The Baron of Coyote River by L. Ron Hubbard
Anderson could not answer that and Tyler winked broadly at Lance and reached down, taking the telegram Anderson had written out of the operator’s hand.
“Take another one, son,” said Tyler. “‘To the Department of Justice, Washington, DC. Have got the Baron ready for the calaboose and the rope. Shoot a district attorney down here for a fast trial as the citizens is itchin’ for a lynchin’. We had a pretty tough scrap and neither Deputy Marshal Gordon or myself got hurt, only some outlaws. The cavalry came around soon enough to get a trooper wounded by a stray bullet but otherwise did no damage. Thanks for the appointment and regards to the President, United States Deputy Marshal M. R. Tyler, Santos, Arizony Territory. And PS I hope this appointment don’t keep me from havin’ no cows because my pardner and myself have got about eight thousand head we’d like to grab hold of up near Coyote River.’”
Tyler beamed at Lance and Lance beamed at Tyler and together they beamed at Anderson. The citizens cheered, eager to be on the side of the new law, and everybody but maybe Anderson and the Baron were happy.
“Captain,” said Tyler, “you take these gents and hold them for a spell. Me, I got to get some breakfast. C’mon, Lance.”
Reign of the Gila Monster
Reign of the Gila Monster
YOU heard me!” bawled Howdy Johnson, banging his fist on the bar so hard that glasses rattled in every one of Ringtail’s six saloons. “You can’t deny it! You know doggone well that Powderville is the roughest, toughest, fightingest, rooty-tootin’ six-gun-shootin’ cow town on the whole blamed trail!”
“I ain’t said nothin’ to the contrary,” pleaded the ruddy-faced barkeep timidly.
“You did!” contradicted Howdy. “You did so! You said that Ringtail was wild. I heard you with my own ears, I did. And there ain’t any man this side of Laredo that can stand right in front of me and malign my town like that. You know Powderville is wild. You heard all about Powderville.
“Ringtail, bah! What’s Ringtail? A collection of tombstones, that’s what. A collection of skeletons. The only reason they laid it out was to bury it. You ain’t had a killin’ in this town for three days. You ain’t had to order a new bar mirror for a month. I’m s’prised you don’t peddle skim milk.”
“I just said—” bleated the barkeep.
“Oh, so I’m a liar, am I? You tryin’ to run down Powderville, are you? Well listen, mister. In the past eight months I been to Chicago, see? I been in every town from Powderville to Chicago. And what do I find? A lot of tame goats, that’s what. Ringtail couldn’t stand up two minutes against Powderville. Not one minute! Powderville is tough. There ain’t nobody in that town that ain’t a hard case. They’re a nest of sidewinders, that’s what. Loud? You can hear ’em all the way to El Paso on a clear night.”
The barkeep ventured, “You . . . ah . . . must be from Powderville, mister.”
“From Powderville?” shouted Howdy. “I’ll say I’m from Powderville. And not only that, I founded Powderville. I’m one of the city fathers, I am. I’m the gent that walked in there and I said, ‘Right here we’re going to put a town, and it’s going to be the roughest, toughest, fightingest town—’”
A hand fell on Howdy’s shoulder. A consoling hand. Howdy turned to confront a sad-eyed, flop-eared, hang-jowled gentleman of travel-worn aspect.
“Goood gosh!” yipped Howdy. “If it ain’t Poison Peters. Man alive, you sure are a sight for sore eyes! I been to hell and back. I been all the way to Chi and I ain’t had airy a good time for eight long months. By God, it’s sure dandy to see you, Poison. You’n me can ride back to Powderville and when we get there, I’ll buy out every drop in your mangy old saloon and—”
“The saloon ain’t no more,” said Poison Peters, choking up with emotion.
“What? You mean they ain’t no more Bucket-o’-Blood Saloon? What’s the matter, burn down?”
“No,” said Poison Peters, struggling to down his sobs.
“Tornado hit the place?”
“No,” gulped Poison, swabbing at his whiskery face with a dirty hand back.
“Did they break you up complete?” cried the astounded Howdy.
“It . . . it ain’t that,” wept Poison. “It’s . . . it’s the Gila Monster.”
“What kind of trash you talking about?” barked Howdy.
