With Shorty left behind to excuse his partner’s absence at supper,
Tad, despite gnawing pangs of hunger, made no complaint.
In the graying dusk of twilight, he rode slowly along the dusty
trail, a solitary, graceful figure as he sat his horse with a
careless ease, a cigaret drooping from the corner of his straight
lips. Not a trace of weariness was perceptible, in spite of the fact
that he had been in the saddle since dawn. He had the appearance of
some cowpuncher bent on a careless mission and time was a minor
factor. Yet his keen eyes constantly swept the rolling hills with a
restless gaze. Always, that gaze came back to focus on the moving
speck far ahead on the trail.
“Looks like he was headin’ straight fer town, Yaller Hammer,” he
said softly to the twitching, dun colored ears of his horse.
“Mebbeso I’m havin’ this here ride fer nothin’, I dunno.”
From his chaps pocket he produced a weatherbeaten square of plug
tobacco, gnawed to a ragged edge at one end. He surveyed it
critically; wiped it carefully on the sleeve of his jumper and bit
off a generous piece.
“Nothin’ like chawin’ tuh keep down the hungry feelin’s,” he mused
aloud. “Ain’t smelt grub since daylight. Mebbeso won’t sniff none
till mornin’, neither. It’s —— but it’s honest, pony, if yuh want
tuh figger it thataway.”
Darkness slowly gathered and Tad and Yellow Hammer closed the gap
that separated them from Joe Kipp. Tad grinned his thanks to the
full moon that rose majestically from beyond the skyline.
He rode more alertly now, eyes and ears strained to catch any sign
of the man he followed. Also, he watched the wagging ears of his
horse. When those furry points stiffened, pointed forward, Tad would
halt. Twice, when he thus stopped, he was rewarded by the sounds of
a traveling horse, ahead on the trail. Once, Kipp’s horse had
nickered and Tad’s big hands closed over Yellow Hammer’s black
muzzle just in time to prevent an answering nicker. He allowed Kipp
a bigger lead from that point on.
The hours dragged. Tad dared not risk lighting a cigaret now. The
plug of tobacco was gradually being gnawed to smaller size. Then,
silhouetted against the skyline, showed the lone cottonwood that
marked Hank Basset’s border line. Tad could make out the form of a
horseman, halted beneath the wide branches. The waiting man lighted
a cigaret and Tad recognized the features of Joe Kipp.
Nodding sagely to himself, Tad dismounted and led Yellow Hammer into
the tall greasewood.
“Hate tuh treat yuh so or’nary,” he whispered as he slipped a burlap
sack across Yellow Hammer’s muzzle and fastened it to the cheek
bands of his bridle, “but I jest can’t have yuh makin’ no hoss
howdy’s, _sabe_? This ain’t the fust time I’ve cluttered yuh up with
one uh these contraptions, so don’t act spooky. That’s the good
hoss. I wisht Shorty had half yore sense, dang his or’nary li’l
hide. I bet he’s in the saddle this minute, streakin’ it fer the
river. Playin’ hookey like a school kid and worryin’ a man plumb
ga’nt.”
With the caution of an Indian, Tad, devoid of spurs and chaps which
were hung to his saddle horn, crept through the brush toward the
cottonwood. Two horses stood beneath the lone tree now. The glowing
ash of two cigarets showed where the dismounted horsemen squatted
against the wide tree trunk.
A clear space separated the tree and the greasewood patch where Tad
lay prone on the ground. A space wide enough to prevent him making
out the words of the low-toned conversation. Only when the voices
momentarily laid stress on some spoken thought, could he make
anything of the murmur. The voice of Kipp was clearly recognizable.
The other speaker’s voice was vaguely familiar.
“I tell yuh,” came Kipp’s voice, raised with emotion, “I’ve come to
the breakin’ point! I’ve stood it till I can’t stand it no longer.
Why, in ——’s name, can’t you and Fox let me quit and pull outa the
country? I tell yuh now, I can’t be crowded no more. I’ll tell the
whole —— miser’ble story!”
“Like —— you will,” came the sneering reply, low pitched, calm,
distinct. “You’ll play yore string out. When we clean up the Basset
deal, you kin go. Not till then. We need yore protection.”
