“Don’t lie, Comanche. They was due here a week ago, and they better be
on this stage.”
Pink Lowry, deputy sheriff of Willow Wells, pointed a finger at the body
of the stage which had just arrived in front of the stage office, while
Comanche Beadle, the attenuated old driver, craned his neck down toward
where Pink was pointing, spat violently and straightened up with a
visible effort.
“There’s a couple packages in there,” he admitted. “I didn’t see your
name, but there’s a package for Dudley D. Evans, and one for Alexander
Washin’ton Lowry, which can’t noways be you.”
“Them’s her,” said Pink, “and you keep your damn’ tongue off them two
names of mine, Comanche.”
“Oh, shore—” seriously. “Your folks named you after ginerals, didn’t
they? How’d they ever miss Coxey? No, I can’t give you them packages;
you’ve got to git ’em from the agent. There’s four dollars apiece
charges.”
“Well, dig ’em out, will you?”
“I’ll do m’ best, but they’re on the bottom.”
He wound the lines around the brake, climbed slowly down, took a fresh
chew and began unlashing the boot.
“Gittin’ new duds, eh?” he grunted. “Suppose you and Evans are goin’ to
cut a figger at the SP ranch tonight. New clothes ’n’ everythin’. I jist
wonder how much Miss Pelliser’s got to do with all this dudin’ up.”
“You ain’t packed them new suits under all that stuff, have you?” wailed
Pink. “Ain’tcha got no sense? My gosh, they’ll be a mess!”
“You can’t hurt cloth, can you? You and Evans didn’t buy no glass suits,
didja? There you are! No, that’s Evans’. Here’s yours. No, you don’t.
Foller me in, cowboy, and pay your money. That’s how we make a livin’—me
and Wells Fargo.”
Pink followed him obediently, and finally paid the eight dollars and
received both suits—the crushed packages which bore the name of an
eastern tailoring house. Pink was short, chunky, red headed, with
decided bowlegs. He was about twenty-five years of age—and in love.
He lost no time in getting down to the sheriff’s office where he found
Dud Evans, the slat-like sheriff, in the rear of the office which he and
Pink used as living quarters. He was shaving. He was standing before a
cracked mirror, clad in a suit of ill fitting red flannel underwear and
high-heel boots.
“They come,” said Pink, depositing the packages on the bunk.
“Yea-a-ah?” Dud screwed his face painfully. He was bleeding from many
cuts and scratches.
“My gawsh, this razor’s sharp!” he grunted. “I look like I’d been drug
over a lot of busted glass.”
“You got my pet razor?” asked Pink, trying to get a glimpse of the
instrument.
“Pet! This here thing a pet?”
“That’s my pet, holler ground razor! Dud, you ornery Injun! And I broke
my hone last week. Your whiskers would turn a mowin’ machine. I’ll
betcha I could write m’ name in the aidge of it right now.”
“Oh, it’s plenty sharp. I whittled off a couple warts jist as slick as a
whistle. You got any court plaster, Pink?”
“No, I ain’t!”
Pink yanked savagely at the cord on his package, and finally cut it with
his knife. He took off the cover, removed some tissue paper and lifted
out a black coat. Dud stopped shaving to look at it. Pink wrinkled his
nose thoughtfully as he considered the garment.
“That damn’ thing,” said Dud seriously, “looks like a overcoat with part
of the front cut off. A feller could wear a pair of them seatless Injun
pants with that coat, and never be an exposure.”
Pink looked at him curiously.
“Funniest damn’ thing I ever seen,” he whispered.
He took out the vest and looked it over critically.
“Dirty cheat!” he snorted. “If that drummer ever shows up here again,
I’ll pistol whip him if it’s the last—”
“Ain’t that a funny vest?”
“Funny! My Gawd, it wouldn’t— Look at your own suit, will you?”
“I can’t hurt yours none by jist lookin’ at it, can I?”
Pink sat down on the bunk and began rolling a cigarette with trembling
fingers. He was so mad that his red hair stood up in an arch. Dud untied
his package and found his suit to be an exact replica of the one on the
bunk, except in size.
Dud sat down on a broken back chair and stared at Pink.
