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 not speak for him or 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 lighted a cigarette, loosened his guns in his holsters, and studied the situation. The National was full. To step into that saloon would be suicide, and Tex had no such idea in mind. It was early, and 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 and, leaning against the building, 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, and he skirted the rough pile, avoiding some bottles. It was cool out here, and he rubbed his fingers a little, working his hands to keep the circulation going. Then he stepped up to the door and turned the knob. It opened under his hand, and 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 to the bar and then reached over under Tom Blazer’s nose, drew the whiskey 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, also not noticing Tex. “That bastard 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 ofll” McCabe was saving. “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 now, and 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 it.
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, Tom,” 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 he thrust his big face forward for a closer look. The gray eves 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, and Tom was half frightened by the sheer unexpectedness of it.
Sounds in the saloon seemed to die out, although they still went full blast, and 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. And he realized suddenly that it was a choice he had no desire to make.
Wouldn’t anvone notice? Why didn’t Fats say something? 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 curled in a snarl of mingled rage and fear. His clawed hand swept back for his gun.
In the throbbing and rattle of the room, the guns boomed like a crash of thunder. Heads whirled, and liquor-befuddled brains tried to focus eyes.
All they saw was Tom Blazer sagging back against the bar, his shirt darkening with blood and the strained, foolish expression on his face like that of a man who had been shocked beyond reason. Facing the room was a lean, broad-shouldered man with two guns, and as they looked, he swung a gun at Fats McCabe.
Instinctively, at the boom of guns, McCabe’s brain reacted, but a shade slow. His hand started for his gun. It was an involuntary movement that had he had but a moment’s thought would never have been made. He had no intention of drawing.
All he wanted was out, but the movement of his hand was enough. It was too much.
Tex Brisco’s gun boomed again, and Fats toppled over on his face. Then Tex opened up, and three shots, blasting into the brightly lighted room, brought it to complete darkness. Brisco faded into that darkness, swung the door open, and vanished as a shot clipped the air over his head. He ran hard for fiftv feet and then ducked into the shadow of a barn, threw himself over a low corral fence, and ran across the corral in a low crouch. Shouts and orders sounded, and then the crash of glass came from the saloon.
The door burst open again, and he could have got another man, but only to have betrayed his position.
He crawled through the fence and keeping close to a dark house,. ran swiftly to its far corner. He paused there, breathing heavily. So far, so good.
From here on he would be in comparative light, but the distance was enough now. He ran on swiftly for the river.
Behind him he heard curses and yells as men found their knotted bridle reins. At the end of the log, Tex retrieved his spurs. Then, gasping for breath from his hard run, he ran across the log and started for his horse.
He saw it suddenly, and then he saw something else.