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  Long before the last drink was bought in the final saloon around the plaza, Jim Tennant saw men he had known in the old days. Men who eyed this dark, scar-cheeked stranger from across the border with furtive interest and spoke to one another, Buckshot Bledsoe included. After the last round of drinks, the stranger saluted them with-"Adios, amigos"-and went off to the room he had hired in Joe Little's one-story adobe hotel on the corner of the plaza.

  Fifteen minutes later Buckshot stopped outside the hotel room and heard a Mexican song inside. Buckshot was scowling as he tried the door, found it unlocked, and entered without knocking. He halted abruptly in midstep before the cold threat of a gun muzzle.

  THE MAN FROM LARAMIE

  REUNION AT COTTONWOOD STATION

  RIDE TO GLORY

  HELL'S CANON

  THE DEVIL'S LODE

  RAWHIDE

  LONG JOURNEY TO DEEP CANON

  NIGHT OF THE COMANCHE MOON

  T. T. FLYNN

  Dead Man Deputy

  Lodeville

  Shadow

  The Trail to Monterey

  T. T. Flynn did not title this story when he finished it in early February 1940. It was one of several short novels that his agent, Marguerite E. Harper, had pre-sold in advance of being written to Street & Smith's Western Story. His agent sent it in at once to John Burr, editor of the magazine who very much wanted fiction in the magazine by Harper's leading clients, T. T. Flynn, Peter Dawson, and Luke Short. The author was paid $341.16. The story was titled "Dead Man Deputy" when it appeared in the issue dated January 4, 1941.

  Old Buckshot Bledsoe knew he stood out in this gay fandango crowd like a wart on a Chihuahua senorita's nose. His greasy leather breeches, scuffed rawhide coat, and ragged, grizzled whiskers were a sorry sight beside the strutting officers of the local garrison.

  Buckshot's long nose twitched like an ancient hound dog testing the wind as he gripped the old rifle tighter and edged through the talk and laughter, the music and shuffle of dancing feet, the sour-sweet smell of pulque and odors of tequila, aguardiente, fancy powders, perfumes, and rank black-tobacco cigarettes.

  Dust and dirt from the hard trail helped make a man look like a pelado among these women all painted and powdered, in fine dresses, with graceful mantillas draped from high combs. There had been nothing like this in the sun-blasted cactus country and rugged mountains stretching north to the border. And there was nothing like this north of the border either, where fear stalked the San Angelo range and Lindy Lou Merriman rode, pale and proud, past the jeering smiles of range riff-raff that swaggered in the dusty San Angelo plaza.

  Buckshot breathed it in. The music did kind of get in your blood after the past grim months when each rising sun brought threat and trouble. A man sort of forgot there was music and laughter in the world, and men and women who had no thought of the morrow and what it might bring.

  Unconsciously Buckshot caught the dance rhythm and tapped the floor with a worn moccasin sole as he peered around and swore impatiently under his breath. Where in forty blue devils was a blue-eyed gringo who looked like a Mexican? Whose right cheek was badly scarred and whose twisted smile men remembered and women cherished.

  Ponchito, the natives called him-Little Mild One. And Ponchito's six feet of height had nothing to do with the name. They'd tell you of gunfights he'd had, of men his guns had killed, that tall, blue-eyed gringo who rode with sadness behind laughter, and had kindness for honest peons.

  "Triste," more than one peon's woman had described the man along the hard trail Buckshot's patience had unraveled. "Si, muy triste."

  "Sad, very sad," they had said, those black-eyed, soft-voiced native women who had looked into Ponchito's twisted merry smile. They had sensed a lurking sadness as women sense many things concerning men. And little would they say. You could feel their thoughts as they shrugged with polite vagueness. Why should a gringo stranger be following Ponchito, whose friends had no need to ask questions. Strangers riding in from the horizons and asking questions that might mean harm to Ponchito.

  Here in Zamora, at the cantina of the Red Parrot, the fat old woman with the faint dark mustache on her upper lip had shrugged when Ponchito's name was mentioned and said with a rolling of eyes that tonight all caballeros were at the dance.

  Now Buckshot snorted to himself. The caballeros were here all right-and who'd ever look for Jim Tennant hoorawing with these slicked-up Mexes? Not the Jim Tennant that Buckshot Bledsoe and Lindy Lou Merriman had known. Nobody here even looked like that kid, Jim.