“You talked with that drummer,” he said slowly. “All I done was to stand
up and be surrounded by a tape measure. What in hell did you tell him?”
“Don’t try to put no deadwood on me—” belligerently. “Me and you both
decided that we wanted black suits, didn’t we? Well, he asked me what
style we wanted, and I said we wanted somethin’ awful damn’ dressy. He
asked me if we wanted dress suits, and I said we shore did.”
“Well—” mournfully—“we done throwed away eighty dollars apiece.”
“Put on your coat, Dud. They might not be so bad.”
Dud slipped into the coat, and Pink circled him slowly. Then:
“Dud, you’re the damndest lookin’ insect I ever seen. From the rear, you
look like a black beetle with red laigs. You do, honestly. But from the
front you look like a unsuccessful operation. My gosh, what a chance to
show off a fancy vest.”
“It’s probably this red underwear.”
“Well, that’s part of it. But it ain’t all, Dud. Mebbe a shirt front
would help a lot, but jist as you are now, you look like one of them
charts the medicine doctors use to show the heart, lungs, liver and
lights, or the bad effect of liquor on the insides of man.”
Dud flung the coat aside and went back to the basin where he dabbled
cold water on his bruises, while Pink dug deeper into the suit box.
Tucked within the folds of the trousers was a little booklet depicting
styles in men’s wearing apparel. On the last page of the pamphlet was a
picture of the suits he had ordered.
“Here you are,” he grunted. “Here’s what we got, Dud.”
Dud came over, mopping his face with a towel, and gazed upon the
illustration.
“F’r looks,” said the sheriff slowly, “that feller is a dinger.”
“Slicker’n frawg hair. But we ain’t got no white shirts.”
“Nor stand-up collars. Well, what’s the difference? That red and black
silk shirt of yours is a damn’ sight prettier than plain white, ain’t
it? I’ve got a green silk one. I’ll let you wear my yaller silk tie.
What you better do is run up to the store and git some stove polish.
We’ve got to run a shine on our boots.”
“You go git the polish. I’ve got to whittle m’ whiskers with a dull
razor. Damn’ nice cloth in them suits, Dud.”
“Ought to be at eighty a suit, and half the cloth missin’.”
* * * * *
The town of Willow Wells had never outgrown its infancy. It was slightly
over twenty years of age, but looked older because the original false
front buildings, facing along the narrow street, had long since lost any
vestige of paint they may have had. The signs were barely visible,
having been heat and sand scoured many times. The two biggest buildings
in the town were the courthouse and the livery stable.
Of saloons there were plenty—the War Paint was the most fashionable. It
was not a pretentious structure, although it covered plenty of ground
space and, it was said, a multitude of sins. Twenty miles south of
Willow Wells was the town of Newton, on the railroad. When Willow Wells
was born there was no railroad down there, no town. The railroad brought
Newton, and Newton wanted to be the county seat; but the bulk of the
votes were in the northern end of the county and Willow Wells retained
the honors.
The Willow Wells stage made the round trip daily to Newton, piloted most
of the time by Comanche Beadle, who believed himself in partnership with
Wells Fargo. Three miles southwest of Willow Wells, on the road to
Newton, was the Diamond R ranch, owned by Jim McGowan, a big, handsome
man of about forty-eight years, cordially hated by Pink Lowry. In fact,
Pink hated the whole Diamond R outfit.
It was not a hate of long standing. Pink had been indifferent to Jim
McGowan until Mary Pelliser came back from school and took up her
residence at the SP ranch. Pink did not realize that ninety per cent. of
the cowboys had fallen violently in love with Mary; he only saw Jim
McGowan paying court to her. Jim was handsome and Pink knew it. He
realized his own shortcomings, both in face and figure, and he proceeded
to hate all of the Diamond R outfit.
Pink was barely past his majority in years, which might excuse him. He
was the youngest deputy they had ever had in Willow Wells, and many of
the old-timers shook their heads over Dud Evans’ choice as a helper; but
Pink was efficient and capable, and Evans knew it.
