by Elmer Kelton
This was exactly the frame of mind of young Red Moffet. He had seen an Easterner, a tenderfoot, a minister, walk into Billman and promise to carry away the prettiest girl in the entire town. He had stopped that proceeding with the might of his good right arm, and now all glory, all reward was denied him!
He jammed his hat upon his head and set his teeth. He was, indeed, furious enough to have torn out the heart of his best friend and thrown it to the dogs.
He was known in Billman, was young Red Moffet. And when he was in such a humor, it would have been hard to hire a man to cross his way. But Fate, who insists on shuffling the cards and dealing the oddest hands, now drew the worst deuce in the pack and presented it to Red Moffet.
For Ben Holman had come back to town that day. He had been angered by the wrath of Red Moffet; and since he was only one-third wildcat and two-thirds sneak, he had vowed to himself that never would he cross the path of that dreadful destroyer of men. There had been sundry killings in the past of Ben Holman himself, but always he had shot or knifed from behind. That allowed him to take better aim and keep a cooler head. Whereas when he stood confronting another puncher who wore a gun, he discovered at once that his heart was out of sorts.
But now the good news came to him that Red had put down the minister, for the reputed reason that the minister needed putting down if Red was to keep his girl, pretty Astrid Vasa. Ben Holman knew Astrid by sight and he felt that the man who had won her back would be so completely happy that he would forget all past enmities—even his hatred of those who had officiated at the killing of poor Chuck Lane.
At any rate, Ben was something of a gambler, the kind who always likes short odds. And what odds could be shorter than these? He determined to return to Billman and try his luck in appeasing Mr. Red Moffet before a gun could be drawn on him.
These were the reasons which drew Ben back to the town. They were good reasons; they were well thought out; they were well founded. If he had come half an hour earlier, all would have been well.
But at this very worst of moments, as he turned the corner of the street, young Red Moffet came straight upon Holman, riding toward him and not twenty feet away.
There was no time for thinking. Holman screeched like a frightened cat and whipped out his gun with the desperation of any cornered wild thing. He actually got in the first shot, and it lifted the hat of Red Moffet and sent it sailing into the air. Red Moffet got in the second shot. And he did not miss. His bullet struck Ben Holman in the throat, tore his spinal column in two, and dropped him in a shapeless heap on the farther side of his horse. Then Red Moffet went out with his smoking gun and saw what he had done.
He felt no pangs of conscience. He was merely relieved, and sighed a little, as though he had gotten something out of his system. Then he straightened out his victim, put the latter’s sombrero over his face, and hired half a dozen passing Mexicans to carry Ben to the burying grounds just outside the village.
Perhaps twenty men had been interred there under similar circumstances. Red Moffet had sent two there himself. But since he had always paid the price of the ground and the price of the burial, nothing had been said, and this time he expected not the slightest trouble.
He had simply done his duty by Chuck Lane—that thorough, good fellow—and having eased his conscience, what call was there for any further excitement about the matter?
But Fate, as has been said, is a tricky lady who loves to mix the cards and deal the unexpected. There was hardly a soul in Billman who cared whether Ben Holman lived or died. His reputation was not much more savory than the reputation of a coyote, or any other sneaking beast of prey And everyone knew that Red Moffet shot from in front, waited for the other man to fill his hand, and was, in addition, a hardworking and honest member of the community However, it happened that Red had, in fact, turned this trick before. And there is nothing more annoying to an audience than to have an actor return to the stage to sing his song over again when there has been no applause to warrant an encore. Red’s last shooting exploit was hardly three months old. And the news about Holman’s death touched the nerves of Billman’s citizens in a sensitive spot.
Killing in the cow-country is a diversion to be forgiven any man now and then. But it should never be allowed to become a mere habit.
It looked as though Red had formed the habit.
More than this, hardly twenty-four hours ago he had manhandled the minister. When you came to think of it, the said minister had done no harm. As a matter of fact, he had been a useful and quiet member of the community. Reputations die quickly in a mining town, as elsewhere. But Ingram had built that hospital very recently. And there were a number of convalescents around the town at that moment. They did not take kindly to the roughing of their benefactor. And now they listened somberly to this new tale of violence.
