HOW A BAD MAN LEFT THE "KICKER" OFFICE
It was about one o'clock in the afternoon when the _Kicker_
appeared on Dry Bottom's street. At about five minutes after one, Potter
left the front of the office and walked to the rear room where he halted
at the imposing stone. There he proceeded to "take down" the four forms.
This done he calmly began distributing type.
While Potter worked Hollis sat very quietly at his desk in the front
office, his arms folded, one hand supporting his chin, his lips forming
straight lines, his eyes narrowed with a meditative expression.
Occasionally Potter glanced furtively at him, his eyes filled with
mingled expressions of sympathy, admiration, and concern.
Potter appreciated his chief's position. It meant something for a man of
Hollis's years and training to bury himself in this desolate sink-hole
of iniquity; to elect to carry on an unequal war with interests that
controlled the law machinery of the county and Territory--whose power
extended to Washington. No doubt the young man was even now brooding
over the future, planning his fight, pessimistically considering his
chances of success. Potter's sympathy grew. He thought of approaching
his chief with a word of encouragement. But while he hesitated, mentally
debating the propriety of such an action, Hollis turned quickly and
looked fairly at him, his forehead perplexed.
"Potter," he remarked, "I suppose there isn't a good brain specialist in
this section of the country?"
"Why--why----" began Potter. Then he stopped and looked at his chief in
wordless astonishment. His sympathy had been wasted.
"No," laughed Hollis, divining the cause of the compositor's
astonishment, "personally I have no use for a brain specialist. I was
thinking of some other person."
"Not me?" grinned Potter from behind his type case. He flushed a little
at the thought of how near he had come to offering encouragement to a
man who had not been in need of it, who, evidently, had not been
thinking of the big fight at all. "Perhaps I need one," he added, eyeing
Hollis whimsically; "a moment ago I thought you were in the dumps on
account of the situation here--you seemed rather disturbed. It surprised
me considerably to find that you had not been thinking of Dunlavey at
all."
"No," admitted Hollis gravely, "I was not thinking of Dunlavey. I was
wondering if something couldn't be done for Ed Hazelton."
"Something ought to be done for him," declared Potter earnestly. "I have
watched that young man closely and I am convinced that with proper care
and treatment he would recover fully. But I never heard of a specialist
in this section--none, in fact, nearer than Chicago. And I've forgotten
his name."
"It is Hammond," supplied Hollis. "I've been thinking of him. I knew his
son in college. I am going to write to him."
He turned to his desk and took up a pen, while Potter resumed his work
of distributing type.
About half an hour later Jiggs Lenehan strolled into the office wearing
a huge grin on his face. "'Pears like everybody in town wants to read
the _Kicker_ to-day," he said with a joyous cackle. "Never had so
much fun sellin' them. Gimme some more," he added breathlessly; "they's
a gang down to the station howlin' for them. Say," he yelled at Hollis
as he went out of the door with a big bundle of _Kickers_ under his
arm, "you're cert'nly some editor man!" He grinned admiringly and widely
as he disappeared.
Hollis finished his letter to Hammond and then leaned back in his chair.
For half an hour he sat there, looking gravely out into the street and
then, answering a sudden impulse, he rose and strode to the door.
"Going down to the court house," he informed Potter.
He found Judge Graney in his room, seated at the big table, a copy of
the _Kicker_ spread out in front of him. At his appearance the
Judge pushed back his chair and regarded him with an approving smile.
"Well, Hollis," he said, "I see Dunlavey has played the first card."
"He hasn't taken the first trick," was the young man's quick reply.
"Fortunately not," laughed the judge. He placed a finger on a column in
the _Kicker_. "This article about the Cattlemen's Association is a
hummer--if I may be allowed the phrase. A straight, manly citation of
the facts. It ought to win friends for you."
"I've merely stated the truth," returned Hollis, "and if the article
seems good it is merely because it defends a principle whose virtue is
perfectly obvious."
"But only a man who felt strongly could have written it," suggested the
Judge.
"Perhaps. I admit feeling a deep interest in the question of cattle."
"Your ambition?" slyly insinuated the Judge.
"Is temporarily in abeyance--perhaps permanently."
"Then your original decision about remaining here has been--well,
strengthened?"
