The Project Gutenberg eBook of The mark of Cain
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Title: The mark of Cain
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: October 3, 2025 [eBook #76975]
Language: English
Original publication: Chicago, IL: Best Publications, Inc, 1948
Credits: Roger Frank
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MARK OF CAIN ***
[Illustration: Carrying Clare in his arms, Streak looked back and saw
flames.]
The Mark of Cain
A novelet by W. C. Tuttle
Swift-shooting Streak Malone enlists his legendary guns in a
hot-lead campaign to clean up the terror town of Silver Butte!
I
Very well known to the Frontier are the words:
“The Vigilantes are operating in Silver Butte, and have already killed
the sheriff.”
That statement was repeated in far-flung places in the West--around the
camp-fires of the buffalo hunters, at the chuckwagons with the trail
herds, and in the hideouts of the outlaw clan. Men, working outside the
law, avoided the Vigilantes.
Silver Butte! A booming railroad town. A huge bridge, a long tunnel,
miles of cuts and fills would assure Silver Butte of a long-time
payroll. Silver Butte had been known as a bad-man’s town.
Down along the rough roads, cut deep by freighter’s wagons, came
“Streak” Malone, tall in his saddle, riding a tall, blue-gray outlaw
horse--a horse with the head of a rattler and the disposition of the
Devil. Only Streak Malone could touch this brute, which obeyed every
signal from its master.
Malone was just over six feet tall, lithe as a cat, ruggedly
handsome, his coal-black hair split in the center with a two-inch
streak of pure white. His high-crowned sombrero was decorated with a
wide, silver-studded band, his vest was beaded in intricate designs,
and his shirt was of almost-white doeskin, a present from a Sioux
woman. He wore black boots with silver spurs, and his holstered gun
was silver inlaid by a master silversmith.
No one knew where Streak Malone came from. He never spoke of his past,
and he came into the West several years ahead of the railroad. He was
barely thirty years of age, but his face held deep lines, and his eyes
were deep under heavy brows.
A hard pair, this streak-haired man and the outlaw horse, but Streak
Malone was never outside the law. Horse-breaker, trapper, buffalo
hunter, gambler--he never stayed long in any place. Something seemed
to lure him on, and now he was riding into Silver Butte. He, too,
had heard of the Vigilantes of that part of the Territory, but the
Vigilantes conveyed no fear to Streak Malone.
Until the coming of the railroad, Silver Butte was merely a cowtown
with one short crooked street, but now it was a booming place of
tent-houses, shacks of every description, and more building every day.
The main street was ankle-deep in dust, teeming with freight wagons,
pack outfits, cowboy riders and a few lighter vehicles.
The biggest building was the Silver Dollar Saloon and Gambling Palace.
Less than a block away was another large building, nearly completed,
with men working feverishly. A huge sign, ready to swing into place
read: EUREKA SALOON AND GAMBLING HALL.
* * * * *
Streak Malone was almost obliged to ride over the wooden sidewalks, in
order to avoid the traffic. In front of the stage office a man yelled
his name, and he drew up. He vaguely remembered seeing the man in
Bismark a year ago, and waved a greeting.
He found an opening between two freight wagons, and spurred across the
street and continued on to a feed-corral. The man in charge said:
“Turn yore horse loose in the corral, stranger, and hang yore saddle in
the stable.”
“Wait a minute, my friend,” replied Streak. “I’ve got to have a stall
for this horse, and I’ll take care of him myself.”
“Ain’t the corral good enough?” The man was inclined to resent Streak’s
words.
“This horse will try to kill any man who touches him,” explained Streak.
“Tell everybody to keep away from him.”
“I’ve got an empty stall,” said the man. “Much obliged.”
Streak walked out of the stable and met the man who had called to him.
Streak looked closely at the man, who spoke quietly.
“I own the general store here,” said the man. “You’re Streak Malone. I’m
Jim Buskirk.”
“I remember you,” said Streak. “Bismark, a year or so ago.”
“Good! We’ve been lookin’ for a man like you, Malone.”
Streak’s eyes hardened, and his right hand dropped naturally over the
butt of his holstered gun. The man grinned and shook his head quickly.
“Nothin’ like that,” he said quietly. “Come to my store at dark, and
I’ll take yuh where we can talk to other men.”
“I don’t reckon I understand this deal, my friend.”
“Look across the street at that sign on the sheriff’s office.”
It was painted in big, black letters and read:
CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE VIGILANTES
Streak nodded. “Plain enough,” he remarked.
“The sheriff,” said Buskirk, “was an honest man. They shot him down in
his office.”
“The Vigilantes don’t usually kill an innocent man,” remarked Streak. “I
heard they are operatin’ here.”
“But don’t yuh understand?” asked Buskirk quietly. “There’s no
Vigilantes. I mean, not honest ones. The sheriff was murdered.”
“Oh, I see,” nodded Streak. “Wolves in sheep clothing.”
“That’s it exactly. Will you meet with us?”
Streak smiled. In town ten minutes, and already included in some
mystery. He said, “I’ll be there, Buskirk--at dark.”
The man nodded and crossed the street, while Streak walked up past the
feed corral, and stopped to look at the new construction of the Eureka
Saloon. They were unloading the sections of a huge, mahogany bar from
freight wagons. The dismantled bar had been shipped by steamer from St.
Louis, and picked up from a Missouri River boat. A man said:
“The Eureka shore spent a fortune on that stuff. Imagine a mahogany bar
in Silver Butte. Pearls before swine, I calls it.”
Streak smiled and crossed the street to the one hotel in the town, where
he was lucky enough to get a room. The clerk said:
“Are you one of the new Eureka gamblers?”
Streak shook his head. “Do I look like a gambler?” he asked.
“Yuh can’t tell about looks. I see they’re bringin’ in real furniture
for the new saloon. Cost a lot of money. Jim Flack is a top gambler,
but he’ll have plenty of action, buckin’ Zero Brant. Brant jist about
runs Silver Butte. We wondered why he didn’t try to stop Jim Flack
from buildin’ the Eureka, but maybe he figures to break Flack in one
swipe.”
“What do you mean by that?”asked Streak.
“Nothin’, stranger. Mebbe I talk too much--I dunno.”
Streak went back to the doorway, watching the activity on the street. A
young cowboy was standing just away from the doorway, and a girl came
down the street to meet him. She was pretty, but looked tired. There was
so much noise on the street that they did not expect to be overheard.
“I’ve been watchin’ for yuh, Mazie,” the boy said. “Near the Silver
Dollar.”
“I couldn’t get away, Joe,” she replied wearily. “They wanted me to
learn a new song.”
“Let’s pull out,” the boy suggested. “Mazie, I’ve got folks down in
St. Louis. We can get married and go there. We don’t have to live in
this hell hole.”
