Author of “Just For a Laugh,” “Rustler’s Roost,” etc.
“Brick” Davidson hooked his spurred heels over the edge of his desk,
shifted his position slightly and began rolling a cigaret, his eyes
half-shut, as if deep in thought.
Brick was of medium height, with a thin, freckled face and red hair. It
was red hair—not auburn at all; red hair, the color of a new brick. His
mouth was wide, his eyes blue and ears rather prominent. Just now his
faded blue shirt hiked up around his ears and his overalls threatened to
withdraw from his short-topped high-heeled boots.
Over the wetting of his cigaret he squinted at the wall across from him,
where a collection of reward notices covered the rough boards. There
were many notices in this collection, with rewards ranging from fifty
dollars to a hundred times that amount. Some bore photographs of those
wanted, but the majority were mere descriptions, which might fit any
one.
There were three other men in the office with Brick, seated in chairs
near the desk; three serious-faced men who waited for Brick to speak.
One of them was Bill Grant, a tall, sour-faced, middle-aged man, with
a wispy mustache and a nervous manner. Another was Al Hendricks,
heavy-set, dark-complexioned, slow of speech; while the third was Sam
Leach, slight of physique, bat-eared and inclined to be sarcastic.
Grant and Hendricks were ranchers, while Leach was a cattle-buyer.
And the three of them composed the Board of Commissioners of Sun Dog
County, of which Brick Davidson was the sheriff.
Brick lighted his cigaret and shifted his eyes to the three men.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I reckon yuh think that comin’ to see me will
change things a lot, don’tcha?”
Grant cleared his throat, causing the wispy mustache to vibrate, and
Brick grinned openly. The mustache amused him. He had remarked anent
that futile effort of Grant’s, assuring him that he was too stingy to
fill his soul with enough fertilizing to grow hair. And Grant was
sensitive.
“We just came,” said Grant coldly, “to kinda talk to yuh about it,
Davidson.”
“Sure, sure,” interposed Hendricks quickly. “We’ve been talkin’ among
ourselves, Brick.”
Brick squinted at Leach, as if expecting some statement from him, but
Leach’s sarcastic smile was his only response.
“There was that Red Hill hold-up,” said Hendricks suggestively.
“And the bank robbery at Silverton,” added Brick.
Leach laughed, but his laugh ended in a yawn, when Brick jerked his
heels off the desk and turned in his chair.
“What in —— do yuh find to laugh at in that, Sam?” he demanded.
“Nothin’.” Leach was almost apologetic.
“’Course it ain’t nothin’ to laugh about,” said Grant. “It’s pretty ——
serious, I’d say. In fact, it’s so serious that we’ve sent for a
professional range detective to try and hang the crime onto the guilty
parties.”
“Ye-e-eah?” Brick’s red mane of hair lifted slightly, as he inhaled
deeply to control his temper.
“Yeah,” nodded Grant. “Of course he won’t interfere with yore office in
any way, Brick. You jist go along like you’ve been goin’, and let him
work it out in his own way. Them detectives _sabe_ criminals.”
Brick grinned in spite of his anger. A wave of crime had swept across
the Sun Dog country in the past few weeks, causing the sheriff’s office
to ride the hoofs off their horses, but without results.
It began with the hold-up of the Red Hill stage, when the bandits had
stolen the treasure-box, which held several bars of gold, from the Red
Hill mine. A few days later the Redrock stage was robbed, netting the
robbers several hundred dollars. Then, to cap the climax, two masked men
entered the bank at Silverton and forced the cashier to hand them over
five thousand dollars.
And they had left no clues. Descriptions varied until Brick was of the
opinion that the jobs had been done by three different outfits. The
driver of the Red Hill stage swore that there were only two men. One was
a big man and the other rather below medium height. The tall man was the
spokesman.
In the Redrock robbery, the driver declared that there were two men, one
rather tall and slender, the other medium-sized. The medium-sized man
was the spokesman. And the cashier of the bank, frightened almost into a
panic, could not be positive that there were two or three men, but he
did know that the slim one did the talking.
The peculiar feature of the bank robbery was the fact that a fire had
started in a shack down at the other end of the town, and that while
every one was down there, trying to put out the fire, the robbery had
taken place. No one had seen the robbers enter or leave, except the
cashier, who admitted that he was so frightened that he did not know
which way they went after leaving the bank, nor whether they were on
foot or mounted.
And now the county commissioners were employing a professional
thief-catcher. Brick reshaped his cigaret and smiled.
“He’ll prob’ly catch ’em,” Brick mused aloud.
“Y’betcha!” Sam Leach got to his feet, indicating that as far as he was
concerned the meeting was over.
The others got to their feet as a man entered the doorway and halted
just inside.
It was “Harp” Harris, the deputy sheriff. Harp was about two inches over
six feet in height, but so thin that he looked much taller. His face was
set in lines which combined both hope and despair—with despair
predominating. His mouth was wide, his nose thin and almost transparent,
while his ears grew at right angles to his face, giving him a perpetual
listening expression.
Harp squinted at the three commissioners and shifted his eyes to Brick.
“Havin’ a li’l party, Brick?” he asked softly.
Harp was not any too popular with the commissioners.
“Democrat,” replied Brick, grinning.
Grant and Hendricks forced a smile, as they walked past Harp, but Leach
gave Harp a sarcastic squint, bestowed upon him a look of disgust and
walked past, with his nose in the air. Harp turned and pursed his lips
as he watched Leach disappear. Brick grinned, as Harp turned and snorted
softly.
“Some day I’m goin’ t’ just about squirsh that jasper,” said Harp
slowly. “Jist squirsh him absolute and final. What did them three fried
aigs want, Brick?”
“Their main object was to see if I’ve forgotten that there’s crime among
us,” replied Brick.
“Oh!”
Harp’s nose twitched slightly and he sat down against the wall, ignoring
the three vacant chairs. From his pocket he took a jew’s-harp, fitting
it carefully between his teeth. Brick squinted at him thoughtfully,
shaking his head.
