Give right hand half way round;Back with left, left hand round.Promenade the corner as you come around.
Give right hand half way round;Back with left, left hand round.Promenade the corner as you come around.
When the dance ended, it was the conventional thing for a gentleman to abandon the lady where they chanced to find themselves at the moment and go on about his business. Taking advantage of this custom, Lafe descended upon Miss Hawes and bore her off; nor did he once give her up until the stars paled in the sky. Then he asserted his right to take her home.
On the way he fell silent. All his glibness of tongue deserted him abruptly, and Grace was mightily pleased over the symptom.
"What's the matter, Mr. Lafe?" she asked. "Why don't you say a word?"
"I'm studying over something," said Johnson.
After a moment he inquired, without looking at her: "You done give me two Paul Joneses, didn't you?"
"Sure I did. Why? Weren't they enough?"
"Yes. And four waltzes and four two-steps. Ain't that the tally?"
"You've got it right. But what's the matter, Mr. Lafe?"
"And you done let me have the Home Sweet Home waltz, too?"
"Look a-here, Mr. Lafe, what're you driving at?"
Johnson pondered darkly for a full minute. "What'd you give that feller Steve?" he said finally.
"You'd like to know, wouldn't you? Say, you've got your nerve." She tilted her chin upwards and flashed a look at him.
"What did you let that feller have?" he said again.
"I won't tell you: so there. Not near so much as you got, Lafe Johnson. Now, are you satisfied?"
"Pretty near. Leastways, for a while."
She gave Lafe her hand at parting, and he tried to draw her to him. It was a half-hearted impulse, wholly lacking his customary dash. Grace hesitated, flushed warmly; then, with a tremulous laugh, pushed him back.
"You certainly don't lose no time, do you, Lafe Johnson?"
"I don't aim to." His voice was shaky.
All that passed at the ball was perceived by Buffalo, who became greatly exercised the next day over Lafe's extraordinary behavior. Instead of establishing himself at pitch in the Fashion's back room, Johnson mooned about town, or stared absently at the dust of the street whilst he leaned against a post and whittled a stick. It was not as though he had no money, for Jim had staked him. The cowboy took counsel of friends. Buffalo Jim was disposed to hold Miss Hawes lightly.
"I ain't no prude," he explained. "You boys know that right well. You-all know me. I like a girl what's got ginger. But I don't figure on marrying a whole can of it, nor I don't calculate to see ol' Lafe get it smeared over him that way, neither."
"Well, what're you aiming to do?"
"Leave it to me. I'll fix it," said Jim.
In the afternoon Johnson called on Miss Hawes at the Cowboys' Rest, where she bathed dishes and did other useful tasks. She was wearing a pink dress with the neck cut low, and looked very neat and wholesome. Nobody but a woman would have guessed that she had expected him.
The sight of her put the finishing touches to Lafe. Within half an hour, he was lost in speculation as to whether he could command sixty dollars a month if he went to work for the Lazy L. And perhaps he might be given the Ajos camp, with its comfortable adobe house and rosebushes in the yard? He pictured her there. Lafe could almost hear the wild doves cooing in the scrub-oak cañon.
Grace made him sing.
Come, all you wild rovers, pay 'tention to meWhile I tell to you my sad historee.I'm a man of experience, no favors to gain;Love's been the ruin of many a man.
Come, all you wild rovers, pay 'tention to meWhile I tell to you my sad historee.I'm a man of experience, no favors to gain;Love's been the ruin of many a man.
He droned it through his nose, with sharp yelps at the end of each line, like a coyote in the full swing of his nightly paroxysm.
"I don't like that song," she said decidedly. "Cut it out. It's fierce."
"I reckon it ain't true," Lafe admitted lamely, and tried another, a plaintive ditty of Little Joe, the horse wrangler.
Hardly had he finished than Moffatt knocked and was admitted. Steve had on a new, yellow silk neckerchief, and Johnson cursed his want of foresight in not purchasing some finery. To-morrow that would be rectified: he recalled a green one he had seen in the store window.
The gunfighter let two six-shooters slip from his waist when he entered, depositing them carefully on a chair. Local ordinances do not permit the carrying of firearms in Badger, and Johnson was interested.
"You travel well heeled?" he remarked.
"Yes," said Moffatt, "but I don't talk about it."
"Do you know, I'm always scared to pack a gun," Lafe went on pleasantly. "You'll never see me with one, Miss Hawes."
"Why not? I like them. They look so cute."
"I'm always scared somebody'll twist the sights off'n it, or take the doggone thing away and slap me."
"Some fellers do get hurt trying for to pack a gun," Steve said. He added critically: "You look stout enough."
"I'm feeling pretty tol'able fair, thanks."
When Lafe got home that night, Jim was sitting up for him, thumping his heels against the edge of the bed. He was so much concerned for his friend that he did not feel like sleep. After a tentative puff or two on a cigarette, and some coughing, he got it out. Did Lafe know that Grace Hawes—Johnson silenced him curtly, and they lay down, back to back. But Buffalo was undaunted by a sleepless night. His was a staunch soul, and early next morning he repaired to the Cowboys' Rest to interview Miss Hawes.
"You say he's been married before?" Grace cried. "Lafe Johnson is married now, you say?"
"Shore," said Jim, with a friendly smile. "That's a way ol' Lafe has. He don't mean no harm, Miss Grace. He's just naturally playful. It's sort of a habit he's got, getting married—sort of a hobby like."
"Hobby? I'll hobby him—hobby him good. How often has he had the habit? How many wives has he got now, Mr. Buf'lo?"
"Oh, not a great many. I don't rightly know, but—"
"And these—these wives and fam'lies? Where are they?"
"There ain't many fam'lies," Jim corrected, beginning to regret his interference. "Not a great many fam'lies, Miss Hawes. Just a few, scattered here and there."
"Get out!" said Miss Hawes. "Get out, and don't you never show your face round here again. Married? Huh, you can't go to fool me! You quit trying to crowd into my affairs or it'll be the worse for you, Mr. Buf'lo."
"Certainly, ma'am. Certainly, Miss Grace," Jim said, seizing his hat. "Excuse me, ma'am, will you, please?"
He decided to say nothing of the visit to Lafe.
When Johnson reached the Cowboys' Rest that evening, Moffatt was already ensconced in the wicker rocking-chair. Lafe was momentarily cast down. A conference had revealed that he and Buffalo had no more money. They must go in search of work without delay.
