The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sonny

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Title: Sonny

Author: Murray Leinster

Release date: August 9, 2026 [eBook #79317]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: Doubleday, Page & Co., 1926

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79317

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNY ***

Sonny

By Murray Leinster

Author of “Fog,” “Sagebrush Slings The Bull,” etc.

Gunpowder was a specialist in concentrated helliousness, the type of outlaw horse that could buck and whirl on a quarter—and have twenty cents left over. In the long search which lay ahead of him, Sonny Holman needed just such a fiery mount; so in payment he embarked upon a dangerous duty for the sheriff of Helada.

Sonny Holman was worth a thousand dollars to anybody in Helada on the morning he rode in, whether they got him dead or alive. But nobody seemed to know it. He thought he was ahead of the alarm for him, so rode on to where he saw something like a crowd. There was a black and white horse fighting like a fiend to dismount his rider, in the center. Sonny looked at the horse and stiffened. Then he rolled a cigarette and watched the battle. All the town was watching, apparently. The fight was taking place in the small corral attached to the livery stable, and there were quite forty citizens leaning against the corral rails or perched on other points of vantage.

The man on the horse was beginning to weaken before Sonny rode up. As Sonny struck a match to light his cigarette, daylight showed underneath the rider. When Sonny had taken his first puff, the rider grabbed wildly for the horn of his saddle. When Sonny drew his first inhalation the rider lost a stirrup. Sonny’s discarded match stick and the rider of the black and white horse struck the ground at the same time.

A yell went up from the onlookers. The black and white horse whirled and reared up, to come down with sharp fore hoofs upon the fallen man. A lariat fell across its head, and the man on the ground rolled out of the way at the same instant. A moment later the horse was being dragged across the corral, fighting madly every foot of the way, and the man on the ground had struggled to his feet and was limping to the gate.

“That’s a right nice hawss,” observed Sonny.

“Nice hawss?” queried a citizen by the corral gate. “He’s hell on wheels, with all kinds of equipment. Nobody ain’t rid him yet.”

“Hm,” said Sonny reflectively. “What might you folks call him?”

The citizen spat. “His official name,” he stated, “is Gunpowder; but I’m inclined to think that Buck, yonder, is callin’ him somethin’ different.”

The limping man came out of the gate rubbing his shoulder. Sonny surveyed him thoughtfully. “That your hawss, brother?” he asked.

“Not much,” rasped Buck. “If I owned the devil, I’d fill him so full of lead he’d have t’ use a block an’ tackle to hoist his tail for a fly flap!”

“I’d admire,” said Sonny tentatively, “to try forkin’ that animal. He hadda trick or two I ain’t seen before. There was a kinda shimishewabble in the middle of a steamboat turn that looked right intricate.”

“Go ahead,” snapped Buck. “I bet yuh regular money y’ don’t stay on as long as I did.”

“No,” said Sonny sorrowfully, “I ain’t got any widow for you t’ collect from if I was to lose.”

He slipped off his own pony and went over to the horse. He seemed wholly at ease, but he was acutely aware of each glance that was bent upon him. When one is badly wanted, even if one is ahead of the news, caution is desirable—especially when honor likewise is at stake. But nobody showed anything but curiosity. Gunpowder had been blindfolded, now, to be edged into the stable. Sonny stopped the two men who were handling him. No more than half a dozen words and he was granted a free ride, with smothered grins at his apparent confidence.

“Want y’ own saddle?” queried one of the men at Gunpowder’s head.

“That one’s on tight,” said Sonny. “Let ’er go!”

The men jumped back. Nothing happened. Sonny sat upon the most placid of horses, one which gazed curiously around at the men watching it. Sonny puffed twice and then ran a caressing hand under its mane. “A li’l action, Gunpowder,” he suggested mildly.

Without warning, Gunpowder exploded. He bucked and at the same time spun around like a pinwheel. He made half a dozen monster leaps, landing stiff-legged from every jump. He whirled, and stopped short with a jerk. He plunged full speed for the opposite side of the corral, and five yards from the fence dug his hoofs into the ground and slid. His object was to shoot Sonny over his head either above or into the corral fence. He failed. Sonny stuck like a leech, and to add insult to injury, slapped Gunpowder’s flank with the palm of his hand.

Gunpowder shook himself, walked deliberately to the center of the corral again, and without warning became a veritable tornado. He bucked, he plunged, and in the middle of a plunge he bucked again. He fought like a demon, desperately, fiercely, infuriatedly. For a good three minutes not one of the onlookers saw Gunpowder as anything but a whirlwind of horse in the middle of a cloud of dust. Buck after buck, jumping with his back arched—everything in the line of plain and fancy devilishness that long experience could suggest were exhibited in quick succession.

And daylight had not yet appeared between Sonny and his saddle.

