Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  This childish display irritated me, but I controlled myself and drunk another finger of whiskey, and the bartender whispered to me: “Look out for him! He aims to prod you into a fight. He’s nearly kilt nine or ten men with his b’ar hands. He’s a mean ‘un.”

  “Well,” I says, tossing a dollar onto the bar and turning away, “I got more important things to do than rassle a outlandish foreigner in a barroom. I got to eat my dinner and git out to the Raxton ranch quick.”

  But at that moment Big Jon chose to open his bazoo. There are some folks which cain’t never let well enough alone.

  “‘Fraid!” jeered he. “Yah, yah!”

  The Hunkies all whooped and guffawed, and the cattlemen scowled.

  “What you mean, afraid?” I gasped, more dumbfounded than mad. It’d been so long since anybody’s made a remark like that to me. I was plumb flabbergasted. Then I remembered I was amongst strangers which didn’t know my repertation, and I realized it was my duty to correct that there oversight before somebody got hurt on account of ignorance.

  So I said, “All right, you dumb foreign muttonhead, I’ll rassle you.”

  But as I went up to him, he doubled up his fist and hit me severely on the nose, and them Hunkies all bust into loud, rude laughter. That warn’t wise. A man had better twist a striped thunderbolt’s tail than hit a Elkins onexpected on the nose. I give a roar of irritation and grabbed Big Jon and started committing mayhem on him free and enthusiastic. I swept all the glasses and bottles off of the bar with him, and knocked down a hanging lamp with him, and fanned the floor with him till he was limp, and then I throwed him the full length of the barroom. His head went through the panels of the back door, and the other Hunkies, which had stood petrified, stampeded into the street with howls of horror. So I taken the branding iron handle and straightened it out and bent it around his neck, and twisted the ends together in a knot, so he had to get a blacksmith to file it off after he come to, which was several hours later.

  All them cowmen was staring at me with their eyes popped out of their heads, and seemed plumb incapable of speech, so I give a snort of disgust at the whole incerdent, and strode off to git my dinner. As I left I heard one feller, which was holding onto the bar like he was too weak to stand alone, say feebly to the dumb-founded bartender: “Gimme a drink, quick! I never thunk I’d live to see somethin’ I couldn’t believe when I was lookin’ right smack at it.”

  I couldn’t make no sense out of this, so I headed for the dining room of the Montana Hotel and Bar. But my hopes of peace and quiet was a illusion. I’d jest started on my fourth beefsteak when a big maverick in Star-top boots and store-bought clothes come surging into the dining room and bellered: “Is your name Elkins?”

  “Yes, it is,” I says. “But I ain’t deef. You don’t have to yell.”

  “Well, what the hell do you mean by interferin’ with my business?” he squalled, ignoring my reproof.

  “I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about,” I growled, emptying the sugar bowl into my coffee cup with some irritation. It looked like Lonesome Lizard was full of maneyacks which craved destruction. “Who air you, anyhow?”

  “I’m Ted Bissett, that’s who!” howled he, convulsively gesturing toward his six-shooter. “And I’m onto you! You’re a damn Nevada gunman old Abed’ Raxton’s brought up here to run me off the range! He’s been braggin’ about it all over town! And you starts your work by runnin’ off my sheepherders!”

  “What you mean, I run yore sheepherders off?” I demanded, amazed.

  “They ran off after you maltreated Big Jon,” he gnashed, with his face convulsed. “They’re so scared of you they won’t come back without double pay! You can’t do this to me, you #$%&*!”

  The man don’t live which can call me that name with impunity. I impulsively hit him in the face with my fried steak, and he give a impassioned shriek and pulled his gun. But some grease had got in his eyes, so all he done with his first shot was bust the syrup pitcher at my elbow, and before he could cock his gun again I shot him through the arm. He dropped his gun and grabbed the place with his other hand and made some remarks which ain’t fitten for to repeat.

  I yelled for another steak, and Bissett yelled for a doctor, and the manager yelled for the sheriff.

