The Big-Town Round-Up

by William MacLeod Raine

  CHAPTER X

  JOHNNIE SEES THE POSTMASTER

  A bow-legged little man in a cheap, wrinkled suit with a silk kerchiefknotted loosely round his neck stopped in front of a window where agirl was selling stamps.

  "I wantta see the postmaster."

  "Corrid'y'right. Takel'vatorthir'doorleft," she said, just as thoughit were two words.

  The freckle-faced little fellow opened wider his skim-milk eyes and hisweak mouth. "Come again, ma'am, please."

  "Corrid'y'right. Takel'vatorthir'doorleft," she repeated. "Next."

  The inquirer knew as much as he did before, but he lacked the courageto ask for an English translation. A woman behind was prodding himbetween the shoulder-blades with the sharp edge of a package wrappedfor mailing. He shuffled away from the window and wandered helplessly,swept up by the tide of hurrying people that flowed continuously intothe building and ebbed out of it. From this he was tossed into abackwater that brought him to another window.

  "I wantta see the postmaster of this burg," he announced again with aplaintive whine.

  "What about?" asked the man back of the grating.

  "Important business, _amigo_. Where's he at?"

  The man directed him to a door upon which was printed the legend,"Superintendent of Complaints." Inside, a man was dictating a letterto a stenographer. The bow-legged man in the wrinkled suit waitedawkwardly until the letter was finished, twirling in his hands a white,broad-rimmed hat with pinched-in crown. He was chewing tobacco. Hewondered whether it would be "etiquette" to squirt the juice into awaste-paper basket standing conveniently near.

  "Well, sir! What can I do for you?" the man behind the big desksnapped.

  "I wantta see the postmaster."

  "What about?"

  "I got important business with him."

  "Who are you?"

  "Me, I'm Johnnie Green of the B-in-a-Box Ranch. I just drapped in fromArizona and I wantta see the postmaster."

  "Suppose you tell your troubles to me."

  Johnnie changed his weight to the other foot. "No, suh, I allow to seethe postmaster himself personal."

  "He's busy," explained the official. "He can't possibly see anybodywithout knowing his business."

  "Tha's all right. I've lost my pal. I wantta see--"

  The Superintendent of Complaints cut into his parrot-like repetition."Yes, you mentioned that. But the postmaster doesn't know where he is,does he?"

  "He might tell me where his mail goes, as the old sayin' is."

  "When did you lose your friend?"

  "I ain't heard from him since he come to New York. So bein' as I got achanct to go from Tucson with a jackpot trainload of cows to Denver, Ikinda made up my mind to come on here the rest of the way and look himup. I'm afraid some one's done him dirt."

  "Do you know where he's staying?"

  "No, suh, I don't."

  The Superintendent of Complaints tapped with his fingers on the desk.Then he smiled. The postmaster was fond of a joke. Why not let thisodd little freak from the West have an interview with him?

  Twenty minutes later Johnnie was telling his story to the postmaster ofthe City of New York. He had written three times to Clay Lindsay andhad received no answer. So he had come to look for him.

  "And seein' as I was here, thinks I to myself thinks I it costs nothin'Mex to go to the postmaster and ask where Clay's at," explained Johnniewith his wistful, ingratiating, give-me-a-bone smile. "Thinks I, itcayn't be but a little ways down to the office."

  "Is your friend like you?" asked the postmaster, interested in spite ofhimself.

  "No, suh." Johnnie, _alias_ the Runt, began to beam. "He's asure-enough go-getter, Clay is, every jump of the road. I'd follow hisdust any day of the week. You don't never need to think he's anyshorthorn cattleman, for he ain't. He's the livest proposition thatever come out of Graham County. You can ce'tainly gamble on that."

  The postmaster touched a button. A clerk appeared, received orders,and disappeared.

  Johnnie, now on the subject of his hero, continued to harp on hispoints. "You're damn whistlin' Clay ain't like me. He's the besthawss-buster in Arizona. The bronco never was built that can pile him,nor the man that can lick him. Clay's no bad _hombre_, you understand,but there can't nobody run it over him. That's whatever. All I'mafraid of is some one's gave him a raw deal. He's the best blamed oldson-of-a-gun I ever did meet up with."

  The clerk presently returned with three letters addressed to ClayLindsay, General Delivery, New York. The postmaster handed them to thelittle cowpuncher.

  "Evidently he never called for them," he said.

  Johnnie's chin fell. He looked a picture of helpless woe. "They'rethe letters I set down an' wrote him my own se'f. Something has surehappened to that boy, looks like," he bemoaned.

  "We'll try Police Headquarters. Maybe we can get a line on yourfriend," the postmaster said, reaching for the telephone. "But youmust remember New York is a big place. It's not like your Arizonaranch. The city has nearly eight million inhabitants."