Gunpowder was panting, now. A very few minutes of such battling as he had been doing will wear out any horse. He began to gasp a little. Sonny touched him with the spur. Gunpowder seemed to go mad with rage and determination, bucking, plunging—everything the mind of a horse has yet conceived in the way of wickedness. Suddenly he plunged for the fence. Sonny lifted his right leg to avoid being scraped off, but instead the black and white horse flung himself down and rolled up flat to the fence. It was deliberate and it was devilish, an attempt to crush the man against fence or earth with Gunpowder’s full weight.

Sonny jumped just in time, but he had to make it across Gunpowder’s upturned belly to escape. He sprawled on the ground, and when he got up there was a nasty cut on his forehead from a plunging hoof.

“Hold on, there!” he snapped. Men were running with lariats, and one or two with poles. “I’m tendin’ to this here.”

As Gunpowder struggled to his feet again Sonny leaped upon him, and his face was no longer pleasant, but definitely grim and determined. Now he was not content to let Gunpowder wear himself out. He fought the animal with cold determination.

“Naughty li’l son of a gun,” he said grimly when the bucks had lost their first energy. “A li’l more action, Gunpowder.”

He touched his spurs in. The horse was galvanized into a fresh and frantic outburst. When he slackened Sonny spurred him again. And again and again he forced the wearying animal to battle until at last horseflesh could stand no more.

Gunpowder was defeated. He stood with hanging head, exhausted and beaten, and Sonny slipped rather stiffly from the saddle and went around to his head.

“Dawggone!” he said admiringly. “Gunpowder ain’t no name for you. You’re Dynamite from now on, an’ sayeth no man to the contrary. Who owns this critter? I’m aimin’ to buy him.”

There had been one man watching, standing apart from the others. He came forward now, and Sonny saw a bright metal star on his shirt. Sonny’s right hand fell inconspicuously to his side, hard by his six-gun. There was a thousand dollars reward for Sonny, and he meant to be careful. For the time it would take to locate a man he once foolishly had trusted, he intended to remain at large.

“I own him,” said the sheriff curtly. “Maybe we can make a deal.”

“How much?” asked Sonny. He watched alertly, without seeming to be on guard.

“The price is three hundred,” said the sheriff shortly, “but he ain’t for sale for cash. Can you shoot?”

“I’ve pulled a trigger now an’ then,” admitted Sonny.

The sheriff turned to regard the group, who had been watching the taming of Gunpowder. His eyes met emptiness. Every man had walked away. Several could be seen turning into the Jackrabbit Saloon.

The sheriff turned back with a grim smile.

“The law, you might say, ain’t especial popular right now in Helada,” he observed. “All my deputies got shot or run away. An’ I need one ’r two that can ride an’ shoot. Stick with me a month an’ if you ain’t perforated I’ll give you the hawss. I can’t ride him.”

Sonny, for whom a reward of a thousand dollars, dead or alive, had recently been posted; Sonny, who had ridden into this town liable to find his picture posted on the nearest fence, frowned thoughtfully. To occupy his hands he started to roll a cigarette. But it is not every wanted man who is offered a job enforcing the law. And besides, Gunpowder was a horse. A real horse, such as every man hopes to find and few men come across.

“You’ll probably be plugged inside of a week,” said the sheriff curtly, “but I c’n promise yuh some action. What say?”

Sonny licked his cigarette and nodded. Somewhere in this region there was a man who earnestly hoped not to meet Sonny. The latter approved of a chance to search—and likewise hide out from those who sought him—as a limb of the law.

“I’m on,” said Sonny. “Do I wear a badge?”

The sheriff tossed the makings across the desk to Sonny, and dropped a curtain made of flour bags across the window, which arrangement let light into the office but prevented anyone outside from looking in. It was a typical office for a Western sheriff. Posters pinned untidily on the walls, describing men wanted, a calendar or two, a heap of dusty documents on the desk, a .45-70 carbine in its saddle sheath in one corner, and two pairs of rusty handcuffs hung on a nail in the wall.

“You’re sworn in,” observed the sheriff. “Now I’ll tip yuh off on how to live—bein’ a deputy sheriff—in Helada. The first thing is, never put yuh back to a door, or a window that somebody can shoot through. The second is, shoot first. The third is, don’t b’lieve all yuh hear.”

“Sounds right simple,” conceded Sonny. “But what’s the situation gen’rally, that calls for all them precautions?”

“They’ll tell yuh I’m rustlin’,” said the sheriff grimly.

Sonny blinked and looked up from the cigarette he was rolling. He studied the sheriff’s face. His eyes dropped to the sheriff’s hand, clenched fiercely upon the desk.

“And are yuh?” he asked.

“No,” said the sheriff. His tone was quiet enough, but the knuckles of his hand whitened. “The evidence against me is pretty good, just short of hangin’ evidence. I’d believe it against anybody else. So folks are layin’ traps for me instead of the real rustlers, an’ they’re gettin’ right lawless. One or two of ’em have tried t’ plug me.”

