The Lone Ranger stepped back a pace. He wanted, if possible, to avoid further argument with Jenks. Not that he feared the loud-talking braggart, he simply disliked being the center of attention at any time; especially now, when every minute counted.
Jenks made a quick motion and his hand came up with a gun. "This shootin' iron," he said, "has the butt-end plumb filled with notches, an' each one stands fer an hombre that's come out second best in an argument with me! What's more, they's a couple dozen notches should be there, that there ain't no room for. Now, stranger, fer the last time, are yuh comin' tuh yonder bar with me, or ain't yuh?"
"Very well," replied the Lone Ranger, "but you'll have to make it fast. I have other things to do."
"Make it as fast or slow as I blamed please," snarled Shorty, holstering his gun. He was rather mollified by the stranger's acquiescence and waddled toward the bar with somewhat unsteady steps. The Lone Ranger saw disapproval registered on several faces. For a minute many of the men thought there might be a fight, and hoped that at long last the hated and despised Shorty Jenks might meet his match. Everyone in town disliked him but they feared him, knowing that he was responsible for several deaths.
The law in a place like Snake River was a strange thing. And the way justice was administered was even more difficult to understand. A lad like Dave Walters, who was suspected of murder, had scant chance to escape a lynching, and if he did live to be tried, his conviction by court of law was practically assured.
On the other hand, men like Shorty Jenks were rarely brought to trial. Their shootings generally took place in a saloon and there were always several men to swear that it was in self-defense. Shorty Jenks had a knack of drawing a gun fast. He would goad another man into a gunfight, and wait for that infinitesimal part of a second while the other man's gun cleared the holster. Not until then would he draw his own gun. He could give an opponent that much of a start, then blast death before the other could bring his weapon to bear.
Patrons of the place gave Shorty and the tall stranger plenty of room at the bar. They sensed what was coming. Shorty Jenks was in one of his notoriously ugly moods, and spoiling for a fight. He would heckle the stranger until he drew a gun. Then there would be a quick shot, and Shorty Jenks would be the one remaining on his feet. Many of the men who were present felt sorry for the stranger, yet none would risk his own life to interfere with Shorty Jenks.
"What'll yuh have?" the killer demanded when he stood beside the Lone Ranger at the bar.
"I'm not drinking," the tall man said softly. "Unless you call a glass of water a drink."
"I don't!" barked Jenks. To the bartender he said, "Usual thing fer me an' set up two glasses."
The trembling man behind the bar slid out two small glasses and a bottle. "Shorty," he began, "couldn't yuh sort of take yer trouble outside o' here, this place has been shot up so often that—"
"Shut up," interrupted Jenks.
"Y-yes, sir."
"Perhaps you didn't hear me," said the Lone Ranger to the man behind the bar. "I asked for a glass of water."
Those who heard the tall man gasped at his audacity. Never before had anyone treated Shorty Jenks in this manner. Jenks himself looked really pleased for a moment. He was getting into a fighting situation much sooner than usual. Then his face wrinkled into an awe-inspiring scowl. "Yuh mean tuh say you ain't aimin' tuh drink what I buy?"
"I'm not drinking that stuff."
"Wal, I never in all my born days heard the like of that fer an insult."
"Take it any way you like, Jenks. If you want me to stand here with you, I'll do it, while I drink a glass of water. Then I'm leaving."
"You ain't leavin' till I say so, stranger!"
The tall man shrugged his shoulders. "That's a point that we'll find out later."
The bald-headed man behind the bar set a glass of water down, then saw the scowl on Shorty's face and scurried out of sight.
The Lone Ranger lowered his voice and went on speaking. "Jenks, you're one of those loud-talking gunmen, and men of your sort aren't nearly as dangerous as you think you are. The trouble is that no one ever takes the time to call your bluff."
"Bluff," roared Shorty in rage. "We'll see, by thunder, if it's bluff or not." He drank his glass of liquor in a single gulp. The Lone Ranger put the water to his lips, his keen, steely eyes fixed on the man at his side. He rested one hand on his hip, his fingers but an inch from the handle of his gun.
Shorty put his empty glass on the polished bar and shoved the full one toward the Lone Ranger. "We'll see if I'm bluffin' or not. You drink that drink, or draw your gun," he said.
