The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  "Set," grunted the town officer, and waved at a chair.

  "No time to," replied Corson, impatiently. "Did th' doctor fix up Slade's shoulder all right?"

  "Y-e-p," grunted the marshal. He shoved a calloused finger tip down into the pipe bowl and regarded his visitor through sleepy eyes.

  "I allus heard you was a right good shot," he remarked, sadly.

  "Yeah?"

  "Y-e-p."

  "Which just goes to show that you can't believe all you hear," said Corson, gravely.

  "Lord, I knowed that forty, fifty year ago," replied the marshal.

  "Uh-huh," grunted Corson.

  "A man ain't worth nothin' to nobody when he's dead," stated the marshal sententiously.

  "Well," replied the sheriff, smiling a little, "I don't reckon you have to copper that."

  "It is sorta generally admitted," said the marshal, nodding wisely. He puffed thoughtfully for a few moments. "Nobody would reckon that he had a forty-five slug through his rifle shoulder, th' way he rode outa town."

  "Yeah. What way did he ride outa town?" asked the sheriff, with a little curiosity.

  "Pert, sassy, an' south."

  Corson looked curiously at the speaker. South? That would be in the direction of the Baylor wagon and the Baylor ranch; and it also would be in the direction of the old trail up Lucas Arroyo and over the Gap.

  "But he's all through with th' Baylor outfit," said the sheriff, slowly, and waited. He did not wait in vain.

  "Officially, yes; practically, mebby not," said the marshal. "He rode off with Black Jack Meadows an' his boys."

  Corson retraced a course of thought which had originated earlier in the day: if the hidden marksmen of the day before had been the menfolk of the Meadows family, then they would have had to cross Crooked Creek to get over to their sharpshooting positions, and cross it again to leave them, and go home. He had found no signs of either crossing. He looked closely at his companion.

  "You see Black Jack an' his boys after I left you yesterday?" he asked, carelessly.

  "Y-e-p. They come back about an hour after you left. They'll shore get cross-eyed, watchin' my door so close."

  Corson sighed with relief. Perhaps, after all, he would not have to tangle up with her family. The thought pleased him and made him glow a little. If Black Jack and his boys had been in Bentley an hour after he, himself, had left town, then they could not have been mixed up in the long-range shooting.

  This thought was followed by one not so pleasant: he now had no idea whatever regarding the identity of the dry-gulchers. Somewhere on the range, or in this town, were three unknown and unsuspected men who wanted to shoot him. He might stand shoulder to shoulder with them at some bar, or even talk with them, without the slightest suspicion as to their intentions.

  Why had they shot at a range so long as practically to assure missing him? They had shown their hands, in a way, without accomplishing anything but to put him on his guard, and from their point of view that could hardly be considered an accomplishment: it would be a mistake. But was it a mistake? Had they intended it as a gesture? Were they aroused by his riding and questioning after the discovery of the cached herd, and hoped to make him show less interest in their affairs? Were they strongly hinting for him to keep on the east side of Crooked Creek? They must know him too well for that: his reputation would tell them otherwise. And there was a thought: he would take a good look at the semi-arid country west of the creek, and he would do it the following day.

  He remembered that the forefeet of his horse were getting steadily more tender: all right, he would have them shod, and not give himself any further chance to forget about it. Then he would buy some supplies, and give that Dry Arroyo country an inspection. It would not be necessary to ride back and forth across it, which would take days: all he had to do was to circle it, looking for tracks leading in or out of it; tracks of a number of cattle at once, herd tracks. Solitary tracks, here and there, would not tell him much, except that a few cattle were straying. He turned slowly and faced the door.

  "My horse needs shoein'," he said, abruptly.

  "Noticed he was a mite tender in th' fore hoofs," replied the marshal. "You got a long ride ahead of you."

  "No," said the sheriff. "I've changed my mind, an' figger to stay in town overnight. Got a new job on my hands."

  "Might be a good idear," grunted the marshal.

  "Yes. I might learn a little somethin' from th' gamblin' you say is goin' on."

  "Might," agreed the marshal, nodding. "You comin' back here after yore hoss is shod?" he asked, somewhat anxiously. He enjoyed having company, and he liked the sheriff.