McGowan had owned the Diamond R for three years, having bought the brand
and the ranch from Edward Hart, owner of the Bank of Willow Wells. The
Diamond R personnel was, in range vernacular, rather salty. It consisted
of Scotty McGowan, a brother of Jim, Buck Haskell, Barney East, Sam Hall
and a disreputable Chinese cook named Mulligan. Of course, this was not
his name, but it sufficed. Mulligan loved gin and his one-string fiddle,
both of which caused him to make weird noises.
The occasion of the two new suits at the sheriff’s office was a party at
the SP ranch, two miles northeast of town, given partly in honor of
Mary, but more as a celebration of Edward Hart’s wedding anniversary.
Steven Pelliser, owner of the SP, was as much of an old-timer as Edward
Hart, and Steven Pelliser liked parties. In fact, he never overlooked a
chance to hold a regular _fiesta_ at the SP. Edward Hart had been
married nineteen years, and the woman he married had done much in a
financial way in the old days to put both Hart and Pelliser on their
feet.
Between them they owned quite a lot of Willow Valley. East of town,
about two miles away, was the HN outfit, connected brand, owned by Uncle
Hoddy Noon, also an old-timer in the Valley. Uncle Hoddy was a little
old man, typical of the range country, held down to hard and fast rules
of conduct by his fleshy wife, Aunt Ida, who believed that the souls of
all drinking men were doomed. Uncle Hoddy said he would rather be doomed
than dry, and drank in secret and swore he was captain of his own
soul—and ate cloves.
Uncle Hoddy’s thirst was aided and abetted by Caliente Smith and Piute
Jones, fifty year old cowboys, to whom Aunt Ida had tried to preach
religion for years. They worked for Uncle Hoddy, along with Chris
Halvorsen and Ed Lane, the latter being Uncle Hoddy’s son-in-law and
foreman.
Aunt Ida’s religious talks did little more than amuse Caliente and
Piute, but they gave Aunt Ida considerable satisfaction. Her theme was
usually temperance, which brought the idea of a little liquor forcibly
to the objects of her discourse, and they usually acted accordingly.
They were all at the SP ranch that night. The Simpson brothers with
their violin and bull fiddle; Banty Culler with his guitar; Jeff Miller
with a banjo. When Steve Pelliser gave a party it was a case of come and
get it.
Mary Pelliser never looked more beautiful than when she came down the
old stairway to greet her guests that night. Tall, slender, with a
wealth of chestnut hair, an oval face, tanned slightly, red cheeks
untouched by rouge. She wore a simple white dress, not made by any of
the Willow Valley _modistes_, and at her throat she wore a gorgeous old
cameo.
Jim McGowan met her at the foot of the stairs, assuming a sort of
proprietorship over her. Steve Pelliser, tall, gaunt, with serious eyes,
stood across the room, smiling proudly at her; but a frown of annoyance
flashed for a moment when Jim McGowan took her arm.
Edward Hart, the banker, standing near the door, glanced quickly toward
Pelliser and their eyes met. Hart was of medium height, his hair as
white as snow. He seemed much older than Pelliser, although they were
nearly of an age. Hart had the jaw and lips of a fighter. His wife,
several years his junior, stood beside him, a robust woman about his
height, dressed in black silk.
* * * * *
With much trepidation the assembled cowboys shook hands with Mary. Many
of them had known her for years, but now they looked at her as if she
were a stranger. The other girls seemed ill at ease for several
moments—until Mary left McGowan to join them. The men grouped by
themselves in one corner, laughing at jokes, rolling cigarettes.
“There’s somethin’ in the kitchen,” said Hank Blue, one of the SP
cowboys, cautiously. “Steve said to not make a rush, ’cause Uncle
Hoddy’s out there and if Aunt Ida ever gets a suspicion—”
Eyebrows lifted knowingly, and the men milled around, losing numbers
with great regularity. The door between the kitchen and dining room
needed oiling. Every entrance or exit was advertised with a whining
squeak. Steve Pelliser watched Aunt Ida closely. She was talking with
several other women, but he could see her face and he knew she was
listening. Once she got to her feet, but one of the women was explaining
something to her and she was obliged to sit down.
