Death Waits at Sundown (8 page)

Chapter
Five

B
IG BILL BAILEY,
resplendent in a
sombrero which would have looked small on the Sphinx and generally dressed up
to please the feminine eye, was waiting outside the courthouse when the jailer
loosed Spick Murphy.

Sam Price, still
garbed in the black and the dignity of the court, and Susan were there,
waiting. The loafers from the San Carlos General Store were standing around and
recollecting a time when nothing like this would have been permitted to happen.

Big Bill thought the
moment propitious to sign an armistice with Susan. He had, of course, delivered
blunt testimony in the court against Spick Murphy's character, but that had
been purely in the line of business and a war to Big Bill was over when it was
lost or won.

He approached and
raised his hat courteously, “Mister Price, sir, I wish to congratulate you on
your case. I've heard a lot about how you worked, sir, but it wasn't anything
to the seeing. Even if you did
hornswoggle
that yellow Gila monster's freedom,
I—”

“I might object to the
word,” said Sam with a grin, “but I won't. Thanks, Bailey.”

“Susan,” said Big
Bill, turning, hat still in the air above his head as a sort of umbrella, “may
I invite you to go for a ride this afternoon?”

Susan looked at him
coldly.

“But . . . but I
haven't done anything,” said Big Bill. “I
had
to give that testimony,
didn't I?”

“You almost lost
Father the case and Murphy his life,” said Susan distantly. “I shall thank you,
sir, to stay away from the Pinta.”

“Shore, Susan, you
wouldn't let a filthy
lobo
like Murphy come between
us,
would you? He
ain't worth it, ma'am. Let's forget about it. The fight's fought and you won.
That ought to close the whole deal and call for new cards all around.”

His plea might have
taken effect. He had planned his wording an hour before he had delivered his
speech. But all that labor was lost because, at that moment, Spick Murphy was
ejected from the courthouse by disgusted Sheriff Doyle, who thereafter dusted
his hands and wiped them on his pants.

Spick Murphy looked
very pale after his month in the
hoosegow
. Further, he looked saintly and
repentant. He swept off his hat and bowed so low that the brim touched earth.

“Miss Price,” he said
with feeling, “how can I ever repay you for your kindness. And Mr. Price,
whatever charges you care to make for your services I shall labor for years if
necessary to repay.”

“Hell,” said Sam
Price. “You don't owe me anything, sonny.”

“But,” faltered Spick,
“I heard your fees were enormous. Fifty thousand . . . a hundred thousand . .
.”

“Right. But as I won't
take less and you could never pay it, write it off to experience. Susan, I
think we had better be leaving.”

But she lingered,
looking at repentant Spick Murphy. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don't know,” said
Spick. “No one here would ever give me honest employment and I have no other
home. Perhaps if I wandered to far countries . . .”

“You'll do nothing of
the kind,” said Susan. “You can show your appreciation to my father by helping
him at the ranch. He needs another hand.”

“I what?” said Sam
Price.

“You know you do!”
said Susan.

“I guess I do,”
surrendered Sam.

“I should like nothing
better,” said Spick. “I shall get some of my belongings together and report for
my orders this evening.”

“That will be fine,”
said Susan.

Sam was dragging her
away before anything else happened. Spick stood on the steps and smiled after
them. Big Bill stood with his hat still raised and stared. He had forgotten to
lower his arm. But he remembered now and set his hat back on his head and faced
Spick Murphy.

Big Bill figured out
what he would do and that gave Spick a chance to ease away a foot or two. Big
Bill advanced and again Spick retreated. Abruptly Spick found himself backed up
to the hitch rack. Big Bill's big hand held him there, containing a quantity of
shirt.

Abruptly Spick found himself backed up to the
hitch rack. Big Bill's big hand held him there,
containing a quantity of shirt.

“You wormed yourself
into this,” said Big Bill. “And I can't do what I'd like to do without getting
into trouble with her. But . . .”

Spick was not a coward
by far, but he had the good sense to remain silent and not grin.

“But if I hear of you
misbehaving,” said Big Bill, “I'll track you to hell and back and when I find
you I'll cut off your ears and fry them for breakfast. You got that down pat?”

Spick nodded.

Big Bill released his
shirt and stalked over to his horse and left Spick grinning to himself.

Chapter
Six

S
PICK MURPHY
was received very
badly at first among the punchers of the Pinta spread. Warily they waited for
him to do something which would justify their plea that he be fired.

