by Max Brand
No wonder that I remember the words, because I’ve seen them come true. And they will be truer still, in the future which is coming. Where there is healthy space, there will one day be healthy men. And the finest fruits of the West are not gold, silver, oranges, cattle, wheat, none of these, but men, and men of a type.
But this is getting ahead of myself, by a good space. I must go back to the dusty street of Piegan, on this day, with Colonel Riggs gripping my arm, and his words vibrating in my ears.
And, just as he finished talking, the stage driver came hurrying up and called to me:
“Hey, Poker-face!”
I turned around, feeling rather black. I never liked that name. But all the people of Piegan were fond of calling me by that and by none other. They felt that it showed their familiarity with me. Having first erected me into a sort of man-devouring monster, they got a lot of comfort out of calling me by an insulting nickname. Every fool in the town felt at liberty to use that name on me, though I would rather have been struck with the lash of a black-snake.
“I’ve got a telegram for you,” said he. “It come in at the other end of the line. It ain’t so often that I have to carry telegrams, Poker-face. I hope that it brings you a lot of luck.”
I ripped it open and read:
DELIGHTED TO HEAR OF YOUR ADVENTURES STOP HAVE URGED STEVEN TO GO OUT WEST AND JOIN YOU STOP HE WILL ARRIVE THERE SHORTLY AFTER THIS STOP DO TAKE CARE OF HIM. BETTY
CHAPTER XXIV. THE DETECTIVE
THERE WAS ONLY one good thing in that wire — that was the signature. She might have used both her names for that, and I was mighty glad that she had signed with only one.
But the rest of the telegram was poison. Steven Cole! Why should I have that blighter on my hands? I wanted to bite through an inch plate of steel, and I felt I could.
Then I looked up, and saw by the far-away look in the colonel’s eyes that he had read that telegram over my shoulder. That was almost too much for me. If he had been twenty years younger, I would have plastered him on the spot. As it was, I swallowed hard and put the telegram back into my pocket.
“Nothing wrong, Poker-face?” said the stage driver.
I wanted to knock him down, too. But he didn’t mean to be curious, or prying. He was simply showing a friendly, neighborly interest! They are like that in the West.
I told him that it was the best sort of news, and he looked relieved, and went off.
But the colonel said: “You can’t deceive me, Jerry. And if the news is really bad, you always know that you can count on me.”
“How did you know it was bad news?” I asked him point-blank. “Do you read minds, or just telegrams?”
That was a little too poisonous for him. He sheered off from me and gave me a parting bit of advice. He was full of advice, was the colonel, particularly on selling points!
“A fellow with your capabilities, Jerry,” said he, “ought to mind his temper more strictly. However, I’m the most forgiving man in the world. Drop in and see me, one of these days, will you?”
He sauntered off down the street in the opposite direction, and I went on, very gloomy, very down on my luck. Steven Cole was a waster, a spender, and too wild for the length of his wings. I didn’t want him. I had my hands full with my rickety heart, and my giddy, foolish position in that town.
So I went along in a brown study, and I had just passed the entrance of the general-merchandise store when a voice barked behind me:
“Hands up, Ash!”
I didn’t put up my hands, but I turned around. And there I saw a bull in the middle of the sidewalk, his feet a good bit spread, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed for the kill. He had a pale face. He wore a derby hat. I knew in a flash that he didn’t belong to this part of the world and that he had traveled a long distance for the pleasure of introducing himself to me.
“Stick up those hands, Ash!” he commanded. “Stick ’em up fast, or I’ll drill you!”
He meant it. I never heard more honest meaning in any man’s voice, and I gathered from it that the reward on me would be paid whether I were turned in dead or alive!
But still I failed to put up my hands. I just smiled at him, and kept my staggering heart in order and straightened it out again. I could afford to be calm, for in the doorway of the store, just behind the detective, appeared the big, capable body of Harry, with a pair of leveled Colts in his hands. I never saw a more handsome fellow, as it seemed to me, than Harry as he appeared at that moment.
