The Third Western Megapack Read online

  “Letter—letter!” Ike gasped. “Got a letter!”

  “Uh-huh!” Hank sneered. “Don’t you get half a dozen every year? What you riled about? Somebody left you a million? That old claim of yourn suddenly assayin’ fifty thousand to the ton?”

  Ike Cumway gulped and looked at those about him. He seemed to calm down somewhat. “It—it’s from the Sagebrush Kid!” he said.

  There was a moment of silence while all the men there glanced at one another in sudden fear and wonder. The Sagebrush Kid! The outlaw was a countryside terror who laughed at every sheriff! He worked alone always, helped himself to mine payrolls and gold shipments, stuck up a bank or a store now and then, and occasionally an entire town by way of a lark. The Sagebrush Kid, who was said to kill wantonly and unnecessarily, and laugh when he did it.

  “You—you read it, Hank!” Ike gasped.

  His trembling fingers pushed the dirty note across the slippery bar. Hank picked it up gingerly, and read it aloud.

  Postmaster, Rock Castle:

  It’s time that the undersigned had a regular home town. I’m sick of livin’ out in the hills with the coyotes and snakes and prairie dogs. So I reckon to make Rock Castle my home. A castle needs a king, I reckon. If I make it my home, naturally I won’t bother the citizens any, seein’ as how they’ll be my neighbors. And I’m expectin’ the said citizens to be brothers to me, too. I reckon you jaspers will understand. I’ll drop in soon, and I’ll call myself Peter Jones.

  The Sagebrush Kid.

  “Godfrey!” Hank cried. “He’s goin’ to make this his home town!”

  “Maybe we’d better send word to the sheriff,” one of the citizens put in.

  “Are you aimin’ to pass out spectacular?” Hank sneered. “Send word to the sheriff, huh? Think he’ll keep a posse here all the time? And after he takes it away, this here Sagebrush Kid will come into town and have his revenge!”

  “What’s to be done, Hank?” Ike asked.

  “Nothin’!”

  “Nothin’?”

  “You’ heard me—nothin’,” Hank responded. “We can’t stop this Sagebrush Kid from makin’ his home here, can we? Reckon that he knows it’s pretty safe, away down here in the corner of the county, with the sheriff not knowin’ that we’re on earth except at tax time. They’d never look for the Kid here.”

  “Then you’re in favor—” Ike commenced.

  “I’m in favor of us simply makin’ him welcome as a new citizen and ’tendin’ to our own business and allowin’ him to ’tend to his,” Hank said. “Dang you jaspers, ain’t you got any sense? Officially, we don’t know that the gent is the Sagebrush Kid. We know him as Peter Jones—Pete for short. That’s what we’ll tell the sheriff if he ever comes snoopin’ around. We don’t have to go out and help the Sagebrush Kid hold up anybody. He always does his work alone, I’ve heard tell.”

  “Yeh, and he does it up brown!” Ike quavered. “He—he’s a desperate character. We want to be mighty all-fired careful not to cross him any way.”

  “Ike, you’ve said somethin’ for once,” Hank informed him. “Yep, we want to be mighty careful not to offend the jasper. If he wants pie for his breakfast, he can have it. Gosh a’mighty! Ever get him started, he might wreck the town. Ike and me have got money invested here, an’ I don’t aim to be pauperized.”

  * * * *

  Every dust cloud that appeared on one of the trails that led to Rock Castle was the cause of speculation during the next two days. But each dust cloud resolved itself into some well known cowpuncher coming to town for a frolic, or a rancher after supplies. The Sagebrush Kid was the center of none of them.

  But a stranger finally did come into town after dusk the third day. He was tall, young, slim, knew how to ride a horse, and wore his six-gun in a knowing manner. His jaw looked lean and tough, and his eyes were gray and hard as steel.

  He dismounted at the corral behind the livery stable, removed saddle and bridle, and turned his mount inside. Then he faced the stable owner.

  “I want these things of mine kept ready and carefully,” he said, in a voice that seemed to cut. “Any time I want that saddle and bridle, I expect to find ’em right here by the door.”

  “Yeh!” the stable man said.

