The Project Gutenberg eBook of The mark of Cain

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Title: The mark of Cain

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: October 3, 2025 [eBook #76975]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago, IL: Best Publications, Inc, 1948

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76975

Credits: Roger Frank

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MARK OF CAIN ***

Carrying Clare in his arms, Streak looked back and saw flames.

The Mark of Cain

A novelet by W. C. Tuttle

Swift-shooting Streak Malone enlists his legendary guns in a hot-lead campaign to clean up the terror town of Silver Butte!

I

Very well known to the Frontier are the words:

“The Vigilantes are operating in Silver Butte, and have already killed the sheriff.”

That statement was repeated in far-flung places in the West—around the camp-fires of the buffalo hunters, at the chuckwagons with the trail herds, and in the hideouts of the outlaw clan. Men, working outside the law, avoided the Vigilantes.

Silver Butte! A booming railroad town. A huge bridge, a long tunnel, miles of cuts and fills would assure Silver Butte of a long-time payroll. Silver Butte had been known as a bad-man’s town.

Down along the rough roads, cut deep by freighter’s wagons, came “Streak” Malone, tall in his saddle, riding a tall, blue-gray outlaw horse—a horse with the head of a rattler and the disposition of the Devil. Only Streak Malone could touch this brute, which obeyed every signal from its master.

Malone was just over six feet tall, lithe as a cat, ruggedly handsome, his coal-black hair split in the center with a two-inch streak of pure white. His high-crowned sombrero was decorated with a wide, silver-studded band, his vest was beaded in intricate designs, and his shirt was of almost-white doeskin, a present from a Sioux woman. He wore black boots with silver spurs, and his holstered gun was silver inlaid by a master silversmith.

No one knew where Streak Malone came from. He never spoke of his past, and he came into the West several years ahead of the railroad. He was barely thirty years of age, but his face held deep lines, and his eyes were deep under heavy brows.

A hard pair, this streak-haired man and the outlaw horse, but Streak Malone was never outside the law. Horse-breaker, trapper, buffalo hunter, gambler—he never stayed long in any place. Something seemed to lure him on, and now he was riding into Silver Butte. He, too, had heard of the Vigilantes of that part of the Territory, but the Vigilantes conveyed no fear to Streak Malone.

Until the coming of the railroad, Silver Butte was merely a cowtown with one short crooked street, but now it was a booming place of tent-houses, shacks of every description, and more building every day. The main street was ankle-deep in dust, teeming with freight wagons, pack outfits, cowboy riders and a few lighter vehicles.

The biggest building was the Silver Dollar Saloon and Gambling Palace. Less than a block away was another large building, nearly completed, with men working feverishly. A huge sign, ready to swing into place read: EUREKA SALOON AND GAMBLING HALL.

Streak Malone was almost obliged to ride over the wooden sidewalks, in order to avoid the traffic. In front of the stage office a man yelled his name, and he drew up. He vaguely remembered seeing the man in Bismark a year ago, and waved a greeting.

He found an opening between two freight wagons, and spurred across the street and continued on to a feed-corral. The man in charge said:

“Turn yore horse loose in the corral, stranger, and hang yore saddle in the stable.”

“Wait a minute, my friend,” replied Streak. “I’ve got to have a stall for this horse, and I’ll take care of him myself.”

“Ain’t the corral good enough?” The man was inclined to resent Streak’s words.

“This horse will try to kill any man who touches him,” explained Streak. “Tell everybody to keep away from him.”

“I’ve got an empty stall,” said the man. “Much obliged.”

Streak walked out of the stable and met the man who had called to him. Streak looked closely at the man, who spoke quietly.

“I own the general store here,” said the man. “You’re Streak Malone. I’m Jim Buskirk.”

“I remember you,” said Streak. “Bismark, a year or so ago.”

“Good! We’ve been lookin’ for a man like you, Malone.”

Streak’s eyes hardened, and his right hand dropped naturally over the butt of his holstered gun. The man grinned and shook his head quickly. “Nothin’ like that,” he said quietly. “Come to my store at dark, and I’ll take yuh where we can talk to other men.”

“I don’t reckon I understand this deal, my friend.”

“Look across the street at that sign on the sheriff’s office.”

It was painted in big, black letters and read:

CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE VIGILANTES

Streak nodded. “Plain enough,” he remarked.

“The sheriff,” said Buskirk, “was an honest man. They shot him down in his office.”

“The Vigilantes don’t usually kill an innocent man,” remarked Streak. “I heard they are operatin’ here.”

“But don’t yuh understand?” asked Buskirk quietly. “There’s no Vigilantes. I mean, not honest ones. The sheriff was murdered.”

“Oh, I see,” nodded Streak. “Wolves in sheep clothing.”

“That’s it exactly. Will you meet with us?”

Streak smiled. In town ten minutes, and already included in some mystery. He said, “I’ll be there, Buskirk—at dark.”

The man nodded and crossed the street, while Streak walked up past the feed corral, and stopped to look at the new construction of the Eureka Saloon. They were unloading the sections of a huge, mahogany bar from freight wagons. The dismantled bar had been shipped by steamer from St. Louis, and picked up from a Missouri River boat. A man said:

“The Eureka shore spent a fortune on that stuff. Imagine a mahogany bar in Silver Butte. Pearls before swine, I calls it.”

Streak smiled and crossed the street to the one hotel in the town, where he was lucky enough to get a room. The clerk said:

“Are you one of the new Eureka gamblers?”

Streak shook his head. “Do I look like a gambler?” he asked.

“Yuh can’t tell about looks. I see they’re bringin’ in real furniture for the new saloon. Cost a lot of money. Jim Flack is a top gambler, but he’ll have plenty of action, buckin’ Zero Brant. Brant jist about runs Silver Butte. We wondered why he didn’t try to stop Jim Flack from buildin’ the Eureka, but maybe he figures to break Flack in one swipe.”

“What do you mean by that?”asked Streak.

“Nothin’, stranger. Mebbe I talk too much—I dunno.”

Streak went back to the doorway, watching the activity on the street. A young cowboy was standing just away from the doorway, and a girl came down the street to meet him. She was pretty, but looked tired. There was so much noise on the street that they did not expect to be overheard.

“I’ve been watchin’ for yuh, Mazie,” the boy said. “Near the Silver Dollar.”

“I couldn’t get away, Joe,” she replied wearily. “They wanted me to learn a new song.”

“Let’s pull out,” the boy suggested. “Mazie, I’ve got folks down in St. Louis. We can get married and go there. We don’t have to live in this hell hole.”

