III
THE TWO CARTRIDGES
This happened at the time Billy Knapp drove stage between Pierre andDeadwood. I think you can still see the stage in Buffalo Bill's show.Lest confusion arise and the reader be inclined to credit Billy withmore years than are his due, it might be well also to mention that theperiod was some time after the summer he and Alfred and Jim Buckley hadmade their famous march with the only wagon-train that dared set out,and some time before Billy took to mining. Jim had already moved toMontana.
The journey from Pierre to Deadwood amounted to something. All day longthe trail led up and down long grassy slopes, and across sweeping,intervening flats. While climbing the slopes, you could never get yourexperience to convince you that you were not, on topping the hill, aboutto overlook the entire country for miles around. This never happened;you saw no farther than the next roll of the prairie. While hurtlingdown the slopes, you saw the intervening flat as interminably broad andhot and breathless, or interminably broad and icy and full of arcticwinds, according to the season of the year. Once in a dog's age you cameto a straggling fringe of cottonwood-trees, indicating a creek bottom.The latter was either quite dry or in raging flood. Close under the hillhuddled two buildings, half logs, half mud. There the horses werechanged by strange men with steel glints in their eyes, like those yousee under the brows of a north-country tug-boat captain. Passengerscould there eat flap-jacks architecturally warranted to hold togetheragainst the most vigorous attack of the gastric juices, and drink greentea that tasted of tannin and really demanded for its properaccommodation porcelain-lined insides. It was not an inspiring trip.
Of course, Billy did not accompany the stage all of the way; only thelast hundred miles; but the passengers did, and by the time they reachedBilly they were usually heartily sick of their undertaking. Once atenderfoot came through in the fall of the year, simply for the love ofadventure. He got it.
"Driver," said he to Billy, as the brakes set for another plunge, "wereyou ever held up?"
Billy had been deluged with questions like this for the last two hours.Usually he looked straight in front of him, spat accurately between thetail of the wheel-horse and the whiffle-tree, and answered inmonosyllables. The tenderfoot did not know that asking questions was notthe way to induce Billy to talk.
"Held up?" replied Billy, with scorn. "Young feller, I is held upthirty-seven times in th' last year."
"Thunderation!" exclaimed the tenderfoot. "What do you do? Do you havemuch trouble getting away? Have you had much fighting?"
"Fight nothin'. I ain't hired to fight. I'm hired to drive stage."
"And you just let them go through you?" cried the tenderfoot.
Billy was stung by the contempt in the stranger's tone.
"Go through nothin'," he explained. "They isn't touchin' _me_ nonewhatever. Put her down fer argument that I'm damn fool enough tosprinkle lead 'round some, and that I gets away. What happens? Nex' timeI drives stage some of these yere agents massacrees me from behind abush. Whar do I come in? Nary bit!"
The tenderfoot, struck by the logic of this reasoning, fell silent.After an interval the sun set in a film of yellow light; then theafterglow followed; and finally the stars pricked out the true immensityof the prairies.
"_He's_ the feller hired to fight," observed the shadowy Billy, jerkinghis thumb backward.
The tenderfoot now understood the silent, grim man who, unapproachableand solitary, had alone occupied the seat on top of the stage. Lookingwith more curiosity, the tenderfoot observed a shot-gun with abnormallyshort barrels, slung in two brass clips along the back of the seat infront of the messenger. The usual revolvers, too, were secured, insteadof by the regulation holsters, in brass clips riveted to the belt, sothat in case of necessity they could be snatched free with one forwardsweep of the arm. The man met his gaze keenly.
"Them Hills ain't fur now," vouchsafed Billy, as a cold breeze from thewest lifted the limp brim of his hat, and a film of cloud drew withuncanny and silent rapidity across the stars.
The tenderfoot had turned again to look at the messenger, who interestedhim exceedingly, when the stage came to a stop so violent as almost tothrow him from his seat. He recovered his balance with difficulty.Billy, his foot braced against the brake, was engaged in leisurelywinding the reins around it.
"_Hands up, I say!_" cried a sharp voice from the darkness ahead.
"Meanin' you," observed Billy to the tenderfoot, at the same timethrusting his own over his head and settling down comfortably on thesmall of his back. "Time!" he called, facetiously, to the darkness.
As though at the signal the night split with the roar of buckshot, andsplintered with the answering crackle of a six-shooter three timesrepeated. The screech of the brake had deceived the messenger as to thewhereabouts of the voice. He had jumped to the ground on the wrong sideof the stage, thus finding himself without protection against hisopponent, who, firing at the flash of the shot-gun, had brought him tothe ground.