  “And I’m in the habit of havin’ my hoss taken care of a bit extra. Understand?”

  “I getcha! You won’t have anything to kick about.”

  “I hope not!” said the new arrival, fondling the butt of his six-gun. “My name’s Jones—Peter Jones!”

  “Uh-huh! Glad to meetcha!” said the stable owner. “Oh yeah, Mister Jones! Hope you like the town.”

  “I hope so,” said Peter Jones. He said it in a tone that seemed to mean he doubted it.

  He strolled out into the street and rolled and lit a cigarette. Then he walked slowly through the swirling dust and sand until he came to Hank’s Place, where he entered.

  Hank was on duty with another man behind the bar. A dozen customers were standing in front of it. A dozen more were gambling in a listless manner. The piano player was thumping the keys of his battered instrument, and a couple of dancehall girls were fooling around as though wishing things would liven up.

  Hank glanced toward the door as the stranger entered, gulped, and failed to finish what he had been saying. The newcomer stepped up to the bar, pulling off his gloves, and swept the room and its occupants with a glance that made men quail. Then he faced Hank.

  “Some of the stuff!” he commanded. “Let it be the best you’ve got, which probably’ll be bad enough. My name’s Peter Jones!”

  His voice carried all over the room, and there was instant silence. Peter Jones! The Sagebrush Kid, latest regular citizen of Rock Castle, had arrived in his adopted home town!

  No man had ever seen the face of the Sagebrush Kid knowing him to be such, for he always had worked alone and always masked. But this man had announced that he was Peter Jones. And had that not been enough, his appearance was.

  Peter Jones seemed to radiate hostility, and those nearest him shivered and drew away as speedily as possible, but not so swiftly that the stranger could take offense. He snapped his words, and his eyes were rather disconcerting.

  “Call up the crowd!” commanded Peter Jones. “Gents, name your poison! I’m figurin’ on makin’ my home in this town, and I want to get acquainted. Maybe I’ll want a few changes made around here, too.”

  He saluted them and tossed off his drink, then turned and surveyed the room. “You ought to make that piano player snap up a little,” he observed.

  The piano player needed no further urging. He bent over the keys, his fingers flew, and there was a horrible fear in his heart. He had remembered of hearing that once the Sagebrush Kid, angered at a piano player, had shot off a few fingers belonging to the musician.

  “Them all the dancehall girls you got?” Peter Jones asked.

  “We’ve got another—Juanita, half Mex,” Hank explained. “She’ll be here in a few minutes, I reckon. You have one on the house now, stranger.”

  Peter Jones whirled to confront him. “Stranger?” he howled. “Is that the way this here town regards me?”

  “I—I mean Mister Jones,” Hank sputtered.

  “And that don’t go either. I’m a regular feller here, one of the boys, or else I don’t care a dang for the town and may get plumb hostile! Either way suits me. If we’re goin’ to get along, you jaspers got to call me Pete.”

  “All right—Pete,” Hank gulped.

  “That’s a lot better. Now, I want a room to sleep in and a place to eat.”

  “I’ve got a dandy room in the back,” Hank explained. “I had the Chinaman sweep it out yesterday. Another Chinaman runs a restaurant right across the street, and he’s a good cook when he’s made to be.”

  �
�Uh-huh!” growled Peter Jones. “I reckon that he’ll be made to be. I’m right darn particular about my vittles.”

  He swaggered away from the bar and made the rounds of the gambling games, but took no part. Every time he glanced at the piano player, that individual coaxed added harmony from the old piano. He glanced at the two girls and curled his lip in scorn.

  And then Juanita came into the big room.

  Juanita, half Mexican, eighteen, man-wise as ever it was given a woman to be, was an alluring picture. Peter Jones walked toward her, and she stood beside a table waiting, though pretending to ignore his presence. Peter Jones looked her up and down.

  “You’re not so bad, Juanita,” he admitted. “Order a bottle and I’ll pay. Then we’ll dance.”

  This was the start of rather a mild evening. Mr. Jones drank a bit, danced a few times, watched the games, yawned, and presently retired.

