The Sunset Trail

by Alfred Henry Lewis

  CHAPTER VIII

  AN INVASION OF DODGE

  After Mr. Masterson killed Messrs. Wagner and Walker, who murdered hisbrother Ed, the word of that bloodshed was not slow in reaching Texas.The tale, when told throughout those cow-camps whose hundred fireswinked along the Canadian, aroused an interest the fundamental elementwhereof was wrath.

  The tragedy deeply displeased all Texas people of cows. The deadgentlemen had been Texans. Mr. Masterson, on the exasperating otherhand, was an emanation of Illinois. That he was sheriff of Ford owned noimportance. That Messrs. Wagner and Walker had slain Mr. Masterson'sbrother and were killed while their hands were red was permitted to haveno weight. Cowboys are a volatile lot; they probe no question over-deep,surely none so commonplace as a question of homicide. Wherefore, inconnection with the blinking out of Messrs. Wagner and Walker, they ofTexas chose to consider only the Texas origin of deceased. Angry withthe injured vanity of tribe, they spake evil of Mr. Masterson and nursedvague feuds against him in their hearts.

  There was a Mr. Gato, just then riding for the Turkey Track. Mr. Gatowas neither old nor reputable. He is dead now, and the ravens andcoyotes have wrangled over his ignoble bones. Other Turkey Track boyscalled Mr. Gato the "Tomcat"--this latter to give his name in English.

  Mr. Gato was native of the Panhandle. Twenty-three years before, hisMexican father and Comanche mother had had a family row in selecting forhim a name. His mother desired to call him two or three Comanchegutterals which, when hyphenated, stand for Scorpion. It was a notionnot without merit; but his Mexican father objected, hence that householdjar. The padre of their church came finally to the rescue and led theclashing couple to "Patricio" as a compromise. The infant, howling likea pagan, was baptised "Patricio Gato." Next day everybody forgot allabout it as a thing of little consequence. As set forth, however, hismates of the ranges renamed Mr. Gato the "Tomcat." On second thought itmay be just as well to follow their example; the word will sound moreconvincing to American ears.

  If the Tomcat had been all Mexican or all Comanche this leaf might neverhave been written. But he was half Mexican and half Comanche, and theblend was unfortunate. The Tomcat, ignorant, vicious, furtive, savage,was upon an intellectual level with the wolf, and of impulses as secretand as midnight. Also, he was dominated of an inborn pride to shedblood. He had been withheld from feeding that pride by stress of therickety cross in his veins; he lacked the downright courage which wasthe enterprise's first demand.

  The riders of the Turkey Track were fairly aware of the Tomcat'scongenital depravity. In regions where there is but little of the law,as against a deal of the individual, men who would call themselvessecure must learn to estimate the folk about them. And they do. It wascommon knowledge, therefore, that the Tomcat was blood-hungry. It waslikewise known that his hardihood in no sort matched his crimsonappetite. As spoke Mr. Cook--a promising youth was Mr. Cook, and one wiseof his generation:

  "He'd admire to take a skelp, that Tomcat would, but he's shy the sand."

  This was Turkey Track decision, and, since it was so, the Tomcat wentvested of no personal terrors. He was not loved, but he was not feared;and his low standing in that community--if so sparse a thing as acow-camp may be thus described--of which he was a fameless unit, foundsuggestion in occasional sneers of more or less broadish point, thelatter contingent on the vivacious recklessness of the author in eachinstance.

  The Tomcat, during their lives, had not been numbered among the friendsof Messrs. Wagner and Walker. He was not possessed of even a drinkingacquaintance with those vanished ones. Indeed, he never so much as heardof their existence until he heard that they were dead. It is due theTomcat to say that this was chance and not because of any socialdelicacy on the part of the ones departed.

  Despite a lack of personal interest, while the Tomcat listened to thesour comments of those spurred and broad-brimmed ones of Texas as thestory of Mr. Masterson's pistol practice found relation, a thought tookstruggling shape in the narrow fastnesses of his wit. He would ridethose two hundred northward miles to Dodge and destroy Mr. Masterson.Throughout two seasons he had gone with the beef herds over the Jonesand Plummer trail, and, since the terminus of that thoroughfare lay inDodge, he knew the way.

