THE LAST VISIT TO DODGE
There was a County Seat war between the towns of Cimarron and Ingalls,
and it was in the final phases of that involvement the historian first
hears of Mr. Masterson’s brother Jim. Those differences between Cimarron
and Ingalls carried interesting features. Not a least of these was the
death of Mr. Prather at Mr. Tighlman’s positive hands. The latter exact
personage was a citizen of Dodge. Being, however, one who resented
narrowisms and to whom any “pent up Utica” was as the thing unbearable,
Mr. Tighlman permitted himself an interest in that Gray County
contention and, since Cimarron was the natural-born enemy of Dodge,
sympathized with Ingalls.
This sentiment on Mr. Tighlman’s part did not meet with the approbation
of Mr. Prather, who was a partisan of Cimarron, and when the former
appeared at the special election called to settle the question, Mr.
Prather—to employ a childish phrase—fell into a profound pout. Mr.
Tighlman’s attendance meant nothing beyond a desire to humour his
curiosity and flatter that interest which possessed him in favour of an
Ingalls success. Mr. Prather, however, in his jealousy for Cimarron,
construed it differently and pulled his gun.
Being alert and sensitive, and having had his nerves sharpened by
perilous experiences, Mr. Tighlman was instantly aware of this hostile
demonstration. As corollary, his own gun left its scabbard coincident
with that of Mr. Prather, the result being a weakening of the Cimarron
cause by the loss of one. There was no criticism of Mr. Tighlman; for
the best belief of folk ascribed a first wrong step to the vanished Mr.
Prather. The common feeling was summed up by an onlooker who spoke
without prejudice. He said:
“Prather reached for his six-shooter, an’ Billy”—meaning Mr.
Tighlman—“beat him to it. That’s all thar was to the fuss.”
The county records were in Cimarron, which had been _de facto_ the
County Seat. Ingalls came forth of the election victor, and many held
that the taking off of Mr. Prather in its moral effect had much to do
with bringing the triumph about. It may have been this thought that
suggested to Ingalls the enlistment of Mr. Tighlman’s services when,
following the election and in defiance of that ballot decision then and
there obtained, Cimarron scoffed at every mention of surrendering the
records. Those marks of county authority were the property of Ingalls.
What cared Cimarron for that? Cimarron snapped thumb and finger beneath
the Ingalls nose! It scorned the election and contemned the result! If
Ingalls wanted those records, Cimarron, furbishing up its firearms,
would admire to see it get them.
Florence in the fourteenth century retained the military genius of Sir
John Hawkwood to its standards and set him to lead its armies in the
field. Sir John, as rental for his valour, was given a princely salary
while he lived and a marble tomb when he died, which latter monument is
still extant, a Florentine exhibit when tourists turn that way.
Impressed by the Italian example, Ingalls upon being met by the
belligerent obstinacy of Cimarron retained Mr. Tighlman. Would he get
those records? Mr. Tighlman would.
Mr. Tighlman possessed a capacity for strategy. He went after the
records on Sunday. He argued that, Sunday being a day of rest, the male
inhabitants of Cimarron would one and all be in the saloons. Mr.
Tighlman deduced rightly on that point, and his rapine of the records
was only discovered by chance. A Cimarronian, journeying from one
barroom to another, observed him as he threw the last volume into the
waggon and sounded an alarm.
Within two minutes thereafter, Mr. Tighlman was shot at five hundred
times. And yet he got away and took the records with him. His only
injury was received when, a shot having killed a dog at his very feet,
he fell over the dog and broke his leg. For all that, he dragged himself
aboard the waggon and escaped.
Mr. Tighlman covered his retreat with a shotgun. As a bloodless method
of engaging the local faculties, he opened right and left with buckshot
on the large front windows that fenced the street. There was a
prodigious breaking of glass, and the clatter thereof carried Cimarron
almost to a stampede. As showing the blind hurry of the inhabitants, Mr.