Jim McGowan came over close to Steve, as if to speak with him, but
someone left the door open and they heard Uncle Hoddy’s voice:
“You don’t need to shush me, I’ll tell you that. I’m old enough to be a
daddy to any danged one of you. I’m a man among men.”
“That last part is shore true,” said Caliente, “but if Aunt Ida ever
hears or smells—”
Someone shut the door, and the last of the discourse was lost to the
ears in the living room. Aunt Ida got up slowly, her cheeks very red,
and looked around.
“You will excuse me, I’m sure.” Her voice had a metallic ring. Steve
caught her at the doorway and put a hand on her arm.
“Don’t blame Uncle Hoddy,” he said. “It’s all my fault, Aunt Ida.”
“Is it? You admit that you led him into temptation, Steve Pelliser?”
“Well, I—I bought the liquor.”
Caliente started to come out of the kitchen, turned right around and
went through the back door, fairly carrying Uncle Hoddy with him.
“You know his weakness,” said Aunt Ida severely.
“Yeah, he can’t stand much liquor.”
“Well, I shall stop any further indulgence.”
Aunt Ida flung open the door and swept grandly into the kitchen. The men
were massed around a table, where One Hop, the cook, was pouring out the
liquor. Aunt Ida’s eyes quickly searched the group. There was Piute
Jones, but of Caliente and Uncle Hoddy there was no trace.
Ed Lane coughed apologetically and Aunt Ida shot him a searching glance.
“Does Julia know you are in here, steeping your soul in this devil’s
brew?” she asked.
“She ought to know me, after all these years, Aunt Ida,” he said.
“Mm-m-m-m! I’ll bet she don’t.”
“I’ll bet she will,” meaningly.
“Where’s Hoddy and Caliente?”
“I dunno. Anybody know where they are?”
“Hoddy and Caliente,” said Piute owlishly, “have gone out to pail the
cows.”
“Piute Jones, you’re drunk!”
“Mad’m,” replied Piute, “that’s a debatable ques’n.”
“You don’t even know what you’re doing.”
“Debatable, mad’m. I know what you’re doin’.”
“What am I doing?”
“Ruinin’ a perf’ly good party for everybody.”
Aunt Ida went out, slamming the door behind her. In the living room she
found Uncle Hoddy and Caliente, seated side by side, very erect and as
immovable as two statues. They had sneaked in the front way. To her
everlasting credit she said nothing to them, but sat down with the women
and resumed the conversation.
Steve Pelliser mopped his eyes, while the two men looked him over
gravely.
Jim McGowan was greatly amused, but finally moved over closer to
Pelliser.
“I want to talk seriously to you, Steve,” he said softly.
“Seriously?”
“It’s serious with me.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, go ahead, Mac.”
“I want to marry your daughter.”
For several moments Steve Pelliser did not speak. His eyes shifted to
Mary and he lifted his head, staring at the opposite wall.
“That is serious,” he said slowly. “Too serious, I’m afraid, Mac. You’re
old enough to be her father.”
“What has age to do with it?”
“You’re close to fifty, while she’s twenty-one. That’s a big gap.”
“It’s been done before, Pelliser.”
“Yes, I suppose it has—and to the sorrow of both parties, in many cases.
Have you spoken to Mary?”
“No. I wanted your permission first. That is, I wanted you to know my
intentions.”
Steve looked squarely at McGowan now, and their eyes met.
“What did you mean by that last remark, McGowan?” asked Pelliser.
“Just what I said.” McGowan’s eyes shifted, his jaw squared. “She’s of
age.”
“I reckon I understand your meanin’, now. Yes, she’s of age. And if she
wants to marry you against my wishes, I’ll have to stand for it, I
reckon.”
McGowan’s fists clenched.
“Against your wishes, Pelliser?”
“That’s what I said. I want her to marry happily, and I don’t think she
would be happy with you.”
“Thanks. What have you got against me?”
“You.”
Mary was coming toward them, and Pelliser went to meet her.
“I wonder where Pink Lowry and Dud Evans are?” she asked.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about them two, honey. Maybe they had to ride on
official business. But they’ll be here. Any time Dud or Pink miss a
party, it’s mighty serious.”