“An’ when you get a deputy,” said Sonny, “folks figure you got him to help you rustle cattle, instead of helpin’ stop it. An’ his health gets poor, if not fatal.”

“That’s it,” said the sheriff grimly. “But you put on a pretty show of ridin’ Gunpowder. Most folks like a good rider. Maybe they’ll b’lieve I slipped up in takin’ yuh on. Maybe they’ll help you catch them rustlers when they won’t help me.”

Sonny twisted the end of his cigarette paper and put it in his mouth. He struck a match. “But,” he objected, “I might be in town t’ produce some more evidence sayin’ you was rustlin’. How d’you know?”

“I don’t,” admitted the sheriff, “but if y’are, I’ll plug you as sure as Gawd made li’l green apples!”

Sonny lit his cigarette and inhaled thoughtfully. “I think,” he said meditatively, “this is goin’ to be interestin’. Right interestin’. Bein’ suspected, you can’t find out anythin’. That’s up t’ me. If I find anythin’ ’gainst you, you’ll plug me. If I find anythin’ against anybody else, they’ll try t’ plug me.” He paused. “Right interestin’, Sheriff. I’ll mosey around an’ see what I can see.”

“Go ahead,” said the sheriff. “I’ll give yuh Gunpowder an’ my share of the rewards for the rustlers if yuh catch ’em. But if yuh ain’t in cahoots with ’em, you better not stan’ with your back to a door.”

Sonny went out, frowning thoughtfully. He stopped just outside the door and surveyed the town. Adobe houses, a few frame buildings with false fronts and a whitewashed jail. That was the town of Helada. Now the town was burning up with heat. A red hot sun glared down from a brazen sky. The cowponies hitched before the Jackrabbit saloon drooped beneath the glare. The horizon was rippling from the heat and all the world was like an oven. Not the barest breath of breeze was blowing.

“Helada,” murmured Sonny, “meanin’ ‘froze,’ is what I’d call a kinda sarcastic name for this town.”

He made his way toward the saloon, the fine alkali dust his feet kicked up rising nearly to his knees.

“An’ me takin’ a chance like this,” he added severely to himself, “with all that reward out for me! Just because of Gunpowder an’ kinda likin’ that sheriff. It’s foolish. But I never yet saw a man that clenched his fists while he was lyin’.”

He turned into the saloon and blinked in the sudden semi-darkness. A bald bartender polished glasses behind the bar. Flies buzzed somnolently against the ceiling. Four cowpunchers with a marked family resemblance to each other and the man who had been trying to ride Gunpowder that morning were lounging about a table.

Sonny’s features grew curiously hard as they looked at him. But no one gave a sign of recognition, except Buck.

Sonny waved his hand. “Folks,” he said pleasantly, “meet your new deputy sheriff. This here is the first town I ever rid into where anybody thought I was li’ble to stop trouble instead of startin’ it. The drinks are on me. Will yuh join me?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. They looked at each other. Then Buck, still stiff from his fall from Gunpowder, grinned. “I rec’n,” he admitted, “the drinks ought t’ be on me. You sure forked that hawss, stranger.”

“Thank you, suh,” said Sonny profoundly. “As my step-great-uncle, late Secretary of the Interior in General Grant’s cabinet, used t’ remark, the main thing in ridin’ a hawss is to stay on top. Here’s how.”

He put down his glass.

“Where you from?” asked one of the four brothers abruptly.

“Heaven is my home,” said Sonny, “an’ I’m a long ways off. Right now, though,” he added gently, “I’m representin’ the majesty of the law, an’ I’d say it was up to me to ask questions ’nstead of answerin’ ’em.”

The four brothers glanced at each other again. “You’ll last maybe a week,” said one, and buried his nose in his glass.

“Why?”

“Sheriff’ll shoot you,” said another.

“An’ if he don’t—” began a third.

Buck grinned again. “Somebody else prob’ly will. We’re right curious that way around here. There’s rustlin’ goin’ on. Folks say it’s bein’ directed from the sheriff’s office. You got ambitions in the way of rustlin’?”

“Not any,” said Sonny with ironical bitterness. “Holdin’ up stages is my line, they say. I’m pretty good at that, though, to hear ’em tell it.”

“Too bad,” said Buck. “If y’ don’t help the sheriff drive off a few head now an’ then, he’s likely t’ plug yuh. An’ if yuh do, somebody else is more than apt to sling some lead yore way.”

Sonny smiled. “When suggestin’,” he said gently, “that I might consider rustlin’ cattle, I’d be obliged if you’d smile. Real much obliged.”

Buck grinned once more while the others scowled a little.

“I’m smilin’,” said Buck.

The four brothers rose. “Rec’n we’ll be goin’,” said one curtly. His eyes turned upon Sonny. “S’long, in case we don’t see you any more.”

