MASKS OFF
It was late afternoon when Jack Robinson rode into the town of
Pahrump, county seat of the county of the same name. The town was
deserted apparently; somnolent and sleepy. The afternoon stage was
not yet in with the mail. The courthouse square, with its long
hitching rail, seemed abandoned to flies and sunlight. Even the jail
and sheriff’s office looked desolate; across the street from this
last, Mike’s Place showed not a sign of life.
Robinson went to the hotel and turned his horse into the corral
there, leaving his saddle and bridle in the hotel office for
safe-keeping. He then made his way to Main Street and sought the
telegraph office. There was no line in Pahrump, but the telephone
exchange handled messages. At the exchange, Robinson smiled at the
young woman in charge.
“I left a message here yesterday, ma’am, askin’ you to hold up any
answer. Name of Fisher.”
Without comment the young woman handed him a message. Robinson
pocketed it, returned to the street, glanced at the message, and
chuckled.
“What I need is grub, a bath, and a shave,” he reflected. “Fresh
shirt wouldn’t hurt anything, not to mention a clean handkerchief.
Grub can come last.”
The stage and express office, an integral unit with the Johnson
Merchandise Company, lay across the street. Robinson betook himself
thither and confronted a listless clerk.
“What’s all the excitement about in town?” he demanded. The clerk
saw no humor in the question, but answered it seriously:
“Two men shot up yesterday; sheriff’s gone out with a posse. Dunno
why.”
“I don’t know why, either,” said Robinson cheerfully. “You ought to
have a pair of saddlebags sent up by express from Pecos City. Name
of Fisher.”
“Come in last night,” was the response.
The saddlebags over his arm, Robinson went to the barber shop. There
he obtained a shave, followed by a bath, and from the saddlebags he
spruced up with a clean shirt and handkerchief--also a second gun.
His pilgrimage now took him to the nearest and only restaurant, where
he put away a huge order of ham and eggs, with other things. This
done, he dropped his saddlebags at the hotel, loosened his belt,
bought a cigar, and sauntered down the street again. Thus far he had
seen no signs of Mr. Murphy, and he rightly concluded that the
gentleman was sequestered in or about Mike’s Place.
These errands had taken up considerable time. The stage was nearly
due, and the town showed some symptoms of animation. Horses fringed
the long hitching rail in the square. A number of loungers about the
sheriff’s office showed that the posse had returned. Unhurried,
Robinson sauntered to the post office and presented a smiling face at
the window.
“Mail for Fisher, please,” he requested.
The postmaster fished several long envelopes from a box, glanced at
them, then gave Robinson a hard look.
“Nothin’ fer you, I guess.”
“Your mistake, mister,” and Robinson smiled. “Those letters are for
me, I believe.”
“These here is for Sheriff Sam Fisher o’ Pecos County.”
Robinson drew a flat metal object from his pocket and laid it on the
shelf.
“Does that satisfy you? If not, I’ll come around and get my own
mail.”
The postmaster glanced at the sheriff’s badge, silently shoved out
the letters, and stared at Robinson as that young man departed.
Without looking at his mail, Robinson took his easy way to the
sheriff’s office. He nodded to the loungers outside, and passed in.
At the door which bore the sheriff’s name he paused. Turning the
handle, he walked in.
Sheriff Tracy was seated at a desk, alone in the room. He looked up,
saw who his visitor was, and gasped. Then his hand slid across the
desk.
“Don’t!” said Robinson, and Tracy looked into a gun. “Set back; I
dropped in for a quiet talk. Also, I aim to use your office a spell.”
“You impudent scoundrel!” gasped the sheriff. “Look here! What
d’you know about that shooting on the north road yesterday?”
“Know all about it,” responded Robinson coolly, closing the door and
drawing up a chair opposite the sheriff. He sat down and laid the
gun before him. “In fact, I done it. Now, set still and don’t call
in anybody just yet. We got to have a talk. First, I want to look
at this here mail, if you don’t object.”
