A FIGHT IN THE DARK
As Lafe was coming from dinner at the Fashion annex next noon, a Mexican
handed him a letter. It was undated and without beginning.
[Illustration: "As Lafe was coming from dinner ... a Mexican handed him
a letter."]
Steve's sore. Look out for him.
ANNIE.
The sheriff had received so many warnings in his time that he had grown
callous and seldom attached any significance to them, but he knew that
Dutch Annie was not given to foolish alarm. So he tore her note into
minute particles and saw to the oiling of his six-shooter. That was the
only preparation against trouble that Johnson was wont to make.
The sheriff's two-roomed frame shack was somewhat removed from its
neighbors. It was a full half mile from the Widow's house, where Hetty
lodged. His housekeeping had a fine touch of simplicity. If all things
were favorable, and he had nothing else to do, Lafe would make the bed
once in a while. To do him justice, he had been known to sweep the
place, also. That was not a particularly arduous task, because the
furniture consisted of the bed aforesaid, one chair, one table with
three legs, which stood propped against the wall, and a packing case for
a washstand.
About seven o'clock that evening he led a spare horse to the Widow's
house and took Hetty for a ride. They talked of the future--soberly,
almost as a staid married couple. She never indulged in coquetry, and
their courtship had not been of the kind to make jealousy of others
expedient or a desirable weapon for her use. After she had dismounted at
the gate:
"I wish you weren't going. I'm sort of nervous to-night."
The sheriff smiled down at her. "I reckon you'd best get a glass case to
keep me in, hon."
"I know it's silly--but you'll be awful careful, won't you, Lafe?"
"Sure," he said. "There ain't a native in ten counties that likes
getting hurt less'n I do."
He put the horses up and repaired to the Fashion, for he had it in mind
to ascertain the latest gossip of Moffatt. It was not to be supposed
that a man of the outlaw's temper would take the expulsion of Picnic
Kate from Badger in a spirit of decorous humility.
The proprietor had it on excellent authority that Steve was far down on
the Baccanochi range, endeavoring to cheat the natives out of a herd of
stock cattle. The sheriff stood at the bar and conversed for a space.
"You got a new gun, Lafe?" asked the Fashion man, pointing to his belt.
"No-oo. Just been cleaning this up some."
The other held out a languid hand and Johnson passed him the gun. It was
a workmanlike .45 Colt, single action, and the hammer rested on an empty
chamber for safety. The Fashion proprietor turned it over with the ease
and appreciation of an expert. He pulled back the hammer and twirled the
chambers.
"She's a beaut," said he.
"Yes, that's a right good gun," Lafe agreed. He received it back
carelessly, and slipped it into the holster. They chatted indifferently
for a moment, and Lafe drank a nightcap and started home.
The night was thick and sticky. Back of the mountains thunder was
muttering. The air clung about him like a soft blanket. Some bull-bats
wheeled above his head. Lafe glanced at the dirty sky and wondered
whether those hurrying wracks of clouds would shed rain. They had a
pitiless habit of holding out hope, only to blow over, leaving the
country gasping.
His door was shut. It struck him as odd, because he never locked his
house, having nothing of value to safeguard. Inside, it was so black
that the darkness seemed to rise up and buffet him in the face. He
crossed the empty outer room and felt his way to the table against the
far wall. On it stood always an empty bottle, a candle crammed into the
neck. This was the sheriff's light system.
His hands groped over the rough surface, but he could not find the
candle, nor the matches usually piled close beside. He fumbled in his
pocket--nothing there but some keys and loose silver.
"Pshaw!" he muttered. "Well, it don't matter. I can undress in the
dark."
He moved towards the bed. Then he halted and his stomach muscles
contracted. Slowly his head turned to see what was behind. There was
somebody in the room. He stared until his eyes smarted, but could see
nothing. He listened, but could catch no sound. Yet, somewhere close to
him, a living thing moved; he was positive of that. Nobody had ever
questioned Johnson's courage, but now he experienced a peculiar gripping
of the throat and a pringling over all his skin.
"Who's there?" he asked, and waited.
"Who's there, I say?"
Surely there was a faint stirring in the corner, the merest pinpoint of
a sound. The sheriff whipped out his gun. He could descry nothing, but
pointing his forefinger along the barrel to where he thought an object
crouched, he thumbed the hammer. It fell with a click on an empty
chamber. Before he could pull again, a body hurled itself through the
dark on Johnson.
Instantly he grappled it. A knife thrust was the danger now, and he
locked his arms about his assailant and heaved sideways, driving his hip
against the opposing hip to give momentum to the throw. The other lost
his feet and Lafe swung with all his weight, but they crashed against
the wall, which brought them upstanding. While one could count ten, the
two stood breast to breast, panting.
The sheriff suddenly brought his right knee upward with force, desirous
of driving it into his opponent's stomach, but the blow was caught on
the thigh, and again they went lurching about the room, gasping for
breath, but voiceless. As he strove to pin the jerking arms, Johnson's
mind ran automatically on the empty chamber. How had the hammer happened
on that? Sure--the Fashion man had done it.
The discovery gave him new strength. In swift rage he tried for a lower
hold, feeling his enemy weaken. The momentary release of his grip was
enough. The other wrenched one arm free and swung it. Lafe was dimly
conscious of a crash and the tinkle of broken glass. He felt no pain. It
seemed to him that trains were rushing by at high speed, and he was
beset with the idea that he had something to do that he was powerless to
perform. He crumpled up and slid to the floor, his fingers scratching
the boards for the handle of his six-shooter, but all the strength
seemed gone from them. And now, mingling with the roar of the train and
the harsh screaming of brakes, was the rattle of a horse's hoofs. The
sheriff stretched out on his back and sighed.
The patter of rain on the roof was the first sound that aroused Johnson.
Assuredly the house leaked, for there were warm drops falling on his
face, too. Next, he heard somebody strike a match, and he began to
speculate in a sort of languid wonder as to what a woman was doing there
and what made her cry. Then a shooting pain above the right ear wrung an
exclamation from him and he tried to sit up.
"Don't. Don't. You must lie still."
"Hetty," he said.
She knelt beside him and held a wet handkerchief to the wound.
"You're hurt bad, Lafe. Don't talk," she whispered.
"Steve Moffatt--"
"Yes, I know, dear. Lie still."
Splinters of a bottle strewed the floor around him. So Moffatt had got
away. The sheriff looked weakly at Hetty.
"How did you get here?"
"Hush. You mustn't talk. Keep still and I'll go for Dr. Armstrong."
"How--?"
"I heard you calling me," she said.
"Calling you?" the sheriff repeated. "Why, hon, I never said a word."