Part 3

Streak fought his way across the room, forcing his way by swinging his six-shooter over-hand, climbing over men, trying to reach the smashed roulette layout. It was like a nightmare, where everything went wrong. Men screamed curses in his face, but he drove them aside and kept on going, while that crazy mob destroyed everything in the place.

He found Clare Ames, pinned under the wreckage of the wheel, unable to escape or protect herself. She was too dazed to know what was going on, when Streak picked her up in his arms. She tried weakly to strike him, but her strength was gone. A man crashed into him and tried to take her away, but he shouldered the man back into the mob.

Streak clawed his way along the wall to a broken window where he shoved her through. Then he crawled after her into the downpour. From inside the saloon came a warning scream, and he looked back. The smashed lamps had started a fire. Someone threw a smashed keg of whisky into the flames and a moment later the place was an inferno.

V

Finally, Streak reached the office with the girl. He didn’t dare to light a lamp but the blazing saloon gave plenty illumination. Clare Ames was recovered now. She wiped some blood off her face and looked closely at Streak.

She said, “What is your name?”

“I’m Streak Malone,” he replied.

“You are Keith Delmar,” she said. “No man could look as much like Jim Delmar and not be his brother.”

Streak Malone hunched forward, staring at her in the light of the flickering flames. Keith Delmar! No man in the West knew that he was Keith Delmar--and this woman came out of nowhere to tell him.

“Jim’s wife?” he whispered. “How on earth--”

“You look like Jim,” she said. “I know the whole story--know that you escaped from a court room, before the jury came back. You should have waited--the jury disagreed. Jim got new evidence. A gambler, who was a friend of your step-father, pawned some of the jewelry you were accused of stealing. It was traced to him, but he was gone. He killed your step-father--not you, Keith Delmar. The law knows it.”

“For heaven’s sake, keep talkin’!” gasped Streak. “I never knew what happened, after I leaped from that window in St. Louis, ten years ago. Where is Jim?”

“That gambler killed him in Medora two years ago,” she whispered. “Jim lived long enough to tell me--it was the same man. In St. Louis he was Tom Hall, but I don’t know what name he had in Medora. Jim made him confess to the murder but, in some way, he managed to shoot Jim. Jim told me who shot him, but he never gave me the name.”

Clare hesitated, choked, but managed to say, “Jim said to look for the man with the Mark of Cain.”

“Mark of Cain?” whispered Streak Malone. “Yuh mean--well, what does it mean--this Mark of Cain?”

“An M, branded on his forehead,” said Clare. “It’s the only solution I’ve ever heard. I’ve kept going, trying to find that man, but I can’t find him.”

The door banged open and Mack Shell limped in. He saw them and blurted, “Thank God, you’re both alive! Streak, I’ve got our two horses out behind the jail. The devil is dancin’ tonight in Silver Butte, and the fiddler ain’t been paid yet. There’s a lot of people who never got out of the Eureka--drunken workmen, a cowboy or two--that little Mazie, the singer. Somebody said she died in there. That buildin’ next to the Eureka is gone, too. Only the wind and rain can save the rest of that side of the street.”

Streak Malone said, “You stay here, Clare. Bar that door and don’t open it. There’s more work to be done. C’mon, Mack.”

They went out into the rain and they heard Clare drop the heavy bar into the slots. A man came running, saw them and came back.

He said, “I recognize you now. I’m the superintendent of construction and I want to tell you that the men have gone crazy. A lot of them burned in that building, and they blame Brant. They say he had men start the trouble in the Eureka.”

“What are they going to do?” asked Streak anxiously.

“They’ve got dynamite. It’s the one weapon they understand. I can’t stop them for they’re seeking revenge. Do what you can, but don’t take too many chances, because they’re a crazy, drunken mob of men, who will stop at nothing.”

“We’ve got to stop ’em!” exclaimed Shell. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe the buffalo hunters can help us. I’ll try.”

Mack Shell went limping away in the rain. Streak tried to think of some way to halt the mob, but his mind kept hammering:

“You’re free again, free again, free again! You’re not Streak Malone--you’re Keith Delmar. The law knows you didn’t kill your step-father. You’re free again!”