A Western town usually makes up its mind quickly. As a matter of fact, often it doesn’t stop to make up its mind before it acts.
Now Dick Binney the deputy sheriff, had no love for Red Moffet. But he knew Red and he knew Ben Holman, and he no more thought of arresting the former for the killing of the latter than he would have thought of arresting a man for the killing of a prowling wolf on the streets of the town.
Eight tall, strong, brown-faced men strode into Dick’s office and sat down in his chairs, on his desk, and in the window.
‘Dick,’ they said, ‘we reckon that maybe you better put Red up where he’ll be safe to cool off for a while. He’s runnin’ up the death rate near as bad as smallpox.’
Dick Binney looked from one face to another, and after a few moments’ thought he nodded.
‘Boys,’ said he, lying cheerfully, ‘I was thinking the same thing.’
He got up and left his office, and the big men followed him at a distance. The deputy came on Red Moffet, cheerfully chucking stones at a squirrel which was up a tree.
‘Red’ said he, ‘I hate to do this, but I got to ask you to come along with me.’
While he spoke, he tapped Red lightly on the shoulder.
‘Come along with you where?’ asked Red savagely. ‘What you talkin’ about, man?’
‘To jail, for a rest,’ said the deputy sheriff.
‘To jail?’ said Red Moffet. ‘What’s the funny idea?’
And he added vigorously: ‘For what?’
‘For the killing of Ben Holman.’
‘It’s dirty work on your part,’ said Red Moffet in anger. ‘You know that Holman has been due to be bumped off for a long time, and the only thing that saved him was that nobody wanted to waste a bullet on an insect like him.’
‘Sure,’ agreed the deputy. ‘You never said nothin’ truer. Matter of fact, Red, I ain’t been no friend of yours, but I would never have arrested you for killin ‘Ben. Only public opinion, it sort of demands this.’
‘Public opinion can go hang,’ said Red.
‘Sure,’ grinned Dick Binney ‘But when there’s eight public opinions wearing guns, all of’em, it’s sort of different, don’t you guess?’
He hooked a thumb in the proper direction, and Red Moffet became aware of eight good men and true, in various careless attitudes. Red had a practiced eye, and with one glance he counted eleven revolvers and three rifles. Those were the weapons which were displayed for public notice. Undoubtedly there were others concealed.
‘Well,’ agreed Moffet, ‘it looks like you got some reason in what you say. Maybe I’ll come along with you!’
Down the street they went.
‘This is gunna be talked about, Dick,’ said Red Moffet. ‘It’s gunna be said that I’m no good, if I let myself be arrested without strikin’ a blow.’
Dick Binney, walking beside him, nodded in ready agreement.
‘That’s true,’ said he. ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’
Red halted.
‘I’m afraid,’ said he, ‘that I can’t let you take me without shooting for the prize, old-timer.’
‘Hold on, Red,’ said the deputy s
heriff, ‘if I was to kill you just now—hatin’ your innards the way I do and me being sheriff—it would be all right. But if you was to kill me—well, you know how things go with a gent that kills a sheriff?’
Red Moffet nodded gravely.
‘I know’ said he. ‘You sure are playing the part of a white man to me today, Dick. If I didn’t hate you for a low skunk, I’d figure you to be one of the best.’
‘I’ll shoot your innards out, one of these days,’ said Binney’but I ain’t gunna take advantage of you now. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll put a hand on your shoulder. You knock it off. I’ll make a pass at you with my fist and we’ll close and grapple and start fighting as though we’d forgot all about our guns. Y’understand? The rest of the boys’ll think that you’re resisting arrest. They’ll come run-nin ‘up and you can afford to give up to eight armed men without losing no dignity’
‘Sure,’ agreed Red Moffet. ‘Dick, I pretty near love you when I see what a wonderful head you got on your shoulders!’