The road-agent stepped confidently forward. "Billy," said he,pleasantly, "jest pitch me that box."
Billy climbed over the seat and dropped a heavy, iron-bound case to theground. "Danged if I thinks anybody _kin_ git Buck, thar," he remarked,in thoughtful reference to the messenger.
"Now, drive on," commanded the road-agent.
Three hours later Billy and the sobered tenderfoot pulled into Deadwood.Ten minutes taught the camp what had occurred.
Now, it must be premised that Deadwood had recently chosen a sheriff. Hedid not look much like a sheriff, for he was small and weak and bald,and most childlike as to expression of countenance. But when I tell youthat his name was Alfred, you will know that it was all right. To himthe community looked for initiative. It expected him to organise aposse, which would, of course, consist of every man in the place nototherwise urgently employed, and to enter upon instant pursuit. He didnot.
"How many is they?" he asked of Billy.
"One lonesome one," replied the stage-driver.
"I plays her a lone hand," announced Alfred.
You see, Alfred knew well enough his own defects. He never could makeplans when anybody else was near, but always instinctively took thesecond place. Then, when the other's scheme had fallen into ruins, hewould construct a most excellent expedient from the wreck of it. In thecase under consideration he preferred to arrange his own campaign, andtherefore to work alone.
By that time men knew Alfred. They made no objection.
"Snowin'," observed one of the chronic visitors of the saloon door.There are always two or three of such in every Western gathering.
"One of you boys saddle my bronc," suddenly requested Alfred, and beganto examine his firearms by the light of the saloon lamp.
"Yo' ain't aimin' to set out to-night?" they asked, incredulously.
"I am. Th' snow will make a good trail, but she'll be covered comemornin'."
So Alfred set out alone, at night, in a snowstorm, without the guidanceof a solitary star, to find a single point in the vastness of theprairie.
He made the three hours of Billy and the tenderfoot in a little over anhour, because it was mostly down hill. So the agent had apparently fourhours the start of him, which discrepancy was cut down, however, by thetime consumed in breaking open the strong-box after Billy and the stagehad surely departed beyond gunshot. The exact spot was easily marked bythe body of Buck, the express messenger. Alfred convinced himself thatthe man was dead, but did not waste further time on him: the boys wouldtake care of the remains next day. He remounted and struck out sharp forthe east, though, according to Billy's statement, the agent had turnednorth.
"He is alone," said Alfred to himself, "so he ain't in that Black Hankoutfit. Ain't nothin' to take him north, an' if he goes south he has tohit way down through the South Fork trail, which same takes him twoweeks. Th' greenbacks in that plunder is numbered, and old Wells-Fargohas th' numbers. He sure has to pike in an' change them bills afore heis spotted. So he goes to Pierre."
> Alfred staked his all on this reasoning and rode blindly eastward.Fortunately the roll of the country was sufficiently definite to enablehim to keep his general direction well enough until about three o'clock,when the snow ceased and the stars came out, together with the waningmoon. Twenty minutes later he came to the bed of a stream.
"Up or down?" queried Alfred, thoughtfully. The state of the weatherdecided him. It had been blowing all night strongly from the northwest.Left without guidance a pony tends to edge more or less away from thewind, in order to turn tail to the weather. Alfred had diligentlycounteracted this tendency all night, but he doubted whether, in thehurry of flight, the fugitive had thought of it. Instead of keepingdirectly east toward Pierre, he had probably fallen away more or lesstoward the south. "Down," Alfred decided.
He dismounted from his horse and began to lead the animal parallel tothe stream, but about two hundred yards from it, first taking care toascertain that a little water flowed in the channel. On discovering thatthere did, he nodded his head in a satisfied manner.
"He doesn't leave no trail till she begins to snow," he argued, "an' henat'rally doesn't expect no mud-turkles like me a followin' of himeastward. _Consequently_ he feeds when he strikes water. This yere iswater."
All of which seemed satisfactory to Alfred. He walked on foot in orderto discover the trail in the snow. He withdrew two hundred yards fromthe bank of the stream that his pony might not scent the other man'shorse, and so give notice of approach by whinnying. After a time he cameacross the trail. So he left the pony and followed it to thecreek-bottom on foot. At the top of the bluff he peered over cautiously.