Streak drew a deep breath and went across the street. Smoke still billowed up from the heaps of hot ashes as the rain hissed down. Streak was hatless, bleeding from several cuts on his face.

* * * * *

He stopped in front of the Silver Dollar. A crowd had gathered in there, but they were not drinking or gambling. Streak shoved his way through the crowd. There was Zero Brant, Conchita, El Chuchilla, Monk Moore and others. Between them and the crowd was Joe East, the young cowboy from Shell’s ranch. Joe had no gun, and he had very few clothes. Dirty, torn, bleeding, he stood there accusing Zero Brant, who hunched forward, his evil, little eyes watching Joe East. As Streak shoved forward, he heard Joe say hoarsely:

“You sent one of yore men into the Eureka to start that fight, Brant, you dirty murderer, and they’re comin’ to get yuh. If I had a gun, I’d shoot out yore black heart myself.”

Brant, still hunched, his huge hands opening and closing, came slowly toward Joe East. It was like a gorilla attacking a pigmy. Joe didn’t move. He seemed incapable of movement. But before Brant could reach him, Streak Malone stepped out from the crowd and walked between them. Zero Brant stopped as he considered this new enemy, and his eyes blinked. A sudden rage seemed to strike him. His brow furrowed, bringing his brows down over his eyes. There was some sort of a commotion behind Streak, and he heard Clare’s voice scream:

“The Mark of Cain!”

Streak leaned forward, staring at Brant, who had lifted his head. Those scars on his forehead, when pulled down in that bestial scowl made a perfect letter M in the middle of his sloping forehead.

It was then that Brant dived at Streak, trying to clutch him in his powerful hands. But Streak was watching and sidestepped quickly, bumping into a man to his left, and Brant almost went into the crowd. Streak suddenly realized his danger and reached for his gun, but the man he had bumped into had taken it.

Brant had swung around, aimed a powerful smash at Streak’s head, which he barely avoided. Then he smashed Brant full in the face with a right hand that would have knocked most men down, but it only drove Brant’s head back momentarily. Brant was cut and bleeding now.

Men jostled Streak from behind, and he realized that the odds were heavily against him. Then Zero Brant came with a bull-like rush, driving Streak against the crowd, but Streak managed to uppercut him with rights and lefts, sending him off balance. A man threw a shoulder into Streak’s back, sending him stumbling ahead, but he recovered and faced Brant again.

Something whizzed past his ear, and he heard a man cry out with pain. El Chuchilla had missed his target and pinned the wrong man. Someone tripped Streak, and at that moment Zero Brant caught one of Streak’s arms in a viselike grip. Brant was bleeding from a badly-cut eye, nose and mouth, and he didn’t seem to know what to do, now that he had caught Streak.

“The wishbone, Streak!” yelled Mack Shell’s voice. “Hit him in the wishbone!”

Streak’s right hand was free, and he smashed Brant’s nose flat. Again and again he smashed that nose, until Brant released the hold on Streak’s left arm, trying to protect himself. Streak drew a deep breath. Brant had flung both hands up, trying to protect his face, when Streak, putting every ounce of power into a right hand blow, drove it deep into Brant’s body, just below the arch of his huge ribs.

Zero Brant’s mouth snapped wide and he grunted with pain. His stomach was not fortified against such a punch. He sagged, both hands dropping to his sides, and Streak hit him again in the same spot. But Brant merely grunted.

With the agility of a monkey, El Chuchilla had reached the top of the bar, knife in hand, but a pistol cracked, and the little knife-artist was fairly lifted off the bar by the heavy bullet.

“Get out of here!” a man yelled. “They’re goin’ to dynamite yuh!”

Streak whirled, but at that moment something hit him, and he went reeling against the wall. It was several minutes before Streak could realize what had happened. Clare was trying to help him up, and the place was deserted except for El Chuchilla, behind the bar, and a man sitting against the wall, looking wearily at life. He was the one El Chuchilla had hit.

* * * * *

Streak managed to get to his feet on rubbery legs. Gradually the building stopped whirling, and he could recognize her.

“I’m all right,” he whispered. “Why did you follow me?”