The girl’s smile was as sweet as anything Streak had ever seen, but she shook her head. “Not yet, Joe. We haven’t enough money. Mr. Flack offered me more money to sing in the Eureka, but I don’t know what to do. Zero Brant heard about it, and he told me I’d better stay with him, if I know what’s good for me. What do you think I should do, Joe?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Brant is a bad man and he might do you dirt. Better wait and see what happens when the Eureka opens.”

They drifted away together into the dust cloud which hung like a pall over Silver Butte. Streak Malone drew a deep breath. Love in a place like this! He was curious to see “Zero” Brant, the bad-man. He walked toward the Silver Dollar.

Zero Brant was worth more than a passing glance, as he stood at the bar in the Silver Dollar Saloon. There were big men in there, but Zero Brant dwarfed them all. Clad in the raiment of a typical gambler, he looked like the common conception of a cave-man, huge of arm and limb, slightly stooped, a bullet-shaped head on a thick neck, green, predatory eyes, and a face of solid granite.

Gripped in one corner of his gash-like mouth was a frayed-out cigar, while in one huge paw he held a glass of liquor. No man had ever whipped Zero Brant. He and his gunmen ruled Silver Butte. It was a small domain for a king like Zero, but he had ideas. It was a starter—and the West was young. The huge room was overflowing with construction workers, cowboys, buffalo hunters and the usual riffraff which followed the construction work.

A woman came down through the crowded room, and the men moved aside to let her pass. Swishing silks and glittering jewels marked the passing of Conchita. She was a striking figure in that tawdry place, the offspring of a Spanish father and an Irish mother. Someone had once said, “I didn’t know that the Devil was Irish.”

Rounded, big hipped, small ankles and small feet, she moved with the grace of a tigress. Like the girl in Service’s poem—“She knew by heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity.”

Zero Brant scowled. He didn’t like to have Conchita in the Silver Dollar in the daytime. She was his roulette attraction, and she drew a lot of players. She didn’t look so good in daylight. Men stared at her as she came up to Brant and took the glass out of his hand. Neither of them spoke. She faced the crowd and sipped from his glass.

“I have some information from El Chuchilla,” she said quietly.

“What?” breathed Zero Brant.

“A man named Streak Malone came today. They say he has the nerve of the devil. They are having a meeting tonight at Buskirk’s house and they are going to try and appoint Malone the marshal of Silver Butte.”

“What else did El Chuchilla hear?” asked Brant.

Conchita toyed with her glass, a smile on her painted lips.

“They say,” she replied, “that Streak Malone will have fifty men behind him—fifty guns.”

“I’m bossin’ Silver Butte,” replied Brant coldly. “Fifty or five hundred—who cares? I’ll handle this job.”

“What about the Eureka?” asked Conchita. “They’re moving in the mahogany today.”

“Stay out of this,” growled Zero. “This is a man’s job.”

“They tell me that Streak Malone is a man,” she said, as she placed the empty glass on the bar, and walked away, her head high.

Zero Brant scowled. Conchita was his woman, but she was no slave. She would drop him in a minute, if the going got too tough, and he knew it. So they were going to appoint a marshal for Silver Butte, were they? Zero spat out the frayed cigar. All right! Silver Butte would find out that Zero Brant was still the boss.

He found the little Mexican Monte dealer, El Chuchilla, the Knife, and drew him aside. The Knife was a featherweight in size, but notorious for his ability in throwing a blade. He was also Zero Brant’s spy. Brant said:

“Listen, you! Be at that meetin’ tonight.”

“Por Dios—no!” gasped the Mexican.

“There’s goin’ to be a crowd,” said Brant. “You can get in. I want information of what happens.”

“No,” replied the Mexican stubbornly.

“Scared?” queried Brant sarcastically.

“Si. My friend, I know those Strick Malone, and he know me.”

“Yea-a-ah? That’s better. Where did you know him?”

“Medora. I am seek for broken bone t’ree month. I have leetle tro’ble een saloon. Those Malone don’t tak’ joke. He t’row me twenty feet t’rough a weendow.”

Zero Brant grinned. “I’ll send somebody else. You keep away from Streak Malone. I need yuh.”

II

Silver Butte came to life early in the morning. Or it may be that Silver Butte did not go to bed. The door of the sheriff’s little office was open, and the sign was gone. Streak Malone was sitting on a corner of the desk, wondering why he had ever been foolish enough to listen to the pleadings of those men last night and accept the appointment as marshal of Silver Butte. The men represented what was left of law and order. There were men from the construction camps, asking for a square-deal for their men, business men, asking protection for their women and for their business. There were other men, too, watching, listening, asking nothing. Streak had said:

“Friends, I appreciate conditions in Silver Butte. No one man can do this job. I have only two eyes. Is there anyone in this room who will stand at my back—act as my deputy?”

Not a person had responded. Streak said, “I reckon it’s worse than I thought. I’ll find my own deputy. You gents represent the law element of Silver Butte. I want you to vote me the right to shoot first and hold trial afterwards.”

The vote was unanimous.

So Streak Malone, a stranger in the town, was appointed marshal. Streak was no fool—he realized the odds. A bullet, a well-placed knife—and, as he had said, he only had two eyes. Leaning against the rough wall of the office was the sign, CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE VIGILANTES. Streak had torn it off the wall. It was his defiance to the killers who masqueraded as the law.

A man stopped in the doorway, and Streak looked up quickly. This man was of medium height, slender, long-haired, hard-faced. He, too, wore his gun. Streak knew who he was. A man had told Streak that this man was Mack Shell, leader of his own outlaw gang, reputed very fast with a gun.

They eyed each other closely, and then Shell’s eyes shifted to the sign.

“Opened up again, eh?” he remarked dryly.

Streak nodded. “I’m the marshal,” he said quietly.

“Yeah? What do yuh aim to do, Malone?”

“Bring law and order to Silver Butte.”

Mack Shell started to laugh, but stopped and began rolling a cigarette. Streak said:

“You’re Mack Shell. Are you backin’ Zero Brant?”

Shell spat viciously. “Back that wolf?” he snorted.

“He claims that he’s the boss of Silver Butte.”

“Suits me—I don’t live here.”

Streak looked thoughtfully at the outlaw. “You’ve taken over a cattle ranch only a few miles from here, Shell,” he said. “This will be your town. When you come here, do yuh want a boss?”

Shell looked coldly at Streak. “Nobody bosses Mack Shell.”

“It will be you or Zero Brant some day, Shell. Good folks won’t come here—folks with women and kids. There are other kinds of women, Shell, beside the kind at the Silver Dollar. A decent woman ain’t safe on the street.”

“She shore ain’t,” agreed Shell. “But that hasn’t got a thing to do with me. I ain’t got a woman.”

