Tom McHale ambled into Coldstream one afternoon, and dropped his pony's
reins behind the station. Thence he clanked his spurs into Mr. Quilty's
sanctum. That gentleman, nodding somnolently above a blackened clay
pipe, rolled an appraising eye at him.
"Fwhere in Hiven's name is the maskyrade at?" he queried sourly. "An'
do yez riprisint Wild Bill Hickox--rest his sowl--or th' 'Pache
Kid--th' divil burn him!"
Tom glanced down at his ancient regalia of worn leather chaps, spurs,
and the old forty-one that sagged from his right hip, and grinned.
"Guns is coming into style again out our way," he replied. "All the
best families wears 'em. There's so many of these here durn hobos and
railway men and Irish and other low characters----"
"Th' nerve of yez!" snorted Mr. Quilty. "And the name iv yez
'McHale!'--as Irish, be hivins, as Con iv th' Hundred Battles!"
McHale chuckled to himself, having succeeded in his purpose of getting
Mr. Quilty going.
"Irish? Not on your life!" he denied gravely. "What put that notion in
your head? The McHales is high-grade Scotch. Always was. They come from
Loch Lomond or Commarashindhu or them parts. Annie Laurie married a
McHale. Of course we're Scotch. You can tell by the Mac. The only
McHale that ever was in Ireland went there to civilize it."
"To civ'lize Ireland!" Mr. Quilty cried in derision. "Hear till him!
And Ireland the owldest civ'lization in the wurruld, barrin' none, and
the best! Faix, we was givin' lessons in it to all mankind whin th' dom
raggety-britched tattherdemalions iv Scotchmen hadn't th' dacincy to
wear kilts, even, but wint about bare to th' four winds iv hivin, a
barbarious race lower nor a Digger Injun, a scandal to God, man, and
faymales black and white."
"Well, maybe you're right about them old times, Corney," admitted
McHale, with an innocent face. "I meant a little later than that. This
here McHale was with William the Conqueror at the Battle of the
Boyne----"
Mr. Quilty spat at the mention of this historic event.
"Bad scran till him, then!" he exclaimed. "Yez do be a high-grade liar,
and ign'rant as well. Willyum th' Conq'ror was Irish on his mother's
side, an' he bate th' heads off iv th' bloody Sassenach, an' soaked
their king wan in th' eye wid a bow 'n' arry at a fight I disremimber
th' name of, back a thousand years before Willyum th' Dutchman--may his
sowl get its needin's!--come out iv his swamps. I tell yez th' McHales
come from Galway. In th' good owld days they hanged thim be th' dozen
to th' glor iv God an' th' greater safety iv all live stock. An th'
pity is they didn't make a cleaner job iv ut."
McHale, who was enjoying himself hugely, sifted tobacco into paper.
"I won't say you ain't right, Corney," he observed mildly. "I always
understood we was Scotch, but I ain't noways bigoted about it. That
hangin' business seems to point to us bein' Irish. Did you ever notice
how many Irishmen is hanged? Of course, there's lots ain't that ought
to be, but the general average is sure high."
"I hope to glory ye boost it wan higher yerself," Quilty retorted.
"Small loss 'tw'u'd be to anny wan. A divil iv a desp'rado yez are, wid
yer gun an' all! I'm a good mind to swipe yez over th' nut wid me
lanthern an' take ut away from yez!"
McHale drew the weapon gently, and spun it on his finger, checking the
revolutions six times with startling suddenness. Mr. Quilty watched him
sourly.
"Play thricks!" he commented. "Spin a gun! Huh! Why don't yez get a job
wid a dhrama that shows the West as it used to wasn't? I knowed wan iv
thim gun twirlers wanst. He was a burrd pluggin' tomatty cans an'
such--a fair wonder he was. But wan day he starts to make a pinwheel iv
his finger forninst a stranger he mistakes fer a tindherfut, an' he
gets th' face iv him blowed in be a derringer from that same stranger's
coat pocket."
"Sure," McHale agreed. "It was comin' to him. He should have stuck to
tomatter cans. Them plays is plumb safe."
"They's no safe play wid a gun," Mr. Quilty declared oracularly. "I'm
an owlder man nor ye, an' I worked me way West wid railway
construction. I knowed th' owld-time gunmen--the wans they tell stories
of. Where are they now? Dead, ivery mother's son iv thim, an' most iv
thim got it from a gun. No matther how quick a man is, if he kapes at
ut long enough he meets up wid some felly that bates him till
it--wanst. And wanst is enough.
"Plenty," McHale agreed. "Sure. The system is not to meet that sport. I
don't figure he lives in these parts."