“I had to come,” she said. “I couldn’t stay in the office. You saw the Mark of Cain on Zero Brant?”

Streak nodded wearily. “Let’s get out,” he said. “We’ve got to help-- somebody.”

They went outside. There was a crowd further down the street, yelling and cursing.

Streak said, “I forgot the dynamiters. Clare. You go to the office and wait for me.” He went at a staggering run down the middle of the street.

“Don’t let Brant get away!” he heard someone yell.

A man was running up the street, and Streak called to him. It was Mack Shell, going back to find Streak, panting, swearing.

“They knocked me down and rolled me plumb into the street!” Shell panted. “Brant and his woman got away somewhere.”

“The dynamiters?” queried Streak anxiously.

“They ain’t got here yet. We’ve got to find Zero Brant!”

They reached the office and stopped. A revolver exploded somewhere behind the jail, followed by a yell. Shell exclaimed, “The horses!”

Streak had forgotten that Shell had saddled their horses. They hurried down the narrow alley. It was quite dark down there.

Streak heard a voice saying huskily, “I came to get you, Brant. You killed her, so I’ll kill you.”

A six-shooter flamed so close to a man that the sparks splattered off like water from a hose. A moment later a man was flung almost into them. It was Joe East, but they didn’t know it. A horse snorted and they heard Zero Brant’s voice:

“Whoa, you devil!”

The fence suddenly splintered, and a horse lunged almost into Streak and Shell. It was Ghost, with Zero Brant on his back. The big gambler had neglected to untie the rope, and the big outlaw was dragging nearly a panel of the fence with him as they went out through the alley. Streak and Mack Shell ran in behind them, and saw Ghost whirl in the middle of the street, that section of fence acting like a scythe.

A crowd of men were coming up the street, yelling, swearing.

“The dynamiters, Streak!” said Mack Shell.

They were almost to the spot, where Ghost had plunged with his swaying rider. With a scream of rage the big gray horse bucked straight into that crowd, the roped fence cutting a swath. They broke for cover and the big gray broke loose from the fence, going into a real bucking frenzy. They saw Zero Brant crash into the street, and the gray whirled, looking for more worlds to conquer.

Streak and Mack Shell were the first to reach Zero Brant. The crowd had been scattered, but they began coming back. The men had the dynamite and right now they didn’t seem to remember just what they had intended doing with it. Streak told them, “The man you wanted is dead--here. Pick him up and carry him to the Silver Dollar.”

One huge man said stubbornly, “I no carry him--he kill my brother.”

“He killed mine, too,” said Streak, and without any further word, several of them picked up Brant.

They trooped up to the Silver Dollar. Jim Flack was there, and so was Joe East. Jim Flack looked like he had been sent through a threshing machine, and Joe East looked worse, but Joe didn’t mind. He had his arms around Mazie, and Mazie was smiling.

Jim Flack said, “The kid thought Mazie was dead--in the fire--but I threw her through a window. I guess she must have struck on her head, because she’s been wandering around in the dark. She’s all right now.”

Clare Ames had followed the crowd over there, and she went to Mazie. Streak looked around and saw Jim Buskirk. The merchant was carrying a buffalo gun, and he looked as though he had been burrowing in a coal-pile.

“I think this town will be all right now,” Buskirk said. “Zero Brant can’t run it any longer. I guess the rest of his gang got away, but that’s all right. I believe we’ll agree that Jim Flack is entitled to the Silver Dollar--since Brant was to blame for wiping out the Eureka. Is that all right with you, Malone?”

“I’m satisfied,” replied Streak wearily. “Buskirk, can you and yore wife take in Miss Ames and Mazie for a day or two?”

“You bet we can! I’ll take ’em right down there.”

“You walk ahead and blaze the trail. I’ll take her myself.”

Buskirk grinned through his grime, as he said, “What about Mazie?”

“She’ll get there,” said Joe East huskily, “but she may have to drag me.”

Mack Shell drew a deep breath, wiped a grimy hand across his face and said:

“I reckon everythin’ is all right, folks. The marshal has done taken over for himself.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Summer, 1948 issue of _Giant Western_ magazine.]