Pat could have shot him from the hip. He didn’t like to shoot an old drunken man. He stopped and said amiably, “Why don’t you put yore shootin’ iron down, stranger, an’ we’ll talk it over?”

  “No siree. Not me. I know you. You’re the law. You’ll ’rest me if I put my gun down.” The heavy weapon wavered and sagged.

  Pat leaped forward just as it exploded. A bullet tore a hole in the door where he had been standing. He caught the barrel of the .45 and wrested it from O’Connor’s hand. The old man slumped down cross-legged on the floor and started crying.

  Pat turned around disgustedly and asked the grinning ranchers, “What’s this here all about?”

  “He’s jest drunk,” several of them told him. “He had that gun under his shirt and none of us knew he had it till he hauled it out an’ shot through the ceiling.”

  “Who is he?”

  “New hand out to the K Bar,” one of the onlookers volunteered.

  “How come,” Pat asked the bartender angrily, “you let an ol’ feller like him get so drunk in yore place? You know that ain’t right.”

  “He didn’t drink much in here. I swear he didn’t. Bought a couple of bottles like he does most every day, an’ he musta slipped out back an’ drunk one of them.”

  Pat holstered his own gun and laid the other weapon on the bar. He bent over the sniveling old man and caught hold of one thin arm. “C’mon now,” he said not unkindly. “See can you stand up by yoreself.”

  Timothy O’Connor tried to pull away from him, and cursed him in a weak voice.

  Unperturbed, Pat pulled him up and dragged him toward the door, demanding, “Where’s yore hawse?”

  Timothy weakly indicated a saddled horse outside, and went on cursing Pat Stevens and all lawmen.

  Pat hoisted him up into the saddle and put the reins in his hand. He gave the animal a slap on the rump and sent him down the dusty main street toward home and then re-entered the saloon.

  Two or three of his friends laughed loudly as he entered, but the bartender shook his head dubiously and drew the sheriff aside to warn him.

  “A drunk old man ain’t nothin’ to be afeerd of, I grant you that. But I’d watch out for him, Pat. He talks like he used to be a fancy gun slinger in his younger days, an’ when he gets drunk he craves to throw lead at lawmen. He’s been pumpin’ me ’bout you too, sorta. You know, askin’ questions.”

  Pat said, “I won’t worry none about him. An’ you’d better stop selling him whiskey. You know the rules in Powder Valley.”

  “I know.” The bartender looked embarrassed. “I never let a man get drank in the Gold Eagle, Pat. But that old coot buys it by the bottle all the time.”

  “Quit sellin’ him bottles, then,” Pat advised, and went on to join the others at the bar for a drink.

  8

  Pat Stevens was still in the Gold Eagle Saloon at dusk when Sam Sloan came in after making his Pony Express ride into Dutch Springs from the south.

  Sam was as dark and leathery as ever, but somehow he wasn’t quite as ugly as he had been before he married Kitty Lane. His face had filled out some under the influence of Kitty’s cooking, and some of the lines had been erased. He had a relaxed look, and he smiled more easily and more often than had been his wont. He had taken to wearing clean shirts too, and shaving at least every other day, and he had gained a sort of dignity from marriage.

  He greeted Pat with a wide grin when he saw him in the saloon, and lifted his black eyebrows at sight of the gun on the sheriff’s hip. “Who you think yo’re gonna scare with that ol’ hawg leg?” he asked Pat affectionately. “I thought you had ever’body buffaloed so you didn’t need to pack a gun no more.”

  “With you turned honest,” Pat told him, “there sure ain’t much crime hereabouts no more.” He nodded to the bartender to set out another glass, adding, “I’ll buy a drink if you’re not afraid it’ll set yore belly on fire.”

  “I ain’t used to it,” Sam admitted gravely. “Since I’ve been married I’ve found out water’s just as healthy an’ a lot cheaper. Who you gunnin’ for tonight?”

  One of the men beside Pat laughed loudly. “Pat’s got him a private war declared,” he told Sam Sloan. “That old codger from the K Bar is gonna get him if he ever sobers up enough to hold a gun steady.”

  “That right, Pat?”

  “I had to spank him an’ send him home,” Pat admitted.

  Sam emptied his glass and frowned down into it. “I’ve heard talk about the new outfit at the K Bar but I ain’t run into them. I thought Ezra figgered on takin’ it over.”