  “He’s probably been ridin’ far and hard today,” Hank said to those assembled. “Wait till he gets rested up. He’s a lot easier to get along with than I thought he’d be—calm before the storm, maybe.”

  * * * *

  Arising shortly after dawn the following morning, Peter Jones went to the restaurant and ordered his breakfast. It appeared that the eggs were underdone and the hot cakes tough. Whereupon Mr. Peter Jones held speech with the Chinese cook; that is, he made the speech and the cook did the listening. Then Mr. Jones perforated the ceiling of the kitchen with a slug from his six-gun. Two citizens overtook the cook a mile down the trail and brought him back.

  The morning was spent by the newcomer to Rock Castle in the general store, where a shivering Ike scarcely could take his eyes from the unwelcome guest. Yet Ike really had no complaint. Mr. Jones purchased a couple of shirts and a pair of pants and paid for them with cash.

  That night, after supping in state at the Chinaman’s, Peter Jones repaired to Hank’s Place. He entered it with his right hand swinging dangerously near the holster at his side, and his eyes narrow.

  Half a dozen cowpunchers had come to town from the range, and Peter Jones located them at once. He looked them over, glared at them, and then turned his back. One of the cowpunchers had moved to dance with the fair Juanita, but he did not do so after meeting Peter Jones’ eyes.

  Peter Jones played poker, and he won from men who threw down excellent hands and were afraid to quit the game. He played faro, and for some reason he won at that, too. He danced with Juanita and complained that she was old and stiff, and Juanita smiled from a white face and said nothing.

  It was patent that Peter Jones did as he pleased and that no man contested his right to do so. He went to his room that night at two in the morning, and Hank and Ike and the others drew deep breaths of relief and took liquor as medicine instead of to be convivial.

  “It ain’t goin’ to be any cinch, havin’ this Sagebrush Kid a regular citizen of this here town,” Hank opined. “Them boys from the Triple B outfit would have stayed here three days and killed their month’s pay, but they got scared and went home again plumb sudden.”

  “Makes me shiver every time he comes near,” Ike admitted. “I get to rememberin’ how many men he’s potted just for the fun of the thing. Every time he makes a move, I think he’s goin’ for his gun.”

  “Half a dozen men wanted to dance with Juanita, and was afraid to do it,” Hank complained. “Juanita always makes ’em buy wine. I’m losin’ trade.”

  “And I had to toss down an ace full, fearin’ to call him,” one of the punchers said.

  “Alle same want flesh apple pie for bleakfast,” complained the Chinese cook from across the street.

  “And I’m feedin’ his hoss handpicked oats and shiverin’ all the time,” declared the owner of the stable and corral.

  “He ain’t started yet,” Hank put in. “He’s only just gettin’ acquainted, he told me. Tomorrow he’ll be livelier!”

  Hank’s prediction proved true. Peter Jones emerged from his room the following morning like a new man. There was a glitter in his eyes, and he swaggered with a surplus of energy. “Mornin’,” he snarled at Hank. “I’m feelin’ pretty fit today. Just remembered when I was washin’ my face that I ain’t had any target practice lately. And I want hot water in the mornin’s, after this.”

  “Sure, Mister Jones,” Hank replied.

  “What’s that?”

  “I meant Pete,” Hank said.

  “I don’t like forgetful folks around me,” Peter Jones observed. “They make my trigger finger itch! You just remember that my name’s Pete.”

  “Yeh!” Hank said, trying to act naturally.

  Peter Jones glared at him and went across the street. Ten minutes later there was a fusillade of shots and the Chinese restaurant man dashed into the thoroughfare and ran toward the corral. He was followed at a short distance by the cook, who headed in the other direction. Peter Jones ate his breakfast alone.

  * * * *

  Later he came forth into the street himself, picking his teeth nonchalantly. Nobody was in the street, but eyes were watching him from behind cover. Absently he drew his trusty six-gun and fired five shots in rapid succession. His first struck an empty tin can and spun it about; the other four sent it bounding headlong down the street.

  “Some shootin’!” Hank gasped.

  “That ain’t nothin’ to what he can do, if reports are correct,” Ike observed. “He’s about due for a rampage, that hombre! Me, I’m goin’ to watch my words and actions this day.”