"Oh, Mr. Lafe," was Grace's greeting, "guess what! I've been asking Steve about shooting, and he done promised to keep a can in the air for five shots to-morrow."
"That's good shooting," said Johnson, accepting a chair.
"Ain't it wonderful? I do love a man who can shoot. When I marry, I want a man who knows how to keep other men scared. I used to tell my sister back in Abilene—she ain't like me. No, indeed. She's a society lady, my sister is. I done said to her, 'Mary Lou, when—'"
"Yes, it takes nerve to be a gunfighter," Lafe interrupted.
"Oh, it's grand, I think." Miss Hawes clasped her hands and rolled her eyes.
"Yes, sir; yes, ma'am, it sure takes nerve. A gunfighter always gives the other feller an even break. And he don't care how even it is, does he, Moffatt?"
"I don't take you," Moffatt said doubtfully.
"Why, there's all kinds of nerve in this world, Miss Hawes," said Lafe. "When a man knows he's better at a thing than the next man, he's liable to be awful nervy. Take a bronc buster, now. He knows he can clean a horse, and he ain't scared so you could notice it. And a gunman. If the other feller was a mite quicker, I wonder if he'd—What do you think?"
Said Moffatt: "I don't know what you're driving at."
"Well, look a-here. Supposing I was to put it up to a gunfighter—to Mr. Moffatt here, say—'Let's go into that back room with just our bare hands and lock the door and lay the key on the table.'"
"What for?" Miss Hawes asked breathlessly.
"The best man to open it—I wonder now what a gunman—what Mr. Moffatt here—would say to that?"
"I ain't a fool," was what Moffatt had to say to that.
"Or," Lafe resumed, "what if I put it up this way to some of them terrible fighters? What if I said, 'Let's put two guns on a table, draw off to opposite sides of the room, let another feller count three, and the man who gets to 'em first, lives?'"
None of the three moved when Johnson had finished. The alarm clock on the flimsy, draped mantel-shelf ticked loudly. Miss Hawes's breathing sounded strained.
"Ol' man Haverty wanted to see you down at the Fashion, Moffatt," Lafe said at last.
"You coming, too?"
"I reckon so."
"You're on," said Moffatt.
Grace accompanied them to the door.
"Everybody'll know you're fighting about me," she whispered, twittering with excitement. "Everybody is sure to know the row is over me?"
"Yes. I'm afraid so," said Lafe, staring at her.
"Oh. All the girls will be wild."
There was not an instant's hesitation in Haverty's acceptance of the mastership of ceremonies. He took Moffatt's two guns, examined them thoroughly and removed the cartridges. The weapons were exactly alike. Then he reloaded them and stationed the men.
"Both your hosses is ready saddled," he announced. "So one of you kin get over the Border."
"That suits me," said Steve.
They were stationed in opposite corners of the rear room in the Fashion, a table placed accurately half-way between. On the table were two six-shooters, the butts outward. Johnson had the ball of one foot braced against the wall.
"All ready?" Haverty said crisply. "One—two—three!"
Johnson gained the middle of the room at a bound, seizing his gun and overturning the table with one movement. It crashed against Moffatt's chest and his hands failed to grasp the weapon. Lafe jammed the .45 close to his ribs and pulled twice.
"Help, boys!" Moffatt shrieked, sinking to the floor. "Help! He's murdering me!"
He threw an arm upward, as though to ward off the death he had meted out to others. Johnson remained over him, the smoking gun in his hand.
"Get up," he said. "Get up and run."
"I can't. You got me twice. I'm done for, I reckon."
"Pshaw!" said Haverty. "You ain't even hit. Just scorched, Moffatt. Them was blank kattridges."
From the floor, the gunfighter gazed stupidly at the two. He arose slowly and dusted himself.
Outside in the crowded bar, nobody ventured to gibe at him, for Moffatt was always a dangerous man, and most dangerous when beaten or humiliated. He went quickly in search of his horse.
"You'd better go back to Grace," Johnson said, following to see him safely out of town.
"Not me. I'm overdue at the ranch already. She's yours. I wish you joy of her, Lafe."
He rode out of town at a purposely slow dogtrot. Some time afterward he killed a Mexican vaquero in a dispute over a bridle, and fled south.
Johnson was saddling next day, when Grace Hawes swept into the yard of the stable and confronted him.
"What's this I hear?" she shrilled. "What's the meaning of it, Lafe Johnson? Where're you going?"
"I've got to go to the ranch to-day, Grace."
"You mean you're through with me, Lafe Johnson?"
"I wouldn't go to put it that way, Grace. Don't take on so."
"I will—I will! I don't care who hears. You're a villain—that's what you are. You promised last night—you said—"
"A man had ought to be sociable with ladies," said Lafe, busy with the cinch.
"You done run off a man who was worth two of you any day, Lafe Johnson. And then you go to leave me. You leave me here to be laughed at. You ... here, wait. Don't go, Lafe. Lafe, I didn't mean ... please, Lafe ... oh, please ..."
Johnson and Buffalo ambled side by side along a mesa covered with mesquite. Jim had promise of a job from Floyd and assured Johnson of one, also. Both planned to eschew the frivolities of city life henceforth. Buffalo asked suddenly: "What made you draw off so sudden that way, Lafe?"
Johnson grinned at him.
"It's right queer, Jim," he said. "But when she saw us off to go to fighting, some way I begun to think of my li'l' sister. You knew my sister Kitty, back in Texas, didn't you, Buf'lo? She's got yallow hair."
"I shore did," said Jim, in some confusion.
"Well, I sort of begun to wonder what I'd think of Kitty if she served a man like that. It was all off then. If Kitty tried a game like that, Buf'lo, I'd sure take to her right smart with a rope end."
"Me and you both," Jim said heartily.
They rode onward toward the Lazy L headquarters, one whistling, the other smiling over memories.
For you or for me a certain embarrassment would attach to a return to work at a place we had sworn to avoid forever. Nothing of the sort appeared to trouble Buffalo Jim. A month previous he had left the Lazy L, scornful of cow work, vowing that he would live like a gentleman all his days. Now, penniless and unrepentant, he came back as a matter of course.
