CHAPTER VIII
A FEUD AND WHAT CAME OF IT
They had hanged a man in the Willows. He was swinging from a lower limbof a tree sixteen feet in diameter--the natives call it the Mother ofCottonwoods. The sheriff of Badger and I cut him down, and because thetime was summer and the flies were bad, we buried him with all haste inthe sand, beside a chiming stream. Then, that no prowler might despoil,we piled rocks above, and got to horse without delay.
"He don't look like nothing now," said Lafe, "but it's Tom Rooker. Youremember ol' Rooker? He always bummed his drinks, Tom did."
We rode through a pleasant grove, where it was eternally twilight byday. A squirrel chattered above us and the stream whispered here in asandy bed. At a bend, we came upon three cows wading belly-deep in thecurrent and eating of watercress. Some birds cheeped in a leafy thicketbeside the trail. The Willows was a paradise. Then a black shadowflitted in front, as we emerged into a glade where the light wasstronger, and a bleary buzzard settled leisurely on the topmost branchof a tree. He gazed at us with calm insolence. I looked hastily away,remembering what we had laid out.
After a while, the sheriff said: "I shouldn't have left town, Dan. Ishouldn't have gone."
"You had to go."
"They wouldn't have got away with it, if I'd been home. Poor ol' Tom--hewas awful good-natured when he was sober."
We left the Willows behind and traversed open country, heading up theSan Pedro Valley. As we went, the sheriff talked of the hanging. Hespoke in a hushed tone, as though there were ears to hear; or, it maybe, he could not get the dead man out of his thoughts.
"This is some of Bud Walton's work," he said.
It did not appear probable to me. Walton could have shot Tom with muchless bother and unpleasantness.
"Bud might not have done it himself. No, he wouldn't. But some of hisfriends done it for him." Lafe slapped his thigh in passionatedetermination. "I tell you, Dan, I'm a-going to put a stop to thistrouble. Fellers like them are keeping this country back. Either Bud orJeff have got to come to a showdown, or get out of Badger."
"Go to it. That's what they put you in for."
"I know," he said, with a return to gloom, "but you can't do everythingin six months. I've got to move according to law, being how I amsituated. And they've been awful careful, them two have."
He fell to communing with himself, and we went steadily forward, theponies shuffling the dust in a dejected chop-trot. It was almost noon,and the heat waves were lifting from the ground like the smoke of an oilflame. We passed a dead tree, and the sheriff roused from reverie.
"They done hung Dave Pearsall from there six years back," he said, witha jerk of his head.
I glanced around for the grave, it being the custom to inter close tothe scene of the taking-off.
"It's over beyond. No, you can't see it, 'count of that rise. But youget your eye on that tree. Notice? And now the Mother of Cottonwoods'lldie, too."
"Pshaw!" said I, laughing. "You don't believe that old woman's tale, doyou?"
"Of course, now," he said patiently, "you know better."
Many cowmen had voiced the superstition, but the sheriff had not struckme as of a credulous type.
"I've knowed eight men to be strung up on eight big, sound trees," hewent on, "and I've seen eight trees that looked as if the devil hadsmashed 'em. Blasted. Yes, sir; dead as a rat and deader. You wait andsee."
Presently he began to speak of the feud which had been the bane of hisoffice during four of the six months of his tenure. When I proffered thesuggestion, in a spirit of hope, that there must have been a beautifulfight before the Walton faction secured Rooker, he dismissed thatpossibility with an impatient snort. It was like that Jeff Thomas hadbeen away, he said; probably south of the Border, on some meanness orother. As for Tom, he had not mixed much in the trouble in town. Perhapsthey had picked on him because he was Jeff's closest friend.
"We'll know right soon now. Gee, ain't the heat a fright? Say, Dan, ifyou take my advice, you'll hit the grit out of Badger just as hard asyou can make it."
I resolutely declined to hit the grit as proposed. Soon we came in sightof the town. It showed uncertainly on the horizon like a lake of mist,with a few wavering windmills swaying therein; it might have been animpressionistic painting of a Dutch canal. A mile from the first house,the sheriff pulled up and bade me remain where I was, whilst he enteredBadger. His instructions were that I should hold back for ten minutesprecisely, then proceed casually into town, leaving my horse at thecattle company's corral, and meet him at dinner in the Fashion.
"No, you can't come with me," he said. "So let that soak into your hide.It's like some fool will start something and I don't want you on mymind. You'd only be in the way."
This was not flattering, but every man to his business. The sheriff madepreparations for his by looking carefully to his six-shooter. Then henodded and rode ahead into Badger. Ten minutes and ten seconds later, Ifollowed.
