Merridrew Rides Again

By John Russel Fearn

No-one who read Valley of the Doomed is likely to forget Jenkinson Talbot Merridrew, the gun-toting butler of Double Peak. Now Merridrew is back again, bowler hat in place, and ready as ever to give the Young Master and the Young Mistress the benefit of his advice and assistance in the outbreak of lawlessness that returns once more to Double Peak. Western gunmen may be tough, hard-riding hombres, but they soon find out that they have nothing on Merridrew, who is always eighteen stone of gentlemanly correctness—until somebody treads too heavily on his toes.

For those who sometimes like to glimpse the lighter side of the Wild West for a change, and would like to see those hard-bitten, lean-featured citizens put to rout by the paragon of Portland Place, Merridrew Rides Again is the book!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Jun 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781479461011

Book preview

Table of Contents

MERRIDREW RIDES AGAIN

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

MERRIDREW RIDES AGAIN

JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

The Adventures of J.T. Merridrew #2

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 1950 by John Russell Fearn; copyright © 2021 by Philip Harbottle.

First published by The World’s Work Ltd., 1950.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

CHAPTER 1

For perhaps five minutes the big, leather-necked fellow on the massive sorrel had been squinting down through the long bars of evening sunlight into the valley below him. He sat hipped round slightly in the saddle, a travel-stained giant, his black suit covered in trail dust, a sombrero cuffed up on to his forehead.

In a rough-hewn kind of way he had looks, marred however by dirt and stubble, which made the china-blue of his eyes seem startlingly bright.

Well, frum where I’m sittin’, it looks good enough, fellers, he commented finally, and the five men on the horses around him, all of them every bit as saddle-weary as he was himself, looked at each other and nodded.

So I think, one of them responded. I reckon that down yonder we might lie doggo for months—even years mebby—an’ have nobody come a-lookin’ fur us. An’ even if they do I reckon we could take care uv it, he added, and patted the six-gun strapped down to his thigh.

Just th’ same, Steve, another of the men remarked, I can’t quite figger why yuh chose a dump like this.

Yuh can’t, huh? Nothin’ very queer about that. I guess yuh’ve never used yuh brains in yuh life anyways, so why start in now?

But look here, Steve, there’s plenty uv hick towns around this part uv the world, I know, but there ain’t many as lousy as this one. What’s th’ idea? Why so hell-bent on pickin’ Double Peak?

I got my reasons, the big fellow replied. I don’t see I’m called on t’say more ’n that.

Mebby not—but yore carryin’ us along with ’em an’ we’re entitled t’ know what yore drivin’ at.

If yuh don’t like th’ way I do things, that’s just too bad! I c’n always git along by myself, remember—which is probably more ’n you critters could do. Frum what I’ve seen uv yuh, yuh want spoon-feedin’.

The big fellow grinned at the sour looks directed towards him and then he gazed down again into the valley. The town of Double Peak nestled there, taking its name from the two dominant pinnacles like the distant humps of a camel against the lilac of the late evening sky.

From high up on this rimrock it looked like a toy setup, its buildings mere angles and cubes with irregular lines of streets running through the midst. In a wide circle about it, covering many miles up the verdant sides of the valley, were the squares of ranches and their big corrals. Double Peak was prosperous and yet sleepy, browsing day after day in the torrid Arizona sun. It was the kind of town which had had a stormy past and was looking forward to a more peaceful future. The chance of that had vanished when the big fellow and his cohorts had appeared on the rimrock.

Remember, the big fellow said at length, that you can leave all the talkin’—an’ th’ shootin’ if need be—to me. I’ve got me own ways uv doin’ things an’ I don’t want any uv yuh ballin’ things up. Yore all uv yuh too inclined to throw a fit uv jitters at th’ moment yore wanted—so I guess none uv yuh’s t’ be trusted. Anyways, let’s go.

He nudged the spurs and started a sweeping canter down the valley side, his cohorts following on behind him in a cloud of dust. The distance to Double Peak was deceptive. From the rimrock it had appeared to be no more than a couple of miles; but the six men discovered it was nearer five, and the lower they went the more they descended into the shadows of the gigantic, impersonal mountains—until by the time they had reached the main street of the ramshackle town the brief twilight had fallen and the kerosene lamps were alight atop the boardwalks.

