A Texan Rides the Trouble Trail by Harrington Strong (top novels of all time .TXT) 📖

The Three S men remained grouped at the edge of the walk across the street.

“Dawes!” Sid Jarles called. “I want to talk to yuh.”

“I’m listenin’,” Dawes gruffly replied.

“I’ve been told what happened. None of the Three S men had anything to do with burnin’ yore stable. I know how it looks, but I’m tellin’ yuh the truth. I may fight men when it’s necessary, but I wouldn’t burn a hoss.”

“Somebody burned me out, and fastened the doors so’s I almost burned, too. If none of yore men did it, who did? I ain’t got any enemies in town, as I know of.”

“Yuh had another man sleepin’ in yore stable last night,” Sid Jarles reminded him. “Whoever set the fire was prob’ly tryin’ to get him, not you.”

“Only a skunk’d try to get a man that way,” Dawes growled. “Show me who did it. Then I’ll believe none of yore men did.”

“Yuh’re talkin’ pretty high, seems to me,” Jarles called. “I’ve told yuh none of my men did it. If I learn who did, I’ll let yuh know. And you keep out of Brandell’s place! I don’t want folks to trade there.”

Before Dawes could answer that, Houston stepped out of the store and stood with his fists planted against his hips, looking across the street at the Three S men.

“Who are you to tell folks not to trade here?” Houston shouted. “I own an interest in this place, and I don’t intend to let you or any other man try to wreck my business! Don’t let me hear any more of that kind of talk!”

Sid Jarles turned purple with wrath.

“So you’re this man Houston, are yuh?” he shouted. “As far as you ownin’ an interest — that’s only a trick of Brandell’s. Yuh don’t look like yuh own anything except yore pony, and mebbe yuh haven’t got a bill of sale for him.”

“I can show yuh a pardnership agreement for my share in this tradin’ post,” Houston replied. “I’m a pardner, all right. Paid for the interest, too. Mr. Brandell can show yuh the draft. Only it’s none of yore business.”

“Mebbe I’ll make it some of my business!” Jarles raged. “Mebbe you’ll bear lookin’ into, too.”

“Oh, I can tell yuh about myself. I come from Texas to ‘tend to a certain matter —”

Out of the saloon rushed Sam Finch. His eyes were ablaze, and he looked as if he had been drinking heavily. He thrust some of the Three S men aside and rushed to the middle of the street.

“I know why yuh come!” he yelled. “Lawman, are yuh! After me, are yuh? Yuh won’t take me! I’ve been watchin’ ever since I come here. I saw yuh ride in last evenin’, and heard yuh tell Dawes yuh come from Texas. I knew yuh was after me! But yuh’ll never take me back!”

“I reckon yuh’re loco,” Houston said.

“Yuh ain’t foolin’ me any! I shot at yuh last night, and missed. I set fire to the barn, too, but yuh got away. But yuh won’t dodge this!”

Sam Finch jerked a gun from beneath his coat and opened fire.

The first bullet sang past Houston’s head and smashed against the corner of the trading post wall. The second went wild as Sam Finch lurched forward. Houston fired the third shot, and it knocked Finch off his feet. He sprawled in the dust.

“He must have been loco,” Houston said. “I never saw or heard of him till I came to Vista. Case of guilty conscience, I reckon. Some of yuh look to him.”

Ed Foster and another man hurried out into the street and lifted Sam Finch out of the dust. They carried him to the walk in front of the saloon and stretched him there. Sid Jarles knelt beside him a moment, then stood up.

“He’s finished,” Jarles said. “He muttered somethin’ about helpin’ rob a bank and shootin’ a cashier over in Texas two years ago. So now we know who shot at Houston and who burned the stable, and why. Are yuh satisfied, Dawes?”

“I’m satisfied that you didn’t have my stable burned,” Dawes said.

“Then stand aside, ‘cause we’ve got another matter to settle.”

Sid Jarles stepped down off the walk. Jake Walters and the five Three S men lined up a few feet behind him. They started marching across the street, Jarles stopped as he reached the other side, and his men scattered a little and bunched with hands on holsters.

“Houston, if Brandell unloaded a pardnership on yuh —” Jarles began.

“Let me make it short for yuh,” Houston broke in. “He didn’t unload it on me. I knew all about this little fuss before I bought.”

“All right! In that case, here’s what I’ve got to say—I’m goin’ to put the Brandell Tradin’ Post out of business. I was aimin’ to set up Sam Finch, but now I’ll find some other man. I’m goin’ to keep everybody from tradin’ a dime’s worth with yuh.”

“All this ‘cause a girl couldn’t see yuh, huh?” Houston asked.

“My reasons are my own, and I don’t want any of yore lip!”

“Jarles, I don’t think much of a man who uses his might to fight another in a sneakin’ way,” Houston said. “Brandell is a sick man. A sick man and a girl — that’s who yuh’ve been fightin’. But I’m with ‘em now.”

“As if that made any difference,” Jarles sneered.

“It makes the devil of a lot of difference. Now, Jarles, you listen to me. Don’t yuh ever let me hear of yuh orderin’ folks to stay away from this tradin’ post! You ‘tend to yore ranch. Yuh ain’t runnin’ this town any more.”

“Oh, I ain’t?”

Jake Walters lurched forward.

“Stranger, yuh make too much big talk,” he said. “Yuh can’t talk like that to my boss when I’m around.”

“Takin’ the fight up, are yuh?” Houston asked. “Who’re you?”

“Jake Walters is the name.”

“Oh, yeah! I’ve been told about yuh. Think yuh’re a bold, bad lead-slinger, huh? Mr. Walters, I don’t like yuh. I think this part of the country’d be better off without yuh. Mebbe yuh’d better ride.”

“Why, yuh —”

Jake Walters crouched suddenly, and he did what Houston had been warned he would do — he squinted. Houston sprang down off the walk and into the street as his hand streaked to his holster, and his gun cleared leather again.

Jake Walters’ first shot missed as Houston jumped off the walk. Houston’s first burned across Walters’ arm, and his second struck in the chest and sent Jake Walters reeling backward, to drop and die.

But not before Walters had sent a second shot winging its way along the street. As Houston turned, that bullet struck him in the left hip and spun him halfway around. Numbness claimed his left leg, and he started to collapse.

That was what saved him. The other Three S men were opening fire, Sid Jarles with them. Houston sprawled flat and went into action. Then he realized, dimly, that he had help. From the walk in front of the saloon Silky Gadley, the gambler, was blazing away at the Three S men. The saloon man also came rushing with a gun and opened fire, and Lew Dawes rushed into the street to stand beside Houston and use his gun.

Blasts of gunfire roared and echoed along the street. The town women rushed into the nearest building and excitedly called to one another. Smoke swirled, and bullets struck and ricocheted with nasty whines.

The firing died out. People came from the buildings. Ned Houston started to lift himself on his elbows, and Dawes hurried to help him up. Then he found that Clara Brandell was beside him.

“Slug in the hip — don’t amount to much.” Houston said. “You, Clara! I told yuh to stay out of harm’s way. What yuh doin’ here?”

“I’m taking care of you,” she said. “Anyhow, the danger is gone now. The fight’s over. Help him to the walk, Dawes.”

Houston limped to the walk and sat down on its edge. Somebody handed him a flask, and he drank. Clara Brandell was calling to her father in the store that everything was all right.

“Get a doctor to cut this slug outa me, and I’ll be all well in a couple of days,” Houston said to Dawes. “I’ll help yuh rebuild yore stable, me bein’ the cause of it gettin’ burned.”

Silky Gadley came over