The tall man shook his head slowly. "I don't propose to do either, Jenks. What are you going to do about it?"
Jenks for a moment was speechless. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open as he stared at the man before him. The Lone Ranger took advantage of this brief silence to probe for information. "You're just the opposite of a man like Steve Delaney. Delaney doesn't have much to say, but he's much quicker to act than you are."
"What d'you know about Delaney?"
"Nothing much. I just mentioned him as the opposite type of man to what you are. I'll bet you wouldn't talk to Delaney the way you talk to men who are afraid of you. Now would you?"
"I'd talk tuh anyone an' say what I darn please. I ain't afraid of Delaney or any man like him. I ain't afraid of any man alive—"
"You'd better not talk too loud. Steve Delaney might hear you."
"What do I care what Delaney hears?"
"Do you know where he is now?"
"Sure I do. He's down near the Royal Flush. That's his favorite hangout." It suddenly occurred to Jenks that he was answering the tall man's questions, and that for the time he hadn't been pushing his fight toward its climax. He almost shouted when he said, "But what the heck do I care? This affair's between you an' me. Now you drink or I'll pour that liquor down yer gullet!"
For reply the Lone Ranger picked up the glass and slowly tilted it until the contents spilled on the floor and slopped on Shorty's boots.
"Wow!" yelled the short man. "That's an insult I cain't stand. That's more'n any self-respectin' man c'n stand, an' I won't take it. That act o' yores calls fer shootin', stranger, an' I'm callin' on yuh tuh slap leather."
"Don't start something you'll regret," the Lone Ranger said.
"You started it, but by darn, I'll finish it," bellowed Jenks in a voice like the roar of an angry bull. "I say fer you to draw."
The men who saw what followed had a hard time relating the incident. It all happened so fast. The Lone Ranger began his draw. His right hand dropped an inch to grip his gun. He started to clear the heavy weapon of the holster. Jenks waited till the gun was half drawn, then he himself drew. His hand snaked down and shot up with the speed which men talked about for miles around. His gun was almost bearing on the tall man, before the Lone Ranger's right-hand gun was entirely out of its holster. But the Lone Ranger's left hand was not idle. It dropped from the bar, and that was about all that anyone there saw of it. The next instant orange flame lashed from the tall man's hip. Shorty's weapon suddenly became active, jerking from his hand and flying across the room. Shorty himself looked as if he couldn't believe what had happened. His eyes dropped to the tall man's right hand, and he saw the gun still near the holster. He realized that he was weaponless, and his gun hand stung from the force of the bullet which had struck his gun. He howled in pain and terror as the Lone Ranger brought two guns to bear.
"Never overlook the chance that a man might be as fast with his left hand as he is with his right," the tall man said softly. "And the next time you plan to fire, shoot from the hip. It saves a lot of time when split seconds count."
Admiring expressions showed in the face of every man in the place as the Lone Ranger backed toward the door. Shorty Jenks still stood there by the bar, wringing his aching hand, and looking woefully at his smashed gun on the floor some yards away.
The Lone Ranger backed through the doors, then quickly holstered his guns and ducked around the side of the saloon. As he passed the back of the café, he heard the laughter and jeers that marked the downfall of Shorty's reign of terror.
But the Lone Ranger didn't pause to listen. He felt certain that sooner or later someone would remember his voice, and connect him with the masked man who had taken Dave Walters from the jail. His present disguise was almost as dangerous now as his original dress would have been. He must work fast, if he hoped to accomplish anything that night. His planned statements had brought out the fact that Steve Delaney might be found at the Royal Flush. The Lone Ranger knew that it was located at the far end of the row of buildings.
Running low, he kept behind the buildings as he moved parallel to the street in the direction of the Royal Flush. Near the end of the row, he paused. Beyond, wrapped in the moonlight, he could see the small homes of people who lived in Snake River. The houses were all in darkness. "It's either this or the next place," he told himself, as he once more headed toward the street through the space between two buildings. "If Steve Delaney is in there, I want to get him out before the story of my meeting with Jenks gets down to his place."
Steve Delaney stood just outside the doors of the Royal Flush. The gambler's face was without expression. Only the way he tongued his gold toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other indicated the impatience he felt.