* * * * *
The girl’s smile was as sweet as anything Streak had ever seen, but
she shook her head. “Not yet, Joe. We haven’t enough money. Mr. Flack
offered me more money to sing in the Eureka, but I don’t know what to
do. Zero Brant heard about it, and he told me I’d better stay with
him, if I know what’s good for me. What do you think I should do,
Joe?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Brant is a bad man and he might do you
dirt. Better wait and see what happens when the Eureka opens.”
They drifted away together into the dust cloud which hung like a pall
over Silver Butte. Streak Malone drew a deep breath. Love in a place
like this! He was curious to see “Zero” Brant, the bad-man. He walked
toward the Silver Dollar.
Zero Brant was worth more than a passing glance, as he stood at the bar
in the Silver Dollar Saloon. There were big men in there, but Zero Brant
dwarfed them all. Clad in the raiment of a typical gambler, he looked
like the common conception of a cave-man, huge of arm and limb, slightly
stooped, a bullet-shaped head on a thick neck, green, predatory eyes,
and a face of solid granite.
Gripped in one corner of his gash-like mouth was a frayed-out cigar,
while in one huge paw he held a glass of liquor. No man had ever whipped
Zero Brant. He and his gunmen ruled Silver Butte. It was a small domain
for a king like Zero, but he had ideas. It was a starter--and the West
was young. The huge room was overflowing with construction workers,
cowboys, buffalo hunters and the usual riffraff which followed the
construction work.
A woman came down through the crowded room, and the men moved aside
to let her pass. Swishing silks and glittering jewels marked the
passing of Conchita. She was a striking figure in that tawdry place,
the offspring of a Spanish father and an Irish mother. Someone had
once said, “I didn’t know that the Devil was Irish.”
Rounded, big hipped, small ankles and small feet, she moved with the
grace of a tigress. Like the girl in Service’s poem--“She knew by
heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity.”
Zero Brant scowled. He didn’t like to have Conchita in the Silver
Dollar in the daytime. She was his roulette attraction, and she drew a
lot of players. She didn’t look so good in daylight. Men stared at her
as she came up to Brant and took the glass out of his hand. Neither of
them spoke. She faced the crowd and sipped from his glass.
“I have some information from El Chuchilla,” she said quietly.
“What?” breathed Zero Brant.
“A man named Streak Malone came today. They say he has the nerve of the
devil. They are having a meeting tonight at Buskirk’s house and they are
going to try and appoint Malone the marshal of Silver Butte.”
“What else did El Chuchilla hear?” asked Brant.
Conchita toyed with her glass, a smile on her painted lips.
“They say,” she replied, “that Streak Malone will have fifty men behind
him--fifty guns.”
“I’m bossin’ Silver Butte,” replied Brant coldly. “Fifty or five
hundred--who cares? I’ll handle this job.”
“What about the Eureka?” asked Conchita. “They’re moving in the mahogany
today.”
“Stay out of this,” growled Zero. “This is a man’s job.”
“They tell me that Streak Malone is a man,” she said, as she placed the
empty glass on the bar, and walked away, her head high.
Zero Brant scowled. Conchita was his woman, but she was no slave. She
would drop him in a minute, if the going got too tough, and he knew it.
So they were going to appoint a marshal for Silver Butte, were they?
Zero spat out the frayed cigar. All right! Silver Butte would find out
that Zero Brant was still the boss.
He found the little Mexican Monte dealer, El Chuchilla, the Knife, and
drew him aside. The Knife was a featherweight in size, but notorious for
his ability in throwing a blade. He was also Zero Brant’s spy. Brant
said:
“Listen, you! Be at that meetin’ tonight.”
“_Por Dios_--no!” gasped the Mexican.
“There’s goin’ to be a crowd,” said Brant. “You can get in. I want
information of what happens.”
“No,” replied the Mexican stubbornly.
“Scared?” queried Brant sarcastically.
“_Si._ My friend, I know those Strick Malone, and he know me.”
“Yea-a-ah? That’s better. Where did you know him?”
“Medora. I am seek for broken bone t’ree month. I have leetle tro’ble
een saloon. Those Malone don’t tak’ joke. He t’row me twenty feet
t’rough a weendow.”
Zero Brant grinned. “I’ll send somebody else. You keep away from Streak
Malone. I need yuh.”
II
Silver Butte came to life early in the morning. Or it may be that Silver
Butte did not go to bed. The door of the sheriff’s little office was
open, and the sign was gone. Streak Malone was sitting on a corner of
the desk, wondering why he had ever been foolish enough to listen to the
pleadings of those men last night and accept the appointment as marshal
of Silver Butte. The men represented what was left of law and order.
There were men from the construction camps, asking for a square-deal for
their men, business men, asking protection for their women and for their
business. There were other men, too, watching, listening, asking
nothing. Streak had said:
“Friends, I appreciate conditions in Silver Butte. No one man can do
this job. I have only two eyes. Is there anyone in this room who will
stand at my back--act as my deputy?”
Not a person had responded. Streak said, “I reckon it’s worse than I
thought. I’ll find my own deputy. You gents represent the law element
of Silver Butte. I want you to vote me the right to shoot first and
hold trial afterwards.”
The vote was unanimous.
So Streak Malone, a stranger in the town, was appointed marshal. Streak
was no fool--he realized the odds. A bullet, a well-placed knife--and,
as he had said, he only had two eyes. Leaning against the rough wall of
the office was the sign, CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE VIGILANTES. Streak had
torn it off the wall. It was his defiance to the killers who masqueraded
as the law.
A man stopped in the doorway, and Streak looked up quickly. This man
was of medium height, slender, long-haired, hard-faced. He, too, wore
his gun. Streak knew who he was. A man had told Streak that this man
was Mack Shell, leader of his own outlaw gang, reputed very fast with
a gun.
They eyed each other closely, and then Shell’s eyes shifted to the sign.
“Opened up again, eh?” he remarked dryly.
Streak nodded. “I’m the marshal,” he said quietly.
“Yeah? What do yuh aim to do, Malone?”
“Bring law and order to Silver Butte.”
Mack Shell started to laugh, but stopped and began rolling a cigarette.
Streak said:
“You’re Mack Shell. Are you backin’ Zero Brant?”
Shell spat viciously. “Back that wolf?” he snorted.
“He claims that he’s the boss of Silver Butte.”
“Suits me--I don’t live here.”
Streak looked thoughtfully at the outlaw. “You’ve taken over a cattle
ranch only a few miles from here, Shell,” he said. “This will be your
town. When you come here, do yuh want a boss?”
Shell looked coldly at Streak. “Nobody bosses Mack Shell.”
“It will be you or Zero Brant some day, Shell. Good folks won’t come
here--folks with women and kids. There are other kinds of women, Shell,
beside the kind at the Silver Dollar. A decent woman ain’t safe on the
street.”
“She shore ain’t,” agreed Shell. “But that hasn’t got a thing to do with
me. I ain’t got a woman.”