Indeed, Shortredge put his horses into the corral at headquarters as a man might who had reached home from a long trip. And there was not a vestige of surprise on Floyd's face when he greeted Jim. He did it casually, and shook hands with Lafe and said that he was glad to see him. Then he gave Buffalo certain orders for the morrow, touching the matter of salt for the cattle, just as though Jim had never been off the ranch. The cowboy merely said: "You stayed a week longer'n we figured on, Buf'lo."
So Buffalo Jim went to work at daybreak and Johnson loitered at headquarters. Mrs. Floyd was unaffectedly glad to see him and was not too inquisitive as to why he happened to be there. Indeed, she appeared to take his arrival as quite natural, which spared Lafe much confusion. He played with Tommy most of the time, and on the third day of his stay he sounded Floyd on the subject of a job. The boss had expected it, and surmising that Lafe was hard up, attempted to drive a hard bargain. A prudent man, such was his practice. It may be, too, that the boss did not especially relish the notion of Johnson being permanently on the place.
"Oh, no," said Lafe, "I couldn't take that."
He was never one to accept anything handed him merely because his situation looked desperate. That policy of compromise might befit the weak, but Johnson was made of sterner stuff. No matter in what straits his mistakes landed him, he forever kept his own valuation at a certain figure. And usually other men accepted his estimate.
"That's the best I can do," Floyd ended. "I've got a range boss already, and a top hand ain't worth over fifty a month, Lafe."
"All right. I'll be drifting."
"Stick around a bit, anyhow. We might strike a trade later. Say, come up to the house. The missus wants you to stay with us instead of down here at the bunkhouse."
"Thanks," said Lafe, "but your cook's been sick since that weddin'. No, I reckon I'd best hang round with the boys down here."
He remained at the Lazy L a week, half expecting that Horne would send a message to bespeak his services again. In paying him off, the cowman had intimated that he would shortly have other deals to be put through. A message arrived, but not from the cattle buyer. The bearer came, he said, from Turner, the storekeeper and justice of the peace of Badger. After listening for a moment, Lafe led him behind the barn for further converse.
"They want me to run for Sheriff of Badger," he told Buffalo Jim that night.
"Go to it," said Jim. "It'll make the town a heap pleasanter for us. We'll feel safer. The boys'll sure be pleased."
It would appear that Johnson's bloodless defeat of Moffatt had made a deep appeal to the citizens of Badger. They reasoned that a man who dared make a fool of a notorious character should be able to make short work of lesser fry. Accordingly, their message was that the law-abiding residents of the town were desirous of securing Mr. Johnson's services; and would he come forthwith? To this Lafe answered that he would return to Badger in a day or two, and the messenger departed. And for two solid days Johnson dawdled about headquarters, absolutely idle. He had an idea that to show eagerness would be to weaken his position. This surmise proved correct.
Badger leaped at once to the conclusion that they could not get him. Yes, he had seemed reluctant, said the messenger. Now, the average man does not want a thing badly until he is persuaded he can obtain it only by strenuous effort. And masses are like individuals, in this respect. That was why, as Lafe approached the town, he met a small party of horsemen headed for the Lazy L. It was a deputation of citizens, set out to cajole him into accepting the office. Briefly and earnestly they explained how things stood in Badger.
"All right," said Lafe, "I'll run. But remember this—when I'm elected, you-all look alike to me. I won't play favorites. There'll be law and order in Badger."
"Sure," the committee agreed. "That's the ticket, Lafe. Well, let's have a li'l' touch, just for luck."
Johnson's opponent in the election was simply nowhere. The tale of Lafe's prowess grew with every telling. Tim Haverty asserted on his hopes of heaven that Lafe could take a six-shooter and drive the nails into the shoes of a running horse. Personally, I suspect Mr. Haverty to have been guilty of some slight exaggeration. Still, there was ample evidence that Johnson could handle a gun, and nobody on the Border doubted his courage. Led by Turner, the respectable element voted for him as a unit. The others—the hard drinkers, and the gamblers, and men of no steady means of support—ranged with Lafe, too. They had known him as a "good fellow," a man liberal with his money and equally liberal in his views. Therefore they anticipated no trouble to themselves from his election.
In this manner was Lafe Johnson elected sheriff of Badger. When made acquainted with the result, he took a long breath and grew very solemn.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I thank you for your support. And I'll sure do my duty."
The opportunity was afforded him that same night. Some of them who had worked most ardently for Lafe were gathered in the Cowboys' Rest, and there was considerable drinking. A dispute arose, and in the course of it the landlord laid out one of the disputants with a chair. A panicky person fired a gun. That brought Lafe into the Rest at a quick run.
"Stop it," he shouted. "The very first man who pulls a gun goes against me. Tommy, give me that six-shooter. Now, you get out and wait for me."
He broke Tommy's gun and motioned him outside. Then Johnson examined the injured man on the floor. He was badly hurt.
"You'll have to come along with me," he told the landlord.
"Go along with you? Go along—why, Lafe, I just had to hit him." The landlord could hardly believe his ears. Had he not repeated three times for Lafe in the election?
"You can explain that to the judge. Come on, now. Get moving."
The landlord gaped a moment and then announced that he hoped to be damned if he went. If Lafe thought he could double-cross him in that manner, he had a few things to learn. The sheriff made a step forward and the landlord reached under the bar for his .45. Before he could raise it, Johnson gripped his wrist and with his free hand struck him over the head with the butt of Tommy's gun. The landlord gave a grunt and dropped into the sheriff's arms like a sack of meal. Five minutes later he went before the justice of the peace very quietly, along with Tommy.
"Understand me"—the new sheriff faced the crowd that followed, some of them murmuring—"I'd arrest my best friend if he broke the law. Remember that."
"Hell, Lafe," they protested, "this is running it over us."
"We're going to have order here in Badger. Come on, you two," said Johnson.
Then he went bail for his prisoners.
They had hanged a man in the Willows. He was swinging from a lower limb of a tree sixteen feet in diameter—the natives call it the Mother of Cottonwoods. The sheriff of Badger and I cut him down, and because the time was summer and the flies were bad, we buried him with all haste in the sand, beside a chiming stream. Then, that no prowler might despoil, we piled rocks above, and got to horse without delay.
"He don't look like nothing now," said Lafe, "but it's Tom Rooker. You remember ol' Rooker? He always bummed his drinks, Tom did."
