George Owen Baxter

The Hair-Trigger Kid

Warsaw 2017

Contents

1. PLAIN POISON

2. THE KID ARRIVES

3. BATTLE ROYAL

4. DAVEY RIDES

5. THREE-CARD STUMBLES

6. WATCHING

7. TREED

8. A GREAT BUSINESS

9. A SUGGESTION

10. HANDMADE SHOE

11. CALLERS

12. NOTCHED GUN

13. BRANDING IRON

14. A COMPACT

15. LAND SHARKS

16. STORM CLOUDS

17. BAD NEWS

18. A VOLUNTEER

19. TWO REASONS

20. A CHALLENGE

21. WATCHING

22. THE CHASE

23. COMPLIMENTS

24. THE LAW

25. MIXED ANSWERS

26. PAST HISTORY

27. STRANGE TALES

28. THE FIFTH MAN

29. CATTLE LOVER

30. DOWN THE CANYON

31. THE FIFTH MAN AGAIN

32. MILMAN RIDES

33. DANGER AHEAD

34. THE APPROACH

35. HIDING

36. CHUCK

37. ONE MATCH

38. THE VERDICT

39. DAVEY RIDES

40. FOR THE SAKE OF COWS

41. TWO AGAINST TWENTY

42. HEROES

1. PLAIN POISON

Two things waited for John Milman when he got West. One was his family, and the other was the spring. When he got to the end of the railroad, he could see spring eating its way up the mountains, taking the white from their shoulders and streaking the desert itself with green. But his family was not on hand with means to take him out to the ranch, and therefore he had to wait restlessly in the hotel, pacing up and down his room, and damning all delays. Sheriff Lew Walters was in that room, trying to help his friend kill time and uselessly pointing out that in an hour or two, at the most, the wife and daughter of Milman were sure to arrive. He might as well have read a ter out of the Bible. Or better, perhaps.

“I haven’t seen them for six months!” said Milman.

This was a proof that he was still, to a degree, an outlander. Real Westerners will not give way to their emotions so readily. They have picked up some of the manners of the wild Indians. But the sheriff, who knew the worth of this man, merely smiled and nodded.

“A lot of things can happen in an hour,” said Milman. “I wonder what’s kept them hack? Elinore’s as punctual as a chronometer, always. And Georgia would never be late for me! A lot of things can happen in an hour around this part of the world. How is Mr. Law, and old lady Order, his wife, Lew? They’re still in your charge, I suppose?”

“They’re recuperatin’,” said the sheriff gravely. “They got a sort of shock and a setback a while ago, but they’re recuperatin’.”

“What gave them the shock?”

“Well, typhoid fever, smallpox, diphtheria, delirium tremens and muscular rheumatism all hit this town together, one day, when Billy Shay turned up and opened his gambling house. I had old Law and Order out, taking the sun and the air every day, but now they don’t dare to leave their beds till the sun’s at nine o’clock, and they creep back in around about sundown.”

“Who is Billy Shay?” asked Milman, willing to forget his trouble for a moment.

“Shay is poison,” said the sheriff.

“What kind?”

“Skunk poison,” said the sheriff inelegantly. “He’s just one of those mean, low-down, sneakin’ curs that has teeth and knows how to use ‘em.”

“Then why don’t you run ‘im out?”

“I can’t hang anything on him. I know that everything crooked in the town depends on Shay, but still I can’t get any information against him. He’s slick as a snake, and he could hide in a snake’s hole, if he wanted to.”

“How does the town take to him?”

“How does any town this far West take to a chance to spoil its health, throw away its bank account, wreck its eyes, and quit work? Why, this town of Dry Creek is crazy about Billy Shay.”

“Does everyone know that he’s a crook?”

“Of course, everybody does. That won’t hold your real hundred-per-cent Westerner from going to that gaming house and tossing his money away. Shay has such a good thing that he only has to use the brakes now and then to stop somebody on a big run. As long as a fool wins once in three times, he’s sure to come back for more. And one player out of ten always makes something worth while. They do the advertising for Billy Shay.”

He extended his hand, pointing across the street.

“There’s Billy’s house. He’s gone and got himself the finest place in town.”

“That’s Judge Mahon’s place, I thought.”

“The judge has sold out and moved up Denver way. Didn’t you know that?”

“News is six months dead to me,” admitted the rancher. “There’s somebody piling down the street in a hurry.”

The horseman came with a rush and a sweep.

“Maybe news from the ranch–maybe bad news!” muttered Milman under his breath.

“Why, it’s Billy Shay!” said the sheriff. “I never saw him ride in like that before!”

Billy Shay appeared to Milman as rather a hump-shouldered man with a long, lean, white face. As he got to the front of his house, he sprang from the saddle, without pausing to throw the reins, and as the horse dashed off down the street, Billy cleared his front gate with a fine hurdle and fled to the door of the house.

Then, as he fitted the key into the lock, he cast a frantic glance over his shoulder up and down the street and flattened his body against the door like one who feels the eyes of danger in the center of his spine.

A moment later he had disappeared into the house.

“Yes, that’s a mighty hurried fellow,” said Milman. “He doesn’t act as though he’s so dangerous as you’ve been saying.”