“Look at it like this,” suggested Streak quietly. “You had a
mother--maybe a sister, Shell. They’d--”
Mack Shell flung his cigarette into the street.
“Don’t preach to me!” he snapped. “I’m forgettin’ things like that. I
ain’t backin’ Zero Brant, if that helps yuh any.”
“It doesn’t help enough,” said Streak. “You’re a man with a rep, Mack
Shell, and I need yore help.”
“My help?” Mack Shell laughed harshly. “I don’t understand that remark,
Malone. What do yuh mean?”
“I want you to act as my deputy.”
For a moment the outlaw stared at Streak, his jaw sagging.
“You--what?” he gasped. “Deputy? Are you plumb crazy?”
“No, I’m perfectly sane.”
* * * * *
Mack Shell laughed again and began making another cigarette. It was a
preposterous idea. Living for years, only a jump ahead of the law, and
now--
“I’d be a bust as an officer,” he said. “Mack Shell, deputy marshal--a
lawman! What made yuh ask me, Malone?”
“I need an honest man.”
“Honest man? Malone, don’t you know my rep?”
Streak Malone smiled slowly. “You may be a rustler and horse-thief, Mack
Shell,” he said. “I don’t know. A man told me that you never broke your
word. I have my own code of honesty, and maybe it conflicts with the
law, too. I don’t care about yore rep. I want you to act as my deputy.”
Mack Shell didn’t smile now. He looked closely at Streak, his brow
furrowed. The stage from Whitewater was coming in, ploughing through
the dust, pulling up at the stage-depot, only a short distance from
where Streak and Mack were standing. Two men got out of the stage,
and one of them turned to assist a woman to alight. They exchanged a
few words, after which the man picked up the baggage belonging to the
woman. They talked for a moment with the driver, who directed them to
the hotel, and they came down past the office.
One of the men was tall and swarthy, well-dressed, while the other man
was short, long-armed, broad of shoulder, with the face of an ape. His
head was rather round, small eyes, deep-set on either side of a broad
nose, and with the widest mouth Streak and Mack had ever seen. When he
laughed at some remark of his companion, one expected to see canine
teeth.
The woman, slightly over-dressed and wearing a huge picture-hat, was
beautiful, except that she wore too much paint and powder. The woman
turned her head and looked straight at Streak as she walked past
with the two men. For a moment her eyes snapped wide in amazement or
horror. She stumbled into one of the men and might have fallen had
not the ape-like one grasped her quickly.
Then they went on to the hotel entrance. Streak and Mack looked at each
other curiously.
“That lady must have known you, Streak,” Mack said.
Streak shook his head, his brow furrowed. “I never saw her before in my
life, Mack. What went wrong with her? Do I look that bad? She looked
scared to death.”
“Kind of funny,” mused Streak. “Maybe you look like the husband she ran
away from.”
Streak laughed and shook his head. “It beats me,” he said.
“Them two men,” said Mack slowly, “are pretty bad characters, Streak.
The tall one is Dan Corteen, and the other one is Monk Moore. They’re
both killers. If you’d like to know, I’d say that the lady is in bad
company.”
“I’ve heard of both of them,” said Streak. “I wonder why they came to
Silver Butte.”
“Watch ’em,” advised Mack Shell. “You’ll find out that they’ll go
straight to Zero Brant.”
“Why would he import gunmen?”
Mack Shell laughed. “You’ve seen the new saloon goin’ up over there.
That’s Jim Flack’s place. A year ago Jim Flack owned the Sundance
Saloon. Jim’s on the square, and he ran square games. Well, one night
his place burned, and Jim Flack was shot. He was laid up for weeks.
In the meantime Zero Brant built the Silver Dollar over the ashes of
the Sundance.
“The men will back Jim. Because he runs square games and don’t doctor
his whisky, all the railroad men will come to his place. Zero Brant
knows this--knows that if he starts trouble with the new Eureka
Saloon, the men will back Jim Flack. That’s why Brant is gettin’ all
the gunmen he can handle. With Jim Flack’s place runnin’, Zero Brant
will go broke--and he knows it.”
Streak smiled. “I reckon I bit off quite a chew, Mack.”
“Yeah, and I flung in my lot on a bit of hot trouble, too. But I knew
what I was doin’. You didn’t.”
“You mean you’ll take the job?” asked Streak quickly.
“Yeah, I reckon I’ve taken it, Streak. Yuh’re right--some day some
decent folks might want to live here--folks with good women--and kids.
I’d forgotten about things like that.”
* * * * *
Streak started to say something, but at that moment Zero Brant stepped
into the doorway which was almost too small for his huge bulk. He looked
sharply at Mack Shell, but spoke to Streak.
“I’m Zero Brant,” he said. “Shell knows me. I understand that you are
the new marshal of Silver Butte.”
“That’s a fact,” replied Streak.
“Not that it makes any difference, but what do you intend to do,
Malone?”
Streak’s jaw tightened at Brant’s open sarcasm but he replied civilly,
“I’m goin’ to try and bring order and decency to this hell-hole of a
town, Brant.”
“Well!” snorted Brant. “That’s a fine way to speak of Silver Butte.”
“Has it ever been anything else?” queried Streak.
Zero Brant’s eyes shifted to Mack Shell, who seemed just a bit amused
over the exchange of words. Brant said:
“Where do you figure in this deal, Shell?”
“I’m the deputy marshal, Brant. Just appointed.”
“You? Well, of all the crazy--”
“Your loop’s draggin’,” warned Shell coldly. “I’m the deputy, Brant, and
it might be well to remember it.”
“All right,” said Brant. “It just seemed--sure, it’s all right. Why not?
I didn’t come over here to quarrel over the job, but I do want to make a
complaint. After all, I’ve got rights.”
“Complaint?” asked Streak curiously.
“That’s what I said--complaint. Silver Butte ain’t big enough for two
big saloons. Splittin’ the business will hurt my place, but Jim Flack
don’t want a split--he wants it all. They’re lyin’ about my place,
tryin’ to turn the construction crews against me. Flack wants to boss
the town--run me out of Silver Butte--even burn me out, if nothin’
else works. I demand protection by the law.”
“Comin’ from you,” said Mack Shell slowly, “that’s funny.”
“Don’t say they can’t!” snapped Brant angrily. “They burned the Sundance
and shot Jim Flack. Almost killed him, too.”
“We all know that, Brant,” said Shell. “We also know that you was here
weeks before that, tryin’ to get started. When the Sundance burned, you
started buildin’ the Silver Dollar Saloon on that same spot, almost
before the ashes were cold. Who paid to burn the Sundance has never been
proved, but I heard that it was a paid job.”
Brant ignored the implication that he had a hand in the burning of the
Sundance. He said:
“Do I get the backin’ of the law, Malone?”
“When you can show me that you deserve it--yes,” replied Streak. “But
the law ain’t backin’ crooked play, Brant.”
“Are you accusin’ me of runnin’ crooked games?”
