THE SHERIFF FINDS THE ORPHAN
The day dragged wearily along for the man in the chaparral, and when the
sun showed that it was still two hours from the meridian he leaped to
his feet, rifle in hand, and peered intently to the west, where he
had seen a fast-riding horseman flit between two chaparrals which stood
far down on the western end of the Cimarron Trail. Without pausing, he
made his way out of cover and ran rapidly along the edge of the thicket
until he had gained its northwestern extremity, where he plunged into
it, unmindful of the cuts and slashes from the interlocked thorns.
Using the rifle as a club, he hammered and pushed until he was screened
from the view of anyone passing along the trail, but where he could
see all who approached. As he turned and faced the west he saw the
horseman suddenly emerge from the shelter of the last chaparral in his
course and ride straight for the intersection of the trails, his horse
flattened to the earth by the speed it was making. Waiting until the
rider was within fifty yards of him, he pushed his way out to the trail,
the rifle leaping to his shoulder as he stepped into the open. The
newcomer was looking back at half a dozen Apaches who had burst into view
by the chaparral he had just quitted, and when he turned he was stopped
by a hail and the sight of an unwavering rifle held by the man on foot.
"A truce!" shouted The Orphan from behind the sights, having an idea and
wishing to share it.
"Hell, yes!" cried the astonished sheriff in reply, slowing down and
mechanically following the already running outlaw to the place where
the latter had spent the last few hours.
By keeping close to the edge of the chaparral, which receded from the
trail, The Orphan had not been seen by the Apaches, and as he turned into
his hiding place a yell reached his ears. His trophies on the bowlder
were not to be unmourned.
As he wormed his way into the thicket, closely followed by the sheriff,
he tersely explained the situation, and Shields, feeling somewhat under
obligation to the man who had refrained from killing him, nodded and
smiled in good nature. The sheriff thought it was a fine joke and
enthusiastically slapped his enemy on the back to show his appreciation,
for the time forgetting that they very probably would try to kill each
other later on, after the Apaches had been taken care of.
As they reached a point which gave them a clear view of the bowlder, The
Orphan kicked his companion on the shin, pointing to the Apaches grouped
around their dead.
"It's a little over three hundred, Sheriff," he said. "You shoot first and
I'll follow you, so they'll think you shot twice--there's no use letting
them think that there's two of us, that is, not yet."
"Good idea," replied the sheriff, nodding and throwing his rifle to
his shoulder. "Right end for me," he said, calling his shot so as to be
sure that the same brave would not receive all the attention. As he fired
his companion covered the second warrior, using one of his captured
Winchesters, and a second later the rifle spun flame. Both warriors
dropped and the remaining four hastily postponed their mourning and
tumbled helter skelter behind the bowlder, the sheriff's second shot
becoming a part of the last one to find cover.
"Fine!" exulted the sheriff, delighted at the score. "Best game I ever
took a hand in, d-----d if it ain't! We'll have them guessing so hard that
they'll get brain fever."
"Three shots in as many seconds will make them think that they are
facing a Winchester in the hands of a crack shot," remarked The Orphan,
smiling with pleasure at the sheriff's appreciation. "They'll think
that if they can back off from the bowlder and keep it between them and
you that they can get out of range in a few hundred yards more. That is
where I come in again. You sling a little lead to let them know that you
haven't moved a whole lot, but stop in a couple of minutes, while I go
down the line a ways. The chaparral sweeps to the north quite a little,
and mebby I can drop a slug behind their fort from down there. That'll
make them think you are a jack rabbit at covering ground and will bother
them. If they rush, which they won't after tasting that kind of shooting,
you whistle good and loud and we'll make them plumb disgusted. I'll take
a Winchester along with me, so they won't have any cause to suspect that
you are an arsenal. So long."
The sheriff glanced up as his companion departed and was pleased at the
outlaw's command of the situation. He had a good chance to wipe out the
man, but that he would not do, for The Orphan trusted him, and Shields
was one who respected a thing like that.