  "I sure found that out already, Mr. Postmaster. Met every last one of'em this mo'nin', I'll bet. Never did see so many humans millin'around. I'll say they're thick as cattle at a round-up."

  "Then you'll understand that when one man gets lost it isn't alwayspossible to find him."

  "Why not? We got some steers down in my country--about as many as yougot men in this here town of yourn. Tha's what we ride the range for,so's not to lose 'em. We've traced a B-in-a-Box steer clear fromTucson to Denver, done it more'n onct or twice too. I notice you got abig bunch of man-punchers in uniform here. Ain't it their business torustle up strays?"

  "The police," said the postmaster, amused. "That is part of theirbusiness. We'll pass the buck to them anyhow."

  After some delay and repeated explanations of who he was, thepostmaster got at the other end of the wire his friend thecommissioner. Their conversation was brief. When the postmaster hungup he rang for a stenographer and dictated a letter of introduction.This he handed to Johnnie, with explicit instructions.

  "Go to Police Headquarters, Center Street, and take this note toCaptain Luke Byrne. He'll see that the matter is investigated for you."

  Johnnie was profuse, but somewhat incoherent in his thanks. "Muchobliged to meet you, Mr. Postmaster. An'--an' if you ever hit thetrail for God's Country I'll sure--I'll sure--Us boys at the B-in-a-Boxwe'd be right glad to--to meet up with you. Tha's right, as the oldsayin' is. We sure would. Any ol' time."

  The cowpuncher's hat was traveling in a circle propelled by red,freckled hands. The official cut short Johnnie's embarrassment.

  "Do you know the way to Police Headquarters?"

  "I reckon I can find it. Is it fur?" The man from Arizona looked downat the high-heeled boots in which his tortured feet had clumped overthe pavements of the metropolis all morning.

  "I'll send you in a taxi." The postmaster was thinking that this babein the woods of civilization never would be able to find his way alone.

  As the driver swept the car in and out among the traffic of the narrowstreets Johnnie clung to the top of the door fearfully. Every momenthe expected a smash. His heart was in his throat. The tumult, therush of business, the intersecting cross-town traffic, the hub-bub ofthe great city, dazed his slow brain. The hurricane deck of a broncohad no terrors for him, but this wild charge through the hummingtrenches shook his nerve.

  "I come mighty nigh askin' you would you just as lief drive slower," hesaid with a grin to the chauffeur as he descended to the safety of thesidewalk. "I ain't awful hardy, an' I sure was plumb scared."

  A sergeant took Johnnie in tow and delivered him at length to theoffice waiting-room of Captain Anderson, head of the Bureau of MissingPersons. The Runt, surveying the numbers in the waiting-room and thosepassing in and out, was ready to revise his opinion about the possibledifficulty of the job. He judged that half the population of New Yorkmust be missing.r />
  After a time the captain's secretary notified Johnnie that it was histurn. As soon as he was admitted the puncher began his little piecewithout waiting for any preliminaries.

  "Say, Captain, I want you to find my friend Clay Lindsay. He--"

  "Just a moment," interrupted the captain. "Who are you? Don't think Igot your name."

  Johnnie remembered the note of introduction and his name at the sametime. He gave both to the big man who spent his busy days and oftenpart of the nights looking for the lost, strayed, and stolen among NewYork's millions.

  The captain's eyes swept over the note. "Sit down, Mr. Green, andlet's get at your trouble."

  As soon as it permeated Johnnie's consciousness that he was Mr. Greenhe occupied precariously the front three inches of a chair. Hisever-ready friend the cow-boy hat began to revolve.

  "This note says that you're looking for a man named Clay Lindsay whocame to New York several months ago. Have you or has anybody elseheard from him in that time?"

  "We got a letter right after he got here. He ain't writ since."

  "Perhaps he's dead. We'd better look up the morgue records."

  "Morgue!" The Runt grew excited instantly. "That place where you keepfolks that get drowned or bumped off? Say, Captain, I'm here to tellyou Clay was the livest man in Arizona, which is the same as sayin'anywheres. Cowpunchers don't take naturally to morgues. No, sir.Clay ain't in no morgue. Like as not he's helped fill this yere morgueif any crooks tried their rough stuff on him. Don't get me wrong, Cap.Clay is the squarest he-man ever God made. All I'm sayin' is--"

  The captain interrupted. He asked sharp, incisive questions and gotbusy. Presently he reached for a 'phone, got in touch with a sergeantat the police desk in the upper corridor, and sent an attendant withJohnnie to the Police Department.

  The Irish sympathies of the sergeant were aroused by the naive honestyof the little man. He sent for another sergeant, had card recordsbrought, consulted a couple of patrolmen, and then turned to Johnnie.

