Part 1

[Illustration: 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.