Fightin' Fool

by Max Brand

  The Parson dropped his cigarette on the floor and smashed it under the slow pressure of his foot. “Money,” said the Parson, “is all that talks.”

  “How much money?” asked Jingo.

  “Lend me a hundred dollars,” said the Parson.

  “Here you are, brother,” answered Jingo, handing over the money.

  “You’ve made a mistake and given me a hundred and twenty,” said the Parson, pocketing the money. “That’ll teach you to make your change more carefully, in the future, kid. Now, before there’s any betting, I wanta be honest. I wanta tell you something. You might think that Tower Creek has gone and hired an orchestra with two slide trombones in it for nothing. You’re wrong. They hired it for Eugenia Tyrrel.”

  “Eugenia!” said Jingo. “What a name that is!”

  “Wait a minute,” went on the Parson. “They go and hire her a special orchestra, like that, and they send around special word that the sheriff is going to be standing near the door of the dance hall, and any gent that comes along with a whisky breath is going to be kicked in the face and throwed out in the gutter where he belongs, the pup. You foller me?”

  “I’m drifting right along with you,” said Jingo.

  “And the gents that get inside that dance hall all get special instructions that they ain’t to mob the girl. They’re to stand back and give her air. They ain’t to ask her to dance with them unless the sheriff himself gives them an introduction. She’s to be left to her three or four slick young Easterners. For why? Because it’s a big honor for a Tyrrel to come into a dump of a town like this and look it over. Tower Creek is all heated up with joy because the girl has come down here for a frolic, if you foller me.”

  “I follow you so far,” said Jingo, “that I begin to feel pain.”

  “You’ll be eased of the pain when you see the girl,” said the Parson.

  “Is she the goods?” asked Jingo.

  “She is the stuff,” said the Parson. “She is the horsehair bridle and the gold work on the saddle. She is the silk sash and the diamond pin.”

  “Well,” said Jingo, sighing, “I can see, every minute, that I’m right at the age of retirement. I’ve got to go in and give that poor girl a whirl. Stand by, brother. When she’s dizzy, I may lean her against you. Fan her and treat her right.”

  The Parson cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that you mightn’t take two steps with her in a tag dance, before the sheriff slams you into the street.”

  “Parson,” said Jingo, “you are speaking to a man incapable of low devices and tricks.”

  “In that case,” answered the Parson, “I’ve got a hundred dollars that says you won’t dance a full dance with her.”

  “In that case,” said Jingo, “I ought to give you odds. A hundred bucks it is.”

  “Jingo,” said the Parson, “you’re terrible young. But I got a soft place in my heart for kids, even the fool ones. Now put up your money or shut up!”

  Jingo put his money on the table. He said dreamily: “But she’ll have to have a face, Parson. There’s something more than money to be looked for in this short life of ours!”

  CHAPTER 6

  A Bystander

  There had been a great, flourishing commercial enterprise started, long ago, in Tower Creek. The idea was to cut thousands of tons of hay in the spring and store it in town through the winter, to be peddled at high prices to ranchmen whose cattle might be starving through the bad season. The enterprise had accomplished the building of the great barn and stopped there.

  Tower Creek inherited the barn and used it for dances and major assemblies of all sorts. It was a big, crazy structure through which the wind whistled and whose walls wavered and rattled in a storm. But this night was still, hot, close. The lanterns that were strung along the walls and hung from the lower rafters increased the heat and gave to the air a grim savor, which mingled with the fragrance of talcum powders, and the acrid scent of alkali dust that somehow managed to work up through the cracks in the floor.

  But it was a good dance. And all of Tower Creek was there, from the band on the platform at the far end to the ticket taker and the sheriff at the entrance door.

  Almost all of Tower Creek had gathered before Jingo and the Parson took post under the big trees in front of the barn to see the arrival of the guests of honor.

  Presently they came up in two rubber-tired buggies drawn by eager, dancing horses. Down from the buggies climbed three gentlemen in sharply creased white linen, and a girl all in white, also, with blue flowers pinned to her dress. The bystanders surged one half step toward her and stood rigid. Only Jingo did not move.