At the far end of the churned-up, rutted vista which called itself the main highway the big fellow drew rein and surveyed again. His bright blue eyes darted quickly from a general store to a tin tabernacle, from there to an assayer’s, then a sheriff’s office, and finally encompassed the town’s livery stable, the varied huddle of living dwellings, and the Saucy Lady saloon from which light was streaming in an inviting fan, whilst from within it there came the sound of a decidedly tin-panny orchestra and the blur of voices.

Stinks more ’n I thought, commented the man who had already registered his grumble. I reckon there’s a difference between hidin’ out an’ bein’ buried alive. A few days in this place an’ we’ll be dyin’ uv boredom anyways.

Even bein’ buried alive is better ’n bein’ buried dead, one of the other men reminded him. Mebby th’ place does give yuh th’ heebie-jeebies, Lefty, but it’s a hide-out, ain’t it? Can’t see there’s much else as matters.

I reckon none uv these backwoods places change much, the big fellow reflected, spitting casually into the dust. Then he added, Okay, it’s time fur a drink—an’ I’m givin’ yuh one last reminder—Leave th’ talkin’ ter me. Don’t fergit what I told yuh ’bout flyin’ off th’ handle.

Tight-reining his horse he ambled it forward until he had reached the Saucy Lady. Here he dropped from the saddle, slipped the reins on the tie-rack, and strode up the steps to the batwings. They swung easily before his big body and just inside the tobacco-fumed den he stopped and appraised the scene, his eyes narrowed critically.

One or two glances came in his direction—and nothing more. A trail-stained puncher, even if he was a stranger, could not be considered unusual. They were always drifting in and out of town on their way to God knew where.

For the big fellow, too, the scene was no different to any other in a hick town—There was the same assortment of tables with their customers in the shape of cattle-men, some of mixed race, Mexicans, painted women, ranch women, and plain housewives. The scrape and squawk of a three-piece orchestra, the rattle of poker chips, the clink of bottles and glasses; the inaudible conversation woven into one blur of even-pitched sound.

The big fellow made up his mind and jerking his head to his comrades he strode across to the bar-counter.

Double whisky, he told the barkeep. And make it quick! I’m durned well drier than a lime-kiln. You jiggers c’n look after yuhselves, he added.

As though he wished to be dissociated from them he took no further notice of their proximity. Picking up his drink he tossed it off without a pause, then he flipped money down on to the beer-slopped counter.

For a while he stood looking through the back-bar mirrors, studying the scene. Presently his gaze singled out a rotund, broad-shouldered, lean-faced man in a black Stetson, a star on his shirt pocket, standing some little distance away.

When I give the word, the big fellow said, gazing in front of him as he spoke, y’know what t’do—an’ I’m goin’ t’do it now. So get set. If any uv yuh start panicking I’ll blow th’ blasted floor frum under yuh.

The men to his right passed the word on to each other and continued with their drinking. Then the big fellow turned casually, considered the scene, and finally looked straight across at the sheriff.

Hey you! Come over here! I reckon it’s time you an’ me had a word or two together.

The sheriff, obviously surprised at the authority in the voice, glanced up from watching a poker game.

Meanin’ me? he asked briefly.

Yeah—meanin’ you!

The sheriff’s eyes slitted for a moment in suspicion.

Suppose I don’t feel like comin’? I happen t’be mighty interested in this poker game, an’ I’m not usta bein’ ordered about by anybody, much less guys I don’t even know.

What yore usta don’t make no odds with me, sheriff. I want a word with yuh an’ I want it quick. Unless mebby yore feelin’ kinda leery?

That did it. The sheriff set his powerful mouth and began to stride easily towards the bar-counter, his right hand resting casually on the butt of his gun. It was as he closely considered the big fellow that he gave a start.

Say, yore Steve Ballington! he exclaimed. That puss of yours is on every reward-dodger between here and Caradoc City, an’ has bin for months! Wanted dead or alive for robbery an’ murder—

Right, the big fellow agreed tautly, and suddenly his guns were in his hands—and not only in his. At his one brief word his five cohorts had their weapons levelled too, covering everybody in the room.

The sheriff was not the kind of man to be easily frightened. Apparently quite unconcerned he leaned an elbow on the counter and looked at the big fellow curiously.

You’ve got your gall, haven’t you? he asked. Wanted in three States an’ now you come walkin’ in here as large as life. An’ why pick on me?—the very man who can, and will, run you in!

Steve Ballington grinned crookedly, then spat on the sawdust-covered floor.

That’s what you think, Tin Badge! I singled yuh out fur one reason only—’cos yore runnin’ the law around this dump. The setup’s pretty simple, so yuh may as well hear it.

