The Sheriff of Pecos
9781465635426
313 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
Besides "Galway" Mike, who was reading the Pahrump County News behind the bar, there were three men in Mike's Place. One of the three was a stranger. He sat drowsily at the corner table, hat pulled over his eyes, whisky untasted. The other two stood at the bar. The tall, dangerous man who had a rattler skin about his white Stetson was speaking: "It's like this, Murphy. Right after the old man died, young Shumway went to the pen. He was caught dead to rights with a runnin' iron, y' understand——" "So I heard." The large, red-faced man chuckled. "So I heard, Buck." Buck grunted. "Well, Frank Shumway went to the pen; I was sorry, too——" "Oh, sure!" commented Murphy sarcastically. "Made you weep a lot, huh?" "Shut your blamed mouth!" retorted Buck, acid in his voice. "Here's the point: Young Shumway had mortgaged the hull place to some cussed bank over in Laredo County—some bank the ol' man had knowed. Well, he give Estella the money, y' understand, and went to the pen. Estella, she's run the place since, but it ain't paid her." "She's his sister, eh?" Mr. Murphy's red, aggressive features spread into a greasy grin. "Well, I reckon it ain't paid her, with you fer a neighbor! But go on, go on." "Don't let your brain git too agile, Murphy," said Buck, tossing down his whisky and pouring another drink. "The place has run down. All she's got there now is Miguel Cervantes and his woman, helpin' her. Not a head o' stock left." "You done well, then," put in Murphy, who stood in no awe of his companion evidently. "You sure done well! Ol' Shumway had a powerful lot o' cattle. Least, he had when I was down here, time the boy got caught and sent over the road——" "Times have changed since then," said Buck hastily. "As I say, Stella can't make the place pay, in spite of everything. Cervantes——" "Done heard of him in the Panhandle. Ain't he the greaser with a big rep——" Buck emitted a lurid oath. "He's the one, all right—the cussed greaser! Got a rep, and everybody's scared to lay into him. Well, they lost stock, y' understand; the place is run down; and now it's near time for the mortgage to be paid—which it won't." Murphy touched his companion's arm cautiously, and glanced at the bartender. "Him?" Buck grinned, then leaned across the bar. "Hey, Mike! Tell my friend Murphy here who owns a half interest in this joint, you understand?" Galway Mike looked up from his newspaper, grinning. His broad, flat face was unspeakably brutal, its brutality much aided by wide nostrils which at some previous date had been crushed flat and had never entirely recovered their beauty. He looked at Buck, roughly elegant in his corduroys, fine boots, and handsome gun belt; then he looked at Murphy, whose elegance was more pronounced, but equally rough and ready. "Same gent that owns the Runnin' Dawg outfit, yer honor," he responded. "More by token, he's the only wan, barrin' yourself, who does be wearin' a coat these days." Buck, taking a handful of cigars from his corduroy coat pocket, laid them on the bar. "C'rect, Mike," he assented proudly. "Smoke. And give us that new bottle." The bartender obeyed. He cocked an eye at the stranger at the table, but the latter had allowed his head to droop. His mouth hung open. He was palpably asleep—dusty, worn out by hard riding, unkempt save for the gun at his hip, which was excellently cared for. "Now, as I was sayin'," pursued Buck, who was no other than Templeton Buck, owner of the Running Dog and a big man in Pahrump County, "that there mortgage is due. I been keepin' tabs on things, y' understand? The place ain't even able to pay the mortgage interest, and I hear it's been advertised for sale likewise. All of which don't bother me none, because when I got your Denver wire that you'd come, I done bought in the mortgage in your name."
