The Cowboy MEGAPACK ®. Owen Wister
Wintergreen says, feeling the stubble on his chin, “maybe I had ought to borrow these tools an’—”
His voice ends in a gurgle, and I see he is staring pop-eyed at the newspaper. I also stare at the paper and see a picture of a gent. This gent, it seems, has served five years in prison for robbing the U.S. mails and has been released recent for good behavior. It mentions that his name is William Black.
I glance at Wintergreen and see his jaw muscles twitching. “Orv an’ Neff Paschal call him Curly,” he says in a husky voice.
“William, or Curly,” I say, also husky, “it’s him.”
“Once a crook, always a crook,” Wintergreen says, tearing the picture out of the paper and sticking it into a pocket.
“Them three gents who held up the bank,” I murmur, “likely had a change of horses hid in the badlands. They would likely hide the loot and ride back to the Double-X on different horses.”
“Five hundred dollars reward,” Wintergreen gurgles. “Easy money if we got the drop on ’em while they was asleep, Lywell.”
* * * *
I unleather my gun and examine it closely. Wintergreen does likewise with his six and then picks up the rifle. Without a word, we go to the corral, saddle our horses, and ride south. We take our time, so it is pleasantly dark when we leave our mounts and cut through the cottonwood timber that surrounds the Double-X buildings. All is quiet; not a light anyplace.
“Maybe they ain’t home yet,” Wintergreen whispers.
“Maybe they have gone to bed,” I whisper.
We ease up to a side window and peek in, but see nothing whatsoever, for it is darker inside than out, which is very dark, indeed.
“Now, what’ll we do?” Wintergreen whispers. “Slip in an’—”
There comes a sudden noise from behind, followed by a dull thud and a groan from Wintergreen. Before I can get my gun from the holster, my head explodes, and I see numerous stars whirling around and about.
The next thing I know, I am in a lighted room with my hands tied behind my back, very uncomfortable. Glancing about, I observe Wintergreen propped in a corner, his hands also tied behind his back. He is somewhat pale and staring fearful beyond me. Turning slightly, I see what he is looking at. Orv and Neff Paschal and Curly Black. Curly is scowling at a piece of newspaper, which I recognize as the picture of himself, and I feel a slight chill creep along my spine.
“Ain’t no question about it,” Curly says, “they’re on to us. That’s why they was snoopin’ around.”
“Can’t understand why they’d bust out a window an’ wake us up, an’ then hang around till we caught ’em,” Orv says.
“What’re we goin’ to do with ’em?” Neff pipes up.
“If a couple dimwits like them have caught onto our game,” Curly says, “no reason why others won’t see my picture in a newspaper an’ catch on, too. Ain’t safe here for us no longer.”
“The thing to do,” Orv nods, “is get out while the gettin’s good. We’ll pick up the stuff an’—”
“What’ll we do with these baboons?” Neff persists, eyeing us in a way that ties my insides into knots.
“Take ’em as far as the badlands an’ let ’em have it,” Curly says. “No one’ll likely find ’em there.”
“Killin’ never appealed to me,” Orv says with a shudder. “Even when Neff an’ I was helpin’ you before you got arrested an’ sent up, I was always against killin’.”
“That ain’t neither here nor there,” Neff says. “We can’t leave these two snoopers to go back to Putantake an’ tell the law—”
“I ain’t squeemish about killin’ ’em,” Curly says.
They haul Wintergreen and me to our feet and push us out into the cold darkness. Soon we are all mounted and on our way.
* * * *
Daylight finds us riding into the badlands and winding through great washes and gullys and climbing over landslides.
I look at Wintergreen, and he looks at me and sighs deep. “Lywell,” he says faintly, “leave us resolve never to earn a fast dollar without working honest for it. Never again will I take advantage of a dude, or—”
“I’ll say you won’t,” Curly pipes up, chuckling unfunny. “Hold it; this is the place. Fall off your hosses, boys.”
Wintergreen and I dismount, and Neff slides from his saddle and digs two old spades from a pile of dead brush. The next thing, we know, they have taken the ropes off our hands, and we are digging what looks like our graves. But it turns out we are digging up the bank loot, which they buried here. All too soon, we have uncovered a wooden box wrapped in an old slicker.
“Thanks, boys,” Curly says, pulling his gun. “Now that we no longer need you, I’ll—”
“Hold it!” a voice says grim.
Turning, who should we see but Percival Octavius Ogram sitting astraddle his horse, holding twin black-handled sixes in steady hands.
“The dude!” Orv says, and makes a grab for his gun.
But there comes a blast from Omaha’s right gun, and Orv forgets all about going for his weapon. In fact, all he can think about is the bloody hole in his right hand.
“Take those ropes and tie the varmits up, boys,” Omaha says, voice calm. “And much obliged for helping me pin something on the Paschal brothers. Always before, they’ve been too slick for us. This time, it’ll be a different story.”
“But—but—” Wintergreen gurgles.
“Sorry I had to fool you,” Omaha says, “but when I ran across your ad, I saw a chance to live close to this nest of skunks without arousing suspicion. Brought along that old newspaper, thinking maybe I’d want to show Curly’s picture to someone. As soon as I heard about the bank holdup, I guessed these coyotes had done it, but had no way to prove it, so I left the paper where you’d be sure to see it. Figured you’d make a try for the reward. Rode to the Double-X ahead of you. Aroused the sidewinders by throwing a rock through a window. Wanted ’em to find you and get scared. Followed you out here where the loot was hidden, and—”
“Just who are you?” Wintergreen manages to wheeze.
“Percival Octavius Ogram, Special Deputy Marshall, but just call me Omaha for short.” Then, grinning cheerful, “Too bad you boys didn’t capture these owlhooters so you could collect the reward.”
* * * *
It is the next day, and Wintergreen Wilson and I are sitting at the breakfast table, sopping up molasses with our biscuits. It is Wintergreen who breaks a long, gloomy silence.
“Right decent of Omaha to give me the money he won in them poker games,” he says.
“Easy money,” I murmur.
Wintergreen chokes slightly, hangs his big hat on his beermug ears and walks out, cussing.
GUARDIAN OF THE TRAIL, by Johnston McCulley
Beth Patchey’s eyes were filled with worry. “Hurry back with Dad’s medicine, Bob,” she urged. “And don’t forget the mail. I’ll be here at the ranch alone until you get back.” She looked up at him anxiously. “You know, with the two boys gone up into the hills looking for those strays, and not coming back until late tomorrow or the next day—” Bob Polk swung up into his saddle and gathered the reins. He was an attractive man of about thirty, tall and strong of movement.
“You’ll be all right, honey,” he told Beth. “Read your Dad to sleep and let him sleep as long as he will. I’ll burn up the trail.”