Kipp’s reply came in a hoarse whisper, indistinguishable to the
listener hidden in the brush.
A coarse, jeering laugh came from the other man in reply. A match
flared to light a cigaret and Tad recognized the black-bearded face
of the half-breed, Black Jack.
“You know —— well you won’t do no talkin’,” came the breed’s voice
with cold conviction.
“Where’s Fox?” asked Kipp, breaking a brief silence.
“Somewhere on the LF trail, headin’ this way. And I don’t aim that
he should ketch me here, neither. I’m draggin’ it for the Pocket.”
Black Jack got to his feet and took a step toward his horse. Then he
halted.
“Goin’ to stay here all night? Better be gettin’ to town where yuh
belong. Fox’ll be along directly and he’ll wonder what brung you
here. Pete Basset breakin’ his stake rope has put the old gent in
one —— of a humor, and he might treat yuh rough. Better hit the
grit.”
“I’m aimin’ tuh wait fer Fox,” replied Kipp hoarsely.
“Don’t be a plumb —— fool. He’ll mebbe kill yuh.”
“Reckon not.”
“It’s yore funeral. I’m driftin’. Good luck. Mind what I say, now.
Fox’ll beat yuh to it, if yuh make ary gun play. That ol’ ——’s a
snake. So-long.”
Tad listened to the thudding of hoofs as the breed rode away into
the night. A few moments and all was silent as a grave yard.
Kipp got to his feet, pinching out the glowing ash of his cigaret.
He led his horse to a patch of brush beyond the tree. When he
returned, the pale rays of the moon fell on the blued-steel barrel
of the Winchester in the crook of his arm.
Tad, watching the sheriff’s every move, whistled noiselessly. He saw
Kipp settle down behind a small patch of brush. This shelter hid
Kipp from the trail but Tad could see him plainly, outlined against
the pale sky. Came the clicking of the sheriff’s carbine lever as he
threw a cartridge from the magazine into the barrel. Then the gun
raised and Tad saw Kipp squint along the barrel.
“Testin’ his sights,” mused Tad. “If ever a man went through the
motions uh bushwhackin’ a enemy, Kipp’s a-doin’ it now. He don’t
noways aim tuh give Fox a chanct.”
Tad pondered this decision for some time, his eyes fixed on Kipp.
“——,” he muttered inwardly. “Puts me in one —— of a mess. Fox needs
killin’ and needs it bad. Shore does. Even shootin’ him from the
brush is mebbeso what’s comin’ to him, I dunno. But that won’t keep
Kipp from bein’ a low-down, bushwhackin’ killer iffen he does the
job. Looks tuh me like this Black Jack Injun and Fox is shore
th’owin’ the hooks to the ol’ sheriff plumb scan’lous. They got him
nigh loco, ’pears tuh me. But shore as he’s a foot high, Kipp’ll
hate hisse’f fer pullin’ the trigger, afore his gun barrel cools
off. Yessir. Bound tuh. Then what’ll he do? He’ll go to the bad,
complete. Booze’ll put him in the bog fer keeps. Either that, er
he’ll turn that gun on hisse’f and blow his own head off. Which
won’t do nobody no good ’ceptin’ mebbe this Black Jack skunk. Hmm. I
never cut into no man’s game up till now, but I’m shore declarin’
myse’f in on this.”
* * * * *
Noiselessly, he slipped back to his horse and swung into the saddle.
As Yellow Hammer scuffed along the dusty trail at a running walk,
Tad raised his voice in song to herald his coming. He rightly
guessed that his approach would, for a few moments, so startle Kipp
that the old sheriff would not have time to beat a retreat until Tad
was too close.
“Sam Bass was born in Indiana, it was his native home, And at the
age of seventeen young Sam begun to roam. Sam fust come to Texas, a
cowboy fer to be, A kinder hearted feller, you seldom ever see.”
The words of the old range song came in full-toned, discordant
abandon as Tad rode into the clearing.
From the brush, Kipp’s horse nickered and this time Tad allowed
Yellow Hammer to give answer.
“Whoa, geldin’,” mumbled Tad, loud enough for Kipp to hear. “Looks
like we got company. Halloo, pardner. Come out so’s we kin read yore
brand.”
