The Sheriff of Badger: A Tale of the Southwest Borderland

by George Pattullo

  CHAPTER XXII

  CAPTURE OF MOFFATT, THE GUNMAN

  For more than a month, the sheriff lay sick. Armstrong feared concussionof the brain, but his diagnosis proved incorrect. And Hetty nursed himas never a man was nursed before, in that country of rough methods.Indeed, her devotion was so pronounced that the entire sentiment ofBadger underwent a change. The married ladies came to the tardyconclusion that Miss Ferrier belonged to the sisterhood of good women;none of the males had ever doubted it; the whole town paid tribute toher conduct, and their indignation against the sheriff's assailant waxedcorrespondingly.

  At the beginning of the first week of convalescence, the Floyds arrivedin Badger from the Lazy L. Mrs. Floyd was hampered by no scruples on thescore of false modesty; if her husband did not object--if her Tomunderstood--what mattered it about the rest of the world? So, straightto Lafe's bedside she went.

  "Lafe! Dear old Lafe," she exclaimed, when she saw the unnatural pallorof his face.

  Hetty was standing at the other side of the bed. She tried bravely notto stiffen towards their visitor when she saw her kneel and take Lafe'shand, but some subtle sense of divination--or perhaps it was that Mrs.Floyd was so pretty--made her reception frigid. Mrs. Floyd glancedquickly into her face, then seized her impetuously, crying: "Don't. Oh,please don't. Lafe and I were babies together."

  Whereupon the amazed patient beheld Hetty clasp the smaller woman in herarms, and the two took to weeping.

  This must have been excellent for his complaint, because the sheriffmended rapidly from that date. It was not long before he went about asusual, although a long strip of plaster adorned one ear. His first carewas to talk with the proprietor of the Fashion, who said: "The hammerwas on the wrong chamber? Why, Lafe, surely you don't think--"

  That was exactly what the sheriff thought. It ended in the saloonkeeperleaving town in haste. Then the sheriff set quietly to work to ascertainwhither Moffatt had flown for refuge. It would be so warm for him alongthe Border now, that a haven would be difficult.

  "We'd best to wait a mite yet, Hetty," he told his fiancee again."Supposing he was to get me? No, no. It's either me or him. So let'sjust keep the wedding off a while, hon, and then this'll all bestraightened out."

  "Oh--all right."

  "You see, hon, I want to have a clean slate," he went on rather lamely."Don't you understand? Before we get married, I aim to throw up this jobof sheriff and take to running cattle with ol' Horne."

  "Huh-huh."

  "Don't look that way, hon. Steve, he's the last. I'll go get him andthen I'll have done what they put me in for."

  "Oh, of course, if you think more of the people who elected you than youdo of me," said Hetty.

  For a moment he seemed taken aback. Then his face cleared and he sweptHetty into his arms.

  He did not have long to wait for news of the outlaw. A telegram camefrom Floyd of the Lazy L.

  Steve Moffatt in Lost Springs mountains. Heading for the Jug. Killed Pablo Jiminez to-day while running off bunch of horses. Horne and I offer five hundred reward for him.

  It was because of this wire that the sheriff rode up a canon in LostSprings on a cool October afternoon. The wind played through thelive-oaks and scrub-cedar and went whistling upward to be lost among thesolemn peaks. Some cattle were watering at a shallow hole. A groundsquirrel scurried across his front. From all about came the soft,mournful cooing of wild doves.

  All morning he had been climbing. Sometimes he traveled three miles togain a mile of distance; winding upward to high mesas, skirting them anddescending into another canon nearer the summits toward which Moffattwas heading.

  Presently he was confronted by a wall of rock. It was a sheer thirtyfeet in height and water oozed down its face into a small pool. Thereseemed no way out and Lafe scanned the cliffs in search of the trail.While he lolled thus in the saddle, there came a shot from above hishead and his horse winced. Without hesitation he fell to the ground andscrambled on hands and knees to the shelter of a tree.

  "I near got you that time, Johnson," a clear voice called to him.

  It came from behind the crags above the pool. Then he thought he heardthe ring of a horse's shoe on stone, but he was too cautious to exposehimself at once. For fully an hour he waited, listening for evidence ofhis enemy and occasionally sighting along the barrel of his 30-30. Then,persuaded Moffatt had seized the chance to increase his lead, heremounted and continued the pursuit. A wale along his mount's shoulderwas the only injury.

  "He's scared, or he could have got me then," said Lafe, examining thiswith much satisfaction.

