MARYSVILLE
Judge Allison, portly and forty, sat on the porch of the Sunrise Hotel
in Marysville. The judicial hands were clasped over the judicial
stomach, and the judicial mind was at peace with all mankind. However,
a six-shooter in a shoulder-holster nudged the judicial ribs beneath
each arm-pit. For mankind is peevish and prone to hold grudges, and in
order to secure an uninterrupted term on the bench a judge must be
prepared for eventualities.
Tied to the hitching-rail in front of the hotel was a good-looking
sorrel horse. It bore the Barred Twin Diamond brand. Judge Allison
had bought the horse that very morning. He had bought him from the
keeper of the dance hall, Mr. William Archer, who, it seemed, had five
others for sale.
Judge Allison was delighted with his bargain. He knew a horse when he
saw one, and he felt that he had gotten the best of Archer in the deal.
True, as Archer had said, the sorrel was a little footsore, but two or
three weeks of light work would cure that.
"Yes," mused the Judge, "a good animal. Sixteen hands high if he's an
inch, and I'll bet he can run rings round any cow-pony in the
community. By Jove, here come two unusually fine animals!"
Which last remark was called forth by the approach of two big rangy
horses, a bay and a gray. The riders, very dusty, both of them, were
hard-looking characters. A week's growth of stubble does not add to
the appearance of any one. They were tall, lean men, these two, and
one of them was exceedingly swarthy.
They dismounted at the hitching-rail, tossed the reins over their
horses' heads, and went into the bar. Both, as they passed, glanced
casually at the Judge's sorrel.
"Flying Diamond A," said the judge to himself, eying the strangers'
mounts. "I don't believe I ever heard of that outfit. It must be a
southwestern ranch."
Judge Allison had never heard of his sorrel's brand, the Barred Twin
Diamond, either. But then the Judge knew Mr. William Archer, or
thought he did, and to question the authenticity of the brand had not
entered his head.
The two tall, lean riders would have been greatly pleased had they
known of the ease with which the Judge read the brands on their horses'
hips. It was a tribute to their skill in hair-branding. Pocket-knives
in their hands, they had spent hours in a broiling hot draw altering
the Flying M to the Flying Diamond A.
On paper it is ridiculously simple. Merely prolong upward, till they
meet, the outer arms of the Flying M, and there you have it, a
perfectly good Flying Diamond A. But it is quite another story when
one's paper is the hide of a nervous horse which frantically objects to
having its hair pinched out.
The strangers happened to be sitting on the porch when the Judge rode
homeward on his sore-footed purchase. They noted how tenderly the
Barred Twin Diamond sorrel walked, and promptly retired to the bar and
made a fast friend of the bartender.
That afternoon the younger of the two hard-looking characters, the
gray-eyed man, became exceedingly intoxicated and quarrelled with his
swarthy friend who remained quite sober. The friend endeavoured to get
him to bed--they had taken a room at the hotel--but the drunken one ran
away. For a gentleman overcome by drink he ran remarkably well.
He was discovered an hour later in Mr. Archer's corral, making
hysterical endeavours to climb the fence, and bawling that he was being
detained against his will and would presently make a sieve of the
individual who had hidden the gate. To which end he flourished a
six-shooter.
Mr. Archer opened the gate and invited the tippler to come out. But
this he refused to do, and offered to fight Mr. Archer rough-and-tumble
or with knives on a blanket.
Mr. Archer, with an eye to future patronage, did not send for the
marshal. He sent for the man's friend. When the swarthy one appeared,
the other immediately sheathed his six-shooter, burst into maudlin
tears, and fell on his neck. Weeping bitterly, he was led away to the
hotel and to bed.
"I've seen drunks," observed a plump dance-hall girl, "but I never seen
one as full as he is that could walk so good. His licker only seems to
hit him from the belt up."
"Oh, there's drunks an' drunks," sagely replied Mr. Archer. "When
yo're as old as I am, Clarice, yuh won't wonder at nothin' a drunk
does."
When the two strangers were in their room with the door shut the
younger one lay down on his cot and stuffed the end of a blanket into
his mouth. His whole big frame shook with uproarious mirth. He kicked
the cot with his boot-toes and bounced up and down. His friend laughed
silently.