Hollis nodded. The Judge grinned mysteriously. "There is an article on
the first page of the _Kicker_ which interested me greatly," he
said. "It concerns the six o'clock train--going east. Do you happen to
know whether the editor of the _Kicker_ is going to use the
express?"
Hollis smiled appreciatively. "The editor of the _Kicker_ is going
to use the express," he admitted, "though not in the manner some people
are wishing. The usual number of copies of the _Kicker_ are going
to ride on the express, as are also some very forceful letters to the
President of the United States and the Secretary of the Interior."
"Good!" said the Judge. He looked critically at Hollis. "I know that you
are going to remain in Dry Bottom," he said slowly; "I have never
doubted your courage. But I want to warn you to be careful. Don't make
the mistake of thinking that the notice which you found on the door of
the _Kicker_ office this morning is a joke. They don't joke like
that out here. Of course I know that you are not afraid and that you
won't run. But be careful--there are men out here who would snuff out a
human life as quickly as they would the flame of a candle, and with as
little fear of the consequences. I shouldn't like to hear of you using
your revolver, but if you do have occasion to use it, use it fast and
make a good job of it."
"I don't like to use a gun," returned Hollis gravely, "but all the same
I shall bear your advice in mind." An expression of slight disgust swept
over his face. "I don't see why men out here don't exhibit a little more
courage," he said. "They all 'pack' a gun, as Norton says, and all are
apparently yearning to use one. I don't see what satisfaction there
could be in shooting a man with whom you have had trouble; it strikes me
as being a trifle cowardly." He laughed grimly. "For my part," he added,
"I can get more satisfaction out of slugging a man. Perhaps it isn't so
artistic as shooting, but you have the satisfaction of knowing that your
antagonist realizes and appreciates his punishment."
Judge Graney's gaze rested on the muscular frame of the young man. "I
suppose if all men were built like you there would be less shooting
done. But unfortunately nature has seen fit to use different molds in
making her men. Not every man has the strength or science to use his
fists, nor the courage. But there is one thing that you will do well to
remember. When you slug a man who carries a gun you only beat him
temporarily; usually he will wait his chance and use his gun when you
least expect him."
"I suppose you refer to Yuma Ed and Dunlavey?" suggested Hollis.
"Well, no, not Dunlavey. I have never heard of Dunlavey shooting
anybody; he plays a finer game. But Yuma Ed, Greasy, Ten Spot, and some
more who belong to the Dunlavey crowd are professional gun-men and do
not hesitate to shoot. The chances are that Dunlavey will try to square
accounts with you in some other manner, but I would be careful of
Yuma--a blow in the face never sets well on a man of that character."
An hour later, when Hollis sat at his desk in the _Kicker_ office,
Judge Graney's words were recalled to him. He was thinking of his
conversation with the Judge when Jiggs Lenehan burst into the office,
breathless, his face pale and his eyes swimming with news. He was
trembling With excitement.
"Ten Spot is comin' down here to put you out of business!" he blurted
out when he could get his breath. "I was in the Fashion an' I heard him
an' Yuma talkin' about you. Ten Spot is comin' here at six o'clock!"
Hollis turned slowly in his chair and faced the boy. His cheeks whitened
a little. Judge Graney had been right. Hollis had rather expected at
some time or other he would have to have it out with Yuma, but he had
expected he would have to deal with Yuma himself. He smiled a little
grimly. It made very little difference whether he fought Yuma or some
other man; when he had elected to remain in Dry Bottom he had realized
that he must fight somebody--everybody in the Dunlavey crew. He looked
at his watch and saw that the hands pointed to four. Therefore he had
two hours to prepare for Ten Spot's coming. He smiled at the boy, looked
back into the composing room and saw that Potter had ceased his labors
and was leaning on a type case, watching him soberly. He grinned broadly
at Potter and turned to Jiggs.
"How many _Kickers_ did you sell?"
"Two hundred an' ten," returned the latter; "everybody bought them." He
took a step forward; his hands clenching with the excitement that still
possessed him. "I told you Ten Spot was comin' down here to kill you!"
he said hoarsely and insistently. "Didn't you hear me?"
"I heard you," smiled Hollis, "and I understand perfectly. But I don't
think we need to get excited over it. Just how much money did you
receive for the two hundred and ten papers?"