We rode through a pleasant grove, where it was eternally twilight by day. A squirrel chattered above us and the stream whispered here in a sandy bed. At a bend, we came upon three cows wading belly-deep in the current and eating of watercress. Some birds cheeped in a leafy thicket beside the trail. The Willows was a paradise. Then a black shadow flitted in front, as we emerged into a glade where the light was stronger, and a bleary buzzard settled leisurely on the topmost branch of a tree. He gazed at us with calm insolence. I looked hastily away, remembering what we had laid out.
After a while, the sheriff said: "I shouldn't have left town, Dan. I shouldn't have gone."
"You had to go."
"They wouldn't have got away with it, if I'd been home. Poor ol' Tom—he was awful good-natured when he was sober."
We left the Willows behind and traversed open country, heading up the San Pedro Valley. As we went, the sheriff talked of the hanging. He spoke in a hushed tone, as though there were ears to hear; or, it may be, he could not get the dead man out of his thoughts.
"This is some of Bud Walton's work," he said.
It did not appear probable to me. Walton could have shot Tom with much less bother and unpleasantness.
"Bud might not have done it himself. No, he wouldn't. But some of his friends done it for him." Lafe slapped his thigh in passionate determination. "I tell you, Dan, I'm a-going to put a stop to this trouble. Fellers like them are keeping this country back. Either Bud or Jeff have got to come to a showdown, or get out of Badger."
"Go to it. That's what they put you in for."
"I know," he said, with a return to gloom, "but you can't do everything in six months. I've got to move according to law, being how I am situated. And they've been awful careful, them two have."
He fell to communing with himself, and we went steadily forward, the ponies shuffling the dust in a dejected chop-trot. It was almost noon, and the heat waves were lifting from the ground like the smoke of an oil flame. We passed a dead tree, and the sheriff roused from reverie.
"They done hung Dave Pearsall from there six years back," he said, with a jerk of his head.
I glanced around for the grave, it being the custom to inter close to the scene of the taking-off.
"It's over beyond. No, you can't see it, 'count of that rise. But you get your eye on that tree. Notice? And now the Mother of Cottonwoods'll die, too."
"Pshaw!" said I, laughing. "You don't believe that old woman's tale, do you?"
"Of course, now," he said patiently, "you know better."
Many cowmen had voiced the superstition, but the sheriff had not struck me as of a credulous type.
"I've knowed eight men to be strung up on eight big, sound trees," he went on, "and I've seen eight trees that looked as if the devil had smashed 'em. Blasted. Yes, sir; dead as a rat and deader. You wait and see."
Presently he began to speak of the feud which had been the bane of his office during four of the six months of his tenure. When I proffered the suggestion, in a spirit of hope, that there must have been a beautiful fight before the Walton faction secured Rooker, he dismissed that possibility with an impatient snort. It was like that Jeff Thomas had been away, he said; probably south of the Border, on some meanness or other. As for Tom, he had not mixed much in the trouble in town. Perhaps they had picked on him because he was Jeff's closest friend.
"We'll know right soon now. Gee, ain't the heat a fright? Say, Dan, if you take my advice, you'll hit the grit out of Badger just as hard as you can make it."
I resolutely declined to hit the grit as proposed. Soon we came in sight of the town. It showed uncertainly on the horizon like a lake of mist, with a few wavering windmills swaying therein; it might have been an impressionistic painting of a Dutch canal. A mile from the first house, the sheriff pulled up and bade me remain where I was, whilst he entered Badger. His instructions were that I should hold back for ten minutes precisely, then proceed casually into town, leaving my horse at the cattle company's corral, and meet him at dinner in the Fashion.
"No, you can't come with me," he said. "So let that soak into your hide. It's like some fool will start something and I don't want you on my mind. You'd only be in the way."
This was not flattering, but every man to his business. The sheriff made preparations for his by looking carefully to his six-shooter. Then he nodded and rode ahead into Badger. Ten minutes and ten seconds later, I followed.
Badger suggests in its exterior a woman of the street, made up carefully as to the face and run-down at the heel. To left and to right as you enter from the west, are the Fashion and the Cowboys' Rest, both of frame, and pretentious structures for that region. Then there is the Wells-Fargo express office, with a tin roof which catches all the heat of the ages and sends it sizzling over Badger. There are a general store and a butcher shop; two Eating Houses, one at the Fashion, the other conducted by a Chinaman; and a broken line of one-story, two-roomed dwellings of rough boards. Beyond that again, a few adobe huts straggle for a full half-mile. They are the abodes of natives. The cattle company's corral is at the extreme edge of town, and there is a stable attached. From there one can see the habitation of Dutch Annie and her handmaidens. Usually the tinkle of a piano greets the wayfarer, and sometimes bursts of laughter which have no tinkle in them, nor any musical quality whatever.
The sheriff's horse slouched in front of the Fashion as I proceeded down the street. Not a human being moved in sight. The express agent waved a friendly hand at me from the interior of his darkened office, and bestowed a sardonic grin. Then he made a fanciful gesture, as of drawing a loop around his neck. Next, he was fighting violently for breath, and he was still engaged in this agreeable pantomime when I passed beyond his ken. A mongrel collie, stretched in the hot dust, retreated sluggishly to give me right of way, and, sitting on his rump, began to scratch for fleas.
"Say, Dan, hell's a-poppin'," said Tim Haverty cheerfully.
Mr. Haverty takes care of the company's corral and counts that day lost when no fracas promises. He told me all about it now, with a most unholy glee, although he is an old, old man, who ought to be giving thought to heavenly things.
His tale ran thus—the town of Badger was divided against itself. Jeff Thomas had come up from the south, weary of Mexican chuck and sullen from failure. He had said nothing when informed of Tom Rooker's demise and the manner thereof, but, amply refreshed, had started a hunt for Walton in order to fasten a row on him. It happened that Bud was away in the mountains when his enemy made the round of his usual haunts, and Jeff's slowly enunciated insults to Bud's adherents had not been taken up. So, fearing an outbreak that would stain Badger's fair name, the express agent and the general-store man, the butcher, and five other reputable citizens had proposed a compromise, in order to preserve peace—to wit, a division of the city of Badger. All north of the street was to be Thomas' hunting ground; the section to the south was free to Bud to wander in at his pleasure. Both men had been prevailed upon to accept this arbitration—Thomas, with a show of reluctance, but real willingness; the other, grudgingly, after persuasion.
