Free Death Waits at Sundown by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

Big Bill stood with his hat still raised and stared. He had forgotten to
lower his arm. But he remembered now and set his hat back on his head and faced
Spick Murphy.
    Big Bill figured out
what he would do and that gave Spick a chance to ease away a foot or two. Big
Bill advanced and again Spick retreated. Abruptly Spick found himself backed up
to the hitch rack. Big Bill’s big hand held him there, containing a quantity of
shirt.

    Abruptly Spick found himself backed up to the
hitch rack. Big Bill’s big hand held him there,
containing a quantity of shirt.
    â€œYou wormed yourself
into this,” said Big Bill. “And I can’t do what I’d like to do without getting
into trouble with her. But . . .”
    Spick was not a coward
by far, but he had the good sense to remain silent and not grin.
    â€œBut if I hear of you
misbehaving,” said Big Bill, “I’ll track you to hell and back and when I find
you I’ll cut off your ears and fry them for breakfast. You got that down pat?”
    Spick nodded.
    Big Bill released his
shirt and stalked over to his horse and left Spick grinning to himself.

Chapter
Six
    S PICK MURPHY was received very
badly at first among the punchers of the Pinta spread. Warily they waited for
him to do something which would justify their plea that he be fired.
    None of them would
have dreamed of actually treating Spick Murphy with anything but ginger courtesy. The man was not armed, visibly, but nobody was willing to take a
chance with a fellow who could and had driven spikes with bullets at thirty
paces.
    It was not merely that
Spick Murphy was known to be chain lightning with a gun, it was another quality
which worried these worthy waddies .
    Spick looked like a
kid in his teens with a cherubic smile always displayed upon his swarthy face
and nothing but kindliness glowing from his Indian black eyes. But physiognomy is the most untrustworthy of sciences and the punchers were not fooled as
easily as the naturally impulsive Susan.
    They knew that Spick
had grinned like that since the day of his birth, even when he was shooting a
man in the back. Drunk or sober, angry or in the best of humors, free or
jailed, Spick’s appearance attested only great camaraderie toward the world.
    And that was what made
it so bad. You could never tell when he was really mad or drunk or kill-crazy
and therefore it behooved all those endowed with a love of life to walk easily
where Spick was concerned.
    But that did not
prevent the Pinta spread from ignoring him, which they could do collectively
and with little personal danger.
    After a few weeks,
however, their antipathy toward him waned and they began to think that his
dangerousness had been greatly overrated. He did those jobs assigned to him
with an ease which made everyone else look clumsy, and did them cheerfully. And
at the fall roundup, he could be found from dawn until dark beside the branding
fire scorching The Paint-Bucket brand into hair and hide. The Pinta punchers
forgot themselves so far as to actually admire the artistic way Spick handled a running iron .
    It became increasingly
apparent that Spick had taken a turn for the better. He never got roostered in
San Carlos, he went far out of his way to avoid fights and his attitude toward
Sam Price and his daughter was something to behold as a model for all respect
and courtesy.
    Buster, at first, had
been very diffident about Spick and the wise shook their heads and quoted the old saw about “dogs and children.” But children, after all, are practically
human, and after the roundup, Buster thawed.
    This came to a very
moody Big Bill Bailey one crisp evening. Big Bill had come to the Pinta with
lessening frequency, taking the attitude of a policeman dropping around to a
gambling hall he wished he could close.
    Buster found Big Bill
leaning against the corral and looked up brightly.
    â€œGimme your gun,”
ordered Buster.
    Big Bill handed