CHAPTER I_The Sheriff of Badger: A Tale of the Southwest Borderland

Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia, Mary Meehan

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images

generously made available by The Internet Archive/American

Libraries.)

The SHERIFF OF BADGER

_A TALE OF THE SOUTHWEST BORDERLAND_

BY GEORGE PATTULLO

ILLUSTRATED

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

NEW YORK AND LONDON: MCMXII

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

_Published June, 1912_

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgments are due to _The Saturday Evening

Post_, _Pearson's Magazine_ and _The Popular Magazine_

for permission to use some of the material in this book.

A. W. BALLANTYNE

[Illustration: The Sheriff of Badger]

CONTENTS

I LAFE JOHNSON ARRIVES AT LAZY L RANCH

II CERTAIN COMPLICATIONS RESULT

III CONCERNING A BABY'S WAIL

IV OUT OF A JOB

V AN INCIPIENT LOVE AFFAIR

VI DISCOMFITURE OF A GUNFIGHTER

VII JOHNSON IS ELECTED SHERIFF OF BADGER

VIII A FEUD AND WHAT CAME OF IT

IX AN INQUEST AND A SURPRISE

X A JOURNEY TO SATAN'S KINGDOM

XI A WAITRESS TO THE RESCUE

XII THE SHERIFF SETTLES A CONJUGAL DISPUTE

XIII AND HETTY COMES TO BADGER TO LIVE

XIV THE SHERIFF ENSNARED

XV HOW HE WON A WIFE

XVI THE GUNFIGHTER RETURNS AND DELAYS WEDDING

XVII JOHNSON MEETS A FRIEND OF HETTY'S

XVIII A SACRIFICE AND ITS PUNISHMENT

XIX BUFFALO JIM GIVES WISE COUNSEL

XX THE SHERIFF PURGES TOWN OF BADGER

XXI A FIGHT IN THE DARK

XXII CAPTURE OF MOFFATT, THE GUNMAN

XXIII THE WEDDING

XXIV THE BRIDE IS LOST

XXV JOHNSON BECOMES BOSS OF THE ANVIL

XXVI ENTERS TROUBLE

XXVII A CLEVER WOMAN AND A MISUNDERSTANDING

XXVIII RECONCILIATION--MRS. VINING EXPERIENCES A CHANGE OF HEART

XXIX LAFE HELPS A DESERTER

XXX AND DISCOVERS HETTY'S BROTHER

XXXI GREAT EXPECTATIONS IN JOHNSON FAMILY

XXXII BIRTH OF LAFE JOHNSON, JR.

XXXIII JOHNSON ONCE MORE IN ROLE OF SHERIFF

XXXIV HE ARRESTS A SUSPECT

XXXV THE DEATH DICE

XXXVI RESPONSIBILITY SITS HEAVILY ON LAFE

XXXVII BUT THE BOSS AGAIN PROVES HIS METTLE

XXXVIII HOW A MOFFATT HENCHMAN WAS OUSTED

XXXIX NEWS FROM BUFFALO JIM

XL HE ARRIVES TO VISIT THE JOHNSONS

XLI A NIGHT RIDE AND DEATH OF BUFFALO JIM

XLII MIDDLE LIFE

XLIII MOFFATT ONCE MORE

XLIV THE DUEL IN THE MALPAIS

XLV THE END

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The Sheriff of Badger

"She and Johnson rode together every day"

"As Lafe was coming from dinner ... a Mexican handed him a letter"

"So now Lafe, Jr., flattened out in his fissure in equal danger with his

father"

THE SHERIFF OF BADGER

CHAPTER I

LAFE JOHNSON ARRIVES AT THE LAZY L RANCH

It may come as a shock to many to learn that we have in cowland a

considerable number of full-blooded men who have never made it a

practice to step outside the door of a morning and shoot a

fellow-citizen before breakfast. This is true; vital statistics and

fiction to the contrary, notwithstanding. They are well-grown,

two-fisted men, also, and work very hard seven days in the week, and

whenever they go to town they get drunk. But in the main they are

law-abiding, and steal calves only for their employers.

There was Lafe Johnson. This story has him for its central figure.

"It's right queer about men," Lafe used to say, when in a reflective

mood. "A feller will knock in a friend what he'd be like to do himself.

And he'll act mean one day so he's sure ashamed of it the next. Yes,

sir; the best of 'em will. It all depends on how a man feels, I reckon,

and what shape his stomach's in. No man ain't always going to do the

right thing, and I've never met a feller yet who was all bad. What's

more, nobody thinks he's bad, or I expect he wouldn't be. Don't you

reckon? Why, a man'll be plucky one day and the next morning he'd cry if

a jackrabbit was to slap him in the face."