The others clattered out in his wake. Sonny frowned after them. “Seems like I’d ought t’ know them fellers,” he confessed, “but they didn’t know me. Who are they, anyways?”

“Name’s Jackson,” said Buck idly. “Four brothers. Come here a year or two ago. Own the Double H ranch an’ run it mostly by themselves. They run a couple thousand head, maybe more.”

Sonny frowned at his glass and twirled it absently in the wet spot it had made on the table.

“Say,” he said suddenly, “what have you folks got on the sheriff? He acted like a regular feller to me.”

Buck considered, and regarded Sonny thoughtfully for a little while. “He changed, I rec’n,” he said at last. “Folks used to think a lot of him. But all of a sudden some rustlin’ began that he couldn’t never catch up on. He seemed mighty vexed, he did, an’ rid his hawss’ hoofs off tryin’ to catch ’em, it seemed like. But all of a sudden there was a kinda raid on the Lazy L herds. Caldwell owns that ranch, an’ he himself come on his foreman shot plumb through the head with a .45-70 bullet. An’ the sheriff is the only man in the county has a .45-70 gun. See?”

Sonny nodded, twirling his glass thoughtfully.

“Then them Jackson fellers,” said Buck. “They lost four hundred head—pretty bad for them. They let one of their han’s go. Ham Curtis, it was. He come in an’ he got a job deputyin’. An’ a coupla weeks later the sheriff plugged him. Said he was pesterin’ a Mexican girl. The girl swore to it, too. Said that the sheriff was her preserver. But then the Jackson boys, they up an’ said that they’d turned Ham loose just to get that job an’ see if the sheriff was crooked. An’ they said Ham’d sent ’em word he had the goods on the sheriff. But he was shot before he could tell ’em anythin’. That looked kinda bad, too.”

“Pretty bad,” admitted Sonny. “Pretty bad.”

“An’ they foun’ some rustled cattle oncet in a li’l canyon,” Buck added, “with nobody around, but some fancy brandin’-irons in a cabin, an’ a pair of the sheriff’s ol’ pants was in there, too. The sheriff, he said he’d give ’em to a Mexican, but it looked rotten bad.”

“Right bad,” said Sonny dreamily, “but I happen t’ know somethin’——”

“An’ so,” Buck pointed out, “nobody believes the sheriff is so awful anxious to have them rustlers caught. The evidence against him bein’ in cahoots with ’em ain’t open-an’-shut, but it’s sure plentiful. And consequent, when he cottons to somebody, other folks look him over careful. You, f’r instance. The sheriff swore he wouldn’t never part with Gunpowder, though he couldn’t ride him. But when you blew in an’ rid him, why, the sheriff right away said he’d let yuh have him.”

“It looked like a set-up, huh?” said Sonny shortly. “Like I was one of that gang, that come in an’ rid Gunpowder for a gran’stan’ play, for an excuse to take a deputy’s badge? An’ me an’ the sheriff could pull off somethin’ real big in the rustlin’ line.”

“That’s it,” said Buck. He faced Sonny squarely. “I kinda liked the way you rid that hawss. If y’ don’t like the way I talk——”

“That’s all right,” said Sonny briefly. “Does anybody know where Gunpowder come from?”

“No.”

“Hm,” said Sonny. He tapped on the table. “If anybody asks about me, you c’n tell ’em that I’m not only goin’ after them rustlers, but I happen t’ know somethin’ that tells me right where t’ look. An’ I happen to know where Gunpowder——”

There was a deafening explosion from the partition at the rear of the saloon. Sonny’s hat jumped a little and settled back on his head slightly askew. In one heartbeat from the noise of the explosion, and before the plaster the bullet dislodged had reached the floor, Sonny was out of his chair and racing for the cloud of smoke, a gun out and in his hand. Buck was slower, but he came plunging after with his own gun out and ready.

There was a second explosion, a crashing, and a man plunged out and was running and dodging among the buildings of the town. Sonny stood deliberately in the doorway and sent six bullets after him. The fugitive rounded an adobe corner and vanished.

Sonny blew the smoke from the muzzle of his gun. “The sheriff didn’t tell me any lie when he promised action,” he observed.

“Le’s go get that son of a gun,” said Buck eagerly.

Sonny shook his head. “We couldn’t pick him out,” he said regretfully, “He’s sittin’ down amongst his frien’s by now, his gun all reloaded, an’ they’ll swear he was there all the time. But I would like to be real certain,” he added meditatively, “whether that feller shot at me because I said I knew where t’ look for the rustlers, or—or because I said I knew where Gunpowder was stole from. Yep,” reflected Sonny, “it would be right interestin’ to be positive.”