  Peter Jones reloaded once more and sauntered to Hank’s Place. Observing his advance, the habitues had departed softly, like shadows. Hank remained alone to face the terror.

  Mr. Jones drank and made a wry face. “I want some better liquor, and I want it by tomorrow night!” he said. “You’d better send out by the stage and get some. And while we’re talkin’, let me give you a little tip. You’re about the boss of this town, Hank, and what you say goes, so I’m holdin’ you responsible. If news of me bein’ in Rock Castle gets out, and that sheriff comes pesterin’ around, I’ll handle this town rough for betrayin’ me. And I’ll start on you!”

  Hank grew pale and struggled for breath. “I—I’ll do all that I can to keep it quiet, Pete,” he explained. “But them cowboys from the Triple B might tell. They was right down sore because you spoiled their fun.”

  “They’re right down lucky that I didn’t spoil anything else for them,” Peter Jones informed him. “I never did like cowpunchers much, or miners, or stage drivers, or gamblers, or even storekeepers and bar owners! I don’t like anybody much!”

  Peter Jones thereupon departed. A watching population saw him walk to the end of the street and look long and earnestly toward the distant hills.

  “That jasper’s plannin’ somethin’,” said Hank to Ike.

  “Uh-huh!” Ike grunted. “Me, I don’t care what he does so long as he don’t do it in Rock Castle. If he’d try a holdup and get plugged for keeps, I wouldn’t grieve none.”

  “Get plugged for keeps!” Hank snorted. “Didn’t that mine guard shoot at him pointblank a month ago and never make a dent in him? I’m right down sorry he ever came to this town.”

  “What we goin’ to do about it?” Ike implored. “We don’t dare go gunnin’ for him.”

  “I reckon not. All he wants is an excuse to start wolfin’.”

  “What can we do?” Ike mourned.

  “I reckon that the only thing that’d be beneficial,” Hank retorted, “would be prayer. And from the life you’ve led, Ike, I don’t guess your prayers would get immediate attention and action at headquarters.”

  The discussion ended abruptly; Peter Jones was indulging in marksmanship again. It appeared that he was coming back along the street, shooting as he came. He never fired the sixth shot, it was noticed—always saved that one to use in case
of dire necessity. And he reloaded frequently.

  Standing in the middle of the street, he shot out the windows of the store, while Ike growled in horror.

  “Dang his hide!” said Ike. “I’ll have to send to the county seat for more glass, and I’ll have to board up the windows while I’m waitin’.”

  “You’d better board ’em all up and keep ’em boarded,” Hank told him. “My good gosh! He’s comin’ in here again.”

  Ike faded through the gap in the partition, and the others did the same, leaving Hank alone again. Mr. Jones came in from the street and walked up to the bar, motioning for the bottle behind it.

  “I’ve got to see Ike, Hank, and pay him for them windows,” Peter Jones said. “I don’t do any damage in my own home town without payin’ for it. ’Twouldn’t be right! But I naturally got to shoot out a shiny window when I see one. I’m marked thataway, I reckon. Never could help it. A shiny window to me is like a red rag to a bull.”

  “Ike’s winders ain’t ever any too shiny, Pete,” Hank told him. “If you took a shot at every flyspeck on ’em you’d sure use up some ammunition.”

  Peter Jones suddenly looked malevolent. “I don’t like jokes and funny sayin’s,” he announced.

  “Uh! Uh!” Hank gulped.

  Peter Jones remained there for a time and then departed again. He got his horse and rode up toward the hills. He did not return until dusk.

  “Plannin’ some depredation,” Hank declared to Ike. “He’s got fire in his eye.”

  “Reckon any of the boys’ll take a chance tryin’ to plug him?” Ike asked.

  “Would you?” Hank demanded. There could be only one answer to that.

  After supper that evening Mr. Jones walked in from the street, picking his teeth again, and sauntered to the bar. “You know where you can get a good cook, Hank?” he asked. “I don’t like to deprive my feller citizens of food, or me either; but I’m goin’ to shoot that Chinaman cook day after tomorrow. You’d better get a line on a new cook.”