The Third Western Megapack. Johnston McCulley
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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.”
“Uh-huh!” Hank grunted.
“I don’t like the way you said that, Hank,” Mr. Jones observed. “Don’t you go to gettin’ me mad at you, Hank. I ain’t tasted blood for ten or twelve days, and I’m gettin’ thirsty.”
He turned his back to the bar and surveyed the room. And at once his gun was out and had spat flame. The bullet whistled past the head of the piano player and buried itself in the wall. The piano player went through the nearest open window.
“Whoopee! I feel a wolfin’ spell comin’ on!” Peter Jones yelled. “Anybody want fight a lil’ duel?”
There were no takers. Peter Jones shot out a window, smashed a couple of bottles with bullets, and calmly reloaded and purchased a drink. He gambled, and he won. He defied any man there present to dance with one of the girls, especially Juanita, though he would not dance with them himself. He even crossed to the other side of the partition and plagued Ike until that worthy was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Three men of the range wandered in at a late hour, received a hostile reception, and went forth again to ride back to their ranch and spread the news that the Sagebrush Kid had taken up his residence in Rock Castle and was terrorizing the town. That information already had been spread by others, including the stage driver. But the sheriff had not come to make an investigation, nor did he send a deputy.
Peter Jones continued to rule the town until almost dawn, when he barricaded himself in his room and fell into a deep sleep.
* * * *