He put the letters on the desk and spread them out. Tracy’s glance
fell to them. A start of surprise, and his gaze returned to
Robinson’s face.
“Whose mail you got there, Robinson?”
“My own.” Robinson smiled thinly, knowing that Tracy had read the
name on that mail.
There was a moment of silence. Tracy surveyed his cool visitor with
frightful uneasiness, licked his lips, tugged at his mustache. Then:
“Well, what you want here?”
“Several things, sheriff. I’ll be real busy to-morrow, so I thought
we’d better get all fixed up to-day. Got to go out to the Lazy S
to-night with the preacher and attend to the funerals to-morrow.”
“Funerals? At the Lazy S? What in time d’you mean?”
“Shootin’; somebody murdered Miguel Cervantes this mornin’. Shot him
twice in the back.”
The sheriff leaped from his chair. Robinson’s hand went to his gun,
and Tracy sat down again, breathing hard.
“Who done it?”
“Now, sheriff, don’t go to askin’ me unpleasant questions. One of
the gents that done it is real dead. The other gent is going over
the road for it--in my care.”
Tracy bristled.
“You may be Sam Fisher and you may not,” he said aggressively, “but
you ain’t walkin’ into my county and givin’ no orders, stranger.
That’s plumb final. You got no authority here; not a mite.”
“I know it,” said Robinson sweetly. “But I aim to get that authority
real sudden. Now don’t go to causing any trouble, Sheriff Tracy. In
about ten minutes from now you got to saddle up and take quite a
journey, and I’d hate to make you take a longer journey than is
necessary.”
“Saddle up! Me?” queried Tracy, red-faced.
“Yep. First thing, you look over this here telegram. It’s about a
gent named Murphy, which same is sojournin’ in our midst. Since
somebody wants him bad enough to offer three hundred dollars for him,
you’d ought to be interested in picking up the money.”
He laid his telegram on the desk. Tracy read it. His face was a
study in mingled emotions. Finally he looked up at Fisher with a
complete change of front.
“I guess you’re Sam Fisher, all right,” he observed. “They say he’s
got the devil’s own nerve, and you sure show it. But you’re making a
terrible mistake butting into things like this, Fisher. You don’t
know this here county----”
“Here’s my badge for proof, and my mail,” said Robinson. “I’m Sam
Fisher--fact is, I never said right out that I was Robinson. Folks
just took that for granted. You and the old gang are plumb out of
luck, Tracy. I got no hard feelings against you, and I’m going to
give you the chance to slide out of town, avoid trouble, and pick up
three hundred iron men. In other words, take Mr. Murphy to the
railroad and go away with him. By the time you get back the trouble
will be all over and you’ll have a clean slate.”
Tracy, breathing hard, surveyed his visitor with anxious eyes.
“Don’t get hasty now,” warned Robinson--or, to use his real name, Sam
Fisher. “And don’t get to thinking about Templeton Buck and how much
power he has. He ain’t going to have much left when I get through
with him, Tracy. I s’pose he’s given out orders that poor Jack
Robinson has got to be eliminated. Fact is, he thought he had me
eliminated a few hours ago. That’s all right; we’ll leave Jack
Robinson out of it. Sam Fisher has drawn cards in this game, and
he’s going to stick for the pot.”
“Why don’t you take Murphy, if you want him, and go?” demanded the
sheriff.
“I don’t want him. Three hundred bones means nothin’ in my young
life. Also, and moreover, I don’t aim to go in that direction.”
Fisher’s smile was cherubic. “You are gettin’ off mighty easy,
Tracy. All you got to do is to swear me in as a deputy and turn over
the jail keys to me, then start travelin’ with Murphy. I’ll even go
so far as to help you arrest him.”
Tracy reddened again.
“Leave you here?” he said. “Not much! I ain’t going to do no such
thing----”
“I said not to get hasty, didn’t I?” Fisher’s eyes hardened into
blue steel.