With that, Dick clapped a hand upon the shoulder of his companion. The hand was promptly knocked off; and Mr. Binney made the promised pass at his companion with his fist. However, he did not merely fan the air. He had a hard and ready fist and he cracked it squarely along the side of Mr. Moffet’s jaw. The hair rose on the crown of Red’s head. ‘You hound dog!’ he grunted.
And with that, he lifted a hearty uppercut from his toes to the chin of the deputy sheriff.
It was only by good luck that the deputy did not fall on his back. If he had done so, eight good men and true who were rushing down the street toward the fighters would have shot Red so full of holes that he would have looked in death like nothing but a colander. But by happy chance the deputy sheriff fell in and not out. He pitched into the arms of Red, who caught and held him, and they pretended to wrestle back and forth, the deputy sheriff groaning: ‘You hit me with a club, you sap!’
In the midst of this struggling, the rescue party arrived, and quantities of guns were shoved under Red’s nose. He pushed his hands into the air with a reluctance which was only partly assumed.
‘You seem to have the drop on me, boys,’ said Red. ‘What might you be wanting of me? A invitation to call, or something like that?’
‘He ought to get what Chuck Lane got, the darned man-killer,’ said one harsh voice. ‘Resists arrest, and everything! Lucky that we were on deck!’
‘Lucky nothing!’ declared the deputy sheriff, who was able to walk without staggering at about this moment. ‘I was beating him to a pulp for my own pleasure before lockin’ him up. Come along to the jail, Red, or I’ll knock your block off!’
So, with a volunteer guard of honor, Red was escorted down the street and installed in the jail of which Billman was so proud. He was given the most comfortable quarters that the little building could afford, and Binney sat down outside his door and chatted with him, tenderly rubbing his jaw the while.
‘When you get out of this, Red,’ said the deputy sheriff, ‘I’m gunna beat you to a fare-thee-well! But in the meantime, I’ll try to make you comfortable here!’
XII
The Seventh Day
It is so unpleasant to dwell on the miseries which beset the mind of young Ingram that we may skip to the moment when Vasa leaned against the post of his door, saying: ‘Hello, Ingram! Here I am back again. Am I welcome?’
There was an uncertain murmur from Ingram in reply.
‘No,’ declared the unabashed giant, ‘I can see that I ain’t, but still I ain’t downhearted. I can’t afford to be. But the fact is, old man, that you’ve cut up my girl a good deal. I’ve had to come along and try to make peace with you for her sake. What chance do you think I have?’
‘Peace? With me?’ asked the minister bitterly. ‘But of course, that’s a jest. I am a man of peace, Mr. Vasa. I thought that I had proved that to the entire town!’
The blacksmith felt the bitterness in this speech. He could think of nothing better to say than: ‘Well, Ingram, folks are getting pretty sorry for what’s happened. I suppose you know what they’ve done to Red Moffet just now?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the minister, turning pale at the mere sound of the man’s name.
‘They’ve locked him up in jail! For what he done to you—and for killing Ben Holman!’
‘Did he kill a man?’ asked the minister slowly.
‘Shot him dead.’
‘However,’ said Ingram, ‘it was in fair fight, I presume?’
‘What made you guess that?’ asked the blacksmith.
‘Because I thought that he was that kind of a man.’
‘As a matter of fact, you’re right. It was a fair fight. And that Holman was a hound. But still—we’ve stood for too much from Red. He’s got to have a lesson. But I thought that I’d ramble up here and ask you about sis. Are you through with her for good and all, Ingram?’
The minister was silent.
‘Think it over,’ suggested Vasa. ‘That girl is all fire and impulse. She’s probably got ten ideas a minute, and nine out of the ten are wrong. Think it over, and let her know later on what you decide.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ingram.
Mr. Vasa felt very uncomfortable. He began to perspire freely, and finally he stood up and left. He hurried down the street as though to leave a sense of unpleasantness as far as possible in the rear.