  Pat said shortly, “A guy named Crane from Denver beat him to it, looks like. Stayin’ in town overnight?”

  “Yep. I ride the mail back in the mawnin’. If you kin make out to stay away from Sally that long, how about eatin’ supper with me up to the hotel?”

  Pat said, “Sure,” and they had another drink. They lingered in the saloon for a time and Pat knew Sam had something troubling his mind, but the dark man didn’t mention it until they stepped outside and started to stroll up to the Jewel Hotel. Then he drew in a long breath and asked abruptly:

  “How’d you feel, Pat, when you knowed Sally was gonna have a baby?”

  Pat took a little time before answering. He honestly tried to remember how he had felt. He said gravely, “Mighty happy an’ proud, the way I recollect it. How’s Kitty comin’ along?”

  “Fine, I reckon. She swears she’s fine. You mean you wasn’t scared, Pat? Didn’t you ever get to thinkin’ that if anything went wrong that it’d be yore fault? That you didn’t have no right to put a job like that up to a woman?”

  Pat said, “Kitty’s young an’ strong. Nothin’ll happen to her.”

  “Mebby not. But I tell you, Pat, I damn near feel like prayin’ sometimes. You reckon there’s anything in this here religion stuff?”

  Sam’s serious tone kept Pat from laughing at him. He said, “I reckon maybe there is if you think there is.”

  “Kitty thinks there is.”

  “Then there is—for her,” Pat told him with conviction. “Wouldn’t hurt you to bring her in to church sometimes—exceptin’ the roof might fall in on you.”

  Sam Sloan said, “I jest been wonderin’—” His voice trailed off uneasily. They turned in at the hotel and went back through the lobby to the dining room.

  They ate supper together at a table in the back of the room, and talked about a lot of things. It was the first time Sam had seen Pat since the sheriff and Ezra had made their trip down to the Big Bend country of West Texas, and he listened with eager attention while Pat told him all about it. He sighed wistfully when Pat concluded, and admitted, “I was mighty doggoned mad when I found out you an’ him had slipped off an’ left me. First time us three was ever separated on a thing like that, Pat.”

  “I know,” Pat said uncomfortably. “But I didn’t reckon it’d be right to ask you to go along—not after Sally told me Kitty was gonna have a baby.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. I mighta gone.” Sam changed the subject abruptly. “See that tall thin guy settin’ over yonder by hisself?”

  Pat looked in the direction Sam indicated. He saw a middle-aged man with a calm face and fine features. He wore a white shirt and a flowered broadcloth vest, and a flowing tie with a huge horseshoe stickpin. His hands were white and soft, and he had long smooth fingers like a woman’s.

  Pat said, “More strangers. What’s he doin’ in Dutch Springs?”

  “Nothin’. ’Cept gamblin’ some in the evenings. They call him Windy Rivers on account of, I reckon, he don’t never say nothing. But he’s shore a whiz at stud poker,” Sam ended ruefully.

  Pat grinned at him. “You been getting yore fingers burned again?”

  “Not bad. I’ve sat in a couple of games with him an’ Tom Dasher. Dollar limit, though. That’s the most I’ll play.”

  “Since learnin’ yore lesson at Corpse’s Corner?” chuckled Pat.

  “That’s right.” Sam Sloan was unabashed at Pat’s reminder. He chuckled himself. “Ezry an’ me shore got took that time. On a Corpse’s Corner fling,” he ended disgustedly.

  There was a queer look of questioning on Pat’s face. He was silently counting on his fingers, not paying much attention to Sam. He muttered, “That’s seven—counting the judge.”

  Sam looked at him curiously. “What’d you say? Seven what?”

  Pat Stevens shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Does this gamblin’ man come from Denver too?”

  “Windy Rivers? I dunno. Seems like I did hear him say somethin’ about running a game there.”

  Pat looked around the dining room carefully and saw Judge Prink sitting alone at a big table. The judge had a napkin tucked under his bottom chin and was wrestling with a big steak and various side orders.

  He said thoughtfully, “I wonder if Windy ever happened to meet Judge Prink in Denver?”

  “I dunno. I never noticed them bein’ friendly. What’s got into you tonight, Pat?”