“No, he don’t,” replied the sheriff. “He don’t look bad enough to eat a raw egg, right now. But I’ve seen him–” He paused and sighed. “I’d like to know what’s after Billy!” he continued, shaking his head. “Whatever is in his mind, I’d like to find out the nature of it. I’d like to discover the kind of mongoose that makes that cobra run!”

Then, distinctly, across the road, they could hear the noise of furniture being dragged–heavy articles which screeched against the floor. They even saw the door tremble as these things were piled against it.

“Dog-gone me if he ain’t barricadin’ himself in that house of his!” said the sheriff with a growing awe.

He laid his brown hand with withered, wrinkled fingers upon the shoulder of his friend.

“I got an idea that maybe we’re going to see something, old-timer.”

“See what?” said Milman.

“I dunno. A mob, maybe, that’s after him. Once we can crack the shell and get at the news that’s in that hound’s life record, we’d have enough to raise the whole of Dry Creek, I suppose.”

“You think there’s a mob rising? I don’t hear a sound.”

“Mobs that mean real business don’t make no noise at all,” said the sheriff. “I’ve seen a hundred and fifty men wearin’ guns and masks, and as quiet as a funeral. Funerals was what they was providin’, as a matter of fact. Cheap funerals and a quick way out of the world to them that didn’t understand the ways of the West, as you might say. How that Shay slicked off of his horse, eh? I never seen nothin’ like it!”

“He’s a badly scared man, all right,” said Milman. “If the crowd should come to mob him, will you have to intervene?” At this the face of Lew Walters turned grim.

“I’d have to,” he declared. “The old days is gone, and Law and Order is supposed to be strong enough to walk right up and down the main street of this town night or day. I’m the escort. I’ve swore to do that job, and I intend to do it!”

He looked anxiously up and down the street as he spoke.

But there was nothing in sight that agreed with his grave imaginings of danger.

“Look at that dormer window in the roof!” exclaimed Milman.

The house of the judge, having been built as pretentiously as possible, had a roof like the crown of a Mexican hat, and on one side of it was a dormer window. The window was open, and inside it a mirror flashed a blinding ray of light, winking rapidly.

“There’s a signal–that’s heliograph work as sure as I’m a foot high, Lew. Can you make out the dots and dashes?”

“I can’t make out a thing. I’m not a telegrapher. But I could guess the name of the fellow who’s handling that mirror!”

“You mean Shay?”

“That’s who I mean. He’s sending out a message to pals of his somewhere, and I’d put my money that it’s a howl for help.”

“If we could get at the meaning of that message, we might be at the heart of Shay’s private affairs–information enough to enable you to make your arrest, eh?”

“Aye, we might. Here’s somebody coming. The mob, I’d say. And a mighty small mob to crack a nut with a shell as hard as Shay’s. He’s probably got half a dozen armed men in that house.”

The dust cloud down the street dissolved, presently, to show two women and two men riding abreast, with led horses directly behind them.

“That’s no mob, Milman,” said the sheriff after a moment. “That’s your wife on the left, there, if I ain’t lost my eyes.”

Milman, with an exclamation, made for the door, but the sheriff remained fixed at his post at the window, watching with curiosity-squinted eyes the flickering light from the heliograph that played in the dormer window. He quite agreed with Milman that this message might be useful to him in his work of ridding the town of the gambling nuisance. But he knew that by the time he had secured a telegragher the signaling would probably have stopped. He could only sigh and watch, uncomprehending.

Still his mind struggled to guess at a solution of the mystery of Shay’s fear. For the man, whatever his other faults of greed, low cunning, and knavery, was brave, and had demonstrated his courage over and over again. Yet here he had fled into his house, barricaded the door, locked the lower windows, and now was signaling–no doubt frantically–in an appeal for help!

The possible mob was the only solution that appeared to the mind of the sheriff. He loosened his Colt in its holster and set his mind sternly on the work that might be preparing for him. No matter what he thought of Shay, mob violence was something which he had put down in Dry Creek, and he was prepared to put it down again at whatever risk.

In order to get closer to the scene of action, as soon as the mirror at the dormer window stopped signaling and the window itself was closed with a violent bang, he went downstairs, and in the lobby found his friend, the rancher, with his wife and daughter beside him, looking as happy as any child.

Even with the trouble that was now in his mind, the sheriff could not help letting his eye linger pleasantly on the trio for a moment.

“Clean-bred ones,” said the sheriff to himself, and being a man his glance lingered longest on the face of Georgia Milman. She was as brown as an Indian; she had the rounded, supple body of an Indian maiden, also, and Indian black was her hair, but her eyes were the blue which one sees in Ireland. She swung her quirt and greeted the sheriff noisily and heartily. They had shot elk together the season before.

“Father says that there’s some sort of trouble brewing in the Shay house,” said she.

“I dunno,” answered Lew Walters, “but they’s trouble bud-din’ and bloomin’ over there. Come out on the veranda and have a look at the fireworks. Hello, Mrs. Milman. This here man of yours, he sure needed tyin’ before he seen you down the street. Are you-all comin’ out on the observation platform?”

They were. And the rest of the town seemed to be heading in the same direction, so swiftly had the rumor of excitement spread.

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