“It ain’t no trash. It’s the truth. Look here, Howdy.”
They went to the door and there in the dust of Ringtail was a wagon. On it rested a shattered mirror, a mahogany bar, three barrels of whiskey and several hampers of glasses. A bung starter protruded from under the box, a scatter-gun lay upon the seat. Over all lay a sign on which was scrawled, “Bucket-o’-Blood Saloon. Powderville’s Roughest, Toughest—” The last two words were completely blotted out. It was even hard to read “Roughest” and “Toughest.”
Slack-jawed, Howdy turned to Poison and stammered, “But-but what happened? Did-did business get bad or—”
“Gone to hell,” blubbered Poison.
“No more trail herds, maybe?” prompted Howdy.
“Lots of trail herds. D-D-Don’t make me go on, Howdy. I can’t stand to talk about it, it’s that awful.”
“But look here,” yelled Howdy. “You can’t just up and quit like that. Goood gosh! You was heart and soul of the town. You can’t quit. Ain’t you got no civic pride? We worked for two years to make Powderville the Mecca of the trail and now you pull out just as though everybody’d died.”
“It ain’t that,” mourned Poison. “It’s the Gila Monster. It’s awful, Howdy. It’s horrible. I can’t bear to talk about it.”
“Well, for gosh sakes, who’s the Gila Monster? What kind of hogwash is that?”
“He’s a man. He come into Powderville five, six months ago. Name of Gilman. Big gent—seven feet two. Shoulders like a hogshead. Face like pounded steak. He’s tough. He’s so good with a Peacemaker he can throw up a dime and hit it six times before it lights. He’s so hard you’d bend a nail if you tried to drive one into him. He spit at a tarantula and the thing went blind. He bites spikes in half. He can bend a shotgun barrel in one hand.”
“But,” protested Howdy, “that’s the kind of gent we want in Powderville. Don’t tell me he didn’t enter into the spirit of the thing. Why didn’t you talk to him and give him some civic pride?”
“I did. I must have talked too much. I gave him lots of civic pride and the first thing you know, he went and appointed himself town marshal. He says it’s high time we reformed. He don’t allow drinkin’ after six o’clock. No gamblin’. Nobody in town can wear iron but him. Absolutely no killin’ allowed, no matter what you think of the other gent. And say, you don’t dast spit lessen he fines you for it. He says we all got to levy taxes or something, and so he collects ten dollars a day from every man that wants to stay in the town, and he killed four fellers dead when they refused to pay it. Tax on a saloon is fifty dollars a day. I tell you, Howdy, it breaks me all up just to think about it.”
“Why didn’t somebody plug him?”
“Two gents tried it and we had to pass the hat to bury ’em. I tell you he’s a panther ridin’ forked lightning. Don’t you go down there, Howdy.”
“Why not? Ain’t I as good as he is?”
“No,” sobbed Poison.
“I’m mad,” stated Howdy. “Here I been countin’ on havin’ a good old time in Powderville and I come back to find out that everything has gone to hell for keeps. Well, let me tell you this, Poison, you may be lacking in civic pride, but I ain’t. No, sir! Ain’t no man livin’ goin’ to state that Howdy Johnson turned his back on his town. I’m goin’ down there and—”
“Please,” begged Poison. “Stay out of Powderville, Howdy. You got a wild reputation and if you show your face down there, he’ll shoot you down just like that. You wasn’t never known as a good gunman, Howdy—”
“What? What the hell do you think I been doing for eight months, knitting? You don’t know what I been up to. You ain’t got the faintest idea what I been up to. No, sir. Look here, Poison. I’m touched. I’m affected. There ain’t nothing like this going to happen to my hometown. This is the time for action. This is the moment to blow ‘charge.’”
“You mean taps,” gulped Poison. “No use, Howdy. You play safe. We’ll start another town an’—”
“Never! My heart is plumb set on Powderville. You goin’ to let just one lone gunman run you out of there? No! These gunmen are all yellah. Every one of them is yellah. I—”
“Not the Gila Monster. Not Gilman. He ain’t yellah. Nawsir, he’d eat live lions and enjoy it, that gent. You stay out of Pow—”
“Never,” cried Howdy, striking a haughty pose. “Even Hannibal had his Waterloo, and that goes for the Gila Monster. Turn that wagon, Poison. We’re headin’ for Powderville right now!”