  “I don’t know,” Pat told him honestly. “But I want you to start keepin’ yore eyes open, Sam. Yo’re in and out of town every day or so. Seems to me like we’re getting too many foreigners in the Valley all at once. There’s Crane an’ his two men out to the K Bar. They’re friends of the judge’s. An’ there’s the new schoolteacher and her uncle. Prink brought them here. An’ this here Windy Rivers. What’s he doin’ in a one hawse town like Dutch Springs? He’s a big-city gambler if ever I seen one—an’ I’ve seen plenty.”

  “I don’t know ’bout him, but the new schoolteacher is shore doin’ all right. Who you think she’s got sparkin’ her awready?”

  “Who?”

  “Rudd Fleming. That’s who. Him that ain’t looked at a gal onct in the four years he’s been here. He’s walked home with her from school twict this week, I heard, an’ Terp Dixon down to the livery stable told me on the q.t. that Rudd has ordered a hawse an’ buggy to go drivin’ tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You’re getting as gossipy as an old woman,” Pat reproved him. “The teacher’s uncle still here?”

  “Yep. He got up at prayer meeting Wednesday night an did a heap of talkin’, they do say. Got the widder Jenkins all weepy when he went on about the sperits of them that has passed away lookin’ down from heaven an’ watchin’ ever’thing that goes on down here on earth. They say he tossed the Scriptures around terrible familiar for not bein’ a preacher.”

  The proprietor of the Jewel Hotel came to their table just then. Thomas Dasher was a big genial man who had made himself well liked in Dutch Springs since taking over the hotel after the demise of Joe Deems had cleared pretty Kitty Lane of the suspicion of murder hanging over her head. That was before Kitty married Sam Sloan, while she was still a café entertainer, and it was a chapter of her life that both Kitty and Sam were trying to forget.

  Dasher said, “Howdy, sheriff. And Sam. Everything all right?”

  Pat said, “The food’ll do for a couple of fellows that can’t get home for a good meal. Business good, Tom?”

  “Fine,” Dasher boomed with a satisfied glance around the well-filled dining room. “We don’t see much of you around town, sheriff.”

  “Nope. I don’t get in much.”

  “Some of the boys were talking about you the other night—saying you used to deal a fair hand of stud in your younger days.”

  “I did all right—in a friendly game.”

  “Best damned poker player west of the Mississippi,” Sam put in enthusiastically.

  “Why don’t you sit in for a few hands tonight?” Dasher urged him. “Nice friendly little game.”

  Pat snorted loudly, “Friendly as a throat slittin’, I betcha.”

  “Nice easy stakes,” Dasher told him. He glanced behind him at Windy Rivers and lowered his voice confidentially. “Tell you what. There’s a fellow staying here that I’m working up toward a real game one of these nights. Sort of egging him on, see? He’s got a roll I’d like to bet into, but you know how a thing like that is. You’ve got to work up to a big game gradually. So I’d appreciate it if you two would sit in tonight.”

  He moved on to another table with a genial smile. Pat looked after him thoughtfully. “How good a poker player is Tom?”

  Sam shrugged his thin shoulders. “Plenty good, I reckon. Anyhow, he shore thinks he is. He’s allus growlin’ because there ain’t nobody hereabouts that’ll play big stakes with him.”

  Pat said, “Let’s sit in for a few hands after supper. I’m honing to find out something.”

  It didn’t take Pat Stevens very many hands to find out what he wanted to know. There were five of them playing dollar-limit stud: the hotel owner and Windy Rivers, Pat and Sam, and another local rancher.

  Tom Dasher was a good player. Pat conceded that at once. He knew the value of a hand, and he played a strong consistent game. He wasn’t afraid to bet his money when the percentages were with him, yet he didn’t mind throwing in a losing hand before he lost too much on it.

  Pat quit the game after he’d lost his original stack of ten dollars. He shook his head and grinned when Dasher urged him to buy another stack. “I’m too rusty,” he told them. “Besides, here’s a couple other fellows waitin’ to sit in. How about you, Sam? Had enough?”

  Something in Pat’s tone told Sam that his friend wanted him to quit too. Sam was six dollars ahead, but he reluctantly cashed in his chips and followed Pat to the bar.

  “Why’d you want me to quit, Pat? I figger I had a winnin’ streak comin’.”