He said: “Shall I blow his head off, Poker-face?”
“Don’t hurt him, Harry,” said I. “He doesn’t know where he is.”
That bull was game.
“You — behind me!” he snapped. “I’m Detective Charles Richardson, of New York City. I have a warrant for this man’s arrest.”
Said Harry: “I’m Harry Blossom, of Piegan, and you’ll have to go to hell and back before you serve that warrant on Poker-face.”
Richardson lifted his head a little, when he heard this. And, at the same time, three or four men slipped out from the store and stood close around him.
“I’m an officer of the law,” said poor Richardson. “I’ve got a warrant for that man’s arrest. What sort of a plant is this?”
“You may be an officer of the law,” said a fellow I failed to recognize, “but you’re a fool, too.”
“Don’t hurt him, boys,” I begged them. “Just take his gun away.”
There was not much of a struggle. Those fellows understood how to conduct the sort of an operation that I had asked for. They grabbed the arms of Charles Richardson in three or four places and took the short-nosed revolver out of his hand.
He spoke quietly. I saw by his quiet that he was a quiet man.
“Is there a sheriff in this town? I understand that there’s a sheriff in the place, boys?”
“He wants to see the sheriff, Poker-face,” said Harry to me. “What about it?”
“Well, why not?” said I.
They all laughed, tickled with the idea.
“That’s good,” said they. “He wants to see the sheriff. All right, we’ll take him to the sheriff!”
And straight off they led him to the man he had asked for. I went along with him, and on the way I thanked Harry for what he had done.
“He ought to do the thanking,” said Harry. “If the fool had pulled trigger, he would ‘a’ been burned alive.”
“What sort of a town is this?” asked Richardson of me.
“This is Piegan,” said I. “It’s a town that’s worth knowing.”
He gave me a keen look, and said no more. And just then we arrived at the sheriff’s place. It was simply a shack thrown up on a vacant lot. In due time, the sheriff would have his office in the courthouse, of course. This was an impromptu affair.
When we walked in, we found the sheriff tilted back in his chair with his spurred boots crossed on top of a table that was composed of a pair of planks set across a couple of sawbucks. He had his five-gallon hat on. The peak of it was all that we could see above the top of the newspaper that he was reading.
As he heard us coming in, he lowered the newspaper, and looked us over, and shifted the toothpick from one side of his face to the other. A better hand with horse, gun, or rope never forked a saddle than Sheriff Lew Dennis. He was an honest man, too. He never had cheated at cards, never had changed a brand, and his word was better than another man’s bond. The whole range knew the truth of this.
Why did the colonel want him as sheriff of Piegan? Partly because Dennis would enforce law and order, and partly because his knowledge of law was strictly limited by his friendships and his enmities. The code of Dennis was the simplest in the world. It consisted of a profound conviction that his enemies could do no good, and his friends could do no harm.
Now, then, Piegan as a town was the sheriff’s friend. Piegan had elevated him to a warm and easy job — a lazy hero was Dennis — Piegan had given him a brace of building lots, and Piegan did not work him ove
rtime. As for the duty of picking up a few crooks, now and then, running a gambler out of town, or quelling a drunken gunman, Dennis hardly looked upon such things as work. They seasoned the day with pleasure and diversity.
In appearance, he was one of those leathery fellows whose necks are seamed and cross-seamed with crimson wrinkles, sharp-edged and deep, and about the eyes and the mouth there was a pattern of smaller wrinkles. He was big in the body and lean in the face, with a great nose, and the largest pair of ears I ever saw, except for those worn by Maker’s lieutenant, Swede.
This was the fellow who lowered the newspaper and looked us over.
“Hello, everybody. Hello, Poker-face,” said he. “Who’s your friend?”
“I’m Detective Charles Richardson of New York City,” said the bull. “If you’re sheriff of this county, I appeal to you to arrest Jeremiah Ash, here present, on a warrant which I have in my possession.”