“Don’t,” said Brick pleadingly. “My ——, ain’t there enough misery in the
world without you addin’ to it, Harp?”
Harp removed the offending instrument and dangled it across his knee,
clutched in a bony hand. He nodded understandingly, his serious eyes
considering the troubled sheriff. It was not often that Harp would quit
playing until he was ready. He was not musical, but seemed to derive
much enjoyment from his own efforts.
“Aw right, Brick—I won’t regale yuh with music now. Sad music cheers me
up, don’tcha know it? Sometimes, I wonder—” Harp rubbed the palm of his
hand on the tightly drawn knee—“I wonder why paw didn’t educate me for
the undertakin’ business. Man, I’d ’a’ sure been a dinger. I jist love
to hear them singin’ ‘Rock of Ages,’ and by golly, I——”
Brick reached for his gun and Harp threw up both hands.
“You danged pall-bearer!” snorted Brick. “You keep up that kind of talk
and there’ll be singin’—but you won’t hear it.”
“That’s right—jump onto me.” Harp grew indignant. “You big bully! I
s’pose you’d strike me, wouldn’t yuh? Huh! It’s brutes like you that
makes this world hard for us frail critters. I do everythin’ I can for
yuh, and this is the treatment I get.”
* * * * *
Brick slumped down in his chair and began rolling a cigaret, as someone
came clumping along the wooden sidewalk up to the office door. Then a
head, surmounted by an ornate sombrero, was shoved inside from an angle
that would indicate the man to be of abnormal height. The face beneath
the sombrero was both broad and long, serious, except for the wide brown
eyes. Brick glanced up at him, but showed no recognition. Harp squinted
at the door, looked back at Brick and slapped himself on the knee.
“Now, jump onto me,” he invited Brick. “Abuse me, cowboy. Go ahead and
try to be cruel. Ha, ha! Succor is at hand.”
“Sucker?”
The big man came inside and started slowly toward Harp, who threw both
hands up to his face, as if to shut out the sight.
“Who’s a sucker?” demanded the big man, shaking himself until the silver
_conchos_ of his bat-wing chaps creaked under the strain.
He slapped a big palm against his holster and halted in the middle of
the floor.
“Love of gosh!” exclaimed Harp. “It’s little Lord Fauntleroy! Welcome
home.”
The big man started toward Harp, but Brick slid between them and he
halted.
“You danged cow-town comedians can’t bust up my office,” declared Brick.
“Set down, ‘Silent’—you runt.”
Silent Slade flapped his big arms dismally and sank down in the nearest
chair.
“I seen them three deuces walk out of here; so I come over to see what
the rest of the deck was doin’,” said Silent. “I can smell trouble when
I see them three pelicans together.”
“Brick’s so danged dumb that they has to come over here every week to
remind him he’s the sheriff,” offered Harp seriously.
“Ought to pin his star on the wall,” observed Silent. “Might nail her to
the door, so every time he comes up to the place he’ll know what he’s
comin’ here for.”
But Brick did not take offense at their jokes. They knew that Brick was
capable, honest, and was doing everything in his power to keep the peace
of Sun Dog County. Silent Slade worked for the Nine-Bar-Nine cattle
outfit, located about twelve miles southeast of Marlin City, where Brick
had been foreman before he had been elected sheriff. Harp Harris had
also been one of the Nine-Bar-Nine cowpunchers.
Old Lafe Freeman, owner of the Nine-Bar-Nine, had sworn to high heaven
that the gods were against him when he lost Brick and Harp. Old Lafe was
a little, old, grizzled cow-man; one of the fast-disappearing type of
old-timers, who had carved out a niche in cowland with the combination
of a six-shooter and square-dealing.
After an appreciable period of silence, the big Nine-Bar-Nine cowboy
yawned widely and audibly.
“Didja ever try sleep for that?” queried Harp.
“That has all the earmarks of a jest,” observed Silent. “Some day I’m
goin’ to date time from the minute yuh made me laugh.”
Silent turned to Brick, opened his mouth to capacity and yelled loud
enough to shake the windows—
“How in —— are yuh?”
“Kinda downcast,” replied Brick softly.
“Uh-huh. Yuh ought to be. Say, old Lafe’s been down to Silverton—kinda
ridin’ around—and he says it don’t look a —— of a lot like you was goin’
to be reelected, Brick.”
“Thasso?” Brick showed interest. It was nearing the first of October,
and in November the primary election would be held.
“Dang right, it’s so,” nodded Silent. “Lafe says that you ain’t noways
as popular as yuh was a few weeks ago.”
“What have I done?” queried Brick, grinning.
“Well,” Silent grinned widely, “they seem to think yuh ain’t done
nothin’. I s’pose them three high-and-mighties were over here to kinda
invigorate yuh, wasn’t they?”
Brick nodded. He realized now that these robberies were happening at a
very inopportune time for him. The Sun Dog voters were very likely to
judge him on present showings instead of on his past records; and the
sheriff’s office was the one big issue in cow-land politics.
His opponent, Henry Stagg, known as “Hank,” had been considered more or
less of a joke as a candidate. He operated the stage lines from an
office in Silverton, where he could be found at nearly all times,
reciting his own deeds of valor.
Hank was tall and angular, with a raspy voice and a wonderful
vocabulary of profanity, gained from driving stage teams. He wore his
gun in a shoulder-holster, because his hips were too thin to support a
belt, and his favorite amusement was shooting magpies on the wing with
a thirty-thirty rifle. This latter branded him as a fairly good rifle
shot.
“They brought me some very good news,” said Brick. “When it comes to
bringin’ good cheer, they’re a fine flock of buzzards. Sun Dog County is
to be investigated by a professional detective and I’m to just go along
in my own dumb way and let him do the lookin’ through the knot-holes.”
“Is—thasso?” Silent exploded and his mouth remained open.
“Relax!” snorted Harp. “My gosh, anybody’d think by yore face that it
was in the dead of Winter instead of fly-time, Silent.”
“Hm-m-m! I’m dead amazed.” Thus Silent seriously.