"Well, you got nerve!" he remarked to himself. "If I was runnin' thisyere game, I'd sure scout with my blinders off."
The fugitive evidently believed himself safe from pursuit, for he hadmade camp. His two ponies cropped browse and pawed for grass in thebottom land. He himself had prepared a warm niche and was sleeping in itwith only one blanket over him, though by now the thermometer was welldown toward zero. The affair had been simple. He had built a long, hotfire in the L of an upright ledge and the ground. When ready to sleep hehad raked the fire three feet out from the angle, and had lain down onthe heated ground between the fire and the ledge. His rifle and revolverlay where he could seize them at a moment's notice.
Alfred could stalk a deer, but he knew better than to attempt to stalk aman trained in the West. Instead, he worked himself into a protectedposition and carefully planted a Winchester bullet some six inches fromthe man's ear. The man woke up suddenly and made an instinctive grabtoward his weapons.
"Drop it!" yelled Alfred.
So he dropped it, and lay like a rabbit in its form.
"Jest select that thar six-shooter by the end of the bar'l and hurl herfrom you some," advised the sheriff. "Now the Win_ches_ter. Now stand upan' let's look at you." The man obeyed. "Yo' don't really need thatother gun, under th' circumstances," pursued the little man. "No, don'tfetch her loose from the holster none; jest unbuckle th' whole outfit,belt and all. Good! Now, you freeze, and stay froze right whar you are."
So Alfred arose and scrambled down to the bottom.
"Good-mornin'," he observed, pleasantly.
He cast about him and discovered the man's lariat, which he picked upand overran with one hand until he had loosened the noose.
"You-all are some sizable," he remarked, in conversational tones, "an'like enough you eats me up, if I gets clost enough to tie you. Handsup!"
With a deft twist and flip he tossed the open noose over his prisoner'supheld wrists and jerked it tight.
"Thar you be," he observed, laying aside his rifle.
He loosened one of his revolvers suggestively and approached to tie theknot.
"Swing her down," he commanded. He contemplated the result. "Don't likethat nohow--tied in front. Step through your hands a whole lot." The manhesitated. "Step, I say!" said Alfred, sharply, at the same timepricking the prisoner with his long knife.
The other contorted and twisted awkwardly, but finally managed to thrustfirst one foot, then the other, between his shackled wrists. Alfredbound together his elbows at the back.
"You'll do," he approved, cheerfully. "Now, we sees about grub."
Two flat stones placed a few inches apart improvised a stove when firethrust its tongue from the crevice, and a frying-pan and tin-cup laidacross the opening cooked the outlaw's provisions. Alfred hospitablyladled some bacon and coffee into their former owner.
"Not that I needs to," he observed, "but I'm jest that tender-hearted."
At the close of the meal, Alfred instituted a short and successfulsearch for the plunder, which he found in the stranger's saddle-bag,open and unashamed.
"Yo're sure a tenderfoot at this game, stranger," commented the sheriff."Thar is plenty abundance of spots to cache such plunder--like thelinin' of yore saddle, or a holler horn. Has you any choice of cayusesfor ridin'?" indicating the grazing ponies.
The man shook his head. He had maintained a lowering silence throughoutall these cheerful proceedings.
Alfred and his prisoner finally mounted and rode northwest. As soon asthey had scrambled up the precipitous side of the gully, the affairbecame a procession, with the stranger in front, and the stranger'ssecond pony bringing up an obedient rear. Thus the robber was first tosee a band of Sioux that topped a distant rise for a single instant. Ofcourse, the Sioux saw him, too. He communicated this discovery toAlfred.
"Well," said Alfred, "they ain't hostile."
"These yere savages is plenty hostile," contradicted the stranger, "anddon't you make no mistake thar. I jest nat'rally lifts that pinto offenthem yisterday," and he jerked his thumb toward the black-and-white ponyin the rear.
"And you camps!" cried Alfred, in pure astonishment. "You must be plumblocoed!"
"I ain't had no sleep in three nights," explained the other, in apology.
Alfred's opinion of the man rose at once.
"Yo' has plumb nerve to tackle a hold-up under them circumstances," heobserved.
"I sets out to git that thar stage; and I gits her," replied the agent,doggedly.
The savages appeared on the next rise, barely a half-mile away, andheaded straight for the two men.
