THE FIGHT IN THE "GOLDEN ARROW."
Silver City lay at the base of two great mountain ranges.
It was, like most mining towns of that time, filled with a floating
population of gamblers, prospectors, miners and bad men. However, a
semblance of law and order had been established by the new sheriff,
Ben Teall, whose courage and quickness on the trigger had gained for
him no little respect among the gun-toters of that rough country. Some
who had doubted both these qualities, were now occupying six-foot
claims in Silver City's graveyard.
Ben never pulled a trigger unless convinced that his own life was
in danger, and then he shot to kill. The fact that he still lived
was evidence that he had never yet failed of accomplishing that much
desired result.
Bill was standing back to the bar in the Golden Arrow saloon one
evening two days after Jesse and his companions had departed from the
cabin of the rancher, headed for Silver City.
The green baize door that was the pride of the Golden Arrow, swung in
and two strangers entered, who attracted Ben's attention instantly.
They were well set up, sharp-featured and clear-eyed fellows, and
though there was nothing about their dress to distinguish them from
the other habitues of the place, Ben mentally put them down as secret
service men; but what mission they could possibly be bent on there, he
could not understand.
The two sat down at a table and ordered whiskey with "rain water" on
the side, and the keen-eyed sheriff noted that while they only took one
sip of the fire-water, they took down the "rain water" with evident
satisfaction. The rest of the whisky was dumped onto the floor. All
this he noted under half-closed eyelids.
"If they ain't service men, they'll bear watching," was his comment.
After a little the newcomers and the sheriff's eyes met, and each saw
in the other something of interest.
"That's the sheriff over there sizing us up, or I'm a goat," mumbled
Jesse to his companion, who was none other than his elder brother.
"Is he next, do you think?" asked Frank.
"No, he don't know us. He's looking for somebody and he ain't sure
whether we are the ones or not."
"Hadn't we better make believe we have finished and walk out? I don't
like the idea of hanging around and letting the whole town spot us,
anyway," growled Frank.
"You can go. You ain't tied," sneered Jesse. "But come on, let's be
good-natured. There ain't no call for you and I being sore on each
other."
"No, that's so," agreed Frank swallowing his resentment toward his
brother for the time being. But try as he honestly did, not to hate
his brother, at times the old feeling would come out. Yet on the other
hand, between the two was a strong bond, perhaps due more to the
strenuous scenes through which they had passed together, than to any
tie of brotherly love.
"That man and I are going to mix it up some day," mused the sheriff.
"Say," said Jesse to his companion, "if that fellow don't quit boring
into me with his eyes I'm going over and hand him something hotter than
the fire-water he gits over the bar of the Golden Arrow. It's beginning
to get on my nerves.
"But watch out. He's got something else on his mind now I reckon,"
warned Jesse suddenly.
The green baize door had swung in and the man who was entering let
it close to behind him with a snap, as he quickly stepped inside.
His hands fell to his holsters as he swept the room in one quick
comprehensive glance.
"One of Silver City's bullies," decided Jesse under his breath.
"I know the breed. I believe the pup is going to shoot."
At that moment Jesse's glance alighted appreciatively on the sheriff.
He was standing with folded arms gazing at the bad man with a challenge
in his eyes.
"Steve," said the sheriff in a quiet voice, "I've told you to get out
of town before sun-up tomorrow; I've told you to keep out of the gin
mills tonight. If you're here five minutes from now I'll kill you."
With that the sheriff turned away.
"Jim," he said to the bartender, "give me a cigar."
But the move came near to being a fatal one for the little officer of
the law.
The instant his back was turned, one of the bad man's guns came out
with a flash and his eyes blazing with terrible rage he was throwing it
down on the man who had given him his final notice to quit.
But he was not quick enough.
"Bang!"
The notorious outlaw's trusty "Colt" had spoken first, and the bad
man's gun fell to the floor, as its owner uttered a howl of mingled
rage and pain.
He reached for his other gun with the left.
"Hands up!" commanded the desperado in an even voice. "I reckon we
don't 'low curs like you to shoot men in the back."
Instantly the room was in an uproar. There were those present who,
though they had not deemed it wise to express their sentiments in the
presence of the sheriff, were Steve's cronies on the side.
Their hands flew to their guns.
"Hands up, every mother's son of you!" roared the desperado in a
terrible voice that thrilled every man in the room. "Come over here,"
he said jerking his head to one side for the sheriff to join them, and
while Jesse's eyes swept the evil faces about them the sheriff calmly
walked over to where the two outlaws were standing, and took his place
beside them.
"Thanks, pard," he breathed. "You winged him. He won't use that hand
again right away."
A gun flashed at the far end of the room.
Jesse's 44 barked viciously and the other's bullet buried itself in the
wall behind him. But his assailant fared not so well. He sank to the
floor with a dull red mark placed fairly between his eyes.
Now guns crashed everywhere. The sheriff worked his weapons with the
rapidity of a gatling gun. But Jesse and Frank fired now slowly. They
were at a disadvantage. They were unable to distinguish friend from
foe, while the sheriff knew every man there. So the two outlaws kept
their sharp eyes dancing from face to face and at the least sign of
treachery, the man went down with a bullet well placed somewhere in his
anatomy.
By now the battle was getting too hot for most of the miners and bad
men and they took to the windows like a flock of frightened sheep. The
temptation was too great for the notorious outlaw to resist. He was in
a devil-may-care mood this night, and his recent exploits had whetted
his appetite for more desperate deeds.
He discharged a quick volley after the fleeing men, and though not
once shooting to kill, inflicted wounds from which many an unfortunate
fellow never recovered.
The firing ceased.
Jesse laughed harshly.
The bar tender poked his head above the bar cautiously.
"Gentlemen all finished?" he asked, peering suspiciously at the three
men on the other side of the room.
"That depends," answered the desperado easily, "upon whether there are
any other gentlemen in need of pills around here. If you know of any
more would-be bad men go out and get them. We might as well clean out
the whole danged town while we are at it, eh, sheriff?"
Suddenly Jesse wheeled and sent a bullet crashing through the green
baize door.
This was followed instantly by a yell of pain and one of the bad man's
friends, plunged headlong into the room dead. He had been taking
careful aim at the great desperado, who suddenly sensing that danger
lurked beyond the door, had fired.
"Say pard," glowed the sheriff, "I've seen some pretty tall shooting in
my time and I'm something on the trigger myself, but you fellows have
got anything in Silver City backed clear off into the gulch. Shake."
Jesse extended his hand and bowed with mock gentility.
"There's only one man that I ever heard of who could handle a gun like
you do," continued the officer of the law.
"And he?" smiled the outlaw.
"And he is Jesse James."
"_And it is Jesse James who stands before you_," was the outlaw's
startling and unexpected reply, one of those devil-may-care impulses
that now and then stirred him on to acts that from their very daring,
overcame all obstacles and brought him out victorious.