“_I_ do,” said Mack Shell quickly. “Malone ain’t been here long enough
to know what yuh do, Brant.”
“I see,” muttered the big gambler. “So that’s the help I’ll get from the
law, eh? I thought that the law meant a square-deal for everybody. As
far as the Eureka and their bunch of tinhorns are concerned, I’ll handle
my own case. And as for you two--I don’t want yore help. I’ll make my
own laws, and enforce ’em, too. Malone, you and yore gun-fightin’ deputy
can stay on this side of the street. I’ll handle the other side.”
Zero Brant turned and went out into the busy street. Streak laughed
quietly. He said, “I wonder if he thinks we’ll honor his deadline,
Shell.”
“He knows we won’t, Streak. Brant is no fool. I’m goin’ out and find
my boys. I won’t be goin’ out to the ranch for a few days, and there’s
things I want done. See yuh later, Streak.”
It was late in the afternoon when Streak Malone went into the Silver
Dollar. The place was about half-filled at that time of day. There
were several men at the long bar, and among them were Dan Corteen and
Monk Moore.
Corteen was wearing a long, broadcloth coat, patent-leather boots, a
wide-brimmed, black hat and the fanciest vest Streak Malone had ever
seen. It was a riot of color, with flashing buttons. The tall gambler
looked at Streak through narrowed eyes as Streak came in past the
bar.
III
Malone did not speak to these men because he didn’t know any of them,
except by name. Zero Brant was at the far end of the bar, talking with
one of his gamblers, and Streak nodded to him. Then he heard Corteen
saying:
“So they’ve got law and order here, eh?”
One of the men said, “Such as it is. They appointed a man as marshal,
but one man won’t do much.”
“The Vigilantes killed the sheriff,” remarked Corteen.
Streak stopped short and turned around. Corteen was watching him, and
their eyes met.
“The sheriff was murdered, if you want the truth, sir,” Streak said.
“That’s not what I heard, Marshal.”
“So you know who I am,” remarked Streak coldly. “We’re even, Corteen.”
The tall gambler barely moved his lips, as he said, “I don’t like the
way yuh said that, my friend.”
“Could it be that you’re a little ashamed, Corteen?”
The gambler’s face tightened perceptibly, his hands dropped to his
sides. He had two holstered guns under that long coat, the butts
close to the front, ready for a cross-draw. The thumbs and fingers of
both hands gently touched the edges of that open coat. Then he leaned
forward a little.
“This town ain’t big enough for the both of us, Malone,” he said
harshly. “By sundown it’ll be too small. We can’t both stay here.”
“I’ll be here--watchin’ it shrink, Corteen.”
“I hope you have written a will,” said Corteen coldly.
Streak Malone smiled slowly. “I’ll make yuh a gamblin’ proposition,
Corteen. We’ll both make out our wills, leavin’ everythin’ to the
winner.”
“What’s the idea?” asked Corteen curiously.
“I’d like to inherit that vest. You probably stole it, but--”
“I what? Why, you streak-haired--”
Corteen forgot the sunset deadline. He went for his crossed guns.
Men fell away from behind him, as his hands flashed up, but Streak’s
draw--they didn’t see it. Corteen’s guns were still only waist-high,
when Streak’s forty-five blasted from his hip.
The tall gambler jerked back, his eyes tightly shut. His fingers
relaxed and the two guns fell to the floor. Slowly his knees bent and
he collapsed.
Streak had stepped back, cocked gun still at his waist-line, his eyes
searching the men in the room. Monk Moore’s eyes widened a little, but
there was no other sign of shock or emotion. Zero Brant had jumped away
from the bar, staring at Corteen, flat on the floor.
“Well, there’s one gun yuh won’t have to pay for, Brant,” said Mack
Shell’s voice, and then he continued quietly: “All right, Streak--I’m
behind yuh.”
“Thank yuh, Shell.”
Brant didn’t speak, no matter what he thought. He had seen the deadly
efficiency of the new marshal of Silver Butte.
One of the men said flatly, “Corteen reached first.” That remark settled
any argument as to the aggressor.
Shell said, “Brant, you brought him here--you take care of him.”
Streak turned and walked out, but Mack Shell didn’t have the same
confidence in that gang; he backed out. They met outside and walked
over to the office.
As they stopped in front of the office to look back at the Silver
Dollar, Mack Shell said, “You spoke a language they understand,
Streak. Dan Corteen was fast with a gun but you beat him. Ten
minutes ago you was known as the fool who took a dangerous job. Now
yuh’re Streak Malone, marshal of Silver Butte, who wouldn’t wait for
sunset.”
“I’m sorry,” said Streak. “I don’t want to kill anybody but he was out
to kill me.”
“I heard it all,” declared Mack Shell. “I was right behind yuh. Dan
Corteen started it, thinkin’ you’d crawl--and yuh didn’t. Forget Dan
Corteen. He’s had it comin’ a long time, Streak.”
“I guess you’re right, Mack.”
“I know this kind of a deal. Corteen was here to get you. The next one
won’t give yuh a break--yuh’re dangerous. I got a good look at the
expression on Zero Brant’s face, and the sand was spillin’ out of his
craw. You killed his pet monkey and he don’t like it.”
* * * * *
It was nearly dark that evening, when Streak Malone ran face to face
with the woman who got off the stage that day. She was just leaving
the hotel entrance. She stopped short, staring at Streak.
“Who are you?” she asked throatily. Streak smiled slowly.
“I am Streak Malone, marshal of Silver Butte, ma’am.”
“Streak Malone?” She shook her head and repeated it again, under her
breath.
Streak said, “Ma’am, I’d advise against yuh goin’ out on the street
alone.”
She smiled thinly and said, “I expect to deal faro at the new Eureka and
I must see a Mr. Flack.”
“No matter what yuh do for a livin’, this street ain’t safe,” Malone
declared. “I’ll take yuh over there, if I may.”
“Thank you, Mr. Malone.”
They reached the other side of the street and stopped in front of
the Eureka. Streak noticed that she still seemed to look at him in
amazement, tinged with disbelief.
“Be careful, ma’am,” he said. “Jim Flack is all right, but conditions in
this town are very bad.”
“Thank you, but I shall do very nicely, I’m sure. By the way, I believe
you had a little trouble with Dan Corteen today.”
“You knew him?”
“Oh, no, I merely met him on the stage. Thank you for bringing me over
here.”
“You are very welcome, ma’am.”
“I am Clare Ames,” she said simply. “Names don’t usually mean much out
here.”
Streak laughed. “Yuh mean--you change ’em often?”
“Not too often. For instance, you were probably not christened Streak
Malone--or even Malone.”
Streak smiled slowly. “A child has little chance to select a name,” he
said. “Parents very often give children names that they detest later on
in life, so they can’t blame us for takin’ one that we like better.”
“Or one that is safer.”