* * * * *
McGowan walked past them, heading for the kitchen. Uncle Hoddy and
Caliente turned their heads wistfully and watched him go. Aunt Ida
looked at them and they froze to their chairs.
“Can’t you get Aunt Ida upstairs?” whispered Steve. “Take her somewhere
to give them old boys a chance to sneak.”
Mary shook her head slowly.
“Daddy, she wouldn’t move out of here to catch a glimpse of her favorite
heaven. What were you and Jim McGowan quarreling over?”
“We weren’t quarreling.”
“No? I thought you were. Is he an awful good friend of yours?”
“Why?”
“I just wondered if I needed to be especially nice to him.”
Her father laughed shortly.
“I never asked you to be especially nice to anybody, did I?”
“No, but I just wondered. I don’t believe I like him very well.”
“Oh! Well, run along and have a good time.”
And just at that moment Pink Lowry and Dud Evans came in. Some of the
boys came from the kitchen at the same time, stopping at the doorway to
stare at the two officers. And well they might.
They wore the first dress suits ever seen in the Willow Valley.
“My Gawd!” blurted Caliente Smith, pointing at Pink. “Look at the tiger
lily in mournin’!”
Pink shot Caliente a glance of deadly hatred, but kept still, while
every one stared at them. It was Mary who broke the spell by stepping
forward to welcome them. The men crowded in, all talking at once, and in
the confusion both Caliente and Uncle Hoddy made their escape to the
kitchen.
“I’m so glad you came,” said Mary chokingly.
“Oh, we’d shore come,” grinned Pink. “Try to keep us away.”
Pink was resplendent in the red and black silk shirt, which was not at
all subdued, the glaring yellow tie fairly shrieking against it. Dud
wore a green silk shirt and a bright red tie, pinned to the bosom of his
shirt with an immense bejeweled horseshoe. The tails of Pink’s coat
nearly reached the floor. That is, one tail did. The other was hiked up
over the butt of a heavy Colt revolver, which Pink wore in one of his
hip pockets in lieu of a belt and holster. Dud wore his gun stuck inside
the waistband of his trousers, blousing his shirt over the butt.
Both men went around shaking hands, followed by amazed eyes. Pink shook
hands violently with Aunt Ida.
“Where’s Uncle Hoddy?” he asked.
She craned her neck past Pink and looked at the empty chairs.
“He’s gone,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“Yeah?” Pink stared at her. “You don’t mean he—died?”
“If I don’t stop him, he might.” She jumped to her feet and headed for
the kitchen.
A look of understanding overspread Pink’s face and he turned to meet Jim
McGowan. McGowan was looking him over in an insolent, amused way, and
Pink’s ears reddened quickly.
“Well, go ahead and say it,” said Pink coldly.
McGowan laughed shortly.
“Are you _trying_ to be funny, Lowry?”
Pink’s blue eyes narrowed. Trying to be funny! He did not understand.
“This wasn’t no masquerade, you know,” said McGowan.
Possibly a dozen people heard that remark. Pink looked down at his new
clothes, at the riot of color on his bosom. Masquerade! He looked up,
but McGowan was walking away, grinning. Mary had heard some of it. Pink
looked at her. She was not laughing at him. Then he turned and went into
the kitchen.
Pink had made up his mind not to touch a drink, but he needed something
now. He was not mad; he was hurt. Besides Mary and McGowan, none of the
people considered his garb incongruous. They did not understand. Pink
realized that neither he nor Dud looked like the man in the little
catalogue, but he did not know that their shirts, ties and boots were
out of place with dress clothes. He knew now.
Dud was out there drinking with the men, explaining about the new suits.
“They’re the latest thing in Sunday clothes,” he told them. “They call
these the ‘show your shirt’ coats. Pretty slick, eh? Well, here’s m’
best regards. Somebody give Pink a glass, will you? Another glass, One
Hop. That’s the boy! What’s th’ matter, Pink?”
“Nothin’ the matter with Pink,” chorused several.
“Open and above board,” laughed another.
“You jist missed out, Pink,” laughed Jerry Dole. “Aunt Ida jist saved
Uncle Hoddy from temptation. He ain’t had more than a quart. She tried
to save Caliente, but the old boy was goin’ down for the last time, and
her rope was too short. He’s settin’ on the wood box.”