  That wasn't the first time Buckshot had had doubts on the long trail south. Jim Tennant was probably dead after all. You couldn't bring a man back with a hunch-and a hunch was all that had started this trip.

  Buckshot stopped, staring-rising on his toes to see better. Then his whoop rang out above all the fandango gaiety.

  "Jim! Jim Tennant!" Elbowing, pushing, Buckshot plowed across the dance floor. "Here, Jim! It's Buckshot! I've been huntin' you from hell to breakfast!"

  A dapper young Mexican got in the way. Buckshot elbowed him aside and plowed on toward the tall, scar-cheeked young man in silver-braided charro clothes who had turned quickly from a pretty senorita.

  The man didn't look like the Jim Tennant that Buckshot had known. He looked taller, broader, older. Older in his face, older inside. You could sense it before you could explain why, but Buckshot's shout of delight was loud with certainty.

  "You're a 'coon in that get-up, Jim! Holy smokes, you look like the head Mex of the town!"

  A mustached officer of dragoons, fat, fierce, scowling in his gold-braided uniform, caught Buckshot by the arm and exploded in furious Spanish. "Burro! Son-of-a-dog! Get out!"

  Buckshot moved in the worn moccasins like a rangy old cat. "Who you pawin', feller? Git back afore I git mad!"

  A push with the rifle drove the officer back, trip ping, floundering on the floor among the dancers. A girl screamed and other women cried out as a flurry of panic spread from the spot.

  The fat officer cried out angrily as he was helped up. But Buckshot ignored all that as he reached his man and grabbed a sinewy hand.

  "I ain't hardly believin' it, Jim! Chuck all this hoorawin' an' let's git where we can talk!"

  Close up you could see that the young charro's eyes were blue in a saddle-covered face. The right cheek had been laid open savagely sometime in the past, and imperfectly healed, so that the face looked different and the mouth corner would twist slightly with wry humor when a smile started.

  But there had been no smile when Buckshot's yell rang through the fandango hall. The dark, scarred face had turned with startled attention. A frown had followed as Buckshot burst through the dancers. Now the face was blank, revealing nothing as Buckshot caught the sinewy hand.

  Buckshot had no thought of the people behind them. The shrill voices of excited women were dying away as the women began edging off the dance floor. Men, vociferous and angry, were gathering around the heavy dragoon officer whose dignity had been so rudely upset.

  The senorita put her hand with a frightened gesture on the tall charro's arm. She was an eyeful, Buckshot noticed, with red lips, dark, soft eyes, young and slender under the high tortoiseshell comb and graceful mantilla.

  "This man ... who is he?" she questioned uneasily in Spanish. "Chavez will have his life!"

  Buckshot ignored her as he dropped the sinewy hand. His voice changed.

  "That face don't fool me, Jim. If you don't keer to know me, speak up an' say so. If Lindy Lou Merriman bein' in trouble don't mean anythin' to you, I'll be gittin' back to the border." He finished with a quick snort of disappointment. "I never figured you'd turn Mex all the way through."

  Something happened to that scarred face. A tightening of muscles, a sudden hard alertness and intere
st that might mean anything. So might the tall young man's sharp question in English mean anything.

  "Lindy Lou's in trouble?"

  "Plenty trouble."

  "Did she send you here?"

  "Hell, no! Like all the rest, Lindy Lou figures you're dead."

  The twisted smile was an abrupt reality, coming quickly, vanishing almost as quickly, as if a fence of reserve had broken and a quick decision had been made. The young charro spoke to the girl swiftly in Spanish.

  "Go with God, amigita. I must go."

  "Go, Antonio? Where?"

  "Wuien sabe?" He shrugged at the dismay in her face-and with a snap of urgency spoke to Buckshot. "Jump fast, you bat-eared old hellion. You've raised more dust here than we can settle. Colonel Chavez runs these parts with hellfire and murder. Get to one of the back windows!"

  Buckshot's grizzled whiskers split in a delighted grin and a whoop.

  "I knowed you wasn't like that! Bring on your Mexes! I can handle ary one er all!" He turned to yell defiance at anyone who wanted trouble-and Jim Tennant's hand knocked him staggeringly aside an instant before a hard-thrown knife buried itself in Buckshot's left shoulder.

