The Third Western Megapack. Johnston McCulley

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 Jones seemed to radiate hostility, and those nearest him shivered and drew away as speedily as possible, but not so swiftly that the stranger could take offense. He snapped his words, and his eyes were rather disconcerting.

      “Call up the crowd!” commanded Peter Jones. “Gents, name your poison! I’m figurin’ on makin’ my home in this town, and I want to get acquainted. Maybe I’ll want a few changes made around here, too.”

      He saluted them and tossed off his drink, then turned and surveyed the room. “You ought to make that piano player snap up a little,” he observed.

      The piano player needed no further urging. He bent over the keys, his fingers flew, and there was a horrible fear in his heart. He had remembered of hearing that once the Sagebrush Kid, angered at a piano player, had shot off a few fingers belonging to the musician.

      “Them all the dancehall girls you got?” Peter Jones asked.

      “We’ve got another—Juanita, half Mex,” Hank explained. “She’ll be here in a few minutes, I reckon. You have one on the house now, stranger.”

      Peter Jones whirled to confront him. “Stranger?” he howled. “Is that the way this here town regards me?”

      “I—I mean Mister Jones,” Hank sputtered.

      “And that don’t go either. I’m a regular feller here, one of the boys, or else I don’t care a dang for the town and may get plumb hostile! Either way suits me. If we’re goin’ to get along, you jaspers got to call me Pete.”

      “All right—Pete,” Hank gulped.

      “That’s a lot better. Now, I want a room to sleep in and a place to eat.”

      “I’ve got a dandy room in the back,” Hank explained. “I had the Chinaman sweep it out yesterday. Another Chinaman runs a restaurant right across the street, and he’s a good cook when he’s made to be.”

      “Uh-huh!” growled Peter Jones. “I reckon that he’ll be made to be. I’m right darn particular about my vittles.”

      He swaggered away from the bar and made the rounds of the gambling games, but took no part. Every time he glanced at the piano player, that individual coaxed added harmony from the old piano. He glanced at the two girls and curled his lip in scorn.

      And then Juanita came into the big room.

      Juanita, half Mexican, eighteen, man-wise as ever it was given a woman to be, was an alluring picture. Peter Jones walked toward her, and she stood beside a table waiting, though pretending to ignore his presence. Peter Jones looked her up and down.

      “You’re not so bad, Juanita,” he admitted. “Order a bottle and I’ll pay. Then we’ll dance.”

      This was the start of rather a mild evening. Mr. Jones drank a bit, danced a few times, watched the games, yawned, and presently retired.

      “He’s probably been ridin’ far and hard today,” Hank said to those assembled. “Wait till he gets rested up. He’s a lot easier to get along with than I thought he’d be—calm before the storm, maybe.”

      * * * *

      Arising shortly after dawn the following morning, Peter Jones went to the restaurant and ordered his breakfast. It appeared that the eggs were underdone and the hot cakes tough. Whereupon Mr. Peter Jones held speech with the Chinese cook; that is, he made the speech and the cook did the listening. Then Mr. Jones perforated the ceiling of the kitchen with a slug from his six-gun. Two citizens overtook the cook a mile down the trail and brought him back.

      The morning was spent by the newcomer to Rock Castle in the general store, where a shivering Ike scarcely could take his eyes from the unwelcome guest. Yet Ike really had no complaint. Mr. Jones purchased a couple of shirts and a pair of pants and paid for them with cash.

      That night, after supping in state at the Chinaman’s, Peter Jones repaired to Hank’s Place. He entered it with his right hand swinging dangerously near the holster at his side, and his eyes narrow.

      Half a dozen cowpunchers had come to town from the range, and Peter Jones located them at once. He looked them over, glared at them, and then turned his back. One of the cowpunchers had moved to dance with the fair Juanita, but he did not do so after meeting Peter Jones’ eyes.

      Peter Jones played poker, and he won from men who threw down excellent hands and were afraid to quit the game. He played faro, and for some reason he won at that, too. He danced with Juanita and complained that she was old and stiff, and Juanita smiled from a white face and said nothing.

      It was patent that Peter Jones did as he pleased and that no man contested his right to do so. He went to his room that night at two in the morning, and Hank and Ike and the others drew deep breaths of relief and took liquor as medicine instead of to be convivial.

      “It ain’t goin’ to be any cinch, havin’ this Sagebrush Kid a regular citizen of this here town,” Hank opined. “Them boys from the Triple B outfit would have stayed here three days and killed their month’s pay, but they got scared and went home again plumb sudden.”

      “Makes me shiver every time he comes near,” Ike admitted. “I get to rememberin’ how many men he’s potted just for the fun of the thing. Every time he makes a move, I think he’s goin’ for his gun.”

      “Half a dozen men wanted to dance with Juanita, and was afraid to do it,” Hank complained. “Juanita always makes ’em buy wine. I’m losin’ trade.”

      “And I had to toss down an ace full, fearin’ to call him,” one of the punchers said.

      “Alle same want flesh apple pie for bleakfast,” complained the Chinese cook from across the