The Third Western Megapack. Johnston McCulley
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to my room. I ain’t goin’ to be present when the fireworks starts.”
“Coward!” Hank hissed at him.
A man came in from the street, and Hank, who had heard a horse stop in front, turned quickly, expecting to see some puncher from a nearby ranch. Instead, he beheld a stranger.
He was a tall, slim man, but with shoulders like a giant. He was dressed as for hard riding. His face was leather colored from exposure, his eyes black and piercing, and he had an uneven mustache. Hank mentally catalogued him as a tough customer.
He glanced over the room and then strode to the bar. Peter Jones, sitting with his back against the wall seemed to give him no attention. The newcomer waved a hand, and Hank set forth bottle and glass. The stranger drank, wiped his lips with the back of a hand, and drew out a six-gun slowly and deliberately.
Then he spoke, and his voice shattered the din. “Where’s the knockkneed, bowlegged son of a lizard that calls himself the Sagebrush Kid?” he demanded.
“Ssh!” Hank cautioned. “He’s sittin’ right over there.”
“Why should I shush?” the newcomer rasped. “I want to see this here Sagebrush Kid I’ve been hearin’ about.”
He whirled and looked around the room. Men had terror in their faces. There could be but one outcome to this—the Sagebrush Kid, alias Peter Jones, would arise from his chair, shoot down this daring one, and then probably start on a rampage because he had been insulted in his own home town.
“Where is he?” the stranger bellowed.
“He—he’s sittin’ right over there,” Hank whispered.
“You!” The stranger indicated Peter Jones with a forefinger. “You get up and step right here to the bar! Stand right here on this spot, you worm!”
In that breathless silence, Peter Jones arose and moved forward slowly. Every instant they expected to see his hand come up spitting flame, to see this daring stranger crumple up on the floor, his life blood ebbing away.
Peter Jones moved across to the bar and went slowly along it. He stood on the spot the stranger had indicated.
“Are you,” demanded the man who had come out of the night, “the misguided hombre who came to this town posin’ as the Sagebrush Kid?”
“Posin’?” Peter Jones asked.
“Posin’—I said it! You the Sagebrush Kid, huh? Why, you knocked down, spavined ape! I’m the Sagebrush Kid, dang your hide! And I’m right here with a gun ready to prove it! I heard rumors about same jasper comin’ here and posin’ as me.”
“W-wait a m-minute!” Peter Jones suggested, appearing to tremble.
Indignation surged into the hearts and brains of the citizens of Rock Castle. So they had been sold, had they? This man who had pretended to be the Sagebrush Kid and had made fools of them! They hoped that the real Sagebrush Kid would shoot him down!
“It—it was only in fun,” stammered Peter Jones. “Are you really the Sagebrush Kid?”
The breast of the outlaw swelled. “I am!”
“Nobody ever saw his face, they say. Maybe—maybe you’re just foolin’ these folks, like I did.”
“What’s that?” the other cried, lifting the gun. “I’m the Sagebrush Kid, all right, and everybody here better believe it!”
Some of the citizens of Rock Castle were creeping furtively toward the door.
“Don’t leave, gents!” the Sagebrush Kid warned. “Stay and see the fun.”
“Only in fun!” Peter Jones repeated. “You—you should have been here. Just ’cause they thought I was the Sagebrush Kid, they fetched and carried for me like good little boys.”
“And I’m prayin’ that this real Sagebrush Kid lets us get our hands on you!” Hank exploded.
“It was fun!” Peter Jones told the Sagebrush Kid. “I chased the Chinaman out of his own restaurant, and made them give me pie for breakfast, and shot out the windows. Just ’cause they thought I was the Sagebrush Kid.”
He touched the outlaw’s vanity. The real Sagebrush Kid roared his raucous laughter.
“I’ve a mind to forgive you,” he told Peter Jones. “Have a drink on the house while I think about it. I reckon the two of us together could just about run this town.”
“Oh, you could do it alone!” assured Peter Jones.
“Hee, hee! What else did you make ’em do?”
“They stepped high and wide and pretty,” said Peter Jones, “just ’cause they thought I was the Sagebrush Kid.” He emphasized that point like a man talking for his very life. “They quivered every time I come near ’em.”
“I’m hopin’ this here Sagebrush Kid don’t kill you, that’s all!” Hank growled. “Kid, you turn this skunk over to us!”
“Why?” the real Sagebrush Kid asked him. “He got away with it, didn’t he? Wasn’t a man with guts around, I reckon. You take another drink, feller, and then we’ll have some fun. I’m feelin’ a mite like bustin’ up this town.”
Peter Jones stepped nearer and filled his glass, being careful to wait until the Sagebrush Kid had taken his amount of liquor.
“Good joke!” the Kid declared. “Here’s how!”
And then Peter Jones did a surprising thing. He dropped his glass, his right hand darted forward—and snatched away the revolver of the Sagebrush Kid, which he had been holding lightly. He sprang backward, covering his man. The Sagebrush Kid choked on his liquor, looked bewildered.
“High up with ’em, and keep ’em there!” Peter Jones commanded. “Sagebrush Kid, are you? All right! I want you, Kid! I’m Peter Jones—real name—new deputy sheriff! You’re goin’ to jail, Kid.”
“You—you—” the Sagebrush Kid was sputtering.
“Only way to get you!” Peter Jones said. He snapped handcuffs on the wrists of the desperado before the Sagebrush Kid could move. “No man ever had seen your face, so you couldn’t be identified. But you walked right into the trap, Mr. Sagebrush Kid! Your curiosity got the best of you; you had to come and see what was goin’ on.”
“You—you—” the bandit mouthed again.
“And so I’ve got you!” Deputy Sheriff Peter Jones said. “We’ll be startin’ for the county seat and jail as soon as the moon’s up.”
Silence for an instant, during which realization came to those in Hank’s Place. Then a bedlam of voices and cheers.
Hank turned to Ike. “I suspicioned it all the time,” he whispered.
Ike looked at his old partner without batting an eyelash.
“I’m a liar too,” Ike said, “but not such a good one!”
THERE AIN’T NO MEN IN HEAVEN, by Gary Lovisi
The stage came in late from Rockville Flats, but that, in and of itself, didn’t mean a heck of a lot out here where time sort of stands still and even the morning sun seems to take its sweet time beginning another day.
No, it wasn’t a big deal that the Overland stage was late again, that was too usual. What was unusual was the man who got off that stage into the dusty dirt street of our little town. I’da sworn I’d seen his features before, a grim-looking shootist who looked like he meant his business and took nothing lightly.
He was dressed in black homespun and leather, with a dark slouch hat and red bandana, black shiny boots with silver spurs, and hanging real easy from a hand-tooled holster was a fancy six-shooter that looked to be rarin’ to get out and be put to use.