"JUST ME AND HER"
Sheriff Banks tossed Corliss's note on his desk, reached in his pocket
and drew forth a jack-knife with which he began to trim his
finger-nails. He paid no apparent attention to the arrival of one of
his deputies, but proceeded with his manipulation of the knife. The
deputy sidled to a chair and sat watching the sheriff.
Presently Banks closed his knife, slid it into his pocket, and leaned
back in his chair. "Lone Johnny gone back?" he queried.
The deputy nodded.
Banks proffered his companion a cigar and lit one himself. For a while
he smoked and gazed at the ceiling. "I got two cards to play," he
said, straightening up and brushing cigar-ash from his vest. "Last
election was pretty close. By rights I ought to be at the county-seat.
Got any idea why they side-tracked me here in Antelope?"
The deputy grinned. "It's right handy to the line. And I guess they
saw what was comin' and figured to put you up against it. They
couldn't beat you at the polls, so they tried to put you where you
wouldn't come back."
"Correct. And there's no use running against the rope. Now I want you
to call on every citizen in Antelope and tell every dog-goned one of
'em what Lone Johnny kind of hinted at regarding the Concho and Loring.
And show 'em this note from Jack. Tell 'em I'm going to swear in each
of 'em as a special. I want to go on record as having done what I
could."
The deputy rose. "All right, Jim. Kind of late to make that move,
ain't it?"
"I got another card," said the sheriff. "Tell 'em we'll be ready to
start about twelve. It's ten, now."
With the departure of the deputy the sheriff reached in his desk and
brought forth a book. It was thumbed and soiled. He turned the pages
slowly, pausing to read a line here and there. Finally he settled back
and became immersed in the perennial delight of "Huckleberry Finn." He
read uninterruptedly for an hour, drifting on the broad current of the
Mississippi to eventually disembark in Antelope as the deputy shadowed
the doorway. The sheriff closed the book and glanced up. He read his
answer in the deputy's eyes.
"'T ain't that they don't like you," said the deputy. "But they ain't
one of 'em that'll do anything for Loring or do anything against Jack
Corliss."
The sheriff smiled. "Public opinion is setting on the fence and
hanging on with both hands. All right, Joe. I'll play her alone. I
got a wire from Hank that he's got the herder, Fernando. Due here on
the two-thirty. You hang around and tell Hank to keep on--take the
Mexican along up to Usher."
"Goin' to go after the Concho boys and Loring's herders?"
"Sure thing. And I'm going alone. Then they won't make a fuss.
They'll come back with me all right."
"But you couldn't get a jury to send one of 'em over--not in this
county."
"Correct, Joe. But the county's paying me to go through the
motions--don't matter what I think personally. If they've pulled off a
shooting-match at the water-hole, the thing's settled by this time. It
had to come and if it's over, I'm dam' glad. It'll clear the air for
quite a spell to come."
"The papers'll sure make a holler--" began the deputy.
"Not so much as you think. They got one good reason to keep still and
that's because the free range is like to be opened up to homesteaders
any day. Too much noise about cattle-and-sheep war would scare good
money from coming to the State. I heard the other day that that
Sundown Jack picked up is settled at the water-hole. I took him for a
tenderfoot once. I reckon he ain't. It's hard to figure on those
queer kind. Well, you meet the two-thirty. I guess I'll ride over to
the Concho and see the boys."
The Loring-Corliss case is now a matter of record in the dusty files of
the "Usher Sentinel" and its decidedly disesteemed contemporary, the
"Mesa News." The case was dismissed for lack of anything like definite
evidence, though Loring and Corliss were bound over to keep the peace.
Incidentally one tall and angular witness refused to testify, and was
sentenced to pay a not insignificant fine for contempt of court. That
his fine was promptly paid by Corliss furnished a more or less
gratuitous excuse for a wordy vilification of the rancher and his
"hireling assassin," "menace to public welfare," and the like.
Sundown, however, stuck to his guns, even to the extent of searching
out the editor of the "Mesa News" and offering graciously to engage in
hand-to-hand combat, provided the editor, or what was left of him after
the battle, would insert an apology in the next issue of the paper--the
apology to be dictated by Sundown.
The editor temporized by asking the indignant Sundown to frame the
apology, which he did. Then the wily autocrat of the "Mesa News,"
after reading the apology, agreed to an armistice and mentioned the
fact that it was a hot day. Sundown intimated that he knew one or two
places in Usher which he was not averse to visiting under the
circumstances. And so the treaty was ratified.
Perhaps among Sundown's possessions there is none so cherished,
speaking broadly, as a certain clipping from an Arizona newspaper in
which the editor prints a strangely worded and colorful apology, above
his personal signature, for having been misled temporarily in his
estimation of a "certain person of warlike proclivities who visited our
sanctum bent upon eradicating us in a physical sense." The apology
follows. In a separate paragraph, however, is this information:
"We find it imperative, however, to state that the above apology is a
personal matter and in no wise affects our permanent attitude toward
the lawlessness manifest so recently in our midst. Moreover, we were
forced at the muzzle of a six-shooter, in the hands of the
above-mentioned Sundown, to insert that illiterate and blood-thirsty
gentleman's screed in the MESA NEWS, as he, together with the gang of
cutthroats with whom he seems in league, stood over us with drawn
weapons until the entire issue had been run off. Such is the condition
of affairs under the present corrupt administration of our suffering
State."
Such advertising, Sundown reflected, breathing of battle and carnage,
would obviate the necessity for future upholding of his reputation in a
physical sense. Great is the power of the press! It became whispered
about that he was a two-gun man of dexterous attainments in dispensing
lead and that his mild and even apologetic manner was but a cloak.
