JOHNSON ONCE MORE IN ROLE OF SHERIFF
Horne of the Anvil approached his sixtieth year full of vigor. His
birthday would also mark the thirtieth anniversary of his marriage. It
had been a fat season. His steers were rollicking, the calves romped
high-tailed, the valley pastures held clear-eyed cows and his horses
were a comfort between one's knees. Therefore Horne saw that all was
good and waxed content of heart, and he bade his boss, Lafe Johnson, to
make all ready for a dance, for it was in his mind to do honor to his
neighbors, humble and high.
"Tell everybody to come a-running," said he, "and kill the fattest
yearlings we've got. Better pick brindles, though, Lafe. Those red ones
bring too much money."
Thus happily did Horne temper his generous impulses with shrewdness.
These directions provoked a grin from Johnson, and he despatched his
riders east and west and north and south to summon the guests. From east
and west and north and south they came--a good seventy miles, some of
them. In couples, singly, in boisterous parties, they came riding up to
the Anvil headquarters. And the dance began.
It had lasted two days and two nights and was running comfortably into
the third day when a killing occurred which made the function memorable
in cowland annals. Everything was going smoothly. There were more than a
hundred guests, and the orchestra was still vigorous and resourceful in
invention. He occupied a seat on a stool atop a table at one end of the
dining-room, and as he sawed with the bow he kept time to the cadences
with his left foot. Occasionally a volunteer would come to his
assistance and beat on the strings at the neck of the violin with small
sticks. This produced the effect of a guitar and was very popular with
those ladies who were a bit hazy as to the time of a measure.
Oh-oo-oo, ladies to the left and gents to the right.
All hands round; now hold 'em tight.
Lafe had been designated master of ceremonies and he stood near the
orchestra to call off the square dances. Never more than twenty couples
were on the floor at one time, but the rhythmical beat of their feet and
the welling dust were sufficient to make an onlooker dizzy. Whenever a
gentleman swung a lady, he really swung her--no mincing or faint-hearted
gyration. With their hands behind each other's shoulders, they spun
madly about, and the lady's skirt billowed to the movement. Both would
sway dizzily when they stopped. The other guests were sleeping, or
crowded into the kitchen, where were put out for refreshment huge
platters of barbecued beef, calves' heads roasted whole under live coals
in the ground for a whole night, and bread and pickles and cheese. Pots
of coffee steamed on the stove, and one had only to give the nod to
Jerry Sellers to be honorably escorted to the saddle-shed wherein on a
stool rested a full-bellied keg. Jerry had constituted himself Lafe's
right-hand man and never relaxed in his vigilant attention to duty. Had
it not been for this first aid to the weary, the orchestra would long
since have knocked under, but Harry vowed that he would hold out as long
as the keg did, and everybody had confidence in him.
"The next piece," he announced, "is a li'l piece I done composed myself.
It is called 'The Bull in the Corn Brakes.' Get your partners. Polka it
is. Step to it."
Aside from a slight grayness about the eyes, Lafe gave no evidence of
fatigue. His wife and young son were asleep in Mrs. Horne's bed. On the
floor in the same bedchamber were seven other women, resting from their
exertions. No special hours for repose had been set aside. All day and
all night the dance went on, never ceasing, and there were always
couples ready. Each guest lay down for a nap when he felt his system
required it, and he lay where his notion of comfort dictated. It was not
surprising then that one tripped over men stretched out under blankets
on the veranda; the yard was cumbered with them, too.
The lady guests were provided for in the five bedrooms of the house. As
for the children, of whom there were a dozen or more, now grown fretful
from overexcitement, they played in the yard, or down in the corrals
with some Shetland ponies Horne had imported. Only at meal times did
they give their mothers any concern. And the orchestra still held out,
having been thrice relieved that he might take naps.
Mrs. Paint Davis fed beer out of a bottle to her yearling son. The
child's eyes grew heavy from it. A prudish person ventured to protest to
the father.
"Pshaw, no," said Paint. "You can't make that boy drunk. It'll learn him
to leave it alone when he's growed."
Jerry Sellers took Mordecai Bass to the saddle-shed to give him a drink.
Mordecai said something that Sellers did not like. A reluctant rebuke
was followed up by a sharp word. Ensued a furious outburst from Jerry, a
pacific remonstrance from Bass, then blows. Lafe Johnson happened to
emerge from the house to clear the dust from his lungs, and heard the
altercation. He arrived in time to separate the two, and so successful
were his labors as a peacemaker that they shook hands before parting.
"It's all along of Florence Steel," Jerry explained to his chief.
"Mordecai, he thinks I'm trying to set to her. Just because I had four
dances--yes, and a li'l something I done remarked, pleasant like."
On Lafe's return to the ballroom, he saw Florence waltzing with the
half-breed Baptismo. Baptismo was showing his white teeth, and he
whispered when he perceived Johnson. He was a strikingly handsome man
and possessed a peculiar fascination for women. Men disliked him and
Lafe's pride of blood was such that he usually ignored Baptismo. Had it
been his dance, the half-breed would not have been there, but Horne had
bidden him from policy.
An hour afterwards Lafe chanced to descry Jerry going to the spring for
a bucket of fresh water to hang beside the keg. Sellers sang as he
walked, swinging the bucket.
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee,
Where the wild ki-yotes will howl o'er me--
Lafe could hear him clearly where he leaned against the jamb of the
door. He smiled over the doleful song of the night guard, which never
occurred to Jerry unless he were feeling cheerful.
Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the wind blows free--
There was an abrupt breaking-off after "free." Then a dreadful cry.
"Lafe!" came Jerry's shout.
Johnson ran towards the spring. Close to it Sellers was hunched on the
ground, doubled up over the bucket which stood between his legs. He was
quite dead. There was a deep wound in his back, just below the shoulder
blade.
They carried him to the barn in order not to stampede the guests, and
roused Horne, who was sleeping. When they led him to view the body, the
cowman was not wholly awake.
"Who did it?" he asked stupidly.
That was what everybody asked his neighbor by silent questioning of
eyes.
"I think I know," said Lafe.
He left them and went in search of Bass. He could not find him at the
house. Upon that he sped to the corrals, but Mordecai's horse was gone.
The half-breed Baptismo informed him that Bass had ridden off only a few
minutes before. Johnson did not hesitate. He was no longer a sheriff,
but he was boss of the Anvil range, and Anvil hospitality had been
outraged and dishonored. He would track down the slayer. Arriving at
this decision while Horne plied question on question without obtaining a
reply, he went to inform Hetty.
"All right," said that young woman sleepily. "Take care of yourself."
It is probable that in her drowsy state she did not appreciate his
mission, else she would not have let him go so readily.