“Settled fact,” grinned Brick. “I dunno who he is nor how many of ’em is
to come among us; so don’t question me. I didn’t know that the
commissioners took my job so seriously.”
“And they don’t even ask us to help him,” added Harp.
“Well, you hadn’t ought to let that worry yuh,” grinned Silent. “As far
as the detective is concerned, somebody will probably kill him before he
gets far into the mystery; but things are sure breakin’ bad for our li’l
sheriff.
“Lafe was talkin’ with ‘Soapy’ Caswell, and Soapy is kinda inclined to
the opinion that Brick ain’t exertin’ himself none to speak about. He
didn’t come right out and say it, but that’s the impression he handed
Lafe.”
“And he swings the vote of Silverton,” said Harp sadly. “He dang near
swings Sun Dog County, as far as that’s concerned. He owns the bank here
in Marlin, the Silverton bank and the Redrock bank; and when yuh own
enough banks, yuh kinda controls a lot of them X’s that folks mark down
on their ballot.”
Brick straightened up in his chair and reached for his tobacco.
“You two jiggers must ’a’ got up on the wrong side of the bunk this
mornin’, didn’t yuh? Mebbe I better order all flags at half-mast and put
crape on the door. All I’ve got to do is to beat Hank Stagg for the
nomination.”
“Yeah, that’s all,” said Silent dryly. “Just beat Hank for the
nomination, tha’sall. And then you’ve got to beat the nominee on the
other ticket. But let me tell yuh somethin’, red feller: If you don’t
put the deadwood on these stick-up jaspers pretty danged quick, you
couldn’t beat a drum.
“I ain’t raggin’ yuh, Brick. —— knows, I’m for yuh. But it’s a cinch
that there ain’t another man in Sun Dog County that can do more than
you’ve done; but folks don’t stop to consider that part of it. Yo’re
hired to catch criminals—so you’ve got to catch ’em, tha’sall.”
“Tha’sall,” nodded Brick seriously. “I remember when I was a little kid
I had to recite a poem in school. It was somethin’ about Napoleon
Bonaparte. It had a line like this—
“A very easy thing to plan, but difficult to do;
As Wellington made clear to him one day at Waterloo.”
“Or it might be kinda like the Frenchman’s flea-powder, in which the
directions said, ‘First catch the little flea.’”
“Still, it might be a danged good thing for me and Brick, if he did get
beat,” observed Harp. “Livin’ in the city this-a-way is plumb ruinin’
both of us.”
Brick grinned at his deputy, but the lanky one was serious. Marlin City
was a city in name only. By virtue of its central location, it was the
county-seat of Sun Dog County, but this honor had never caused it to
advance beyond the small, cow-town stage.
It had one street, not too straight and not too long, bordered with
unpainted buildings, which were mostly of the false-fronted style of
architecture. The wooden sidewalks, four feet in width, oozed pitch in
the Summer; and in the Winter the excessive cold caused the nails to
snap out of the two-by-four girders, leaving the top-boards free to
rattle and clatter underfoot, like walking over an unmusical xylophone.
Of shade-trees there was none. In fact, someone had said that there was
only one tree between Marlin City and the North Pole. A branch line of
the C. P. Railroad had recently been completed into Marlin City, giving
them transportation for stock and mining products; but the advent of a
railroad had not caused any perceptible boom in the country.
Brick Davidson had been sheriff of Sun Dog County for two years, during
which time both Silent and Harp had worked as deputies; not because they
liked the work, but because Brick had needed the services of trustworthy
men. Silent Slade had won his nickname because of his ability to talk
continuously. He was never short on conversation, except when asleep.
Silent was slow of movement, because of his great size, except when the
occasion demanded speed; but he was not slow of temper.
Harp Harris was slow to anger, but loved trouble. He could ride
anything he could saddle, and rope with deadly accuracy. But his
favorite occupation was playing the jew’s-harp. And no one except Harp
could recognize his tunes; but there was something about that weird
_tung-g-ging_ that soothed the soul of the lean, angular cowpuncher and
caused him to relax and close his eyes in ecstasy.
Just now he placed the instrument between his teeth, relaxed against the
wall and struck a preliminary note.
“My ——!” exclaimed Silent, getting to his feet. “That —— thing is about
to start agin’, Brick. C’mon; I’ll buy yuh a drink.”
“All right,” grinned Brick.
They walked outside, leaving Harp humped against the wall, moaning
through the vibrating tongue of the harp, his right hand fanning slowly
past one of his bat-ears, his eyes shut; while one of his upturned feet
jerked an occasional accompaniment, all out of time with the beat of his
alleged tune.
* * * * *
“By Gosh, you bettair keep away from de grizz-a-lee,” warned Mose La
Clede, a gaunt, bearded Canadian-Frenchman, hitching his belt higher
about his hips and shifting the huge quid of tobacco in his cheek.
“She’s de bad wan, and she’s ’ongry for little boy.”
Little “Whizzer” Malloy, five years of age, lifted his inquiring brown
eyes and backed away so quickly that the dragging spur on his little
foot tripped him and he fell flat in the dirt.
“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the big man, as he picked the little fellow up and
stood him on his feet.
The big grizzly in the pole cage rumbled deeply and flung his chest
against the front of the cage, biting at the barrier. The semicircle of
curious onlookers grinned as the youngster backed away, trying to
straighten the spur and watch the bear at the same time. A horse, tied
to one of the hitch-racks, snorted as the bear-scent assailed its
nostrils, and snapped the tie-rope on a backward surge.
A cowboy spat out a curse, ran into the street from a saloon and
cornered the animal before it had a chance to leave for parts unknown.
That the idle population of Silverton was interested in Mose La Clede’s
grizzly was attested by the fact that most of them were already
crowding around the cage, which was placed in the street in front of
the stage-office.
La Clede had trapped the animal in the Smoky Hills, where he had kept it
until making a deal with an Eastern zoo. It was a full-grown specimen,
savage as a tiger and as powerful as any four-legged animal could be.
The pole cage creaked under its lunges, and the crowd shifted uneasily.