The outlaw finally stopped about a hundred yards down the trail and looked
out, using his glasses. A brown shoulder showed under the overhanging side
of the bowlder and he smiled, readjusting the sights on the Winchester as
he waited. Soon the shoulder raised from the ground and pushed out farther
into sight. Then a poll of black hair showed itself and slowly raised.
The Orphan took deliberate aim and pulled the trigger. The head dropped to
the sand and the shoulder heaved convulsively once or twice and then lay
quiet. Leaping up, the marksman hastened back to the side of the sheriff,
who did not trouble himself to look up.
"I got him, Sheriff," he said. "Work up to the other end and I'll go back
to where I came from. They have got all the fighting they have any use for
and will be backing away purty soon now. The range from the point where I
held you is some closer than it is from here, so you ought to get in a
shot when they get far enough back."
"All right," pleasantly responded Shields, vigorously attacking the thorns
as he began his journey to the western end of the thicket. "Ouch!" he
exclaimed as he felt the pricks. Then he stopped and slowly turned and
saw The Orphan smiling at him, and grinned:
"Say," he began, "why can't I go around?" he asked, indicating with a
sweep of his arm the southern edge of the chaparral, and intimating that
it would be far more pleasant to skirt the thorns than to buck against
them. "These d------d thorns ain't no joke!" he added emphatically.
The outlaw's smile enlarged and he glanced quickly at the bowlder to see
that all was as it should be.
"You can go around in one day afoot," he replied. "By that time
they"--pointing to the Apaches--"will have made a day's journey on
cayuses. And we simply mustn't let them get the best of us that way."
Shields grinned and turned half-way around again: "It's a whole lot dry
out here," he said, "and my canteen is on my cayuse."
"Here, pardner," replied The Orphan, holding out his canteen and watching
the effect of the familiarity. "Seven swallows is the dose."
The sheriff faced him, took the vessel, counted seven swallows and
returned it.
"I'm some moist now," he remarked, as he returned to the thorns. "It's
too d------n bad you're bad," he grumbled. "You'd make a blamed good
cow-puncher."
The Orphan, still smiling, placed his hands on hips and watched the
rapidly disappearing arm of the law.
"He's all right--too bad he'll make me shoot him," he soliloquized,
turning toward his post. As he crawled through a particularly badly matted
bit of chaparral he stopped to release himself and laughed outright. "How
in thunder did he get so far west? My trail was as plain as day, too."
When he had reached his destination and had settled down to watch the
bowlder he laughed again and muttered: "Mebby he figured it out that I
was doubling back and was laying for me to show up. And that's just the
way I would have gone, too. He ain't any fool, all right."
He thought of the sheriff at the far end of the chaparral and of the
repeater he carried, and an inexplicable impulse of generosity surged
over him. The sheriff would be pleased to do the rest himself, he thought,
and the thought was father to the act. He picked up the Winchester he
had brought with him and fired at the bowlder, only wishing to let the
Apaches know his position so that they would think the way clear to
the northwest, and so innocently give the sheriff a shot at them as
they retreated. Dropping the Winchester he took up his Sharps, his pet
rifle, with which he had done wonderful shooting, and arose to one
knee, supporting his left elbow on the other; between the fingers of
his left hand he held a cartridge in order that no time should be lost in
reloading. The range was now five hundred yards, and when The Orphan knew
the exact range he swore with rage if he missed.
His shot had the effect he hoped it would have, for suddenly there was
movement behind the bowlder. A pony's hip showed for an instant and
then leaped from sight as the outlaw reloaded. A cloud of dust arose to
the northwest of and behind the bowlder, and a series of close reports
sounded from the direction of the sheriff. The Orphan leaped to his feet
and dashed out on the plain to where his sight would not be obstructed
and saw an Apache, who hung down on the far side of his horse, sweep
northward and gallop along the northern trail. He fired, but the range
was too great, and the warrior soon dropped from sight over the range
of hills. As The Orphan made his way toward the bowlder the sheriff
emerged from his shelter and pointed to the west. A pony lay on its side
and not far away was the huddled body of its rider.
