A WAITRESS TO THE RESCUE
"Order in the court!" shouted the coroner.
"That man there--him, Slim Terry--he's lying to you, judge. Yes. He is.
He's lying. He didn't kill Bud. He's lying, judge. He is; honest."
"Who killed him then?" said the coroner. The sheriff walked over and
stood beside the girl.
"I did. I shot him. I--"
"Tilly, you're crazy. Stop her, sheriff. She ain't telling the truth.
She's--" The prisoner made to shove her back.
"Order in the court!" Turner roared.
"Listen to me. I'm going to tell you. Yes, I am. I'm going to tell."
"Silence, gentlemen. Let's hear what she's got to say," the sheriff
ordered.
"I knew Bud Walton was coming to the Fashion that night to look for Jeff
Thomas." Tilly told her story gustfully, her voice shrill. "Yes, I knew
it. I told Jeff so. Why shouldn't I? Bud told me. He'd been drinking the
night before. That man sitting there was my fellow. He came to see me
that afternoon, and I had to hide him in ol' Raphael's house like any
dog. All because of Bud Walton. Yes."
"Go on. Quiet, please."
"Slim, he wanted to shoot Bud himself. So would you, judge, if you knew.
But I said no. Do you know why he wanted to shoot? I'll tell you. Bud
Walton was bad. Yes. He was. He was a bad man. He asked me to marry him,
and when I laughed, he said he'd take me anyhow. Yes. That is what he
said. He was bad. And I got afraid. He done run Slim out of town last
year and there was nobody--oh, don't let 'em all stare at me that way,
judge. I'm telling the truth. Before God, I am."
"Go on," said Turner huskily.
"I was in the hall with Slim. I let him in at the door. Yes, I did. It
was locked. We had a rifle and we stood there. I had often shot at
prairie-dogs with the rifle when me and Slim would go riding together.
Slim, he couldn't never hit a barn door. No wonder he was scared of Bud.
It's true--true as gospel, judge. He couldn't have killed him. No. I
made him put both hands against the wall and then I rested the gun on
his shoulder. Yes. I did. Bud Walton was bad. He was a bad man. When I
saw him, I pulled quick. And then I shut my eyes. And then--I don't
rightly remember after that. That's the truth. It's all true, every
word. Yes. It is. Slim, he went away--and now--oh, oh, oh."
She rocked on her feet, her hands over her eyes.
"Order in the court! Order in the court!" the coroner bawled, though you
could have heard a man gulp.
The sheriff took Tilly by the arm and led her away. He permitted Slim to
come with them.
"Gen'l'men," said Turner, clearing his throat as he rose from his chair,
"this court stands adjourned. Bud, he just died. That's good enough for
him."
The next morning the sheriff called on Tilly at the Fashion and told her
to don her best bib and tucker with all speed.
"I'd a heap rather go to this here Slim party's funeral, Tilly," he
said, "but I suppose you've got to have him. So get a move on. I reckon
Badger can stake you to a wedding."
Naught cared Tilly for this genial slight on her lover. She had
him--that was sufficient for her. A woman does not need to respect a man
in order to love him devotedly. Moist of face, but radiant, she
presented herself before Lafe within an hour.
And to what a wedding did Badger stake the waitress! The entire town
seemed to regard it as a public event in which every citizen had a
personal interest and a duty to perform; and they did it nobly. Tilly
was deluged with gifts, ranging from a Book of Common Prayer to a heifer
calf, which the donor assured her would one day develop into a fine
milch cow and feed all the little Terrys.
Lafe took upon himself the conduct of the proceedings. And in the course
of them he became so wrought up that he made a speech, a faculty for
which had hitherto been unsuspected in the sheriff. He started off by
saying it would not be much of a speech, and he was correct. Yet such
was his fervor that Tilly cried for the fifth time that day, and her
husband gulped until his Adam's apple threatened to jump out of his
throat, as he gripped Johnson's hand.
A strict adherence to facts compels the admission that there was a very
considerable consumption of liquor on this day. You see, nothing is ever
consummated in Badger, from a sale of steers or a horse trade, to a
wedding in the season, without a certain indulgence of this nature.
For, in the course of human events and in pursuit of that liberty and
happiness which constitute the inalienable right of every citizen, a man
is apt, from time to time, to get drunk. Nobody in Badger ever held it
against him--far from it. Let that then be the excuse for sundry
estimable gentlemen who felt badly the morning after Tilly's marriage.
Let that explain the presence of the justice of the peace and the
sheriff of Badger and Dr. Armstrong, when they foregathered in the
Fashion before breakfast, to compare symptoms and to contrive means by
which they might last through another sun. Indeed, convivial relaxation
was regarded in Badger as incidental to male existence, however rarely
these "benders," as they were termed in local parlance, might be
tempered by discretion.
Yet there have always been certain unwritten rules governing bouts with
Care, and if a man broke them in Badger, he became either a social
outcast or an inmate of the calaboose, which was worse. The calaboose
was once a livery stable and has never entirely got over it.
This qualifying statement is by way of leading up to happenings that
wrought a regeneration in Lafe Johnson and changed the whole course of
his life.