A JOURNEY TO SATAN'S KINGDOM
"What're you giving us?" "Go on, Lafe." "Hush, let's hear him." "Quit
crowding there, will you?" "Say, are you looking for trouble?" "Well,
quit it." It was long before quiet could be obtained.
The sheriff waited for absolute silence before taking up the thread of
his explanation again. Then he said, slowly scanning the faces around
him--"Mr. Coroner, if you'll adjourn this here court for two days, I'll
bring the murderer here."
The inquest adjourned in confusion. Thomas was released, only to be
rearrested.
"I'll learn fellers like you a lesson," the sheriff told him. "Bob, give
him thirty days for stealing that there Bible of yours."
The justice of the peace imposed the sentence with alacrity. It had the
appearance of spite, but Jeff exhibited no resentment and left for the
county town in charge of a deputy, without a word of protest. To me, he
appeared a broken man.
Not a word of enlightenment would the sheriff give, although all Badger
was agog with excitement and babbled questions wherever he moved. They
would cling to his arm in their eagerness, but he shook them off. At
dinner, he ordered me to fetch my horse, for he planned a hard ride.
It was early afternoon when we set out for Satan's Kingdom. Our way took
us through the Willows, which we threaded at dusk. We were passing a
certain pile of rocks, when the sheriff pointed with his forefinger.
"Look," he said.
The Mother of Cottonwoods towered above the lesser trees, plain to the
sight. She was black and stark, bare as though blasted by lightning. We
jogged along mutely.
"Look a-here," the sheriff said, as we neared the mountain village, "you
done heard that shooting. What did you hear? Tell me as near as you
can."
I strove to focus all my faculties on the task.
"There was a first shot--that must have been Bud's."
"Never mind whose it was," said Johnson.
"Then there seemed to be two very close together. I'm not sure about
that, Lafe, because it might have been one, sort of drawn out. But I was
watching Jeff's hand and it looked only half-way out of his shirt when
that second shot started."
"Good. How did it sound?"
"Well, she began with more of a ring to her--sharper than a
six-shooter--and she ended heavily, just like a .45."
"Sure," he said, with great satisfaction. "That was the 30-30. It just
beat Jeff to the mark. Why didn't you tell that at the inquest?"
"I wasn't sure," I answered lamely. "Nobody would have believed me,
anyway."
"So you think a feller ought to tell only what he figures folks will
believe? Well, it don't matter. Don't get hot. Listen. We'll bring back
the feller who shot Bud, to-night or to-morrow. He was hiding in that
dark hall back of Thomas, just waiting for a chance. As quick as I saw
the hole in Bud's head, I said to myself, 'A .45 never made that, son.'
No, sir; I sure knew that 30-30 mark."
"How did you know where it came from?"
"That's easy. Bud was shot in front, wasn't he? Well, Jeff didn't do it,
so I hunted in that passage to find out who did. Sure enough, a feller
had braced himself with his hand on the wall. He was a powerful big
brute, too--more'n six feet high, easy."
The sheriff chuckled, pleased as a boy with his own astuteness.
"Say, Dan, it's almost funny the way things turn out. Ol' Miguel, the
lazy rascal, he done left a tin of axle grease on a shelf beside the
back door, and when this feller come in and went sneaking along the
hall, a-feeling his way so as not to make a noise, he stuck his hand
into it. Then he leaned with that hand bracing him, while he waited for
Bud. Do you get that? That was the hand he leaned on. Wouldn't that most
scare you? That gives his size away. Why couldn't his luck have made him
lean with the other hand? I tell you, it makes a man think."
He would not talk more on the subject and evinced impatience when
pressed. We put up at Kelley's place in the Kingdom, and the sheriff had
a few words with Kelley himself before we ate a meal specially prepared
for us.
"No, he ain't here just now," Kelley said. "He done rode off just after
supper. But he'll be here in the morning for breakfast. I hope there
ain't nothing wrong, Lafe?"
"No-oo. We just want a talk, that's all. Don't tell him, Kelley."