"Six dollars an' two bits," responded the boy, regarding Hollis
wonderingly.
"It is yours," Hollis informed him; "there was to be no charge for the
_Kicker_ to-day."
The boy grinned with pleasure. "Don't you want none of it?" he inquired.
"It is yours," repeated Hollis. He reached out and grasped the boy by
the arm, drawing him close. "Now tell me what you heard at the Fashion,"
he said.
Rapidly, but with rather less excitement in his manner than he had
exhibited on his entrance, the boy related in detail the conversation he
had overheard at the Fashion. When he had finished Hollis patted him
approvingly on the back.
"The official circulation manager of the _Kicker_ has made good,"
he said with a smile. "Now go home and take a good rest and be ready to
deliver the _Kicker_ next Saturday."
The boy backed away and stood looking at Hollis in surprise. "Why!" he
said in an awed voice, "you ain't none scared a-tall!"
"I certainly am scared," laughed Hollis; "scared that Ten Spot will
change his mind before six o'clock. Do you think he will?"
"No!" emphatically declared the boy. "I don't reckon that Ten Spot will
change his mind a-tall. He'll sure come down here to shoot you!"
"That relieves me," returned Hollis dryly. "Now you go home. But," he
warned, "don't tell anyone that I am scared."
For an instant the boy looked at Hollis critically, searching his face
with all a boy's unerring judgment for signs which would tell of
insincerity. Seeing none, he deliberately stretched a hand out to
Hollis, his lips wreathing into an approving grin.
"Durned if you ain't the stuff!" he declared. "I'm just bettin' that Ten
Spot ain't scarin' you none!" Then he backed out of the door and still
grinning, disappeared.
After Jiggs had gone Hollis turned and smiled at Potter. "I suppose you
know this man Ten Spot," he said. "Will he come?"
"He will come," returned Potter. His face was pale and his lips quivered
a little as he continued: "Ten Spot is the worst of Dunlavey's set," he
said; "a dangerous, reckless taker of human life. He is quick on the
trigger and a dead shot. He is called Ten Spot because of the fact that
once, with a gun in each hand, he shot all the spots from a ten of
hearts at ten paces."
Hollis sat silent, thoughtfully stroking his chin. Potter smiled
admiringly.
"I know that you don't like to run," he said; "you aren't that kind. But
you haven't a chance with Ten Spot--unfortunately you haven't had much
experience with a six-shooter." Potter's hands shook as he tried to
resume work at the type case. "I didn't think they would have nerve
enough for that game," he added, advancing again toward Hollis. "I
rather thought they would try some other plan--something not quite so
raw. But it seems they have nerve enough for anything. Hollis" he
concluded dejectedly, "you've got to get out of town before six o'clock
or Ten Spot will kill you!
"You've got plenty of time," he resumed as Hollis kept silent; "it's
only a little after four. You can get on your horse and be almost at the
Circle Bar at six. No one can blame you for not staying--everybody knows
that you can't handle a gun fast enough to match Ten Spot. Maybe if you
do light out and don't show up in town for a week or so this thing will
blow over."
"Thank you very much for that advice, Potter," said Hollis slowly. "I
appreciate the fact that you are thinking of my safety. But of course
there is another side to the situation. You of course realize that if I
run now I am through here--no one would ever take me seriously after it
had been discovered that I had been run out of town by Ten Spot."
"That's a fact," admitted Potter. "But of course----"
"I think that is settled," interrupted Hollis. "You can't change the
situation by argument. I've got to face it and face it alone. I've got
to stay here until Ten Spot comes. If I can't beat him at his game he
wins and you can telegraph East to my people." He rose and walked to the
window, his back to the printer.
"You can knock off for to-day, Potter. Jump right on your pony and get
out to Circle Bar. I wouldn't say anything to Norton or anyone until
after nine to-night and then if I don't show up at the ranch you will
know that Ten Spot has got me."
He stood at the window while Potter slowly drew off his apron, carefully
folded it and tucked it into a corner. He moved very deliberately, as
though reluctant to leave his chief. Had Hollis shown the slightest sign
of weakening Potter would have stayed. But watching closely he saw no
sign of weakness in the impassive face of his chief, and so, after he
had made his preparations for departure, he drew a deep breath of
resignation and walked slowly to the back door, where his pony was
hitched. He halted at the threshold, looking back at his chief.