"If you ast me," said Old Man Haverty judicially, "if you ast me, Dan, I'd say Bud has got it on Thomas in some ways. Yes, sir; Jeff, he's scared of that feller, except when he's good and mad."
Such apportionment of a town has not been uncommon in the southwest in times past. I know of two communities similarly divided, at present writing. The armistice makes for temporary peace, but has a decided tendency to be irksome to citizens who would be nonpartisan, and it usually ends by a casual trespass, or one of intent, prompted by bravado or rye. After which the deceased gentleman's record is thoroughly threshed out and it is agreed on all sides that he was a pretty good fellow, "but—"
The sheriff and I sat later at a table in the Fashion, toying with a pile of dominoes. And we discussed these things. It is etiquette for a visitor, on entering the city, to hand over his gun to the bartender of the first place of call. This signifies that his designs are peaceful, and perhaps honest, and it also keeps him out of a heap of mischief. Besides, if he does not do that, the sheriff is apt to seek him out and take the weapon, anyway. Therefore, the gentleman who was swabbing the bar with a damp towel had possession of my .45 Colt.
Night fell. Daniel Boone—fat and fifty, who claimed descent from the great pioneer—was at a table in a corner by himself, practicing sleight-of-hand with a pack of cards, faro being his profession. If luck favored Daniel, some plump lamb would be delivered to his fleecing before another dawn broke.
Jeff Thomas came in, walked to the bar and ordered a drink. The Fashion being on his domain, this occasioned no surprise. Then he espied the sheriff and clanked across to our table.
"Hello, Johnson. Say, Walton's been making threats against my life," he said.
"Huh-huh?" said the sheriff carelessly. "Seems to me, Jeff, him and you both've been doing a pile of talking."
"But he done told some fellers he'd get me inside forty-eight hours."
"I reckon you'd better keep out of his way, then, Jeff."
"But look here, Johnson—oh, pshaw, let's talk sense. He's made threats, I tell you. I done got a permit from the justice of the peace to pack a gun. Turner, he give it to me for my own protection."
"Well?"
"Well? WELL? What're you going to do about it? That's what I want to know. You're sheriff, ain't you?"
My friend lighted a cigarette from the stub of another. Afterwards he studied the nails of his fingers with elaborate interest. A protracted pause, and he addressed a casual remark to me as though Thomas were not present.
"Cut that, Johnson. I'm a-talking to you. What're you going to do about it?"
On this, the sheriff whirled sharply in his chair. He clipped his words, so that each seemed to snap.
"I'll show you what I'll do. You two yellow pups start something, and I'll show you what I'll do."
Daniel Boone folded his cards and stole softly out of the room. I looked furtively for a sheltering nook. Only the shiny top of the bartender's bald head was now visible above a beer keg. But either Thomas did not want a row, or he could not afford one.
"Well," he said finally, with an uncertain laugh, "that's different again, ain't it? There's no use getting all swelled up about this thing, Lafe. Let's have a snort."
When the ceremony had been fitly observed, Thomas seated himself at the third table in the saloon, in no very good humor, and removed his hat. Shortly Daniel Boone returned, padding in like a wary cat, and resumed his interrupted studies of faro and its uses. We settled once more to our talk and piled the dominoes in unreckoned combinations.
The main door opens directly from the saloon on to the street. At the far end of the bar is another door, which leads into a dining-room that is run as an annex to the Fashion. Jeff occupied the table nearest the bar, sitting sideways to it so as to face the entrance. Back of him was a doorless exit, which gave on to a dark passage. This led somewhere into the outer back-regions and was in frequent demand when a patron found himself overcome by the fumes of rejoicing and desired air, without publicity.
In the corner remote from the street Mr. Boone was established, his legs embracing the legs of a chair, and he placidly dealt cards to an imaginary player. The sheriff and I were in the left foreground, close enough to the window to see through it, had a curtain not been discreetly drawn to the height of a grown man's head.
Tilly entered from the dining-room, patting her hair with both hands, and tarried for an instant at the bar, talking to the man behind it. She waited on table in the Fashion annex, and was not without charm, both of person and mind. Indeed, her repartee would set a room to laughing, being forceful as a clout on the head; which may have been why she was sought after by sundry residents of those parts for wife. Whence she came or why, nobody knew. Badger held her for an honest girl, in spite of what Tilly's unchampioned contact with the world had done to rub off the first blush. Leaving the bartender choking with delight, Tilly sauntered over to Jeff's table, where she pretended to examine the snake-skin band of his hat. We saw her speak to him, but could not catch the words. He glanced up alertly and gave an emphatic nod.
"Well, well," murmured the sheriff, and smiled. When she had gone back to the dining-room—pausing to exchange a last cheerful sally with her friend of the bottles—the sheriff said: "Dan, there's a mighty fine girl. Or I reckon I ought to say 'woman.' If she'd only got a different start—"
"What about it?"
"You can see for yourself. She's getting tougher in her talk every day. If Tilly don't hitch up soon—why, look at the way these fellers are running after her—"
"But," I said, for I had faith in Tilly, "they're all crazy about her. Don't you fret. That girl's the gamest girl I ever saw, Lafe. She can take care of herself. Sure they run after her. They all want to marry her."
"Some of 'em do—yes—but—" he broke off and considered for a moment. "Did I ever tell you how Bud Walton run it over that big Slim Terry? He done run him out of town. Slim was awful stuck on Tilly, too."
"What did Tilly do?"
"What could she do? She wouldn't believe it first when Bud told her. Then she swore most dreadful. She slapped Bud's face, too—a little later, this was."
A boy shoved his head inside the saloon and peered all about. It was Turner's youngest son, an urchin of about twelve years.
"Say, Mr. Johnson," he piped, "Sam wants you over to the express office right away. He says he cain't leave, so for you to come."
"All right, Tommy, boy. You run home quick and draw some water for your ma. Drag it, now." The head withdrew. "This ain't no place for a boy to be round. Sam ought to have more sense. Wait here, Dan. I'll be back in a shake."
The sheriff rose and stretched himself, with a yawn. Then he went out and crossed the street.
Daniel Boone was blowing through his loose, thick lips, as he sorted the cards. The bartender read a much-thumbed letter, and I builded a fort of my pile of dominoes. We heard a firm, swift chink of spur rowels, and Bud Walton strode into the Fashion.
"So," he said. "Now, I've got you."