"I reckon yere's where you takes a hand," remarked Alfred simply, and,riding alongside, he released the other's arms by a single slash of hisknife. The man slipped from his horse and stretched his arms wide apartand up over his head in order to loosen his muscles. Alfred likewisedismounted. The two, without further parley, tied their horses' nosesclose to their front fetlocks, and sat down back to back on the surfaceof the prairie. Each was armed with one of the new 44-40 Winchesters,just out, and with a brace of Colt's revolvers, chambering thesame-sized cartridge as the rifle.
"How you heeled?" inquired Alfred.
The stranger took stock.
"Fifty-two," he replied.
"Seventy for me," vouchsafed Alfred. "I goes plenty organised."
Each man spread a little semicircle of shells in front of him. At thecommand of the two, without reloading, were forty-eight shots.
When the Indians had approached to within about four hundred yards ofthe white men they paused. Alfred rose and held his hand toward them,palm outward, in the peace sign. His response was a shot and a chorus ofyells.
"I tells you," commented the hold-up.
Alfred came back and sat down. The savages, one by one, broke away fromthe group and began to circle rapidly to the left in a constantlycontracting spiral. They did a great deal of yelling. Occasionally theywould shoot. To the latter feature the plainsmen lent an attentive ear,for to their trained senses each class of arm spoke with a differentvoice--the old muzzle-loader, the Remington, the long, heavy Sharp's 50,each proclaimed itself plainly. The mere bullets did not interest themin the least. Two men seated on the ground presented but a small mark tothe Indians shooting uncleaned weapons from running horses at three orfour hundred yards' range.
"That outfit is rank
outsiders," concluded Alfred. "They ain't over adozen britch-loaders in the lay-out."
"Betcher anything you say I drops one," offered the stranger, taking aknee-rest.
"Don't be so plumb fancy," advised Alfred, "but turn in and help."
He was satisfied with the present state of affairs, and was hacking atthe frozen ground with his knife. The light snow on the ridge-tops hadbeen almost entirely drifted away. The stranger obeyed.
On seeing the men thus employed, the Indians turned their horsesdirectly toward the group and charged in. At the range of perhaps twohundred yards the Winchesters began to speak. Alfred fired twice and thestranger three times. Then the circle broke and divided and passed by,leaving an oval of untrodden ground.
"How many did you get?" inquired Alfred, with professional interest.
"Two," replied the man.
"Two here," supplemented Alfred.
A commotion, a squeal, a thrashing-about near at hand caused both toturn suddenly. The pinto pony was down and kicking. Alfred walked overand stuck him in the throat to save a cartridge.
"Move up, pardner," said he.
The other moved up. Thus the men became possessed of protection from oneside. The Indians had vented a yell of rage when the pony had dropped.Now as each warrior approached a certain point in the circle, he threwhis horse back on its haunches, so that in a short time the entire bandwas once more gathered in a group. Alfred and the outlaw knew that thismanoeuvre portended a more serious charge than the impromptu affairthey had broken with such comparative ease. An Indian is extremelygregarious when it comes to open fighting. He gets a lot ofencouragement out of yells, the patter of many ponies' hoofs, and theflutter of an abundance of feathers. Running in from the circumferenceof a circle is a bit too individual to suit his taste.
Also, the savages had by now taken the measure of their white opponents.They knew they had to deal with experience. Suspicion of this must havebeen aroused by the practised manner in which the men had hobbled theirhorses and had assumed the easiest posture of defence. The idea wouldhave gained strength from their superior marksmanship; but it would havebecome absolute certainty from the small detail that, in all this hurland rush of excitement, they had fired but five shots, and those atclose range. It is difficult to refrain from banging away for generalresults when so many marks so loudly present themselves. It is equallyfatal to do so. A few misses are a great encouragement to a savage, andseem to breed their like in subsequent shooting. They destroy your owncoolness and confidence, and they excite the enemy an inch nearer tothat dead-line of the lust of fighting, beyond which prudence givesplace to the fury of killing. An Indian is the most cautious and wilyof fighters before he goes mad: and the most terribly reckless after. Ina few moments four of their number had passed to the happyhunting-grounds, and they were left, no nearer their prey, tocontemplate the fact.
The tornado moved. It swept at the top jump of ponies used to the chaseof the buffalo, as sudden and terrible and imminent as the loom of ablack cloud on the wings of storm, and, like it, seeming to gather speedand awfulness as it rushed nearer. Each rider bent low over his pony'sneck and shot--a hail of bullets, which, while most passed too high,nevertheless shrieked and spun through the volume of coarser sound. Theponies stretched their necks and opened their red mouths and made theirlittle feet go with a rapidity that twinkled as bewilderingly as apicket-fence passing a train. And the light snow swirled and eddiedbehind them.