But Pink was in no laughing mood. He was getting over his hurt, and
anger was taking its place.
“I’ll take another,” he said seriously. “That stuff ain’t strong.”
Steve Pelliser had seen it all and wondered what it was about. Then Mary
told him what McGowan had said.
“Well, wasn’t them suits all right, honey?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t understand, Daddy. They were all wrong. But what does it
matter? Oh, I felt so sorry for Pink. He’s hurt deeply and I’m afraid
he’s hurt at me.”
“I don’t think so. Pink’s no fool. Sa-a-ay!” He took her by the
shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “You seem to be a heap interested
in Pink Lowry’s feelin’s.”
Mary flushed quickly, but her eyes did not draw away when she replied:
“Pink is one of our guests, Daddy. I would insult myself if I said or
did anything wrong toward him tonight.”
“Do you consider McGowan’s talk as an insult to you?”
“Don’t you?”
Pelliser sighed deeply.
“I dunno much about such things, Mary.”
“Maybe we better forget it for this time. At least Pink was too much of
a gentleman to resent it.”
* * * * *
The orchestra was tuning up in the dining room and Jerry Dole, who
called all the Willow Wells dances, was yelling for everybody to take
partners for a quadrille. McGowan hurried to find Mary, only to be told
that she was engaged for the first dance. McGowan frowned, but said
nothing except that he was sorry.
“Two more couple!” yelled Jerry. “Two more couple!”
Mary realized her predicament. No one had asked her for the first dance.
She stepped to the door of the dining room, with McGowan standing just
behind her.
“One more couple!” yelled Jerry. “Jist one more couple!”
Pink came from the kitchen and Mary motioned for him to take her. He did
not understand for several moments, and she walked toward him, motioning
at the vacant spot in the set. Then he understood. Jim McGowan also
understood. He shut his jaw tightly, turned and walked back to the front
of the room, where he rolled a cigarette, thinking blackly.
Finally he went outside, closing the door behind him. Steve Pelliser and
Dud Evans were still in the kitchen, while the house resounded with the
strains of “Money Musk” and the trampling of heavy feet.
“Did you and Pink stable your horses?” asked Steve.
“Didn’t bother about it, Steve. Tied ’em to the fence.”
“I’ll have one of the boys stable ’em. You won’t go home until late, and
there’s no use havin’ ’em stand out there all night. How about one more
jolt?”
“Fine.”
Someone called to Dud and he left the kitchen. Steve talked for a few
moments with One Hop about the supper and then went outside, where he
untied the two horses and took them to the stable.
Mary knew that Pink was hurt. He did not join in the laughter and
good-natured joking with the rest. He got all mixed up in the changes,
which was unusual with Pink, for he was a good dancer.
“I hope you will have a good time,” she said timidly, when they stopped
after the first set.
“I’m havin’ a good time,” he said wearily. “I—I just don’t feel so
good.”
“I wouldn’t let McGowan hurt my feelings, Pink.”
“Oh, him!”
The music started again, cutting off further conversation, and after the
dance was over he thanked Mary and walked away. He wanted to be alone;
he walked through the kitchen and went outside. One Hop was on the back
porch, turning the handle of an ice cream freezer, which creaked loudly.
It was dark out there.
Pink stepped off the porch and walked slowly down toward the corral. His
first impulse was to get on his horse and go home, but he decided that
such a move would be unkind to Steve and Mary. He went down to the
corral, where he sat down on a pile of old lumber. No one would see him
there in the dark, and he could think things over calmly.
He heard the stable door shut with a loud bang. Someone came out on the
kitchen porch and talked with One Hop, and he could hear the music of a
slow waltz. He wondered who Mary was dancing with this time. Pink loved
to waltz, and he had dreamed of waltzing with Mary. He got to his feet
and leaned against the corral fence, looking toward the open doorway
where the lamplight streamed out on the white-clad cook, bent over the
freezer.
