and then ripped the envelope open. Inside was a single sheet of cheap paper, with pencil scrawls upon it. Ike turned the letter to the light that came through the flyspecked window, and read.
Ike Cumway was docile and slow moving, not given to excitability. So the consternation that fell upon Hank and the dozen idlers who suddenly beheld Ike Cumway rush through the open doorway in the partition up to the bar, gasping for words, was intense.
Hank swore, fearing a stroke of some sort. The citizens of Rock Castle stood amazed. Ike lurched against the bar, and motioned wildly toward a bottle. Hank supplied the bottle and a glass, Ike tossed off a snifter of liquor, choked, and sputtered.
“What’s the matter with you, Ike?” Hank demanded. “You gone loco? Scarin’ my customers thataway!”
“Letter—letter!” Ike gasped. “Got a letter!”
“Uh-huh!” Hank sneered. “Don’t you get half a dozen every year? What you riled about? Somebody left you a million? That old claim of yourn suddenly assayin’ fifty thousand to the ton?”
Ike Cumway gulped and looked at those about him. He seemed to calm down somewhat. “It—it’s from the Sagebrush Kid!” he said.
There was a moment of silence while all the men there glanced at one another in sudden fear and wonder. The Sagebrush Kid! The outlaw was a countryside terror who laughed at every sheriff! He worked alone always, helped himself to mine payrolls and gold shipments, stuck up a bank or a store now and then, and occasionally an entire town by way of a lark. The Sagebrush Kid, who was said to kill wantonly and unnecessarily, and laugh when he did it.
“You—you read it, Hank!” Ike gasped.
His trembling fingers pushed the dirty note across the slippery bar. Hank picked it up gingerly, and read it aloud.
Postmaster, Rock Castle:
It’s time that the undersigned had a regular home town. I’m sick of livin’ out in the hills with the coyotes and snakes and prairie dogs. So I reckon to make Rock Castle my home. A castle needs a king, I reckon. If I make it my home, naturally I won’t bother the citizens any, seein’ as how they’ll be my neighbors. And I’m expectin’ the said citizens to be brothers to me, too. I reckon you jaspers will understand. I’ll drop in soon, and I’ll call myself Peter Jones.
The Sagebrush Kid.
“Godfrey!” Hank cried. “He’s goin’ to make this his home town!”
“Maybe we’d better send word to the sheriff,” one of the citizens put in.
“Are you aimin’ to pass out spectacular?” Hank sneered. “Send word to the sheriff, huh? Think he’ll keep a posse here all the time? And after he takes it away, this here Sagebrush Kid will come into town and have his revenge!”
“What’s to be done, Hank?” Ike asked.
“Nothin’!”
“Nothin’?”
“You’ heard me—nothin’,” Hank responded. “We can’t stop this Sagebrush Kid from makin’ his home here, can we? Reckon that he knows it’s pretty safe, away down here in the corner of the county, with the sheriff not knowin’ that we’re on earth except at tax time. They’d never look for the Kid here.”
“Then you’re in favor—” Ike commenced.
“I’m in favor of us simply makin’ him welcome as a new citizen and ’tendin’ to our own business and allowin’ him to ’tend to his,” Hank said. “Dang you jaspers, ain’t you got any sense? Officially, we don’t know that the gent is the Sagebrush Kid. We know him as Peter Jones—Pete for short. That’s what we’ll tell the sheriff if he ever comes snoopin’ around. We don’t have to go out and help the Sagebrush Kid hold up anybody. He always does his work alone, I’ve heard tell.”
“Yeh, and he does it up brown!” Ike quavered. “He—he’s a desperate character. We want to be mighty all-fired careful not to cross him any way.”
“Ike, you’ve said somethin’ for once,” Hank informed him. “Yep, we want to be mighty careful not to offend the jasper. If he wants pie for his breakfast, he can have it. Gosh a’mighty! Ever get him started, he might wreck the town. Ike and me have got money invested here, an’ I don’t aim to be pauperized.”
* * * *
Every dust cloud that appeared on one of the trails that led to Rock Castle was the cause of speculation during the next two days. But each dust cloud resolved itself into some well known cowpuncher coming to town for a frolic, or a rancher after supplies. The Sagebrush Kid was the center of none of them.
But a stranger finally did come into town after dusk the third day. He was tall, young, slim, knew how to ride a horse, and wore his six-gun in a knowing manner. His jaw looked lean and tough, and his eyes were gray and hard as steel.
He dismounted at the corral behind the livery stable, removed saddle and bridle, and turned his mount inside. Then he faced the stable owner.
“I want these things of mine kept ready and carefully,” he said, in a voice that seemed to cut. “Any time I want that saddle and bridle, I expect to find ’em right here by the door.”
“Yeh!” the stable man said.
“And I’m in the habit of havin’ my hoss taken care of a bit extra. Understand?”
“I getcha! You won’t have anything to kick about.”
“I hope not!” said the new arrival, fondling the butt of his six-gun. “My name’s Jones—Peter Jones!”
“Uh-huh! Glad to meetcha!” said the stable owner. “Oh yeah, Mister Jones! Hope you like the town.”
“I hope so,” said Peter Jones. He said it in a tone that seemed to mean he doubted it.
He strolled out into the street and rolled and lit a cigarette. Then he walked slowly through the swirling dust and sand until he came to Hank’s Place, where he entered.
Hank was on duty with another man behind the bar. A dozen customers were standing in front of it. A dozen more were gambling in a listless manner. The piano player was thumping the keys of his battered instrument, and a couple of dancehall girls were fooling around as though wishing things would liven up.
Hank glanced toward the door as the stranger entered, gulped, and failed to finish what he had been saying. The newcomer stepped up to the bar, pulling off his gloves, and swept the room and its occupants with a glance that made men quail. Then he faced Hank.
“Some of the stuff!” he commanded. “Let it be the best you’ve got, which probably’ll be bad enough. My name’s Peter Jones!”
His voice carried all over the room, and there was instant silence. Peter Jones! The Sagebrush Kid, latest regular citizen of Rock Castle, had arrived in his adopted home town!
No man had ever seen the face of the Sagebrush Kid knowing him to be such, for he always had worked alone and always masked. But this man had announced that he was Peter Jones. And had that not been enough, his appearance was.
Peter
