Big Andy Webb looked regretfully at the old doctor who stood just inside the front door of the saddle shop. Straightening his tall frame, he laid aside the bridle he had been making and rubbed his hands on trousers that had been worn out long ago.
“I hate to keep puttin’ you off like this, Doc, but I haven’t got a thing to pay you with.”
The young saddlemaker glanced quickly at his little son, a sandy-haired youngster who sat on a bench, tongue on his upper lip, while he laboriously platted a quirt.
“You know how I stand with the bank, now that old Eli has come out and took it over. Next week Jimmy and I won’t even have this shop, the way it looks now.”
Doc Brooks nodded. “Sure, Andy, this drouth’s been hard on everybody.” He blinked away sand in his eyes, blown there by a dust devil on the dry, powdery street.
“But I’ve got a chance to buy some new medical equipment and set up a better office. It might let me save a few lives that would be lost otherwise. Like your wife’s was, Andy. If I could collect even a third of the bills owed me I could have what I need, Andy,” the wrinkled old doctor went on. “If things lighten up for you, I’d sure appreciate you payin’ what you can.” Doc Brooks hated asking for his money, but circumstances forced him to.
When the old man had hobbled back out onto the rickety plank sidewalk, Big Andy went to work on the bridle again. A dry, hot breeze brought him the listless music of a tinny piano in the saloon next door. His gaze kept returning fondly to little Jimmy’s freckled face, clean, honest, and eager. It hadn’t been so many years since Andy had been Jimmy’s size. He was glad his son would never go through the same kind of boyhood. Andy had grown up motherless in outlaw camps up and down the Texas Panhandle. His father’s name had been blazed on reward notices and dodgers all over the country. Andy was only fifteen when his dad’s horse had trotted into camp alone, saddle empty but smeared with blood.
The orphan had become a skilled cowboy, but with other people’s cows. Then, when Andy was only twenty, a man had died in a blaze of gunfire. It wasn’t Andy’s gun, but Andy had gotten the blame. He had headed south in the dark of the moon.
Always expert with leather, he had become a harness and saddle maker. Eventually he had learned to love a girl and had married her. Fine craftsmanship had made his new name known all over West Texas. Then Alice had died, and the drouth had begun. Rains had failed. Hot winds had turned grassland into powder, breaking ranchmen first, then townsmen in turn.
Now here Andy was, hardly thirty, awaiting the foreclosure that would put him and his eight-year-old out on the trail. He was wistfully watching the youngster smooth out the quirt when a shadow fell across the floor. It was a big shadow, a round one.
“Better get a lot of trinkets ready for the rodeo crowd that’s coming in tomorrow, Webb.”
Hot, angry blood rose in Andy as he recognized the insolent voice of banker Eli Fuller. Defiantly he stood up and faced the sharp Easterner who had come to profit from the drouth.
“Get out of here, Fuller,” he gritted, “or I’ll cram that cigar down your fat throat!”
Little Jimmy stood up in alarm, then darted out the door.
“Now, don’t get mad, Webb,” the banker mocked. “I just wanted to see how my shop is getting along.”
Andy bristled. “It ain’t your shop yet. Now drag your fat carcass out of here!”
Fuller smiled condescendingly, his teeth bearing down on a long cigar which stuck up out of his mouth at a jaunty angle. “You shouldn’t talk like that, Webb. If you’d be reasonable, I might even keep you on as an employee.”
Outlaw heat surged through Big Andy. He lunged at the banker and drove a hard fist into the man’s soft belly. The cigar dropped from Fuller’s thick lips and rolled down his bulging vest, showering ashes and fire. The banker held up his soft hands defensively as Andy grabbed his collar.
Then a young woman burst through the door. “Stop it, Andy. For heaven’s sake, stop it!”
Big Andy had doubled his fist again, but he slowly loosed it. The woman’s alarmed blue eyes were opened wide. She gripped Andy’s arms.