Streak looked at her curiously. “Yes,” he said, “I believe that is true,
Miss Ames. Good luck to you and your new job.”
“Thank you, Mr. Malone.”
Streak walked to the edge of the rough sidewalk, his eyes very
thoughtful. Why did that woman say, “You were probably not christened
Malone,” he wondered. Why did she look at him, wide-eyed? He had never
seen her before she came to Silver Butte.
There always was a lot of activity in Silver Butte at night.
Construction men, off shift, thronged the street, many of them
intoxicated. Fights started and ended without interference. The jail
was too small to think of starting a crusade against mere personal
fights. Tomorrow night the new Eureka would open, which would, no
doubt, start trouble. Streak Malone realized the enormity of his
job. He had won his first encounter, but he knew, as Mack Shell had
said, they would not give him a break next time.
He managed to cross the street to his office where he found Mack Shell,
carefully oiling his six-shooter. The little outlaw smiled slowly, and
Streak knew that he had seen him taking Clare Ames across the street.
“She’s dealin’ at the Eureka tomorrow night,” Streak said.
“So Jim Flack is goin’ to use female bait, too, eh?” remarked Shell.
“Yuh know, I’m afraid that Brant is goin’ to have plenty competition,
Streak. That little singer--the one they call Mazie over at the Silver
Dollar--has quit Brant and will sing at the Eureka. The men are crazy
about her singin’.”
“Have you got a puncher in yore outfit, sort of a kid, named Joe?” asked
Streak.
“Yeah. Joe East.”
“I heard him talkin’ with that singer. He wants her to marry him and go
back East.”
“He does, eh? Yuh know, one of my boys told me that Joe was shinin’
around her but I didn’t believe it. Joe’s just a kid. He ain’t one of
my regular gang, Streak. He just works with cows.”
“What did yore boys say, when yuh told ’em you was a lawman?”
* * * * *
The outlaw hesitated, then shoved back his sombrero and scratched his
head.
“Thought I’d gone crazy,” Mack Shell grinned. “But I explained the whole
thing, and they’re behind us. If yuh don’t mind, Streak, I’ll sleep here
in the office tonight. There might be bushwhackers along the road to my
ranch and, anyway, somebody might try to put up that sign again on the
door of the office.”
Streak was in no mood to go to bed and yet he realized the danger of
that main street at night. Men were still working at the Eureka when
he went over there, polishing the long bar, putting the final touches
on the gambling paraphernalia. It cost Jim Flack a pretty penny to
have all that shipped to Silver Butte.
He found Flack, a tall, saturnine gambler, watching the men. His
greeting to Streak was very friendly. He said: “Glad you came over
Malone. I heard about that trouble in the Silver Dollar, and the
folks are showing a lot of confidence in you as marshal of Silver
Butte.”
“Thank you,” said Streak soberly. “You’ve spent a lot of money to build
and operate this place. That bar must have cost a small fortune, alone.”
“I want to make this place permanent, Malone, but I’m afraid it might
not work out that way. You know something of the conditions, and they
are not good. I want to operate honest games and sell good liquors,
but I don’t know.”
“I know what yuh mean, Flack--and they’re not good prospects.”
“A man told me,” remarked Flack grimly, “that I’d be serving drinks
off a pine table after the opening--if I lived. I don’t like things
like that, Malone.”
Streak looked around the big room. Everything was of the best. He
admired the long ornate back-bar, the mirror gleaming in the lamplight,
reflecting back the glitter of expensive glassware.
In size, it was smaller than the Silver Dollar, but there was no
comparison as to appointments.
“You’ve been quite a while in buildin’ this place, Flack,” Streak
said. “It took a lot of time and money to get it furnished. Has
anybody interfered in any way in the buildin’ or haulin’ in of all
the furniture?”
“Not a soul,” replied the gambler. “I’ve thought of that. It would have
been easy to smash the furniture on those wagons, to tear down what I’ve
built. Why did they let me do all this if they objected to me operating
here?”
“Maybe it’s all talk,” suggested Streak.
“I hope it is. I don’t want trouble.”
Flack walked over to the group of workmen, paid them off in cash and
came back to Streak. They were alone in the Eureka now.
Flack said, “I’ve tried, but haven’t been able to find a man to act as
watchman. Malone, I believe they are afraid to take the job.”
He took Streak to the back of the place and showed him the little
office. Off the office was a small room, furnished, with a single-bed,
rough table and a chair.
Streak said, “Are you goin’ to sleep here?”
Flack shook his head. “No,” he said. “I have a room at the hotel. The
watchman can use the bed during the day.”
“Do yuh mind if I sleep here tonight?” asked Streak.
Flack looked curiously at Streak, but nodded. “I’d be mighty glad if
yuh would,” he said. “If you want to leave, that front door is on a
snap-lock. It will lock behind you.”
After a few moments Flack told him good night and went out. Streak
kicked off his high-heel boots, and stretched out on the new blankets,
smoking a cigarette, trying to figure out just what to do in order to
change conditions in Silver Butte. He had finished his cigarette, but
not his ideas, when he heard men walking the length of the saloon,
their boots sounding hollow in the room. The office door was opened,
men came in and closed the door, and he heard them light the lamp.
* * * * *
The partition between the two rooms was thin, and he could hear
everything that was said. There was a small window in the little
bedroom, but the only door opened into the office. The men in the
office were silent for several moments, then one said:
“All right, Flack. You know why we brought yuh here, of course.”
“Sorry,” replied Jim Flack coldly, “but I do not. When masked men force
me at the point of a gun to open doors and go with them, I believe they
should do the explaining.”
One man laughed harshly. “You ain’t that ignorant, Flack. Here is a
bill-of-sale, and we want yuh to sign it. Go ahead and read it--we
can wait that long. Nobody knows yuh’re here, so take all the time
yuh want.”
Noise from the outside drifted into the place, but there was no sound
from the other room, until Flack’s voice said:
“Sorry, but I won’t sign this, gentlemen.”
“Yuh won’t, eh? Listen, Flack--you sign it--or die here.”
“And if I do sign it, I also die, eh?”
“Oh, shore. But not here. You’ll just disappear.”
“I don’t get the idea of this bill-of-sale.”
“Still ignorant, eh? You fool! Why do yuh reckon we let yuh go ahead and
build this place, and furnish it? We could have stopped yuh any time we
wanted to, but we figured that we’d let you pay all the bills, get
everythin’ all ready, and then we’d take it over. See the idea, Flack.
The bill-of-sale is to Buck Smith? Names don’t mean anythin’, my friend.
Go ahead and sign it.”
“No!” snapped Flack. “If you intend killing me, why should I sign it?
That would legalize the transfer. Go ahead.”
IV
That moment Streak Malone flung the door open. That is, he would
have flung it open, but something caught under the door, blocking it
half-open.