"Well, good-bye then," he said.
Hollis did not turn. "Good-bye," he answered.
Potter took one step outward, hesitated, and then again faced the front
of the office.
"Damn it, Hollis," he said hoarsely, "don't wait for Ten Spot to start
anything; when you see him coming in the door bore him. You've got a
right to; that's the law in this country. When a man gives you notice to
leave town you've got a right to shoot him on sight!"
For a moment he stood, awaiting an answer. None came. Potter sighed and
stepped out through the door, leaving his chief alone.
* * * * *
At one minute to six Hollis pulled out his watch. He sighed, replaced
the time-piece, and leaned back in his chair. A glance out through the
window showed him that the street was deserted except for here and there
a cow pony drooping over one of the hitching rails and a wagon or two
standing in front of a store. The sun was coming slantwise over the
roofs; Hollis saw that the strip of shade in front of the _Kicker_
building had grown to wide proportions. He looked at his watch again. It
was one minute after six--and still there were no signs of Ten Spot.
A derisive grin appeared on Hollis's face. Perhaps Ten Spot had
reconsidered. He decided that he would wait until ten minutes after six;
that would give Ten Spot a decent margin of time for delay.
And then there was a sudden movement and a man stood just inside the
office door, a heavy revolver in his right hand, its muzzle menacing
Hollis. The man was tall and angular, apparently about thirty years old,
with thin, cruel lips and insolent, shifty eyes.
"'Nds up!" he said sharply, swinging the revolver to a threatening
poise. "It's six o'clock, you tenderfoot ---- ---- ---- ----!"
This was the vile epithet that had been applied to Hollis by Yuma Ed,
which had been the direct cause of Yuma's downfall the day of Hollis's
arrival in Dry Bottom. Hollis's eyes flashed, but the man was several
feet from him and out of reach of his fists. Had Hollis been standing he
would have had no chance to reach the man before the latter could have
made use of his weapon. Therefore Hollis remained motionless in his
chair, catching the man's gaze and holding it steadily with unwavering,
narrowed eyes.
Though he had waited for the coming of Ten Spot, he had formulated no
plan of action; he had felt that somehow he would come out of the clash
with him without injury. He still thought so. In spite of his danger he
felt that some chance of escape would be offered him. Grimly confident
of this he smiled at the man, though still holding his gaze, determined,
if he saw the faintest flicker of decision in his eyes, to duck and
tackle him regardless of consequences.
"I suppose you are Ten Spot?" he said slowly. He was surprised at the
steadiness of his voice.
The man grinned, his eyes alert, shifty, filled with a chilling menace.
"You've got her right, tenderfoot," he said; "'Ten Spot's' m' handle,
an' if you're a-feelin' like criticizin' of her do her some rapid before
I starts dealin' out the lead which is in my pritty."
Just how one man could be so entirely remorseless as to shoot another
when that other man was looking straight into his eyes Hollis could not
understand. He could readily realize how a man could kill when provoked
to anger, or when brooding over an injury. But he had done nothing to
Ten Spot--did not even know him--had never seen him before, and how Ten
Spot could deliberately shoot him--without provocation--was
incomprehensible. He was convinced that in order to shoot, Ten Spot must
work himself into an artificial rage, and he believed that the vile
epithet which Ten Spot had applied to him immediately upon his entrance
must be part of his scheme. He was convinced that had he shown the
slightest resentment over the application of the epithet Ten Spot would
have shot him down at once. Therefore he resolved to give the man no
opportunity to work himself into a rage. He smiled again as Ten Spot
concluded and carelessly twisted himself about in his chair until he was
in a position to make a quick spring.
"'Ten Spot' is a picturesque name," he remarked quietly, not removing
his gaze from Ten Spot's eyes for the slightest fraction of a second; "I
have no criticism to make. I have always made it a point to refrain from
criticizing my visitors. At least I do not recollect ever having
criticized a visitor who carried a gun," he concluded with a smile.
Ten Spot's lips curled sarcastically. Apparently he would not swerve in
his determination to provoke trouble.