Badger suggests in its exterior a woman of the street, made up carefullyas to the face and run-down at the heel. To left and to right as youenter from the west, are the Fashion and the Cowboys' Rest, both offrame, and pretentious structures for that region. Then there is theWells-Fargo express office, with a tin roof which catches all the heatof the ages and sends it sizzling over Badger. There are a general storeand a butcher shop; two Eating Houses, one at the Fashion, the otherconducted by a Chinaman; and a broken line of one-story, two-roomeddwellings of rough boards. Beyond that again, a few adobe huts stragglefor a full half-mile. They are the abodes of natives. The cattlecompany's corral is at the extreme edge of town, and there is a stableattached. From there one can see the habitation of Dutch Annie and herhandmaidens. Usually the tinkle of a piano greets the wayfarer, andsometimes bursts of laughter which have no tinkle in them, nor anymusical quality whatever.
The sheriff's horse slouched in front of the Fashion as I proceeded downthe street. Not a human being moved in sight. The express agent waved afriendly hand at me from the interior of his darkened office, andbestowed a sardonic grin. Then he made a fanciful gesture, as of drawinga loop around his neck. Next, he was fighting violently for breath, andhe was still engaged in this agreeable pantomime when I passed beyondhis ken. A mongrel collie, stretched in the hot dust, retreatedsluggishly to give me right of way, and, sitting on his rump, began toscratch for fleas.
"Say, Dan, hell's a-poppin'," said Tim Haverty cheerfully.
Mr. Haverty takes care of the company's corral and counts that day lostwhen no fracas promises. He told me all about it now, with a most unholyglee, although he is an old, old man, who ought to be giving thought toheavenly things.
His tale ran thus--the town of Badger was divided against itself. JeffThomas had come up from the south, weary of Mexican chuck and sullenfrom failure. He had said nothing when informed of Tom Rooker's demiseand the manner thereof, but, amply refreshed, had started a hunt forWalton in order to fasten a row on him. It happened that Bud was away inthe mountains when his enemy made the round of his usual haunts, andJeff's slowly enunciated insults to Bud's adherents had not been takenup. So, fearing an outbreak that would stain Badger's fair name, theexpress agent and the general-store man, the butcher, and five otherreputable citizens had proposed a compromise, in order to preservepeace--to wit, a division of the city of Badger. All north of the streetwas to be Thomas' hunting ground; the section to the south was free toBud to wander in at his pleasure. Both men had been prevailed upon toaccept this arbitration--Thomas, with a show of reluctance, but realwillingness; the other, grudgingly, after persuasion.
"If you ast me," said Old Man Haverty judicially, "if you ast me, Dan,I'd say Bud has got it on Thomas in some ways. Yes, sir; Jeff, he'sscared of that feller, except when he's good and mad."
Such apportionment of a town has not been uncommon in the southwest intimes past. I know of two communities similarly divided, at presentwriting. The armistice makes for temporary peace, but has a decidedtendency to be irksome to
citizens who would be nonpartisan, and itusually ends by a casual trespass, or one of intent, prompted by bravadoor rye. After which the deceased gentleman's record is thoroughlythreshed out and it is agreed on all sides that he was a pretty goodfellow, "but--"
The sheriff and I sat later at a table in the Fashion, toying with apile of dominoes. And we discussed these things. It is etiquette for avisitor, on entering the city, to hand over his gun to the bartender ofthe first place of call. This signifies that his designs are peaceful,and perhaps honest, and it also keeps him out of a heap of mischief.Besides, if he does not do that, the sheriff is apt to seek him out andtake the weapon, anyway. Therefore, the gentleman who was swabbing thebar with a damp towel had possession of my .45 Colt.
Night fell. Daniel Boone--fat and fifty, who claimed descent from thegreat pioneer--was at a table in a corner by himself, practicingsleight-of-hand with a pack of cards, faro being his profession. If luckfavored Daniel, some plump lamb would be delivered to his fleecingbefore another dawn broke.
Jeff Thomas came in, walked to the bar and ordered a drink. The Fashionbeing on his domain, this occasioned no surprise. Then he espied thesheriff and clanked across to our table.
"Hello, Johnson. Say, Walton's been making threats against my life," hesaid.
"Huh-huh?" said the sheriff carelessly. "Seems to me, Jeff, him and youboth've been doing a pile of talking."
"But he done told some fellers he'd get me inside forty-eight hours."
"I reckon you'd better keep out of his way, then, Jeff."
"But look here, Johnson--oh, pshaw, let's talk sense. He's made threats,I tell you. I done got a permit from the justice of the peace to pack agun. Turner, he give it to me for my own protection."