Tighlman said that he saw one gentleman miss his footing and fall, and
before he could even think of getting up eight of his fellow townsmen
fell on top of him. It was through such stirring scenes that Mr.
Tighlman made his exit, and Jim gained mention because he drove the
waggon. The foregoing has nothing at all to do with what follows, and is
thrown in only because it may serve as an introduction to Jim.
At what might be called the true beginning of this sketch, Mr. Masterson
was located in Tucson, nursing an interest in mines. He had been absent
from Dodge divers years. In the interim he had made but a single trip to
Dodge, and that a flying one. His brother Jim was temporarily in Camp
Supply at the time, two hundred miles to the south, and he missed him.
This, however, did not disturb Mr. Masterson, who was in Dodge for the
commercial restoration of Mr. Short.
During those years of Mr. Masterson’s absence, the hungry tooth of time
had left its marks. Mr. Kelly was dead, Mr. Tighlman was in New Mexico,
Mr. Trask had drifted to Montana, Cimarron Bill was in Utah, while Mr.
Wright was in Topeka, a member of the Legislature. Of those who had been
close to Mr. Masterson only Mr. Short remained.
The others—who if not enemies were but unfriends—had had better luck.
Mr. Peacock still ran the Dance Hall, while Mr. Webster kept the Alamo
as in days of yore, and maintained under the leadership of Mr.
Updegraffe a numerous following.
Even in the time of Mr. Masterson there had been soreness between Mr.
Webster and Mr. Short. The Long Branch was garnering a harvest beyond
any that lent itself to the reaping hook of the Alamo, and this did not
sit easily with Mr. Webster. To be sure, Mr. Short’s success in its
causes was easily understood. His deal boxes, like Cæsar’s wife, were
above reproach. Folk were never quite sure about the Alamo’s. Also the
radical temper of Mr. Short despised a limit. One might pile his stake
as tall as he pleased, Mr. Short would turn for it. In the words of an
admirer:
“He’d let you play ’em higher’n a cat’s back!” This was not the liberal
case with Mr. Webster, who failed of the monetary courage of Mr. Short.
In the carelessness of local politics Mr. Webster became Mayor of Dodge,
and he at once took advantage of his power and his elevation to exile
Mr. Short. With the latter out of town, the Alamo would fatten and the
Long Branch fade.
Being exiled, Mr. Short, following a usual course, hunted up Mr.
Masterson, and told his wrongs. Ever and always Mr. Short’s friend, the
latter began a roundup of the clan. The old Scotch Chiefs burned a cross
and sent it about; Mr. Masterson sent messages and burned the wires.
From East and West and North and South, the loyal tribesmen dropped
grimly into Dodge. There was Cimarron Bill and Wyatt Earp and Doc
Holiday and Ben Thompson and Henry Brown and Charlie Bassett and Shotgun
Collins and Shoot-your-eye-out Jack and many another stark fighting man.
When these had assembled, Mr. Masterson and Mr. Short appeared, and the
former took command.
There was no trouble; Mr. Webster turned the colour of ashes, and Mr.
Short resumed his place in trade. Mr. Webster did not like Mr. Masterson
any better for this work, although the latter, in adjusting affairs,
stretched a point and went excessively out of his way to keep Mr.
Webster from being killed. Mr. Masterson said he wasn’t worth it. Mr.
Short said he was; but yielded the point in compliment to Mr. Masterson.
When Mr. Short had been restored to the commercial niche that of right
was his, Mr. Masterson shook the dust of Dodge from his moccasins, as he
imagined for the final time. Nor was he sorry. His friends were gone;
and the Dodge he had known and loved and defended had passed away.
In the wake of Mr. Masterson’s departure, Mr. Webster saw, in the hard,
gray glance of Mr. Short, that which alarmed his blood. Being wise in a
way, he nodded prudently to one who, upon the hint, proffered a romantic
figure, and bought out Mr. Short. The latter went to Texas, while Mr.
Webster again began to sleep o’ night. With the going of Mr. Short, Jim,
for any on whom he might rely, was left alone in Dodge.