“Look at it like this,” suggested Streak quietly. “You had a mother—maybe a sister, Shell. They’d—”

Mack Shell flung his cigarette into the street.

“Don’t preach to me!” he snapped. “I’m forgettin’ things like that. I ain’t backin’ Zero Brant, if that helps yuh any.”

“It doesn’t help enough,” said Streak. “You’re a man with a rep, Mack Shell, and I need yore help.”

“My help?” Mack Shell laughed harshly. “I don’t understand that remark, Malone. What do yuh mean?”

“I want you to act as my deputy.”

For a moment the outlaw stared at Streak, his jaw sagging.

“You—what?” he gasped. “Deputy? Are you plumb crazy?”

“No, I’m perfectly sane.”

Mack Shell laughed again and began making another cigarette. It was a preposterous idea. Living for years, only a jump ahead of the law, and now—

“I’d be a bust as an officer,” he said. “Mack Shell, deputy marshal—a lawman! What made yuh ask me, Malone?”

“I need an honest man.”

“Honest man? Malone, don’t you know my rep?”

Streak Malone smiled slowly. “You may be a rustler and horse-thief, Mack Shell,” he said. “I don’t know. A man told me that you never broke your word. I have my own code of honesty, and maybe it conflicts with the law, too. I don’t care about yore rep. I want you to act as my deputy.”

Mack Shell didn’t smile now. He looked closely at Streak, his brow furrowed. The stage from Whitewater was coming in, ploughing through the dust, pulling up at the stage-depot, only a short distance from where Streak and Mack were standing. Two men got out of the stage, and one of them turned to assist a woman to alight. They exchanged a few words, after which the man picked up the baggage belonging to the woman. They talked for a moment with the driver, who directed them to the hotel, and they came down past the office.

One of the men was tall and swarthy, well-dressed, while the other man was short, long-armed, broad of shoulder, with the face of an ape. His head was rather round, small eyes, deep-set on either side of a broad nose, and with the widest mouth Streak and Mack had ever seen. When he laughed at some remark of his companion, one expected to see canine teeth.

The woman, slightly over-dressed and wearing a huge picture-hat, was beautiful, except that she wore too much paint and powder. The woman turned her head and looked straight at Streak as she walked past with the two men. For a moment her eyes snapped wide in amazement or horror. She stumbled into one of the men and might have fallen had not the ape-like one grasped her quickly.

Then they went on to the hotel entrance. Streak and Mack looked at each other curiously.

“That lady must have known you, Streak,” Mack said.

Streak shook his head, his brow furrowed. “I never saw her before in my life, Mack. What went wrong with her? Do I look that bad? She looked scared to death.”

“Kind of funny,” mused Streak. “Maybe you look like the husband she ran away from.”

Streak laughed and shook his head. “It beats me,” he said.

“Them two men,” said Mack slowly, “are pretty bad characters, Streak. The tall one is Dan Corteen, and the other one is Monk Moore. They’re both killers. If you’d like to know, I’d say that the lady is in bad company.”

“I’ve heard of both of them,” said Streak. “I wonder why they came to Silver Butte.”

“Watch ’em,” advised Mack Shell. “You’ll find out that they’ll go straight to Zero Brant.”

“Why would he import gunmen?”

Mack Shell laughed. “You’ve seen the new saloon goin’ up over there. That’s Jim Flack’s place. A year ago Jim Flack owned the Sundance Saloon. Jim’s on the square, and he ran square games. Well, one night his place burned, and Jim Flack was shot. He was laid up for weeks. In the meantime Zero Brant built the Silver Dollar over the ashes of the Sundance.

“The men will back Jim. Because he runs square games and don’t doctor his whisky, all the railroad men will come to his place. Zero Brant knows this—knows that if he starts trouble with the new Eureka Saloon, the men will back Jim Flack. That’s why Brant is gettin’ all the gunmen he can handle. With Jim Flack’s place runnin’, Zero Brant will go broke—and he knows it.”

Streak smiled. “I reckon I bit off quite a chew, Mack.”

“Yeah, and I flung in my lot on a bit of hot trouble, too. But I knew what I was doin’. You didn’t.”

“You mean you’ll take the job?” asked Streak quickly.

“Yeah, I reckon I’ve taken it, Streak. Yuh’re right—some day some decent folks might want to live here—folks with good women—and kids. I’d forgotten about things like that.”

Streak started to say something, but at that moment Zero Brant stepped into the doorway which was almost too small for his huge bulk. He looked sharply at Mack Shell, but spoke to Streak.

“I’m Zero Brant,” he said. “Shell knows me. I understand that you are the new marshal of Silver Butte.”

“That’s a fact,” replied Streak.

“Not that it makes any difference, but what do you intend to do, Malone?”

Streak’s jaw tightened at Brant’s open sarcasm but he replied civilly, “I’m goin’ to try and bring order and decency to this hell-hole of a town, Brant.”

“Well!” snorted Brant. “That’s a fine way to speak of Silver Butte.”

“Has it ever been anything else?” queried Streak.

Zero Brant’s eyes shifted to Mack Shell, who seemed just a bit amused over the exchange of words. Brant said:

“Where do you figure in this deal, Shell?”

“I’m the deputy marshal, Brant. Just appointed.”

“You? Well, of all the crazy—”

“Your loop’s draggin’,” warned Shell coldly. “I’m the deputy, Brant, and it might be well to remember it.”

“All right,” said Brant. “It just seemed—sure, it’s all right. Why not? I didn’t come over here to quarrel over the job, but I do want to make a complaint. After all, I’ve got rights.”

“Complaint?” asked Streak curiously.

“That’s what I said—complaint. Silver Butte ain’t big enough for two big saloons. Splittin’ the business will hurt my place, but Jim Flack don’t want a split—he wants it all. They’re lyin’ about my place, tryin’ to turn the construction crews against me. Flack wants to boss the town—run me out of Silver Butte—even burn me out, if nothin’ else works. I demand protection by the law.”

“Comin’ from you,” said Mack Shell slowly, “that’s funny.”

“Don’t say they can’t!” snapped Brant angrily. “They burned the Sundance and shot Jim Flack. Almost killed him, too.”

“We all know that, Brant,” said Shell. “We also know that you was here weeks before that, tryin’ to get started. When the Sundance burned, you started buildin’ the Silver Dollar Saloon on that same spot, almost before the ashes were cold. Who paid to burn the Sundance has never been proved, but I heard that it was a paid job.”

Brant ignored the implication that he had a hand in the burning of the Sundance. He said:

“Do I get the backin’ of the law, Malone?”

“When you can show me that you deserve it—yes,” replied Streak. “But the law ain’t backin’ crooked play, Brant.”