  Afterward, the Parson turned toward him and gasped: “Well, kid, I’m sorry about the hundred dollars. But it’s going to do me more good than it ever would do for you. Did you see ’em?”

  “I saw her,” said Jingo. “And I feel a little sad, Parson, when I see that I’ll really have to retire from active life and start managing cattle ranches and gold mines, and things like that. I suppose I’ll have to open an office on Wall Street to keep New York in order, now and then. Yes, Parson, the good old days are nearly over for Jingo, I fear.”

  “I’m not talking about her,” said the Parson. “I told you she was a star. I was talking about the three beauties that come with her, all in white. Who’d ever think of dressing up in white, Jingo? Dog-gone, if they didn’t even have on white shoes. And they had on white silk socks. I seen one of them socks as the bird was stepping out of the rig. Now wouldn’t that beat Aunt Maria?”

  “The fashions, Parson,” said Jingo, “are things you cannot be expected to understand. Your big, honest, simple nature cannot keep step with such frivolities. But—I hope the girl knows how to dance.”

  “Listen, Jingo,” said the Parson. “Are you going to shame me to-night? Are you going to be a plain fool and try to crash through and dance with that girl?”

  “Before I get through,” said Jingo, “you’re going to open your blue eyes a great deal wider than they are just now. Stop holding your stomach, no matter how it aches, and tell me how I’m to get past that sheriff at the door, will you?”

  “Sure,” said the Parson. “Just step into your white linens, brother, and walk right in.”

  “Well,” said Jingo, “I see that it’s to be a matter of talking. Buy a pair of tickets, and you go first.”

  Accordingly the Parson bought the tickets, and strode for the door. The sheriff looked him quickly up and down. Then he accepted the slip of pasteboard, saying as he did so: “You know Miss Tyrrel by sight? Then keep away from her till you’re introduced. Savvy?”

  The Parson nodded and stalked ahead.

  “Hello, sheriff,” said Jingo, offering his ticket in turn.

  “Hello, Jingo,” said the sheriff, failing to notice the ticket, apparently. “It’s a mighty hot night, ain’t it?”

  “Out in the street,” said Jingo. “But inside there, it looks as though a fellow could cool his eyes off a little.”

  “You’re wrong, son,” said the sheriff. “That lantern light, in there, heats up the gents so that their reputations can be seen right away.”

  “That’s good,” said Jingo, “because I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Sure you wouldn’t be ashamed,” said the sheriff. “But I never knew a gun fighter that didn’t like himself pretty well. Back up, Jingo, and let the folks pass.”

  Jingo looked long and quietly into the eyes of the sheriff, as he stepped aside. The sheriff looked long and not so quietly back into the eyes of Jingo.

  “You’re not kind to yourself, sheriff,” said Jingo.

  The sheriff stuck out his blunt jaw. He said: “Young feller, I’ve had plenty enough of your lip for one day. You can’t threaten me. If I get another word out of you, I’ll find you breakin’ the peace. Get away from this door and stop blockin’ the traffic.”

  Jingo looked past that angry face and saw, near by, the long face and the twisting grin of the Parson.
Music began to blare loudly. And far off, as the dancers swirled out onto the floor, he saw a girl in shimmering white swing away with a slender youth in shining linen. Jingo turned and went back into the outer dark. Even Jingo’s spirit, for that moment, began to, shrink in his breast. Aid yet he was not thinking of the hundred dollars that he had bet.

  CHAPTER 7

  A Redhead’s Aid

  There were a lot of small boys scuffing up dust in the street and bathing in the bright light that poured out of the entrance of the barn, and watching the late arrivals at the dance, and the dancers themselves who came out to wander up and down beneath the trees during the intervals. Something about one of those boys took the dreaming eye of Jingo as he strolled away. It was the red of the lad’s hair. He was smaller than most of his companions, and his red hair stood up like that of a South Sea Island chief.

  Jingo drew near and beckoned to the boy who came slowly and by a cautious and irregular line of approach, as one who knew that older men have heavy hands. When he was near enough for Jingo to see the gleam of his eyes, Jingo said: “What do you know about a five-dollar bill?”