“How much does he weigh, La Clede?” asked Hank Stagg, who stood at a
respectful distance.
Hank was in charge of the stage lines, and it was one of his vehicles
that was to transport the grizzly to the railroad at Marlin City.
“By gosh, I’m dunno,” replied La Clede, scratching his head. “We weigh
her on de hay-scale and she’s twelve hundred, forty pound. De cage
weigh—I’m dunno how much, but I’m t’ink de bear mak’ ’bout ten hun’red.”
“Then how in —— are we goin’ to load it?” queried Hank. “There ain’t
enough of us to lift that weight.”
“I’m know how,” grinned La Clede. “We tak’ two, t’ree plank and some
round pole for de roller, _sabe_? We block de wagon, hitch team to cage
by de rope, and pull her up.”
“All right,” growled Hank. “Get yore planks and rollers.”
The crowd, ever ready to assist, went in search of the required
articles, while “Baldy” Malloy, the Whispering Creek stage-driver, went
to the livery-stable to get the team, followed closely by Whizzer, whose
spur tripped him every few feet.
But Whizzer did not whimper. He felt that the spur made him a
cowpuncher, and he would wear that spur if it was the last thing he ever
did. Whizzer’s mother had died shortly after he was brought into the
world, and Whizzer had soon learned that there was little sympathy in
the world for a cry-baby.
Not that Baldy did not love his son. He thought that the sun arose and
set especially for Whizzer, and they were inseparable when Baldy’s trip
was finished. Baldy was short, fat and bald, with weak, blue eyes and an
insipid, rope-colored mustache.
Back they went from the stable with the team of half-wild bronchos,
almost unmanageable when they scented the bear. Whizzer carried his spur
in both hands, as he trotted along behind in the dust, his brown eyes
wide with anticipation.
Two heavy planks had been secured, and some men were coming with a pole,
which would be cut into short roller-lengths. One end of the cage was
lifted onto the planks, which extended into the rear of the wagon-box,
up which the cage was to be dragged.
At risk of losing one or both of his hands, La Clede managed to insert a
rope through the bottom and side of the cage, tied it tightly and flung
the loose end out over the front of the wagon.
The cage was tilted slightly and a roller inserted beneath.
“By ——, I don’t like that cage!” declared “Slim” Hunter, a sad-faced
cowpuncher. “Them there poles ain’t fastened with nothin’ but rawhide.”
“By gosh, dey hold,” panted La Clede. “Plenty rawhide. She’s put on wet,
an den she’s dry hout. Bettair den de nail.”
Baldy was having trouble with the team, which were frantic from the
bear-scent and from the angry, deep-throated rumble of the big beast.
With the help of two more men he managed to fasten the rope to the
double-tree, and was ready for the loading.
“Keep ’way from de cage,” warned La Clede. “Dat —— bear she’s reach
hout. All right—hup she’s go!”
There was no chance for a steady pull. The frightened team surged into
their collars, fairly jerking Baldy off his feet, and the bear-cage went
slithering up the planks and into the wagon-box, catching one corner of
the box and ripping it loose from the wagon-bed.
“Whoa!” yelped La Clede. “Stop de team!”
But the team had ideas of their own. They swung sidewise, kicking,
plunging, with Baldy digging his heels into the hard surface of the
street, trying to stop them. Further around they swung, until at right
angles to the wagon they straightened out the rope and fairly yanked the
bear-cage through the side-board of the wagon.
For a moment it seemed to hang in midair, then crashed down to the hard
earth, striking on one corner. Came the snapping of overwrought rawhide,
the splintering of poles, and the grizzly, dazed, fighting mad, shook
the poles off his roached neck and stood forth as free as he was the day
before La Clede’s trap cut off his freedom.
Brick Davidson was riding into Silverton, and drew up his horse about a
hundred feet away from the scene of action. He did not know what was
being done until the grizzly emerged from the shattered cage.
In the excitement Baldy let loose of his lines and the team bolted with
the remnants of the cage bounding and crashing along behind them. Horses
broke away from the hitch-racks and dashed wildly about the street, but
no one paid them any heed. The crowd had scattered for places of safety,
except little Whizzer Malloy, and now they fairly screamed their
warnings to the little, brown-faced, brown-eyed baby, who stood there in
the middle of the street, spur in hand, facing a blood-hungry grizzly.
They were not over six feet apart. Somewhere a six-shooter cracked,
fired by a nervous hand, and the bullet spouted dust between the baby
and the bear. With almost incredible speed for such an unwieldy-looking
animal, the grizzly closed the gap, knocking little Whizzer flat on his
back.
“Don’t shoot!” screamed Baldy Malloy. “My God, don’t shoot!”
The big bear was master of the situation now. With mane erect, rumbling
defiance at those who had attempted to send him into captivity, he
crouched lower over the dazed child. Suddenly his head dropped and he
gathered the child in his mouth. As he swung up his head Brick Davidson
was running toward him, six-shooter in his hand.
Someone yelled a warning at the red-headed sheriff, but he did not
hesitate. Brick was making his attack from the rear and he was making it
at top speed. Someone in the crowd threw a sombrero in the direction of
the bear, which swung its head, as though to meet this new danger; and
at that moment Brick fairly leaped through the air and landed on the
grizzly.
It was so unexpected that the bear remained motionless for a second; and
in that moment Brick twisted his left hand into that roached mane and
set his spurs deeply into the powerful shoulders of the animal.
With a flip of its neck the grizzly flung little Whizzer aside and the
little boy started crawling blindly away. Quick as a flash the bear
whirled completely around, seeking to dislodge this new enemy, but Brick
was all set for the ride.
Two powerful lunges failed to unseat the rider, and then the bear reared
upright, clawing wildly, roaring with rage. Brick was, in range
parlance, “pullin’ leather,” but none of the audience denied him that
right. It was the first time that any of them had seen a bucking
grizzly.
But no one came to his assistance; no one wanted to get within reach of
that terrible mount. And as the grizzly, upright on its hind legs,
threatened to fall backward, Brick’s six-shooter spouted flame and lead
into the animal’s brain.
