He was standing there in the same position. Somehow he reminded me of
a crazy, runt wolf--his eyes were almost yellowish, and when he talked
he moved his lips too much, mouthing his words, and his big crooked
teeth flashed in the sun. I guess all the hankering for toughness in
him was coming out--he was acting now like he'd always wanted
to--cocky, unafraid, mean--because now he wore a bigger gun than
anybody. It showed all over him, like poison coming out of his skin.
"Doolin," he called. "I'll be in town around three this afternoon.
Tell Ben Randolph for me that he's a son of a bitch. Tell him he's a
dunghead sheriff. Tell him he'd better look me up when I get there, or
else get outa town and stay out. You got that?"
"I got it, Buck."
"Call me Mr. Tarrant, you Irish bastard."
"Okay ... Mr. Tarrant," I said, and reached the bottom of the slope
and turned my horse along the road through the Pass. About a hundred
yards farther on, I hipped around in the saddle and looked back. He
was practising again--the crouch, the fantastic draw, the shot.
I rode on toward town, to tell Ben Randolph he'd either have to run or
die.
* * * * *
Ben was a lanky, slab-sided Texan who'd come up north on a drive ten
years before and liked the Arizona climate and stayed. He was a good
sheriff--tough enough to handle most men, and smart enough to handle
the rest. Fourteen years of it had kept him lean and fast.
When I told him about Buck, I could see he didn't know whether he was
tough or smart or fast enough to get out of this one.
He leaned back in his chair and started to light his pipe, and then
stared at the match until it burned his fingers without touching it to
the tobacco.
"You sure, Joe?" he said.
"Ben, I saw it four times. At first I just couldn't believe my
eyes--but I tell you, he's fast. He's faster'n you or me or Hickock or
anybody. God knows where he got it, but he's got the speed."
"But," Ben Randolph said, lighting another match, "it just don't
happen that way." His voice was almost mildly complaining. "Not
overnight. Gunspeed's something you work on--it comes slow, mighty
slow. You know that. How in hell could Buck Tarrant turn into a
fire-eating gunslinger in a few days?" He paused and puffed. "You
sure, Joe?" he asked again, through a cloud of smoke.
"Yes."
"And he wants me."
"That's what he said."
Ben Randolph sighed. "He's a bad kid, Joe--just a bad kid. If his
father hadn't died, I reckon he might have turned out better. But his
mother ain't big enough to wallop his butt the way it needs."
"You took his gun away from him a couple times, didn't you, Ben?"
"Yeah. And ran him outa town too, when he got too pestiferous. Told
him to get the hell home and help his ma."
"Guess that's why he wants you."
"That. And because I'm sheriff. I'm the biggest gun around here, and
he don't want to start at the bottom, not him. He's gonna show the
world right away."
"He can do it, Ben."
He sighed again. "I know. If what you say's true, he can sure show
_me_ anyhow. Still, I got to take him up on it. You know that. I can't
leave town."
I looked at his hand lying on his leg--the fingers were trembling. He
curled them into a fist, and the fist trembled.
"You ought to, Ben," I said.
"Of course I ought to," he said, a little savagely. "But I can't. Why,
what'd happen to this town if I was to cut and run? Is there anyone
else who could handle him? Hell, no."
"A crazy galoot like that," I said slowly, "if he gets too damn nasty,
is bound to get kilt." I hesitated. "Even in the back, if he's too
good to take from the front."
"Sure," Ben Randolph said. "Sooner or later. But what about
meantime?... how many people will he have to kill before somebody gets
angry or nervy enough to kill _him_? That's my job, Joe--to take care
of this kind of thing. Those people he'd kill are depending on me to
get between him and them. Don't you see?"
* * * * *