FIRST BLOOD
It was upon the carnival that Wint was to score first blood in his fight
to clean up Hardiston. Mike Rand, carnival boss, was a hard man, willing
to take a chance, afraid only of being bluffed. So he took Wint’s
warning as a challenge. Nevertheless, for the sake of making things as
sure as might be, he went to see V. R. Kite. He and Kite had known and
understood each other for a good many years.
He dropped in to see Kite Tuesday morning; and the little man remembered
his church connections and his outward respectability, and worried for
fear some one had seen Rand come in. His worry took the form of
resentment at Rand’s imprudence. “Ought to be more careful,” he
protested. “Have more sense, man. I have to watch myself in this town.
Don’t you know that? I have a position to keep up. You’re all right, of
course.” This as Rand’s eyes hardened in a stare that made Kite wince.
“But I can’t afford to be hitched up with you openly. It wouldn’t do
either of us any good.”
Rand said dryly: “You don’t need to worry about me. I can stand it.”
“I can be useful to you now, whereas my usefulness would be gone if I
were less respected.”
“Respected, hell!” said Rand without emotion. “Don’t they call you ‘The
Buzzard’ around here? I’ve heard so. That don’t sound respectful.”
“That’s a jest,” said Kite. “Nothing more.”
“Pinned on you by this shrimp Mayor, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Good-naturedly. He was drunk.”
“Drunk? Him?” Rand lifted his hands in pious horror. “I thought he was
one of these ‘lips-that-touch-liquor-shall-never-touch-mine’ guys, to
hear him talk.”
“He’s not drinking now; not openly. He was a sot, a few months ago.
Dead drunk in the Weaver House, the night he was elected Mayor. I saw
him there.”
Rand drawled: “I’ll say this is some town.” He leaned forward. “What I
want to know is: how about this booze? He serves notice on me that I’m
responsible if any’s sold. How about it? Will he go through? Or is it a
bluff?”
Kite considered. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Has he shut you down?”
“He gave us orders not to sell; and we’re not selling. But we’re not
idle. We’re preparing to spring a mine under that man.”
“He’s got you bluffed.”
Kite’s face twisted with a sudden rush of fury. “I tell you, we’re going
to destroy him--blast him!--in our own good time.”
Rand studied the little man; then he nodded. “Well, that’s all right.
Just the same, he’s got you shut down.”
“Yes.”
“Has he pulled any one yet for selling?”
“No.”
“How about the marshal? Is he reasonable?”
“I believe he will obey the Mayor’s orders.”
“Only question is the Mayor’s nerve, then?”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t tried it out?”
“No; we’re waiting to strike when we’re sure of winning.”
“Hell!” said Rand disgustedly. “He’s got you bluffed. I don’t believe
he’s got the nerve to go through with it; but one thing’s sure. He’s got
your number, you old skate.”
Kite answered hotly: “If you’re so brave, why don’t you go ahead and
fight him?”
“Are you with me?”
“I’m not ready to fight.”
Rand got up. “Well, I am. I never dodged a fight yet. You watch, old
man; you’ll see the fur fly yet.”
He stalked out, head back and shoulders squared aggressively. Kite
watched him go, and nodded to himself with a measure of satisfaction. He
was perfectly willing to see Wint forced to fight--provided some one
besides himself did the forcing. Rand looked like a fighter.
* * * * *
Wint and Jack Routt met, on the way uptown after supper that day. Routt
asked if Wint were going to the carnival again, and Wint nodded.
“Keeping an eye on it,” he said.
They went to the Post Office first; and Routt stopped at his office.
“Come up,” he said. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Wint went up with him. Routt dropped a letter or two on his desk; then
from a lower drawer produced a bottle. “Don’t mind if I mix myself a
highball, do you, Wint?” he asked cheerfully. “I don’t suppose you’ll
feel called on to arrest me.”
“Go ahead,” Wint said. Routt poured some whisky into a glass, filled it
from a siphon.
“You’re wise to leave the stuff alone,” he said, between the first and
second sips from the glass. “It’s bad stuff unless a fellow can handle
it.”
Wint nodded uneasily. There was no physical craving in him; nevertheless
there was an acute desire to drink for the sake of drinking, for the
sake of being like other men, for the sake of defying the danger.
“That’s right,” he said. “I’m off it.”
“At that,” Routt remarked, the highball half gone, “I guess you’ve shown
you can take it or let it alone. I lay off of it myself, once in a
while, just to be sure I can.”
“Oh, I don’t miss it,” Wint said brazenly.