"Telescope," whispered the man on the bed, when he could open his mouth
without yelling, "Telescope, I got it all. They's five hosses in that
corral o' Archer's, all of 'em sore-footed an' all branded Barred Twin
Diamond. It's done mighty slick, too. Yuh can't hardly tell it ain't
the real thing. An' one of 'em, a black with two white stockings, I
can swear to like I can to that sorrel the bartender said the Judge
bought. I've rode 'em both."
"Sleeck work," breathed Laguerre. "I kin sw'ar to dat sorrel, too. I
know heem, me. He ees six year old, un dat red one I see een de
corral, I know heem. I bust heem a t'ree-year old. He ees five now.
But de odders I not so shore."
"It don't matter. They're all Scotty's horses. That's a cinch."
"I won'er eef de rest back een de heel. W'at you t'ink?"
"No, they ain't. Why, look here, Telescope, them six sorefoots tell
the story. If the rustlers was holdin' the band in the hills they'd
'a' kept the six. But they didn't. They turned 'em over to Archer.
That shows they was drivin' 'em, an' drivin' 'em some'ers near here.
Well, the railroad ain't more'n fifty mile south. Farewell's about
sixty mile north. If them rustlers got the band this far their best
move would be to keep right on to the railroad an' ship the hosses east
or west. An' I'll gamble that's what they've done."
Loudon gazed triumphantly at Laguerre. The latter nodded.
"You are right, you bet," he said, his eyes beginning to glitter. "I
hope dem two odder boys geet a move on."
"They ought to pull in to-morrow. To-night, when I'm all sober again,
we'll go down to the dance hall an' find out if Archer's made any
little out-o'-town trips lately. Telescope, I'm shore enjoyin' this.
To-morrow I'm goin' to make the acquaintance o' the Judge an' see what
he thinks o' this rustler Loudon who goes spreadin' the Crossed
Dumbbell brand up an' down the land. Yes, sir, I got to shake hands
with Judge Allison."
Again mirth overcame him, and he had recourse to the blanket.
"I wouldn' go see dat Judge," advised Laguerre, with a dubious shake of
the head. "She may not be de damfool. She might have you' face
describe', huh. She might see onder de w'iskair. You leave heem
'lone, my frien'."
But Loudon remained firm in his resolve.
Mr. Archer was a good business man. His two fiddlers were excellent,
and his girls were prettier than the average cow-town dance-hall women.
Consequently, Mr. Archer's place was popular. When Loudon and Laguerre
entered, four full sets were thumping through a polka on the dancing
floor, and in the back room two gamblers sat behind their boxes,
players two deep bordering the tables.
After a drink at the bar the two watched the faro games awhile. Then
Laguerre captured a good-looking brunette and whirled with her into a
wild waltz. Loudon singled out a plump little blonde in a short red
skirt and a shockingly inadequate waist and invited her to drink with
him.
"I seen yuh this mornin'," she confided, planting both elbows on the
table. "Yuh shore was packin' a awful load. I wondered how yuh walked
at all."
"Oh, I can always walk," said Loudon, modestly. "Liquor never does
affect my legs none--only my head an' my arms."
"Different here, dearie. When I'm full it hits me all over. I just go
blah. Yuh got to carry me. I can't walk nohow. But I don't tank up
much. Bill Archer don't like it. Say, honey, what djuh say to a
dance? Don't yuh feel like a waltz or somethin'?"
"I'd rather sit here an' talk to yuh. Besides, my ankle's strained
some. Dancin' won't do it no good."
"That's right. Well, buy me another drink then. I want to get forty
checks to-night if I can."
"Help yoreself. The bridle's off to you, Mary Jane."
"Call me Clarice. That's my name. Ain't it got a real refined sound?
I got it out of a book. The herowine was called that. She drowned
herself. Gee, I cried over that book! Read it six times, too. Here's
luck, stranger."
"An' lots of it, Ethel. Have another."
"Just for that yuh don't have to call me Clarice. Yuh can call me
anythin' yuh like 'cept Maggie. A floozie named that stole ninety-five
dollars an' four bits an' a gold watch offen me once. I ain't liked
the name since. Well, drown sorrow."
"An' drown her deep. Say, I kind o' like this town. It suits me down
to the ground. How's the cattle 'round here?"