Some of the boys looked a trifle worried, as they listened to this formal language. But the sheriff merely thrust out his lower jaw a little, so that the toothpick slowly rose to a sharp angle, while his expressionless eyes remained fastened upon the face of Richardson.
“That’s all mighty interestin’,” said he. “Lemme have a look at what you got. Leave go of him boys.”
When Richardson was released, he drew out a wallet, and while he was taking the thing from his pocket, he looked narrowly into the faces of the men around him. He bore malice, did Richardson, and that’s a bad thing to hold against a crowd.
Then the sheriff handled the warrant, and opened it, and looked it over.
“Looks mighty legal and right,” he declared. “How does it look to you boys?”
He handed the paper to Harry. And Harry handed it to another. I could guess what would come of that warrant.
“Here’s a photograph that lets on to be a picture of Jeremiah Ash,” said the sheriff. “But I dunno that I recognize the face.”
“It’s a perfect likeness,” said Richardson. “A blind man could feel the resemblance!”
His color was rising. Perhaps he began to guess what he was in for.
“Well, boys,” said the sheriff, “what you think of this? Does it look like Poker-face, or don’t it? I’d say don’t, speakin’ personal.”
It was wonderful to see the way the boys kept their faces straight as they turned over from one to another that photograph and squinted at it, and raised it to the light, and shook their heads. It was a perfect likeness, as Richardson had said, but that made no difference to the crowd.
“What you got him charged with in that warrant?” said the sheriff, in a gentle drawl, putting his elbows on his plank table, and laying his red chin on one fist.
“Why, man,” exclaimed the detective, “this is the Jerry Ash who committed the famous Cole robbery in New York City. We’ve combed the country for him. There’s five thousand dollars on his head, right now! And I’d split the sum with you, sheriff,” he added suddenly, as though feeling that the time had come for him to make some concessions.
The sheriff said nothing, for a moment, but looked calmly, blankly at Richardson.
“There’s a chance of picking up twenty-five hundred dollars for ten minutes’ work, Lew,” said Harry, soberly.
“Yeah,” said one of the other fellows, “twenty-five hundred would give you a pretty good start for that ranch you’ve always wanted.”
And another added: “The money bein’ a mite speckled with blood, that wouldn’t matter. It would wash off, I reckon.”
“Why, right you are, boys,” said Lew Dennis, very soberly, nodding at them one by one. “I wouldn’t mind twenty-five hundred dollars, either. But lemme see that photograph, again.”
No one had it. Of course I had expected that. A dull red rose over the cheeks of poor Richardson. But he said nothing.
“Somebody dropped it?” asked Dennis plaintively.
“Maybe the wind blew it out a crack,” said Harry.
“A man went through the door, just now, and you know it!” snapped Richardson.
“Who was it?” asked the sheriff.
“I didn’t see nobody,” said one of the fellows.
“Neither did I,” said another.
“It’s a dirty frame on me,” said Richardson, snarling. “Gimme back the warrant, and I’ll”
“Who’s got that warrant?” asked the sheriff.
No one answered.
Richardson began: “If that warrant has been destroyed, there’ll be”
“There’ll be hell to pay!” declared the sheriff severely. “I’ll be dog- goned if I’ll stand for having a warrant destroyed around my office. You boys search one another and try to find it, will you?”
They went through the mockery under the eyes of Richardson, who was boiling with rage.
“This is a penitentiary offense, and if you don’t know it, I’m telling you,” he said to the sheriff. “You’ve allowed that warrant to fall into the hands of the man who left this room a minute ago — a man with a red and white bandanna and the look of a man about”
“I’d hate to go to jail for losing a warrant, mister,” said the sheriff. “But the fact is that I didn’t lose it. Somebody else done this. Boys, ain’t I right?”
“I’ll have you behind bars for this outrage, Dennis!” shouted Richardson, beginning to tremble like a fighting bull terrier.