“Sure you don’t,” Routt agreed. “You’re no toper. Never were. Any one
likes to drink for the sake of being a good fellow. That’s all I drink
for.” He finished the glass, poured in a little more whisky. “Long as
I’m sure I can stop when I want to, the way you have done, I go ahead
and drink whenever I feel like it.”
Wint nodded. Routt looked at him with a curious intentness. “Another
glass here, if you’d like,” he said.
“I guess not.”
Routt laughed. “All right. You know best. If you can’t let it alone when
you get started--”
“Oh, I can take a drink and quit.”
“Want one?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Routt chuckled. “Funny to see you afraid of anything,” he said. “I never
expected to see it.”
Wint got up abruptly. The old Wint would have reached for the bottle;
this was the new Wint’s impulse. But he fought it down, steadied his
voice. “Jack,” he said, a little huskily, “you’re a friend of mine. I
don’t want to drink, never. Don’t offer it to me. Some day I might
accept. Don’t ever offer me a drink, Jack. Please.”
Routt was ashamed of himself, and angry at Wint for making him ashamed.
“Hell, all right,” he said, and dropped the bottle into its place. “Come
on, let’s take the air.”
At a little after eleven that night, Mike Rand sought out Wint. Wint was
standing before the cane booth, watching the ring-tossers. Rand pushed
up beside him and touched his arm, and Wint looked around. The carnival
boss said harshly:
“Hey, you!”
Wint looked around at him, and said quietly: “Evening. What’s the
matter?”
“Your damned hick marshal has pulled one of my men. I want to bail him
out.”
Wint took a minute to consider this, get his bearings. He had not seen
Radabaugh all evening. He asked Rand: “You mean he’s made an arrest?
What’s the charge?”
“Claims the man was selling booze to a bum.”
“Was he?” Wint inquired gently.
“Was he” Rand growled. “No, of course not. You must think we’re bad men,
coming here to dirty your pretty little town. He was selling liver
pills, or pink tea. What the hell of it? I want to bail him out.”
“No bail accepted,” said Wint quietly. “He’ll have to stay in the
calaboose over night.”
Rand exploded, as though he had been half expecting this. He said some
harsh things about Hardiston, and some harsher things about Wint, none
of which will bear repeating. In the midst of them, Wint stirred a
little and struck the man heavily in the mouth with his right fist; at
the same time, his left started and landed in the other’s throat, and
the right went home again on Rand’s hard little jaw. Rand fell in a
snoring heap.
Wint was curiously elated. He looked around. A crowd had gathered, and
some of the carnival men were pushing through the crowd. There was a
belligerent look about them. Then he saw Marshal Jim Radabaugh elbowing
through the circle, and Wint was glad to see Jim. He called him:
“Marshal, here’s a man I’ve arrested.”
That halted Rand’s underlings. Rand himself was groaning back to
consciousness. Wint pointed down at him. “Take him to jail,” he said.
One of the carnival men protested. Wint turned to him. “Close up your
shows, all of you,” he told the man. “Your permit’s cancelled. Get out
of town to-morrow.”
Radabaugh had Rand on his feet; he gripped the man, his left hand
twisted in the other’s collar. Two or three of Rand’s men surged toward
them, and Radabaugh’s gun flickered into sight. It had a steadying
effect; no one pressed closer.
All the fighting blood had flowed out of Rand’s smashed lips. He was
whining now: “Come, old man, what’s the idea?” Wint and Radabaugh
marched him between them through the crowd. Two or three score curious,
cheering or cursing spectators followed them to the cells behind the
fire-engine house. Rand submitted to being locked up there with no more
than querulous protests. He seemed thoroughly tamed. He asked for a
lawyer, but Wint said there was no need of a lawyer that night. Two of
the fire department, on duty, had come out to see the business of
locking up this second prisoner. Radabaugh bade them keep an eye on the
cells, and they agreed to do so. Then the marshal scattered the crowd.
Wint washed his bruised hands in the engine house. After a little,
Radabaugh came in; and Wint asked:
“Is it true you got a man selling?”
“Yes. The capper at the lottery.”
“How’d you get him?”
Radabaugh chuckled, and shifted the lump in his cheek.
“Saw Ote Runns,” he said. “Figured Ote would nose out any loose booze,
so I kind of kept an eye on Ote. He talked to two or three men, and
finally to this fellow. They went in behind the billboard by the hotel,
and I saw him slip Ote the bottle and take Ote’s money. So I nabbed
him.”
“Ote? Get him too?”
“Yes; him and his half pint. I let him keep it. He was pretty shaky.
Needed it, I guess.”
Wint nodded. “Be around in the morning?” he asked. “I’ll be down early.”
Radabaugh assented. Wint hesitated, then he said: “Good work, Jim.”