  The last-named individual didn’t git there till after the doctor and the steak had arrove and was setting Bissett’s arm — the doctor, I mean, and not the steak, which a trembling waiter brung me. Quite a crowd had gathered by this time and was watching the doctor work with great interest, and offering advice which seemed to infuriate Bissett, jedging from his langwidge. He also discussed his busted arm with considerable passion, but the doctor warn’t a bit worried. You never seen sech a cheerful gent. He was jovial and gay, no matter how loud Bissett yelled. You could tell right off he was a man which could take it.

  But Bissett’s friends was very mad, and Jack Campbell, his foreman, was muttering something about ’em taking the law into their own hands, when the sheriff come prancing in, waving a six-shooter and hollering: “Where is he? P’int out the scoundrel to me?”

  “There he is!” everybody yelled, and ducked, like they expected gunplay, but I’d already recognized the sheriff, and when he seen me he recoiled and shoved his gun out of sight like it was red hot or something.

  “Breckinridge Elkins!” says he. Then he stopped and studied a while, and then he told ’em to take Bissett out to the bar and pour some licker down him. When they’d went he sot down at the table, and says: “Breck, I want you to understand that they ain’t nothin’ personal about this, but I got to arrest you. It’s agen the law to shoot a man inside of the city limits.”

  “I ain’t got time to git arrested,” I told him. “I got to git over to old Abed’ Raxton’s ranch.”

  “But lissen, Breck,” argyed the sheriff — it was Johnny Willoughby, jest like old Abed’ said— “what’ll folks think if I don’t jail you for shootin’ a leadin’ citizen? Election’s comin’ up and my hat’s in the ring,” says he, gulping my coffee.

  “Bissett shot at me first,” I said. “Whyn’t you arrest him?”

  “Well, he didn’t hit you,” says Johnny, absently cramming half a pie into his mouth and making a stab at my pertaters. “Anyway, he’s got a busted arm and ain’t able to go to jail jest now. Besides, I needs the sheepmen’s votes.”

  “Aw, I don’t like jails,” I said irritably, and he begun to weep.

  “If you was a friend to me,” sobs he, “you’d be glad to spend a night in jail to help me git re-elected. I’d do as much for you! The whole county’s givin’ me hell anyway, because I ain’t been able to catch none of them cattle rustlers, and if I don’t arrest you I won’t have a Chinaman’s chance at the polls. How can you do me like this, after the times we had together in the old days—”

  “Aw, stop blubberin’,” I says. “You can arrest me, if you want to. What’s the fine?”

  “I don’t want to collect no fine, Breck,” says he, wiping his eyes on the oil-cloth table cover and filling his pockets with doughnuts. “I figgers a jail sentence will give me more prestige. I’ll let you out first thing in the mornin’. You won’t tear up the jail, will you, Breck?”

  I promised I wouldn’t, and then he wants me to give up my guns, and I refuses.

  “But good gosh, Breck,” he pleaded. “It’d look awful funny for a prisoner to keep on his shootin’ irons.”

  So I give ’em to him, jest to shet him up, and then he wanted to put his handcuffs onto me, but they warn’t big enough to fit my wrists. So he said if I’d lend him some money he could have the blacksmith to make me some laig- irons, but I refused profanely, so he said all right, it was jest a suggestion, and no offense intended, so we went down to the jail. The jailer was off sleeping off a drunk somewheres, but he’d left the key hanging on the door, so we went in. Purty soon along come Johnny’s deperty, Bige Gantry, a long, loose- j’inted cuss with a dangerous eye, so Johnny sent him to the Red Warrior for a can of
beer, and whilst he was gone Johnny bragged on him a heap.

  “Why,” says he, “Bige is the only man in the county which has ever got within’ shootin’ distance of them dern outlaws. He was by hisself, wuss luck. If I’d been along we’d of scuppered the whole gang.”

  I ast him if he had any idee who they was, and he said Bige believed they was a gang up from Wyoming. So I said well, then, in that case they got a hang- out in the hills somewheres, and ought to be easier to run down than men which scattered to their homes after each raid.

  Bige got back with the beer about then, and Johnny told him that when I got out of jail he was going to depertize me and we’d all go after them outlaws together. So Bige said that was great, and looked me over purty sharp, and we sot down and started playing poker. Along about supper time the jailer come in, looking tolerable seedy, and Johnny made him cook us some supper. Whilst we was eating the jailer stuck his head into my cell and said: “A gent is out there cravin’ audience with Mister Elkins.”