“Let him go, Andy,” she pleaded. “Things are bad enough without you getting yourself in jail.”
The fury in him began to subside. “All right, Mary,” he said. “But Fuller better not come back in here.”
The banker slowly backed toward the door, face flushed and belly bouncing a little over his low-slung belt.
“You won’t be so independent next week, Webb,” Fuller threatened, a tremor in his voice. “If you stay in this town, I’ll see that you starve!”
An angry, helpless curse in his throat, Andy stepped forward. Mary Wilson gripped his arms again. Excitement had put scarlet in the young woman’s cheeks and given her blue eyes a deep color. Her oval face seemed beautiful as she looked up at him pleadingly.
“My dad’s in the same shape with the bank as you are, Andy,” she said. “But even Jimmy knows you can’t afford to fight Fuller. He came after me. And it’s certainly a good thing he did.”
Any other time Andy would have grinned. “He always knows right where to go, doesn’t he?”
She smiled faintly. “Even if I am his schoolteacher, Jimmy likes me.”
Big Andy put his hands on her slender shoulders. A new, tender warmth rose in him. “So does his dad.”
* * *
There was something familiar about the tall, rugged man who strode into the shop and stood squinting at Andy. The saddlemaker frowned unbelievingly at the scarred face, then murmured darkly: “Rocky! Rocky Mertzon!”
The tall man smiled thinly, a black gap showing between his tobacco-stained teeth. “Howdy, Andy. Haven’t seen you since you left the Panhandle on a fast horse.” He extended a weather-roughened hand. Andy hesitated a moment, then took it with cool civility.
“Thought you were in the pen,” Andy ventured carefully.
“I was, a long time ago,” Mertzon said, a smile twisting his wind-whipped face. “But I got tired of it.”
Big Andy watched suspiciously as Mertzon’s darting black eyes took in the shop. “I was hopin’ I’d never see any of that old bunch again, Rocky. I’m sorry you found me.”
Mertzon grinned crookedly. “Nice setup you got here, Andy. Too bad you’re goin’ to lose it. I’ve heard all about it. And I been figgerin’ out a way to help you and me both at the same time.”
Andy paused uncertainly. He picked up his son’s unfinished quirt, then put it down on the bench while Mertzon built a cigarette.
“Those old days are behind me, Rocky. If it’s somethin’ crooked, I don’t want any part of it.”
The outlaw frowned. “You ain’t in much shape to bargain. Look here, Andy, you got a bank on one side of you and a saloon on the other. A perfect setup. With the rodeo that starts tomorrow, there’s apt to be a lot of money layin’ around in that bank. And with the crowd that’ll be here, the sheriff ain’t goin’ to pay much attention to one stranger.”
Mertzon’s slitted gaze probed big Andy’s eyes for a sign of interest. “I’ll wait around on rodeo day till there ain’t any customers in the bank. Then I’ll clean the place out and leave through the back door. You’ll have your back window open, Andy, and I’ll pitch the loot through it as I run by. Then I’ll go in the back door of the saloon and be mixed up with the crowd before anybody has a chance to git after me.”
The outlaw grinned. “That fat banker has a standin’ reward of one thousand dollars for any bank robber, dead or alive. When I git through, he won’t have that much!”
Eagerly Mertzon leaned forward. “I’ll give you a thousand out of whatever I git, Andy. And all you have to do is leave your back window open.”
Temptation boiled in Big Andy. A thousand dollars! That would more than pay what he owed Fuller, if he could figure out a way to explain where he got it. And he could pay Doc Brooks the money he had owed him ever since Alice had died.
But Big Andy shook his head. “I quit that kind of business a long time ago. I’ll go hungry before I take a chance on leadin’ my son through the kind of life I had!”
Mertzon scowled. “Maybe you’d like me to spread the word about the old days in the Panhandle. That’d really fix your kid up!”