None of them would
have dreamed of actually treating Spick Murphy with anything but
ginger
courtesy. The man was not armed, visibly, but nobody was willing to take a
chance with a fellow who could and had driven spikes with bullets at thirty
paces.

It was not merely that
Spick Murphy was known to be chain lightning with a gun, it was another quality
which worried these worthy
waddies
.

Spick looked like a
kid in his teens with a cherubic smile always displayed upon his swarthy face
and nothing but kindliness glowing from his Indian black eyes. But
physiognomy
is the most untrustworthy of sciences and the punchers were not fooled as
easily as the naturally impulsive Susan.

They knew that Spick
had grinned like that since the day of his birth, even when he was shooting a
man in the back. Drunk or sober, angry or in the best of humors, free or
jailed, Spick's appearance attested only great camaraderie toward the world.

And that was what made
it so bad. You could never tell when he was really mad or drunk or kill-crazy
and therefore it behooved all those endowed with a love of life to walk easily
where Spick was concerned.

But that did not
prevent the Pinta spread from ignoring him, which they could do collectively
and with little personal danger.

After a few weeks,
however, their antipathy toward him waned and they began to think that his
dangerousness had been greatly overrated. He did those jobs assigned to him
with an ease which made everyone else look clumsy, and did them cheerfully. And
at the fall roundup, he could be found from dawn until dark beside the branding
fire scorching The Paint-Bucket brand into hair and hide. The Pinta punchers
forgot themselves so far as to actually admire the artistic way Spick handled a
running iron
.

It became increasingly
apparent that Spick had taken a turn for the better. He never got
roostered
in
San Carlos, he went far out of his way to avoid fights and his attitude toward
Sam Price and his daughter was something to behold as a model for all respect
and courtesy.

Buster, at first, had
been very diffident about Spick and the wise shook their heads and quoted the
old saw about
“dogs and children.”
But children, after all, are practically
human, and after the roundup, Buster thawed.

This came to a very
moody Big Bill Bailey one crisp evening. Big Bill had come to the Pinta with
lessening frequency, taking the attitude of a policeman dropping around to a
gambling hall he wished he could close.

Buster found Big Bill
leaning against the corral and looked up brightly.

“Gimme your gun,”
ordered Buster.

Big Bill handed it
down.

“Look,” ordered
Buster.

And before he could be
stopped, he had fanned the
hog leg
into the side of the barn, completely
knocking out a knot some two inches in diameter. The kick of the gigantic
weapon had knocked off his small sombrero and now he picked it up and put it
back very solemnly.

“Us gunfighters has
got to practice,” said Buster.

“Who taught you that?”
inquired Big Bill, reloading and looking distrustfully at his former protégé.

“Why, Spick, o'
course. Say, he's a swell shot. I bet he's a better shot than even you. I tell
you, Bill,” added Buster with great gravity, “that guy is hell on wheels and no
brakes when it comes to shootin'.”

Naturally, Big Bill
Bailey did not take very well to the statement. Silently he stared at Buster
and then shoved his gun back in its holster. He wanted very badly to tell
Buster a few pertinent facts but he felt very inadequate to the task.

Miserably Big Bill
crawled his bronc and went away from there.

“I'll tell Sis you was
here!” shouted Buster after him. His little forehead wrinkled in a puzzled
frown. He looked around but could find no elders nearby. Accordingly he spat
into the dust and muttered, “Wonder what the hell's wrong with him?”

He turned then and was
so startled he put daylight between his boots and earth.

Spick had slid around
the end of the barn, his face very calm, a .45 in his hand.

“Whatcha want to scare
me for?” complained Buster.

Spick looked around
and relaxed, shoving the .45 inside his shirt.

“I didn't know you
carried a gun like that, Spick.”

“What was the shooting
about, kid?”

“Aw, I was just
showin' Big Bill Bailey how handy I was with a shootin' iron. And I showed him,
too! Look at the knot over there, partner.”

Spick grinned as he
looked at the 'dobe-lumber side of the structure. The bullet group was very
good indeed, but there was something else causing Spick's grin.

He went back to the
door and looked in and there on the floor, very, very dead, lay a prize milk
cow. Buster's slugs made a very fine pattern under her ear.

“Oh,” whispered
Buster, faintly. “I . . . I better be gettin' out of here, Spick. I . . . I
don't think Sis will like that.”