  “Tell him the prisoner’s busy,” says Johnny.

  “I done so,” says the jailer, “and he says if you don’t let him in purty dern quick, he’s goin’ to bust in and cut yore throat.”

  “That must be old Abed’ Raxton,” says Johnny. “Better let him in — Breck,” says he, “I looks to you to pertect me if the old cuss gits mean.”

  So old Abed’ come walzing into the jail with fire in his eye and corn licker on his breath. At the sight of me he let out a squall which was painful to hear.

  “A hell of a help you be, you big lummox!” he hollered. “I sends for you to help me bust up a gang of rustlers and sheepherders, and the first thing you does is to git in jail!”

  “T’warn’t my fault,” I says. “Them sheepherders started pickin’ on me.”

  “Well,” he snarls, “whyn’t you drill Bissett center when you was at it?”

  “I come up here to shoot rustlers, not sheepherders,” I says.

  “What’s the difference?” he snarled.

  “Them sheepmen has probably got as much right on the range as you cowmen,” I says.

  “Cease sech outrageous blasphermy,” says he, shocked. “You’ve bungled things so far, but they’s one good thing — Bissett had to hire back his derned Hunkie herders at double wages. He don’t no more mind spendin’ money than he does spillin’ his own blood, the cussed tightwad. Well, what’s yore fine?”

  “Ain’t no fine,” I said. “Johnny wants me to stay in jail a while.”

  At this old Abed’ convulsively went for his gun and Johnny got behind me and hollered: “Don’t you dast shoot a ossifer of the law!”

  “It’s a spite trick!” gibbered old Abed’. “He’s been mad at me ever since I fired him off’n my payroll. After I kicked him off’n my ranch he run for sheriff, and the night of the election everybody was so drunk they voted for him by mistake, or for a joke, or somethin’, and since he’s been in office he’s been lettin’ the sheepmen steal me right out of house and home.”

  “That’s a lie,” says Johnny heatedly. “I’ve give you as much pertection as anybody else, you old buzzard! I jest ain’t been able to run any of them critters down, that’s all. But you wait! Bige is on their trail, and we’ll have ’em behind the bars before the snow falls.”

  “Before the snow falls in Guatemala, maybe,” snorted old Abed’. “All right, blast you, I’m goin’, but I’ll have Breckinridge outa here if I have to burn the cussed jail! A Raxton never forgits!” So he stalked out sulphurously, only turning back to snort: “Sheriff! Bah! Seven murders in the county unsolved since you come into office! You’ll let the sheepmen murder us all in our beds! We ain’t had a hangin’ since you was elected!”

  After he’d left, Johnny brooded a while, and finally says: “The old lobo’s right about them murders, only he neglected to mention that four of ’em was sheepmen. I know it’s cattlemen and sheepmen killin’ each other, each side accusin’ the other’n of rustlin’ stock, but I cain’t prove nothin’. A hangin’ would set me solid with the voters.” Here he eyed me hungrily, and ventured: “If somebody’d jest up and confess to some of them murders—”

  “You needn’t to look at me like that,” I says. “I never kilt nobody in Montana.”

  “Well,” he argyed, “nobody could prove you never done ‘em, and after you was hanged—”

  “Lissen here, you,” I says with some passion, “I’m willin’ to help a friend git elected all I can, but they’s a limit!”

  “Oh, well, all right,” he sighed. “I didn’t much figger you’d be willin’, anyway; folks is so dern selfish these days. All they thinks about is theirselves. But lissen here: if I was to bust up a lynchin’ mob it’d be nigh as good a boost for my campaign as a legal hangin’. I tell you what — tonight I’ll have some of my friends put on masks and come and take you out and pretend like they was goin’ to hang you. Then when they got the rope around yore neck I’ll run out and shoot in the air and they’ll run off and I’ll git credit for upholdin’ law and order. Folks always disapproves of mobs, unless they happens to be in ‘em.”

  So I said all right, and he urged me to be careful and not hurt none of ‘em, because they was all his friends and would be mine. I ast him would they bust the door down, and he said they warn’t no use in damaging property like that; they could hold up the jailer and take the key off’n him. So he went off to fix things, and after while Bige Gantry left and said he was on the trace of a clue to them cattle rustlers, and the jailer started drinking hair tonic mixed with tequila, and in about a hour he was stiffer’n a wet lariat.