"Nothin' to brag of. They's only a few little ranches. They's gold in
the Dry Mountains over east a ways. Placers, the claims are. Bill
Archer's got a claim some'ers west in the foot-hills o' the Fryin'
Pans. He works it quite a lot, but he ain't never had no luck with it
yet. Leastwise, he says he ain't."
"Has he been out to it lately?" asked Loudon, carelessly.
The girl did not immediately reply. She stared fixedly into his eyes.
"Stranger," she said, her voice low and hard, "stranger, what do yuh
want to know for?"
"Oh, I was just a-wonderin'. Not that I really want to know. I was
just talkin'."
"Yuh seem to enjoy talkin' quite a lot."
"I do. Habit I got."
"Well, what do yuh want to know about Bill Archer for?"
"I don't. Say, can't I make a natural remark without yore jumpin'
sideways?"
"Remarks is all right. It's yore questions ain't. Stranger, for a
feller who's just makin' talk yore eyes are a heap too interested. I
been in this business too long a time not to be able to read a gent's
eyes. Yo're a-huntin' for somethin', you are."
"I'm a-huntin' a job--that's all. What do yuh take me for, anyway?"
"I dunno how to take yuh. I----"
"Oh, have another drink an' forget it."
"Shore I'll have another drink, but I dunno as I---- Oh, well, yo're
all right, o' course. I'm gettin' foolish, I guess."
Her words did not carry conviction, and certainly she did not cease to
watch Loudon with furtive keenness. He strove by means of many drinks
and a steady flow of conversation to dispel her suspicions. The girl
played up to perfection, yet, when he bade her good-night, it was with
the assured belief that she and Archer would have a little talk within
five minutes.
The bar was nearly empty when Loudon and Laguerre entered the hotel.
Two drunken punchers were sleeping on the floor, a mongrel under a
table was vigorously hunting for fleas, and the bartender was languidly
arranging bottles on the shelves. Loudon ordered drinks and treated
the bartender.
"Any chance o' pickin' up a stake in the Dry Mountains?" hazarded
Loudon.
"How?" queried the bartender.
"Placer minin'."
"Well, gents, if yuh don't care how hard yuh work for five dollars a
day, the Dry Mountains is the place. I never had no use for a
long-tailed shovel myself."
"I heard how them stream-beds was rich."
"Don't yuh believe it, gents. If they was, there wouldn't be no
Marysville 'round here. It'd be all over in the Dry Mountains. No,
gents, it's like I says. Yuh can get the colour all right enough, but
yuh won't make more'n five a day on an average. Who wants to rock a
cradle for that?"
"Now ain't that a fright?" complained Loudon. "Chucked up our jobs
with the Flyin' Diamond A 'cause we heard how there was gold in the Dry
Mountains, an' come all the way up here for nothin'. It shore does
beat the devil!"
"It does, stranger, it does. Have one on the house, gents."
"Say," said Loudon, when the liquor was poured, "say, how about east in
the foothills o' the Fryin' Pans? Any gold there?"
"Stranger, them Fryin' Pans has been prospected from hell to breakfast
an' they ain't showed the colour yet. Take my word for it, gents, an'
leave the Fryin' Pans alone. Bill Archer's got a claim some'ers over
that way an' he goes traipsin' out to it every so often. Stays quite a
while, Bill does, sometimes. Don't know why. He don't never get
nothin'."
"How do yuh know?"
"Stranger, I know them hills. I've prospected that country myself.
There's no gold in it."
"Maybe Bill Archer don't agree with yuh."
"Likely he don't. He's a hopeful cuss as ever was. Why, gents, only
about ten days ago he got back from a two weeks' trip to his claim. A
month ago he was gone maybe a week. An' it goes on like that. Why,
I'll bet Bill Archer spends mighty nigh four months in every year out
on his claim. There's perseverance for yuh, if nothin' else."
The two friends agreed that it was indeed perseverance and retired to
their room.
"We've got Archer pretty nigh hog-tied," murmured Loudon as he pulled
off his trousers.
"You bet," whispered Laguerre. "Archer she ees w'at you call de fence,
huh? De odder feller dey run off de pony un de cow, un Archer she sell
dem. Eet ees plain, yes."