A man ripped out a curse, and a bullet smashed into the door. At the
same moment the other man crashed the lamp, throwing the place into
darkness. Streak managed to force his way past the partly-opened
door, clawed for the doorway into the saloon. He heard the men racing
down the saloon to the door, but he was not able to orient himself
enough to shoot in the dark. Then the front door banged shut, and the
men were gone.
Streak said, “Are yuh all right, Flack?”
“Yes, I am all right, thanks to you, Malone. That was a close call.
Let’s get the lamp from the bedroom.”
The windows were covered, the door shut, when Streak lighted the lamp,
and they looked at each other.
Flack said, “You came just in time, Malone. He was pulling the trigger.”
“Glad I did.” Streak smiled. “But I’m sorry the door stuck. Do yuh know
either of them fellers, Flack?”
Flack shook his head. “They were both masked,” he said.
“Do yuh know Buck Smith?”
“Oh, you mean the name on that bill-of-sale? No, I don’t. It was only a
name. But we know why they let me go ahead with this place. Well,
they’ve ruined their first attempt, Malone, thanks to you. I’ll go out
the back way and get to the hotel. I don’t believe they’ll make another
attempt tonight.”
They went into the dark office and Jim Flack opened the back door.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Malone,” he said. “Maybe I can make it
up to you--some way.”
“Forget that part of it,” said Streak. “Good luck.”
Streak went back to the bedroom and examined the bullet hole in the
door. That bullet hadn’t missed him by more than a scant few inches.
In fact, it had blown splinters onto the blanket. He stretched out
again, trying to figure out more angles, but went to sleep quickly.
Jim Flack was over there next morning, before Streak awoke, and they
talked things over. Flack said that he had talked with the
superintendent of the hard-rock men on the railroad, and that the man
was worried. Some of the more intelligent laborers realized that Zero
Brant’s brace-games were keeping the men broke, and the bad liquor had
made several of them unable to work at all. He said that any incident
might start serious trouble.
“It’s a bad situation,” agreed Streak. “But what can be done about it,
Flack? You can’t make arrests on what people think. Zero Brant has a
tough following, and as far as enforcing the law is concerned, who or
what is the law? I could put a man in jail, but how could he ever be
convicted? What jury could, or would, decide guilt or innocence? Flack,
this is a case where Old Man Colt is the only judge and jury.”
“I realize that, Malone,” nodded Flack. “I realize more than ever now
that there will be trouble. Those men, last night, trying to force me
to sign this place over to them, proved to me that they will stop at
nothing.”
Streak found Mack Shell on the street and told him what happened at the
Eureka. The little outlaw grinned slowly.
“So that’s why they let Flack go ahead with everythin’,” he remarked.
“If you hadn’t been there, Flack would be dead now. Zero Brant is behind
all this, Streak.”
Streak nodded. “But we can’t prove it,” he said.
The opening of the Eureka was not auspicious. Zero Brant was
furnishing free whisky at the Silver Dollar and the house was packed
with half-drunk humanity, mostly foreigners. A half-dozen bartenders
were working at top speed but the games were not being patronized too
well. A three-piece orchestra could hardly be heard above the roar of
the crowd.
* * * * *
Brant was watching the crowd, a scowl on his face. The free whisky was
keeping the crowd away from the games. Streak stood back against the
wall, watching Brant. It was the first time Streak had ever seen Zero
Brant without a hat, and he noticed that Brant’s forehead was
criss-crossed with scars which were not too visible under a low-pulled
hat-brim.
Chap-clad cowboys, wild as hawks, rubbed elbows with perspiring,
muck-stained laborers, who gulped free whisky and roared songs in
strange tongues. Here and there in the crowd were men in buckskin,
bearded, long-haired, buffalo-hunters and trappers. The buffalo
hunters furnished meat for the railroad crews.
At one end of the room El Chuchilla, the Knife, presided over a
Three-Card-Monte game. This layout was not popular with the rank and
file of patrons, but it placed the knife-throwing halfbreed in a good
position to overlook the room, and flash signals to Zero Brant.
Mack Shell worked his way through the crowd and came in beside Streak.
He said, “There’s a storm comin’, Streak.”
Streak nodded. “It’s bound to.”
“I mean outside,” said Shell. “Wind blowing, and yuh can hear the
thunder. Yuh can’t hardly see through the dust right now.”
Streak nodded, watching Conchita at the roulette wheel. She was blazing
with jewels, but the wheel was stopped. Shell laughed.
“Free whisky and no gamblers,” he said. “Serves him right.”
Conchita was looking at them now, and Streak noticed that her eyes were
almond-shaped and almost green.
Mack Shell said, “Some day she’ll kill Brant. There’s a rattler down
along the Mexican Border, with green eyes--like hers--and they don’t
always rattle before they strike.”
One of Mack Shell’s cowboys forced his way through the crowd and came in
beside them. He said, “If you think Conchita is pretty, take a look at
the gal in the Eureka. She’s got this’n beat four ways from the jack.
And she’s runnin’ an honest wheel. I won forty dollars on one whirl.”
The cowboy went on, circulating through the crowd, telling them about
the Eureka. Streak smiled. Flack had probably hired several cowboys to
pass out the good news, and the patrons were already drifting outside.
“Let’s go over to the Eureka,” suggested Shell.
“These men won’t leave free whisky,” said Streak.
“The free whisky is over.” Shell laughed. “They’ve just put up the
sign.”
Slowly the crowd was drifting out of the place, some of them barely able
to walk. Streak and Shell went outside. Lights were blotted out in the
swirl of dust, and flashes of lightning were frequent now. Just as they
found the entrance to the Eureka, a crash of thunder brought the first
splatter of rain.
The new saloon was filling fast as they came in. The polished furniture
reflected the lamplight, a thing of beauty in that rough, wild country,
but the patrons were not interested in that sort of beauty.
Jim Flack, backed against the bar, was watching the gathering crowd,
many of whom crowded around the roulette, where Clare Ames was running
the layout. Mack Shell circulated among the crowd but Streak stayed
near the end of the bar, out of the crowd. Men shoved through the open
doorway, most of them drenched with rain.
The building shuddered under the concussion of thunder.
More men shoved in around the roulette, singing, cursing. It was a
terrible place for a woman--even for the wrong kind. Flack came slowly
over to Streak, tense, hard-eyed.
“I don’t like it, Malone,” he said. “They tell me that Zero Brant dished
out free whisky to this mob. They’re all drunk.”
Streak nodded, his face grim. “Even free whisky wouldn’t hold ’em,
Flack. They’re like a pack of wolves.”
* * * * *
More men surged in, possibly twenty or thirty huge foreigners, singing
some sort of a chant. The room filled to suffocation, humming like a
giant bee-hive, rank with the smell of unwashed humanity, liquor and
strong tobacco smoke.
Somebody deep in the crowd cursed in a foreign tongue, screaming his
words against the thud of a pistol shot. Came a babel of oaths, two
more pistol shots, and pandemonium broke loose. Men surged toward the
disturbance, and Streak caught sight of upraised bottles as the wave
of men crushed tables and chairs, trampling drunken men to the floor,
yelling like animals.