I was looking toward Thomas at the moment. His face blanched, but his hand sped to his breast, where a gun was secreted in a holster sewed to the inside of his shirt bosom. Before he could draw, Walton pulled on him once. This much I saw and then dived under the table. There came another shot. Bud stood a second or two, with a sort of wondering, puzzled look in his eyes. He swayed and sank gently to the floor, almost within touch of his enemy.
Jeff lurched to his feet and leaned over the fallen man. He fired twice in quick succession, but his hand shook so that the bullets tore splinters in the boarding at either side of Walton. Then he desisted and stood waiting, the six-shooter hanging limply from his fingers.
"There," he said, as the sheriff ran in. "You see, I've done it. I've killed the bastard."
The sheriff knelt beside Bud and turned him over. Walton was shot through the forehead and must have been dead before he hit the floor.
"Hem," said the sheriff. He got up and requested the surrender of Jeff's gun, which was given up without question. Johnson inspected it with care.
"You fired three, hey, Jeff?"
"Three," answered the other, his gaze fixed on the body.
The sheriff was scrutinizing the six-shooter and its empty chambers. He scratched his head. Thomas turned to the bar. His nostrils were straining and there was an unnatural distension of the eye-balls.
"Gimme a drink," he said.
Daniel Boone emerged from the corner where he had thrown himself flat, and the Fashion filled with men. They grouped in a semi-circle about the corpse and regarded it soberly.
"You're under arrest, Jeff," said the sheriff.
"Sure."
"Gentlemen, I'll have to ask you-all to leave. Clear the bar, gentlemen, please. The inquest'll be to-morrow morning over in Bob Turner's place. Step lively, gentlemen. I've got a pile of things to do."
I was shoved from the saloon with the others and went only too willingly. Shortly afterwards three men bore the remains of Walton out of the Fashion and laid them in an empty room above Turner's store. The proprietor was justice of the peace and would sit as coroner.
Badger filled the court-room on the morrow. The crowd overflowed into the street, and there was much jostling and frantic efforts at peering over the heads of neighbors; also, requests to witnesses to speak louder, that all might hear. Follows a rough transcript of the evidence presented.
Bartender.—It was ten o'clock. There was nobody in the bar except Dan Boone—he was playing solitaire in the far corner—and Jeff Thomas, and a fat party unknown to him. The fat party had come in with the sheriff and sat over against the window. Jeff was alone and was monkeying with his fingers on the table—sort of playing tunes. He, the bartender, was reading a letter from a lady who lived in Silver City—a right nice, respectable lady—when Bud came in on the jump. He yelled something at Jeff and they took to shooting. That's all he saw, because he hid behind the beer-keg immediately. Yes, he had heard shots. Four, he thought, but he could not be sure. The bartender rubbed his bald spot and added that there seemed to be five, but he would not swear to that—they came so fast.
Daniel Boone.—He had seen nothing at all, but had heard shots. No, he could not say how many. Then, when the sheriff came back, he saw Bud Walton lying dead and Jeff standing over him, a little to one side.
Myself.—A boy had summoned the sheriff to the express office while he and I were seated in the Fashion, playing dominoes. Soon afterwards a man entered quickly—yes, it was the man whose body lay upstairs—and yelled at Thomas that he had got him now. Thomas was alone at a table in the center of the room. He was strumming with his fingers on the table. The visitor fired first; then there was another shot, and he dropped to the floor. After he fell, Thomas shot twice. He missed him both times.
Tommy Turner.—Bud Walton had sent him with a message to the sheriff in the Fashion. The message was that Lafe was wanted at the express office right away.
Thereupon the coroner requested the survivor for his version of the fight.
Jeff Thomas.—He was waiting in the Fashion for one of the Lazy L boys to come along. They had a horse trade on. Bud Walton appeared at the door. He pulled a gun on him. Bud got the first shot in—he was positive of that. He fired once and Walton went down. Not being certain Bud was really done for, he pulled a couple of times more, but thought he had missed.
Yes, they had long been enemies. Walton was always abusing him behind his back. He had made threats. Some of his friends had strung up Tom Rooker, too. Tom wouldn't never harm a fly in his life. Only the day before, Bud had told some men Jeff knew, that he would get Thomas within forty-eight hours. So witness had asked for a permit to carry a gun. Mr. Turner knew about this. He had given the permit.
The coroner.—"Did you expect him last night?"
Thomas hesitated perceptibly. "Yes, I did," he said.
"What made you?"
"Somebody tipped me off he might be coming. I'd rather not say who it was."
Coroner.—"Where did Walton's shot go?"
"Here," said the prisoner.
He fished in his pocket and drew out a Bible. The crowd craned their necks and swayed toward it eagerly.
"Why, that's mine," the coroner said.
It was, in truth, one that Bob had carried off as a Sunday School prize, when a boy, in Ohio. It was so stiff that the cover cracked when it was opened; but the leather binding was ripped and torn, and the leaves were plowed into pulp for three-fourths of its thickness. At this point the sheriff explained that the bullet had been deflected into the solid wood of the table. He had dug it out.
Coroner.—"Where did you get this here book?"
The gunfighter looked rather sheepish.
"I'm sort of superstitious," he confessed, "and when I seen that in your office the other day, Bob, I stuck it inside my shirt."
A murmur swept over the court-room and beat against the walls.
Coroner.—"You've killed six men, ain't you?"
"No, sir; you're wrong. Only four," Thomas corrected, licking his dry lips.
"Gen'l'men," said the coroner, not without sternness toward Thomas, "this hits me like so plain a case of shooting in self-defense, that I reckon we don't need to bother no more about the evidence."
"Hold on," the sheriff said. "Hold on, there; I'd like for to say something."
Being duly sworn, he started off like this: "Gentlemen, this wasn't a killing. It was a murder."
Everybody waited open-mouthed to hear more. Thomas turned on him a quick, startled glance. Then someone said: "What's the matter with you, Lafe?"
"It's just what I done said. Murder."
There was a stir, and a ripple of unbelieving laughter. "Order!" the coroner cried. He was looking to Johnson for explanation.
"I was kind of wondering," the prisoner muttered, half aloud, as though not altogether surprised at the turn of events.
"Yes, sir, Bud Walton was murdered. This man here didn't kill him at all. Here's Jeff's gun. Take a look at it. It's a .45. Bud, he was killed with a 30-30 rifle. Here's the bullet. Jeff's first shot went way above his head into the ceiling, and the next two are in the boards."