"Plain! I guess so. It'll be a cinch."
It might appear cinch-like, but there were more dips and twists in the
trail ahead than Loudon and Laguerre dreamed of.
In the morning Loudon strolled down the street and entered the dance
hall. Mr. Archer was behind the bar, and he greeted Loudon with grave
politeness.
There was nothing in Archer's manner to indicate that Clarice had
talked. In perfect amity the two men drank together, and Loudon took
his departure. His visit to the dance hall had one result. The depth
of Mr. Archer's character had been indicated, if not revealed. Loudon
had hoped that he was a hasty person, one given to exploding at
half-cock. Such an individual is less difficult to contend with than
one that bides his time.
Loudon, not wholly easy in his mind, went in search of Judge Allison.
He found him in the Sweet Dreams Saloon telling a funny story to the
bartender. The Judge was an approachable person. Loudon had no
difficulty in scraping an acquaintance with him. Half-an-hour's
conversation disclosed the fact that the Judge's hobby was the horse.
Loudon talked horse and its diseases till he felt that his brain was in
danger of developing a spavin.
Judge Allison warmed to the young man. Here was a fellow that knew
horses. By Jove, yes! Reluctantly the Judge admitted to himself that
Loudon's knowledge of breeding secrets far exceeded his own. In a land
where horses are usually bred haphazard such an individual is rare.
The Judge took Loudon home with him in order to pursue his favourite
subject to its lair. Which lair was the Judge's office, where, cheek
by jowl with "Coke upon Littleton" and Blackstone's ponderous volumes,
were books on the horse--war, work, and race.
"It's astonishing, sir," pronounced the Judge, when his negro had
brought in a sweating jug of what the Judge called cocktails, "truly
astonishing what vile poison is served across our bars. And I say
'vile' with feeling. Why, until I imported my own brands from the East
my stomach was perpetually out of order. I very nearly died. Have
another? No? Later, then. Well, sir, my name is Allison, Henry B.
Allison, Judge of this district. What may I call you, sir?"
"Franklin, Judge, Ben Franklin," replied Loudon, giving the name he had
given the landlord of the hotel.
"Any relation of Poor Richard?" twinkled the Judge.
"Who was he?" queried Loudon, blankly.
"A great man, a very great man. He's dead at present."
"He would be. Fellah never is appreciated till he shuffles off."
"We live in an unappreciative world, Mr. Franklin. I know. I ought
to. A judge is never appreciated, that is, not pleasantly. Why, last
year I sentenced Tom Durry for beating his wife, and Mrs. Tom
endeavoured to shoot me the day after Tom was sent away. The mental
processes of a woman are incomprehensible. Have another cocktail?"
"No more, thanks, Judge. I've had a-plenty. Them cocktail jiggers
ain't strong or nothin'. Oh, no! Two or three more of 'em an' I'd go
right out an' push the house over. I'm feelin' fine now. Don't want
to feel a bit better. Ever go huntin', Judge?"
"No, I don't. I used to. Why?"
"I was just a-wonderin'. Yuh see, me an' my friend are thinkin' o'
prospectin' the Fryin' Pans, an' we was a-wonderin' how the game was.
Don't want to pack much grub if we can help it."
"The Frying Pans! Why, Bill Archer has a claim there. Never gets
anything out of it, though. Works it hard enough, too, or he used to
at any rate. Odd. About three weeks ago he told me he was riding out
to give it another whirl. Last week, Tuesday, to be exact, I was
riding about twenty miles south of here and I met Bill Archer riding
north. He seemed quite surprised to meet me. I guess he doesn't work
that claim as much as he says."
"That's the way we come north--through that country east of the Blossom
trail."
"Oh, I was west of the Blossom trail--fully ten miles west. What?
Going already? Why, I haven't had time to ask you about that
extraordinary case of ringbone you ran across in Texas. Wait. I'll
get a book. I want to show you something."
It was fully an hour before Loudon could tear himself away from Judge
Allison. As he crossed the street, a buckboard drawn by two sweating,
dust-caked ponies rattled past him and stopped in front of the Judge's
office. The driver was a woman swathed in a shapeless duster, her face
hidden by a heavy veil, and a wide-brimmed Stetson tied
sunbonnet-fashion over her ears. At first glance she was not
attractive, and Loudon, absorbed in his own affairs, did not look twice.