  Well, I laid down on the floor on a blanket to sleep, without taking my boots off, and about midnight a gang of men in masks come and they didn’t have to hold up the jailer, because he was out cold. So they taken the key off’n him, and all the loose change and plug tobaccer out of his pockets too, and opened the door, and I ast: “Air you the gents which is goin’ to hang me?” And they says: “We be!”

  So I got up and ast them if they had any licker, and one of ’em gimme a good snort out of his hip flask, and I said: “All right, le’s git it over with, so I can go back to sleep.”

  He was the only one which done any talking, and the rest didn’t say a word. I figgered they was bashful. He said: “Le’s tie yore hands behind you so’s to make it look real,” and I said all right, and they tied me with some rawhide thongs which I reckon would of held the average man all right.

  So I went outside with ‘em, and they was a oak tree right clost to the jail nigh some bushes. I figgered Johnny was hiding over behind them bushes.

  They had a barrel for me to stand on, and I got onto it, and they throwed a rope over a big limb and put the noose around my neck, and the feller says: “Any last words?”

  “Aw, hell,” I says, “this is plumb silly. Ain’t it about time for Johnny—”

  At this moment they kicked the barrel out from under me.

  Well, I was kind of surprized, but I tensed my neck muscles, and waited for Johnny to rush out and rescue me, but he didn’t come, and the noose began to pinch the back of my neck, so I got disgusted and says: “Hey, lemme down!”

  Then one of ’em which hadn’t spoke before says: “By golly, I never heard a man talk after he’d been strung up before!”

  I recognized that voice; it was Jack Campbell, Bissett’s foreman! Well, I have got a quick mind, in spite of what my cousin Bearfield Buckner says, so I knowed right off something was fishy about this business. So I snapped the thongs on my wrists and reched up and caught hold of the rope I was hung with by both hands and broke it. Them scoundrels was so surprized they didn’t think to shoot at me till the rope was already broke, and then the bullets all went over me as I fell. When they started shooting I knowed they meant me no good, and acted according.

  I dropped right in the midst of ‘em, and brung three to the ground with me, and during the few seconds to taken me to choke and batter them unconscious the others was scairt to fire for f
ear of hitting their friends, we was so tangled up. So they clustered around and started beating me over the head with their gun butts, and I riz up like a b’ar amongst a pack of hounds and grabbed four more of ’em and hugged ’em till their ribs cracked. Their masks came off during the process, revealing the faces of Bissett’s friends; I’d saw ’em in the hotel.

  Somebody prodded me in the hind laig with a bowie at that moment, which infuriated me, so I throwed them four amongst the crowd and hit out right and left, knocking over a man or so at each lick, till I seen a wagon spoke on the ground and stooped over to pick it up. When I done that somebody throwed a coat over my head and blinded me, and six or seven men then jumped onto my back. About this time I stumbled over some feller which had been knocked down, and fell onto my belly, and they all started jumping up and down on me enthusiastically. I reched around and grabbed one and dragged him around to where I could rech his left ear with my teeth. I would of taken it clean off at the first snap, only I had to bite through the coat which was over my head, but as it was I done a good job, jedging from his awful shrieks.

  He put forth a supreme effort and tore away, taking the coat with him, and I shaken off the others and riz up in spite of their puny efforts, with the wagon spoke in my hand.

  A wagon spoke is a good, comforting implement to have in a melee, and very demoralizing to the enemy. This’n busted all to pieces about the fourth or fifth lick, but that was enough. Them which was able to run had all took to their heels, leaving the battlefield strewed with moaning and cussing figgers.

  Their remarks was shocking to hear, but I give ’em no heed. I headed for the sheriff’s office, mad clean through. It was a few hundred yards east of the jail, and jest as I rounded the jail house, I run smack into a dim figger which come sneaking through the bresh making a curious clanking noise. It hit me with what appeared to be a iron bar, so I went to the ground with it and choked it and beat its head agen the ground, till the moon come out from behind a cloud and revealed the bewhiskered features of old Abednego Raxton!