"Fools," he muttered to himself as he heard more laughter from the inside of the café. "Don't they know enough to go home and go to bed?"
Steve Delaney wanted the town to quiet down. He had a definite reason for this. It would add to his problems if he had to keep a secret appointment while so many men were about the town. If only the Sheriff and the men who hunted for Dave Walters would return, he would be much more at ease. If they brought news of a trail, most of the men in town would leap to their mounts and join the pursuit. If the Sheriff came back with word that no trace of the hunted man had been found, most of the patrons of the cafés would call it a night and go home. In either event, the town would be quieted.
Until the Sheriff returned, however, Delaney didn't care to act.
He stood just to the left of the patch of light that came from the Royal Flush, watching each man who passed him. Occasionally someone spoke to him, and his reply was nothing more than a nod.
The Lone Ranger hugged the side of the building as he approached the street. He ventured a quick glance but ducked back as two men approached the Royal Flush. Their walk and manner indicated that they had not indulged too heavily. They appeared to be quite sober as they crossed the eight-foot space between the buildings. The Lone Ranger lowered his head so that his dark hat would shield his face as they passed. They did not notice him.
Then the Lone Ranger heard their footsteps halt, and a voice said, "Evenin', Steve." The Lone Ranger could not hear any reply. He could have leaned out and touched the men just around the corner of the saloon. A second voice said, "What's the matter, Steve? Ain't you takin' advantage of all the life in town tuhnite?"
A short reply said, "No."
"Gosh," the first speaker said, "I should think this would be a big night fer Steve Delaney. Why everyone in town is up and about! I reckon they's a heap of men would like a sociable game of cards."
"I'm not playing tonight," the smooth-voiced man replied.
"Reckon maybe you're afraid your luck mightn't be so good, now that Ma Prindle is dead, eh?"
"Maybe that's it," said Delaney.
"By the way," one of the two men said, "I hear that you're the one that found the old lady dead."
"That's right."
"Must've been an awful shock tuh you, tuh go there an' find her so, wasn't it? How'd you suspect that Dave Walters crittur of bein' the killer?"
"I told all I had to tell to the Sheriff," replied the gambler with a trace of irritation.
"We heard all about that, but what made you suspect young Walters in the first place?"
"Why don't you ask the Sheriff if you want more information?" snapped Delaney. "If he wants to tell you, he can, and if he doesn't, it's none of your business."
"All right, Steve, all right, don't git peevish about it. Step inside an' we'll buy a drink."
"I don't touch the stuff."
Goodbyes were said, and the Lone Ranger heard the two men enter the café.
He looked around the corner and saw Steve Delaney, who still leaned against the front of the place with his toothpick in his mouth. While the Lone Ranger watched, Delaney replaced the toothpick in a pocket of his vest, and drew out his watch. He glanced at it, then closed the cover with a snap. "Won't wait any longer," he murmured softly. The tall gambler put his watch away; then glanced both ways and sauntered away from the vicinity of the Royal Flush.
In that instant, the Lone Ranger changed his plans. He had been on the verge of addressing Steve Delaney and taking him some place where they might talk without interruption. But the fact that Delaney seemed to have an appointment caused the Lone Ranger to restrain the impulse. He waited while the gambler got a head start. Then he ducked around the back of the Royal Flush, returning to the street again toward the end of the business section. He saw the tall form of the man in the top hat just beyond the end of the buildings. Here the road narrowed and became little more than a cattle trail as it extended toward the homes of the citizens.
There were no lights to reveal the Lone Ranger, so he had little difficulty in keeping to the shadows. As a matter of fact, Delaney didn't look back. The Lone Ranger might have boldly walked directly behind the gambler without being noticed.
There were nine or ten homes in a row. Steve Delaney passed them all until he came to the last one. It was a small house, but stood out from its neighbors because of the white picket fence that framed a neat front lawn. The gardens showed the care of patient hands. Something about the place gave it personality. Perhaps it was the gardens, or the fence, or, it might have been the potted plants on the small front porch. Possibly a combination of all these things. It was evident that whoever lived here took great pride in his home. It was not the sort of home that a man of Steve Delaney's type would live in. The Lone Ranger discarded the idea that Delaney might be simply going home to bed. The gambler had something on his mind. He was certain of it.