  In late afternoon he threaded a broad canon and entered on a stretch ofbrakes, perhaps six miles in length and one in width. The top of itsnumberless bald hills overlooked the canon's sides. The track hefollowed ran along a narrow plateau. At intervals, chalky cliffs droppedsheer away on his right hand to a depth of two hundred feet, and therewere gaping cavities into which a mountain could have been dumped,resembling in their formation the craters of extinct volcanoes. Giantfissures showed in the mounds of salmon-colored clay, and, close besidehim, a yawning void threatened, whence a hundred thousand tons of shalehad slid. Of vegetation there was none here, save a tangle ofprickly-pear at the mouth of a gulch.

  "There he goes now," said the sheriff, pricking his horse.

  Moffatt was nearly a mile ahead and moving leisurely, as though he hadno fear. He topped a rise and waved his hand at Johnson before dippingout of sight.

  This confidence was partially explained when the sheriff eased his horsedown the declivity that had shut him from view and discovered a break inthe trail. At this point it ended at a huge rock, and split. One partran along the base of the rock and then turned back in the direction hehad come. At least it so looked, but he could not see its ultimatedestination because of the broken nature of the country. The other pathmade a slight detour and went on, past the rock.

  "Huh-huh," said Johnson, pulling up. "Sure. He's back of me again, therascal."

  In spite of an effort by Moffatt to disguise his imprint at thejunction, the trail lay plain to Lafe. It was too old a game for him tobe deceived; had he not once, on a previous hunt, detected Moffatt'sruse in changing his horse's shoes so that the corks were in front?Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and got down in the dust on hishands and knees. There was a second trail, and it was followingMoffatt's.

  It came from beyond the rock, and then changed direction and nowoverlapped the outlaw's. Had the two met? It was probable that Moffatthad come upon a confederate, for this was the region of the Jug, therendezvous for fugitives. But why, then, had the two not come to meethim?

  "That ain't Steve's way," Johnson reflected. "It's like they're layingfor me up the trail a piece."

  Neither did this solution satisfy him. One thing alone about the look ofthe two tracks seemed to make the notion of two confederates ridingpeacefully in single file untenable. The last rider was going fasterthan the other. Then he must be in pursuit.

  Debating these possibilities, the sheriff advanced with caution.Limestone cliffs soon hemmed him in. He came upon a steer as he crosseda tiny mountain stream. The animal dashed away, wild as an antelope.Just before he made the next turn, Johnson glanced back. The steer hadstopped to gaze after him. It would not willingly leave the vicinity ofthe water it had come six miles to get.

  The going became so rough that his horse faltered and the sheriff fearedthat he might maim himself any moment on the rocks. The way was nothingbut a succession of narrow gorges, leading one into the other andcluttered with bowlders; ever ascending, the light became more subduedas the canon's walls grew steeper and higher. He calculated that hemust be nearing the summits of Lost Springs.

  A shot reverberated among the cliffs in front of him; then another. Theechoes rolled and multiplied. The abrupt detonations startled his mount,which sprang under the quick, nervous grasp of the knee. A stone gaveunder foot, and down came horse and rider with a jolt like a trunk beingdumped from a baggage
car.

  The sheriff instantly cheeked his horse, holding his head down by mainstrength lest the beast rise and trample him. His foot hung in thestirrup and the spur was caught in the blanket. There was no need forthis precaution. The poor brute lay where he fell, nostrils quiveringand his breath coming in tearing gasps. Instantly realizing that he wasseriously hurt, Lafe began to extricate himself. He slowly drew his legfrom the boot; free, leaped upward and pinned the horse's head with hisknee. One look at the right foreleg was sufficient. Johnson stuck hisgun to the white star on its forehead and pulled the trigger.

  He was now thoroughly angry.

  "Doggone that scoundrel. I'll go get him if I have to walk barefoot fromhere to the Jug," he declared wrathfully.

  A good horse gone, and Moffatt still ahead! Yet he had much to bethankful for. He was unhurt except for a severe shaking, and a bruise tohis ankle. The sheriff wasted no time on his predicament, but removedsaddle, bridle and blanket from the body and hid them in a hole high upamong rocks.

  The boot came with the saddle, and having tied his handkerchief aboutthe injured ankle, he went forward again, carrying the rifle in onehand, the boot in the other.

  He entered a wider gorge, well wooded with post-oak. The ground rosesteeply and the canon narrowed half a mile ahead to an oval openingbetween cliffs. Beyond this towered a solid peak. This was the Jug, thefastness to which the Border bandits retreated in times of stress. Lafepeered hard up the canon and halted to spy out surroundings. From behindthat opening, one determined man could hold off a regiment.