As they neared each other the outlaw noticed something peculiar about
the sheriff's ear, and his look of inquiry was rewarded. "Stung,"
remarked Shields, grinning apologetically. "Just as I shot," he added in
explanation of the Apache's escape. "Wonder what my wife'll say?" he
mused, nursing the swelling.
The Orphan's eyes opened a trifle at the sheriff's last words, and he
thought of the war party he had sent north. His decision was immediate:
no married man had any business to run risks, and he was glad that he
refrained from shooting on sight.
"Sheriff, you vamoose. Clear out now, while you have the chance. Ride west
for an hour, and then strike north for Ford's Station. That buck that got
away is due to run into twenty-seven of his friends and relatives that I
sent north to meet you. And they won't waste any time in getting back,
neither."
Shields felt of his ear and laughed softly. He had a sudden, strong liking
for his humorous, clever enemy, for he recognized qualities which he had
always held in high esteem. While he had waited in the chaparral for the
Apaches to break cover he had wondered if the Indians which The Orphan
had sent north had been sent for the purpose of meeting him, and now
he had the answer. Instead of embittering him against his companion, it
increased his respect for that individual's strategy, and he felt only
admiration.
"I saw your reception committee in time to duck," the sheriff said,
laughing. "If they kept on going as they were when I saw them they must
have crossed my trail about three hours later. When they hit that it
is a safe bet that at least some of them took it up. So if it's all the
same to you, I'll leave both the north and the west alone and take another
route home. I have shot up all the war-whoops I care about, so I am
well satisfied."
He suddenly reached down toward his belt, and then looked squarely into
The Orphan's gun, which rested easily on that person's hip. His hand
kept on, however, but more slowly and with but two fingers extended,
and disappeared into his chap's pocket, from which it slowly and gingerly
brought forth a package of tobacco and some rice paper. The Orphan looked
embarrassed for a second and then laughed softly.
"You're a square man, Sheriff, but I wasn't sure," he said in apology.
"So long."
"That's all right," cried the sheriff heartily. "I was a big fool to make
a play like that!"
The Orphan smiled and turned squarely around and walked away in the
direction of his horse. Shields stared at his back and then rolled a
cigarette and grinned: "By George!" he ejaculated at the confidence
displayed by his companion, and he slowly followed.
After they had mounted in silence the sheriff suddenly turned and looked
his companion squarely in the eyes and received a steady, frank look in
return.
"What the devil made you ventilate them sheep herders that way?" he asked.
"And go and drive all of them sheep over the bank?"
The Orphan frowned momentarily, but answered without reserve.
"Those sheep herders reckoned they'd get a reputation!" he answered. "And
they would have gotten it, too, only I beat them on the draw. As for the
idiotic muttons, they went plumb loco at the shooting and pushed each
other over the bank. To hell with the herders--they only got what they was
trying to hand me. But I'm a whole lot sorry about the sheep, although I
can't say I'm dead stuck on range-killers of any kind."
The sheriff reflectively eyed his companion's gun and remembered its
celerity into getting into action, which persuaded him that The Orphan
was telling the truth, and swept aside the last chance for fair warfare
between the two for the day.
"Yes, it is too bad, all them innocent sheep drowned that way," he slowly
replied. "But they are shore awful skittish at times. Well, do we part?"
he asked, suddenly holding out his hand.
"I reckon we do, Sheriff, and I'm blamed glad to have met you," replied
the outlaw as he shook hands with no uncertain grip. "Keep away from them
Apaches, and so long."
"Thanks, I will," responded the arm of the law. "And I'm glad to have met
you, too. So long!"