“You can’t run no riffle on me, Fisher!” blustered Tracy. “If I
don’t do it, then what?”
Fisher surveyed him a moment with that bitterly cold gaze:
“If you don’t do it,” he returned slowly, “then you got to make a
heap big war talk, and do it sudden. Balance her up now, and make
your play. I’m talkin’ turkey.”
In those tense features Tracy read the truth--this man was in to play
the limit. And Tracy dared not back his hand; he could not trust his
own cards. There was too much he did not know. He had been unable
to find Buck that afternoon, and he was facing this crisis on his own
backbone--which did not amount to much.
He had heard of Sam Fisher often and often. The sheriff of Pecos had
a reputation, and stood behind it hard. Tracy could not tell just
what this man would dare do, and he did not care to take chances on
finding out.
On the other hand, he was offered a trip with a prisoner which would
net him three hundred dollars reward money. He would be safely away
while Fisher was playing his game. It would be certainly all right
to leave Fisher, the sheriff of the next county, in charge of Pahrump
while he was gone. And if Fisher got killed, what loss? None. If
he did not get killed, he was apt to kill off several people who were
behind Tracy. That would be no great loss either.
A grim smile curved the lips of Tracy.
“Sam, your arguments are powerful good,” he said. “There’s a couple
o’ deputies outside. If you want to have the ceremony over right
away----”
Fisher nodded, rose, and went to the door.
“Hey, fellers!” he called to the group outside. “Come inside;
sheriff wants you.”
Five men trooped in, eyeing Fisher with uneasy glances. Sheriff
Tracy, having made his decision, lost no time in putting the job
through.
“This here,” he said, motioning to his visitor, “is Sam Fisher,
sheriff o’ Pecos County. I’m about to swear him in as deputy and
leave him in charge of things here. Fisher, you want these deputies
to work with you?”
Sam Fisher eyed the group and smiled.
“Nope, I’m satisfied to play a lone hand, Tracy. Much obliged for
the offer.”
“Very well. You boys can bear witness to this here affair, then
you’re free. Hold up your hand, Fisher--”
Sam Fisher was duly sworn as deputy sheriff, and Tracy handed him a
badge. Fisher put it in his pocket with a grin. The startled,
staring men behind him were dumfounded. Tracy then shoved over the
jail keys.
“They’s four brand-new cells,” he said, “just installed, all the
latest fittin’s. The others ain’t worth much ’cept for looks. Four
will be plenty, I guess?”
“One,” said Fisher significantly, “is all I figger on using. I’d
hate to cause the county a lot of expense, Tracy, when you’re
treatin’ me so wide and handsome.”
“You want to move into the office here while I’m gone?”
“Nope, thanks. I’ll just lock her up; I expect to be plumb busy for
a few days. Now what say to you and me going after that bad guy? I
reckon we’ll find him down to Mike’s Place. Boys,” and he turned to
the ex-deputies, “Sheriff Tracy has discovered that there’s a feller
here badly wanted for a holdup and murder--and he aims to light out
with him right off. That is, providin’ we gather him in without any
gunplay, which we hope to do. You might spread the news, so folks
won’t think it funny that Tracy is out o’ town.”
“What about that killin’ up on the north road?” asked somebody.
“Matt Brady?”
Fisher looked at the speaker.
“Oh, him?” he asked in surprise. “Why, I done that myself. No
objections?”
“Gosh, no!” was the response, hastily rendered.
Sam Fisher smiled grimly as he left the office with Tracy at his
elbow.
“Any of the Running Dog outfit in town?” he asked when they were
crossing the street.
“Not that I know of,” said Tracy, jingling the handcuffs in his
pocket. “But if I was you, Fisher, I’d sort of keep my eye skinned
for Buck.”
“Thanks.” Fisher chuckled. “That’s the best little thing to do,
Tracy. Well, here goes for the big show! Bet you a dollar we don’t
even have a rumpus.”
He pushed open the swinging doors of Mike’s Place.