  "I swan," he ejaculated.

  A dead horse, saddled, lay near a fallen tree not twenty yards distant.It was still bleeding from a wound in the neck. The trappings were oldand patched and repaired with rope, after the fashion of the natives.This, then, accounted for one of the shots. The sheriff gazed, andstepped hastily behind a post-oak.

  Something had risen from the ground about a hundred yards beyond.Peeping round his shelter, he saw that it was another horse, whoseforequarters flopped helplessly as it strove to rise. Instantly herecognized the markings of the "paint" on which Moffatt had fled.

  "Somebody has beaten me to him," he muttered; then sprang from behindhis tree with ready gun and yelled: "Hi!"

  Close to the far horse two men were struggling on the ground. As helooked, one rolled uppermost and, wrenching a hand loose, struck with aknife. A stifled cry came from the man underneath, and the sheriff ranforward at top speed.

  A Mexican was straddling Moffatt, one hand about his throat. The outlawwas vainly endeavoring to break the grip with his fingers. The knife wasraised for a second blow, when the native heard the crunch of thesheriff's boot and turned his head. His expression of raging hatechanged to a look of such absolute amazement that it was almostludicrous. Next instant he released Moffatt and scurried away like acottontail, zigzagging among the trees as he headed for the Jug. Itwould have been an easy matter to bring him down, and for the fractionof a second Johnson was so inclined. Then: "Pshaw, I ain't looking forhim," he said, and hurried to Moffatt's side.

  "Hello," said Steve weakly, opening his eyes.

  "Are you hurt, Moffatt? Hurt bad?"

  "Pretty bad, I reckon," said the injured man. "He done got me here."

  He placed a hand over his right breast. There was a knife wound high up,which was bleeding generously, but not enough to cause alarm. Johnsonunfastened the shirt and inspected the cut. It was deep, but theMexican's thrust had been diverted and had gone high, toward theshoulder. Lafe did not think that the lung had been pierced or thatthere was internal hemorrhage. He removed the bandage from his ankle,found some water dripping from crevices in the cliff, bathed and boundthe wound.

  Said Moffatt: "Gee, I wish I had a drink."

  Johnson caught some in his hat, and cooled his face when he had drunk.The outlaw seemed grateful.

  "You ain't got anything to eat, have you?" he inquired.

  "I reckon you're feeling better? What'd you like? A steak with onions?"

  Moffatt grinned, made a wry face and sat up painfully.

  "Where did that fool Mexican go to?" he asked.

  Lafe pointed to the Jug and opined that they would have to leave himthere. The Jug was too formidable for assault, unless they had urgentneed of him.

  "Pshaw!" exclaimed Moffatt. "He ain't there now. I'll bet he's sneakedout the back way and is drifting right now. His gun went wrong, or it'slike he'd have got me. No, sir, ol' Jiminez has beat it while the goingwas good, you can bet."

  "Jiminez?" the sheriff repeated. "Pablo Jiminez?"

  "His brother," answered Moffatt, and became sullen.

  Johnson said nothing more just then. All was now explained. The Mexicanhad cut across country over unfrequented trails to intercept Moffatt atthe Jug, as soon as he had learned of the killing of his brother. Theyhad been companions on more than one ranch raid for horses, and he hadguessed where Moffatt would seek refuge.

  "Whose horse was shot first?" Lafe demanded, after an interval ofsilence, during which he gathered wood for a fire.

  "Mine. Then I got his before he could shoot again. And when he donefell, he smashed his ol' gun. That was sure some luck."

  "But why," Johnson said, much amazed, "why didn't you get him then? Itought to have been easy."

  "No kattridges," said Moffatt briefly.

  Shortly afterwards, night coming on, he proposed that Lafe go ahead intothe Jug and make certain Jiminez was not there. If the place were empty,they could find shelter therein for the night; likewise flour and baconand beans, and pots to cook them in. Save for weakness, part of whichwas the result of hunger, the outlaw did not appear greatly distressedfrom his wound, which had stopped bleeding.

  Accordingly the sheriff approached the oval opening, exercising nicecircumspection. It looked sufficiently peaceful. An acute, carefullydeveloped instinct for danger told Johnson that none lurked there.

  "Go on," Moffatt called after him. "He can't shoot, anyhow. No gun.We'll take a chance."

  "_We_ will? This is me. Not you," answered Johnson.