Suddenly they seemed to split into two factions, fighting each other.
Streak knew what this meant. This drunken horde was bent on destroying
everything in the Eureka.
Streak backed in against the end of the bar, gun in hand. He lost sight
of Jim Flack. Out of the packed mob, like a football player packing the
ball, came a huge, bearded giant, carrying a man in his arms. It was one
of Mack Shell’s men. He dropped the unconscious cowboy and drew back a
foot to kick him in the head when a shot crashed out, and the kick was
not delivered. The big man went down, and the crowd trampled over him.
Mack Shell was there, smoking gun in hand, dragging his cowboy away.
Streak tried to help him, but a man crashed into him, and he went
spinning against the wall at the end of the bar.
Streak went to his knees but came up quickly. Bottles were whizzing
across the room, smashing the lamps, and the smoke-chopped room became a
blurred mass of fighting men. Windows were smashed, letting in the wind
and storm, and while men battled in the Eureka, nature battled outside,
the claps of thunder shaking the building.
Streak fought his way across the room, forcing his way by swinging his
six-shooter over-hand, climbing over men, trying to reach the smashed
roulette layout. It was like a nightmare, where everything went wrong.
Men screamed curses in his face, but he drove them aside and kept on
going, while that crazy mob destroyed everything in the place.
He found Clare Ames, pinned under the wreckage of the wheel, unable to
escape or protect herself. She was too dazed to know what was going on,
when Streak picked her up in his arms. She tried weakly to strike him,
but her strength was gone. A man crashed into him and tried to take her
away, but he shouldered the man back into the mob.
Streak clawed his way along the wall to a broken window where he shoved
her through. Then he crawled after her into the downpour. From inside
the saloon came a warning scream, and he looked back. The smashed lamps
had started a fire. Someone threw a smashed keg of whisky into the
flames and a moment later the place was an inferno.
V
Finally, Streak reached the office with the girl. He didn’t dare to
light a lamp but the blazing saloon gave plenty illumination. Clare
Ames was recovered now. She wiped some blood off her face and looked
closely at Streak.
She said, “What is your name?”
“I’m Streak Malone,” he replied.
“You are Keith Delmar,” she said. “No man could look as much like Jim
Delmar and not be his brother.”
Streak Malone hunched forward, staring at her in the light of the
flickering flames. Keith Delmar! No man in the West knew that he was
Keith Delmar--and this woman came out of nowhere to tell him.
“Jim’s wife?” he whispered. “How on earth--”
“You look like Jim,” she said. “I know the whole story--know that you
escaped from a court room, before the jury came back. You should have
waited--the jury disagreed. Jim got new evidence. A gambler, who was
a friend of your step-father, pawned some of the jewelry you were
accused of stealing. It was traced to him, but he was gone. He killed
your step-father--not you, Keith Delmar. The law knows it.”
“For heaven’s sake, keep talkin’!” gasped Streak. “I never knew what
happened, after I leaped from that window in St. Louis, ten years ago.
Where is Jim?”
“That gambler killed him in Medora two years ago,” she whispered. “Jim
lived long enough to tell me--it was the same man. In St. Louis he was
Tom Hall, but I don’t know what name he had in Medora. Jim made him
confess to the murder but, in some way, he managed to shoot Jim. Jim
told me who shot him, but he never gave me the name.”
Clare hesitated, choked, but managed to say, “Jim said to look for the
man with the Mark of Cain.”
“Mark of Cain?” whispered Streak Malone. “Yuh mean--well, what does it
mean--this Mark of Cain?”
“An M, branded on his forehead,” said Clare. “It’s the only solution
I’ve ever heard. I’ve kept going, trying to find that man, but I can’t
find him.”
The door banged open and Mack Shell limped in. He saw them and blurted,
“Thank God, you’re both alive! Streak, I’ve got our two horses out
behind the jail. The devil is dancin’ tonight in Silver Butte, and the
fiddler ain’t been paid yet. There’s a lot of people who never got out
of the Eureka--drunken workmen, a cowboy or two--that little Mazie, the
singer. Somebody said she died in there. That buildin’ next to the
Eureka is gone, too. Only the wind and rain can save the rest of that
side of the street.”
Streak Malone said, “You stay here, Clare. Bar that door and don’t open
it. There’s more work to be done. C’mon, Mack.”
They went out into the rain and they heard Clare drop the heavy bar into
the slots. A man came running, saw them and came back.
He said, “I recognize you now. I’m the superintendent of construction
and I want to tell you that the men have gone crazy. A lot of them
burned in that building, and they blame Brant. They say he had men
start the trouble in the Eureka.”
“What are they going to do?” asked Streak anxiously.
“They’ve got dynamite. It’s the one weapon they understand. I can’t stop
them for they’re seeking revenge. Do what you can, but don’t take too
many chances, because they’re a crazy, drunken mob of men, who will stop
at nothing.”
“We’ve got to stop ’em!” exclaimed Shell. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe
the buffalo hunters can help us. I’ll try.”
Mack Shell went limping away in the rain. Streak tried to think of some
way to halt the mob, but his mind kept hammering:
“You’re free again, free again, free again! You’re not Streak
Malone--you’re Keith Delmar. The law knows you didn’t kill your
step-father. You’re free again!”
Streak drew a deep breath and went across the street. Smoke still
billowed up from the heaps of hot ashes as the rain hissed down. Streak
was hatless, bleeding from several cuts on his face.
* * * * *
He stopped in front of the Silver Dollar. A crowd had gathered in there,
but they were not drinking or gambling. Streak shoved his way through
the crowd. There was Zero Brant, Conchita, El Chuchilla, Monk Moore and
others. Between them and the crowd was Joe East, the young cowboy from
Shell’s ranch. Joe had no gun, and he had very few clothes. Dirty, torn,
bleeding, he stood there accusing Zero Brant, who hunched forward, his
evil, little eyes watching Joe East. As Streak shoved forward, he heard
Joe say hoarsely:
“You sent one of yore men into the Eureka to start that fight, Brant,
you dirty murderer, and they’re comin’ to get yuh. If I had a gun, I’d
shoot out yore black heart myself.”
Brant, still hunched, his huge hands opening and closing, came slowly
toward Joe East. It was like a gorilla attacking a pigmy. Joe didn’t
move. He seemed incapable of movement. But before Brant could reach him,
Streak Malone stepped out from the crowd and walked between them. Zero
Brant stopped as he considered this new enemy, and his eyes blinked. A
sudden rage seemed to strike him. His brow furrowed, bringing his brows
down over his eyes. There was some sort of a commotion behind Streak,
and he heard Clare’s voice scream:
“The Mark of Cain!”
Streak leaned forward, staring at Brant, who had lifted his head. Those
scars on his forehead, when pulled down in that bestial scowl made a
perfect letter M in the middle of his sloping forehead.