Twice the big .45 roared dully before the grizzly plunged forward from
its upright position. It went flat in the dirt, surged to all fours, but
went down again from the third shot, sprawling in a grotesque heap.
Brick fell off, rolled over once and came back to his feet, ready for
more.
But the grizzly was finished. The three big slugs of lead had done their
work, and the Eastern zoo would never see the big grizzly from the Smoky
Hills.
* * * * *
The crowd surged into the street, too amazed for words. They quickly
surrounded Brick and the grizzly, trying to congratulate Brick and to
alibi themselves at the same time.
“I throwed the hat,” announced Slim Hunter proudly. It was like the
sparrow’s announcement of, “I killed Cock Robin.”
Baldy Malloy, hatless, his face streaked with perspiration and dust,
carrying little Whizzer under his arm, broke through the crowd and
halted in front of Brick. He was breathing too heavily for words, and
could only stare at Brick, who grinned widely at the serious expression
on little Whizzer’s face.
Baldy did not offer to shake hands with Brick; just stared at him in a
dazed way. The crowd was silent now. Then the youngster shoved out two
little grimy hands, clutching at the big spur, and announced in a
triumphant treble—
“By golly, I held onto her, y’betcha!”
Baldy glanced down at the two hands, shifted the boy to where he could
grasp him with both hands, hugged him tightly to his breast and stumbled
away with the one muttered exclamation—
“God!”
The crowd stared after him for a moment and turned back to Brick, whose
eyes were suspiciously moist. Mose La Clede’s big, bony hand was thrust
out to Brick, and his voice boomed:
“By gosh, dat was nervy treek! I’m los’ de bear, but I’m glad for save
de leetle keed. You mak’ de good ride, sheriff; by gosh, you mak’ de ——
good ride!”
“I sure throwed that hat,” announced Slim again. If there was any glory
to spare, Slim wanted some of it.
“I’m sure glad yuh thought of doin’ that, Slim,” said Brick warmly. “It
attracted him long enough to give me a chance to make my mount.”
“I knowed it,” grinned Slim, “and I sure timed m’ throw. It takes quick
thinkin’ in a case like that.”
“I’m buyin’ a drink for everybody!” yelled Otto Falk, proprietor of the
Short Horn saloon. “Come and get it.”
The crowd was willing. They needed something strong now.
“I’ve got a perfectly good team out there some’ers, draggin’ what used
to be a bear cage,” complained Hank Stagg. “They’ll prob’ly be plumb
ruined; but I’m goin’ to have a drink. By ——, I’m through with grizzly
bears. That big son-of-a-gun was jist about to glom that poor little
kid.
“Wasn’t he sore? Whoo-ee! I betcha that grizzly could ’a’ whipped all
the lions in Africky. Might as well try to stop a railroad ingine.
Quick, too; quick as ——”
“My hat’s ruined, too,” complained Slim ruefully. “That —— bear done his
war-dance on it and then some of these heavy-heeled cow-persons walked
all over it. They’re so —— ignorant that they don’t know what a hat is,
’less it’s on somebody’s head.”
* * * * *
Baldy Malloy headed straight toward his own shack, going down the main
street, clinging tightly to Whizzer, who was willing to ride, even if he
did not understand what it was all about.
As they came past McGill’s saloon, McGill, a portly, hard-faced man,
stopped them and asked Baldy what had caused all the excitement up the
street. There were three other men with McGill.
“Didn’t yuh see it?” asked Baldy hoarsely.
“Wouldn’t ask you, if we did?” growled McGill. “We was playin’ poker and
heard them shots fired.”
Baldy stood the boy up on the sidewalk while he hastily sketched out
what had been done.
“And he rode that bear, straight-up, made him let go of Whizzer, and
then killed the bear with his six-gun,” finished Baldy.
McGill spat thoughtfully and squinted at the three men in the doorway.
“Made a hero out of himself right in front of a crowd,” said McGill
sarcastically. “Pretty —— good advertisin’, eh?”
McGill laughed hoarsely and turned to Baldy, just in time to receive
Baldy’s right fist square in his nose; and the fist had every ounce of
weight and strength that Baldy possessed behind it.
Baldy’s one punch was sufficient. McGill fell into his own doorway, his
shoulders striking the edge of the step and the back of his head fairly
bouncing off the floor. None of the three men made any move to assist
McGill. Baldy blew on his bruised knuckles, picked Whizzer off the
sidewalk, and went on toward his own shack.
McGill recovered sufficiently to get back on his feet, spat out a tooth,
along with a weird assortment of profanity, and went back into the
saloon to try and find out, with the aid of a mirror, just why his nose
seemed so out of proportion to the rest of his face.
“You touched Baldy on a tender spot, Mac,” said one of the men. “Yuh
see, Brick Davidson jist saved Baldy’s kid.”
“All right,” growled McGill, like a man suffering from a heavy cold.
“There can’t nobody hit me and get away with it.”
“As far as Baldy is concerned, you better let things go as they lie,”
advised one of the men.
“Yeah, I s’pose,” said McGill darkly, squinting at himself in the
mirror. “Didja ever see a nose like that? And I lost a good tooth, too.”
Brick accepted several drinks, along with the adulations of the crowd.
Every one had a different version of the affair, and Brick knew that
inside of an hour there would be a dozen men who would swear that he had
killed at least fifty grizzly bears single-handed.
Slim Hunter had reached the crying stage—sobbing over the ruination of
his new sombrero; so Brick managed to sneak out during a heated
argument. Across the street, in a general store, he encountered Soapy
Caswell and Sam Leach.
Soapy was a typical cattleman; as gray as a badger, and with a similar
disposition. He had acquired control of the banking business of Sun Dog
County, with banks at Marlin City, Silverton and Redrock; but his
personal interests ran stronger to draw poker than to finances. He owned
the Circle Cross ranch, located about three miles east of Silverton.
