Death of McKee, Disappointed Desperado
Bud's conscience was not troubling him so much now. In fact, he was
rather proud of his conduct of late. He had "shaken" Buck McKee, and
he had forgiven Echo for all the hard thoughts he had against
her--without considering that she would be more than woman if she
failed to harbor resentment against the man who had prevented her from
calling her husband back from the desert.
In the absence of Slim, both Bud and McKee attained a feeling of
security in the matter of Terrill murder. McKee had already ventured
to use some of his share of the robbery in gambling. Bud had not yet
convinced himself either of the right or the advisability of spending
his share. Both conscience and fear advised him to keep the
blood-money intact. He carried it with him wherever he went, and
became, in time, quite pleased with himself because of his compunctions
in doing so. He was even pharisaical about McKee's gambling. No, when
his mind had come clear about keeping it, he would make an honest use
of it, such as investing it in a saloon in Florence. When, however, he
suggested to Polly that dispensing liquors over a bar and running a
faro-game on the side would be a congenial occupation, suited to their
talents, she sat down forcibly upon his aspiration, and they finally
compromised on Polly's proposition to conduct a livery-stable in
Tucson, where, Polly felt, though she did not say so to Bud, that
Sheriff Hoover, with whom she had been flirting too dangerously, would
not be in evidence, as in Florence.
Polly, however, was greatly puzzled over Bud's confidence in his
ability to raise the wind that would launch this delectable, but to her
mind illusory, enterprise. In a moment of weakness he intimated that
he already had the money in hand.
How had he got it? she demanded.
"Saved it," he said.
When she asked him how he could have saved the thousand dollars
demanded for the stable out of his salary of forty dollars a month, he
replied:
"By economizin'. I've cut off my chawin-tobacco."
"That cost you two bits a week, an' you've taken up cigarettes at a
dime a day," said observant Polly. "I know what you've been doin',
you've been gamblin'."
"Cross my heart, Polly, I haven't," said Bud, and Polly, who had no
great objection to using money won at cards, so long as she did not
positively know the fact, discontinued her objections, and resumed the
delightful occupation of castle-building. The home she had in view
consisted of three rooms over the livery-stable.
"I want a red carpet in the front room, and wallpaper like that at
Bowen's store, with hosses jumpin' gates on it--"
"Don't you think there will be a leetle too much hoss there, Polly,
with the stable under us, an' the smell a-comin' up--"
"Sho, Bud, you can't have too much hoss. Why, it was the hoss smell
about your clothes that made me fall in love with you," exclaimed the
enthusiastic horsewoman. She continued:
"An' I want a yellow plush furniture set, an' a photograph-album to
match, an' a center-table, an' a Rock-of-Ages picture, an' a boudoir--"
A boudoir was beyond the ken of Bud. He knew nothing of housekeeping.
This must be one of those strange articles, the mystery of which he
would have to solve before he could feel that he was really a married
man.
"What the devil is a boudoir?" he asked.
"I don't know what it is, but all rich women have them."
Bud took both of Polly's hands in his. Looking her fondly in the eyes,
he said: "Then, by thunder, I'll get you two of 'em. We'll raise the
limit when we furnish that shack. I'm the happiest man in the country."
"Well you ought to be," laughed Polly. "Just see what you are gettin'."
"I've got to chase myself back to the house. You're ridin' night herd
to-night, ain't you?" she added.
"Yes. I'm on the cocktail to-night. I am goin' to bunk down here.
I'll be up to the house at sunup, and we can go over to Florence
together."
"I'll have breakfast ready for you. Rope my pony for me, will you?"
Bud was smiling and happy again. All of his troubles were forgotten.
"All right!" he cried, as he started to mount.
"Say, you're awful forgetful, aren't you?" asked Polly demurely.
Bud looked about him slightly bewildered. Then he realized his
oversight. He ran to Polly's and tried to kiss her, but she motioned
him aside, saying: "Too late--you lose."
"But I didn't know," stammered Bud.
"Next time you'll know. On your way," airily commanded the girl.
Bud's face darkened. "Oh, well, good-by."
Polly looked after him perplexed and angry. His surrender to her whims
without a fight nettled her.