That was the situation when one Tucson evening in the Oriental, Mr.
Masterson was handed a telegram. He had been hearing evil news all day
about his mines, and thinking this a further bad installment tore open
the envelope with only a listless interest. What he read stiffened him.
The message said:
“Updegraffe and Peacock are going to kill Jim. Come at once.
—A.”
With the stop at Deming and a sand-storm raging near Raton, Mr.
Masterson was thirty hours reaching Dodge. They were hours without
sleep. The imagination of Mr. Masterson raced ahead to Dodge, and drew
him pictures. At Albuquerque he feared Jim was already dead; at Las
Vegas he entertained no doubt; at Trinidad he knew it was so.
“It’ll be with Jim as it was with Ed,” sighed Mr. Masterson. “I’ll come
too late.”
What increased the depression of Mr. Masterson was the raw newness and
the youth of Jim. The threatened one was gifted, too, with the
recklessness that had betrayed Marshal Ed. This, with his inexperience,
only made him the surer victim.
As against this there would arise to Mr. Masterson the hopeless thought
of Mr. Updegraffe—as coldly game as any who ever spread his blankets in
Dodge! There was none more formidable! Cautious, resolute, without fear
as without scruple, it called for the best name on the list when one
talked of matching Mr. Updegraffe!
Mr. Peacock was not so dangerous. Still, even he might be expected to
shoot an enemy who was looking the other way and thinking on something
else. At the least he made a second gun to add to Mr. Updegraffe’s, and
with that invincible one for a side partner and only a boy to face, Mr.
Peacock must be counted. These were the sorrowful reflections of Mr.
Masterson when the conductor passed through, crying:
“Dodge the next stop! Twenty minutes for lunch!”
Whether it were the work of the mysterious “A” who summoned Mr.
Masterson, or of some one other than that concealed individual, word had
been furnished to Mr. Peacock and Mr. Updegraffe of Mr. Masterson’s
coming. There the pair stood waiting in the center of the grass-green
plaza of the town.
Mr. Masterson saw them as he stepped from the train; he never saw any
one else. This genius for concentration is a mark of the born
gun-player. Mr. Masterson did not parley. His brother had been slain,
and here before him were his destroyers. He could feel the
revenge-hunger seize him! Making straight for the waiting ones he
called:
“You murderers might better begin to fight right now!”
Mr. Updegraffe, with all the coolness of ice, fired point-blank at Mr.
Masterson. The shot was two inches wide, and buried itself in a Pullman.
At this, certain tourists who had filled the windows with their eager
faces, crept beneath the seats.
Mr. Masterson, ignoring Mr. Peacock and honouring Mr. Updegraffe as the
element perilous, opened on the latter. The bullet drove before it a
piece of rib, and sent the splinter of bone through Mr. Updegraffe’s
lungs. The death-blindness upon him, and never a notion of what he was
about, he slowly walked a pace or two, and fell dead.
As Mr. Updegraffe went down, Mr. Peacock, who had not fired a shot, took
refuge behind a little building that stood in the plaza and was both
calaboose and Court House. This discreet disposition of himself by Mr.
Peacock was doubtless allowable. None the less it smelled of an
unspeakable meanness, impossible to any Bayard of the guns. Thus to take
cover is the caste-mark of a mongrel.
So contemptible did this move for safety seem to Mr. Masterson that he
would have walked away, leaving Mr. Peacock to enjoy his ignoble
security. Mr. Peacock, however, inched his desperate nose around the
corner and fired on Mr. Masterson. The bullet broke a third-story window
one hundred yards away.
Mr. Masterson’s rancorous interest was rearoused in Mr. Peacock by these
tactics. When that gentleman again protruded his nose, Mr. Masterson
shot twice at that feature like the ticking of a clock. The lead
guttered the side of the building within an inch of the target. Mr.
Masterson charged Mr. Peacock, who thereupon took to his heels, and
escaped into Gallon’s, which hostelry lay open in his rear.
