The Sunset Trail Part 36

Mr. Hickok, deserted, limped slowly towards the door. As he pa.s.sed the bar, its once supercilious custodian, raised his head above its moist levels, and asked in meekness:

"Mr. Hickok, will you have a drink? It's on the house."

It was the next afternoon; the Cheyenne marshal, accompanied by Mr.

Bowlby, proprietor of the Gold Room, paid a courtly visit to Mr. Hickok.

The marshal was aggrieved.

"You ought not to come ambuscadin' into camp that a-way," he remonstrated, speaking of Mr. Hickok's bashful entrance into town. "It might have got a pa.s.sel of Cheyenne people killed. It wan't right, Mr.

Hickok. Only it's you, I'd say it sort o' bordered on the treacherous."

"It ain't that I'm askin' it back, Mr. Hickok," observed Mr. Bowlby, diffidently, "but I want to check up my game. Sech bein' my motive, would you-all mind informin' me kindly how big a wad you got outen that drawer?"

"Which I sh.o.r.e couldn't say," returned Mr. Hickok, languidly. "I ain't counted it none as yet." Then, in a way of friendly generosity: "Mr.

Bowlby, I don't reckon how I oughter keep all that money; it's too much.

I'd feel easier if you'd let me split it with you."

"No 'bjections in the least," replied Mr. Bowlby, politely.

"Which I should say as much!" exclaimed the marshal, in enthusiastic admiration of Mr. Hickok's liberality. "Thar's an offer that's good enough for a dog! An' now, gents," concluded the marshal, linking one arm into that of Mr. Hickok, and with Mr. Bowlby on the other; "let's go down to the Gold Room an' licker."

CHAPTER XVI

THE LAST VISIT TO DODGE

There was a County Seat war between the towns of Cimarron and Ingalls, and it was in the final phases of that involvement the historian first hears of Mr. Masterson's brother Jim. Those differences between Cimarron and Ingalls carried interesting features. Not a least of these was the death of Mr. Prather at Mr. Tighlman's positive hands. The latter exact personage was a citizen of Dodge. Being, however, one who resented narrowisms and to whom any "pent up Utica" was as the thing unbearable, Mr. Tighlman permitted himself an interest in that Gray County contention and, since Cimarron was the natural-born enemy of Dodge, sympathized with Ingalls.

This sentiment on Mr. Tighlman's part did not meet with the approbation of Mr. Prather, who was a partisan of Cimarron, and when the former appeared at the special election called to settle the question, Mr.

Prather-to employ a childish phrase-fell into a profound pout. Mr.

Tighlman's attendance meant nothing beyond a desire to humour his curiosity and flatter that interest which possessed him in favour of an Ingalls success. Mr. Prather, however, in his jealousy for Cimarron, construed it differently and pulled his gun.

Being alert and sensitive, and having had his nerves sharpened by perilous experiences, Mr. Tighlman was instantly aware of this hostile demonstration. As corollary, his own gun left its scabbard coincident with that of Mr. Prather, the result being a weakening of the Cimarron cause by the loss of one. There was no criticism of Mr. Tighlman; for the best belief of folk ascribed a first wrong step to the vanished Mr.

Prather. The common feeling was summed up by an onlooker who spoke without prejudice. He said:

"Prather reached for his six-shooter, an' Billy"-meaning Mr.

Tighlman-"beat him to it. That's all thar was to the fuss."

The county records were in Cimarron, which had been _de facto_ the County Seat. Ingalls came forth of the election victor, and many held that the taking off of Mr. Prather in its moral effect had much to do with bringing the triumph about. It may have been this thought that suggested to Ingalls the enlistment of Mr. Tighlman's services when, following the election and in defiance of that ballot decision then and there obtained, Cimarron scoffed at every mention of surrendering the records. Those marks of county authority were the property of Ingalls.

What cared Cimarron for that? Cimarron snapped thumb and finger beneath the Ingalls nose! It scorned the election and contemned the result! If Ingalls wanted those records, Cimarron, furbishing up its firearms, would admire to see it get them.

Florence in the fourteenth century retained the military genius of Sir John Hawkwood to its standards and set him to lead its armies in the field. Sir John, as rental for his valour, was given a princely salary while he lived and a marble tomb when he died, which latter monument is still extant, a Florentine exhibit when tourists turn that way.

Impressed by the Italian example, Ingalls upon being met by the belligerent obstinacy of Cimarron retained Mr. Tighlman. Would he get those records? Mr. Tighlman would.

Mr. Tighlman possessed a capacity for strategy. He went after the records on Sunday. He argued that, Sunday being a day of rest, the male inhabitants of Cimarron would one and all be in the saloons. Mr.

Tighlman deduced rightly on that point, and his rapine of the records was only discovered by chance. A Cimarronian, journeying from one barroom to another, observed him as he threw the last volume into the waggon and sounded an alarm.

Within two minutes thereafter, Mr. Tighlman was shot at five hundred times. And yet he got away and took the records with him. His only injury was received when, a shot having killed a dog at his very feet, he fell over the dog and broke his leg. For all that, he dragged himself aboard the waggon and escaped.