And when the deed was
discovered several hours later, Susan was not at all pleased. Buster was
ordered to bed without any supper and, adding insult to it, was told he could
not leave said house for a week.

When Susan came out of
the front room and into the dusk, she found Spick sitting on the top step
braiding a rope. He looked at her very disarmingly.

“I wouldn't be too
hard on him, Miss Price. It was my fault. Honest it was.”

“You're trying to
cover him,” accused Susan.

“Well, maybe. But just
the same, Miss Price, it was I that taught him how to shoot like that. And if I
say it myself, I was nine before I could make a group like that. Someday he'll
maybe need that training to protect his own home, his own wife and children.
There's been a lot of men who would be alive today if they had spent a little
more time with a target.”

It was like Spick to
add such a happy, homely note to the affair. He could not now be censored and
told that he was practically inviting Buster to launch himself as a gun terror
in his teens.

“It makes no
difference,” said Susan. “I've talked to Father to try and make him forbid
Buster to touch guns, but it's no use. If Mother were still here,
she
wouldn't
stand for it. I . . . I won't be hard on you about it, Spick. You know all
about such things and you put too high a value on them. But please don't
encourage Buster. It's not that I care anything about a cow, but what if it had
been a man?”

This, naturally, made
very small impression on Spick Murphy. In fact, he could have shown her
definitely that a cow
on the hoof
was worth a lot more than most men, according
to his lights. But he had something else to say.

“I wouldn't have kept
it up, Miss Price, if he hadn't persisted himself. But Big Bill Bailey showed
him a few tricks like the border shift and the
Curly Bill Spin
and the
pinwheel
, but his hands are so small and guns are so heavy, I figured he'd
better not be foolin' with them unless he knew they'd shoot, too. And naturally
when Big Bill Bailey dropped in and wouldn't believe Buster, the kid showed
him—”

“Big Bill was here
today?”

“Yes'm. He was here.
He came cat-footing around. I guess he's trying to keep an eye on me.”

“That's ridiculous,”
said Susan.

“Maybe so, Miss Price,
but Big Bill Bailey has a lot of trouble getting an idea out of his head once
it's stuck there. Hello, there comes Mr. Price from town.”

Sam Price pulled up
the
buckboard
before the porch and threw the reins to Spick. He climbed out,
brushing the dust from his coat and looking very satisfied with himself.

“Father,” said Susan,
“Buster . . .”

“Give them a good
rubdown,” said Sam to Spick. “They've been hitting it up pretty hard. Yes,
Susie? What about Buster?”

He went up the porch
and Susan followed him inside. “He shot at the barn and killed Lulu. He didn't
do it on purpose, really he didn't, and I've already punished him by sending
him to bed and telling him he had to stay in for a week.”

“He what?” said Sam.

“He shot Lulu through
the side of the barn with a revolver. Big Bill dared him to and he did. I've
already punished him. . . .”

“There's no saving the
cow?”

“All six bullets hit
her just under the ear, poor thing. She never made a sound, according to
Buster. I had to tell you because you'd miss Lulu and the boys dragged her out
on the mesa for the coyotes. He didn't mean—”

“How far away was he?”

“Why . . . just over
by the corral.”

“Fifty or sixty feet
anyway,” said Sam. “All six in a small bunch? How big was it?”

“About two inches.
I've already punished him so you needn't—”

“Punish him? Hell,
Susie, what do I care about a cow? Say, that lad is some shot. I wish I could
do that well.”

“But Lulu cost a lot
of money.”

“Money,” scoffed Sam.
“What do I care about money now? As if I didn't have enough already, old
Jameson of Jameson vs. Whitlock—you remember the fees I was to get?—well, old
Jameson died and his trustees discovered that he had faked his books so I
wouldn't get my twenty percent of the settlement. They just shipped the specie
to San Carlos. Damned if I know what to do with it. Buy more land and cattle, I
guess. Can't let two hundred thousand lie around loose.”

“Then you won't punish
Buster? I couldn't stand to have you whip him after I sent him to bed. He's
been punished enough already.”

“If I had my way, I'd
give him a sharpshooter medal. But say, what do you know about old Jameson
faking those books just to cut me out when they settled out of court, huh? He
always was a wily old rat. Wait until . . .”

That was the last
Spick Murphy cared to hear about it. He slipped silently off the porch and, as
quietly as possible, led the team back toward the barn.

And as he rubbed them
down he broke forth into melodious song.