"Find out anythin'?" inquired Laguerre, when Loudon met him at the
hotel corral.
"I found out that when Archer came back from that claim in the Fryin'
Pans he come from the direction o' the railroad. The Judge met him
twenty mile south an' ten mile west o' the trail to Blossom. Blossom
is almost due south o' here. The next station west is Damson. We'll
go to Damson first. C'mon an' eat."
The long table in the dining room was almost deserted. At one end sat
Archer and a lanky person in chaps. Loudon caught the lanky gentleman
casting sidelong glances in his direction. Archer did not look up from
his plate. It was the first meal at which they had met either the
dance-hall keeper or his tall friend.
"I wonder," mused Loudon. "I wonder."
After dinner Loudon inquired of the bartender whether it was Archer's
custom to eat at the hotel.
"First time he ever ate here to my knowledge," said the bartender.
"He's got a home an' a Injun woman to cook."
"It's the little tumble-weeds show how the wind blows," thought Loudon
to himself, and sat down in a corner of the barroom and pondered deeply.
A few minutes later he removed his cartridge-belt, hung it on the back
of his chair, and composed himself ostensibly to doze. His
three-quarter shut eyes, however, missed nothing that went on in the
barroom.
Archer and his lanky friend entered and draped themselves over the bar.
Loudon, after a brief space of time, arose, stretched, and yawningly
stumbled upstairs. He lay down on his cot and smoked one cigarette
after another, his eyes on the ceiling.
Laguerre wandered in, and Loudon uttered cogent sentences in a whisper.
Laguerre grinned delightedly. His perverted sense of humour was
aroused. Loudon did not smile. What he believed to be impending gave
him no pleasure.
"Guess I'll go down," announced Loudon, when an hour had elapsed. "No
sense in delayin' too long."
"No," said Laguerre, "no sense een dat."
He followed his friend downstairs.
"Seems to me I took it off in here," Loudon flung back over his
shoulder, as though in response to a question. "Shore, there it is."
He walked across the barroom to where his cartridge-belt and
six-shooter hung on the back of a chair. He buckled on the belt,
Archer and his lanky friend watching him the while.
"How about a little game, gents?" suggested Archer.
In a flash Loudon saw again the barroom of the Happy Heart and the
Sheriff of Sunset County surrounded by Block's friends. The wolf-faced
man had employed almost those very words. Loudon smiled cheerfully.
"Why, shore," he said, "I'm with yuh. I left my coin upstairs. I'll
be right down."
He hurried up to his room, closed the door, and set his back against
it. Drawing his six-shooter he flipped out the cylinder. No circle of
brass heads and copper primers met his eye. His weapon had been
unloaded.
"Fell plumb into it," he muttered without exultation. "The ----
murderers!"
He tried the action. Nothing wrong there. Only the cartridges had
been juggled. He reloaded hastily from a fresh box of cartridges. He
would not trust those in his belt. Heaven only knew how far ahead the
gentleman who tampered with his gun had looked.
When Loudon returned to the barroom, Laguerre and the other two men
were sitting at a battered little table. The vacant chair was opposite
Archer's lanky friend, and the man sitting in that chair would have his
back to the door.
"I don't like to sit with my back to the door," stated Loudon.
"Some don't," said the lanky man, shuffling the cards.
"Meanin'?" Loudon cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Oh, nothin'."
"Shore?"
"Positive, stranger, positive."
"That's good. Change seats, will yuh?"
The lanky citizen hesitated. Loudon remained standing, his gray eyes
cold and hard. Then slowly the other man arose, circled the table, and
sat down. Loudon slid into the vacated chair.
The lanky man dealt. Loudon watched the deft fingers--fingers too deft
for the excessively crude exhibition of cheating that occurred almost
instantly. To Archer the dealer dealt from the bottom of the pack, and
did it clumsily. Hardly the veriest tyro would have so openly bungled
the performance. For all that, however, it was done so that Loudon,
and not Laguerre, saw the action.
"Where I come from," observed Loudon, softly, "we don't deal from the
bottom of the pack."
"Do you say I'm a-dealin' from the bottom of the pack?" loudly demanded
the lanky man.
