The Sheriff of Badger Part 8

"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 pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sed 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 superst.i.tion, 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 ca.n.a.l. 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 pa.s.sed 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, h.e.l.l'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 trespa.s.s, 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 pa.s.sage. 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, n.o.body 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--"