  “I read a book that told about one, once,” said the redhead.

  “Here, Red.” Jingo put a bank note in the boy’s hand. The youngster gave the bill one instant of examination, and then slipped it into a trousers pocket. He walked up to Jingo and stood at attention.

  “You want another?” asked Jingo.

  “I could eat ’em all day long,” said “Red.”

  “There’s another waiting for you,” said Jingo. “But I want to tell you something first. There’s a bowlegged, thick-headed sap standing in the door of that dance hall.”

  “Tell me his name,” said Red, “and I’ll go and chase him out.”

  “He’s the sheriff,” answered Jingo.

  “He hit me on the seat of the pants with the workin’ end of a black snake, one night,” said Red. “I knew my time would come.”

  “Where were you that night?” asked Jingo.

  “I happened to be in his hen house, studyin’ how nice the roosters looked in the moonlight,” answered Red.

  “Has the sheriff got a son?” asked Jingo.

  “Yeah. And I can lick him.”

  “Have you licked him already?”

  “I’m goin’ to do it again, too,” declared Red.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bobby. Which Bobby is a fool name, ain’t it?”

  “I never liked it,” said Jingo. “You’re going to run up to the door of the barn and tell the sheriff that something has happened to Bobby and he’s got to come home at once.”

  Red shook his head. “There ain’t nothing can happen to Bobby,” he answered. “He’s got measles, and his ma doesn’t do nothing but watch out for him all day long.”

  “All right,” said Jingo. “He’s got a relapse.”

  “What’s a relapse?”

  “It’s a worse kind of measles. Run around this block as fast as you can leg it, and then go up to the sheriff and make your eyes big, and tell him the doctor’s at his house, and his wife wants him, and Bobby has a relapse.”

  “I can tell him his house is on fire, too,” suggested Red.

  “You leave it the way I say.”

  “All right; that’s the way it’ll be!”

  “Wait a minute. Here’s that other five dollars.”

  He passed it over as Red gasped, “Jiminy!”

  “On your way!” commanded Jingo.

  The feet of Red made a whispering in the dust. His body, swaying with speed, dissolved into the blackness beneath the trees. And in a little while, the gasping, straining, desperate figure of Red dashed up to the barn entrance from the other side with wisps of dust whirling in the air behind him as he disappeared at the doorway.

  A moment later, he came out again, and the sheriff appeared at once, striding big, swinging his body a bit to get more length in his steps. Jingo disappeared behind a tree.

  When he stepped out again and went toward the entrance, he passed the small body and the red head of the boy as the youngster leaned against a tree.

  “Go get her, cowboy!” murmured Red.

  Jingo laughed as he went forward, for he took this as an omen of good fortune.

  When he came to the door, there was only the ticket taker to deal with. The ticket taker knew perfectly well that Jingo had been turned away once before, but he also knew what had happened to Wally Rankin in the back room of Slade’s saloon. He knew a great deal about guns and what they could do, because he was a hardware dealer; and when Jingo looked him firmly in the eye, he accepted the ticket without a single word, and Jingo walked through, saying: “Go take me over to Miss Tyrrel and tell her that the sheriff told you to introduce me to her. Understand? No loitering, either.”

  The hardware man blinked behind his glasses; his heart shrank in his breast. “But the sheriff didn’t tell me to do that!” he mourned.

  “I’m telling you, and that’s enough,” said Jingo. “Come along.”

  The ticket taker obeyed, stepping on the edges of his feet as though he were afraid that he might make a noise; and yet the orchestra was doing its loudest best at the moment.

  Along the edge of the dance floor, sometimes pausing to avoid the whirling dance couples, they journeyed together, not unnoticed, for little hushed gasps came from various of the girls and little humming sounds of surprise from the men, and the word “Jingo!” was more than once in the air. They all knew Jingo, it appeared. But then, he was an expert in making himself known.

  He said to the ticket taker: “My name is Jim Oreville. You got that?”

  “Oreville! Oreville!” muttered the hardware man rapidly. “Yeah, I’ll remember.”