“Are you accusin’ me of runnin’ crooked games?”

“I do,” said Mack Shell quickly. “Malone ain’t been here long enough to know what yuh do, Brant.”

“I see,” muttered the big gambler. “So that’s the help I’ll get from the law, eh? I thought that the law meant a square-deal for everybody. As far as the Eureka and their bunch of tinhorns are concerned, I’ll handle my own case. And as for you two—I don’t want yore help. I’ll make my own laws, and enforce ’em, too. Malone, you and yore gun-fightin’ deputy can stay on this side of the street. I’ll handle the other side.”

Zero Brant turned and went out into the busy street. Streak laughed quietly. He said, “I wonder if he thinks we’ll honor his deadline, Shell.”

“He knows we won’t, Streak. Brant is no fool. I’m goin’ out and find my boys. I won’t be goin’ out to the ranch for a few days, and there’s things I want done. See yuh later, Streak.”

It was late in the afternoon when Streak Malone went into the Silver Dollar. The place was about half-filled at that time of day. There were several men at the long bar, and among them were Dan Corteen and Monk Moore.

Corteen was wearing a long, broadcloth coat, patent-leather boots, a wide-brimmed, black hat and the fanciest vest Streak Malone had ever seen. It was a riot of color, with flashing buttons. The tall gambler looked at Streak through narrowed eyes as Streak came in past the bar.

III

Malone did not speak to these men because he didn’t know any of them, except by name. Zero Brant was at the far end of the bar, talking with one of his gamblers, and Streak nodded to him. Then he heard Corteen saying:

“So they’ve got law and order here, eh?”

One of the men said, “Such as it is. They appointed a man as marshal, but one man won’t do much.”

“The Vigilantes killed the sheriff,” remarked Corteen.

Streak stopped short and turned around. Corteen was watching him, and their eyes met.

“The sheriff was murdered, if you want the truth, sir,” Streak said.

“That’s not what I heard, Marshal.”

“So you know who I am,” remarked Streak coldly. “We’re even, Corteen.”

The tall gambler barely moved his lips, as he said, “I don’t like the way yuh said that, my friend.”

“Could it be that you’re a little ashamed, Corteen?”

The gambler’s face tightened perceptibly, his hands dropped to his sides. He had two holstered guns under that long coat, the butts close to the front, ready for a cross-draw. The thumbs and fingers of both hands gently touched the edges of that open coat. Then he leaned forward a little.

“This town ain’t big enough for the both of us, Malone,” he said harshly. “By sundown it’ll be too small. We can’t both stay here.”

“I’ll be here—watchin’ it shrink, Corteen.”

“I hope you have written a will,” said Corteen coldly.

Streak Malone smiled slowly. “I’ll make yuh a gamblin’ proposition, Corteen. We’ll both make out our wills, leavin’ everythin’ to the winner.”

“What’s the idea?” asked Corteen curiously.

“I’d like to inherit that vest. You probably stole it, but—”

“I what? Why, you streak-haired—”

Corteen forgot the sunset deadline. He went for his crossed guns. Men fell away from behind him, as his hands flashed up, but Streak’s draw—they didn’t see it. Corteen’s guns were still only waist-high, when Streak’s forty-five blasted from his hip.

The tall gambler jerked back, his eyes tightly shut. His fingers relaxed and the two guns fell to the floor. Slowly his knees bent and he collapsed.

Streak had stepped back, cocked gun still at his waist-line, his eyes searching the men in the room. Monk Moore’s eyes widened a little, but there was no other sign of shock or emotion. Zero Brant had jumped away from the bar, staring at Corteen, flat on the floor.

“Well, there’s one gun yuh won’t have to pay for, Brant,” said Mack Shell’s voice, and then he continued quietly: “All right, Streak—I’m behind yuh.”

“Thank yuh, Shell.”

Brant didn’t speak, no matter what he thought. He had seen the deadly efficiency of the new marshal of Silver Butte.

One of the men said flatly, “Corteen reached first.” That remark settled any argument as to the aggressor.

Shell said, “Brant, you brought him here—you take care of him.”

Streak turned and walked out, but Mack Shell didn’t have the same confidence in that gang; he backed out. They met outside and walked over to the office.

As they stopped in front of the office to look back at the Silver Dollar, Mack Shell said, “You spoke a language they understand, Streak. Dan Corteen was fast with a gun but you beat him. Ten minutes ago you was known as the fool who took a dangerous job. Now yuh’re Streak Malone, marshal of Silver Butte, who wouldn’t wait for sunset.”

“I’m sorry,” said Streak. “I don’t want to kill anybody but he was out to kill me.”

“I heard it all,” declared Mack Shell. “I was right behind yuh. Dan Corteen started it, thinkin’ you’d crawl—and yuh didn’t. Forget Dan Corteen. He’s had it comin’ a long time, Streak.”

“I guess you’re right, Mack.”

“I know this kind of a deal. Corteen was here to get you. The next one won’t give yuh a break—yuh’re dangerous. I got a good look at the expression on Zero Brant’s face, and the sand was spillin’ out of his craw. You killed his pet monkey and he don’t like it.”

It was nearly dark that evening, when Streak Malone ran face to face with the woman who got off the stage that day. She was just leaving the hotel entrance. She stopped short, staring at Streak.

“Who are you?” she asked throatily. Streak smiled slowly.

“I am Streak Malone, marshal of Silver Butte, ma’am.”

“Streak Malone?” She shook her head and repeated it again, under her breath.

Streak said, “Ma’am, I’d advise against yuh goin’ out on the street alone.”

She smiled thinly and said, “I expect to deal faro at the new Eureka and I must see a Mr. Flack.”

“No matter what yuh do for a livin’, this street ain’t safe,” Malone declared. “I’ll take yuh over there, if I may.”

“Thank you, Mr. Malone.”

They reached the other side of the street and stopped in front of the Eureka. Streak noticed that she still seemed to look at him in amazement, tinged with disbelief.

“Be careful, ma’am,” he said. “Jim Flack is all right, but conditions in this town are very bad.”

“Thank you, but I shall do very nicely, I’m sure. By the way, I believe you had a little trouble with Dan Corteen today.”

“You knew him?”

“Oh, no, I merely met him on the stage. Thank you for bringing me over here.”

“You are very welcome, ma’am.”

“I am Clare Ames,” she said simply. “Names don’t usually mean much out here.”

Streak laughed. “Yuh mean—you change ’em often?”

“Not too often. For instance, you were probably not christened Streak Malone—or even Malone.”

Streak smiled slowly. “A child has little chance to select a name,” he said. “Parents very often give children names that they detest later on in life, so they can’t blame us for takin’ one that we like better.”

“Or one that is safer.”