Soapy and Leach had heard of the grizzly incident, and Soapy
congratulated Brick with:
“Hear yo’re ridin’ ’em savage these days, Brick. Ha, ha, ha! By golly,
yuh ought to get a medal for that. Shore took a lot of nerve. How are
yuh?”
He held out his hand to Brick, but Leach merely lifted his brows
slightly and busied himself with looking into a fly-specked showcase.
They shook hands and Soapy indicated with a gesture that he wanted to
see Brick outside.
Brick bought some tobacco and moved out of the store with Soapy, halting
out near the hitch-rack. Soapy was not one to beat about the bush.
“Brick, if you don’t slap the deadwood on some of these stick-up
jaspers, yore cake’ll be all dough at the primaries. There’s a lot of
folks that has an idea that a sheriff must be smarter’n ——; don’tcha
know it?”
“I’m smart,” said Brick seriously.
Soapy nodded quickly.
“I know yuh are, Brick. The smartest man I ever knowed was a plumbed
——ed fool.”
“Who was he?” queried Brick.
“Well,” Soapy spat thoughtfully, “I hate to give him away like this, but
bein’ as yuh asked kinda point-blank—it’s me.”
Soapy chuckled at his own wit and slapped Brick on the shoulder.
“That Redrock stage hold-up cost me five thousand dollars, Brick. I’m
not sendin’ any more money by stage, y’betcha. That other hold-up cost
the Red Hill mine a nice piece of change, and that bank robbery here
nicked me for a nice little pot.
“I _sabe_ that yo’re doin’ everythin’ yuh can. Don’tcha get the idea
that Soapy Caswell is ridin’ yuh, son. I’m just tellin’ yuh how the
voters stand. Right now you’d carry Silverton, cause they remember the
grizzly. T’morrow they quit thinkin’ bear.”
Brick nodded. He knew that Soapy was right. Sun Dog County wanted a
sheriff to do things right now. Past performances did not count.
“Have you got any idea, Soapy?” asked Brick.
“Not a danged idea, Brick. From the three descriptions, there’s a big
man, a medium-sized one and one that’s kinda tall and thin. Of course
you’ve got to kinda discount descriptions, ’cause the human eye ain’t
noways accurate after it’s looked down the muzzle of a cocked gun.
Anyway, I know danged well mine ain’t.”
“Would they nominate Hank Stagg and then elect him?” queried Brick.
“If they nominate him, they’ll sure elect him. He wouldn’t be worth a
plugged dime as a sheriff, but that don’t count now.”
“Well,” Brick yawned wearily, “I dunno as I care a lot, Soapy. I’ve had
two years of misery for two hundred and twenty dollars per month. I
suppose it would be kinda tough to go back to the old forty a month,
punchin’ cows.”
“Now you get the idea out of yore mind,” advised Soapy. “Sun Dog needs a
reg’lar sheriff—not a —— chilblain like Hank Stagg.”
“Soapy, do yuh think that Bill Grant, Hendricks and Leach will be
nominated?”
“Leach don’t have to—he’s a hold-over, Brick. But I reckon Grant and
Hendricks will be elected ag’in. They’re as good as we can pick.”
“They don’t like me, Soapy.”
“Well, my ——, what do you care? Are yuh gettin’ so that folks has to
send yuh vi’lets?”
Brick laughed widely at the serious expression on Soapy’s face.
“Listen, Soapy,” he said softly, “they’ve hired a professional detective
to come here to unravel our troubles.”
“No! A—a—well, that’s fine. I suppose we’ll have to take up a collection
to send his body back to Iowa, or to some other ——ed seaport. By golly,
that’s fine! Well—” Soapy cuffed his hat sideways on his head, and bit
off a generous chew of tobacco—“that settles all our troubles. You can
just set down and let him bring yuh the criminals.
“I wonder whose idea that was? Mebbe all three. By ——, if their combined
brains were turned into dynamite and loaded into a .22 shell, it
wouldn’t have power enough to kick the bullet out of a two-inch barrel.
Professional detective, ——! I’m goin’ to find me a poker game, Brick. I
crave action, I do. So-long!”
* * * * *
Brick stood at the hitch-rack and grinned at Soapy, who was bow-legging
his way across the street toward the Short Horn saloon. Sam Leach came
out of the store, started to turn the other way, but noticed Brick and
came over to him.
“You remember we spoke to you about that expert investigator the other
day, Davidson?” said Leach.
Brick nodded slowly.
“He will be here almost any day now,” continued Leach. “We told you this
in strict confidence, and—well, we want you to keep the information to
yourself. His value is gone, if his identity is known.”
“Yeah?” Brick grinned.
“You can see that for yourself, can’t you? He will probably go to work
as a cowpuncher.”
“He ought to be worth forty a month,” mused Brick.
Leach scowled slightly. He had crossed verbal swords with Brick before,
and he knew that the red-headed sheriff carried a sharp weapon in
range-repartee. Brick looked up quickly.
“Seems to me that yo’re takin’ a —— of a lot of interest in my office,
Leach.”
“Not in your office—in the good of the county, Davidson.”
“Yeah? She was a pretty good county before you came here, Leach. Mebbe
she’ll be a good county after yo’re gone.”
“I don’t think I understand you, Davidson.”
“Don’tcha? Well, that’s all right then. What yuh don’t understand won’t
worry yuh none.”
Brick turned and crossed the street to a hitch-rack, where he mounted
his horse and rode back toward Marlin City. Leach watched him ride away,
shrugged his shoulders indifferently and walked down the street toward
McGill’s saloon.
Sam Leach had lived in Sun Dog County about four years and had prospered
in his cattle buying. For nearly two years he had held office as a
commissioner and had proved himself a capable man, although his
disposition had gained him few friends.
He knew the cattle business well, having been a cowboy, cattle-raiser,
and previous to his coming to Sun Dog he had been a range detective. He
lived alone in a little house on the outskirts of Silverton, but spent a
great part of his time in riding over the range, looking at the stock.
As Leach went down the street, Bill Grant came out of the livery-stable,
where he had just left his horse, and crossed over to Leach. Jimmy
McKeever, the stableman, had told Grant of how Brick had saved Baldy
Malloy’s youngster.