"What're you giving us?" "Go on, Lafe." "Hush, let's hear him." "Quit crowding there, will you?" "Say, are you looking for trouble?" "Well, quit it." It was long before quiet could be obtained.
The sheriff waited for absolute silence before taking up the thread of his explanation again. Then he said, slowly scanning the faces around him—"Mr. Coroner, if you'll adjourn this here court for two days, I'll bring the murderer here."
The inquest adjourned in confusion. Thomas was released, only to be rearrested.
"I'll learn fellers like you a lesson," the sheriff told him. "Bob, give him thirty days for stealing that there Bible of yours."
The justice of the peace imposed the sentence with alacrity. It had the appearance of spite, but Jeff exhibited no resentment and left for the county town in charge of a deputy, without a word of protest. To me, he appeared a broken man.
Not a word of enlightenment would the sheriff give, although all Badger was agog with excitement and babbled questions wherever he moved. They would cling to his arm in their eagerness, but he shook them off. At dinner, he ordered me to fetch my horse, for he planned a hard ride.
It was early afternoon when we set out for Satan's Kingdom. Our way took us through the Willows, which we threaded at dusk. We were passing a certain pile of rocks, when the sheriff pointed with his forefinger.
"Look," he said.
The Mother of Cottonwoods towered above the lesser trees, plain to the sight. She was black and stark, bare as though blasted by lightning. We jogged along mutely.
"Look a-here," the sheriff said, as we neared the mountain village, "you done heard that shooting. What did you hear? Tell me as near as you can."
I strove to focus all my faculties on the task.
"There was a first shot—that must have been Bud's."
"Never mind whose it was," said Johnson.
"Then there seemed to be two very close together. I'm not sure about that, Lafe, because it might have been one, sort of drawn out. But I was watching Jeff's hand and it looked only half-way out of his shirt when that second shot started."
"Good. How did it sound?"
"Well, she began with more of a ring to her—sharper than a six-shooter—and she ended heavily, just like a .45."
"Sure," he said, with great satisfaction. "That was the 30-30. It just beat Jeff to the mark. Why didn't you tell that at the inquest?"
"I wasn't sure," I answered lamely. "Nobody would have believed me, anyway."
"So you think a feller ought to tell only what he figures folks will believe? Well, it don't matter. Don't get hot. Listen. We'll bring back the feller who shot Bud, to-night or to-morrow. He was hiding in that dark hall back of Thomas, just waiting for a chance. As quick as I saw the hole in Bud's head, I said to myself, 'A .45 never made that, son.' No, sir; I sure knew that 30-30 mark."
"How did you know where it came from?"
"That's easy. Bud was shot in front, wasn't he? Well, Jeff didn't do it, so I hunted in that passage to find out who did. Sure enough, a feller had braced himself with his hand on the wall. He was a powerful big brute, too—more'n six feet high, easy."
The sheriff chuckled, pleased as a boy with his own astuteness.
"Say, Dan, it's almost funny the way things turn out. Ol' Miguel, the lazy rascal, he done left a tin of axle grease on a shelf beside the back door, and when this feller come in and went sneaking along the hall, a-feeling his way so as not to make a noise, he stuck his hand into it. Then he leaned with that hand bracing him, while he waited for Bud. Do you get that? That was the hand he leaned on. Wouldn't that most scare you? That gives his size away. Why couldn't his luck have made him lean with the other hand? I tell you, it makes a man think."
He would not talk more on the subject and evinced impatience when pressed. We put up at Kelley's place in the Kingdom, and the sheriff had a few words with Kelley himself before we ate a meal specially prepared for us.
"No, he ain't here just now," Kelley said. "He done rode off just after supper. But he'll be here in the morning for breakfast. I hope there ain't nothing wrong, Lafe?"
"No-oo. We just want a talk, that's all. Don't tell him, Kelley."
There were half a dozen persons at the table when we took our places not long after daylight. Three were prospectors, one was a cowboy, and a miner sat next him. Opposite me was a long, lank, youthful-appearing man, who consumed his food with his nose very close to his plate. He had little to say, except when he desired something.
Now, if a man be a lusty trencherman, or if he wolf his food, either by tearing or the process of inhalation, we never pass direct criticism. That might hurt his feelings and the sensibilities of the other diners. No; instead, one glances good-naturedly about the board to pick up the eyes, and remarks in a slow, modulated tone—"Say, ol' Bill here don't eat enough to fatten a hog, does he?"
The sheriff watched this individual intently for a space. His scrutiny made me uneasy, although it is true that the gentleman's table manners were offensive. Then he leaned toward him and remarked, smilingly: "Say, you don't eat enough to fatten a steer, do you?"
I expected an outbreak. The long person raised his eyes and a sickly smile overspread his face. And then I knew what manner of man we had to deal with. Because, when a man of pluck receives a blow that hurts, he first looks serious and perhaps thoughtful; that is followed by a determined squaring of the jaw. At last he said, essaying a sneer:
"I reckon you've got the world by the tail with a down-hill pull, ain't you?"
"Perhaps," said Johnson. "I've got you, anyhow, Slim. You're under arrest. Finish that coffee and come on."
"Who're you?" the other asked slowly.
"The sheriff of Badger."
"Well, I ain't sorry. I'll go along," was the reply.
On the morning of the second day, another coroner's inquest sat in Badger. Slim Terry faced it. A greenish pallor showed near his eyes and around the corners of his mouth, but he talked composedly.
Coroner.—"Did you shoot Bud Walton?"
"Yes."
"Tell us about it."
The prisoner passed a hand over his forehead and down to his chin, as though to clear his thoughts.
"This feller Walton, judge, he done run me out of Badger. First, though, he run me out of the Fashion. I ain't been in this town for six months till the day of the shooting. Yes, I was scared of him. I ain't a fighter, gen'l'men. I come in that day, because somebody done sent for me."
Coroner.—"Who sent for you?"
Slim pondered this question. "I ain't a-going to tell that," he said. "Well, I laid quiet at ol' Raphael's place on the aidge of town until dark, and then I sneaked up back of the Fashion. Nobody seen me. Somebody'd told me Bud Walton would likely do for Thomas there that night, and I figured to get him from that back hall in the mixup. One of us was sure to nail him."