  "We've met your friend all right," he said with a grin. "He's wanheluva lad. Fits the description to a T. There can't be but one likehim here." And he went on to tell the story of the adventure of thejanitor and the hose and that of its sequel, the resale of thefifty-five-dollar suit to I. Bernstein, who had reported his troublesto the police.

  The washed-out eyes of the puncher lit up. "That's him. That's surehim. If the' was two of him they'd ce'tainly be a hell-poppin' team.Clay he's the best-natured fellow you ever did see, but there can'tnobody run a whizzer on him, y' betcha. Tell me where he's at?"

  "We don't know. We can show you the place where he tied the janitor,but that's the best we can do." The captain hesitated. "If you findhim, give him a straight tip from me. Tell him to buy a ticket forArizona and take the train for home. This town is no healthy place forhim."

  "Because he hogtied a Swede," snorted Johnnie indignantly.

  "No. He's got into more serious trouble than that. Your friend hasmade an enemy--a powerful one. He'll understand if you tell him."

  "Who is this here enemy?"

  "Never mind. He hit up too fast a pace."

  "You can't tell me a thing against Clay--not a thing," protestedJohnnie hotly. "He'll sure do to take along, Clay will. There can'tany guy knock him to me if he does wear a uniform."

  "I'm not saying a thing against him," replied the officer impatiently."I'm giving him a friendly tip to beat it, if you see him. Now I'mgoing to send you up-town with a plain-clothes man. He'll show youwhere your friend made his New York debut. That's all we can do foryou."

  An hour later the little cowpuncher was gazing wistfully at thehitching-post. His face was twisted pathetically to a question mark.It was as though he thought he could conjure from the post the secretof Clay's disappearance. Where had he gone from here? And where washe now?

  In the course of the next two days the Runt came back to that post manytimes as a starting-point for weary, high-heeled tramps through streetswithin a circuit of a mile. He could not have explained why he did so.Perhaps it was because this was the only spot in the city that held forhim any tangible relationship to Clay. Some one claimed to have seenhim vanish into one of these houses. Perhaps he might come back again.It was a very tenuous hope, but it was the only one Johnnie had. Heclumped over the pavements till his feet ached in protest.

  His patience was rewarded. On the second day, while he was gazingblankly at the post a groom brought two horses to the curb in front ofthe house opposite. One of the horses had a real cowboy's saddle.Johnnie's eyes gleamed. This was like a breath of honest-to-GodArizona. The door opened, and out of it came a man and a slim youngwoman. Both of them were dressed for riding, she in the latest togs ofthe town, he in a well-cut sack suit and high tan boots.

  Johnnie threw up his hat and gave a yell. "You blamed old horn-toad!Might 'a' knowed you was all right! Might 'a' knowed you wouldn't biteoff more'n you could chew! Oh, you Arizona!"

  Clay gave one surprised look--and met him in the middle of the street.The little cowpuncher did a war dance of joy while he clung to hisfriend's hand. Tears brimmed into his faded eyes.

  "Hi yi yi, doggone yore old hide, if it ain't you big as coffee, Clay.Thinks I to myse'f, who is that pilgrim? And, by gum, it's oldhell-a-mile jes' a-hittin' his heels. Where you been at, you oldskeezicks?"

  "How are you, Johnnie? And what are you doin' here?"

  The Runt was the kind of person who tells how he is when any one askshim. He had no imagination, so he stuck to the middle of the road forfear he might get lost.

  "I'm jes' tol'able, Clay. I got a kinda misery in my laigs fromtrompin' these hyer streets. My feet are plumb burnin' up. You didn'tanswer my letters, so I come to see if you was all right."

  "You old scalawag. You came to paint the town red."

  Johnnie, highly delighted at this charge, protested. "Honest I didn't,Clay. I wasn't feelin' so tur'ble peart. Seemed like the boys pickedon me after you left. So I jes' up and come."

  If Clay was not delighted to have his little Fidus Achates on his handshe gave no sign of it. He led him across the road and introduced himto Miss Whitford.

  Clay blessed her for her kindness to this squat, snub-nosed adherent ofhis whose lonely heart had driven him two thousand miles to find hisfriend. It would have been very easy to slight him, but Beatrice hadno thought of this. The loyalty of the little man touched her greatly.Her hand went out instantly. A smile softened her eyes and dimpled hercheeks.

  "I'm very glad to meet any friend of Mr. Lindsay. Father and I willwant to hear all about Arizona after you two have had your visit out.We'll postpone the ride till this afternoon. That will be better, Ithink."

  Clay agreed. He grudged the loss of his hour with her, but under thecircumstances it had to be. For a moment he and Beatrice stoodarranging the time for their proposed ride. Then, with a cool littlenod that included them both, she turned and ran lightly up the stepsinto the house.

  "Some sure-enough queen," murmured Johnnie in naive admiration, staringafter her with open mouth.

  Clay smiled. He had an opinion of his own on that point.