"Good-by, yourself," she snapped. "He's the most forgetful man I ever
loved. If I thought he was a gamblin'-man, I'd get a divorce from him
before I married him. I would sure," murmured Polly, as Bud
disappeared toward the corral.
Polly's musing was interrupted by the return of Buck McKee.
"Is Bud Lane over yere?" he asked.
"You must have passed him just now. He's just got in from
night-herdin'."
"I thought I seed him comin' this way. When's the weddin'-bells goin'
to ring?"
Polly flushed. "Next month. Then you'll lose Bud's company fer good,"
she answered defiantly.
"Well, I ain't been doin' him much good," Buck assented. "I'm goin'
back home, though."
Polly gazed at Buck in surprise. Here was a new view of the man; one
she had never considered. It was strange to hear this outlaw and bad
man talk of a home. The repetition of the word "home" by Polly, led
him to continue:
"Yep. Up to the Strip, where I was borned at. This yere climate's a
leetle too dry to suit me. I'm goin' to get a leetle ranch and a
leetle gal, an' settle down for sure."
"I wish you may," said Polly heartily. "You sure acted mighty fine
about that Peruna insultin' Mrs. Payson."
Harshly as Polly had felt toward Buck, his actions in the recent
incidents had softened her feelings toward him.
"I admire to hear you say it," said Buck, bowing. "I've played square
with women all my life. I ain't never slipped a card nor rung in a
cold deck on any one of 'em yet."
Buck sat down on the step of the wagon. He hesitated for a moment, and
then asked: "Say, did you ever have a premonition?"
"Nope! The worst I ever had was the hookin'-cough."
Buck smiled, but did not explain to Polly the meaning of the word.
"Well, this premonition," he continued, "hits me hard, an' that's what
makes me start for home. Thought I'd like to say good-by to you an'
Bud. I go north with the big drive in the mornin', an' won't see you
ag'in."
"Well, good luck and good-by to you." Polly held out her hand in her
most friendly fashion.
Buck arose and took off his hat. As he stepped toward her, he cried:
"Same to you. Good-by." Grasping her by the hand, he added warmly:
"An'--happiness."
"I'll tell Bud you're here," cried Polly over her shoulder.
Buck looked after the girl as she swung across the prairie to find Bud.
"She's a darned fine leetle gal, she is," mused Buck. "Seein' Bud so
happy, kinder makes me homesick. Things is gettin' too warm for me
here, anyway. If Payson gets back, he'll be able to clear himself
about that Terrill business, an' things is likely to p'int pretty
straight at me an' Bud. I'm sorry I dragged Bud into that. I could
have done it alone just as well--an' kep' all the money."
McKee sat down to wait for Bud. His mind was filled with pleasant
thoughts. Having assumed a chivalrous role in the Peruna incident, he
was tasting something of the sweet sensations and experiences that
follow a sincerely generous action. Smiles and pleasant greetings from
Polly, who had heretofore met him with venomous looks and stinging
words, were balm to his soul. He felt well-satisfied with himself and
kindly toward the whole world. The fiendish torturer of helpless men
and harmless beasts, the cold-blooded murderer, the devilish intriguer
to incriminate an innocent man, thought that he was a very good fellow,
after all; much better than, say, such a man as Jack Payson. He had at
least always treated women white, and had never gone back on a friend.
When he thought how Payson had drawn his pistol on trusting,
unsuspecting Dick Lane in the garden, he was filled with the same
pharisaic self-righteousness that inflated Bud when comparing himself
with McKee.
His enjoyment in contemplating his own virtues was overclouded,
however, by a vague presentiment of impending danger, the "premonition"
he had of to Polly--a word he had picked up from fortune-tellers, whom
he often consulted, being very superstitious, as are most gamblers.
And Nemesis in the person of Peruna was indeed approaching. The outlaw
crept up out of the draw behind the contemplative half-breed, and,
leaping upon his back, plunged his knife in McKee's neck, with a fierce
thrust, into which he concentrated all his hatred for the humiliation
he had endured.