  "Reckon so," answered Corson, "after I drift around a little." He stepped through the door, mounted, and rode straight to the blacksmith shop, a score of yards distant.

  The smith picked up one hoof after another, and slowly straightened his back.

  "Won't have to bridge 'em," he grunted. "That's a fool way to shoe a hoss."

  "Put light shoes on him," said Corson, ignoring the gratuitous comment. "I don't want to make him clumsy."

  "Clumsy? Hell!" snorted the smith. "You fellers reckon all alike. You reckon a little more iron will make any difference in th' way he picks up?" He reached an arm behind him and groped for the handle of the bellows. Then he drove home his point. "He ain't no race hoss, is he?" he asked with heavy sarcasm.

  "Race horse or no race horse, I want light shoes on him," said the sheriff, going toward a box and seating himself to watch the work.

  The smith grunted something under his breath, glanced at the brand, and then turned mildly curious eyes on his placid customer.

  "Reckon you might be Sheriff Corson," he said.

  "Yo're right."

  "We don't see you over this way very much," stated the smith. The words held a challenge.

  "Mebby not," grunted Corson. "I'm usually where I'm needed."

  "Are, huh?" inquired the smith, stirring the fire with a shoe he had just put in. He laid the tongs across the anvil. "Are, huh?" he repeated, somewhat derisively.

  "Yeah."

  The silence lasted until the job was done. Then Corson got off the box and led the horse outside. The smith loafed to the door and leaned against the casing, idly jingling the silver coins the sheriff had just given him.

  "An' so yo're usually where yo're needed?" he gently inquired, squinting speculatively at the mounting officer.

  "Yes. Town affairs are no business of mine till I'm sent for," said the horseman, and swung away toward the hotel.

  He stabled the horse, hung his riding gear on the place provided for it, strode around the building and entered the office.

  "Fix me up for th' night?" he asked the frowsy clerk. "I just put my horse in th' stable."

  The clerk gazed at him calmly, impersonally; and then, something clicking in his mind, the gaze became pointedly personal. Black Jack Meadows was a friend of his, and he now recalled that the sheriff was in town. This stranger answered the description he had heard.

  "Room an' bawth?" inquired the clerk, with what he believed was a heavy English accent, and intended to be insulting.

  "Yes!" snapped Corson, well knowing that such a combination was not to be found in Bentley's one hotel.

  "But we 'aven't any bawth," drawled the clerk. In his own peculiar way he was enjoying himself. "I'll give you Number Six," he said.

  "Where is it?" asked the sheriff, thinking of location in reference to other parts of the building.

  "Right here, under this roof," said the clerk.

  "Just one more smart yip outa you," said the sheriff, pressing solidly against his own side of the counter, "an' I'll smear yore nose over both yore ears, an' let th' rest of it run down yore dirty shirt!"

  The clerk stepped back, the insolence gone from his face as if wiped off with a sponge. He looked into a pair of blazing eyes levelly regarding him.

  "Number Six is over th' kitchen," he hastily explained; "but I reckon it won't be comfort
able this kinda weather. I'll give you Number Two, corner room in front."

  Corson still gazed at him, and then slowly signed the register, put the room key into a pocket and, turning abruptly on his heel, walked out of the building. When he stopped he was inside the marshal's office, and his eyes still blazed.

  The marshal placidly continued his game of solitaire after a brief glance and nod. He was no engineer, but he believed that he knew steam pressure when he saw it.

  "Just had some words with th' hotel clerk," finally said the visitor.

  "Pimply little tumblebug," grunted the marshal, without looking up.

  "An' th' blacksmith was hostile as soon as he saw th' brand," growled Corson. "What's th' matter with this town?"

  "I told you that th' gamblin' has clum up to new heights," said the local officer.

  "What th' hell's that got to do with me?" growled the sheriff. "I ain't aimin' to stop it! If that's anybody's job, it's yours!"

  "That's right, you ain't," replied the marshal, carefully putting the six of hearts on the seven of spades, after wiping off the seven to see just what it was. "They're right fond of their games."

  "But, damn it all!" exploded the sheriff. "I just said I ain't scotchin' th' gamblin'!"