"Just that," replied Loudon, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his
vest.
"Yo're a liar!" roared the lanky one, and reached for his gun.
Archer fell over backwards. Laguerre thrust his chair to one side and
leaped the other way.
No one saw Loudon's arm move. Yet, when the lanky man's fingers closed
on the butt of his gun, Loudon's six-shooter was in his hand.
The lanky man's six-shooter was half drawn when Loudon's gun spat flame
and smoke. The lanky's one's fingers slipped their grip, and his arm
jerked backward. Lips writhing with pain, for his right elbow was
smashed to bits, the lanky man thrust his left hand under his vest.
"Don't," cautioned Loudon.
The lanky man's hand came slowly away--empty. White as chalk, his left
hand clenched round the biceps of his wounded arm, the lanky man swayed
to his feet and staggered into the street.
Archer arose awkwardly. His expression was so utterly nonplussed that
it would have been laughable had not the situation been so tragic. A
thread of gray smoke spiraled upward from the muzzle of Loudon's
slanting six-shooter. Laguerre, balanced on his toes, watched the
doorway.
Loudon stared at Archer. The latter moved from behind the table and
halted. He removed his hat and scratched his head, his eyes on the
trail of red blots leading to the door.
"----!" exclaimed Archer, suddenly, raising his head. "This here kind
o' puts a crimp in our game, don't it?"
"That depends on how bad yuh want to play," retorted Loudon. "I'm
ready--I'm always ready to learn new tricks."
"I don't just feel like poker now," hedged Archer, ignoring the insult.
"I reckon I'll see yuh later maybe."
"Don't strain yoreself reckonin'," advised Loudon.
"I won't. So long, gents."
With an airy wave of his head Bill Archer left the barroom.
Inch by inch the head of the bartender uprose from behind the
breastwork of the bar. The barrel of a sawed-off shotgun rose with the
head. When Loudon holstered his six-shooter the bartender replaced the
sawed-off shotgun on the hooks behind the bar.
"Well, sir, gents," remarked the bartender with an audible sigh of
relief, "which I'm never so glad in my life when Skinny Maxson don't
pull that derringer. She's a .41 that derringer is, the bar's right in
the line o' fire--it ain't none too thick--an' Skinny always shoots
wide with a derringer. Gents, the drinks are on the house. What'll
yuh have?"
"Yo're a Christian," grinned Loudon. "Is Skinny Maxson anythin'
special 'round here?"
"He's a friend o' Bill Archer's," replied the bartender, "an' he's
got--I mean he had a reputation. I knowed he was lightning on the draw
till I seen you--I mean till I didn't see yuh pull yore gun. Mr.
Franklin, that was shore the best exhibition o' quick drawin' I ever
seen, an' I used to work in Dodge City. Good thing yuh was some swift.
Skinny don't shoot a six-gun like he does a derringer. No, not for a
minute he don't! But look out for Skinny's brother Luke. He's got a
worse temper'n Skinny, an' he's a better shot. This nickin' o' Skinny
is a heap likely to make him paint for war. He's out o' town just now."
A clatter of running feet was heard in the street. Through the doorway
bounded a stocky citizen, blood in his eye, and a shotgun in his hand.
"Where's the ---- shot Skinny!" he howled.
"Luke!" cried the bartender, and dived beneath the bar.
"Stranger, I wouldn't do nothin' rash," observed Loudon, squinting
along the barrel of his six-shooter. "Drop that shotgun, an' drop her
quick."
Loudon's tone was soft, but its menace was not lost on the wild-eyed
man. His shotgun thudded on the floor.
"By Gar!" exclaimed Laguerre. "Eet ees----"
"Shut up!" roared Loudon. "I'm seein' just what yo're seein', but
there's no call to blat it out!"
For the wild-eyed man was the same individual who had brought the tale
of the Hatchet Creek Indian uprising to Farewell. But there was no
recognition in the man's eyes, which was not remarkable. Loudon and
Laguerre, on that occasion, had been but units in a crowd, and even
when they exchanged shots with the fellow the range was too long for
features to be noted. Besides, the thick growth of stubble on their
faces effectually concealed their identity from any one who did not
know them well.
"I'd kind o' elevate my hands, Brother Luke," suggested Loudon.