Accident and the tongues of men earned for Sundown that peace which he
so thoroughly loved. He became immune to strife. When he felt his
outward attitude sagging a little, he re-read the clipping and braced
up.
Sundown rode to the Concho gate, dismounted and opened it. Chance ran
ahead, leaping up as Corliss came from the ranch-house.
"Got them holes plugged in the tank," said Sundown. "Got the engine
runnin' ag'in and things is fine. You goin' to put them cattle back on
the water-hole range?"
"Yes, as soon as Bud can get around again. He's up, but he can't ride
yet."
"How's Bull?"
"Oh, he's all right. Mebby-So's laid up yet. He got it pretty bad."
"Well, I reckon they ain't goin' to be no more fightin' 'bout cattle
and sheep. I stopped by to the Loring ranch. Ole man Loring was sure
ugly, so I reckon he's feelin' nacheral ag'in. He was like to get mad
at me for stopping but his gal, Nell, she smoothed down his wool and
asked me to stay and eat. I wasn't feelin' extra hungry, so I come
along up here."
"I have some good news," said Corliss. "Got a letter from Billy last
week. Didn't have time to tell you. He's working for a broker in
'Frisco. I shouldn't wonder if he should turn up one of these days.
How would you like to drive over to Antelope and meet him when he
comes?"
"I'd sure be glad. Always did like Billy. 'Course you don't know when
he's comin'--and I got to do some drivin' meself right soon."
"So?"
"Yep. 'Course I got the wagon, but they ain't no style to that. I was
wantin' a rig with style to it--like the buckboard." Sundown fidgeted
nervously with the buttons of his shirt. He coughed, took off his hat,
and mopped his face with a red bandanna. Despite his efforts he grew
warmer and warmer. He was about to approach a delicate subject.
Finally he seized the bull by the horns, so to speak, and his tanned
face grew red. "I was wantin' to borrow that buckboard, mebby,
Saturday."
"Sure! Going to Antelope?"
"Nope--not first. I got business over to Chico Miguel's place. I'm
goin' to call on a lady."
"Oh, I see! Anita?"
"Well, I sure ain't goin' to call on her ma--she's married a'ready."
Despite himself, Corliss smiled. "So that's what you wanted that new
bed and table and the chairs for. Did they get marked up much coming
in?"
"The legs some. I rubbed 'em with that hoss-liniment you give me. You
can hardly tell. It kind of smelled like turpentine, and I didn't have
nothin' else."
"Well, anything you want--"
"I know, boss. But this is goin' to be a quiet weddin'. No
brass-bands or ice-cream or pop-corn or style. Just me and her
and--and I reckon a priest, seein' she was brung up that way. I ain't
asked her yet."
"What? About getting married, or the priest?"
"Nothin'. We got kind of a eye-understandin' and her ma and me is good
friends. It's like this. Bein' no hand to do love-makin' stylish, I
just passes her a couple of bouquets onct or twict and said a few
words. Now, you see, if I get that buckboard and a couple of hosses--I
sure would like the white ones--and drive over lookin' like business
and slip the ole man a box of cigars I bought, and Mrs. Miguel that
there red-and-yella serape I paid ten dollars for in Antelope, and show
Anita me new contract with the Concho for pumpin' water for
seventy-five bones a month, I reckon the rest of it'll come easy. I'm
figurin' strong on them white hosses, likewise. Bein' white'll kind of
look like gettin' married, without me sayin' it. You see, boss, I'm
short on the Spanish talk and so I have to do some figurin'."
"Well, Sun, you have come along a lot since you first hit the Concho!
Go ahead, and good luck to you! If you need any money--"
"I was comin' to that. Seein' as you kind of know me--and seein' I'm
goin' to git hitched--I was thinkin' you might lend me mebby a hundred
on the contrac'."
"I guess I can. Will that be enough?"
"Plenty. You see I was figurin' on buyin' a few head of stock to run
with yourn on the water-hole range."
"Why, I can let you have the stock. You can pay me when you get ready."
"That's just it. You'd kind of give 'em to me and I ain't askin'
favors, except the buckboard and the white hosses."
"But what do you want to monkey with cattle for? You're doing pretty
well with the water."
"That's just it. You see, Anita thinks I'm a rarin', high-ridin',
cussin', tearin', bronco-bustin' cow-puncher from over the hill. I
reckon you know I ain't, but I got to live up to it and kind of let her
down easy-like. I can put on me spurs and chaps onct or twict a week
and go flyin' out and whoopin' around me stock, and scarin' 'em to
death, pertendin' I'm mighty interested in ridin' range. If you got a
lady's goat, you want to keep it. 'Course, later on, I can kind o'
slack up. Then I'm goin' to learn her to read American, and she can
read that piece in the paper about me. I reckon that'll kind of cinch
up the idea that her husband sure is the real thing. But I got to have
them cows till she can learn to read."
"We've got to brand a few yearlings that got by last round-up. Bud
said there was about fifteen of them. You can ride over after you get
settled and help cut 'em out. What iron do you want to put on them?"
"Well, seein' it's me own brand, I reckon it will be like this: A kind
of half-circle for the sun, and a lot of little lines runnin' out to
show that it's shinin', and underneath a straight line meanin' the
earth, which is 'Sundown'--me own brand. Could Johnny make one like
that?"
"I don't know. That's a pretty big order. You go over and tell Johnny
what you want. And I'll send the buckboard over Saturday."