With a stifled cry Buck struggled to his feet to face his assailant,
drawing his gun instinctively. The knife had bitten too deeply,
however. With a groan he fell; weakly he tried to level his gun, his
finger twitching convulsively at the trigger. Peruna waited to see if
he had strength enough to fire. A sneering smile added to the evil
appearance of his face. Seeing Buck helpless, he snatched the gun from
his hand. Then he turned his victim over so he could reach the pocket
of his waistcoat. With the blood-stained knife he ripped open the cloth
and extracted a roll of paper and money. Peruna was kneeling beside
the body of his former friend, when a voice drawled:
"Drop that knife!"
Peruna jumped up with a grunt of dismay to see Slim Hoover sitting on
horseback, with his revolver held upright, ready for use.
Peruna hesitated: "Drop it!" ordered Slim sharply, slightly lowering
the gun.
Peruna tossed away the knife with a snarl.
"I'll take care of your friend's bundle, and the papers and money you
took from his pocket. Drop them. I didn't figure on gettin' back to
business as soon as I got home, but you never can tell. Can you?"
The last remark was addressed to his deputy, Timber Wiggins, who had
joined him.
"This yere's Timber Wiggins, deputy sheriff from Pinal County,"
explained Slim, for Peruna's enlightenment. "Mr. Wiggins, will you
take care of this friend of mine?" continued the Sheriff, glancing from
Peruna, who looked at him stolidly, to Wiggins. "I reckon he's been
doin' something naughty."
The two men dismounted, keeping the outlaw covered and watching his
every glance.
"Anything to oblige," replied Wiggins, who had solemnly entered with
Slim into his assumed formality.
Wiggins stepped behind Peruna, and reaching forward, removed Buck's gun
from the outlaw's holster, which had been empty since Buck, earlier in
the day, had taken his revolver after he had insulted Echo.
"Anything to oblige," said Wiggins to Slim. Then to Peruna he
commanded: "Let's take a walk. You first. I'm noted for my
politeness."
"You might tie him up some," suggested Slim.
"I sure will," answered the deputy, as he marched his prisoner toward
the corral.
Slim hastened to the side of the fallen man, and turned him over on his
back to get a glimpse of Peruna's victim. He saw that Buck was still
breathing although mortally wounded, the blood gushing from his mouth.
McKee recognized the Sheriff. "Hullo! when did you git back?" he asked.
"Jes' now. Is this your money?" said Slim, holding the roll in front
of McKee's eyes.
"No; it's your'n. Part o' what I took from 'Ole Man' Terrill. The idee
o' not recognizin' your own property!" McKee grinned at his joke on
the Sheriff. "I held the old man up, and that's all there is to it."
"Who was with you?" asked Slim. "There was two."
McKee was silent.
"Bud Lane was the other man," hazarded Slim.
"No--" began Buck, but Slim interrupted him.
"He was with you that night. He came to the weddin' with you. It ain't
no use in denyin' it. I've been thinkin' it all out. I was fooled by
Jack's pacing hoss. You and Bud--"
Here McKee interrupted with a solemn denial. Whether from a desire to
foil the Sheriff, whom he knew was Bud's rival in love, and so thought
him the young man's enemy, or from the benevolent spirit induced by the
recent contemplation of his virtues, McKee was impelled to give an
account of the murder which very convincingly indicated Bud as a
protesting catspaw, rather than a consenting accomplice.
At the end of the story he smiled grimly:
"So while you were out o' the county on a wil'-goose chase after an
inercent man, Peruna, he goes loco on paten'-medicine, an' gits the
guilty party. Joke's on you, Slim. I nomernate Peruna fer nex'
sheriff."
Exhausted with the effort and pain of talking, McKee dropped his head
upon Hoover's broad breast in a faint. Hoover bore him down to the
spring, and bathed his wound and mouth. McKee revived, and in broken
phrases, which were accompanied with blood from his pierced lungs
frothing out of his mouth, continued his observations on the ridiculous
and unfortunate mistake Peruna made in killing him.
"Damn' fool--'s bes' fren'--I would herd--'th low-down intellecks--nev'
'preciated--no chance--to be firs'-class--bad man."
And so Buck McKee, desperado, died like many another ambitious soul,
with expressions of disappointment on his lips.