Night had fallen upon Helada. A full moon was sailing slowly upward in the eastern sky. The angular adobe dwellings and the still more ungainly wooden ones took on a fictitious beauty from its silver rays, and the dust and sagebrush that began abruptly at the edge of the town looked curiously inviting. Bright stars shone down. Far and far away a thin noise began, to which the dogs of the town responded spitefully. The coyote stopped, then began again, and the dogs barked once more. Their yapping changed its timbre as the plodding hoofbeats of a weary horse drew near and entered the village.

The town was still, except for tinkling, jangling music from the Jackrabbit honkytonk. A dozen or more cowponies were hitched to its tethering rail, but there was little noise of festivity aside from the tune that went thinly out into the distant spaces.

Sonny, in the sheriff’s office, wrote by a dismal yellow lamp light. He was writing in a rather peculiar fashion. In the midst of the dust and disorder of the office he held a pencil in his fist, instead of his fingers, and he did not form letters in the usual fashion. He was printing laboriously upon a sheet of ruled paper torn out of a tablet. He was half smiling as he did so, and certainly there was no hesitation over the words or painful working of a protruded tongue such as the illiterate writer finds so helpful. Besides, Sonny seemed to be copying.

A sheet of creased and greasy paper lay on the table before him. He was copying its crude capital letters, and if he did not combine them into the same words, he looked to his model for every one.

He stopped and compared his work with the original. There were certain small differences in the sense of the two, but the first lines were identical with the original, and one would have to read it through to note the difference.

Footsteps sounded faintly in the dust outside. Weary, discouraged footsteps. Sonny thrust his copy in his pocket. He was rolling a cigarette when the sheriff came in. The sheriff was covered with dust. He was saddle weary, and there were grim lines on his face.

“Howdy,” said Sonny pleasantly. “A lot o’ news since I saw you this mornin’.”

The sheriff grunted. “I’m kind of inclined,” he observed grimly, “to advise you to move on. There ain’t any use you stayin’ here an’ gettin’ shot. There’s goin’ to be shootin’ soon, with me on the receivin’ end. I coulda shot it out with four different men today. Caldwell, of the Lazy L, in particular. He used to be a good friend of mine, but he’s got me down for a rustler, now, an’ when he believes that, there’s goin’ to be somethin’ doin’. You better stop deputyin’ an’ go where the law is more popular.”

Sonny glanced at half a dozen envelopes on the table—the day’s mail for the sheriff. One of them, Sonny had reason to believe from the postmark, would inform the sheriff that there was a thousand dollars reward for a certain Sonny Holman, dead or alive. He grinned faintly.

“I’d hate t’ go without Gunpowder,” he observed. “I like that hawss, sheriff. Sell him to me for cash?”

The sheriff nodded, and settled down heavily in his chair. He reached out for the mail.

Sonny drew a roll of bills from his pocket. “Here’s your cash,” he said, carelessly thrusting the mail aside while he counted out the money. “Say, sheriff, ’ud you mind tellin’ me where you got him?”

The sheriff smiled ruefully. “I’ll give yuh a paper sayin’ yuh bought him from me. I bought him,” he admitted, “from a Mexican. I kinda think he was stole some time or other, but he was too durned good to let stay in a greaser’s han’s. There was just a chance that the greaser come by him honest, though.”

“He was stole,” said Sonny, “from a ranch up in Arizona.”

The sheriff paused, then held out the bills again.

“You goin’ to take him back?”

“Not me,” said Sonny, a deadly glitter coming into his eyes for a moment. “He b’longs to my brother—my half-brother. An’ that jigger owes me somethin’. I ain’t goin’ to tell you where the hawss belongs,” he added quickly, “so you might’s well sell him.”

“Oh, I’ll give him t’ you,” said the sheriff wearily. He looked up suddenly. “Why didn’t y’ tell folks he was stolen? The way folks think about me, if they knew I had a stolen hawss, that would ha’ clinched things.”

“I gotta lot of respect for the law an’ all its officers,” said Sonny, grinning. “I kinda think there’s proof of it in the mail. Don’t open that mail just yet, sheriff,”

The sheriff stared at him. Sonny tossed over the greasy folded sheet of paper he had used as a model.

“Found that on the table when I come in here this afternoon,” he observed. “Read it.”

The sheriff picked up the sheet. He read it, and blank bewilderment showed on his features, then anger. Printed crudely was a note:

There’s been some fellers scoutin’ around too much like they had a hunch. It was the Jackson brothers. It’s up to you and the sheriff to head them off. You better do somethin. We aint sendin the sheriff cash for nothin and we got six hundred head in the canyon we aint been able to get across the border yet. You-all better do somethin or there’ll be a mess.

“What’s this here?” demanded the sheriff. “A joke?”

“I kinda think,” said Sonny deliberately, “it’s intended t’ be a joke on me. It would kinda puzzle me, ord’narily. But some feller shot at me today. Just suppose somebody found that in my pockets. Wouldn’t you kinda think they’d call it proof that you an’ me was in cahoots with a rustlin’ gang somewhere?”