Poison Peters had not in the least overstated Gilman. When the man sat in his swivel chair and stretched his feet out across the marshal’s desk, he came close to filling up the whole building. His hat, on the back of his head, looked bigger than an umbrella, and his guns, lashed down, were only a shade smaller than howitzers.
His boots were so large that he had once stepped on Zeb Chumley’s hound dog and fifty witnesses were ready to attest that not even an inch of the animal’s tail was visible. The rowels on his spurs bonged like fire bells when he walked and were, in themselves, larger than Mexican dollars. He could take a bottle of whiskey in his hand, close his fingers and say, “Which one have I got it in?”
In short, Gilman, dubbed the Gila Monster, was colossal in size. But his temper was bigger than he was. When he got mad, he spat sparks longer than a bullet could carry. He turned the color of a thundercloud’s belly and roared louder than a stampeding herd.
From constant practice, his trigger finger twitched even when he slept, at the rate of five twitches a minute by actual count. And, from habit, every time the finger twitched, his hand threw up as though from a recoil.
He was touchy. He had been known to shoot a man just because that man brushed against him. He had shot a man for buying him a drink. He had shot a man for not buying.
He had civic pride, he said. He was, he said, a reformer. He was, he said, a lawful citizen bent upon saving Powderville from its vices. He had, everybody said, saved Powderville with a thoroughness which bordered on extinction.
At the moment, he was talking in a mild voice. He could not be heard farther than the city limits. And the dust blown up from his boots and desk was scarcely larger than a tornado’s funnel. He was, in fact, in one of his more peaceful moods.
“Just you let any of them gents show up here,” said Gilman. “Just you let any one of them poke their nose inside the limits of our beautiful town and zowie! That’s the way to do business.”
Lippy Connor was standing in the doorway, listening. It was rare for anyone to take a chair in Gilman’s office because, in the first place, he never invited them to, and in the second place, getting out of a chair took precious instants.
Lippy beamed flabbily and nodded with sturdy enthusiasm. “You bet,” said Lippy gingerly.
“You just let any two of them, any dozen of them, show up in Powderville,” said Gilman amiably, “and I’ll shoot so many holes in them you could use their hides for windows.”
He waved a monstrous paw at the rough plank board on which many reward posters were tacked. It was highly unlikely that most of these advertised gentlemen would show up in Powderville, but Gilman lacked a subject for conversation.
Lippy Connor peered at the designated board and beamed dutifully. Suddenly the beam stiffened, his jaw slacked, his eyes protruded like green balls in a drugstore window.
“Ain’t that Howdy Johnson’s name there?” whispered Lippy.
“Howdy Johnson?” snorted Gilman. “Who’s Howdy Johnson?”
“Up there on the board,” said Lippy, pointing from the door.
“Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm,” said Gilman, like a saw hitting a nail. “Tiger Svenson. Black Bug Stewart. Gunner Thompson . . . ah . . . there it is. Howdy Johnson. Yep, there it is. Third from the bottom. Came in just a while back. Says:
“‘Howdy Johnson. Wanted Dead or Alive. One thousand five hundred dollars reward. If seen, notify Chicago police and ship body for identification. Five foot ten inches. Stocky build. Unshaven face. Blue eyes with slight squint. Emphatic method of talking. Be careful of this man because he is dangerous. Has killed three police officers in Chicago alone while resisting arrest. Take no chances as he is very fast on the draw. When last seen, wore buckskin vest, tan pants, high-heeled boots and floppy hat. Deadly accurate shot. Antagonistic toward all police.’”
“Gee . . .” whispered Lippy. “He got into it, he did. I never thought—”
“Never mind thinking,” thundered Gilman. “I’ll do all the thinking there is to be done in this town. You know this gent?”
“Well . . . ah . . . that is . . . I . . . I met him once in a bar,” said Lippy. “Yep, that was it. In a bar. I was standing there and somebody looked over and said, ‘There’s that Howdy Johnson.’ And I said, ‘Oh, is that Howdy Johnson?’ And he said—”
“Well, just you let that gent show his face in here,” threatened Gilman.