An old fear made Andy’s heart beat faster. “I’ve spent more than ten years tryin’ to live that down. I’ve worked up a reputation that Jimmy could be proud of. You wouldn’t take that away from me, would you, Rocky?”
Mertzon looked up with a cruel grin.
“The Weaver brothers up around Tascosa are still wonderin’ what became of you. They got a funny idea it was you that killed Tom Weaver.”
Andy’s heart jumped. “That’s a lie! You shot Tom Weaver! I wasn’t even there!”
Mertzon still grinned crookedly. “Sure, but the Weavers thought it was you. Still do. Maybe you’d like a chance to prove to ’em different.”
Pulse racing and his face stove-lid hot, Andy dived for a drawer in which he knew would be a pistol. But even as his sweaty hand touched the gun butt, he felt Mertzon’s .45 poking him in the ribs.
“That’s a fool play, Andy,” Mertzon growled. “You been goin’ straight too long. All you would’ve done was make an orphan out of that kid.”
Defeated, Big Andy slowly settled back against the work bench. His heart thumped rapidly. His mouth was dry.
“I’ll pull the job tomorrow,” Mertzon said. “Have that window open. And if you git any ideas about crossin’ me up, just remember the Weavers.”
He holstered his gun, stepped out into the street, and was gone.
The next day, standing in the front door of his shop, Andy watched the occasional tiny dust devils whirl across the powdery street. A small but steady stream of riders kept a thin haze of dust hanging in the air. The rodeo was bringing its crowd. Andy’s hands were wet with nervous perspiration, and a nameless tension tied his innards in a knot. Where was Rocky Mertzon? If he had to pull his robbery, why didn’t he come on and get it over with?
Andy watched as his son and a group of boys romped gaily down the dusty street, playing cowboy. There was a fresh patch in the seat of Jimmy’s worn trousers. No question about who had made the repairs, Andy thought with a twinge of conscience. Mary Wilson mothered the boy like he was her own.
His heart warmed then as he saw the young schoolteacher coming down the wooden sidewalk. Her pretty face beamed.
“Dad did it, Andy!” she exclaimed. “Dad did it. He found a buyer for his cattle. He had to cut way down into his breeding herd, but he got enough money to pay off Tiller’s note on the ranch.”
He managed to grin with her. “What did Fuller say when you all paid him off?”
“He wasn’t in. We deposited the money with the teller. We’ll pay Fuller later.”
Andy’s grin faded as a sobering thought struck him. What if Rocky Mertzon robbed the bank before Mary’s father could pay the debt? He would get the Wilsons’ money, and the mortgage would still stand. Fuller would take the ranch.
Sick at heart, Andy moved to his bench and sat down. It wouldn’t be just the Wilsons, either, he told himself. The bank money didn’t belong to Fuller only. It belonged to depositors from all over the area—friends of Andy’s—who were trying to pay their debts and still live like human beings.
Andy could see old Charlie Wilson across the street, joyfully slapping Sheriff Bronson on the back. He thought of Jimmy. What if the truth were guessed, and Andy had to go on the dodge? What about Jimmy?
Despairingly the saddlemaker watched fat Eli Fuller swagger past on his way to the bank. Nerves tingling, Andy rubbed his sweating hands against each other for what seemed like hours. He couldn’t let this go on. He had to stop it!
He reached into the drawer, hauled out the six-gun, and shoved it into a boot-top, out of sight. Then he strode firmly out onto the sidewalk. He spotted Rocky Mertzon sitting on a bench in front of the saloon. Big Andy gestured at Mertzon with his chin, then walked back through the shop into the rear room. As Mertzon came in a minute later, Big Andy lifted his foot and snaked out the gun.
“You’re not goin’ through with it, Rocky,” he declared, the gun leveled at Mertzon’s chest. “I’ll leave town tonight. I’ll risk my name being smeared, and I’ll risk the Weavers. But you’re not robbin’ that bank!”