“I would,” said the sheriff grimly. “Where’d you get it?”

“Somebody left it on the desk here,” said Sonny. “I rec’n they left it the same time they stole your .45-70 carbine.”

The sheriff jerked his head around to the rifle holster in the corner. It was empty. He clenched his fists. “Now,” he said coldly, “somebody’s goin’ to be found plugged, an’ that gun beside him. Then folks will come after me. You clear out right now. I’m goin’ to pass out shootin’, even if it is my best friends that are aimin’ to hang me. You better get goin’ pronto.”

Sonny stood up and nodded his head. “You’re a white man, sheriff,” he observed. “I kinda expect to leave t’night, but if things don’t break right I—well, dawggone if I don’t come back an’ shoot it out alongside yuh!” He held out his hand.

The sheriff took it reluctantly. “You’ll be plumb foolish if you do,” he said grimly. “I aim to get right thorough perforated if folks come after me. I’m used to goin’ after folks.”

“I’m goin’,” said Sonny, “to talk to some fellers in the Jackrabbit. There’s a kinda meetin’ there tonight. Ranch-owners, y’know, to sort of discuss this rustlin’ business an’ settle on how to end it. They ain’t invited me, or you either, but I rec’n I’ll horn in. My step-great-uncle, late Secretary of the Interior in General Grant’s cabinet, he used t’ say bashfulness was right cute, but it never made anybody President.”

He went out, slipping out of the narrowest possible opening of the door and closing it instantly after him. It might have been merely a coincidence, of course, but he had offered a very poor target to anyone who might have been looking for one.

His progress toward the Jackrabbit, too, was not the forthright stride of a man on the way to get a drink. His hand was always close to his hip, he clung to the shadows as much as possible, and he rounded no corner without having first peered before him.

When he reached the brightly illumined saloon, however, he swaggered inside cheerfully. He went up to the bar and took the bottle the bartender offered. He poured with meticulous care. And then he asked confidentially, “Got any objection to a li’l shootin’ in here?”

The bartender looked at him uneasily. “What kind of shootin’? Folks or dice?”

“Neither,” said Sonny. “Rustlers, most likely.”

He up-ended the glass. A sudden quietness had fallen in the saloon when he entered. There were many men in the place, nearly as many, it seemed, as had watched the riding of Gunpowder. Most of them were eyeing Sonny peculiarly. Every man had heard his exchange with the bartender.

“Here’s some folks,” said Buck, suddenly at Sonny’s elbow, “that’d like to talk to you, if y’ don’t mind.”

Sonny turned with politeness, possibly excessive, but Buck’s face was wholly friendly and Sonny smiled amiably upon the others. He saw two of the Jackson brothers glaring at him.

“Delighted t’ meet the gentlemen,” drawled Sonny. “I am always pleased t’ meet the representative citizens of a hustlin’ little city. An’ though I only got here this mornin’——”

“What we want to know,” a deep voice boomed, “is, who are you, and what do you intend to do about this rustling? Are you helping the sheriff, or are you for us?” A big man, six feet and more, sat astride a chair barking at him.

“I’m for law an’ order an’ other desirable things,” said Sonny politely. “An’ if you folks pledge me yore votes for public dawg-catcher——”

“We aren’t fooling,” said the big man curtly. He was Caldwell, of the Lazy L. “We know enough about our sheriff to want to know about his deputies. Who are you? Where’d you come from?”

“That’s a kinda hint,” admitted Sonny, “but I got to disappoint you. I ain’t a rustler, though. Stickin’ up stages is said to be my line, like I tol’ Buck an’ my friends the Jacksons this mornin’. But that’s about all I got to say.”

Caldwell grunted. “It might be healthier to speak up,” he observed pointedly.

Sonny smiled frostily and moved away from the bar toward the big man. One of the Jackson brothers moved uneasily to one side to give him room. Sonny seized him suddenly and held him by the shoulder.

“Frien’ Jackson,” he said softly, “I was thinkin’ this mornin’ that I’d seen you somewheres. Could you tell these folks about me?”

Jackson wrenched himself free and backed off. Sonny regarded him expectantly for a moment.

“Shucks, Jackson,” said Sonny sorrowfully, “d’you think I’d tell on yuh?”

He reached Caldwell’s side and beamed on him. Buck struggled through the sullen crowd and joined him.

“I’m bettin’ on yuh,” he told Sonny. “Caldwell, I c’n answer for one thing. This feller told me t’day he had a hunch who the rustlers are, an’ right then somebody tried t’ plug him.”

Caldwell grunted. “Then let him tell us, now. We got fifteen hundred up for the man who names those rustlers an’ proves it.”

Sonny grinned expansively. “Stan’ aside, gentlemen,” he called. “I’ll tell yuh! Fifteen hundred bucks for the names of the rustlers is two hundred an’ fifty dollars a word. It only needs six to tell yuh! Folks, the rustlers are——”

Bang!