"Who told you this?"
"I ain't a-going to tell. I've said that twice already, Mr. Turner, so you needn't ask me. Well, I waited in the hall there, standing mighty quiet. I seen Thomas at the table and a fat gen'l'man over near the window with the sheriff here. I didn't know he was the sheriff then. By and by a boy come in and the sheriff went out. Then all at once Bud Walton run in at the door and pulled a gun. And then I let him have it. I plugged him square. Couldn't miss at that distance. What'd you say, judge? No; nobody seen me. I run out into the lot back of the Fashion and got on my horse. I've been at the Kingdom most of the time since, but I wasn't trying to hide out. How did you find out, Mr. Johnson?"
The audience in the court-room listened to this recital with scant sympathy. Their disapproval was obvious. Even the sheriff appeared a trifle ashamed of his prisoner.
"Did you have any other reason, Terry, for shooting this man?" asked the coroner.
"No, sir. He done run me off, and I was afraid he would kill me some day, the same as he'd done to a lot of others. So I plugged him—there in the Fashion."
"It's a lie. He's lying, judge," cried a treble voice at the door.
The crowd wavered and split apart, and a woman broke through and confronted the coroner. It was Tilly, the waitress at the annex. Her hair was disordered and hung in lank wisps about her face, but she gave no thought to that. With her red arms bare to the elbow, and her cheeks flabby and pale from fright, she took position squarely in front of Turner. She tried to speak, but gasped for breath.
"Order in the court!" shouted the coroner.
"That man there—him, Slim Terry—he's lying to you, judge. Yes. He is. He's lying. He didn't kill Bud. He's lying, judge. He is; honest."
"Who killed him then?" said the coroner. The sheriff walked over and stood beside the girl.
"I did. I shot him. I—"
"Tilly, you're crazy. Stop her, sheriff. She ain't telling the truth. She's—" The prisoner made to shove her back.
"Order in the court!" Turner roared.
"Listen to me. I'm going to tell you. Yes, I am. I'm going to tell."
"Silence, gentlemen. Let's hear what she's got to say," the sheriff ordered.
"I knew Bud Walton was coming to the Fashion that night to look for Jeff Thomas." Tilly told her story gustfully, her voice shrill. "Yes, I knew it. I told Jeff so. Why shouldn't I? Bud told me. He'd been drinking the night before. That man sitting there was my fellow. He came to see me that afternoon, and I had to hide him in ol' Raphael's house like any dog. All because of Bud Walton. Yes."
"Go on. Quiet, please."
"Slim, he wanted to shoot Bud himself. So would you, judge, if you knew. But I said no. Do you know why he wanted to shoot? I'll tell you. Bud Walton was bad. Yes. He was. He was a bad man. He asked me to marry him, and when I laughed, he said he'd take me anyhow. Yes. That is what he said. He was bad. And I got afraid. He done run Slim out of town last year and there was nobody—oh, don't let 'em all stare at me that way, judge. I'm telling the truth. Before God, I am."
"Go on," said Turner huskily.
"I was in the hall with Slim. I let him in at the door. Yes, I did. It was locked. We had a rifle and we stood there. I had often shot at prairie-dogs with the rifle when me and Slim would go riding together. Slim, he couldn't never hit a barn door. No wonder he was scared of Bud. It's true—true as gospel, judge. He couldn't have killed him. No. I made him put both hands against the wall and then I rested the gun on his shoulder. Yes. I did. Bud Walton was bad. He was a bad man. When I saw him, I pulled quick. And then I shut my eyes. And then—I don't rightly remember after that. That's the truth. It's all true, every word. Yes. It is. Slim, he went away—and now—oh, oh, oh."
She rocked on her feet, her hands over her eyes.
"Order in the court! Order in the court!" the coroner bawled, though you could have heard a man gulp.
The sheriff took Tilly by the arm and led her away. He permitted Slim to come with them.
"Gen'l'men," said Turner, clearing his throat as he rose from his chair, "this court stands adjourned. Bud, he just died. That's good enough for him."
The next morning the sheriff called on Tilly at the Fashion and told her to don her best bib and tucker with all speed.
"I'd a heap rather go to this here Slim party's funeral, Tilly," he said, "but I suppose you've got to have him. So get a move on. I reckon Badger can stake you to a wedding."
Naught cared Tilly for this genial slight on her lover. She had him—that was sufficient for her. A woman does not need to respect a man in order to love him devotedly. Moist of face, but radiant, she presented herself before Lafe within an hour.
And to what a wedding did Badger stake the waitress! The entire town seemed to regard it as a public event in which every citizen had a personal interest and a duty to perform; and they did it nobly. Tilly was deluged with gifts, ranging from a Book of Common Prayer to a heifer calf, which the donor assured her would one day develop into a fine milch cow and feed all the little Terrys.
Lafe took upon himself the conduct of the proceedings. And in the course of them he became so wrought up that he made a speech, a faculty for which had hitherto been unsuspected in the sheriff. He started off by saying it would not be much of a speech, and he was correct. Yet such was his fervor that Tilly cried for the fifth time that day, and her husband gulped until his Adam's apple threatened to jump out of his throat, as he gripped Johnson's hand.
A strict adherence to facts compels the admission that there was a very considerable consumption of liquor on this day. You see, nothing is ever consummated in Badger, from a sale of steers or a horse trade, to a wedding in the season, without a certain indulgence of this nature.
For, in the course of human events and in pursuit of that liberty and happiness which constitute the inalienable right of every citizen, a man is apt, from time to time, to get drunk. Nobody in Badger ever held it against him—far from it. Let that then be the excuse for sundry estimable gentlemen who felt badly the morning after Tilly's marriage. Let that explain the presence of the justice of the peace and the sheriff of Badger and Dr. Armstrong, when they foregathered in the Fashion before breakfast, to compare symptoms and to contrive means by which they might last through another sun. Indeed, convivial relaxation was regarded in Badger as incidental to male existence, however rarely these "benders," as they were termed in local parlance, might be tempered by discretion.
Yet there have always been certain unwritten rules governing bouts with Care, and if a man broke them in Badger, he became either a social outcast or an inmate of the calaboose, which was worse. The calaboose was once a livery stable and has never entirely got over it.
This qualifying statement is by way of leading up to happenings that wrought a regeneration in Lafe Johnson and changed the whole course of his life.