  The dance ended. The whirlpools of the dancers dissolved. Right toward a little bright cluster at one end of the room went Jingo and his wretched victim, who made moaning sounds deep in his throat.

  “Don’t act that way,” cautioned Jingo. “I don’t mind you sweating like a stuck pig, but I hate to hear you mourning like a cow with a calf that’s been turned into veal. Buck up, stiffen your back, and remember that it’ll soon be over. Here we are. Brace right up to her. Tell yourself that you’re her granduncle and that she’s got to be nice for fear you won’t leave her a slice of the chicken farm. Here we are. Now act up!”

  Now, up to this moment, everything was going exactly as the sheriff had arranged. Nobody except the very best people in the town of Tower Creek had been able to come close to Eugenia Tyrrel. The sons and the daughters of the biggest miners and cattlemen and lumber kings had been able to enter the gracious presence, but none of them stayed very long. The three cool, white exquisites who set off Eugenia made the youths feel that their hair was too long, their trousers not creased, and their clothes out of shape; and the girls felt that to be seen once in the bright light of Eugenia was to be looked down upon forever.

  So there remained that bright, cool, pleasant grouping of white in the corner of the room with the darker eddies of the crowd withdrawn. Eugenia Tyrrel was having a chair placed for her by one of her attendants while another brought her a drink in a glass silvered over with cold, and a third occupied her almost royal ear with murmured conversation. And just at this moment the darkness of the crowd thrust a member right into the group, for there was the ticket taker, perspiring very freely and bowing himself with little jerks in front of Miss Tyrrel, and saying: “Miss Tyrrel, the sheriff asked me to introduce to you—while he was away—he asked me to introduce you to—to—”

  The wretched wits of the hardware man began to give way. He had forgotten the name. Leadville was the only thing that he could think of. And therefore, in despair, he groaned out: “Asked me to introduce you to Jingo!”

  Then he fled and left Jingo to make the most of it. All the four were looking at him. The girl was saying, in the most incurious way, that she was happy to meet Jingo. One of the young men in white linen looked him up and down as though he were a ho
rse. “Maybe this is the town entertainer,” he said.

  He was a handsome young man. He was just the height of Jingo and he was almost as good-looking, except that he was as blond as Jingo was dark. He had a little golden mustache that shone in the light of the dance hall, and in fact there was a shimmering radiance like money that extended even to the clothes of the youth. Jingo looked on him with a calm eye, the eye of a Jove at rest, but nevertheless he was gripping a flaming thunderbolt of wrath in the right hand.

  These things had been said and observed in a second or so after the introduction, and Jingo said: “No, I’m not the town entertainer. But the sheriff thought you were perhaps a little bored, Miss Tyrrel. He told me to come over and do what I could. I see you have a chair and a drink and a fan. All I can offer you is a dance.”

  “That’s rather good, too,” said the man with the little golden mustache. And he ran the tips of his fingers over that mustache. For it was so new that he had not lost the first fervor of his love for it and could not help carressing it from time to time.

  The girl was avoiding the invitation with easy skill. “Thank you,” she said. “I want you to know Wheeler Bent. This is George Staley—and Lincoln Waterson. Is your name really Jingo?”

  Jingo acknowledged the introductions with a light, quick handshake all around. He was glad to know that the name of the fellow with the golden mustache was Wheeler Bent. Already in his mind he was making plays upon the word and thinking of various ways in which stronger wheels than that could be bent.

  “It makes a story,” said Jingo.

  The girl looked at Jingo, and Jingo looked at the girl. She looked so closely that she could see that his eyes were brown. They both smiled at exactly the same instant. “Do sit down and tell me,” she said.

  “It’s like this,” said Jingo, who had finished cursing the hardware maker to himself. “The name’s made up of two initials and a final word.”

  “Really?” said the girl.

  He sat down beside her. It was when Jingo sat down that people could really see him. Any man can stand up straight, and a good few even know how to hold their head and balance their weight, but not one man in ten million knows how to sit on a chair as though it were a throne from which a world of opportunity may be surveyed, or as though it were the back of a horse fit to leap over mountains. That was how Jingo sat, however, turning just a little toward Eugenia Tyrrel, but never too much.