It was then that Brant dived at Streak, trying to clutch him in his
powerful hands. But Streak was watching and sidestepped quickly,
bumping into a man to his left, and Brant almost went into the crowd.
Streak suddenly realized his danger and reached for his gun, but the
man he had bumped into had taken it.
Brant had swung around, aimed a powerful smash at Streak’s head, which
he barely avoided. Then he smashed Brant full in the face with a right
hand that would have knocked most men down, but it only drove Brant’s
head back momentarily. Brant was cut and bleeding now.
Men jostled Streak from behind, and he realized that the odds were
heavily against him. Then Zero Brant came with a bull-like rush, driving
Streak against the crowd, but Streak managed to uppercut him with rights
and lefts, sending him off balance. A man threw a shoulder into Streak’s
back, sending him stumbling ahead, but he recovered and faced Brant
again.
Something whizzed past his ear, and he heard a man cry out with pain.
El Chuchilla had missed his target and pinned the wrong man. Someone
tripped Streak, and at that moment Zero Brant caught one of Streak’s
arms in a viselike grip. Brant was bleeding from a badly-cut eye,
nose and mouth, and he didn’t seem to know what to do, now that he
had caught Streak.
“The wishbone, Streak!” yelled Mack Shell’s voice. “Hit him in the
wishbone!”
Streak’s right hand was free, and he smashed Brant’s nose flat. Again
and again he smashed that nose, until Brant released the hold on
Streak’s left arm, trying to protect himself. Streak drew a deep breath.
Brant had flung both hands up, trying to protect his face, when Streak,
putting every ounce of power into a right hand blow, drove it deep into
Brant’s body, just below the arch of his huge ribs.
Zero Brant’s mouth snapped wide and he grunted with pain. His stomach
was not fortified against such a punch. He sagged, both hands dropping
to his sides, and Streak hit him again in the same spot. But Brant
merely grunted.
With the agility of a monkey, El Chuchilla had reached the top of the
bar, knife in hand, but a pistol cracked, and the little knife-artist
was fairly lifted off the bar by the heavy bullet.
“Get out of here!” a man yelled. “They’re goin’ to dynamite yuh!”
Streak whirled, but at that moment something hit him, and he went
reeling against the wall. It was several minutes before Streak could
realize what had happened. Clare was trying to help him up, and the
place was deserted except for El Chuchilla, behind the bar, and a man
sitting against the wall, looking wearily at life. He was the one El
Chuchilla had hit.
* * * * *
Streak managed to get to his feet on rubbery legs. Gradually the
building stopped whirling, and he could recognize her.
“I’m all right,” he whispered. “Why did you follow me?”
“I had to come,” she said. “I couldn’t stay in the office. You saw the
Mark of Cain on Zero Brant?”
Streak nodded wearily. “Let’s get out,” he said. “We’ve got to help--
somebody.”
They went outside. There was a crowd further down the street, yelling
and cursing.
Streak said, “I forgot the dynamiters. Clare. You go to the office and
wait for me.” He went at a staggering run down the middle of the street.
“Don’t let Brant get away!” he heard someone yell.
A man was running up the street, and Streak called to him. It was Mack
Shell, going back to find Streak, panting, swearing.
“They knocked me down and rolled me plumb into the street!” Shell
panted. “Brant and his woman got away somewhere.”
“The dynamiters?” queried Streak anxiously.
“They ain’t got here yet. We’ve got to find Zero Brant!”
They reached the office and stopped. A revolver exploded somewhere
behind the jail, followed by a yell. Shell exclaimed, “The horses!”
Streak had forgotten that Shell had saddled their horses. They hurried
down the narrow alley. It was quite dark down there.
Streak heard a voice saying huskily, “I came to get you, Brant. You
killed her, so I’ll kill you.”
A six-shooter flamed so close to a man that the sparks splattered off
like water from a hose. A moment later a man was flung almost into them.
It was Joe East, but they didn’t know it. A horse snorted and they heard
Zero Brant’s voice:
“Whoa, you devil!”
The fence suddenly splintered, and a horse lunged almost into Streak and
Shell. It was Ghost, with Zero Brant on his back. The big gambler had
neglected to untie the rope, and the big outlaw was dragging nearly a
panel of the fence with him as they went out through the alley. Streak
and Mack Shell ran in behind them, and saw Ghost whirl in the middle of
the street, that section of fence acting like a scythe.
A crowd of men were coming up the street, yelling, swearing.
“The dynamiters, Streak!” said Mack Shell.
They were almost to the spot, where Ghost had plunged with his swaying
rider. With a scream of rage the big gray horse bucked straight into
that crowd, the roped fence cutting a swath. They broke for cover and
the big gray broke loose from the fence, going into a real bucking
frenzy. They saw Zero Brant crash into the street, and the gray
whirled, looking for more worlds to conquer.
Streak and Mack Shell were the first to reach Zero Brant. The crowd had
been scattered, but they began coming back. The men had the dynamite and
right now they didn’t seem to remember just what they had intended doing
with it. Streak told them, “The man you wanted is dead--here. Pick him
up and carry him to the Silver Dollar.”
One huge man said stubbornly, “I no carry him--he kill my brother.”
“He killed mine, too,” said Streak, and without any further word,
several of them picked up Brant.
They trooped up to the Silver Dollar. Jim Flack was there, and so was
Joe East. Jim Flack looked like he had been sent through a threshing
machine, and Joe East looked worse, but Joe didn’t mind. He had his
arms around Mazie, and Mazie was smiling.
Jim Flack said, “The kid thought Mazie was dead--in the fire--but I
threw her through a window. I guess she must have struck on her head,
because she’s been wandering around in the dark. She’s all right now.”
Clare Ames had followed the crowd over there, and she went to Mazie.
Streak looked around and saw Jim Buskirk. The merchant was carrying
a buffalo gun, and he looked as though he had been burrowing in a
coal-pile.
“I think this town will be all right now,” Buskirk said. “Zero Brant
can’t run it any longer. I guess the rest of his gang got away, but
that’s all right. I believe we’ll agree that Jim Flack is entitled to
the Silver Dollar--since Brant was to blame for wiping out the Eureka.
Is that all right with you, Malone?”
“I’m satisfied,” replied Streak wearily. “Buskirk, can you and yore wife
take in Miss Ames and Mazie for a day or two?”
“You bet we can! I’ll take ’em right down there.”
“You walk ahead and blaze the trail. I’ll take her myself.”
Buskirk grinned through his grime, as he said, “What about Mazie?”
“She’ll get there,” said Joe East huskily, “but she may have to drag
me.”
Mack Shell drew a deep breath, wiped a grimy hand across his face and
said:
“I reckon everythin’ is all right, folks. The marshal has done taken
over for himself.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Summer, 1948 issue
of _Giant Western_ magazine.]
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