"Owns the Onyx Saloon, dance hall and gambling parlors. Buys up other businesses, cheap, puts his own men in to run 'em. Shelters men who oughter be hung or in the pen—oh, hell!"
"A Mexican friend of mine come through here some time back and was shot at before he left. He said there was a deputy here—"
"Mexican? I ain't surprised. Webster is runnin' 'em out of Onyxton, fast as he can. He don't like 'em. Claims the U.S. Government should go right down and take over the hull country. Damn fool talk! If he only knowed it, he'd realize that Mexicans is part of the backbone of this hull range."
"But the deputy—"
"Deputy? Phaugh!"—disgustedly. "That yellow-spined jellyfish. County sheriff sent him down here to take control. Webster and his bullies had the feller skeered out in two weeks. He never did come back, nor did anybody to take his place. Finally, Webster pulls a real pious face and insists we must have some law here. And he appoints one of his own crew as marshal. The hull business was a farce."
"I should think you'd think twice before making accusations to a stranger."
"Yeah, I probably should, but I reached the point where I just don't give a damn what happens. Sure, I been expectin' trouble, but I ain't a big enough chunk of sand in Webster's ointment to have him set his top men on me—and the lower scuts know I keep my double-barl'd scatter-gun handy. But I ain't no doubt they'll get me in time, if I don't leave. And I'm dam'd if I'll be druv out."
He filled me a second cup of coffee without being asked. We talked a few minutes more, then I paid for my meal and stepped out to the street once more.
Again, I felt the sharp glances as I headed toward the livery stable, not antagonistic—not yet. More like men were wondering just which direction this strange cat intended to jump. It gave me a queer feeling between the shoulderblades, and I began to feel that slow blanket of fear enshrouding me again.
. But what was I to do? I'd come here to avoid the law. I'd have to stay for a spell. I'd be sure to be recognized eventually with all those yellow reward bills fanned out for my scalp. And then I had another thought. The bills had termed me fast with a gun, vicious, a killer. There was a chance I could turn them to my advantage. The average gunman, crook, isn't too smart. Was there any reason why he shouldn't believe all the things said about me? I thought not. So the best thing to do was appear to live up to the reputation I'd been given. So long as I was thought really bad, it might save me a lot of trouble, if I staged some sort of tough act.
I smiled to myself, thinking, can I run a bluff of that sort, bluff others into thinking I'm as bad and gun-fast as my rep? Well, it was worth trying, anyway. In a town like Onyxton, I didn't know what else I could do. But if I were forced into a showdown against some fast gun, it would soon be realized what a sham I was. I made up my mind: until someone stopped me, I was Cardinal—gunslinger!
I reached the livery and looked over my pony. I hadn't any kick on his treatment. I adjusted the stirrup straps, checked the cinch, and tossed a buck to the liveryman.
"Glad to take care of you anytime, Mister—Mister—" he said, as I stepped up to the saddle.
"Name's Cardinal," I said carelessly.
"You expecting to stay with us a spell?"
"I reckon." I'd started to move out of the stable.
"Got a job, eh?"
I checked my pony a moment. "There's always an opening for my kind of work."
"The same bein'?"
I laughed softly. "Where can I find Shel Webster?"
"Down at his place, mebbe. Or mebbe you'll find him lally-gaggin' in the dance hall with Topaz."
Who the devil was Topaz? I wondered. Oh, well, I'd learn in time. I touched spurs to the horse and moved out.
"Say," the livery man called, "What did you say your name was? Cardinal? Is that right? John Cardinal?"
"My friends call me Johnny," I told him.
A broad smile crossed his features. "By Gawd, I allus said you'd be showin' up here, sooner or later. Welcome to Onyxton, Johnny. We've heard a lot about you."
I allowed a certain coldness to enter my voice. "You'll probably hear a lot more before I leave too. I didn't come here to sit on my hands and loaf."
I moved on, out to the street.
IX
Walking the pony along the street, I stopped next at the tierail of the Onyx bar, dropped reins over the rack and stepped up to the sidewalk. I pushed through the batwing doors of the saloon and paused inside a moment to adjust my eyes to the dimmer light. It was a good-sized room, larger than the majority of saloons. There were windows at one wall; a window and door at the back. I glanced toward the long bar. Only a few men were there, all wearing guns. Then I got a shock. Standing at the far end was a girl, all alone. Before her on the bar was a tall glass containing a brown liquid. It wasn't whisky. Looked more like sarsaparilla. For some reason I hoped it was, I don't know why. But, in the brief glance I had, she looked like a nice girl, a beauty in fact. Our eyes didn't even meet and I didn't want to appear too inquisitive. I continued up to the bar and asked the bartender for a bottle of beer. He was a beetle-browed individual with a nasty scar along one cheek. A white apron was tied about his bulging middle. He looked narrowly at me as he set out a bottle and glass.
"Glad to make your acquaintance, stranger," he said, proffering one hairy paw across the bar.
My right hand was on the bottle, so I failed to see his paw.
After a moment he withdrew it, saying, "I'm Turk Hofer."
"That so," I said idly. "When did that happen?"
He stared dumbly. "When did what happen?"
"When did you take over?"
"Wha-what-? I said I'm Turk Hofer."
"Oh, what did you take cover from?"
The barkeep's face grew red. From the far end of the bar I caught what sounded like a giggle. Then he realized he was being kidded. "It's my name. Turk Hofer. Funny, ain't you?" Other men along the bar were snickering now.
"I don't feel funny when I get a bottle of beer warm enough to take a bath in."
Turk Hofer bristled. "Don't you know ice is expensive?"
"So is warm beer, if I pay for it. Which same I don't intend. I like my beer chilled—but not frozen. Understand?"
He glared at me a moment, then removed the warm bottle and replaced it with one dewy on the sides. I could have laughed in his face, but didn't dare, having to maintain the cold, stern attitude. I poured the beer. It was just right.
After a moment, Hofer said, "You didn't give me your name, mister."
I eyed him a moment. "Why waste time telling me what I already know?"
"Well, we like to know who comes here."
I set my bottle on the bar. "Who in hell is 'we'?" I snapped.
He moved back a pace. "Well, we is—well, you see, gents—"
"Never heard of him," I said shortly. "What do you figure you're doing, taking the census?"
Again that giggle from the far end of the bar. I glanced around, but she had her head bent over her drink. Hofer's face was almost purple. "I ain't tryin' to start no argument, but if I don't know your name how can I interduce you to the boys at the bar, so's you can all have a drink friendly-like?"
I fixed him with an icy stare. "What gives you an idea I want to meet any boys—or men, either?"
He started to splutter and a couple of men farther along the bar began to look belligerent. At that moment the livery stable man came slithering in, hurried up to one of the "boys" at the bar, and went scurrying out again, nodded to me as he passed. The men at the bar gathered closer, and I noted that the belligerent looks had disappeared. Well, the town was beginning to learn who I was, anyway.
I turned my back on Hofer and strode across the room to a big blackboard nailed to the wall. On it were fixed hundreds of "Wanted" bills, offering rewards for outlaws, some tacked over others, many fly-specked, tattered and soiled. I mused it was only natural that Onyxton would want to keep track of wanted men. My gaze ran quickly over the collection, seeing several bearing my own name. Spotting the one offering the reward for the capture of John Cardinal, for the murdering of Deputy U.S. Marshal Webb Jordan, I reached up and tore it from its fastenings.