“Hello,” greeted Grant, “I guess I showed up too late to see the fun,
eh? Did you see Brick ride the grizzly?”
“No, I didn’t see it,” replied Leach a trifle sullenly.
“Wish I had,” laughed Grant. “Jimmy tells me that it was worth seein’.
Brick’s got plenty of nerve.”
“Yes, that’s a cinch.”
“Hear anythin’ more from that detective, Sam?”
“Not a word. But that don’t bother me. Santel said he’d be here as soon
as he could make the trip, and he’ll be here.”
“Good man, eh?” reflectively. “Yuh know we’re kinda leavin’ this up to
you, Sam. I know that Brick didn’t like the idea, and I don’t know that
I do. I had a talk with Hendricks——”
“Want me to send him back?” queried Leach, “——, I thought you fellows——”
“No, we’ll let him go ahead, Sam. If he cleans up this gang, it will be
fine. Still, I wonder if Brick——”
Two men were coming from McGill’s saloon and Grant stopped with his
question unasked. It was two of the men who had been there when Baldy
had knocked McGill down. They were Bud Keller and Ed Smeed, two cowboys
from over in the Smoky Hills.
“Did you fellers see it?” asked Keller, laughing.
“No, we got here too late,” replied Grant. “Brick must have made a good
ride.”
“Oh, not that,” laughed Smeed. “We didn’t see that either. We meant, did
yuh see Baldy Malloy knock McGill down?”
“Eh?” grunted Leach. “Knock McGill down?”
“Uh-huh. Baldy was comin’ past, packin’ his kid, when McGill asked Baldy
what was goin’ on up the street. Yuh see, we was all playin’ poker and
didn’t know anythin’ unusual was goin’ on, until we hears the shots.
“Baldy was kinda excited and his eyes was like saucers, when he tells us
how Brick saved his kid’s life. Anyway, McGill makes a remark about
Brick tryin’ to make a hero out of himself, and then Baldy almost ruins
McGill’s nose. Honest to gosh, he laid McGill stiff.”
“And,” added Smeed, “if yuh meet Baldy, don’t say nothin’ ag’in Brick
Davidson. I never knowed that that fat stage-driver had that kind of a
wallop. Whoo-ee! He sure caressed McGill.”
Grant laughed widely. He did not like McGill. But Leach did not see
anything humorous in the incident.
“What did McGill do?” asked Leach.
“Aw, he spat out a tooth and soaked his smeller in cold water,” grinned
Keller. “It sure was right good to look upon.”
“It must have been,” said Leach dryly.
“C’mon up to the Short Horn, and I’ll buy a drink,” offered Keller.
“No thanks,” Leach shook his head. “I’m going home.”
“How about you, Grant?” queried Keller. Grant grinned and started up the
street.
“Just to show that I’m a hail-feller-well-met, c’mon.”
Leach looked after them, a half-sneer on his face, and went slowly down
to McGill’s saloon, where he went inside.
* * * * *
_Tung-g-g, hung-g-g-g, bong-g-g, bong-g-g-g, zung-g-g-g._
Mrs. Wesson lifted her head from the pillow and strained her ears,
trying to figure out what was making the peculiar noise. She had been
listening to it for quite a while. It was a weird noise, half-metallic,
half-human.
She reached over to a chair, where an alarm clock ticked loudly, and, in
the dim light, took note of the time.
“Four o’clock,” she said aloud.
“Eh?”
Cale Wesson, her husband, lifted himself on one elbow and squinted at
her.
“Whazzamatter?”
“That danged noise,” she replied. “Didn’t yuh hear it?”
Cale yawned audibly and turned his pillow over. He was not interested.
_Hung-g-g, bong-g-g, zung-g-g-g, zung-g-g, bong-g-g-g._
“What the —— is that?” demanded Cale, sitting up in bed.
“That’s what I’ve been talkin’ about,” said Mrs. Wesson. “I’ve been
hearin’ it for quite a while. Sounds like a tight wire in a wind.”
“Um-m-m.”
Cale slid out of bed and went to a window. The sounds seemed to come
from almost directly below them.
“It’s sure got me,” declared Cale. “I’m danged——”
“I care not for the star-r-r-rs that shi-i-ine.”
The voice was singing softly, unmusically; dwelling with fervor and
longing upon the higher registers.
“I only ho-o-ope that you’ll be-e-e mi-i-i-ine.”
Cale Wesson slid the window up softly and looked down.
Harp Harris was sitting against a corner of the porch, his face lifted
in the moonlight, eyes closed, as he poured out his soul in his own kind
of melody—
“I only know I lo-o-o-ove you-u-u-u;
Love me-e-e-e-e and the wor-r-r-rld is mi-i-i-i-ine.”
The last wailing note died away. Cale Wesson turned and looked at his
wife. Mrs. Wesson was a big, raw-boned woman, with a sense of humor, and
just now the curl-papers on her head were jerking from excess mirth.
She shoved Cale aside and leaned out of the window.
“Harp!” she called softly.
“Eh?” Harp’s eyes opened and he gasped up at the window above him.
“You ought to go home and git some sleep,” said Mrs. Wesson.
“Huh?” Harp’s vocal cords creaked slightly.
“We like yore music,” said Mrs. Wesson seriously, “but Cale’s got to
have sleep, if he’s going to run a store. Pers’nally, I kinda like it.
Yuh better try it ag’in some night when Cale ain’t at home.”
“Uh,” replied Harp.
He stepped off the porch, as if to sneak away, but summoned up a little
nerve.
“Ain’t Miss Miller to home?” he asked. “I—I told her I was goin’ to
serenade her sometime, yuh know.”
“Gosh, I thought yuh was serenadin’ me.” Mrs. Wesson was sadly serious.
“Well, I s’pose I should have known better. Nope, Miss Miller ain’t
home, Harp. She went to Silverton to a dance last night.”
“Uh-huh? She did? Who’d she go with?”