A second of silence, then Kipp stepped into sight. The sheriff’s
bushy white brows bristled in a frown of annoyance. Yet Tad was
certain that the old fellow looked relieved. He eyed Tad with
suspicion. “He’s wonderin’ if I’m suspectin’ him,” was Tad’s inward
comment. Aloud he said with hearty pleasantness:
“Howdy, Sheriff. Yuh git bucked off er was yuh ketchin’ some
shut-eye?”
“Dozin’ a spell,” lied Kipp. “What brings you out this time uh night
on this trail?” Tad had not expected this question but his ready wit
came to his rescue.
“Miz Basset ’lowed she’d acted plumb or’nary towards yuh and ’lowed
that Hank should ride after yuh and bring yuh back. I knowed Hank
was tuckered out and a-feelin’ a heap upset about Pete, so I took
the job off his hands. They want that I should bring yuh back.”
This last statement came to the nimble-witted Tad as a happy after
thought. If the sheriff returned with him, Fox would ride his
homeward trail without being shot.
“No need uh me ridin’ plumb back there, Ladd. I done told her and
Hank I didn’t bear no hard feelin’s. I got business in Alder Gulch
that should be tended to.”
“’Twon’t do, Kipp. I give my word that I wouldn’t come back till I
brung you along. Don’t make me go follerin’ yuh around fer a week er
so.”
Tad’s tone was that of light banter. Yet there lay an undercurrent
of determination that did not escape the sheriff.
“All right, if there’s no other way to it, let’s git goin’.”
He led his horse from the brush and mounted. Together, they headed
back for the Basset ranch.
For some time, they rode in silence. Tad, from the shadow of his
wide-brimmed hat, studied the sheriff’s features. Kipp was staring
fixedly at his saddle horn, deep in brooding thought. The reaction
was setting in now and he was shaking like a man with palsy. Then
this passed and the old sheriff’s shoulders straightened.
“Ladd,” he said abruptly. “You don’t know it, but yuh saved my life
tonight. I wisht I could tell yuh about it, but I can’t. There’ll
come a day when I will, though.
I come —— nigh doin’ somethin’ that would uh made life a livin’
hell. I come nigh bein’ a low down, or’nary coyote. I’m plumb
obliged. I hope, some day, I kin pay yuh back in full.”
“——, that’s all right, Kipp. Fergit it. If I he’ped yuh ary way, I’m
right glad tuh uh done it. Yuh know, there ain’t none uh us humans
that ain’t got a or’nary streak hid out somewhere in our innards.
And some time er another, that there or’nary streak jest nacherally
busts all holts and comes a-rearin’. Sometimes, we kin grab a
tail-holt and jerk ’er back in time. More often it’s some other gent
that heads off that or’nary streak and herds it back into our system
tuh stay put fer the rest uh our life. I mind the night mine broke
out.”
Tad grinned into the sheriff’s eyes, lighted a cigaret, and went on,
the words coming lazily in his soft, Southern drawl:
“My mammy died when I was little more’n a yearlin’, leavin’ me tuh
grow up kinda keerless like, my daddy not payin’ me much attention
when I shows I kin kinda do my own rustlin’. He’s a cowpuncher fer
the Turkey Track at the time and I’m wranglin’ hosses fer the
spread. When they ships, I goes tuh town with the boys and while
they’re a-blowin’ their coin fer licker and gamblin’ and such, I’m
squanderin’ my ten a month fer sody pop and sweet truck. I’ve
likewise bought myse’f a sore-backed, ring-boned Mexican mule which
I gits from a drunken Pisano fer six-bits and a pint uh rot-gut
licker.
“My daddy, bein’ a good drinkin’ man and jest about slick enough at
stud poker tuh hang and rattle all night afore he loses his taw to
the tin-horns, ain’t much better off, financial, as me.
“Then one fall night, in a Mex town along the Rio, my daddy gits
downed in a gun scrap. I’m sleepin’ on a poker table at the time,
waitin’ till paw goes broke so’s I kin load him on his hoss and go
tuh camp. By the time the smoke’s cleared away and I gits full waked
up, dad’s a-passin’ out fast and callin’ fer me. I sets there on the
_’dobe_ floor and wipes the blood off his mouth while he crosses the
Big Divide, a grin on his face while his eyes goes glassy.