Streak looked at her curiously. “Yes,” he said, “I believe that is true, Miss Ames. Good luck to you and your new job.”

“Thank you, Mr. Malone.”

Streak walked to the edge of the rough sidewalk, his eyes very thoughtful. Why did that woman say, “You were probably not christened Malone,” he wondered. Why did she look at him, wide-eyed? He had never seen her before she came to Silver Butte.

There always was a lot of activity in Silver Butte at night. Construction men, off shift, thronged the street, many of them intoxicated. Fights started and ended without interference. The jail was too small to think of starting a crusade against mere personal fights. Tomorrow night the new Eureka would open, which would, no doubt, start trouble. Streak Malone realized the enormity of his job. He had won his first encounter, but he knew, as Mack Shell had said, they would not give him a break next time.

He managed to cross the street to his office where he found Mack Shell, carefully oiling his six-shooter. The little outlaw smiled slowly, and Streak knew that he had seen him taking Clare Ames across the street.

“She’s dealin’ at the Eureka tomorrow night,” Streak said.

“So Jim Flack is goin’ to use female bait, too, eh?” remarked Shell. “Yuh know, I’m afraid that Brant is goin’ to have plenty competition, Streak. That little singer—the one they call Mazie over at the Silver Dollar—has quit Brant and will sing at the Eureka. The men are crazy about her singin’.”

“Have you got a puncher in yore outfit, sort of a kid, named Joe?” asked Streak.

“Yeah. Joe East.”

“I heard him talkin’ with that singer. He wants her to marry him and go back East.”

“He does, eh? Yuh know, one of my boys told me that Joe was shinin’ around her but I didn’t believe it. Joe’s just a kid. He ain’t one of my regular gang, Streak. He just works with cows.”

“What did yore boys say, when yuh told ’em you was a lawman?”

The outlaw hesitated, then shoved back his sombrero and scratched his head.

“Thought I’d gone crazy,” Mack Shell grinned. “But I explained the whole thing, and they’re behind us. If yuh don’t mind, Streak, I’ll sleep here in the office tonight. There might be bushwhackers along the road to my ranch and, anyway, somebody might try to put up that sign again on the door of the office.”

Streak was in no mood to go to bed and yet he realized the danger of that main street at night. Men were still working at the Eureka when he went over there, polishing the long bar, putting the final touches on the gambling paraphernalia. It cost Jim Flack a pretty penny to have all that shipped to Silver Butte.

He found Flack, a tall, saturnine gambler, watching the men. His greeting to Streak was very friendly. He said: “Glad you came over Malone. I heard about that trouble in the Silver Dollar, and the folks are showing a lot of confidence in you as marshal of Silver Butte.”

“Thank you,” said Streak soberly. “You’ve spent a lot of money to build and operate this place. That bar must have cost a small fortune, alone.”

“I want to make this place permanent, Malone, but I’m afraid it might not work out that way. You know something of the conditions, and they are not good. I want to operate honest games and sell good liquors, but I don’t know.”

“I know what yuh mean, Flack—and they’re not good prospects.”

“A man told me,” remarked Flack grimly, “that I’d be serving drinks off a pine table after the opening—if I lived. I don’t like things like that, Malone.”

Streak looked around the big room. Everything was of the best. He admired the long ornate back-bar, the mirror gleaming in the lamplight, reflecting back the glitter of expensive glassware.

In size, it was smaller than the Silver Dollar, but there was no comparison as to appointments.

“You’ve been quite a while in buildin’ this place, Flack,” Streak said. “It took a lot of time and money to get it furnished. Has anybody interfered in any way in the buildin’ or haulin’ in of all the furniture?”

“Not a soul,” replied the gambler. “I’ve thought of that. It would have been easy to smash the furniture on those wagons, to tear down what I’ve built. Why did they let me do all this if they objected to me operating here?”

“Maybe it’s all talk,” suggested Streak.

“I hope it is. I don’t want trouble.”

Flack walked over to the group of workmen, paid them off in cash and came back to Streak. They were alone in the Eureka now.

Flack said, “I’ve tried, but haven’t been able to find a man to act as watchman. Malone, I believe they are afraid to take the job.”

He took Streak to the back of the place and showed him the little office. Off the office was a small room, furnished, with a single-bed, rough table and a chair.

Streak said, “Are you goin’ to sleep here?”

Flack shook his head. “No,” he said. “I have a room at the hotel. The watchman can use the bed during the day.”

“Do yuh mind if I sleep here tonight?” asked Streak.

Flack looked curiously at Streak, but nodded. “I’d be mighty glad if yuh would,” he said. “If you want to leave, that front door is on a snap-lock. It will lock behind you.”

After a few moments Flack told him good night and went out. Streak kicked off his high-heel boots, and stretched out on the new blankets, smoking a cigarette, trying to figure out just what to do in order to change conditions in Silver Butte. He had finished his cigarette, but not his ideas, when he heard men walking the length of the saloon, their boots sounding hollow in the room. The office door was opened, men came in and closed the door, and he heard them light the lamp.

The partition between the two rooms was thin, and he could hear everything that was said. There was a small window in the little bedroom, but the only door opened into the office. The men in the office were silent for several moments, then one said:

“All right, Flack. You know why we brought yuh here, of course.”

“Sorry,” replied Jim Flack coldly, “but I do not. When masked men force me at the point of a gun to open doors and go with them, I believe they should do the explaining.”

One man laughed harshly. “You ain’t that ignorant, Flack. Here is a bill-of-sale, and we want yuh to sign it. Go ahead and read it—we can wait that long. Nobody knows yuh’re here, so take all the time yuh want.”

Noise from the outside drifted into the place, but there was no sound from the other room, until Flack’s voice said:

“Sorry, but I won’t sign this, gentlemen.”

“Yuh won’t, eh? Listen, Flack—you sign it—or die here.”

“And if I do sign it, I also die, eh?”

“Oh, shore. But not here. You’ll just disappear.”

“I don’t get the idea of this bill-of-sale.”

“Still ignorant, eh? You fool! Why do yuh reckon we let yuh go ahead and build this place, and furnish it? We could have stopped yuh any time we wanted to, but we figured that we’d let you pay all the bills, get everythin’ all ready, and then we’d take it over. See the idea, Flack. The bill-of-sale is to Buck Smith? Names don’t mean anythin’, my friend. Go ahead and sign it.”

“No!” snapped Flack. “If you intend killing me, why should I sign it? That would legalize the transfer. Go ahead.”

IV

That moment Streak Malone flung the door open. That is, he would have flung it open, but something caught under the door, blocking it half-open.

