A few days later, as he was walking up the street, half a dozen men
successively spoke to him, saying, "Mink's at home, loaded--and looking
for you!" And each of them grinned as he said it, joyously anticipating
trouble.
Without a word, other than a careless, "That so?" Kelley passed on, and
a thrill of excitement ran through the hearts of the loafers.
It was about sunset of a dusty autumn afternoon, and the cowboys and
miners (gathered in knots along the street), having eaten their suppers,
were ready to be entertained. Upon seeing Kelley approach with easy
stride they passed the joyous word along. Each spectator was afraid he
might miss some part of the play.
Kelley was fully aware that his official career and perhaps his life
hung in the balance. To fail of arresting the desperado was to brand
himself a bungler and to expose himself to the contempt of other
sure-shot ruffians. However, having faced death many times in the
desert and on the range, he advanced steadily, apparently undisturbed by
the warnings he had received.
Just before reaching Mink's saloon he stepped into Lemont's drug-store,
a cheap little shop where candy and cigars and other miscellaneous goods
were sold. The only person in the place was Rosa Lemont, a slim, little
maid of about fifteen years of age.
"Hello, Rosie," he said, quietly. "I want to slip out your back door."
He smiled meaningly. "The street is a trifle crowded just now."
With instant comprehension of his meaning she led the way. "Don't let
them kill you," she whispered, with scared lips.
"I'll try not to," he answered, lightly.
Once in the alley, he swung his revolver to a handy spot on his thigh
and entered the saloon abruptly from the rear.
The back room, a rude dance-hall, was empty, but the door into the
barroom was open, and he slipped through it like a shadow. Mink was not
in sight, but the barkeeper stood rigidly on duty.
"Hello, Jack!" called Kelley, as he casually approached the bar.
"Where's the boss?"
Before he had finished his question he detected his man reflected in the
mirror behind the bar. The gambler imagined himself to be hidden behind
the screen which separated the women's drinking-place from the main
room, and did not know that Kelley had seen him in the glass. His
revolver was in his hand and malignant purpose blazed in his eyes--and
yet he hesitated. Lawless as he was, it appeared that he could not
instantly bring himself to the point of shooting an officer in the
back.
Kelley, realizing his disadvantage, and knowing that any attempt to
forestall the action of his enemy would be fatal, cheerily called out to
an acquaintance who stood in a stupor of fear, farther up the bar:
"Howdy, Sam! Come and have a drink." His jovial tone and apparent
ignorance of danger prolonged Mink's moment of indecision. The third man
thought Kelley unaware of his danger, but did not have the courage to
utter a sound.
The marshal, perceiving certain death in the assassin's eyes, was about
to whirl in a desperate effort to get at least one shot at him, when
something happened! Some one caromed against the screen. It toppled and
fell upon the gambler, disconcerting his aim. His bullet went wide, and
Kelley was upon him like a tiger before he could recover control of his
weapon, and they both went to the sawdust together.
Now came a singular revelation of the essential cowardice of the
desperado. Deprived of his revolver and helpless in Kelley's great
hands, he broke down. White, trembling, drooling with terror, he pleaded
for his life. "Don't shoot--don't kill me!" he repeated over and over.
"I ought to kill you," argued Kelley, with a reflective hesitation which
wrought his captive to a still greater frenzy of appeal.
"I beg--I beg," he whined. "Don't shoot!"
Amazed and disgusted with the man's weakness, Kelley kicked him in the
ribs. "Get up!" he said, shortly.
Mink arose, but no sooner was he on his feet than his courage returned.
"I'll have your heart for this," he said, venomously. Then his mind took
a sudden turn. "Who pushed that screen onto me?" he asked. "I'll kill
the man who did that."
"You'll have time to figure out that problem in the quiet of 'the jug,'"
said Kelley. "Come along."
At the door of the calaboose the gambler braced himself. "I won't go in
there!" he declared. "I won't be jugged--I'll die right here--"
Kelley's answer was a jerk, a twist, and a sudden thrust, which landed
the redoubtable boaster in the middle of his cell. "You can die inside
if you want to," he said, and turned the key on him. "My responsibility
ends right here."