"Hell," he said truculently, "that there palaver makes me sick. I reckon
you're too damn white livered to criticize a man that's lookin' at you.
There ain't no tenderfoot (here he applied the unprintable epithet
again) got nerve enough to criticize nothin'!"
Hollis slowly raised his hands and placed them on the arms of his chair,
apparently to steady himself, but in reality to be ready to project
himself out of the chair in case he could discern any indication of
action on Ten Spot's part.
"Ten Spot," he said in a low, even, well controlled voice, conciliatory,
but filled with a manliness which no man could mistake, "at four o'clock
this afternoon I heard that you and Yuma Ed were framing up your present
visit. I am not telling who gave me the information," he added as he saw
Ten Spot's eyes brighten, "but that is what happened. So you see I know
what you have come for. You have come to kill me. Is that correct?"
Ten Spot's eyes narrowed--into them had come an appraising, speculative
glint. He nodded. "You've got her right," he admitted gruffly. "But if
you knowed why didn't you slope?" He looked at Hollis with a half sneer,
as though unable to decide whether Hollis was a brave man or merely a
fool.
Hollis saw the indecision in Ten Spot's eyes and his own brightened. At
last he had planned a form of action and he cooly estimated the distance
between himself and Ten Spot. While Hollis had been speaking Ten Spot
had taken a step forward and he was now not over four or five feet
distant. Into Ten Spot's eyes had come an amused, disdainful gleam;
Hollis's quiet, argumentative attitude had disarmed him. This was
exactly what Hollis had been waiting for.
Ten Spot seemed almost to have forgotten his weapon; it had sagged, the
muzzle pointing downward--the man's mind had become temporarily diverted
from his purpose. When he saw Hollis move suddenly forward he remembered
his gun and tried to swing its muzzle upward, but it was too late.
Hollis had lunged forward, his left hand closing on Ten Spot's right
wrist, his right fist reaching Ten Spot's jaw in a full, sweeping,
crashing uppercut.
The would-be killer did not have even time enough to pull the trigger of
his six-shooter. It fell from his hand and thudded dully to the floor as
his knees doubled under him and he collapsed in an inert, motionless
heap near the door.
With a grim smile on his face Hollis picked up Ten Spot's weapon and
placed it on the desk. For an instant he stood at the window, looking
out into the street. Down near the Fashion he saw some men--Yuma Ed
among them. No doubt they were waiting the sound of the pistol shot
which would tell them that Ten Spot had disposed of Hollis. Hollis
grinned widely--Yuma and his gang were due for a surprise. For perhaps a
minute Hollis stood beside the desk, watching Ten Spot. Then when the
latter's hands began to twitch and a trace of color appeared in his
face, Hollis pulled out his own revolver and approached him, standing
within a few feet of him and looking down at him.
There was no mark on Ten Spot's jaw to show where Hollis's blow had
landed, for his fist had struck flush on the point, its force directed
upward. Ten Spot's mouth had been open at the instant and the snapping
of his teeth from the impact of the blow no doubt had much to do with
his long period of unconsciousness.
He stirred presently and then with an effort sat up and looked at his
conqueror with a glance of puzzled wonderment. Seeing Hollis's weapon
and his own on the desk, the light of past events seemed to filter into
his bewildered brain. He grinned owlishly, felt of his jaw and then
bowed his head, a flush of shame overspreading his face.
"Herd-rode!" he said dismally. "Herd-rode, an' by a tenderfoot! Oh,
Lordy!" He suddenly looked up at Hollis, his eyes flashing with rage and
defiance.
"Damn your hide, why don't you shoot?" he demanded. He placed his hands,
palm down, on the floor, preparatory to rising, but ceased his efforts
when he heard Hollis's voice, coldly humorous:
"I shall shoot you just the instant you get to your feet. I rather think
that I am running things here now."
Ten Spot sagged back and looked up at him. "Why I reckon you are," he
said. No method of action having suggested itself to him, he continued
to sit, watching Hollis narrowly.
The latter retreated to his chair and dropped into it, moving
deliberately. When he spoke his voice was cold and metallic.
"When you first came into the office," he said, "you applied a vile
epithet to me. Once after that you did it again. You have asked me why I
don't shoot you. If you really want me to shoot you you can keep your
mouth closed for just one minute. If you want to continue to live you
can tell me that you didn't mean a word of what you said on those two
occasions. It's up to you." He sat silent, looking steadily at Ten Spot.