I’m not interested.

Yuh’d better be if yuh know what’s good fur yuh. I’m hidin’ out, see—? Me an’ my boys here. It ain’t likely the law will ever reach into a backwoods town like this. I guess most uv yuh don’t even know what a marshal looks like.

They get around here sometimes, the sheriff answered. Specially when I tip ’em off, as I’m aimin’ t’ do in regard to you. You don’t suppose I’m goin’ t’ let you walk out now you’ve gotten into th’ place, do you? A chance like this is the one thing a sheriff is always looking for.

Yeah—an’ dies when he gits it. Mind yuh ain’t talkin’ outa turn, Tin Badge! I haven’t finished tellin’ yuh yet why I picked on yuh. It was to take your job frum yuh, see?

Sheriff Falworth’s hand tightened a little on his gun, but by no other sign did he betray his awareness of danger. He stood waiting, his eyes bright and hard, his feet slightly apart in readiness for any call to movement.

In plain words, Tin Badge, I’m takin’ over th’ town, Steve Ballington explained blindly. With my boys, all uv us faster on th’ draw than any uv you mugs, it’s a natch. I reckon I c’n do meself some good takin’ a rest around here fur awhile. That means there ain’t no use I can find fur you. Yore hell-bent on givin’ us away—yuh said as much yuhself—an’ I don’t intend t’ let yuh.

The alternative bein’ to shoot me? the sheriff asked grimly. That is, if I’ve figured your character aright. You hold life pretty cheap.

Sure I do—an’ I aim t’shoot yuh, right now!

The habitués of the Saucy Lady had seen plenty of fights and gunplay during its history, but never a murder so coldblooded as that which followed. Without giving the sheriff a second to draw Ballington fired twice with both guns. Falworth hesitated, his hand sliding to his gun butt.

He stared stupidly for a moment and then dropped at the base of the bar counter, his face in the sawdust, his hand sending a cuspidor wheeling lop-sidedly away from him. It came to rest with a clang against a nearby table.

With his eyes narrowed the outlaw looked about him, prepared for whatever might happen following his brutality.

He saw tense, grim faces but nothing more. No man present was ready to shoot it out—not with six double-armed men who didn’t give a damn for murder since their necks were already sold to the law if it ever caught up. To defy them at this moment would be a fatal move.

I reckon that’ll show you folks th’ general pattern, Ballington said at last, breaking the silence. I’ll tell yuh what I’m aimin’ t’do. I’m runnin’ this town from here on, an’ if any one uv yuh opens his trap too wide about me or my boys bein’ here it’ll be just too bad. Yuh’ll be watched, all uv yuh, night an’ day, from somewheres y’ can’t see, an’ th’ moment yuh aim t’ try anythin’ that’ll finish it.

He waited awhile for the threat to sink in and then he continued:

If yuh try an’ skip town t’ give infurmation at Caradoc or Wilson City, th’ nearest towns, yuh’ll git th’ tar blasted outa yuh. That’s straight, see? Now, havin’ sorted that out an’ got each uv you mugs knowin’ just where yuh stand, which uv yuh owns this dive?

A tall, slender man in tuxedos, with a white shirt front, came forward. He had an arrogant, bronzed face, but from his build was far more of an indoor man than one able to deal with this hardened desperado.

I am, he said, lounging forward with hands in pockets. What do you figure on doin’ about it?

Keep yuh trap shut, feller; yuh’ll find it safer. Ballington looked him over sourly and then spat in the sawdust. A lily-white with th’ hands uv a woman! Okay, brother, yore safe frum me. Y’ can run this joint as yuh like an’ no questions asked—’cept that I git drinks free for me an’ my boys. Get it? There ain’t any other demands I’ll make on yuh—at present, leastways.

I shouldn’t think there would be, either, the saloon owner commented. As for free drinks, it depends how much you drink. I aim to make some profit outa this joint else I wouldn’t ha’ bought it...

Shut up! I drink what I like, when I like, an’ as much as I like! Got that—? Or do I haveta explain it all over again th’ hard way?

The saloon owner hesitated for a moment and then shrugged.

All right, Ballington, have it as you wish. I guess yore on the right end of the hardware at that. I’m Chet Branfield. You’ll get no trouble from me. Doesn’t matter who runs the town—far as I’m concerned—just as long as I’m left in peace to carry on.

So yuh can do all th’ gyppin’ yuh like on th’ gamin’ tables? The outlaw gave a knowing grin. "All right, feller, yuh’ve got sense...