“He’ll have me behind the bars,” said the sheriff, shaking his head with a pretense of sorrow. “I guess I’d better go out and try to find that fellow.”
He stood up to his full height — some four or five inches over six feet.
“Mighty sorry about this, Richardson,” he said. “Say, some of you boys try to entertain Richardson till I get back, will you?”
“Sure!” said the chorus.
“I’ll go with you,” said Richardson.
“No,” said the sheriff. “It’s mighty windy and dusty, outside. And the sun’s pretty strong, too. So long, Richardson. Hope I’ll be seein’ you in a little while.”
Richardson tried to go after him, but he was caught by a dozen strong hands and numbed by the grip of them. At the door, the sheriff turned, apparently oblivious of the curses of the prisoner.
“Say, Poker-face,” said Dennis. “Might be that you could be a lot of help to me, searchin’ for that warrant. You got a good pair of eyes, and you certainly oughta be able to recognize your own name on the paper!”
A hearty roar of laughter greeted this remark, and I waited on the threshold of the place until the noise had died down. Then I said:
“Boys, if Richardson should want to take a little ride out of town and see the country”
“He’s just been saying that that’s what he wants to do,” said Harry, grinning.
“You lie!” shouted Richardson.
“If you take him out,” said I, “easy does the trick, partners. Remember that. Easy does the trick!”
CHAPTER XXV. COLE’S ARRIVAL
WHEN WE WERE outside the sheriff’s office, he said to me: “I reckon that you owe me a drink, Poker-face.”
“I forgot about that,” said I.
We marched across to Riggs’s bar, where Dennis had whisky, and I sipped ginger ale and tried to like it.
I remember that he watched me with curious eyes.
“It’s too bad, kid,” he said at last.
“What’s too bad?” I asked him.
“Too bad that you’ve got in so deep, at your age, too,” he declared.
“You mean that Cole business?” said I. “I’ll tell you about it. The fact is that”
“Oh, not the Cole business,” said he. “But all the rest.”
He waved his hand.
“I mean that you’re in so deep that you don’t dare to have a drink, even with a friend, not even in a town where a hundred guns would be out the minute trouble came your way. But still you can’t trust to luck. You can’t risk getting fog in your brain. You’ve got to have that shooting hand of yours alway
s ready to do its best. I’ve seen ’em before, like you, but I never seen anybody get there so young.”
And he shook his head, and sighed, and looked at me with an eye of sympathy, and a trace of awe.
Just then there was a great whooping and shouting, and we went to the swinging doors and peered over them in time to see Detective Richardson escorted at a gallop down the middle of the street by a screeching band of riders.
I grinned a little, I admit. And yet I was sorry for that fellow, too. I had an idea that he was made of the proper iron and that I would see him again, before very long. And I was right!
I have put in this incident in a good deal of detail because I wanted to give a picture of the peculiar conditions under which I lived in Piegan. To a degree, I was a marked man, but I was not marked in the way that the town thought. Between my odd adventures, and the care I had to take of my heart, and the coming of Richardson for my scalp, my reputation was built up like a tower which I expected to see crash, any moment.
I would have been rather glad if it had, no matter how high the dust flew. For it seemed that no matter what I did, it redounded to make me seem more and more of a desperado, a man-killer. The coming of Richardson was a sufficient proof, in the eyes of the town. It seemed to Piegan, after that, that the whole country wanted me, to put me in jail, and Piegan set its teeth and told the rest of the country where to go. That town felt that I was its pet gunman, and the bright, particular jewel of its crown.
Well, a couple of days after this, it developed that there was no fear of the population of Piegan slipping away to the copper claims at Makerville, because the townsmen of that place had staked out every inch of the territory around them, and the boys who had ridden over to take pot luck, came back without a thing to show for their journey.
Makerville settled down to being a copper-mining center; Piegan contented itself with being the county seat. Real estate was its treasure trove.