Chapter 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.