"Well?"
"Well? WELL? What're you going to do about it? That's what I want toknow. You're sheriff, ain't you?"
My friend lighted a cigarette from the stub of another. Afterwards hestudied the nails of his fingers with elaborate interest. A protractedpause, and he addressed a casual remark to me as though Thomas were notpresent.
"Cut that, Johnson. I'm a-talking to you. What're you going to do aboutit?"
On this, the sheriff whirled sharply in his chair. He clipped his words,so that each seemed to snap.
"I'll show you what I'll do. You two yellow pups start something, andI'll show you what I'll do."
Daniel Boone folded his cards and stole softly out of the room. I lookedfurtively for a sheltering nook. Only the shiny top of the bartender'sbald head was now visible above a beer keg. But either Thomas did notwant a row, or he could not afford one.
"Well," he said finally, with an uncertain laugh, "that's differentagain, ain't it? There's no use getting all swelled up about this thing,Lafe. Let's have a snort."
When the ceremony had been fitly observed, Thomas seated himself at thethird table in the saloon, in no very good humor, and removed his hat.Shortly Daniel Boone returned, padding in like a wary cat, and resumedhis interrupted studies of faro and its uses. We settled once more toour talk and piled the dominoes in unreckoned combinations.
The main door opens directly from the saloon on to the street. At thefar end of the bar is another door, which leads into a dining-room thatis run as an annex to the Fashion. Jeff occupied the table nearest thebar, sitting sideways to it so as to face the entrance. Back of him wasa doorless exit, which gave on to a dark passage. This led somewhereinto the outer back-regions and was in frequent demand when a patronfound himself overcome by the fumes of rejoicing and desired air,without publicity.
In the corner remote from the street Mr. Boone was established, his legsembracing the legs of a chair, and he placidly dealt cards to animaginary player. The sheriff and I were in the left foreground, closeenough to the window to see through it, had a curtain not beendiscreetly drawn to the height of a grown man's head.
Tilly entered from the dining-room, patting her hair with both hands,and tarried for an instant at the bar, talking to the man behind it. Shewaited on table in the Fashion annex, and was not without charm, both ofperson and mind. Indeed, her repartee would set a room to laughing,being forceful as a clout on the head; which may have been why she wassought after by sundry residents of those parts for wife. Whence shecame or why, nobody knew. Badger held her for an honest girl, in spiteof what Tilly's unchampioned contact with the world had done to rub offthe first blush. Leaving the bartender choking with delight, Tillysauntered over to Jeff's table, where she pretended to examine thesnake-skin band of his hat. We saw her speak to him, but could not catchthe words. He glanced up alertly and gave an emphatic nod.
"Well, well," murmured the sheriff, and smiled. When she had gone backto the dining-room--pausing to exchange a last cheerful sally with herfriend of the bottles--the sheriff said: "Dan, there's a mighty finegirl. Or I reckon I ought to say 'woman.' If she'd only got a differentstart--"
"What about it?"
"You can see for yourself. She's getting tougher in her talk every day.If Tilly don't hitch up soon--why, look at the way these fellers arerunning after her--"
"But," I said, for I had faith in Tilly, "they're all crazy about her.Don't you fret. That girl's the gamest girl I ever saw, Lafe. She cantake care of herself. Sure they run after her. They all want to marryher."
"Some of 'em do--yes--but--" he broke off and considered for a moment."Did I ever tell you how Bud Walton run it over that big Slim Terry? Hedone run him out of town. Slim was awful stuck on Tilly, too."
"What did Tilly do?"
"What could she do? She wouldn't believe it first when Bud told her.Then she swore most dreadful. She slapped Bud's face, too--a littlelater, this was."
A boy shoved his head inside the saloon and peered all about. It wasTurner's youngest son, an urchin of about twelve years.
"Say, Mr. Johnson," he piped, "Sam wants you over to the express officeright away. He says he cain't leave, so for you to come."
"All right, Tommy, boy. You run home quick and draw some water for yourma. Drag it, now." The head withdrew. "This ain't no place for a boy tobe round. Sam ought to have more sense. Wait here, Dan. I'll be back ina shake."
The sheriff rose and stretched himself, with a yawn. Then he went outand crossed the street.
Daniel Boone was blowing through his loose, thick lips, as he sorted thecards. The bartender read a much-thumbed letter, and I builded a fort ofmy pile of dominoes. We heard a firm, swift chink of spur rowels, andBud Walton strode into the Fashion.
"So," he said. "Now, I've got you."
The Sheriff of Badger: A Tale of the Southwest Borderland Page 8