“Mister Leach.”
“Oh! Well, I’m much obliged, Mrs. Wesson.”
“No, yuh ain’t, Harp; but it’s the best I can do for yuh.”
“Sa-a-ay!” Cale Wesson’s voice rasped out angrily. “What in —— do yuh
mean by singin’ love songs around my winder at this time in the mornin’?
I’ve got a danged good notion——”
“No, yuh ain’t got no notion,” retorted Mrs. Wesson. “You never had any
kind of a notion. You let the boy alone.”
The window slammed down, cutting off the argument. Harp put the
offending instrument in his pocket and went back to the deserted street,
where he slouched despondently along the sidewalk.
“Gone t’ Silverton with Leach, eh?” he muttered aloud. “And me wastin’
m’ melody on the Wesson fambly. My ——! Now, everybody in town will know
about it. —— Sam Leach!”
Miss Miller was the new school-teacher in Marlin City, a tall, angular
sort of girl; rather good-looking and with a pleasant disposition. She
boarded and roomed with the Wesson family, which place, according to
Mrs. Wesson, “was gittin’ to be a cowpuncher’s headquarters.”
Harp Harris had been fancy free until he had seen Della Miller. But in
one month, Dan Cupid had riddled his heart with arrows of love; ruined
his perspective, until he lost all track of time. Hence the four a.m.
serenade.
He sat down on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office and held
his chin in his hands, while he mentally picked a quarrel with Sam
Leach. It was a dandy quarrel, ending in a fight, in which Harp beat Sam
Leach to within an inch of his life.
There was also a big audience cheering Harp on to kill his opponent, but
Harp spared his miserable life. He did not want Leach’s blood on his
head. Anyway, he could afford to be generous. The crowd was cheering him
now. Crowds are peculiar things.
Then he hugged his elbows to his sides and started the argument all over
again. This time it was man to man, but with guns. The crowd had
scattered. It was a tense moment. Harp knew that he was quicker on the
draw, a better shot than Leach.
“Pull yore gun, Leach,” he said calmly. “Cock it, if yuh wish. Are yuh
ready, Leach? All right. I’m givin’ yuh an even break. Now, you give the
word yourself.”
And as the hero waited for the signal that would cause him to draw
swiftly and send shot after shot into the heart of his hated rival, a
horse and buggy came into town.
Harp lifted his head and watched Sam Leach drive past him, with Della
Miller beside him. They turned off the main street, going toward
Wesson’s house. Harp spat angrily and tried to conjure up another big
fight, but the spell was broken.
In a few minutes Leach drove past him again, went into the livery-stable
and was gone for some time. Harp knew that the stableman was asleep and
that Leach would have to stable his own horse. After a time, Leach came
out, leading a saddle-horse, which he mounted. It was still too dark to
distinguish objects clearly. Leach lighted a cigar or cigaret and rode
slowly up the street, going past Harp once more and heading North.
Harp thought that Leach might be going back to the Wesson house, but he
continued out of town.
“In that last fight,” said Harp to himself, “I let him draw and cock his
own gun. Huh! In that fist-fight I let up on him, when I had him where I
wanted him. But if I ever get at him ag’in he’s got to look out for
himself. Bein’ a hero is all right, but I’m all through heroin’ around
that danged jigger, y’betcha.”
Harp went into the office and sat down on his cot. Brick was asleep in
the back room, so Harp went cautiously. He knew that Cale Wesson would
spread the news and that everyone in Marlin City would be informed of
the fact that Harp Harris had serenaded Mrs. Wesson at four a.m.
* * * * *
Brick awoke at eight o’clock and found Harp fully dressed. It was not
like Harp to be up and doing at that time in the morning. He had left
Harp in a poker game in the Dollar Down at midnight, and took it for
granted that the game had just broken up.
Cale Wesson was just opening his general merchandise store as they went
up the street to the restaurant. Cale saw them coming, and began a
clumsy imitation of a troubadour. Brick squinted at him, wondering what
it was all about; but Harp knew.
Cale pointed his nose toward the sky and began singing in a voice that
was even worse than the one owned by Harp Harris—
“I care not for the sta-a-ars that shi-hine.”
Cale paused and seemed to be searching for the proper note.
“Well, tha’sall right,” observed Brick. “I never had much use for stars
that shine either. I like mine kinda dim, Cale.”
Harp’s ears were very red, his jaws shut tight. Brick glanced at him
curiously, but Harp remained silent.
“What’s the idea, Cale?” queried Brick.
“Li’l love-bug, Brick. I can’t tell yuh much more, ’cause I don’t want
no scandal in my own family. Me and Ma has been married seventeen years;
livin’ peaceful-like with nothin’ to mar our happiness—but things are
changin’. Ma’s romantic. I s’pose—” Cale yawned widely, seriously— “I
s’pose I’ve got to learn to play some ——ed instrument and lose a lot of
sleep, playin’ and singin’ beneath her winder—or take a chance on losin’
her.”
“Oh, yeah,” Brick grinned widely, but did not look at Harp. “Well, good
luck to yuh, Cale. If yuh want to learn the jew’s-harp, I can put yuh
next to a master of the thing. C’mon, Harp.”
They went to the restaurant and ordered breakfast. Harp was silent and
thoughtful, but Brick did not question him. Cale had told enough for
Brick to have a fair idea of what had happened.
As they came out of the restaurant they met Mrs. Wesson and Della
Miller. Harp stood stock-still and wished himself miles away, because at
a glance he knew that Mrs. Wesson had told the school-teacher all about
it.
“Hello, Brickie,” greeted Mrs. Wesson.
“Hello, folks,” grinned Brick.
Mrs. Wesson squinted at Harp, frowned heavily, as though trying to
remember him. Then:
“By golly, that’s Harp Harris, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” nodded Brick, “this is Harp himself. You’ve met these ladies,
ain’t yuh, Harp?”
Harp grunted something unintelligible.
“Wouldn’t hardly knowed him,” declared Mrs. Wesson. “Yuh see, I ain’t
used to seein’ him in daylight.”