Mr. Tighlman covered his retreat with a shotgun. As a bloodless method of engaging the local faculties, he opened right and left with buckshot on the large front windows that fenced the street. There was a prodigious breaking of gla.s.s, and the clatter thereof carried Cimarron almost to a stampede. As showing the blind hurry of the inhabitants, Mr.

Tighlman said that he saw one gentleman miss his footing and fall, and before he could even think of getting up eight of his fellow townsmen fell on top of him. It was through such stirring scenes that Mr.

Tighlman made his exit, and Jim gained mention because he drove the waggon. The foregoing has nothing at all to do with what follows, and is thrown in only because it may serve as an introduction to Jim.

At what might be called the true beginning of this sketch, Mr. Masterson was located in Tucson, nursing an interest in mines. He had been absent from Dodge divers years. In the interim he had made but a single trip to Dodge, and that a flying one. His brother Jim was temporarily in Camp Supply at the time, two hundred miles to the south, and he missed him.

This, however, did not disturb Mr. Masterson, who was in Dodge for the commercial restoration of Mr. Short.

During those years of Mr. Masterson's absence, the hungry tooth of time had left its marks. Mr. Kelly was dead, Mr. Tighlman was in New Mexico, Mr. Trask had drifted to Montana, Cimarron Bill was in Utah, while Mr.

Wright was in Topeka, a member of the Legislature. Of those who had been close to Mr. Masterson only Mr. Short remained.

The others-who if not enemies were but unfriends-had had better luck.

Mr. Peac.o.c.k still ran the Dance Hall, while Mr. Webster kept the Alamo as in days of yore, and maintained under the leadership of Mr.

Updegraffe a numerous following.

Even in the time of Mr. Masterson there had been soreness between Mr.

Webster and Mr. Short. The Long Branch was garnering a harvest beyond any that lent itself to the reaping hook of the Alamo, and this did not sit easily with Mr. Webster. To be sure, Mr. Short's success in its causes was easily understood. His deal boxes, like Caesar's wife, were above reproach. Folk were never quite sure about the Alamo's. Also the radical temper of Mr. Short despised a limit. One might pile his stake as tall as he pleased, Mr. Short would turn for it. In the words of an admirer:

"He'd let you play 'em higher'n a cat's back!" This was not the liberal case with Mr. Webster, who failed of the monetary courage of Mr. Short.

In the carelessness of local politics Mr. Webster became Mayor of Dodge, and he at once took advantage of his power and his elevation to exile Mr. Short. With the latter out of town, the Alamo would fatten and the Long Branch fade.

Being exiled, Mr. Short, following a usual course, hunted up Mr.

Masterson, and told his wrongs. Ever and always Mr. Short's friend, the latter began a roundup of the clan. The old Scotch Chiefs burned a cross and sent it about; Mr. Masterson sent messages and burned the wires.

From East and West and North and South, the loyal tribesmen dropped grimly into Dodge. There was Cimarron Bill and Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday and Ben Thompson and Henry Brown and Charlie Ba.s.sett and Shotgun Collins and Shoot-your-eye-out Jack and many another stark fighting man.

When these had a.s.sembled, Mr. Masterson and Mr. Short appeared, and the former took command.

There was no trouble; Mr. Webster turned the colour of ashes, and Mr.

Short resumed his place in trade. Mr. Webster did not like Mr. Masterson any better for this work, although the latter, in adjusting affairs, stretched a point and went excessively out of his way to keep Mr.

Webster from being killed. Mr. Masterson said he wasn't worth it. Mr.

Short said he was; but yielded the point in compliment to Mr. Masterson.

When Mr. Short had been restored to the commercial niche that of right was his, Mr. Masterson shook the dust of Dodge from his moccasins, as he imagined for the final time. Nor was he sorry. His friends were gone; and the Dodge he had known and loved and defended had pa.s.sed away.

In the wake of Mr. Masterson's departure, Mr. Webster saw, in the hard, gray glance of Mr. Short, that which alarmed his blood. Being wise in a way, he nodded prudently to one who, upon the hint, proffered a romantic figure, and bought out Mr. Short. The latter went to Texas, while Mr.

Webster again began to sleep o' night. With the going of Mr. Short, Jim, for any on whom he might rely, was left alone in Dodge.

That was the situation when one Tucson evening in the Oriental, Mr.

Masterson was handed a telegram. He had been hearing evil news all day about his mines, and thinking this a further bad installment tore open the envelope with only a listless interest. What he read stiffened him.

The message said:

"Updegraffe and Peac.o.c.k are going to kill Jim. Come at once.

-A."

With the stop at Deming and a sand-storm raging near Raton, Mr.

Masterson was thirty hours reaching Dodge. They were hours without sleep. The imagination of Mr. Masterson raced ahead to Dodge, and drew him pictures. At Albuquerque he feared Jim was already dead; at Las Vegas he entertained no doubt; at Trinidad he knew it was so.