Mr. Masterson would have followed, but it was here that Mr. Webster, all
a-tremble, ran up with a shotgun. At this Mr. Masterson’s eyes shifted
viciously to Mr. Webster. That the latter was shaking as with an ague
did not lessen Mr. Masterson’s interest in him. Mr. Webster saw that he
had attracted the whole of Mr. Masterson’s attention, and was in no wise
reassured.
“What are you going to do with that shotgun, Web?” asked Mr. Masterson,
tones low and steady but with a deadly focus on Mr. Webster.
“Well,” stammered Mr. Webster, “I’m Mayor, Bat, an’ this shootin’ ’s got
to stop.”
“I’ve been reckoned a judge,” returned Mr. Masterson, coming closer to
Mr. Webster, watching him the while with constant and forbidding eye;
“I’ve been reckoned a judge, and I should say it had stopped unless you
begin it again.”
“I shan’t begin it!” hastily asserted Mr. Webster.
“Then let me hold your shotgun,” returned Mr. Masterson, voice iron and
syrup. “It doesn’t become your office.”
And Mr. Webster gave Mr. Masterson his gun.
What Mr. Masterson next beheld was as though he saw a ghost. There
across the plaza came Jim. Mr. Masterson stared.
“Aren’t you dead?” he whispered. “Dead?” echoed Jim, in wide surprise.
“I was asleep over in the Wright House until your guns woke me up!”
Mr. Masterson never understood; Jim never understood; Dodge never
understood! Not a soul came forward as the “A” of that message; and the
telegraph man said he didn’t know!
And yet it was sure that Mr. Updegraffe and Mr. Peacock were in battle
array, awaiting Mr. Masterson. Mr. Peacock being guaranteed a peace,
came out of Gallon’s and admitted this. He, too, displayed a message
signed “A.” The Peacock message was from Tucson. It ran:
“Masterson has just left for Dodge to kill you and Updegraffe.
—A.”
The cloud was never lifted. The queries of “Who sent them?” and “Why?”
remain to this hour unanswered.
While the puzzle was fresh, and Mr. Peacock’s message was going from
hand to hand, together with the one received by Mr. Masterson, the
latter—all vigilance and caution—turned to Jim.
“Get your blankets,” was his low command. “The train will be here in an
hour, and we’re going West.”
“We’ll have to put you under arrest!” faltered Mr. Webster.
An ominous shadow settled about Mr. Masterson’s mouth. He opened Mr.
Webster’s shotgun with militant prudence; there were two shells in it.
Without a word he reloaded the empty chambers of his six-shooter. Being
organised, he looked at Mr. Webster and shook his head.
“I must take the next train West,” he said. “I haven’t time to-day to be
arrested.”
“Only for voylatin’ an ordinance!” whiningly explained Mr. Webster, who
must do something for his honour. “Dodge has become a city since you was
here, Bat, an’ the fact is we ought to fine you five dollars for
shootin’ inside th’ limits. As for Updegraffe: onder th’ circumstances
no one thinks of blamin’ you for downin’ him.”
“City!” mused Mr. Masterson. “Five dollars! If you’ll consider court as
held and the fine imposed, I’ll yield to these metropolitan exactions,”
and Mr. Masterson snapped a gold-piece towards Mr. Webster. “And now,”
concluded Mr. Masterson, pleasantly, tossing the shotgun into the hollow
of his arm, “since I see but few familiar faces, Web, I want you to stay
close by my side till I leave.”
“Why, shorely!” murmured Mr. Webster, whom the suggestion discouraged.
When the train drew in, Mr. Masterson saw Jim aboard. Taking the shells
from the shotgun, he returned the weapon to Mr. Webster.
“They’d be a temptation to you, Web,” said Mr. Masterson, referring to
the shells, “and only get you into trouble. Like many another, you’re
safest with an empty gun. Adios!”
“Adios!” repeated Mr. Webster, and he watched the train until it died
out of sight in the West.
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Red Pepper Burns. By Grace S. Richmond.