The latter fidgeted, shame again reddening his cheeks. "Why," he said
finally, "I reckon she don't go, tenderfoot. You see, she's only a noma
de ploom which we uses when we wants to rile somebody. I cert'nly didn't
mean nothin' by it."
"Thanks," drawled Hollis dryly; "I'll call that sufficient. But you
certainly did 'rile' me some."
"I reckon I must have done just that," grinned Ten Spot ruefully.
"You're shorely some she-wolf with them there claws of your'n. An' I
done laffed at Dunlavey an' Yuma after you'd clawed them." His face
sobered, his eyes suddenly filling with an expression of defiant
resignation.
"I reckon when you're done triflin' with me you c'n start to pumpin'
your lead," he said. "There ain't no use of prolongin' the agony." He
looked steadily at Hollis, his eyes filling with decision as he again
placed his hands beside him on the floor to rise.
"You c'n open the ball when you get damn good an' ready," he sneered,
"but I'm gettin' up right now. I ain't goin' to die off my pins like a
damn coyote!"
He rose quickly, plainly expecting to be shot down the moment he reached
his feet. When he discovered that Hollis evidently intended to delay the
fatal moment he stiffened, his lips twitching queerly.
"Ten Spot," said Hollis quietly, "by apologizing for what you said when
you came in you have shown that there is a great deal of the man left in
you despite your bad habits and associations. I am going to show you
that I think there is enough of the man left in you to trust you with
your gun."
He turned abruptly to the desk and took up Ten Spot's weapon, holding it
by the muzzle and presenting it to the latter. Ten Spot looked from the
weapon to Hollis and back again to the weapon, blank amazement pictured
on his face. Then he reached out mechanically, taking the weapon and
holding it in his hands, turning it over and over as though half
inclined to believe that it was not a revolver at all.
"Chuck full of cattridges, too!" he exclaimed in amazement, as he
examined the chambers.
"Why, hell----" He crouched and deftly swung the six-shooter around, the
butt in his hand, his finger resting on the trigger. In this position he
looked at Hollis.
The latter had not moved, but his own weapon was in his right hand, its
muzzle covering Ten Spot, and when the latter swung his weapon up Hollis
smiled grimly at him.
"Using it?" he questioned.
For an instant it seemed that Ten Spot would. An exultant, designing
expression came into his eyes, he grinned, his teeth showing tigerishly.
Then suddenly he snapped himself erect and with a single, dexterous
movement holstered the weapon. Then his right hand came suddenly out
toward Hollis.
"Shake!" he said. "By ----, you're white!"
Hollis smiled as he returned the hearty handclasp.
"You're cert'nly plum grit," assured Ten Spot as he released Hollis's
hand and stepped back the better to look at the latter. "But I reckon
you're some damn fool too. How did you know that I wouldn't turn you
into a colander when you give me back my gun?"
"I didn't know," smiled Hollis. "I just took a chance. You see," he
added, "it was this way. I never intended to shoot you. That sort of
thing isn't in my line and I don't intend to shoot anyone if there is
any way out of it. But I certainly wasn't going to allow you to shoot
me." He smiled oddly. "So I watched my chance and slugged you. Then when
I was certain that you weren't dangerous any more I had to face another
problem. If I had turned you loose after taking your gun what would you
have done?"
"I'd have gone out an' rustled another gun an' come back here an'
salivated you."
"That's just what you would have done," smiled Hollis. "I intend to stay
in this country, Ten Spot, and if I had turned you loose without an
understanding you would have shot me at the first opportunity. As it
stands now you owe me-----"
"As it stands now," interrupted Ten Spot, a queer expression on his
face, "I'm done shootin' as far as you're concerned." He walked to the
door, hesitated on the threshold and looked back. "Mister man," he said
slowly, "mebbe you won't lick Big Bill in this here little mix-up, but
I'm telling you that you're goin' to give him a damn good run for his
money! So-long."
He stepped down and disappeared. For a moment Hollis looked after him,
and then he sat down at the desk, his face softening into a satisfied
smile. It was something to receive a tribute from a man like Ten Spot.