Angry red flamed in Mertzon’s eyes. “You’re mighty righteous for a feller whose old man robbed half the banks in Texas.” For a heated moment hatred glared from his narrowed eyes. Then he slowly turned around, as if giving up. Big Andy lowered the gun a little.
Suddenly Mertzon whirled back and grabbed at the gun. In a second he wrenched it from Andy’s hand. Big Andy threw a hand up defensively as he saw the glint of the slashing gun barrel. Something exploded in his head. He dropped to his knees, the shop reeling before his eyes.
“You’re not fast enough for me, Big Andy,” Mertzon snarled. “You never was!”
There was a second of blinding pain as the gun barrel struck him again. Then there was only darkness.
He became conscious of soft hands wiping his face with a wet cloth. His head throbbed dully, and he grimaced at a sickening taste in his mouth.
He forced his eyes open and saw Mary kneeling over him. Painfully he lifted himself up onto his elbows. He could see a red stain on the wet cloth.
“What happened, Andy?” she asked in alarm.
“Somebody slugged me,” he told her. “Help me up.”
As he struggled to keep his feet, Mary quickly told him that Jimmy had come back to the shop to get his quirt for play. He had found his father in the back room, unconscious. His first thought had been to run to Mary.
“We’ve got to get you to Doc Brooks,” she said with concern.
Andy shook his throbbing head. “No, I’ve got to see the sheriff. Right now!”
Leaning on the slender girl for support, he started for the front. Then two shots exploded in the bank next door. Despair choked Andy like a giant hand clasped around his throat. In his excitement he felt his strength returning. He and Mary got to the bank a few seconds before the sheriff did.
Acrid gunpowder stung his nostrils. The room was cloudy with choking smoke, which slowly swirled upward toward the high ceiling. The back door was open. Then Andy saw the excited bank teller kneeling beside fat Eli Fuller. Moaning, the banker lay sprawled on the floor, one flabby hand clutching at a bleeding shoulder. A chewed-up cigar, one end still smoking, lay beside him.
“The back door!” boomed Sheriff Bronson’s voice. Andy moved to the door ahead of the lawman and stepped out into the alley. No one there!
The old lawman cursed. “Got clean away, Andy! He must’ve had a plenty fast horse!”
Guilt lay heavy in Andy as he followed the somber sheriff back into the bank. The ashen-faced teller was gesturing nervously and recounting the incident to the gathering crowd.
“Mr. Fuller seemed to lose all reason when the masked man took the money. He grabbed at a gun, and the robber shot him!”
Doc Brooks hobbled through the huddled circle of men and ripped the banker’s vest and shirt away from the wound. A low, disappointed murmur ran through the crowd as the doctor announced that the wound wasn’t too serious. A little sick, Andy started for the door. Mary came to him, her face stricken.
“Oh, Andy,” she sobbed, “we didn’t even have a chance to pay Fuller. He’ll surely take the ranch now.”
Andy sympathetically put his arm around her shoulder and led her outside. The sheriff was swearing in volunteers for a posse.
Andy looked vainly for Mertzon. He hoped the outlaw hadn’t had time to get back to the saddle shop. Tension gripped him as he realized what he had to do. There wasn’t much time. He held Mary’s hand tightly and called: “Wait a minute, Sheriff. I don’t think you need to do that. How about comin’ into the shop with me?”
The sheriff stared quizzically, then followed him. Mary gazed at him in puzzlement.
It wasn’t any trouble to find the bag of stolen money under the shop’s back window. As Andy handed it over he told Mary, the sheriff, and half a dozen possemen the whole story—about his boyhood in the Panhandle, about Tom Weaver, and about Rocky Mertzon.
“Rocky probably figgered I wouldn’t wake up till it was all over, and then I’d be scared to say anything. If Jimmy hadn’t found me and Mary waked me up, I’d still be lyin’ here. I guess this means jail for me now,” he concluded darkly. “Mary, I wish you’d take care of Jimmy.”