“Oh, I won’t let him if I . . . I mean, I bet he is sure a long ways from here. I bet he’s in California or maybe Oregon or maybe Canada or . . .”
A wagon creaked dismally in the street. A horse plodded to a stop. A cheerful, loud voice bawled, “Hello there, Lippy! You son of a gun, I ain’t laid eyes on you for eight months and I shore—”
Lippy had turned by this time. His face was lard color. He beheld Howdy Johnson dismounted and striding forward with an outstretched hand.
Lippy achieved the ultimate in quick thinking. He shouted ten times louder than a steam whistle. He yelled, “If it ain’t Bill! How the hell are you, Bill? Where you been, Bill?” all the time heading out and away from the Gila Monster’s den.
Howdy looked puzzled. Howdy said, “Bill? What the dickens—”
“Yes sir, Bill,” shrieked Lippy, cracking a vocal cord to drown Howdy out. “I sure am glad to see you, so help me. Where you been? How was Denver, Bill?”
All the time, Lippy was shoving the astounded Howdy far out of earshot. When he got him around the end of the Crystal Palace Saloon, Lippy leaned weakly against the side of the shack and mopped at his smudgy forehead with a quivering bandana.
“D-D-Don’t do that again,” pleaded Lippy. “Don’t ever do that again. Look here, Howdy. You got your hoss right here. You fork him and light out quick, you hear me?”
“What’s the trouble?” said Howdy, looking from Poison to Lippy.
“He was just inside that door,” gasped Lippy. “And he’d just finished reading a reward poster that said you was wanted dead or alive in Chicago. And he said if you ever showed your nose in this town he’d kill you on sight. That’s what’s the matter.”
“Oh, you mean the Gila Monster?” said Howdy.
“Sure. Who the hell do you think I meant? Saint Peter?”
“You boys sure seem upset,” said Howdy.
“Upset!” cried Lippy. “Upset ain’t no word for it. We’re all suffering from nervous breakdowns, that’s what. I’m gettin’ so I can’t even lift a drink to my mug without spillin’ at least half of it.”
“But he hadn’t ought to bother you,” said Howdy. “A general store is a plenty peaceful business even in Powderville.”
“That’s what you think,” yelped Lippy. “That’s what you think. I sell shootin’ irons, don’t I? Well, for every gun I sell I have to give Gilman twenty percent. For every cartridge I have to give him half price. For every pound of beans I sell I have to han
“Why didn’t you move like Poison?”
“I tried,” sobbed Lippy. “I tried to move, but it ain’t like Poison. I run the only general store in the town and if I moved, he’d shoot me and run the place himself. I tried to get away last month, but he trailed me and brought me back and said he’d kill me if I tried it again. I got to stay open. I can’t raise my prices, but I got to pay his taxes. But you get out of here, Howdy, and you get out quick before he recognizes you. I hate to see an old pal slaughtered in cold blood, Howdy. I couldn’t stand it.”
Howdy bridled. He brought one hairy fist smacking into his palm. He snorted. He said, “You ain’t got any civic pride at all. Why don’t you lay for this Gila Monster and some night get him with a scatter-gun?”
“Jake did that,” moaned Lippy, “and Gilman shot first. Barney did that, and we buried him. Listen, Howdy. Just stand there and listen. . . . There, did you hear anything?”
“Not a thing,” said Howdy.
“There! Not a thing. Here it is five-thirty, just the time things used to warm up, and what do you hear? Nothing. It’s like livin’ in a grave, that’s what. Yesterday I rode five miles out of town and shot off two boxes of Henrys. Just to hear them, you understand. But it made me feel so bad, I had to quit. The town’s gone to hell for keeps, Howdy.”
“Ain’t I one of the founders?” cried the indignant Howdy. “Didn’t you and me and Poison here start this place? Didn’t we agree I was to be the marshal from then on? Didn’t I get the post office in here and run it? Didn’t I start the teamsters bringing their loads through here? Didn’t I make this the finest trail-herd stop in the state? And you think I’ll desert the place? You think I’ll stand here and let a rotten-bellied, four-flushing, three-for-a-cent, slime-whiskered, two-gun hog ride all over Powderville? No! I came back here—”