The two men behind the dead horse were not deceived by this excitementinto rising to their knees. They realised that this was the criticalpoint in the fight, and they shot hard and fast, concentrating all theenergy of their souls into the steady glare of their eyes over thesights of the smoking rifles. In a moment the foremost warrior wastrying to leap his pony at the barrier before him, but the little animalrefused the strange jump and shied to the left, cannoning and plunginginto the stream of braves rushing in on that side. Into the confusionAlfred emptied the last two shots of his Winchester, and was fortunateenough merely to cripple a pony with one of them. The kicking,screaming, little beast interposed a momentary but effective barrierbetween the sheriff and his foes. A rattling fire from one of hissix-shooters into the brown of the hesitating charge broke it. Theself-induced excitement ebbed, and the Indians swerved and swept on by.
On the other side, the outlaw had also managed to kill a pony within afew feet of the impromptu breastwork, and, direct riding-down being thusprevented in front, he was lying stretched on his side, coolly lettingoff first one revolver then the other in the face of imminent ruin.Alfred's attentions, however, and the defection of the right wing, drovethese savages, too, into flight. Miraculously, neither man was more thanscratched, though their clothes and the ground about them showed themarks of bullets. Strangely enough, too, the outlaw's other pony stoodunhurt at a little distance whither the rush of the charge had carriedhim. Alfred arose and drove him back. Then both men made a triangularbreastwork of the two dead horses and their saddles.
"Cyan't do that more'n once," observed the outlaw, taking a long breath.
"They don't want her more'n once," replied Alfred, sagely.
The men tried to take score. This was not easy. Out of the hundred andtwelve cartridges with which they had started the fight, there remainedsixty-eight. That meant they had expended thirty-nine in the last chargealone. As near as they could make out, they had accounted for eight ofthe enemy, four in the melee just finished. Besides, there were a numberof ponies down. At first glance this might seem like poor shooting. Itwas not. A rapidly moving figure is a difficult rifle-mark with the bestof conditions. In this case the conditions would have rendered anEasterner incapable of hitting a feather pillow at three yards.
And now began the most terrible part of this terrible day. A dozen ofthe warriors dismounted, made a short circle to the left, anddisappeared in a thin growth of dried grasses, old mulliens, andstunted, scattered brush barely six inches high. There seemed hardlycover enough to hide a man, and yet the dozen were as completelyswallowed up as though they had plunged beneath the waters of the sea.Only occasionally the top of a grass tuft or a greasewood shivered. Itbecame the duty of Alfred and his companion to shoot suddenly andaccurately at these motions. This was necessary in order to discouragethe steady concealed advance of the dozen, who, when they had approachedto within as few yards as their god of war would permit, purposed torush in and finish their opponents out of hand. And that rush couldnever be stopped. The white men knew it perfectly well, so they setconscientiously to work with their handful of cartridges to convince thereds that it is not healthy to crawl along ridge-tops on an autumn day.Sundry outlying Indians, with ammunition to waste, took belly and kneerests and strengthened the thesis to the contrary.
The brisk fighting had warmed the contestants' blood. Now a cold windpenetrated through their woollens to the goose-flesh. It was impossibleto judge of the effect of the shots, but both knew that the accuracy oftheir shooting was falling off. Clench his teeth as he would, hold hisbreath as steadfastly as he might, Alfred could not accomplish thatsteady, purposeful, unblinking pressure on the trigger so necessary toaccuracy. In spite of himself, the rifle jerked ever so little to theright during the fall of the hammer. Soon he adopted the expedient ofpulling it suddenly which is brilliant but uncertain. The ground wasvery cold. Before long both men would have felt inclined to riskeverything for the sake of a little blood-stimulating tramp back andforth. The danger did not deter them. Only the plainsman's ingrainedhorror of throwing away a chance held them, shivering pitiably, to theirplaces.
Still they managed to keep the dozen at a wary distance, and even, theysuspected, to hit some. This was the Indians' game--to watch; to wait;to lie with infinite patience; to hitch nearer a yard, a foot, an incheven; and then to seize with the swiftness of the eagle's swoop anopportunity which the smallest imprudence, fruit of weariness, mightoffer. One by one the precious cartridges spit, and fell from thebreech-blocks empty and useless. And still the tufts
of grass wavered alittle nearer.
