Buckskin was very hot; in fact it was never anything else. Few people
were on the streets and the town was quiet. Over in the Houston hotel
a crowd of cowboys was lounging in the barroom. They were very quiet--a
condition as rare as it was ominous. Their mounts, twelve in all, were
switching flies from their quivering skins in the corral at the rear.
Eight of these had a large C 80 branded on their flanks; the other four,
a Double Arrow.
In the barroom a slim, wiry man was looking out of the dirty window
up the street at Cowan's saloon. Shorty was complaining, “They shore
oughter be here now. They rounded up last week.” The man nearest assured
him that they would come. The man at the window turned and said, “They's
yer now.”
In front of Cowan's a crowd of nine happy-go-lucky, daredevil riders
were sliding from their saddles. They threw their reins over the heads
of their mounts and filed in to the bar. Laughter issued from the open
door and the clink of glasses could be heard. They stood in picturesque
groups, strong, self-reliant, humorous, virile. Their expensive
sombreros were pushed far back on their heads and their hairy chaps were
covered with the alkali dust from their ride.
Cowan, bottle in hand, pushed out several more glasses. He kicked a dog
from under his feet and looked at Buck. “Rounded up yet?” he inquired.
“Shore, day afore yisterday,” came the reply. The rest were busy
removing the dust from their throats, and gradually drifted into groups
of two or three. One of these groups strolled over to the solitary card
table, and found Jimmy Price resting in a cheap chair, his legs on the
table.
“I wisht yu'd extricate yore delicate feet from off'n this hyar table,
James,” humbly requested Lanky Smith, morally backed up by those with
him.
“Ya-as, they shore is delicate, Mr. Smith,” responded Jimmy without
moving.
“We wants to play draw, Jimmy,” explained Pete.
“Yore shore welcome to play if yu wants to. Didn't I tell yu when yu
growed that mustache that yu didn't have to ask me any more?” queried
the placid James, paternally.
“Call 'em off, sonny. Pete sez he kin clean me out. Anyhow, yu kin have
the fust deal,” compromised Lanky.
“I'm shore sorry fer Pete if he cayn't. Yu don't reckon I has to have
fust deal to beat yu fellers, do yu? Go way an' lemme alone; I never
seed such a bunch fer buttin' in as yu fellers.”
Billy Williams returned to the bar. Then he walked along it until he
was behind the recalcitrant possessor of the table. While his aggrieved
friends shuffled their feet uneasily to cover his approach, he tiptoed
up behind Jimmy and, with a nod, grasped that indignant individual
firmly by the neck while the others grabbed his feet. They carried him,
twisting and bucking, to the middle of the street and deposited him in
the dust, returning to the now vacant table.
Jimmy rested quietly for a few seconds and then slowly arose, dusting
the alkali from him.
“Th' wall-eyed piruts,” he muttered, and then scratched his head for
a way to “play hunk.” As he gazed sorrowfully at the saloon he heard a
snicker from behind him. He, thinking it was one of his late tormentors,
paid no attention to it. Then a cynical, biting laugh stung him. He
wheeled, to see Shorty leaning against a tree, a sneering leer on his
flushed face. Shorty's right hand was suspended above his holster,
hooked to his belt by the thumb--a favorite position of his when
expecting trouble.
“One of yore reg'lar habits?” he drawled.
Jimmy began to dust himself in silence, but his lips were compressed to
a thin white line.
“Does they hurt yu?” pursued the onlooker.
Jimmy looked up. “I heard tell that they make glue outen cayuses,
sometimes,” he remarked.
Shorty's eyes flashed. The loss of the horse had been rankling in his
heart all day.
“Does they git yu frequent?” he asked. His voice sounded hard.
“Oh, 'bout as frequent as yu lose a cayuse, I reckon,” replied Jimmy
hotly.
Shorty's hand streaked to his holster and Jimmy followed his lead.
Jimmy's Colt was caught. He had bucked too much. As he fell Shorty ran
for the Houston House.
Pistol shots were common, for they were the universal method of
expressing emotions. The poker players grinned, thinking their victim
was letting off his indignation. Lanky sized up his hand and remarked
half audibly, “He's a shore good kid.”
The bartender, fearing for his new beveled, gilt-framed mirror, gave a
hasty glance out the window. He turned around, made change and remarked
to Buck, “Yore kid, Jimmy, is plugged.” Several of the more credulous
craned their necks to see, Buck being the first. “Judas!” he shouted,
and ran out to where Jimmy lay coughing, his toes twitching. The saloon
was deserted and a crowd of angry cowboys surrounded their chum-aboy.
Buck had seen Shorty enter the door of the Houston House and he swore.
“Chase them C 80 and Arrow cayuses behind the saloon, Pete, an' git
under cover.”
Jimmy was choking and he coughed up blood. “He's shore--got me. My--gun
stuck,” he added apologetically. He tried to sit up, but was not able
and he looked surprised. “It's purty-damn hot-out here,” he suggested.
Johnny and Billy carried him in the saloon and placed him by the table,
in the chair he had previously vacated. As they stood up he fell across
the table and died.
Billy placed the dead boy's sombrero on his head and laid the refractory
six-shooter on the table. “I wonder who th' dirty killer was.” He looked
at the slim figure and started to go out, followed by Johnny. As he
reached the threshold a bullet zipped past him and thudded into the
frame of the door. He backed away and looked surprised. “That's Shorty's
shootin'--he allus misses 'bout that much.” He looked out and saw Buck
standing behind the live oak that Shorty had leaned against, firing at
the hotel. Turning around he made for the rear, remarking to Johnny that
“they's in th' Houston.” Johnny looked at the quiet figure in the chair
and swore softly. He followed Billy. Cowan, closing the door and taking
a buffalo gun from under the bar, went out also and slammed the rear
door forcibly.