Mr. Quilty blinked at him for a moment, and lowered his voice. "See,
now, b'y," said he, "I'm strong for mindin' me own business, but a
wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. Nobody's been hurted
hereabouts yet, but keep at ut and some wan will be. I don't want ut to
be you or Casey. Go aisy, like a good la-ad."
"I'm easy as a fox-trot," said McHale. "So's Casey. We ain't crowdin'
nothin'. Only we're some tired of havin' a hot iron held to our hides.
We sorter hate to smell our own hair singein'. We ain't on the prod,
but we don't aim to be run off our own range, and that goes as it
lies."
He rose, flipping his cigarette through the open window, and inquired
for freight. They were expecting a binder and a mower. These had not
arrived. McHale looked at the date of his bill of lading, and stated
his opinion of the railway.
"Be ashamed, bawlin' out me employers in me prisince," said Mr. Quilty.
"G'wan out o' here, before I take a shotgun to yez."
"Come up and have a drink," McHale invited.
"Agin' the rules whin on duty," Quilty refused. "An' I do be on duty
whiniver I'm awake. 'Tis prohibition the comp'ny has on me, no less."
McHale rode up the straggling street to Shiller's hotel, and
dismounted. Bob Shiller in shirt sleeves sat on the veranda.
"They's a right smart o' dust to-day, Bob," said McHale. "S'pose we
sorter sprinkle it some."
"We'll go into one of the back rooms, where it's cooler," proposed
Shiller.
"Oh, I'd just as soon go to the bar," said McHale. "Might be some of
the boys there. I like to lean up against the wood."
"Well----" Shiller began, and stopped uncertainly.
"Well--what?" McHale demanded.
"Just as well you don't go into the bar right now," Shiller explained.
"You had a sort of a run-in with a feller named Cross, hadn't you--you
or Casey? He's in there with a couple of his friends--hard-lookin'
nuts. He's some tanked, and shootin' off his mouth. We'll have Billy
bring us what we want where it's cooler."
McHale kicked a post meditatively three times.
"There's mighty little style about me, Bob," he said. "I'm democratic a
lot. Havin' drinks sent up to a private room looks to me a heap like
throwin' on dog."
"I asked you," said Shiller. "It's my house. The drinks are on me."
"I spoke of the dust," McHale reminded him. "That makes it my drinks.
And then I done asked a man to meet me in the bar. I wouldn't like to
keep him waitin'."
"I don't want trouble here," said Shiller positively. "I ask you in a
friendly way not to make it."
"Well, I ain't makin' it, am I?" said McHale. "That's all right about
not wantin' trouble, but I got other things to think of. This here
Cross and Dade and that bunch don't run the country. Mighty funny if I
have to drink in a back room for them gents. Next thing you'll want me
to climb a tree. I'm allowin' to stop my thirst facin' a mirror with
one foot on a rail. I'll do it that way, or you and me won't be friends
no more."
"Go to it, then," said Shiller. "You always was a bullhead."
McHale grinned, hitched his holster forward a trifle, and walked toward
the bar. As he entered he took a swift survey of its half dozen
occupants.
Three of them were regulars, citizens of Coldstream. The others were
strangers, and each of them wore a gun down his thigh. They were of the
type known as "hard-faced." Cross, a glass in his right hand, was
standing facing the door. As it pushed open he turned his head and
stared at McHale, whom he did not immediately recognize.
"Come on, friend," said he; "get in on this."
"Sure," said McHale promptly. "A little number nine, Billy. Here's a
ho!" He set his glass down, and faced Cross. "Come again, boys. What'll
you take with me?"
But Cross swore suddenly. "Well!" he exclaimed. "Look at what blowed in
off of one of them dry-ranch layouts!"
McHale smiled blandly, pushing a bottle in his direction.
"Beats all how some things drift about all over the country," he
observed. "Tumbleweeds and such. They go rollin' along mighty gay till
they bump into a wire fence somewheres."
"It's sure a wonder to me your boss lets you stray this far off," said
Cross, with sarcasm. "He needs a man to look after him the worst way.
He don't seem to have no sand. I met up with him along our ditch a
while back, and I told him to hike. You bet he did. Only that he'd a
girl with him I'd have run him clean back to his reservation."
"You want to get a movin'-picture layout," McHale suggested. "That'd
make a right good show--_you_ runnin' Casey. You used to work for one
of them outfits, didn't you?"
"No. What makes you think I did?"
"Your face looked sorter familiar to me," McHale replied. "Studyin' on
it, it seems like I'd seen it in one of them picture shows down in
Cheyenne. Right good show, too. It showed a bunch of boys after a hoss
thief. He got away."
"Haw-haw!" laughed one of the regulars, and suddenly froze to silence.