Sheriff Bronson snorted. “Nobody’s goin’ to blame you for this, Andy. Maybe you should’ve come to me in the first place, but just the same, you tried to stop it. You like to’ve got your skull bashed in. Folks’ll be grateful to you.”
It turned out he was right. Andy was dead tired by late afternoon, when people stopped coming around to shake his hand. Eli Fuller hadn’t sent any thanks, however. The banker had growled that it was all a plot of Andy’s to get him killed. He sent word that he was taking over the shop the minute the note fell due.
His ranch secure now, old Charlie Wilson asked Andy to come help him run the ranch. No drouth ever lasted forever, he argued, and this one had about run its course. Besides, it would be handy to have a cow-wise son-in-law, he hinted.
But Andy couldn’t forget the Weavers. No sign of Mertzon had been found. He knew the angered outlaw would eventually keep his threat, to tell the Weavers where Andy was. If Andy stayed, it meant more gunplay. So there was only one thing to do—pull out.
As he closed shop that evening Andy found his pistol and shoved it into his boot. Turning to go, he picked up Jimmy’s unfinished quirt. He fingered it fondly as he headed home for the last time. It was dark when he climbed the front steps of the lonely house. Jimmy met him at the front door. The boy’s eyes were wide with alarm.
“There’s a man here to see you, Daddy,” he said excitedly. “He says he’s a friend. But…”
Raw fear cut through Andy as he saw Rocky Mertzon standing there, not two paces in front of him. The outlaw’s hands hovered over his gun butts. The gap between his teeth showed black behind the twisted, cruel lips, making Andy feel this man’s ruthlessness.
“I changed my mind about the Weavers,” Mertzon snarled, “I’ll finish this job myself.”
Andy felt cold sweat popping out on his forehead. Gripping the quirt handle tightly, he realized he couldn’t beat Mertzon to the draw.
Suddenly Mertzon’s hands moved downward. Andy shoved the boy to the floor. A million needles pricking his skin, he lashed out with the quirt and slashed it across the outlaw’s face. The man bellowed with rage and pain.
His guns thundered, but Andy was between them, lashing madly at the outlaw’s hands. One gun clattered to the floor.
Then the years rushed back, and Andy was twenty again, untamed, hard as a man can get only on the outlaw trails. Breathing hard, he threw himself desperately on Mertzon. Frantically, he tried to wrench the other gun out of the man’s hand.
Teeth clenched, straining and sweating, the two men struggled for the weapon. For a second the muzzle grazed Andy’s stomach.
Then slowly he twisted the gun back toward Mertzon, every muscle in his body aching with the effort. Beads of sweat stood out on the grunting man’s forehead. Andy grimaced at the robber’s hot breath in his face. The gun boomed then, and Mertzon went limp. Andy swayed dizzily a moment. Through the swirling gunsmoke he could see the outlaw lying twisted on the floor. He also saw Jimmy streak out the door.
A moment later half a dozen men, led by Sheriff Bronson, crowded into the room.
“There’s your … your bank robber,” Andy breathed heavily.
Bronson examined the outlaw. “Wanted to get even, eh?”
Andy nodded, his breath still short. The sheriff instructed the men to carry Mertzon’s body outside. Then he turned back to the weary Andy.
“Doc Brooks’ll get enough out of Fuller, takin’ care of that shoulder, to buy the equipment he’s been wanting. And Fuller’ll sure throw a fit when you pay him off with his own money, the reward money. The thousand dollars he’s always offered for a bank robber, dead or alive!”
Then Mary ran up the steps and into the room, followed by little Jimmy. Seeing Andy on his feet, she sighed in relief, then almost fainted.
Holding her, Andy felt all the tension leave him, replaced by a warmth he hadn’t known in four years.
“Jimmy sure knows who to go to,” he told her softly. “But from now on he won’t have to go hunt you. He can find you right here.”