin’ to do about it?”

 
          
The
bully’s lips wreathed in a hateful sneer—it was going to be easy. Though not
drunk, he had swallowed enough raw spirit to blunt his perceptive faculties, or
he would not have come to this decision; his victim’s demeanour was not that of
a scared man.

 
          
“I’m
aimin’ to make yu pay for it, but first yu’ll entertain the company with a li’l
dance,”

 
          
Parsons
said. “Step lively,
yu ”
The word was not a pretty
one, and the bullet which followed it tore a splinter from the floor close to
the puncher’s right foot. “The next one takes a toe,” the gunman warned, and
fired again.

 
          
But
even as he pressed the trigger the cowboy had moved, a swift jump forward to
the right, and then his left foot swept up and kicked the loosely-held weapon
from the marksman’s fingers. Recovering his balance, the stranger stepped in
and drove a fist, with all the impetus of his advancing body, to the bully’s
jaw. For an instant the stricken man rocked on his heels, and then crashed to
the floor, where he
lay
mouthing curses and clawing
for his other gun.

 
          
“Don’t
yu,” the puncher rasped. “I’m showin’ yu why.”

 
          
He
flipped a silver dollar away from him and by the time it tinkled on the boards
both his guns were out and spouting flame. The first bullet struck the edge of
the coin, spinning it in the air again, the second drove it down, and the third
jumped it a yard further away. Ten shots in as many seconds were fired, and
each time the winking target was fairly hit. Then the puncher thrust his
weapons back into their holsters and looked contemptuously at the prostrate
man.

 
          
“Here
endeth the first lesson,” he said. “
yu
can stand up on
yore hind legs again. There’s two pills left in my guns, case yu got any
ideas.”

 
          
Parsons
scrambled slowly to his feet; the blood seemed to have drained from his face,
leaving it a yellowish white —a fish-belly white, unwholesome, repulsive. Out
of it his malignant little eyes watched the smoke-wreathed wizard who had
sardonically invited him to die. For he knew it meant just that, and for the
first time in his life, he, Pug Parsons, who had watched men cringe before his
levelled gun and had shot them down with a jeer, was conscious of abject
physical fear. He had only one desire—to save his life. A little cough broke
the tense silence and Parsons jumped; his nerve had gone.

 
          
“`Li’l
think-box
don’t
seem to be workin’,” the stranger said
mockingly, and then, in a different tone, “I’m givin’ yu thirty minutes to
leave town.” He looked at the landlord. “How much that mirror cost yu?”

 
          
“She
set me back one hundred bucks,” was the reply. The puncher turned to Parsons.

 
          
“Ante
up,” he said curtly.

 
          
The
gunman moistened his parched lips. “I ain’t got—” he began.

 
          
“Yu
took three hundred from a pilgrim in this room las’ night,” the saloon-keeper
cut in.

 
          
“Ante
up,” the puncher repeated, and there was a deadly finality in his voice.

 
          
Parsons
pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, and, with fumbling fingers, peeled off
several and flung them on the bar.

 
          
“Better
count ‘em,” he said, with a poor attempt at bravado.

 
          
“Betche
life,” the landlord retorted, and did so. “All correct,” he added.

 
          
The
puncher looked at the man he had worsted. “Yu got twenty minutes left,” he
said.

 
          
“Make
good use of ‘em, or yu’ll be takin’ part in a funeral—the leadin’ part.
Sabe?”

 
          
Like
a whipped hound the ruffian slunk out of the saloon, and the onlookers stirred
to action again. The owner of the place put the matter plainly.

 
          
“Stranger,
I reckon this town is mighty obliged to yu,” he said. “That fella has been a
blister on it for months—he’s killed two men an’ crippled four-five others. Oh,
he can use his guns pretty nifty, but he’d have to start the day afore to beat
yu.” One of the men had picked up the battered dollar and was examining it. The
landlord called to him: “Pass that over, Timms.” He turned to the owner of the
coin. “This buys drinks for the crowd if yo’re willin’, friend,” he said.

 
          
“Set
‘em up,” the puncher smiled.

 
          
The
saloon-keeper sent bottles and glasses spinning along the bar in front of the
lined-up customers, and then drove a nail through the defaced coin, fastening
it to the edge of a shelf.

 
          
“I
guess I’ll git some questions ‘bout that,” he remarked. “Folk’ll think
it’s
bad money, but it ain’t—it’s good money, the best I
ever see. What’s more, I want yu gents to remember that this yer saloon has got
a new name—she’s `The Shot Dollar’ from now on, an’ yu’ll drink with me on
that.”