A window at the side of the saloon blew in. The thunderous report of a forty-five seventy carbine filled the saloon, and Sonny clapped his hand stupidly to his chest and fell as a tree falls.

Men stared for the fraction of a second, then rushed for the door. All but Buck. He fought his way through a knot of men and leaped at the window with drawn gun. He crashed through it. Sonny lay still on the floor. The noise of a panic-stricken horse plunging violently sounded outside. Caldwell, the big man, heard sounds outside that told clearly of a rush for the spot where the marksman had stood. He bent over Sonny. But one of the Jacksons was first. He pushed his way to Sonny and knelt.

“Plumb through the heart!” he panted excitedly. “I bet the sheriff plugged him t’ keep him from splittin’!”

He swore suddenly and stood up with a greasy paper in his hand. He glanced at it and swore again. “Listen t’ this!” he shrilled triumphantly. “Listen here!

‘There’s been some fellers scoutin’ around too much like they had a hunch. It was the Jackson brothers. It’s up t’——’”

“Caldwell, this here is proof that this feller an’ the sheriff was in cahoots with them rustlers!”

He thrust the paper into Caldwell’s fingers. “It’s from the rustlers to him!” he shrilled excitedly. “An’ it says that this feller an’ the sheriff got to keep me an’ my brothers from huntin’ for ’em any longer. It says the rustlers are payin’ the sheriff money! It says—— If it ain’t proof this feller an’ the sheriff are in with that rustlin’ gang, I’m a maverick!”

“Which,” said a gentle voice from the floor, “is what y’ are. It don’t say nothin’ of the sort.”

Sonny rolled over and rose, his revolver inexplicably drawn and bearing steadily upon Jackson. He scrambled to his feet, smiling frostily, with the muzzle of his gun never wavering from its aim. There was no sign of any injury upon him.

“I’m callin’ on Mistuh Caldwell to remember what you said was on that paper,” added Buck softly. “I didn’t like the first one, Jackson, so I writ another.”

A sudden uproar arose outside the saloon. Shoutings, curses, a sudden scuffle and a shot.

“That Buck feller,” observed Sonny cryptically, “he evident reads trails good, when the sign’s clear.”

Men began to pour back into the saloon, dragging one man with them and carrying another. The foremost bore a rent and shattered rifle, so shredded by some unknown force as to be recognizable only by its stock. Buck came with them, raging.

“Pluggin’ that feller,” he raged, “from outside a winder! Hell!”

He stopped short and swallowed, staring at Sonny, who nodded without removing his eyes from the ashen faced Jackson under his gun.

“I’m right side up, Buck,” he observed. “Much obliged. You sure did some quick thinkin’. Would yuh mind takin’ this feller’s gun?”

Buck dazedly moved to obey, but paused as the sheriff stalked coldly into the saloon.

“I heard shootin’,” said the sheriff grimly. “You folks been fussin’ with my deputy?”

“Just a mite, Sheriff,” interposed Sonny. “Mistuh Caldwell, judgin’ by his expression, he’s aimin’ to read somethin’ aloud.”

Caldwell had read the note extracted from Sonny’s pocket and had blinked over it. But the truth of its statements were already before him, in the riven gun, one Jackson brother unconscious, another disarmed and raging, and a third ashen faced before Sonny.

“M-my Gawd, sheriff!” gasped Caldwell. “We came near making a mistake. Look here. This Jackson pulled this note out of this man’s pocket and said it was proof that you and your deputy were acting for the rustlers. And —and it reads——”

He swallowed, and read:

There’s been some fellers scoutin’ around too much like they had a hunch. It was the Jackson brothers. It’s up to whoever finds this note to look ’em over right careful. One of them is wanted in Dos Almas for breaking jail and horse stealing. And one of ’em ought to be banged up some. He stole the sheriff’s .45-70 to shoot me with, and I’ve plugged up the barrel with mud.

“All of which,” said Sonny pleasantly, “has turned out. There’s the gun, you all heard the shot, an’ there’s the feller, banged up somethin’ scandalous. Did I hear somebody tumblin’ to a few facts?”

Men began to stir a little. Sonny waved his gun oratorically. “If somebody will take this hombre’s gun,” he said plaintively, “I’ll speak my li’l piece an’ move on.”

“This feller here, he was in the same jail as me, once, when I was in for assaultin’ an’ batterin’ a feller I didn’t like. He was in for hawss-stealin’. An’ his brothers they come an’ got him out of jail, leavin’ me in durance vile. So when I saw ’em this mornin’ an’ they pretended not t’ recognize me, why, I figured if there was any dirty work goin’ on they was in it. An’ after a li’l while one of ’em tried to plug me, while Buck was sittin’ talkin’ to me. Somebody take his gun,” he added, “because he’s tryin’ to get up nerve to pull it, an’ I’ll hate to waste lead on him.”