Billy, behind the bar, stood as if petrified, towel in hand. Cross's
face, flushed with liquor, blackened in a ferocious scowl.
"You ---- ---- ----!" he roared. "What do you mean by that?"
"Mean?" asked McHale innocently. "Why, I was tellin' you about a show I
seen. What's wrong with that?"
"You called me a horse thief!" cried Cross.
"Who? Me?" said McHale. "Why, no, Mr. Cross, you ain't no hoss thief. I
know different. If anybody says you are, you just send him right along
to me. No, sir; I know you ain't. There's two good reasons against it."
Cross glared at him, his fingers beginning to twitch.
"Let's hear them," he said. "If they ain't good you go out of that door
feet first."
"They're plumb good--best you ever heard," McHale affirmed. "Now,
listen. Here's how I know you ain't no hoss thief: For one thing, you
got too much mouth; and for another you ain't got the nerve!"
Out of the dead silence came Shiller's voice from the door:
"I'll fill the first man that makes a move plumb full of buckshot. If
there's any shootin' in here, I'm doin' it myself." He held a pump gun
at his shoulder, the muzzle dominating the group. "You, Tom," he
continued, "you said you wouldn't make trouble."
"Am I makin' it?" asked McHale.
"Are you makin' it?" Shiller repeated. "Oh, no, you ain't. You're a
gentle, meek-and-mild pilgrim, you are. I ain't goin' to hold this gun
all day, neither. You better hit the high spots. I'll give you time to
get on your cayuse and drift. At the end of two minutes this man goes
out of that door, and I ain't responsible for what happens. I'm sure
sorry, Tom, to treat you like this, but I got my house to consider."
"That's all right, Bob," said McHale. "Looks like you hold the ace.
I'll step. Far's I'm concerned you needn't keep them gents two minutes
nor one." He turned to the door.
"I'm lookin' for you, McHale," said Cross.
"Come a-runnin'," said McHale. "Bring your friends."
He walked into the middle of the road, turned, and waited. His action
attracted little attention. Coldstream was indoors, somnolent with the
afternoon heat. Across the street the proprietor of the general store
commented lazily to a friend:
"What's Tom McHale doin'?"
"Some fool joke. He's full of them. I reckon he wants us to ask him."
McHale called to them: "Boys, if I was you I'd move out of line of me
and Bob's door."
"What did I tell you?" the wise one commented. "You bet I don't bite.
I----"
Out of the door of Shiller's surged Cross, gun in hand. Uncertain where
to find McHale, he glared about. Then, as he saw him standing in the
middle of the road, the weapon seemed to leap to a level.
Simultaneously McHale shot from the hip.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Pale-pink flashes stabbed the afternoon light. Coldstream echoed to the
fusillade. Its inhabitants ran to doors and windows, streaming into the
streets. One of the store windows suddenly starred. Long lines, like
cracks in thin ice, appeared in it, radiating from a common centre. The
proprietor and his friend, electrified, ducked and sprang for shelter.
A woman screamed in fright.
Suddenly Cross staggered, turning halfway around. The deadly rage in
his face changed to blank wonder. His pistol arm sagged. Then he
collapsed gently, not as a tree falls, but as an overweighted sapling
bends, swaying backward until, overbalanced, he thudded limply on the
ground.
McHale, half crouched like a fighting animal awaiting an attack, peered
with burning eyes over the hot muzzle of his gun at the prostrate
figure. Swiftly he swung out the cylinder of the weapon, ejected the
empty shells, refilled the chambers, and snapped it shut. Shiller's
door opened. McHale covered it instantly, but it was Shiller himself.
"So you done it, did you?" he said.
"Sure," said McHale. "He comes a-shootin', and I gets him. Likewise I
gets them two _tillikums_ of his if they want it that way."
"Billy's keepin' them quiet with the pump gun," Shiller informed him.
"You better get out o' town. I'll clean up your mess, darn you! Git
quick. Them fellers expects some more in."
McHale nodded. "I ain't organized to stand off a whole posse with one
gun. So long, Bob. I'm plumb sorry I mixed you into this. They won't
like you much now."
"They don't need to," said Shiller. "Want any money? Want another gun?
I got a handy little three-ought-three carbine."
"No. I'll get my own outfit. I may have to lie out for a spell. Well,
I'll be movin'."
He mounted swiftly. Men crowding up to the scene of the affray stopped
suddenly. Few of them had seen the like before. They shrank back, awed,
from the killer. He rode down the street, gun in hand, casting swift
glances right and left, ready for any attempt to stop him. There was
none. He vanished in the swells of brown grasses, riding at an easy
lope, as unhurried as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.