A man ripped out a curse, and a bullet smashed into the door. At the same moment the other man crashed the lamp, throwing the place into darkness. Streak managed to force his way past the partly-opened door, clawed for the doorway into the saloon. He heard the men racing down the saloon to the door, but he was not able to orient himself enough to shoot in the dark. Then the front door banged shut, and the men were gone.

Streak said, “Are yuh all right, Flack?”

“Yes, I am all right, thanks to you, Malone. That was a close call. Let’s get the lamp from the bedroom.”

The windows were covered, the door shut, when Streak lighted the lamp, and they looked at each other.

Flack said, “You came just in time, Malone. He was pulling the trigger.”

“Glad I did.” Streak smiled. “But I’m sorry the door stuck. Do yuh know either of them fellers, Flack?”

Flack shook his head. “They were both masked,” he said.

“Do yuh know Buck Smith?”

“Oh, you mean the name on that bill-of-sale? No, I don’t. It was only a name. But we know why they let me go ahead with this place. Well, they’ve ruined their first attempt, Malone, thanks to you. I’ll go out the back way and get to the hotel. I don’t believe they’ll make another attempt tonight.”

They went into the dark office and Jim Flack opened the back door.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Malone,” he said. “Maybe I can make it up to you—some way.”

“Forget that part of it,” said Streak. “Good luck.”

Streak went back to the bedroom and examined the bullet hole in the door. That bullet hadn’t missed him by more than a scant few inches. In fact, it had blown splinters onto the blanket. He stretched out again, trying to figure out more angles, but went to sleep quickly.

Jim Flack was over there next morning, before Streak awoke, and they talked things over. Flack said that he had talked with the superintendent of the hard-rock men on the railroad, and that the man was worried. Some of the more intelligent laborers realized that Zero Brant’s brace-games were keeping the men broke, and the bad liquor had made several of them unable to work at all. He said that any incident might start serious trouble.

“It’s a bad situation,” agreed Streak. “But what can be done about it, Flack? You can’t make arrests on what people think. Zero Brant has a tough following, and as far as enforcing the law is concerned, who or what is the law? I could put a man in jail, but how could he ever be convicted? What jury could, or would, decide guilt or innocence? Flack, this is a case where Old Man Colt is the only judge and jury.”

“I realize that, Malone,” nodded Flack. “I realize more than ever now that there will be trouble. Those men, last night, trying to force me to sign this place over to them, proved to me that they will stop at nothing.”

Streak found Mack Shell on the street and told him what happened at the Eureka. The little outlaw grinned slowly.

“So that’s why they let Flack go ahead with everythin’,” he remarked. “If you hadn’t been there, Flack would be dead now. Zero Brant is behind all this, Streak.”

Streak nodded. “But we can’t prove it,” he said.

The opening of the Eureka was not auspicious. Zero Brant was furnishing free whisky at the Silver Dollar and the house was packed with half-drunk humanity, mostly foreigners. A half-dozen bartenders were working at top speed but the games were not being patronized too well. A three-piece orchestra could hardly be heard above the roar of the crowd.

Brant was watching the crowd, a scowl on his face. The free whisky was keeping the crowd away from the games. Streak stood back against the wall, watching Brant. It was the first time Streak had ever seen Zero Brant without a hat, and he noticed that Brant’s forehead was criss-crossed with scars which were not too visible under a low-pulled hat-brim.

Chap-clad cowboys, wild as hawks, rubbed elbows with perspiring, muck-stained laborers, who gulped free whisky and roared songs in strange tongues. Here and there in the crowd were men in buckskin, bearded, long-haired, buffalo-hunters and trappers. The buffalo hunters furnished meat for the railroad crews.

At one end of the room El Chuchilla, the Knife, presided over a Three-Card-Monte game. This layout was not popular with the rank and file of patrons, but it placed the knife-throwing halfbreed in a good position to overlook the room, and flash signals to Zero Brant.

Mack Shell worked his way through the crowd and came in beside Streak. He said, “There’s a storm comin’, Streak.”

Streak nodded. “It’s bound to.”

“I mean outside,” said Shell. “Wind blowing, and yuh can hear the thunder. Yuh can’t hardly see through the dust right now.”

Streak nodded, watching Conchita at the roulette wheel. She was blazing with jewels, but the wheel was stopped. Shell laughed.

“Free whisky and no gamblers,” he said. “Serves him right.”

Conchita was looking at them now, and Streak noticed that her eyes were almond-shaped and almost green.

Mack Shell said, “Some day she’ll kill Brant. There’s a rattler down along the Mexican Border, with green eyes—like hers—and they don’t always rattle before they strike.”

One of Mack Shell’s cowboys forced his way through the crowd and came in beside them. He said, “If you think Conchita is pretty, take a look at the gal in the Eureka. She’s got this’n beat four ways from the jack. And she’s runnin’ an honest wheel. I won forty dollars on one whirl.”

The cowboy went on, circulating through the crowd, telling them about the Eureka. Streak smiled. Flack had probably hired several cowboys to pass out the good news, and the patrons were already drifting outside.

“Let’s go over to the Eureka,” suggested Shell.

“These men won’t leave free whisky,” said Streak.

“The free whisky is over.” Shell laughed. “They’ve just put up the sign.”

Slowly the crowd was drifting out of the place, some of them barely able to walk. Streak and Shell went outside. Lights were blotted out in the swirl of dust, and flashes of lightning were frequent now. Just as they found the entrance to the Eureka, a crash of thunder brought the first splatter of rain.

The new saloon was filling fast as they came in. The polished furniture reflected the lamplight, a thing of beauty in that rough, wild country, but the patrons were not interested in that sort of beauty.

Jim Flack, backed against the bar, was watching the gathering crowd, many of whom crowded around the roulette, where Clare Ames was running the layout. Mack Shell circulated among the crowd but Streak stayed near the end of the bar, out of the crowd. Men shoved through the open doorway, most of them drenched with rain.

The building shuddered under the concussion of thunder.

More men shoved in around the roulette, singing, cursing. It was a terrible place for a woman—even for the wrong kind. Flack came slowly over to Streak, tense, hard-eyed.

“I don’t like it, Malone,” he said. “They tell me that Zero Brant dished out free whisky to this mob. They’re all drunk.”

Streak nodded, his face grim. “Even free whisky wouldn’t hold ’em, Flack. They’re like a pack of wolves.”

More men surged in, possibly twenty or thirty huge foreigners, singing some sort of a chant. The room filled to suffocation, humming like a giant bee-hive, rank with the smell of unwashed humanity, liquor and strong tobacco smoke.

Somebody deep in the crowd cursed in a foreign tongue, screaming his words against the thud of a pistol shot. Came a babel of oaths, two more pistol shots, and pandemonium broke loose. Men surged toward the disturbance, and Streak caught sight of upraised bottles as the wave of men crushed tables and chairs, trampling drunken men to the floor, yelling like animals.