Reginald Ingram was not cheered by this embassy. He had fallen so far into the depths of shame that he felt nothing could bring him back to self-respect. But now he began to torment himself in a new manner. Red Moffet was in jail. Was it his duty as a Christian to go to see his enemy?
The thought made him writhe. And in the midst of his writhings, Friar Pedrillo appeared. He was filled with news and, in particular, he could detail all that had happened concerning the arrest of Moffet.
‘The evil are punished,’ said the Dominican. ‘And now Red Moffet is crouching in jail in fear of his life.’
‘Do you think that they would hang him for what he has done?’ asked Ingram, half sad and half curious.
‘Not by process of law,’ replied the friar. ‘They can’t convict him with a Billman jury for having killed Ben Holman, who was a known scoundrel. But there is another danger for poor Red.’
‘Another danger?’
‘Yes, of course. There’s the mob, you know.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will, if you go downtown this evening. There’s a whisper going about the town, and I think that after dark there will be a good many people grouping around the jail and planning to take Red out and hang him up.’
‘Wait a moment,’ cried Ingram. ‘I thought that Red Moffet was popular in this town?’
‘Six days a week, he is,’ said the Dominican. ‘But on the seventh you may find his enemies in the saddle, and this seems to be the seventh day’
With that, Brother Pedrillo left, and Ingram found himself plunged into a melancholy state in which he was lost for the remainder of the day.
But when the evening drew on, he knew what he must do. He must go to the jail and be near when the crisis came. Exactly what prompted him to go, he could not tell. He could not honestly say that he wished big Moffet well. And yet—
As he walked down the street, he told himself that he would, at any rate, try to do what he could for the prisoner, in case of mob violence. When he reached the vicinity of the jail, he found a swarm of people of all sorts and all ages. And every one of them had one topic on his lips—the name and the fate of Red Moffet, who was now waiting in the jail for his end.
The minister went through the crowd like a ghost; it seemed that no one had eye or ear for him. He was an impalpable presence, not worthy of being noticed.
It was a strange crowd, gathering in little knots here and there, talking in deep, grave voices. Now and again, Ingram heard some louder, more strident voice. When he listened, it was sure to be someone recalling some evil act on the part of Moffet, some episod
e in Red’s past which had to do with guns and gore.
The minister went to the jail, where he found the door closed and locked. When he knocked, a subdued voice inside said: ‘It’s the minister. It’s Ingram.’
‘Let him in, then,’ said another voice.
The door was opened just enough for him to slip through and, as he did so, there was a rush from the street behind him. But the door was swung shut with a crash, before anyone got to the spot.
Outside there were curses loud and long, and a beating on the door by men who demanded entrance at once.
Inside, Ingram found the deputy sheriff and two others, a pale-faced group, who looked gloomily at him.
‘What you want here, Ingram?’ asked Dick Binney ‘Have you come to crow over Red Moffet?’
‘No,’ said Ingram quietly. ‘But I’d like to talk to him, if I may’
‘Go on straight down the aisle. You’ll find him there.’
Down the aisle went Ingram, and behind the bars of a cell he saw, among the shadows, the form of a man, his face illumined faintly, now and then, by the red pulsation of light as he puffed at a cigarette.
‘Moffet?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Who’s that?’
‘Reginald Ingram.’
‘You’ve come over to see the finish of me, I suppose?’
‘I’ve come over to pray for you, man,’ said Ingram.
‘What on earth!’ cried Red Moffet. ‘D’you think that I want prayers from a whining yellow mongrel of a sky pilot?’
Ingram lurched at the bars of the cell. He gripped them and hung close, breathing hard, a raging fury in his blood and brain. The man in the cell stepped closer to the bars, in turn.
‘Why,’ he said, ‘it seems sort of irritatin’, does it, when I call you by name?’
‘God sustain me!’ said Ingram. Then he added: ‘A mob fills the street, Moffet. When they rush this place, I don’t think that the sheriff and his two companions will stand very long against them. And now that you have come to this desperate time, Moffet, I want to know in what way I can serve—’