"That's right. Yuh look more ornamental thataway. An' don't shake so
much. You ain't half as mad as yo're tryin' to make out. If you was
real hot you'd 'a' took a chance an' unhooked that shotgun when yuh
come in. Brother Luke, yo're a false alarm--like Skinny."
"Lemme pick up my shotgun, an' I'll show yuh!" clamoured Luke Maxson,
whom the purring voice was driving to a frenzy.
"Yuh lost yore best chance, an' chances don't travel in pairs--like
brothers."
"Do somethin'! Do somethin'!" chattered Luke.
"No hurry. Don't get het, Brother Luke. If I was to do somethin' yore
valuable an' good-lookin' carcass would be damaged. An' I just ain't
got the heart to shoot more than one man a day."
Laguerre laughed outright. From behind the bar came the sound of a
snicker hastily stifled.
"You let me go," yapped Luke Maxson, "an' I'll down yuh first chance I
git!"
"Good argument against lettin' yuh go."
At the window flanking the door appeared the plump face and shoulders
of Judge Allison.
"Why don't yuh do somethin', ---- yuh?" yelled Luke Maxson. "I'm
gettin' tired holdin' my arms up!"
"Well," said Loudon, "as I told yuh before, though yuh can't seem to
get it through yore thick head, it's a mighty boggy ford. I feel just
like the fellah swingin' on the wildcat's tail. I want to let go, but
I can't. If I was shore none o' yore measly friends would shoot me in
the back, I'd let yuh go get yore Winchester an' shoot it out with me
in the street at a hundred yards. But the chance o' yore friends
bustin' in shore dazzles me."
"None of 'em won't move a finger!" Luke hastened to assure Loudon.
The latter looked doubtful. The Judge coughed gently and rubbed his
clean-shaven chin.
"Mr. Franklin," said Judge Allison, "should you care to try conclusions
with Mr. Maxson in the street, pray accept my assurances that no one
will interfere. I speak unofficially, of course. Furthermore, in a
wholly unofficial capacity I shall oversee proceedings from the
sidewalk. If any one should be so ill-advised as to---- But no one
will, no one will."
"You hear what the Judge says?" Loudon cocked an eyebrow at Luke Maxson.
"Shore, shore," said that worthy, feverishly. "Lemme pick up my
shotgun, an' in five minutes I'll be back in the middle o' Main Street
a-waitin' for yuh."
"Five minutes is too long," observed Loudon. "Make it three. An' yuh
needn't touch that shotgun. Yuh can get it later--if yo're able."
"Yo're shore in a hurry!" sneered Luke.
"I always am with a coward an' a liar an' a low-down, baby-robbin'
road-agent."
At these words rage almost overwhelmed Luke Maxson. Only the long
barrel of that steady six-shooter aimed at his abdomen prevented him
from hurling himself barehanded upon his tormentor.
"One moment, gentlemen!" exclaimed the Judge. "In the interest of fair
play permit me to settle one or two necessary preliminaries. The
street runs approximately north and south so the sun will not favour
either of you. Mr. Maxson will take his stand in the middle of the
street opposite the dance hall. Mr. Franklin will also post himself in
the middle of the street but opposite the hotel. The hotel and dance
hall are about a hundred yards apart. I shall be on the sidewalk
midway between the two places. At a shot from my revolver you
gentlemen will commence firing. And may God have mercy on your souls.
Gentlemen, the three minutes start immediately."
"Git," ordered Loudon.
Luke Maxson fled. The Judge vanished from the window. Loudon hurried
upstairs for his rifle. In the street could be heard the voice of
Judge Allison booming instructions to the passersby to remove
themselves and their ponies from the range of fire.
"Geet heem, by Gar!" enjoined Laguerre, clicking a cartridge into the
chamber of his own rifle. "Geet heem! You got to geet heem! I'm
behin' you, me! I trus' dat judge feller, but I trus' myself more.
Eef anybody jump sideway at you, I geet heem."
"I'll get him," muttered Loudon. "Don't worry none, Telescope. He'll
get it like his brother."
"No, no, Tom, no fancy shootin' at de elbow," exclaimed Laguerre in
alarm. "Geet hees hair."
"You just wait. C'mon."