The marshal grinned. “Well,” he told Wint, “from the looks of Rand’s
face, you did some good work, too.”
They shook hands. There was a distinctly mutual liking and admiration in
their grip. Then Wint started for home, and Radabaugh went back to keep
an eye on his prisoners.
* * * * *
One of Rand’s men went to V. R. Kite with the news of the trouble; and
Kite, uncertain what to do, sent for Jack Routt and told him what had
happened. This was at midnight. “I’ve got to stand by Rand,” Kite said.
“The question is, are we ready to get after Wint?”
Routt shook his head. “Time for that. Hold off,” he advised.
Kite asked impatiently: “How long? What makes you think you can get
anything on him?”
“It’s ripe,” said Routt. “Apt to break any time. I’ve been working on
it.”
In the end, he persuaded Kite to wait. “Well, then,” Kite asked, “what
are we going to do about Rand?”
“He’s got to take his medicine.”
“He won’t. He’ll fight.”
“I’ll tell you,” said Routt. “I’ll go see him. Fix it up with him.”
“Can you do it without Wint’s finding out?”
Routt laughed. “I’m a lawyer. I’ve a right to have clients, even in the
Mayor’s court. I’ll take their case.”
Kite, in the end, agreed to that. When Routt left the little man, he
intended to go direct to the jail; but on the way, he changed his mind.
As well to let the men cool their heels. It would make Rand more ready
to listen to reason.
He went up Main Street toward the carnival, and found that the tents
were coming down, one of Radabaugh’s officers keeping a watchful eye on
the proceedings. Wint’s orders that the shows be closed could not be
evaded. This much, at least, he had scored. Routt went home and did some
thinking.
He appeared at the jail half an hour before Wint came to hold court; and
Radabaugh let him talk with Rand and with the other man. When Wint
appeared, the two were brought into court, with Ote Runns as a witness,
for good measure. Wint was surprised to see Routt. Jack nodded to him,
and came up to Wint’s desk, and said: “Rand sent for me. Wanted me to
take his case. He knows he’s licked, I think. He’ll take his medicine,
if you don’t make it too stiff.”
“I’m charging him with assault and with using profane language,” said
Wint.
“Assault?” Routt laughed. “Thought it was you that did the assaulting.”
“He made threats. Threats constitute an assault. You know that as well
as I do.”
Routt nodded. “Oh, sure.” He added: “You know, the carnival’s shut up.
It’s costing Rand money. You might go as light as you can.”
“I’m going to give the other man the limit,” said Wint.
“That’s all right,” Routt agreed. “Rand’s sore at him for getting
caught. He’ll let the poor gink take his medicine.”
Wint nodded abstractedly. Foster, the city solicitor, had just come in,
and Wint beckoned to him, and asked: “What’s the worst I can do on a
charge of illegal liquor selling?”
“Two hundred dollars’ fine on the first offense,” Foster told him.
Three minutes later, the offender was protesting that he could not pay
such a fine; he was appealing desperately to Rand. Wint bade the
carnival boss stand up. Rand got to his feet.
“I’m sorry for this business,” he said humbly. “I thought you were just
trying to save your face. Running a bluff.”
“Are you paying his fine for your friend?” Wint asked coldly.
Rand said: “No, blast him! If he wants to get caught by a hick
constable, let him take his medicine. Work it out.”
“I wouldn’t call Radabaugh a hick to his face,” Wint suggested in a mild
voice, and Rand apologized.
“I didn’t mean a thing,” he said.
Wint, in a swift hurry to be done, told him: “You’re fined ten for
assault, and five for profanity. And costs.”
“That’s all right,” Rand cheerfully agreed. “I’ll pay.”
Wint nodded, disgusted at the man because he submitted so tamely. He sat
back in his chair, listening idly to what Routt was saying, paying no
apparent heed. Rand settled his fines and costs with the clerk, shook
hands with Routt, and departed. When he was gone, Wint sat up with new
energy.
“I hope we’re rid of him for good,” he said.
“You are, I’ll say,” Routt told him. “He’s had all he wants.”
The carnival got out of town that day; but before he departed, Rand had
a word with Kite, and Kite comforted him. “Don’t worry,” Kite said.
“This won’t last. You’ll make a harvest here, next summer.”
Rand said ruefully: “I’m not making any harvest now. And they tell me
you helped elect this guy.”
“He was a common drunk, then. How could I know?”
Rand fingered his swollen face gingerly. “I’ll say he’s got a punch.”
“He won’t have any punch left when we’re done with him,” Kite promised.
“Wait and see.”
“I’m waiting,” said Rand. And a little later, he and his cohorts went
their way.