Suddenly a gun flashed in the dark. The bullet thudded into a post
behind Pink and almost before the echo had been thrown back from the
side of the house, Pink had drawn his gun and fired at the flash. It was
all done so quickly that the two guns were discharged but a few seconds
apart. Men were coming out from the kitchen, crowding on to the porch,
looking for the cause of the shots. One Hop jabbered in Chinese and
tried to tell them.
They were running down toward the corral before Pink left the fence.
“Down here!” he yelled hoarsely. “Somebody shot at me!”
“Is that you, Pink?” asked the sheriff. “What was it? Who was shooting?”
“I shot once, Dud. Somebody took a shot at me in the dark. Bullet hit
the fence behind me. No, I don’t know who it was. They got away, all
right.”
“No, they didn’t!” called one of the boys near the stable.
“Get a light; somebody got hurt.”
They moved to the spot, where the sheriff lighted a match, illuminating
the features of Jim McGowan. He was flat on his back in the dirt, his
right arm outflung, his fingers gripping a heavy Colt revolver. One of
the men ran to the stable and secured a lantern.
“He’s dead, boys,” said Dud softly. “My Gawd, what a dead-center shot!”
He removed the gun from McGowan’s fingers and shoved it inside the
waistband of his trousers. By that time all the men were down there, and
the women were out on the porch, trying to get answers to their
questions.
“This is awful,” said Steve Pelliser.
“He shot at me first,” said Pink hoarsely. “I didn’t even know who it
was.”
“That’ll do to tell,” said Scotty McGowan.
“Drop all that kinda talk, Scotty,” said the sheriff warningly. “This is
no time to make bad breaks. One dead man is enough at a time.”
“I can look out for myself.”
“Damn’ right,” growled Sam Hall.
“The sheriff is right, boys,” said Pelliser quickly. “Cool off first.
There was no reason for McGowan to shoot at Pink.”
“No-o-o?” Scotty’s voice was high-pitched. “When a girl—”
“Drop that!” snapped Pelliser quickly.
“Oh, well, I reckon we all know.”
* * * * *
They carried the body up to the house and placed it on the porch. Even
Uncle Hoddy and Caliente were sobered now.
Pink stood apart from the rest. He had his six-shooter shoved inside the
waistband of his trousers now, and he kept his eyes on Scotty and the
rest of the Diamond R outfit. The sheriff had sent a man to town to get
the coroner.
Aunt Ida audibly blamed the liquor for all this trouble. It was a
wonderful opportunity for a temperance lecture and she was about to
avail herself of the big chance when her daughter intervened.
“Ma, don’t be a fool. For goodness’ sake, keep still. Nobody wants or
needs your views of the matter.”
“That’s right, Julie,” said Uncle Hoddy, fervently mopping his brow.
“You!” snorted Aunt Ida indignantly.
“Oh, Gawd!” said Caliente piously.
“Won’t you never learn to not use kerosene to put out a fire, Hoddy?”
“Folks,” said Ed Hart gently, “let’s take this easy. Jim McGowan is
dead, and all the recriminations in the world won’t bring him back. It’s
unfortunate, and we’re all sorry. But it is one of the things that
happen. Please think calmly about it.”
“He was my brother,” reminded Scotty grimly.
Scotty was much smaller than his brother, black-haired, swarthy, with a
slightly hooked nose and prominent cheekbones. He was less than forty
years of age.
“I respect your feelings,” said Hart slowly.
“That’s fine—” sarcastically. He turned to Pink. “I reckon you’ve got
more friends around here than I have, Lowry. I’ve never felt very
popular around here, and I suppose they’ll excuse you for what you
done.”
“I dunno,” replied Pink. “Friendship ain’t got a thing to do with it,
Scotty. I dunno why Jim McGowan shot at me in the dark. I didn’t shoot
at him—I shot at the flash of his gun, without knowin’ who was behind
it.”
“That’s fine. Any jury would believe that, I suppose.”
The women all went upstairs to get their wraps. Uncle Hoddy and Caliente
sneaked to the kitchen for another drink. One Hop was humped over in a
chair, staring at the floor. One Hop had always liked Uncle Hoddy, and
One Hop wanted to talk with somebody. He drew the old cattleman aside.
“You _sabe_ what Pink say?” he asked nervously.
“Shore.”