  Then he cried in Mexican a friendly greeting, to be on the safe side inthe event of Jiminez being in hiding, and strode into the Jug. Theopening led into a high and deep cave. It was deserted. In front was ashallow open space, and here were the ashes of fires and some emptybottles and old cans. In a remote corner of the cave, under some dirtysacks, were flour and bacon.

  "Come on," he said, returning. "Let's go. It'll be dark in a minute."

  Propping Moffatt with his shoulder, and an arm about his waist, Lafereentered the Jug. There they spent the night.

  Before the early coyotes had got into full swing in their morning songs,they were astir and made what breakfast they could. The sheriff waseager to be gone. Who could say at what moment a pair of desperadoes,with prior claims on the Jug, might not ride up the trail? In thatevent, he knew that Moffatt might be relied upon to act against him, andJohnson was feeling in no humor for further combat. His prisoner'sshoulder was very stiff and caused him exquisite pain when he moved;also, he had a slight fever; but these things are borne as visitationsof their profession by such men, and Moffatt never questioned thesheriff's demand that they start at once. He pursed his lips andwhistled when the darting pains in his shoulder began, but went readilyenough.

  There was a slender ribbon of trail leading from the mouth of the Jugaround the mountain peak and down the other side into a wide draw. Byfollowing it, said Moffatt, they could hit a road which ran south.

  "It's eleven miles to it, though, and--wow--what a country. Say, Lafe,what're you going to do with me?"

  "You're coming to Badger," replied the sheriff.

  The outlaw gave him a sidelong look. "Oh, well," he said, "if you're seton it, all right."

  When they had entered the draw after a terrible, sliding descent of theback trail--during which Lafe often bore his prisoner's entireweight--Moffatt spoke up again.

  "Got any bread?" said he.

  "You bet.
Why?"

  "Well, there's a big ol' mule we turned out here. I done found him lastyear down in Zacaton Bottom. He was like to of died, that mule. But Ifixed him up good and packed some bedding and chuck on him way up here.He's sure been useful, too. You keep your eye skinned and if you seehim, just give him bread. Ridin's cheaper'n walkin'."

  "It sure is. Let's go--easy--that's it."

  The two had covered another mile of the draw, when, behind a tangle ofmesquite, sounded a snort of suspicion.

  "Good boy. Good ol' boy," said Johnson soothingly, advancing with thebread extended.

  The mule jumped sidewise, hampered by a hobble. He sniffed and thesheriff followed, with endearing words and blandishments. Would he neverstand still? It was a gaunt animal, with an especially large head.Probably it smelled the delicacy so rarely enjoyed, because it cameblowing at Lafe's hand. Whilst it munched on the crust, Johnson removedthe hobble and tied the rope around its neck. Then, with a ferventprayer that the evil latent in every mule might be appeased, he hoistedMoffatt to his back and clambered up behind him. They headed out of thedraw.

  The sun was three hours high when they struck the road and paused at awallow to give their mount a sip of water. Outside the draw he hadobstinately refused to proceed faster than a walk and Lafe's sense ofsecurity was not sufficient to dispute the pace with him. As he liftedhis massive head from drinking, a pair of mules shoved their noses abovea rise and a wagon came into view. A white man was driving. Johnsonwaved his hat and shouted a frantic greeting.

  The stage was already descending and the driver could not stop it,although he laid himself back on the reins in the attempt. The sheriffregarded him in amazement. Was he gone crazy? When almost opposite, helet out a whoop and, running out on the pole, cut at the team with hiswhip. They went by at a gallop in a cloud of sand. Lafe caught afleeting glimpse of the driver's white face and wavering eyes. Thentheir mount was seized of the devil; down went his head and he pitchedas only a mule can. Moffatt went off at the first jump; at the third,Lafe scattered the waters of the wallow.

  The opposite ascent was of soft sand, and before they reached the top,fatigue compelled the stage team to drop to a walk. The driver lookedback, apprehension showing even in the bend of his neck. The gray mulehad disappeared. Seeing Johnson on foot, helping Moffatt from theground, the man threw on the brake and the stage came to a halt. Thesheriff toiled painfully up the hill, holding the suffering outlawaround the waist.

  "Here," said the driver in a dry voice. "Get in. Get in."

  Together they lifted Steve in. The driver released the brakes andwhipped his mules to a gallop.

  "I swan. I swan," he kept repeating.

  "Why the hell didn't you stop? Hey? What do you mean by running by thatway?" said the sheriff angrily.

  "Runnin' by? Runnin'--why, man alive," croaked the driver, "that doggoneol' mule you rode used to pull this stage. And he's been daid over ayear."