CHAPTER XXI
A FIGHT IN THE DARK
As Lafe was coming from dinner at the Fashion annex next noon, a Mexicanhanded him a letter. It was undated and without beginning.
"As Lafe was coming from dinner ... a Mexican handed hima letter."]
Steve's sore. Look out for him.
ANNIE.
The sheriff had received so many warnings in his time that he had growncallous and seldom attached any significance to them, but he knew thatDutch Annie was not given to foolish alarm. So he tore her note intominute particles and saw to the oiling of his six-shooter. That was theonly preparation against trouble that Johnson was wont to make.
The sheriff's two-roomed frame shack was somewhat removed from itsneighbors. It was a full half mile from the Widow's house, where Hettylodged. His housekeeping had a fine touch of simplicity. If all thingswere favorable, and he had nothing else to do, Lafe would make the bedonce in a while. To do him justice, he had been known to sweep theplace, also. That was not a particularly arduous task, because thefurniture consisted of the bed aforesaid, one chair, one table withthree legs, which stood propped against the wall, and a packing case fora washstand.
About seven o'clock that evening he led a spare horse to the Widow'shouse and took Hetty for a ride. They talked of the future--soberly,almost as a staid married couple. She never indulged in coquetry, andtheir courtship had not been of the kind to make jealousy of othersexpedient or a desirable weapon for her use. After she had dismounted atthe gate:
"I wish you weren't going. I'm sort of nervous to-night."
The sheriff smiled down at her. "I reckon you'd best get a glass case tokeep me in, hon."
"I know it's silly--but you'll be awful careful, won't you, Lafe?"
"Sure," he said. "There ain't a native in ten counties that likesgetting hurt less'n I do."
He put the horses up and repaired to the Fashion, for he had it in mindto ascertain the latest gossip of Moffatt. It was not to be supposedthat a man of the outlaw's temper would take the expulsion of PicnicKate from Badger in a spirit of decorous humility.
The proprietor had it on excellent authority that Steve was far down onthe Baccanochi range, endeavoring to cheat the natives out of a herd ofstock cattle. The sheriff stood at the bar and conversed for a space.
"You got a new gun, Lafe?" asked the Fashion man, pointing to his belt.
"No-oo. Just been cleaning this up some."
The other held out a languid hand and Johnson passed him the gun. It wasa workmanlike .45 Colt, single action, and the hammer rested on an emptychamber for safety. The Fashion proprietor turned it over with the easeand appreciation of an expert. He pulled back the hammer and twirled thechambers.
"She's a beaut," said he.
"Yes, that's a right good gun," Lafe agreed. He received it backcarelessly, and slipped it into the holster. They chatted indifferentlyfor a moment, and Lafe drank a nightcap and started home.
The night was thick and sticky. Back of the mountains thunder wasmuttering. The air clung about him like a soft blanket. Some bull-batswheeled above his head. Lafe glanced at the dirty sky and wonderedwhether those hurrying wracks of clouds would shed rain. They had apitiless habit of holding out hope, only to blow over, leaving thecountry gasping.
His door was shut. It struck him as odd, because he never locked hishouse, having nothing of value to safeguard. Inside, it was so blackthat the darkness seemed to rise up and buffet him in the face. Hecrossed the empty outer room and felt his way to the table against thefar wall. On it stood always an empty bottle, a candle crammed into theneck. This was the sheriff's light system.
His hands groped over the rough surface, but he could not find thecandle, nor the matches usually piled close beside. He fumbled in hispocket--nothing there but some keys and loose silver.
"Pshaw!" he muttered. "Well, it don't matter. I can undress in thedark."
He moved towards the bed. Then he halted and his stomach musclescontracted. Slowly his head turned to see what was behind. There wassomebody in the room. He stared until his eyes smarted, but could seenothing. He listened, but could catch no sound. Yet, somewhere close tohim, a living thing moved; he was positive of that. Nobody had everquestioned Johnson's courage, but now he experienced a peculiar grippingof the throat and a pringling over all his skin.
"Who's there?" he asked, and waited.
"Who's there, I say?"
Surely there was a faint stirring in the corner, the merest pinpoint ofa sound. The sheriff whipped out his gun. He could descry nothing, butpointing his forefinger along the barrel to where he thought an objectcrouched, he thumbed the hammer. It fell with a click on an emptychamber. Before he could pull again, a body hurled itself through thedark on Johnson.
Instantly he grappled it. A knife thrust was the danger now, and helocked his arms about his assailant and heaved sideways, driving his hipagainst the opposing hip to give momentum to the throw. The other losthis feet and Lafe swung with all his weight, but they crashed againstthe wall, which brought them upstanding. While one could count ten, thetwo stood breast to breast, panting.
The sheriff suddenly brought his right knee upward with force, desirousof driving it into his opponent's stomach, but the blow was caught onthe thigh, and again they went lurching about the room, gasping forbreath, but voiceless. As he strove to pin the jerking arms, Johnson'smind ran automatically on the empty chamber. How had the hammer happenedon that? Sure--the Fashion man had done it.
The discovery gave him new strength. In swift rage he tried for a lowerhold, feeling his enemy weaken. The momentary release of his grip wasenough. The other wrenched one arm free and swung it. Lafe was dimlyconscious of a crash and the tinkle of broken glass. He felt no pain. Itseemed to him that trains were rushing by at high speed, and he wasbeset with the idea that he had something to do that he was powerless toperform. He crumpled up and slid to the floor, his fingers scratchingthe boards for the handle of his six-shooter, but all the strengthseemed gone from them. And now, mingling with the roar of the train andthe harsh screaming of brakes, was the rattle of a horse's hoofs. Thesheriff stretched out on his back and sighed.
The patter of rain on the roof was the first sound that aroused Johnson.Assuredly the house leaked, for there were warm drops falling on hisface, too. Next, he heard somebody strike a match, and he began tospeculate in a sort of languid wonder as to what a woman was doing thereand what made her cry. Then a shooting pain above the right ear wrung anexclamation from him and he tried to sit up.
"Don't. Don't. You must lie still."
"Hetty," he said.
She knelt beside him and held a wet handkerchief to the wound.
"You're hurt bad, Lafe. Don't talk," she whispered.
"Steve Moffatt--"
"Yes, I know, dear. Lie still."
Splinters of a bottle strewed the floor around him. So Moffatt had gotaway. The sheriff looked weakly at Hetty.
"How did you get here?"
"Hush. You mustn't talk. Keep still and I'll go for Dr. Armstrong."
"How--?"
"I heard you calling me," she said.
"Calling you?" the sheriff repeated. "Why, hon, I never said a word."
The Sheriff of Badger: A Tale of the Southwest Borderland Page 21
