Free Sudden--Troubleshooter (A Sudden Western) #5 by Frederick H. Christian

surrounding
area: Saber on the north, and two large spreads which lay some forty miles to the south, halfway along
the road to Tucson.
    The stranger spotted the
bleached sign on the false front of Tyler’s saloon and guided his
stallion towards it. Dismounting, he hitched the animal to the rail
outside and, mounting the boarded sidewalk, pushed his way through
the batwing doors into the gloomy coolness of the saloon. His step
was light and wary, and his right hand rarely swung more than three
or four inches away from the tied-down holster at his side. The
holster was an unusual one; unlike most it was a one-piece
construction, an expensive gun rig in which the holster and belt
had been cut entirely from the same piece of leather. The belt was,
like the man’s saddle, studded with silver. The holster was
hand-stitched and reinforced, with a deep cutaway section carefully
shaped to expose the maximum amount of butt, trigger guard, and
trigger for an exceptionally fast and easy draw.
    The stranger’s wary gait
and his ornate gun belt could hardly have escaped the notice of the
few solitaire-and-whisky cases who were in the saloon this early in
the day. These few stared in speculation as the man approached the
bar. He favored them with a fleeting, narrow-eyed glance and then
ignored them. Tyler came bustling along to serve the newcomer. His
bonhomie fell away like autumn leaves as he looked into the cold
green eyes.
    ‘Whisky,’ snapped the man.
‘¡ Pronto !’ Tyler
hastened to obey the curt command, pouring a generous drink into
the shot glass with a slightly shaking hand. He was about to cork
the bottle when the stranger laid a hand firmly on his arm and
said, ‘Leave the bottle. I ain’t gonna be able to stomach this town
without a few drinks. Gawd! What a hole!’
    Tyler edged away, and
busied himself polishing glasses to an unaccustomed luster which
would have startled any regular drinker in Yavapai’s only saloon.
The few patrons of the establishment, after their initial covert
survey of the newcomer, had gone back to their drinks, their cards,
and their murmured conversation.
    ‘Yu!’
    Tyler’s head jerked up from
his polishing as the stranger’s cold voice
broke the near-silence. ‘Me? Yessir, what can I do for
you?’
    ‘Mighty little, if this is
yore best likker,’ snapped the stranger. ‘This burg got a
Marshal?’
    Tyler nodded. ‘Name’s
Appleby.’
    ‘Go get him,’ commanded the
stranger.
    Tyler nodded
unquestioningly, and hastened out of the building. As the
bartender’s footsteps receded, the stranger turned and hooked his
elbows on the bar. He eyed the citizens of Yavapai with an
expression of infinite distaste on his face.
    ‘Get the hell outa here!’
he told them. ‘Move!’
    Wide eyed, the half dozen
men in the bar, stumbling into chairs and bumping each other in
their rush to comply with this narrow-eyed stranger’s command,
hastened out into the sunlit street. They foregathered on the porch
of the saloon, and the man inside smiled to himself as he heard
their muted protests at this treatment. ‘Sheep!’ he said, pouring
himself another drink. He tossed it down as Tyler and Tom Appleby
came in through the batwing doors, affecting not to notice the fact
that Appleby remained near the wall, thus leaving no opportunity
for the man in the saloon to hold him silhouetted against the
bright sunlight outside.
    ‘Yo’re a careful man,
Marshal,’ said the stranger.
    ‘I got to be,’ was the cool
reply. Appleby surveyed Tyler’s customer. The excited saloon-keeper
had come rushing into Appleby’s office gabbling about a man coming
into the saloon, looking as deadly as a tarantula, apparently
spoiling for trouble. What he saw was a shortish man of about
thirty, with a fancy gun rig and an expression of disdain that
looked as though it might be the man’s permanent
expression.
    ‘So yo’re the Marshal,’ the
man said.
    ‘I’m the Marshal. Name’s
Appleby.’
    ‘Marshal, I ast yu