“‘Kid,’ says he, afore the blood chokes him, ‘it was Pedro Sanchez,
the bronc peeler, that done it. Here’s my gun. When the time comes,
git that greaser.’
“I’m some twelve years old then. That night I pads that mule uh mine
with gunny sacks, throw’s my dad’s saddle on him and proceeds tuh
foller this Sanchez gent who has left town _pronto_ after the
killin’. My ol’ rusty Chihuahua spur is tied to my bare foot and the
long-barreled .45 gouges my ribs and starts wearin’ the hide off my
hip bone. Thus burdened, as the sayin’ goes, I hits the trail uh the
gent that’s downed my daddy.”
Tad smiled reminiscently.
“Yuh found him?” asked Kipp, his own troubles momentarily forgotten.
“Ten years later, I finds him. He dealin’ faro bank in Juarez and
alongside him on the table lays a white-handled six-gun with five
notches filed on the handle, plain and insultin’ like. Sanchez,
havin’ got off to a good start, has done turned out tuh be a killer,
_sabe_?
“Up to now, I bin as peaceful a kid as ever follered a long-horned
steer. I’ve done got outa the notion, almost, uh shootin’ up this
greaser. I’ve done met up with fellers, as the years passes and I
gits rings around my horns, that tells me as how paw was or’nary
mean when he’s lickered and the Sanchez gent has done no more than
right when he’s kills him off. I’m beginnin’ tuh think that mebbeso
I’m not bound and beholdin’ tuh down this Sanchez after all. Right’s
right and wrongs no man, thinks I, and if paw had it comin’, he done
got it and jack-pot’s played and won. So yuh see I ain’t noways
huntin’ no trouble ner makin’ no play tuh hunt down this greaser
feller. It jest pops up sudden.
“There I stands, a awkward, long-legged, high-withered ol’ kid, and
I’m lookin’ into the wickedest pair uh snake eyes that I ever seen.
His lips is kinda smilin’ but the smile don’t go higher than his
black mustache which is twisted to sharp points. Sudden like, I
recollects a-holdin’ of my daddy’s head and wipin’ that sickish
lookin’ pink froth from his mouth so’s he kin talk. Somehow, my gun
has got into my hand and I’m coverin’ this snake-eyed killer.
“‘I come tuh kill yuh, Sanchez,’ I says, and my voice sounds weak
and unconvincin’ as ——.
“‘So?’ says Sanchez, laughin’ short and nasty, like I’d sprung a
josh on him. ‘I wish yuh luck, sonny.’ And with that he goes right
on dealin’ like he’s clean fergot I’m there.
“If he’d a knocked the gun outa my hand, er slapped me alongside the
jaw, I could uh waded in and done battle. But he’s treatin’ me like
I was a yearlin’ kid a-packin’ of a pea gun. I feels my face go hot
like I was settin’ over a fire. My hands is cold as ice and bigger’n
snowshoes. The barrel uh my gun is rattlin’ on the edge uh the
table, I’m that shaky. Wust of all, a kinda blurry look looms up in
my eyes and I know it’s tears. Man, it was jest nacherally ——!
“The crowd snickers and grins. A Mex _vaquero_ makes a funny crack
and his friends giggles. Sanchez, holdin’ his head kinda sideways
tuh keep the smoke uh his cigaret outa his eyes, goes on dealin’
without lookin’ up, payin’ bets and rakin’ in chips uh them that
loses.
“Somehow, I makes it across to the door, dizzy and all sickish
inside me like a kid that’s swallered a chaw uh terbaccer. It ain’t
till I gits out into the dark and sets down on a empty beer keg,
that I finds that I’m still holdin’ my gun in my hand.
“Fust off, I starts tuh th’ow that —— gun as fur as I kin sling it.
Then I gits a idee. I’m goin’ tuh lay out there in the dark till
this Sanchez comes out. Then I’ll down him. I ketches myse’f talkin’
out loud like a loco sheep herder and tears is runnin’ like cricks
down inside my shirt collar.