“He say he no see who shoot?”
“Shore. Pink was over by the corral fence, and we found McGowan between
the corral and the stable. In that dark, they couldn’t see each other,
Hop.”
“Yessa. Pink not see who he shoot; Pink not go jail, eh?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Good. Pink velly nice boy.”
One Hop poured generous drinks and they drank deeply.
“We better git back before Aunt Ida cuts loose agin’,” advised Caliente.
“I’ve heard you say you was the captain of your own soul, but you ain’t.
As far as that’s concerned, you ain’t even a cabin boy.”
“I know it. I’d admit it to you, but never to anybody else.”
“It would shore be a shame, if everybody else found it out.”
The coroner came—old Doctor Carmichael—white-haired, blunt of speech,
but loved by everybody in the Valley. His examination was brief, his
questions pointed; and then they loaded the body into one of Steve
Pelliser’s rigs and took it back to town.
The party was over almost before it began. Steve Pelliser and Mary stood
on the porch and watched their guests drive and ride away. Scotty
McGowan was one of the last to leave. He led his horse up to the porch,
while his men waited for him.
“This ain’t the end of this deal, Pelliser,” he said ominously. “I know
a lot more than you think I do. Good night.” He swung into his saddle
and rode away.
“What did he mean, Daddy?” asked Mary, shivering a little in the cold
breeze.
“I don’t know.”
“The law can’t touch Pink Lowry, can it?”
“The inquest will decide that, Mary. I don’t think it can.”
He didn’t tell her that Jim McGowan had asked for her hand.
“Jim McGowan asked me to dance the first quadrille with him,” said Mary.
“I told him I already had a partner—but I didn’t. He knew I didn’t,
because I almost had to drag Pink on to the floor. He hadn’t asked me to
dance, and he didn’t understand. I—I just didn’t want to dance with
McGowan.”
“I don’t think that would have made any difference. Run along to bed and
forget all that. You were not to blame in any way. It—it was just one of
those things that happen.”
The body was taken to the coroner’s office, where it was to be held
until after the inquest. Pink had nothing to say until he and the
sheriff were alone in their living quarters. They took off their coats
and vests, sat down and rolled cigarettes.
“What was you doin’ down there by the corral?” asked the sheriff.
Pink studied his fingernails for several moments before he replied.
“Cussin’ this damn’ suit of clothes.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I guess we made a pair of fools out of ourselves, Dud. I didn’t think
much about it until I saw the expression on Mary’s face. I knew
somethin’ was wrong right then. And Jim McGowan—you was out in the
kitchen when he made his remarks. He asked me if I was tryin’ to be
funny.”
“Tryin’ to be funny?”
“Yeah. I didn’t understand yet. And then he said that this wasn’t no
masquerade. He said it loud enough for everybody to hear.”
“McGowan was tryin’ to make fun of your clothes, Pink?”
“Of _our_ clothes.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Well, I danced the first dance with Mary. I dunno why she picked me. It
wasn’t ladies’ choice, but she dragged me on the floor, with McGowan
lookin’ on. Oh, he was mad. I wanted to get away from there and as soon
as the dance was over I went down by the corral. That’s all there was to
it, Dud, except that a gun went off in the dark and the bullet didn’t
miss me more than a few inches. I shot right back at the flash, as near
as I could judge. You know the rest.”
“He didn’t say nothin’ before he shot at you?”
“Not a word. He shot first.”
“That’s easy to prove, ’cause he couldn’t have shot after you did. Mac
wasn’t drunk. In fact, they told me he hadn’t taken a drink out there.
Well—” the sheriff yawned widely—“they’ll hold an inquest tomorrow.
Better keep an eye on Scotty and the rest of his gang. The law can’t
soak you for defendin’ your own life, as far as that’s concerned, but
Scotty and Jim was always pretty thick—and I wouldn’t trust Scotty too
far.”
“I won’t, Dud. I shore hope that clothes drummer comes back here again.”
“That’s right. Anyway, we can wear the pants, even if they did cost us
eighty dollars. Well, there’s no use cryin’ over spilled milk. Might as
well fold up in a blanket and take a chance on tomorrow.”