  Swearing as he reached back to jerk out the knife, Buckshot had his first good look at the man the natives called Ponchito-Little Mild One. And by all the signs that a man could trust this man was not Jim Tennant. Not the grinning, friendly, young fellow the San Angelo country had known. The twisted smile was close to being savage, in a way the old Jim Tennant could never have been. And a gun whipping out from under the charro jacket crashed a shot at the ceiling in equally savage warning.

  The fat Chavez, evidently commanding the local garrison, had bawled commands to willing ears. The fandango hall was like a rudely kicked hornet's nest, men shouting, surging forward, and others coming behind them. Shoot one, and two more would take his place.

  Buckshot yelled at them, clubbing the heavy rifle as he charged toward the back windows. The dance had dissolved into a melee of screaming women, shouting, pushing men, knives flashing here and there, and several guns blasting shots into the ceiling. It would have been worse, Buckshot guessed as he swung the rifle furiously, if most of the men hadn't come without knives or guns.

  A hand grabbed at Buckshot's injured shoulder. He raked at it with the knife he'd torn from the shoulder muscles. The hand pulled away-and the clubbed rifle stock smashed a looming, mustached face. The nose crushed flat and the face went back and down.

  Then a raking knife slashed Buckshot's rawhide coat and the flesh underneath. No time to yell now or swear. Little room to swing the rifle. Buckshot snatched for his holstered belt gun and shot the man at his side before the knife could slash again.

  The roaring gun blast stopped the nearest men like the blow of an invisible hand. They crowded back on the others behind them while Buckshot charged to the nearest window.

  Lights had been shot out, put out, smashed out back in the big hall. In semidarkness Buckshot turned at bay before the window and saw the tall young charro at his heels.

  "Jump quick!" the charro cried.

  Buckshot went through the open window in a scrambling, headlong dive. He struck the ground hard in the darkness and rolled in dirt and dust. A figure landed hard beside him a moment later and stumbled over him.

  "Buckshot!"

  "Arghhhh!" Buckshot came up spitting dust and still clutching the rifle and hand gun. "Enough dirt in my damn' whiskers to grow chiles. Them damn' Mexes is like wildcats in a barrel. Wait'll I clean 'em outta that window."

  Jim Tennant caught his arm in the darkness.

  "Never mind that. It won't help. Make it worse. This way. Where's your horse?"

  "Out front."

  "You'll never get him now. Chavez will have men out there already."

  The black night gave them cover. Jim led the way at a run along what seemed to be a dusty, smelly little alley. The tumult back at the fandango hall faded. For the moment anyway no one seemed to be following them along the alley.

  "I'd like to git that Chavez myself," Buckshot panted, slapping dust out of his whiskers.

  "Chavez'll have your hide in strips," was the harsh panting answer as they ran. "These aren't border Mexicans ducking trouble with a gringo. Chavez is a bad hombre. Muy malo. His men are worse. You surprised them. We had plenty luck getting to a window. But it won't last. Run, you old brush popper ... while you've got a chance!"

  Jim Tennant knew the dark alleys of Zamora like a native. They turned right, then left, crossed a narrow street, plunged into another alley, made another turn, and finally shouldered into a low-roofed adobe stable where horses stamped and nickered at their coming and Jim Tennant's low call of: "Pablo?"

  "Si, senor," came back out of the darkness.

  "My horse. Two horses quick." And in English, Jim Tennant said: "Help him, Buckshot. I'll be back in a minute. Don't make any noise."

  That was the way they left the stable a few minutes later, hurriedly, furtively-but at the second corner where they turned a shout rang out behind them. A rifle report drove lead viciously past Buckshot's ear.

  Jim spurred into a gallop down the narrow, dusty street. The town had been seething with voices and movement when they rode away from the stable. Now other shots and warning shouts came from a dozen points. Pursuit sprang up after them like a scattered hunting pack converging on a hot trail.

  They raced out of town by a different road than Buckshot had entered on-a road leading southwest, as near as Buckshot could judge-and the first riders were not far behind them. Cold water splashed high as they galloped through a shallow, brawling little stream just beyond town. A mile or so farther on, in broken, brushy foothills, Jim swerved suddenly to the right, up through the brush of a rising draw.