Lafe started man's estate as a cowboy. What his antecedents were I don't

know and don't care, nor did anybody else in our country. We have so

many more important matters to engage us. Punching cattle happened to be

his profession. In every other respect Lafe was a normal individual--no

better than you or I, and assuredly no worse. Some thought he was worse,

and among them a Mrs. Tracey--or she pretended to--who thought that and

a few other things besides. That was why Mrs. Floyd, just before Johnson

departed the ranch, insisted that he accompany her to the Tracey home in

Rowdy Canon.

"I'll tell her to her face what I think," she said.

Lafe tried to pacify her.

"I ain't much of a fighter, ma'am," he said. "You'd better go alone and

have it out. Miz Tracey, she's got me scared off the map right now."

"You'll come, too!" Mrs. Floyd assured him, pulling on her gauntlets.

This is what Mrs. Floyd said, sitting her horse in front of the Tracey

gate, her erstwhile friend being on the veranda: "I've heard the

stories you've been spreading about me, Tracey!"

"Stories? Gracious, what's got into you, Sally? I never mentioned your

name! Do you reckon I've got nothing better to talk about?"

"Don't lie," Mrs. Floyd continued, her voice rising. "You know what I

mean. And I've got Mr. Johnson with me to hear it, too. You keep your

mouth shut about me--do you hear? If you don't, I'll shut it for you.

I'm right proud and glad to know Lafe Johnson--he's a friend of my

husband, too--and--and--"

She had much more to impart, having rehearsed it mentally on the way

over in order to be effective, but here rage and tears choked speech.

Perhaps it was as well; finical people may even find something to

deplore in what Mrs. Floyd did say. Mrs. Tracey answered, tucking her

chin into her neck, that she was very, very glad to hear it, but, for

herself, she must confess complete inability to discover any grounds for

pride in Mr. Johnson's acquaintance. Upon which she slammed the door.

"Now, I wonder if that lady meant something?" Lafe murmured gently.

That was forever the way. People were never indifferent to Johnson. They

either swore by him or execrated his name, which ought to be held to his

credit. A man's virtues must be negative if he make no enemies.

Here is the story of Lafe's advent in our part of the world--merely the

facts, and not the tale Mrs. Tracey spread. No man will blame him, and

let those of her sex judge Mrs. Floyd who have never erred a hair's

breadth. We will then consider the jury.

The Lazy L outfit was loading a train with cattle--ones and twos, graded

stuff and some bulls--when Johnson first appeared. He arrived on a

freight, presumably. It is my belief he was heading back for Texas on

the bumpers of an eastbound that passed. It stopped for water and he

dropped off when he perceived us shipping.

Forty yearlings had been manhandled and heaved into a car, and one old

bull was added which would eventually visit eastern parts in tins.

Perhaps the range monarch had some suspicion of this, for he turned

round to walk out. They yelled, and prodded at his neck and ribs with

poles, but the bull shook his head in settled determination and started

down the chute. If he gained the crowding pen, where more yearlings and

another bull waited, there would be a fight and a lot of mussing and

long delay. The boss danced up and down, swearing like a moss-trooper.

"Bar the chute! Bar the chute!" he yelled from the top of the corral

fence.

Ere the poles could be thrust in, a seedy individual stepped down

directly in front of the giant Hereford and began to lash him furiously

over the face with a rope.

"Come out of there! You'll get killed. Come out!" cried the boss.

The bull bellowed with rage, but the sting of the blows forced his head

up. Blood trickled down his nose, and there were livid wales above the

eyes. One lurch forward and this man would be crushed, but the rope cut

fiercely and without pause, and the bull began to back. The stranger did

not let up, but drove him into the car with savage recklessness.

"What the Sam Hill are you, anyhow?" said the boss, straddling the

fence. "A circus or a town cowboy?"

Now, a "town cowboy" is a term of reproach among us, signifying a young

man who never did range work, but wears the clothes and does trick

roping for the delectation of visitors. Ultimately he joins a Wild West

show and instructs the rising generation.

"I reckon you're cleverer than me," Johnson said, "but you ain't awake

to me yet. Turn over. You're on your back."

Without concerning himself further about the boss, he clambered out on

to the platform and threw the borrowed rope to Reb. We saw that he was

tall and big of bone, and his shoulders had an indolent droop. Although

he could not have been over twenty-five, his hair was plentifully

flecked with gray.

Presently Buffalo Jim, who was keeping tally of the cattle going through

the chute, lost count and admitted frankly that he could not say whether

there were thirty-seven or forty in the car. He tried to appear grave in

confessing this, but was unable to repress a snigger. Everything would

have gone smoothly, he contended, had he not chanced to recall a story

Uncle Hi Millet had told him the previous night.