"I wish t' hell, stranger, you-all hadn't edged off south," chatteredAlfred. "We'd be nearer th' Pierre trail."
"I'm puttin' in my spare wishin' on them Injins," shivered the other; "Isure hopes they aims to make a break pretty quick; I'm near froze."
About two o'clock the sun came out and the wind died. Though its rayswere feeble at that time of year, their contrast with the bleakness thathad prevailed during the morning threw a perceptible warmth into thecrouching men. Alfred succeeded, too, in wriggling a morsel of raw baconfrom the pack, which the two men shared. But the cartridges were runningvery low.
"We establishes a dead-line," suggested Alfred. "S' long as they slinksbeyond yonder greasewood, they lurks in safety. Plug 'em this side ofher."
"C'rrect," agreed the stranger.
This brought them a season of comparative quiet. They even made out tosmoke, and so were happy. Over near the hill the body of Indians hadgone into camp and were taking it easy. The job of wiping out thesetroublesome whites had been sublet, and they wasted no further anxietyover the affair. This indifference irritated the outlaw exceedingly.
"Damn siwashes!" he grumbled.
"Look out!" warned Alfred.
The dead-line was overpassed. Swaying tufts of vegetation marked therapid passage of eel-like bodies. The Indians had decided on an advance,being encouraged probably by the latter inaccuracy of the plainsmen'sfire. Besides, the day was waning. It was no cat-and-mouse game now; buta rush, like the other except that all but the last twenty or thirtyyards would be made under cover. The besieged turned their attention toit. Over on the hill the bucks had arisen from their little fires ofbuffalo chips, and were watching. On the summit of the farther ridgerode silhouetted sentinels.
Alfred selected a tuft and fired just ahead of it. A _crack_ at his sideindicated that the stranger, too, had gone to work. It was adiscouraging and nervous business. The shooter could never tell whetheror not he had hit. The only thing he was sure of was that the line waswriggling nearer and nearer. He felt something as though he wereshooting at a man with blank cartridges. This test of nerve was probablythe most severe of the fight.
But it was successfully withstood. Alfred felt a degree of steadinessreturn to him with the excitement and the change of weather. TheWinchester spat as carefully as before. Suddenly it could no longer bedoubted that the line was beginning to hesitate. The outlaw saw it, too.
"Give it to 'em good!" he cried.
Both men shot, and then again.
The line wavered.
"Two more shots will stop 'em!" cried the road-agent, and pulled thetrigger. The hammer clicked against an empty chamber.
"I'm done!" he cried, hopelessly. His cartridges were gone.
Alfred laid his own Winchester on the ground, turned over on his back,and puffed a cloud of smoke straight up toward the sky.
"Me, too," said he.
The cessation of the shooting had put an end to the Indians'uncertainty. Another moment would bring them knowledge of the state ofaffairs.
"Don't get much outen my scalp, anyway," said Alfred, uncovering hisbald head.
The sentinel on the distant ridge was riding his pony in short-loopedcircles and waving a blanket in a peculiar way above his head. From thegrass nine Indians arose, stooped, and scuttled off like a covey ofrunning quail. Over by the fires warriors were leaping on their ponies,and some were leading other ponies in the direction of the nine. An airof furtive but urgent haste characterised all these movements. Alfredlent an attentive ear.
"Seems a whole lot like a rescue," he remarked, quietly. "I reckon th'boys been followin' of my trail."
The stranger paused in the act of unhobbling the one remaining pony. Inthe distance, faintly, could be heard cheers and shots intended asencouragement.
"They's comin' on th' jump," said Alfred.
By this time the stranger had unfastened the horse.
"I reckon we quits," said he, mounting; "I jest nat'rally takes thisbronc, because I needs him more'n you do. So long. I may 's well confidethat I'm feelin' some glad jest now that them Injins comes along."
And then his pony fell in a heap, and began to kick up dirt and to snortblood.
"I got another, so you just subside a lot," commanded Alfred, recockinghis six-shooter.
The stranger lay staring at him in astonishment.
"Thought you was busted on catridges!" he cried.
"You-all may as well know," snapped Alfred, "that's long as I'm anofficer of this yere district, I'm a sheriff first and an Injin-fighterafterward."
"What the hell!" wondered the road-agent, still in a daze.
"Them's th' two catridges that would have stopped 'em," said Alfred.
Blazed Trail Stories, and Stories of the Wild Life Page 9