  A turn put them out of sight of the road, and Jim reined up. When he spoke, his voice was soberly calm.

  "Maybe it'll work. I've had this way picked out since last year in case I ever had to make a run for it. Never knew how far I could trust Chavez. If they come after us, get ready to ride an' fight. They know this kind of work."

  Moments later the drumming rush of pursuit reached the point where the draw crossed the road-and swept past without slackening. A half dozen-a dozen riders and more-strung out, riding furiously.

  Jim waited a little and then, looking at Buckshot, laughed softly.

  "That'll hold 'em for a little. There's a trail ahead that'll swing us around to the north and set us toward the border. After Chavez thinks twice, he'll know we're cutting around that way and he'll be after us. If we're lucky, we'll get through. If we aren't, he'll have us. Save a bullet for yourself. It'll be easier."

  Buckshot snorted. "Plenty bad hombre, huh?"

  "Plenty bad on his own range or off," Jim agreed, sober once more. "And worse on his range. There's things I've turned up lately about him that'd get him shot if Mexico City knew about it all. Now then, where'd you come from? How'd you know I was at that dance?"

  "I been everywhere else," Buckshot said tartly. "Two weeks I been trailin' around tryin' to ketch up with a scar-cheeked feller called Ponchito that I hear talked about some along the border. A young gringo that had turned Mex, they said, and had kilt him no end of hardcases that was livin' off gun play and makin' trouble for honest folks."

  "So you found Ponchito ... and saw he looked like Jim Tennant?"

  "Holy mackerel, no!" Buckshot said quickly. "When I heerd about the scar, I had me a crazy idea this Ponchito might be you, Jim. The last look Hacksaw Jones had at you in that Antelope Canon fight, you was layin' on the floor of that old adobe barn with your face all laid open where a bullet had glanced off somethin' an' tore up your cheek. Then they fired the barn and Hacksaw tried a run fer the open. They shot him in the leg and brought him down. And Bull Merriman and Henry Clarkson an' their gunmen come up close an' watched the barn burn down over what was inside."

  "It made a fire, too." Jim's voice was bleak. "Old hay was still stored in the top."

  "I reckon
," Buckshot agreed. "I heerd Merriman's men and them Ladrone Cattle Company gunmen that was with 'em talkin' about the way the fire roared when she busted good through the roof. Next mornin' when the ashes was cool enough to git the bodies out, they found one body holdin' your gun. Them fancy silver spurs you owned was in a pocket. They figured that was enough an' buried the body under your name." Buckshot chuckled under his breath. "The buryin' was done in town. Old Bull Merriman swore he wouldn't have no yaller, thievin', murderin' trash planted under his land and grass. I was at the funeral and listened to your friends and the rest havin' their last say. It must've made your ears burn, Jim."

  "I'll bet," the other said dryly. "What happened to Hacksaw?"

  "Bull Merriman got law righteous and turned Hack over to the sheriff. Hack's shot leg got blood poisoning and kilt him in two, three days. But I seen Hack right after they throwed him in jail. He said he guessed you never felt the fire, seeiri as how you looked when he run out. Your cheek all tore open an' no doubt you was good as dead then." Buckshot spat in the darkness. "I seen the body they took outta the ashes. Wasn't a man there could've been sure who it was after the fire had cooled off. But both cheeks showed that no bullets had opened 'em like Hack swore had happened."

  "Who heard Hack tell that and got a look at the body like you did?" Jim asked sharply.

  "Nobody, I reckon. Hack promised he wouldn't say nothin'. He died mighty fast after that. I never told it, Jim. But since then I've wondered plenty if you really was kilt that night ... and how in Hades you got outta that burning barn if you did get out."

  "How could I have gotten out if they buried me?"

  "Maybe you stayed right there an "died after all, damn it!" Buckshot said acidly.

  "That's what happened."

  "I'm talkin' sense, Jim!"

  "So am I," was the dry answer. "Jim Tennant died right there in the barn when the roof and that burning hay fell down. Died, I tell you. No one's heard of him or seen him around since then, have they?" And more lightly Jim said: "I wondered where those silver spurs went. A fellow with us who called himself Slim Tom liked their looks. He must have grabbed them the first chance he got. And did me a mighty good turn when he did. He helped kill off Jim Tennant and get him buried."