There were half a dozen persons at the table when we took our places not
long after daylight. Three were prospectors, one was a cowboy, and a
miner sat next him. Opposite me was a long, lank, youthful-appearing
man, who consumed his food with his nose very close to his plate. He had
little to say, except when he desired something.
Now, if a man be a lusty trencherman, or if he wolf his food, either by
tearing or the process of inhalation, we never pass direct criticism.
That might hurt his feelings and the sensibilities of the other diners.
No; instead, one glances good-naturedly about the board to pick up the
eyes, and remarks in a slow, modulated tone--"Say, ol' Bill here don't
eat enough to fatten a hog, does he?"
The sheriff watched this individual intently for a space. His scrutiny
made me uneasy, although it is true that the gentleman's table manners
were offensive. Then he leaned toward him and remarked, smilingly: "Say,
you don't eat enough to fatten a steer, do you?"
I expected an outbreak. The long person raised his eyes and a sickly
smile overspread his face. And then I knew what manner of man we had to
deal with. Because, when a man of pluck receives a blow that hurts, he
first looks serious and perhaps thoughtful; that is followed by a
determined squaring of the jaw. At last he said, essaying a sneer:
"I reckon you've got the world by the tail with a down-hill pull, ain't
you?"
"Perhaps," said Johnson. "I've got you, anyhow, Slim. You're under
arrest. Finish that coffee and come on."
"Who're you?" the other asked slowly.
"The sheriff of Badger."
"Well, I ain't sorry. I'll go along," was the reply.
On the morning of the second day, another coroner's inquest sat in
Badger. Slim Terry faced it. A greenish pallor showed near his eyes and
around the corners of his mouth, but he talked composedly.
Coroner.--"Did you shoot Bud Walton?"
"Yes."
"Tell us about it."
The prisoner passed a hand over his forehead and down to his chin, as
though to clear his thoughts.
"This feller Walton, judge, he done run me out of Badger. First, though,
he run me out of the Fashion. I ain't been in this town for six months
till the day of the shooting. Yes, I was scared of him. I ain't a
fighter, gen'l'men. I come in that day, because somebody done sent for
me."
Coroner.--"Who sent for you?"
Slim pondered this question. "I ain't a-going to tell that," he said.
"Well, I laid quiet at ol' Raphael's place on the aidge of town until
dark, and then I sneaked up back of the Fashion. Nobody seen me.
Somebody'd told me Bud Walton would likely do for Thomas there that
night, and I figured to get him from that back hall in the mixup. One of
us was sure to nail him."
"Who told you this?"
"I ain't a-going to tell. I've said that twice already, Mr. Turner, so
you needn't ask me. Well, I waited in the hall there, standing mighty
quiet. I seen Thomas at the table and a fat gen'l'man over near the
window with the sheriff here. I didn't know he was the sheriff then. By
and by a boy come in and the sheriff went out. Then all at once Bud
Walton run in at the door and pulled a gun. And then I let him have it.
I plugged him square. Couldn't miss at that distance. What'd you say,
judge? No; nobody seen me. I run out into the lot back of the Fashion
and got on my horse. I've been at the Kingdom most of the time since,
but I wasn't trying to hide out. How did you find out, Mr. Johnson?"
The audience in the court-room listened to this recital with scant
sympathy. Their disapproval was obvious. Even the sheriff appeared a
trifle ashamed of his prisoner.
"Did you have any other reason, Terry, for shooting this man?" asked the
coroner.
"No, sir. He done run me off, and I was afraid he would kill me some
day, the same as he'd done to a lot of others. So I plugged him--there
in the Fashion."
"It's a lie. He's lying, judge," cried a treble voice at the door.
The crowd wavered and split apart, and a woman broke through and
confronted the coroner. It was Tilly, the waitress at the annex. Her
hair was disordered and hung in lank wisps about her face, but she gave
no thought to that. With her red arms bare to the elbow, and her cheeks
flabby and pale from fright, she took position squarely in front of
Turner. She tried to speak, but gasped for breath.