The Sheriff And His Partner Part 3

"h.e.l.l!" There was savage rage and menace in the exclamation.

"You kin put that up!" he added, absorbed once more in thought. I paid no attention to this; I was not going to put the revolver away at his bidding. Presently he asked in his ordinary voice:

"What age man might this Johnson be?"

"About forty or forty-five, I should think."

"And right off Sam Johnson swore you in and sent you to bring me into Kiota--an' him Sheriff?"

"Yes," I replied impatiently, "that's so."

"Great G.o.d!" he exclaimed, bringing his clenched right hand heavily down on the bar. "Here, Zeke!" turning to the man asleep in the corner, and again he shouted "Zeke!" Then, with a rapid change of manner, and speaking irritably, he said to me:

"Put that thing up, I say."

The bar-keeper now spoke too: "I guess when Tom sez you kin put it up, you kin. You hain't got no use fur it."

The changes of Williams' tone from wonder to wrath and then to quick resolution showed me that the doubt in him had been laid, and that I had but little to do with the decision at which he had arrived, whatever that decision might be. I understood, too, enough of the Western spirit to know that he would take no unfair advantage of me. I therefore unc.o.c.ked the revolver and put it back into my pocket. In the meantime Zeke had got up from his resting-place in the corner and had made his way sleepily to the bar. He had taken more to drink than was good for him, though he was not now really drunk.

"Give me and Zeke a gla.s.s, Joe," said Williams; "and this gentleman, too, if he'll drink with me, and take one yourself with us."

"No," replied the bar-keeper sullenly, "I'll not drink to any d.a.m.ned foolishness. An' Zeke won't neither."

"Oh, yes, he will," Williams returned persuasively, "and so'll you, Joe.

You aren't goin' back on me."

"No, I'll be just d.a.m.ned if I am," said the barkeeper, half-conquered.

"What'll you take, sir?" Williams asked me.

"The bar-keeper knows my figger," I answered, half-jestingly, not yet understanding the situation, but convinced that it was turning out better than I had expected.

"And you, Zeke?" he went on.

"The old pizen," Zeke replied.

"And now, Joe, whisky for you and me--the square bottle," he continued, with brisk cheerfulness.

In silence the bar-keeper placed the drinks before us. As soon as the gla.s.ses were empty Williams spoke again, putting out his hand to Zeke at the same time:

"Good-bye, old man, so long, but saddle up in two hours. Ef I don't come then, you kin clear; but I guess I'll be with you."

"Good-bye, Joe."

"Good-bye, Tom," replied the bar-keeper, taking the proffered hand, still half-unwillingly, "if you're stuck on it; but the game is to wait for 'em here--anyway that's how I'd play it."

A laugh and shake of the head and Williams addressed me:

"Now, sir, I'm ready if you are." We were walking towards the door, when Zeke broke in:

"Say, Tom, ain't I to come along?"

"No, Zeke, I'll play this hand alone," replied Williams, and two minutes later he and I were seated in the buggy, driving towards Kiota.

We had gone more than a mile before he spoke again. He began very quietly, as if confiding his thoughts to me:

"I don't want to make no mistake about this business--it ain't worth while. I'm sure you're right, and Sheriff Samuel Johnson sent you, but, maybe, ef you was to think you could kinder bring him before me. There might be two of the name, the age, the looks--though it ain't likely."

Then, as if a sudden inspiration moved him:

"Where did he come from, this Sam Johnson, do you know?"

"I believe he came from Pleasant Hill, Missouri. I've heard that he left after a row with his partner, and it seems to me that his partner's name was Williams. But that you ought to know better than I do. By-the-bye, there is one sign by which Sheriff Johnson can always be recognized; he has lost the little finger of his left hand. They say he caught Williams' bowie with that hand and shot him with the right. But why he had to leave Missouri I don't know, if Williams drew first."

"I'm satisfied now," said my companion, "but I guess you hain't got that story correct; maybe you don't know the cause of it nor how it began; maybe Williams didn't draw fust; maybe he was in the right all the way through; maybe--but thar!--the first hand don't decide everythin'. Your Sheriffs the man--that's enough for me."

After this no word was spoken for miles. As we drew near the bridge leading into the town of Kiota I remarked half-a-dozen men standing about. Generally the place was deserted, so the fact astonished me a little. But I said nothing. We had scarcely pa.s.sed over half the length of the bridge, however, when I saw that there were quite twenty men lounging around the Kiota end of it. Before I had time to explain the matter to myself, Williams spoke: "I guess he's got out all the vigilantes;" and then bitterly: "The boys in old Mizzouri wouldn't believe this ef I told it on him, the dog-goned mean cuss."

We crossed the bridge at a walk (it was forbidden to drive faster over the rickety structure), and toiled up the hill through the bystanders, who did not seem to see us, though I knew several of them. When we turned to the right to reach the gate of the Sheriff's house, there were groups of men on both sides. No one moved from his place; here and there, indeed, one of them went on whittling.

I drew up at the sidewalk, threw down the reins, and jumped out of the buggy to hitch up the horse. My task was done.

I had the hitching-rein loose in my hand, when I became conscious of something unusual behind me. I looked round--it was the stillness that foreruns the storm.

Williams was standing on the side-walk facing the low wooden fence, a revolver in each hand, but both pointing negligently to the ground; the Sheriff had just come down the steps of his house; in his hands also were revolvers; his deputy, Jarvis, was behind him on the stoop.

Williams spoke first:

"Sam Johnson, you sent for me, and I've come."

The Sheriff answered firmly, "I did!"

Their hands went up, and crack! crack! crack! in quick succession, three or four or five reports--I don't know how many. At the first shots the Sheriff fell forward on his face. Williams started to run along the side-walk; the groups of men at the corner, through whom he must pa.s.s, closed together; then came another report, and at the same moment he stopped, turned slowly half round, and sank down in a heap like an empty sack.

I hurried to him; he had fallen almost as a tailor sits, but his head was between his knees. I lifted it gently; blood was oozing from a hole in the forehead. The men were about me; I heard them say:

"A derned good shot! Took him in the back of the head. Jarvis kin shoot!"

I rose to my feet. Jarvis was standing inside the fence supported by some one; blood was welling from his bared left shoulder.

"I ain't much hurt," he said, "but I guess the Sheriff's got it bad."

The men moved on, drawing me with them, through the gate to where the Sheriff lay. Martin turned him over on his back. They opened his shirt, and there on the broad chest were two little blue marks, each in the centre of a small mound of pink flesh.

4TH April, 1891.