  "That's so: you just did," admitted the marshal. "But you don't want to fergit that fellers that has got used to playin' four-bits ante, an' five-dollar limit, don't hanker much to go back to no measly two-bit an' one-dollar game. They've been spoiled."

  "Mebby," grunted Corson, doubtfully. "You reckon I oughta go out on th' corner an' make a speech, sayin' I ain't figgerin' to hobble no games of chance, honest or otherwise?"

  His sarcasm was lost on the sleepy, lazy local peace officer.

  "That wouldn't make a mite of difference," said the marshal, flatly.

  "Meanin' they wouldn't believe me?"

  "An' that wouldn't make no difference, neither; whether they believed you or not. That ain't the p'int." He reached out a card. "Black five on th' red six, an' red four on th' five," he muttered, making the plays.

  "Then what you drivin' at?" persisted the sheriff.

  "When I was a yearlin', down Dodge City way, I saw buffalo hunters spend a hundred dollars in a single night, night after night. I was one of 'em. Before I quit, most of 'em couldn't spend a dollar, all at once."

  "You must have been there quite a spell," commented Corson, his wits on set triggers.

  "Quite a spell," agreed the marshal. "Until after there weren't no more buffalo. An' then there warn't no more heavy spendin'." He sighed with regret. "Then th' big games got kinda scarce, except among th' cattlemen."

  Corson was leaning forward on the chair, regarding the older man with a complimentary stare. The silence held for perhaps a minute, and then the sheriff slowly stood up, and without thought readjusted the two low-hung holsters to a nicer fit.

  "I'm goin' up to th' general store," he said. "See you later."

  "But I've done told you that it was two hundred an' twenty-five dollars, without no odd cents," complained the marshal, hastily putting the cards aside.

  "I'm not thinkin' about that quarterly check," snapped the sheriff, and was gone.

  The marshal watched him disappear through the door, and then thoughtfully rubbed the stubble on his chin.

  "Huh!" he muttered. "There he is, all lathered up ag'in."

  CHAPTER X

  CORSON'S belated lunch had been a light one, calculated to hold him until suppertime, and it was past suppertime now. He glanced at the little pile of supplies in a corner of the room, checking them against the needs of his coming journey, stepped through the door and closed it behind him. He reached the hotel dining room just as the doors were closing, and did justice to the food which, to his surprise, was well cooked and tasty. When he reached the street the town was just beginning to come to life, and he moved slowly along toward the marshal's office.

  Bentley's population seemingly had doubled since the sheriff had gone to the hotel, and men were still riding into town, keeping the deep dust stirred up. Horses stood at the tie rails outside the various buildings, and tinny pianos and scratchy fiddles added their quota to the total of the sounds along the main street. Loud talk, laughter, the scraping of booted feet on sanded floors, and an occasional Rebel yell gave notice to all and sundry that Bentley was waking up. Suddenly he bumped into a man who lurched through the door of the first gambling hall, and forthwith had an argument on his hands, but it was soon over.

  "Why'n hell don't you watch where yo're goin'?" hotly demanded the inebriate, spreading his legs as an aid to balance.

  "My fault," chuckled Corson, grinning into the angry face. "I'm so plumb full of liquor that I don't know where I'm at."

  The inebriate swayed gently and his anger died down. He slapped the sheriff on the back, and laughed, holding out his hand.

  "So'm I," he said. "Put her thar, pardner!"

  Corson gravely shook hands, gently tried to disengage his own, and found that he was expected to keep on shaking. He did so.

  "Th' town's wakin' up," he said, pumping steadily.

  "You shore must be a stranger," replied the inebriate, and chuckled with pride. "You jest wait, pardner; you jest wait awhile!" He loosened his grip so as to be able to use both hands in an all-embracing sweep of the horizon. "When she hums, she hums; an' when she roars, she roars! Wide open, she is: jest like that!" and again he waved his arms.

  "You stayin' in town this evenin'?" asked the sheriff, with deep but simulated interest.

  "Yeah; why?" asked the inebriate with instant suspicion.

  "Then I'll see you ag'in," answered the sheriff, slapping a sloping shoulder. "An' we'll see what makes th' town go round."