“I wipes off the tears, blows my nose and takes a chaw uh fine-cut
tuh make me feel more like a man. Then, squattin’ in the shadow near
the door, I cocks my gun and waits fer Sanchez tuh come out fer his
midnight lunch, which I knows most dealers does.
“Sudden like, there’s a noise behind me. I swings around, startled
sorter.
“‘Fer gosh sake, put up that cannon yuh got stuck in my belly,’ says
a good Texican American voice that don’t sound none too old. ‘She
might go off, bein’ cocked that-away. Ease ’er tuh half-cock and
shove ’er back in yore jeans. Me’n you’s gonna have a medicine talk,
Slim.’
“I dunno yet why I done it, but I does as he says without a whimper.
He leads me into a saloon down the street and orders two sody pops.
I gits a good look at him in the light.
“He’s a kinda runty built kid with a face that’s plenty sprinkled
with freckles like some cow has coughed bran in his face. He ain’t
much tuh look at till he grins, then he’s right easy tuh stand. He’s
got one uh these grins that makes yuh grin right back afore yuh know
it. His left eye is black and swole up and his lower lip is split
bad. He’s about twenty and a cowpuncher.
“‘My last two bits,’ he ’lows, as he pays fer the sody pop. ‘I bet
that’s two bits more than you got, long boy.’
“I admits the charge and he nods happy like.
“‘Then we starts even, feller. Down yore p’izen and loan me the use
of a fresh chaw. Then I’m gonna take yuh back and watch yuh pull
that Sanchez gent’s fangs.’
“‘Yuh seen him bluff me down?’ I asks, plumb ashamed.
“‘Yeah, I seen it. And I follered yuh outside. I seen yuh while yuh
made up yore mind tuh shoot him from the dark.’
“‘How come yuh know I was layin’ fer him?’ says I.
“‘You was talkin’ to yorese’f about it, pardner. All set? Then
rattle yore hocks and we’ll git goin’. They th’owed me outa that
wigwam last evenin’ after the poker dealer had robbed me uh two
months pay.’
“Mebbeso it’s because I’m cooled off, er mebby it’s because this
short-legged boy is so danged sure that I kin turn the trick,
anyhow, when I goes back into that gamblin’ house, I’m steady as a
work ox.
“‘Whup him a plenty, Slim,’ whispers my new pardner, as we steps
inside. ‘I’m standin’ at yore back till yore belly caves in. I’ll
keep the gang off yuh. Whup him with yore hands.’
“Which I does. Sanchez goes fer his gun there on the table when he
sees me comin’ but he’s slow and my bullet tears that fancy cannon
loose from under his hand without hurtin’ him, though it plumb ruins
that white handle with the notches. He unlimbers a knife as I clears
the table but I weans him away from it pronto when my gun barrel
ketches him across the wrist. Then I hands my smoke pole to my new
pardner and proceeds tuh work Mister Snake Eyes over with my hands.”
Tad paused to light his cigaret. Kipp was again staring at his
saddle horn.
“That fight wins me two things that night. One was Shorty Carroway,
the gamest pardner a man ever had. The other was what book-learnt
folks calls se’f-respect. Only fer Shorty, I’d uh killed that
Sanchez from the dark that night and lost my right tuh call myse’f a
man.”
Kipp shot Tad a covert glance, laden with suspicion. Did the cow
puncher suspect him of lying in wait for Fox? But Tad’s homely
features were guileless. They rode on in silence.
* * * * *
In telling this story, Tad felt that he was accomplishing two
purposes. He was perhaps giving the nerve-racked sheriff a new grip
on his ebbing courage and self-control. Likewise, he was explaining
to his own conscience, his reason for breaking one of the unwritten
laws of the cow country. The law that says a man shall tend to his
own affairs and leave the affairs of his fellow men strictly alone.
Kipp busied himself with a sack of tobacco and brown papers. In the
gray light of dawn, Tad watched the gnarled fingers of the sheriff,
pouring the flaky tobacco into the paper. Those fingers were steady
now.
“Nigh sunup and yonder’s the ranch. I’m ga’nt as a coyote,” grinned
the cow puncher.
“Kinda feel thataway myself, pardner,” smiled Kipp. “Don’t know when
I’ve felt as hungry.”