Gun play

He leaned against the door-jamb for a moment, surveying the party within--a handsome youth, but with a thin-lipped mouth given too readily to sneering. His eye, the cool, keen gray eye of the killer, never opened very widely, turned but little, yet saw everything.

“Hello, Sam, yo’ old polecat!” he greeted the man behind the counter. “Rustle me a quart of moonshine. And good stuff, too, or I’ll come back and brand yo’.”

Sam Turner smiled nervously. Everybody in Rodeo and vicinity knew the lunch-counter as only a mask for his real occupation, which was selling bootleg stuff. But he hated having it bellowed to the world. Even one of the harmless-looking gang in front of him might be a dry agent. His reply was intended to turn the subject.

“Hello, Pete. You leavin’ the Bar-X?”

The cowpuncher grinned. “Leavin’ ’em flat. McCaleb got gabby because I take a drink, the--” His profanity was more impressive because it was low-voiced and drawled. “I beat him up with my six-gun and come away.”

He strolled along the line of stools. At the lower end on the last stool sat a mild-appearing little man of perhaps fifty. He wore olive-drab cotton clothes, belted jacket and trousers, and a floppy-brimmed, homely brown canvas hat. His eyes were protected by sun-glasses.

“Come on, you sawed-off, climb down,” commanded the youth.

“Who, me?” queried the little man. “Why should I?”

“Because I tell you to,” retorted Chihuahua, a nasty smile on his lips, a scowl on his brow. “I admire to set down on that stool. I’m tired o’ standin’.”

The other smiled amiably. “Aw, forget it,” he advised.

As he took his empty cup from his lips, Chihuahua Pete, still with the sneering, contemptuous grin on his face, laid an ungentle hand on the collar of the ill-fitting coat. He jerked backward. The little man’s hands flew up wildly. His coffee-cup clattered inside the counter and crashed on the floor. His feet thumped on the rough pine boards. The stool tipped over. The olive-drab shoulders jolted against the wooden wall of the Last Chance.

“My, my, I have an awful time teachin’ yo’ manners,” observed Pete, evil in his sleepy gray eyes. “When you see a gentleman come in, you better offer him your chair, next time, stranger.” He righted the stool, drew it to the counter, and sat down. “Come on, you Sam. Let’s have a egg sandwich and some coffee. I’m a wild wolf from Battle Mountain. And this is my day to howl.”

The little man did not seem annoyed, or even fussed. He sauntered forward, smiling a little, and took his place at the end of the counter, near Chihuahua’s right hand. He rested his arms comfortably on the oak.

“Don’t mention it,” he said cheerfully.

“I was through, anyway.”

The cowpuncher searched his face swiftly for evidences of insolence, and seemed to find none. “That’s the idee, tenderfoot,” he patronized. “When yo’ come to a he-man’s country, you better keep yo’ place. And dodge trouble!”

The others were silent. It was evident to all of them that the lank young puncher was a bad one, inflamed by poisonous liquor, potentially as dangerous as a rattlesnake. He showed a characteristic of one type of half-drunken man--a bitter and unreasoning dislike of an utter stranger.

A still tongue: that was it. The same thought was in every mind. They must truckle to this deadly young bully, truckle and grovel, to get away from Rodeo without a tragedy. He was ripe for murder.

“Uh-huh,” agreed the little man. He surveyed Chihuahua through his amber glasses. “Yes; I try to keep my place. But I don’t like anyone to shove me out of it.”

“For God’s sake, Henry--” began another speaker, a larger one, at Pete’s left hand. His clothing was like the little man’s, except that he wore an army campaign hat instead of the ugly brown canvas.

Chihuahua Pete laid down his knife and fork. A sort of unbelieving jubilation in his manner and his repressed voice, he ignored the man sitting beside him and spoke to the smaller one:

“Say, you little runt, you meanin’ to hint anything?”

“Not hinting--trying to tell you,” was the good-natured reply. “So you’re a bad wolf, are you? And you’re Chihuahua Pete. I suppose they call you that because you skipped to Chihuahua to dodge the draft--hey, Peter! Keep your hand on the counter!”

There was a surprising change in the tone of the last sentence, a whip-like bite of command in it. Chihuahua’s right hand twitched involuntarily, and came up again.

“I don’t know what your game is, Henry,” said the other khaki-clad man, “but I’m playing it.” He tapped the counter gently with a black, squat, ugly-looking automatic. “Don’t reach for that gun again, kid, or I’ll blow your ribs out.”

Chihuahua Pete gave him a quick, sidewise look and again turned his attention to the little man, standing almost at his elbow. His face was a trifle pale. Sam and the travelers were immovable and tense.

“Thanks, Ed,” returned the little man placidly. “My game’s to teach this young bully some manners. He demonstrated on me just now. Turn about’s fair play.

“Now, you Chihuahua, I understand you’re a killer--shot a couple of men in the back awhile ago, or something like that. You’re all set to pick a fuss with me and drop me. Well, you get your chance. But so will I. Guess we better have that revolver off you while I make my proposition. That’s fair, isn’t it?” He appealed to the others.

A border booze-peddler has his failings, but a yellow streak is not one of them. Sam spoke up promptly: “Fair enough, stranger. No snap-shootin’ in this place while I’m runnin’ it.” He lumbered round the end of the counter, brushed by the little man and approached Chihuahua. “Pete, I’ll just take your gun.” The cowpuncher sullenly permitted him to withdraw the pearl-handled weapon. The larger khaki-clad man, without waiting to be asked, surrendered his automatic.