  "Keno, pardner," chuckled the inebriate, teetering on his heels as his new acquaintance moved on. "But I've seen her go round faster'n she is now," he called, and then whooped loudly and staggered on.

  "Hello, stranger!" cried a thin soprano voice from a window across the street. "In a hurry?" it challenged.

  "No; but I'm dead broke," answered the sheriff, making the best practical answer to such a hail. It was one which never failed to forestall argument. There was no reply as he walked on.

  Argument roared in the Last Chance, with a placating voice cutting into it. The latter, no doubt, belonged to the bartender, trying his best to avert a tragedy. A chorus roared raggedly from the next building, having to do with someone who wanted not to be buried on the l-o-n-e p-r-a-i-r-i-e. The words of the lugubrious song rang through Corson's mind as he kept on toward the marshal's office. It was cheap, maudlin sentiment, untrue to human nature, and composed by someone who cared more for rhyme than for common sense or artistry.

  The marshal was seated outside the door, tipped back against the wall. He motioned toward the inside of the building and waited while his caller dragged out a chair. The night was fine, and not yet too cool to force a man indoors.

  "Well?" asked the marshal, emptying his odorous pipe.

  "Well," grunted the sheriff, seating himself and leaning back comfortably.

  They spoke infrequently, being content to let time pass and the twilight to deepen in that silent companionship enjoyed by men. The brighter stars began to wink, and then others, until the sky was filled with them and belted by the silvery magnificence of the Milky Way. A gentle breeze stirred the night-hidden rubbish on the street; and the already noisy town grew noisier. Somewhere a horse squealed, and the muffled sound of the kick told that it had landed on hide and ribs as tough as its own. There came a shot, a yell, and a sudden burst of cursing.

  The marshal dropped forward and stood up. He strode rapidly up the street toward the excitement, with Corson crowding his heels.

  The general noise, for an instant hushed by the crash of the gun, took on new volume. A man lurched through a door and for a moment was plainly revealed by the lights from within. Blood was spreading over his shirt sleeve. Another man jumped through the door, his gun up even with his cheek, ready f
or the deadly chop. Before it could fall, the marshal leaped, a swinging fist preceding him. It landed flush, and the belligerent went down in a heap. As he struck the ground the wounded man leaped for him, both heels directed at the prostrate face.

  The sheriff's right shoulder hunched suddenly and his arm shot out. The second belligerent, already in the air, was turned around by the blow, and dropped like a sack. In another moment the two men were disarmed and being ignominiously dragged by their collars toward the adobe jail. They revived on the way and finished the remainder of the journey on their own feet, protesting vehemently; and in a few moments found themselves locked up, to sober up and cool off during the rest of the night. The marshal and his visitor returned to their chairs and again tipped back against the wall. The language coming from the rear of the building was frank and uncomplimentary.

  "She's startin' a little earlier than usual," said the town peace officer, stating a casual fact casually. "I'll mebby be full up by mornin'. Th' way things are goin' in this town, these days, we shore oughta enlarge th' jail. Puttin' 'em two deep ain't hardly fair to them that's underneath."

  Corson smothered his laughter, and rolled a cigarette entirely by the sense of feeling. He was enjoying himself hugely.

  "I like th' way you handled that," he said, after a moment. "After all, it wasn't anythin' more than a drunken brawl. They'll be good friends again by mornin'."

  "Reg'lar thing," grunted his companion, placidly.

  "Yes, I know. What I mean is, I'm glad you didn't shoot."

  "Didn't have to," replied the marshal. "When I shoot, I shoot to kill: which means that this little rukus warn't no killing matter. Th' boys like me better for it, too. We get along right well, me an' th' boys. Knowin' me like they do, they know that they don't have to go for no gun to save their lives. Their hand ain't forced. Th' worst they get is a punch on th' jaw, an' a night in jail, which saves 'em a dollar. But they know that I'll shoot if I have to."

  Corson stood up, lazily stretching.

  "Reckon I'll move along an' look th' town over," he said, and held out his hand in the darkness. "I'll shake hands with you an' say so-long. I reckon that I'll be on my way in th' mornin' long before yo're out of th' blankets."