Suddenly they seemed to split into two factions, fighting each other. Streak knew what this meant. This drunken horde was bent on destroying everything in the Eureka.

Streak backed in against the end of the bar, gun in hand. He lost sight of Jim Flack. Out of the packed mob, like a football player packing the ball, came a huge, bearded giant, carrying a man in his arms. It was one of Mack Shell’s men. He dropped the unconscious cowboy and drew back a foot to kick him in the head when a shot crashed out, and the kick was not delivered. The big man went down, and the crowd trampled over him. Mack Shell was there, smoking gun in hand, dragging his cowboy away. Streak tried to help him, but a man crashed into him, and he went spinning against the wall at the end of the bar.

Streak went to his knees but came up quickly. Bottles were whizzing across the room, smashing the lamps, and the smoke-chopped room became a blurred mass of fighting men. Windows were smashed, letting in the wind and storm, and while men battled in the Eureka, nature battled outside, the claps of thunder shaking the building.

Streak fought his way across the room, forcing his way by swinging his six-shooter over-hand, climbing over men, trying to reach the smashed roulette layout. It was like a nightmare, where everything went wrong. Men screamed curses in his face, but he drove them aside and kept on going, while that crazy mob destroyed everything in the place.

He found Clare Ames, pinned under the wreckage of the wheel, unable to escape or protect herself. She was too dazed to know what was going on, when Streak picked her up in his arms. She tried weakly to strike him, but her strength was gone. A man crashed into him and tried to take her away, but he shouldered the man back into the mob.

Streak clawed his way along the wall to a broken window where he shoved her through. Then he crawled after her into the downpour. From inside the saloon came a warning scream, and he looked back. The smashed lamps had started a fire. Someone threw a smashed keg of whisky into the flames and a moment later the place was an inferno.

V

Finally, Streak reached the office with the girl. He didn’t dare to light a lamp but the blazing saloon gave plenty illumination. Clare Ames was recovered now. She wiped some blood off her face and looked closely at Streak.

She said, “What is your name?”

“I’m Streak Malone,” he replied.

“You are Keith Delmar,” she said. “No man could look as much like Jim Delmar and not be his brother.”

Streak Malone hunched forward, staring at her in the light of the flickering flames. Keith Delmar! No man in the West knew that he was Keith Delmar—and this woman came out of nowhere to tell him.

“Jim’s wife?” he whispered. “How on earth—”

“You look like Jim,” she said. “I know the whole story—know that you escaped from a court room, before the jury came back. You should have waited—the jury disagreed. Jim got new evidence. A gambler, who was a friend of your step-father, pawned some of the jewelry you were accused of stealing. It was traced to him, but he was gone. He killed your step-father—not you, Keith Delmar. The law knows it.”

“For heaven’s sake, keep talkin’!” gasped Streak. “I never knew what happened, after I leaped from that window in St. Louis, ten years ago. Where is Jim?”

“That gambler killed him in Medora two years ago,” she whispered. “Jim lived long enough to tell me—it was the same man. In St. Louis he was Tom Hall, but I don’t know what name he had in Medora. Jim made him confess to the murder but, in some way, he managed to shoot Jim. Jim told me who shot him, but he never gave me the name.”

Clare hesitated, choked, but managed to say, “Jim said to look for the man with the Mark of Cain.”

“Mark of Cain?” whispered Streak Malone. “Yuh mean—well, what does it mean—this Mark of Cain?”

“An M, branded on his forehead,” said Clare. “It’s the only solution I’ve ever heard. I’ve kept going, trying to find that man, but I can’t find him.”

The door banged open and Mack Shell limped in. He saw them and blurted, “Thank God, you’re both alive! Streak, I’ve got our two horses out behind the jail. The devil is dancin’ tonight in Silver Butte, and the fiddler ain’t been paid yet. There’s a lot of people who never got out of the Eureka—drunken workmen, a cowboy or two—that little Mazie, the singer. Somebody said she died in there. That buildin’ next to the Eureka is gone, too. Only the wind and rain can save the rest of that side of the street.”

Streak Malone said, “You stay here, Clare. Bar that door and don’t open it. There’s more work to be done. C’mon, Mack.”

They went out into the rain and they heard Clare drop the heavy bar into the slots. A man came running, saw them and came back.

He said, “I recognize you now. I’m the superintendent of construction and I want to tell you that the men have gone crazy. A lot of them burned in that building, and they blame Brant. They say he had men start the trouble in the Eureka.”

“What are they going to do?” asked Streak anxiously.

“They’ve got dynamite. It’s the one weapon they understand. I can’t stop them for they’re seeking revenge. Do what you can, but don’t take too many chances, because they’re a crazy, drunken mob of men, who will stop at nothing.”

“We’ve got to stop ’em!” exclaimed Shell. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe the buffalo hunters can help us. I’ll try.”

Mack Shell went limping away in the rain. Streak tried to think of some way to halt the mob, but his mind kept hammering:

“You’re free again, free again, free again! You’re not Streak Malone—you’re Keith Delmar. The law knows you didn’t kill your step-father. You’re free again!”

Streak drew a deep breath and went across the street. Smoke still billowed up from the heaps of hot ashes as the rain hissed down. Streak was hatless, bleeding from several cuts on his face.

He stopped in front of the Silver Dollar. A crowd had gathered in there, but they were not drinking or gambling. Streak shoved his way through the crowd. There was Zero Brant, Conchita, El Chuchilla, Monk Moore and others. Between them and the crowd was Joe East, the young cowboy from Shell’s ranch. Joe had no gun, and he had very few clothes. Dirty, torn, bleeding, he stood there accusing Zero Brant, who hunched forward, his evil, little eyes watching Joe East. As Streak shoved forward, he heard Joe say hoarsely:

“You sent one of yore men into the Eureka to start that fight, Brant, you dirty murderer, and they’re comin’ to get yuh. If I had a gun, I’d shoot out yore black heart myself.”

Brant, still hunched, his huge hands opening and closing, came slowly toward Joe East. It was like a gorilla attacking a pigmy. Joe didn’t move. He seemed incapable of movement. But before Brant could reach him, Streak Malone stepped out from the crowd and walked between them. Zero Brant stopped as he considered this new enemy, and his eyes blinked. A sudden rage seemed to strike him. His brow furrowed, bringing his brows down over his eyes. There was some sort of a commotion behind Streak, and he heard Clare’s voice scream:

“The Mark of Cain!”

Streak leaned forward, staring at Brant, who had lifted his head. Those scars on his forehead, when pulled down in that bestial scowl made a perfect letter M in the middle of his sloping forehead.