Someone disarmed the third Jackson brother and clutched him firmly. Sonny replaced his gun and sighed.

“Well,” he said, “I rec’n that explains it. When I said I knew who the rustlers was, one of ’em, who was listenin’, he tried t’ plug me. It’d got kinda necessary for them to see me buried, by then. An’ to keep from spoilin’ folks’ belief that it was the sheriff who was in with the rustlers, why, they went an’ grabbed the sheriff’s gun to plug me with. They didn’t have time t’ go back to their ranch for the .45-70 they’s got out there. I figured they’d want t’ use the sheriff’s gun, so I went an’ I got me a li’l piece of mud, an’ I poked it down the barrel. Filled it plumb up, I did.”

“You came here,” boomed Caldwell, “and made a target of yourself so the gun would burst——”

“Precisely, suh,” said Sonny. “You are a gentleman an’ a scholar, suh.”

Caldwell of the Lazy L turned to the sheriff with a rather red face. “Tom,” he boomed, “I’m a durned fool, and I admit it. I apologize for thinking—what I thought, and I’ll shoot any man who repeats anything I’ve said about you. There you are. Shake hands?”

The sheriff gravely took his old friend’s hand. Other men crowded about him, but he raised his voice. “Look here, fellers,” he called, “we got three of these Jackson fellers, but we want to get the fourth, an’ we still got to sweat out of ’em where they hid out the cattle. Who’s comin’? Git your animals, boys!”

The saloon emptied instantly, the men angry at the Jacksons and rather ashamed of themselves. They would make up to the sheriff later for their suspicions of him. Caldwell lingered a moment.

“Wait a minute, Tom,” he boomed. “I’m goin’ with you. First I want to take your deputy away. Want a better job than you’ve got?” he demanded of Sonny.

“No, thanks,” drawled Sonny. “I resigned. I’m movin’ on.”

“You can pick your own job out at my ranch,” boomed Caldwell. “I need men who can use their heads. What’s your line?”

“Like I told yuh,” said Sonny, smiling faintly, “right now—though it ain’t so—I’m renowned for stickin’ up stages. Seriously, suh, I’m movin’ on.”

The sheriff turned to Buck. “I’m deputizin’ you, Buck,” he observed, “to look after these here prisoners until I get back.” He handed an envelope to Sonny. “I ain’t read that,” he said firmly. “Not a word of it! There ain’t no need for you to hurry.”

“I’ll be movin’,” said Sonny gratefully, “but I’m much obliged.”

“Go to blazes,” said the sheriff gruffly. “Them miners ruin the country anyways.”

He swung out of the saloon. There was a yipping and yelling and the highly impromptu posse set off. Sonny rolled a cigarette and lighted it with care.

“Say,” said Buck. “You ain’t really leavin’?”

“Yep.” Sonny tossed over the envelope the sheriff had given him. “That there’s a right good likeness.”

Buck frowned, but Sonny nodded for him to open it. Glaring type showed. “$1,000.00 REWARD!” Beneath was a picture of Sonny. “Holding up stage—robbing payroll of Aztec Mine—assaulting manager——”

Buck blinked and drew back. “What yuh givin’ me?” he demanded. “This ain’t you!”

“Sure is,” said Sonny. He sighed faintly. “I hadda uncle, a old desert rat. He found that there Aztec Mine. Filed on it, an’ the Aztec people jumped him. They shot him, by the way, tryin’ to get him off. It was dirty, but it was legal. Everybody’ll admit that. An’ so—well, my half-brother got some of it back with a gun an’ a mask. That was O. K., only—he planted some evidence what hung the deadwood on me! I’m kinda lookin’ for that hombre!”

Buck stared, and then he said emphatically, “Well, I’m sure glad I ain’t him! Got plenty of grub? Need some blankets? Extra gun? Anything I c’n do t’ help yuh?”

Sonny grinned and took his hand. “Nothin’, thanks,” he said. “I’ll be ridin’ Gunpowder an’ trailin’ my other cayuse behind. Maybe I’ll come back this way sometime. Meantime I’ll be driftin’—an’ lookin’. Hasta la vista.”

He turned and went out of the saloon. A little later Buck left his prisoners to take care of themselves while he went to the door. Sonny was coming out of the livery stable corral, mounted on Gunpowder. And Gunpowder was bucking madly, and plunging, and trying every trick known to the equine race for unseating his rider.

He fought his way down the single street of Helada and out into the moonlit distance. The other horse followed patiently.

“An’ there’s a thousan’ dollars reward for him,” murmured Buck, “alive or dead.” He felt of himself where Gunpowder had thrown him that morning. “Well,” said Buck, “if that hawss don’t collect the reward, there sure ain’t nobody else is likely to.”

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

This story appeared in West Magazine, February 5, 1926. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.

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Table of Contents

Sonny

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