Refugees, The. By A. Conan Doyle.
Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The. By Anne Warner.
Road to Providence, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess.
Romance of a Plain Man, The. By Ellen Glasgow.
Rose in the Ring, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.
Rose of Old Harpeth, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess.
Rose of the World. By Agnes and Egerton Castle.
Round the Corner in Gay Street. By Grace S. Richmond.
Routledge Rides Alone. By Will Livingston Comfort.
Running Fight, The. By Wm. Hamilton Osborne.
Seats of the Mighty, The. By Gilbert Parker.
Septimus. By William J. Locke.
Set in Silver. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
Self-Raised. (Illustrated.) By Mrs. Southworth.
Shepherd of the Hills, The. By Harold Bell Wright.
Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Sidney Carteret, Rancher. By Harold Bindloss.
Simon the Jester. By William J. Locke.
Sliver Blade, The. By Charles E. Walk.
Silver Horde, The. By Rex Beach.
Sir Nigel. By A. Conan Doyle.
Sir Richard Calmady. By Lucas Malet.
Skyman, The. By Henry Ketchell Webster.
Slim Princess, The. By George Ade.
Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson.
Spirit in Prison, A. By Robert Hichens.
Spirit of the Border, The. By Zane Grey.
Spirit Trail, The. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles.
Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach.
Stanton Wins. By Eleanor M. Ingram.
St. Elmo. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans.
Stolen Singer, The. By Martha Bellinger.
Stooping Lady, The. By Maurice Hewlett.
Story of the Outlaw, The. By Emerson Hough.
Strawberry Acres. By Grace S. Richmond.
Strawberry Handkerchief, The. By Amelia E. Barr.
Sunnyside of the Hill, The. By Rosa N. Carey.
Sunset Trail, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis.
Popular Copyright Books
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A. L. Burt Company’s Popular Copyright Fiction.
Susan Clegg and Her Friend Mrs. Lathrop. By Anne Warner.
Sword of the Old Frontier, A. By Randall Parrish.
Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.
Tennessee Shad, The. By Owen Johnson.
Tess of the D’Urbervilles. By Thomas Hardy.
Texican, The. By Dane Coolidge.
That Printer of Udell’s. By Harold Bell Wright.
Three Brothers, The. By Eden Phillpotts.
Throwback, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis.
Thurston of Orchard Valley. By Harold Bindloss.
Title Market, The. By Emily Post.
Torn Sails. A Tale of a Welsh Village. By Allen Raine.
Trail of the Axe, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli.
Two-Gun Man, The. By Charles Alden Seltzer.
Two Vanrevels, The. By Booth Tarkington.
Uncle William. By Jennette Lee.
Up from Slavery. By Booker T. Washington.
Vanity Box, The. By C. N. Williamson.
Vashti. By Augusta Evans Wilson.
Varmint, The. By Owen Johnson.
Vigilante Girl, A. By Jerome Hart.
Village of Vagabonds, A. By F. Berkeley Smith.
Visioning, The. By Susan Glaspell.
Voice of the People, The. By Ellen Glasgow.
Wanted—A Chaperon. By Paul Leicester Ford.
Wanted: A Matchmaker. By Paul Leicester Ford.
Watchers of the Plains, The. Ridgwell Cullum.
Wayfarers, The. By Mary Stewart Cutting.
Way of a Man, The. By Emerson Hough.
Weavers, The. By Gilbert Parker.
When Wilderness Was King. By Randall Parrish.
Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge.
White Sister, The. By Marlon Crawford.
Window at the White Cat, The. By Mary Roberts Rhinehart.
Winning of Barbara Worth, The. By Harold Bell Wright.
With Juliet in England. By Grace S. Richmond.
Woman Haters, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Woman in Question, The. By John Reed Scott.
Woman in the Alcove, The. By Anna Katharine Green.
Yellow Circle, The. By Charles E. Walk.
Yellow Letter, The. By William Johnston.
Younger Set, The. By Robert W. Chambers.