It was then that Brant dived at Streak, trying to clutch him in his powerful hands. But Streak was watching and sidestepped quickly, bumping into a man to his left, and Brant almost went into the crowd. Streak suddenly realized his danger and reached for his gun, but the man he had bumped into had taken it.

Brant had swung around, aimed a powerful smash at Streak’s head, which he barely avoided. Then he smashed Brant full in the face with a right hand that would have knocked most men down, but it only drove Brant’s head back momentarily. Brant was cut and bleeding now.

Men jostled Streak from behind, and he realized that the odds were heavily against him. Then Zero Brant came with a bull-like rush, driving Streak against the crowd, but Streak managed to uppercut him with rights and lefts, sending him off balance. A man threw a shoulder into Streak’s back, sending him stumbling ahead, but he recovered and faced Brant again.

Something whizzed past his ear, and he heard a man cry out with pain. El Chuchilla had missed his target and pinned the wrong man. Someone tripped Streak, and at that moment Zero Brant caught one of Streak’s arms in a viselike grip. Brant was bleeding from a badly-cut eye, nose and mouth, and he didn’t seem to know what to do, now that he had caught Streak.

“The wishbone, Streak!” yelled Mack Shell’s voice. “Hit him in the wishbone!”

Streak’s right hand was free, and he smashed Brant’s nose flat. Again and again he smashed that nose, until Brant released the hold on Streak’s left arm, trying to protect himself. Streak drew a deep breath. Brant had flung both hands up, trying to protect his face, when Streak, putting every ounce of power into a right hand blow, drove it deep into Brant’s body, just below the arch of his huge ribs.

Zero Brant’s mouth snapped wide and he grunted with pain. His stomach was not fortified against such a punch. He sagged, both hands dropping to his sides, and Streak hit him again in the same spot. But Brant merely grunted.

With the agility of a monkey, El Chuchilla had reached the top of the bar, knife in hand, but a pistol cracked, and the little knife-artist was fairly lifted off the bar by the heavy bullet.

“Get out of here!” a man yelled. “They’re goin’ to dynamite yuh!”

Streak whirled, but at that moment something hit him, and he went reeling against the wall. It was several minutes before Streak could realize what had happened. Clare was trying to help him up, and the place was deserted except for El Chuchilla, behind the bar, and a man sitting against the wall, looking wearily at life. He was the one El Chuchilla had hit.

Streak managed to get to his feet on rubbery legs. Gradually the building stopped whirling, and he could recognize her.

“I’m all right,” he whispered. “Why did you follow me?”

“I had to come,” she said. “I couldn’t stay in the office. You saw the Mark of Cain on Zero Brant?”

Streak nodded wearily. “Let’s get out,” he said. “We’ve got to help— somebody.”

They went outside. There was a crowd further down the street, yelling and cursing.

Streak said, “I forgot the dynamiters. Clare. You go to the office and wait for me.” He went at a staggering run down the middle of the street.

“Don’t let Brant get away!” he heard someone yell.

A man was running up the street, and Streak called to him. It was Mack Shell, going back to find Streak, panting, swearing.

“They knocked me down and rolled me plumb into the street!” Shell panted. “Brant and his woman got away somewhere.”

“The dynamiters?” queried Streak anxiously.

“They ain’t got here yet. We’ve got to find Zero Brant!”

They reached the office and stopped. A revolver exploded somewhere behind the jail, followed by a yell. Shell exclaimed, “The horses!”

Streak had forgotten that Shell had saddled their horses. They hurried down the narrow alley. It was quite dark down there.

Streak heard a voice saying huskily, “I came to get you, Brant. You killed her, so I’ll kill you.”

A six-shooter flamed so close to a man that the sparks splattered off like water from a hose. A moment later a man was flung almost into them. It was Joe East, but they didn’t know it. A horse snorted and they heard Zero Brant’s voice:

“Whoa, you devil!”

The fence suddenly splintered, and a horse lunged almost into Streak and Shell. It was Ghost, with Zero Brant on his back. The big gambler had neglected to untie the rope, and the big outlaw was dragging nearly a panel of the fence with him as they went out through the alley. Streak and Mack Shell ran in behind them, and saw Ghost whirl in the middle of the street, that section of fence acting like a scythe.

A crowd of men were coming up the street, yelling, swearing.

“The dynamiters, Streak!” said Mack Shell.

They were almost to the spot, where Ghost had plunged with his swaying rider. With a scream of rage the big gray horse bucked straight into that crowd, the roped fence cutting a swath. They broke for cover and the big gray broke loose from the fence, going into a real bucking frenzy. They saw Zero Brant crash into the street, and the gray whirled, looking for more worlds to conquer.

Streak and Mack Shell were the first to reach Zero Brant. The crowd had been scattered, but they began coming back. The men had the dynamite and right now they didn’t seem to remember just what they had intended doing with it. Streak told them, “The man you wanted is dead—here. Pick him up and carry him to the Silver Dollar.”

One huge man said stubbornly, “I no carry him—he kill my brother.”

“He killed mine, too,” said Streak, and without any further word, several of them picked up Brant.

They trooped up to the Silver Dollar. Jim Flack was there, and so was Joe East. Jim Flack looked like he had been sent through a threshing machine, and Joe East looked worse, but Joe didn’t mind. He had his arms around Mazie, and Mazie was smiling.

Jim Flack said, “The kid thought Mazie was dead—in the fire—but I threw her through a window. I guess she must have struck on her head, because she’s been wandering around in the dark. She’s all right now.”

Clare Ames had followed the crowd over there, and she went to Mazie. Streak looked around and saw Jim Buskirk. The merchant was carrying a buffalo gun, and he looked as though he had been burrowing in a coal-pile.

“I think this town will be all right now,” Buskirk said. “Zero Brant can’t run it any longer. I guess the rest of his gang got away, but that’s all right. I believe we’ll agree that Jim Flack is entitled to the Silver Dollar—since Brant was to blame for wiping out the Eureka. Is that all right with you, Malone?”

“I’m satisfied,” replied Streak wearily. “Buskirk, can you and yore wife take in Miss Ames and Mazie for a day or two?”

“You bet we can! I’ll take ’em right down there.”

“You walk ahead and blaze the trail. I’ll take her myself.”

Buskirk grinned through his grime, as he said, “What about Mazie?”

“She’ll get there,” said Joe East huskily, “but she may have to drag me.”

Mack Shell drew a deep breath, wiped a grimy hand across his face and said:

“I reckon everythin’ is all right, folks. The marshal has done taken over for himself.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Summer, 1948 issue of Giant Western magazine.

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