  Pat ordered drinks for them both and waited until the bartender had retreated out of earshot. Then he muttered angrily, “You’d only win as long as Windy wanted you to.”

  Sam frowned at him. “I don’t getcha.”

  “You’re as bad as Dasher,” Pat told him disgustedly. “Both of you need a nursemaid when it comes to playin’ cards. I’ve seen that Windy play before. I recollect it plain now. Down in Tombstone, Arizona. Must be—I reckon near onto twenty years ago. He can do things with a deck of cards like Ezra can do followin’ a week-old trail.”

  “You mean he’s crooked?” Sam asked fiercely. “Now, by God—”

  “You’re not going to do nothin’.” Pat caught his arm firmly. “Windy won’t win much in a dollar-limit game. He’s waitin’ for a big game. A slicker like him ain’t wasting time in Powder Valley just for his health. When it gets to be worth his trouble he’ll do his tricks all right. An’ Dasher is just getting primed to be took to the cleaners.”

  “Why not run him out of town right now?” Sam protested.

  Pat shook his head. “Not yet. I’m beginnin’ to get a hunch he’s just part of something bigger.”

  He wouldn’t tell Sam more than that. His suspicions were still so vague that he wasn’t ready to put them into words. But a feeling of excitement gripped him a short time later when he mounted his horse and rode homeward. He knew one thing for sure: he was going to start wearing both his guns in the morning.

  9

  A Sudden impulse turned Pat Stevens aside to ride by the K Bar ranch on his way home. He wasn’t thinking about it particularly until he came to the forked roads in the bright moonlight, with one fork swinging to the right toward the K Bar. It wasn’t far out of his way, and it was still the shank of the evening.

  He had been thinking about Dock as he rode from town, remembering how the boy had looked at him that noon when he ordered him to return home at once.

  He’d been trying not to think about Dock all afternoon, but he couldn’t help remembering how the boy had looked at the black colt his father was forcing him to give up. And Pat had begun remembering things about his own boyhood, dimly from out of the far-away past, but still strong enough to come back to him vividly as he recalled the expression that had been on Dock’s face.

  It was peculiar how a boy of that age got a feeling about a particular horse. It was something you couldn’t quite account for—like a man falling in love with a woman. You didn’t ever know why it happened. A man could be around all kinds of women and never be attracted to any of them, and then, bingo! it happened all of a sudden. Nobody ever knew why.

  Maybe it was the same way, Pat got to thinking, with Dock and that black colt of Crane’s. There were plenty of horses and colts on the Lazy Mare ranch. The boy had his pick of riding stock. And if he wanted a colt of his own to raise all he had to do was ask for it.

  Still, it had been wrong for him to slip over there without telling his father. That was what rankled. And Pat had an uneasy feeling there was more to it than appeared on the surface. Frankly, he didn’t like Gilbert Crane, and didn’t trust him. He didn’t know why the new owner of the K Bar was trying to make up to Dock, but it looked to Pat like he was using the black colt as a sort of bribe. Right now, he decided, was as good a time as any to straighten things out.

  There was still a light in the K Bar ranch house when he rode up. He dismounted and went to the door and knocked loudly.

  Crane came to the door. He was surprised when he saw Pat Stevens, and he stood for a moment as though he would block the doorway, then he nodded and stepped aside, said, “Come in, sheriff.”

  There was a fire in the big wood stove in the center of the room. Timothy O’Connor was slumped forward in a chair by the stove, half asleep with his chin resting on his chest. Lasher wasn’t in sight.

  Crane said, “Come in and sit down, sheriff. I’ll see if I can rustle up a drink.”

  Pat said, “Don’t bother. I stopped by on business.”

  “Law business?” Crane glanced at the six-gun on Pat’s hip and then at O’Connor. “You oughtn’t to mind Tim,” he protested. “He’s harmless. When he gets drunk he likes to play with guns. That’s all.”

  Pat smiled grimly and asked, “Did he tell you about his run-in with me in town?”

  “He came riding home with some wild story about you trying to arrest him. I told him to sleep it off.”

  The sound of their voices aroused O’Connor from his drunken stupor. He lifted his head and gazed at Pat through bleary eyes. “I ain’t skeered of no law,” he stated thickly. “Gimme back my gun an’ I’ll shoot it out with you, b’God.”