"If that feller could count up to fifty," said Johnson, in an aside to

the buyer, "he would be back in Texas still, a-teaching school."

"Hello, Lafe!" the other exclaimed. "Where did you drop from? Want a

job? Seventy a month?"

"Eighty."

"No, sir; seventy."

"Eighty. I got a lot of unfinished business down the line unless."

"Have it your own way. Eighty it is. Fly at it."

Johnson replaced Buffalo Jim and sat on a board between two posts,

dangling his legs, staring at everything but the plunging steers. Yet he

never once failed to tally.

The boss's wife rode up to the corrals. With her was Mrs. Tracey.

"Who's them there ladies?" Lafe whispered to a cowboy who wielded a

prodpole.

"That pretty one's Miz Floyd. I cain't rightly see the other. Oh, yes.

Shore. She's a widow woman--owns a flock of mines way up in them

mountains."

"The pretty one's the one I meant," said Lafe.

We sealed the door of the last car, and a brakeman waved to the engineer

to pull forward. The buyer grabbed Lafe by the shoulder and jabbered

instructions into his ear. Then he caught the caboose rail as it sped

by, and Johnson informed the amazed Floyd that he had been commissioned

to receive the other herds when gathered.

"And he don't even know your name? Oh, he does? All the same, that's

sure rushing it. Glad to do business with you, anyhow. I want you to be

acquainted with my wife. Shake hands with Mr. Johnson, Sally."

Mrs. Floyd came down the platform, striding like a man. She was wearing

a divided skirt, very useful-looking spurs on her high-heeled boots, and

a man's felt hat. All the cowboys stopped work to eye her. She was only

twenty-two and had an amazingly trim figure. With that meaningless smile

of polite welcome with which a woman greets her husband's friends, Mrs.

Floyd drew off a glove to give Johnson her hand.

"Lafe Johnson! Lafe!" she squealed. And with that she was pumping the

big fellow's arm up and down, her cheeks red with excitement.

"Why, it's li'l Sally!"

"I take it you two know each other," said her husband mildly.

"Do we? Why, we were raised together, Tom. Lafe was one of my best

beaux. Weren't you, Lafe?"

"Ain't got over it yet," said Lafe.

The widow put in a reminder that she was on earth by a furtive pull at

Mrs. Floyd's sleeve. Lafe said, "Pleased to meet you, ma'am," very

correctly, and shook hands. After the hand shake he looked at Mrs.

Tracey again, with a new interest. The boss shouted for his horse. He

could never be idle a minute.

"Let's go home. Reb, give Johnson your horse and double up with one of

the boys. I'm sure getting hungry."

Laughing and indulging in horse-play, the Lazy L men set out. Mrs.

Tracey paired off with Floyd and took especial pains to lead him well in

advance. There would have been nothing in this maneuver but for her

manner of executing it.

"What does she mean by that?" said Sally hotly.

"Who? What?"

"The way she went off there. Didn't you see her? You'd think we--oh, I

don't know how to say it."

"I reckon this lady knows her way about, ma'am?"

"She's awfully nice, Lafe. Really she is. When we're alone, I love her.

But sometimes, when men are around--well, you saw how she acted."

"Sure," said Lafe, in his soft bass, and he grinned at her. "It ain't

what she does, but it's what she don't do. That smile she smothers,

now--"

"Have you noticed that, too? Tom did, very first thing. He doesn't like

her."

Johnson asked her of her marriage and how it had come about. It was five

years since he had seen her, wasn't it? Mrs. Floyd said four, and he

murmured that it seemed longer. She laughed, but was pleased,

nevertheless. As they rode, she studied him without disguise, and

remarked that the gray in his hair was an improvement. He was dressed

very poorly, and his boots were down at the heel and worn through the

soles, but she did not appear to notice their plight and he suffered no

confusion therefrom. Twice she detected him looking from her to Tom,

loping in the van.

"What're you thinking about?" she said.

"Nothing much. Ideas don't get much of a hold on me. There ain't nothing

to grip."

"I know--I can see it in your face. It's mean of you, Lafe, just because

he's forty and--and--well, he's the truest and best--"

"Hold on there. Pull up!" He was chuckling. Abruptly sober: "Sure, I'll

bet he's got a kind heart."

She glared at him for an instant. Then they both exploded into laughter

and she shook her horse into a gallop.

"You're just the same old Lafe. Nothing'll ever sober you," she called

over her shoulder. "Remember--I'm a married woman, Lafe Johnson."

"I won't forget it if you don't, ma'am," he said amiably, upon which she

gave him a fearfully stern look and giggled.