He was under no misapprehension as to the problem he faced. Painted Rock would be filled to overflowing with Shute and Barkow riders, many of whom knew him by sight. Yet though he could vision their certainty of victory, their numbers, and was well aware of the reckless task he had chosen, he knew they would not be expecting him or any riders from Crazy Woman.
He tied his horse loosely to a bush among the trees and crossed the stream on a log. Once across, he thought of his spurs. Kneeling down, he unfastened them from his boots and hung them over a root near the end of the log. He wanted no jingling spurs to give his presence away at an inopportune moment.
Carefully avoiding any lighted dwellings, he made his way through the scattered houses to the back of the row of buildings along the street. He was wearing the gun he usually wore. For luck he had taken another one from his saddlebags and thrust it into his waist band.
Tex Brisco was a man of the frontier. From riding the range in south and west Texas, he had drifted north with trail herds. He had seen some of the wild days of Dodge and Ellsworth, some hard fighting down in the Nations, and with rustlers along the Border.
He was an honest man, a sincere man. He had a quality to be found in many men of his kind and period–a sense of deep-seated loyalty that was his outstanding trait.
Hard and reckless in demeanor, he rode with dash and acted with a flair. He had at times been called a hardcase. Yet no man lived long in a dangerous country if he were reckless. There was a place always for courage, but intelligent courage, not the heedlessness of a harebrained youngster.
Tex Brisco was twenty-five years old, but he had been doing a man’s work since he was eleven. He had walked with men, ridden with men, fought with men as one of them. He had asked no favors and been granted none. Now, at twenty-five, he was a seasoned veteran. He was a man who knew the plains and the mountains, knew cattle, horses, and guns.
Shanghaied, he had quickly seen that the sea was not his element. He had concealed his resentment and gone to work, realizing that safety lay along that route. He had known his time would come. It had come when Rafe Caradec came aboard, and all his need for friendship, for loyalty and for a cause had been tied to the big, soft-spoken stranger.
Now Painted Rock was vibrant with danger. The men who did not hate him in Painted Rock were men who would neither speak for him nor act for him. It was like Tex Brisco that he did not think in terms of help. He had his job, he knew his problem, and he knew he was the man to do it.
The National Saloon was booming with sound. The tinny jangle of an out-of-tune piano mingled with hoarse laughter, shouts, and the rattle of glasses. The hitching rail was lined with horses.
Tex walked between the buildings to the edge of the dark and empty street. Then he walked up to the horses and, speaking softly, made his way along the hitching rail, turning every slipknot into a hard knot.
The Emporium was dark except for a light in Baker’s living quarters where he sat with his wife and Ann Rodney.
The stage station was lighted by the feeble glow of a light over a desk as the station agent worked late over his books.
It was a moonless night and the stars were bright. Tex lit a cigarette, loosened his guns in his holsters, and studied the situation. The National was full. To step into that saloon would be suicide. Tex had no such idea in mind. It was early; he would have to wait. Yet might it not be the best way, if he stepped in? There would be a moment of confusion. In that instant he could act.
Working his way back to a window, he studied the interior. It took him several minutes to locate Tom Blazer. The big man was standing by the bar with Fats McCabe. Slipping to the other end of the window, Tex could see that no one was between them and the rear door.
He stepped back into the darkest shadows. Leaning against the building, he finished his cigarette. When it was down to a stub, he threw it on the ground and carefully rubbed it out with the toe of his boot. Then he pulled his hat low and walked around to the rear of the saloon.
There was some scrap lumber there. He skirted the rough pile, avoiding some bottles. It was cool out here. He rubbed his fingers, working his hands to keep the circulation going. Then he stepped up to the door and turned the knob. It opened under his hand. If it made a sound, it went unheard.
Stepping inside, he closed the door after him, pleased that it opened outward.
In the hurly-burly of the interior one more cowhand went unseen. Nobody even glanced his way. He sidled up the bar, then reached over under Tom Blazer’s nose, drew the whisky bottle toward him, and poured a drink into a glass just rinsed by the bartender.
Tom Blazer scarcely glanced at the bottle for other bottles were being passed back and forth. Fats McCabe stood beside Tom, and without noticing Tex, went on talking.
“That blasted Marsh!” Tom said thickly. “I got him! I been wantin’ him a long time! You should have seen the look in his eyes when I shoved that pistol against him and pulled the trigger!”
Tex’s lips tightened, and he poured his glass full once more. He left it sitting on the bar in front of him.
His eyes swept the room. Dan Shute was not here and that worried him. He would have felt better to have had the rancher under his eyes. Bruce Barkow was here, though, and Pod Gomer. Tex moved over a little closer to McCabe.
“That’ll finish ’em off!” McCabe was saying. “When Shute took over I knew they wouldn’t last long! If they get out of the country, they’ll be lucky. They’ve no supplies left. It will be snowin’ within a few days. The winter will get ’em if we don’t, or the Injuns.”
Tex Brisco smiled grimly. Not before I get you! he thought. That comes first.
The piano was banging away with Oh, Susanna! and a bunch of cowhands were trying to sing. Joe Benson leaned on his bar talking to Pod Gomer. Barkow sat at a table in the corner, staring morosely into a glass. Joe Gorman and Fritz Handl were watching a poker game.
Tex glanced again at the back door. No one stood between the door and himself. Well, why wait?
Just then, Tom Blazer reached for the bottle in front of Tex, and Tex pulled it away from his hand.
Tom stared. “Hey, what you tryin’ to do?” he demanded belligerently.
“I’ve come for you, Blazer,” Tex said. “I’ve come to kill a skunk that shoots a helpless man when he’s on his back. How are you against standin’ men, Blazer?”
“Huh?” Tom Blazer said stupidly.
Then he realized what had been said, and thrust his big face forward for a closer look. The gray eyes he saw were icy, the lantern-jawed Texan’s face was chill as death, and Tom Blazer jerked back. Slowly, his face white, Fats McCabe drew aside.
To neither man came the realization that Tex Brisco was alone. All they felt was the shock of his sudden appearance, here, among them.
Brisco turned, stepping one step away from the bar.
“Well, Tom,” he said quietly, his voice just loud enough to carry over the sound of the music, “I’ve come for you.”
Riveted to the spot, Tom Blazer felt an instant of panic. Brisco’s presence here had the air of magic. Tom was half frightened by the sheer unexpectedness of it.
Sounds in the saloon seemed to die out, although they still went full blast. Tom stared across that short space like a man in a trance, trapped and faced with a fight to the death. There would be no escaping this issue he knew. He might win and he might lose, but it was here, now, and he had to face it. He realized suddenly that it was a choice he had no desire to make.
Wouldn’t anyone notice? Why didn’t Fats say some thing? Tex Brisco stood there, staring at him.
“You’ve had your chance,” Tex said gently. “Now I’m goin’ to kill you!”
The shock of the word kill snapped Tom Blazer out of it. He dropped into a half crouch, and his lips curlec in a snarl of mingled rage and fear. His clawed hand swept back for his gun.