  Also, at those beef times he had been given glimpses of Mr. Masterson,about the streets in his role of protector of the public peace. TheTomcat did not recall Mr. Masterson as one uncommonly dangerous. Heremembered him as of middle size and a tolerant, thoughtful eye. TheTomcat, when he thus gazed on Mr. Masterson, was somewhat thickened ofdrink. Still, had Mr. Masterson been more than usually perilous, thefact would have left some impress upon him, however steeped in rum. No;he was convinced that Mr. Masterson was not a problem beyond his powers.He would repair to Dodge and solve Mr. Masterson with his six-shooter.

  Whenever he should return to the Panhandle, bearing Mr. Masterson's hairupon his bridle-rein, the Tomcat foresaw how his status as one ofiron-bound fortitude would be thereby and instantly fixed. He would beplaced in the deadly foreground with such worthies as Doc Holiday,Shotgun Collins, Curly Bill and Soapy Smith. Poets would make versesabout him as they had about the sainted Samuel Bass, dance-hall maidenswould sing his glory in quavering quatrains. Thus dreamed the Tomcat onthe banks of the Canadian as he lay by a Turkey Track campfire, whilehis comrades declaimed of Mr. Masterson and the sorrowful taking off ofMessrs. Wagner and Walker, aforesaid. It was the Tomcat's vision offame; rude, bloody, criminal, but natural for the man and the day andthe land it grew among.

  It was in the hot middle hours of the afternoon. The Tomcat had comeinto camp bringing five cows with their unmarked offspring--this was thespring round-up. The five cows with their bawling children were throwninto the general bunch, which would start next day for the branding pen.

  Having gotten a mouthful at the grub-wagon the Tomcat thoughtfullywalked his tired bronco towards the band of ponies which thehorse-hustler was holding in the bottom grass that bordered theCanadian. There were eight riders with this particular outfit. Whereforethe band of ponies counted about sixty head, for each cowboy employsfrom seven to ten personal ponies in his labours and rides down three aday.

  The Tomcat's pregnant purpose formed the night before was in no sortabated; it had grown more clear and strong with the hours. It lookedsensibly feasible, too, as all things do when miles and weeks away. TheTomcat was wholly decided; he would ride to Dodge and collect the hairof the offensive Mr. Masterson. Likewise, since the idea improved uponhim pleasantly, he would start at once.

  In and out among the grazing ponies wound the Tomcat. At last hediscovered what he sought. He pitched the loop of his rope over the headof a little bay, with four black legs and an eye like the full-blownmoon.

  This pony had name for speed and bottom. He had come from the ranges ofthe Triangle-dot, whose ponies, as all the cow-world knows, have in thema streak of the thoroughbred. The one roped by the Tomcat, carrying athirty-pound saddle and a hundred-and-fifty-pound man, could put onehundred even miles behind him between dark and dark. He had never tastedanything better than mother's milk and grass and would have drawn backand hollyhocked his nostrils at an ear of yellow corn as though thatvegetable were a rattlesnake.

  As the Tomcat was shifting his saddle from the weary one to the ponyfreshly caught the horse-hustler came riding out from the shadow of acottonwood.

  "I wouldn't be in your saddle," observed the horse-hustler to theTomcat, busy over his girths, "for the price of fifty steers if JackCook crosses up with you on his little Shylock hoss." The name of thebay pony was the name of Shakespeare's Jew.

  Upon a round-up a cowpony has two proprietors. His title, doubtless, isvested in the ranch whose brand he wears. Body and soul, however, hebelongs to that cowboy to whom he is told off. Each boy has his string,and any other boy would as soon think of rifling that youth's warbags asriding one of his ponies without permission. The pony from whose neckstill hung the detaining lariat of the Tomcat had been detailed by theTurkey Track to the use a
nd behoof of Mr. Cook.

  "Jack said I could take him," returned the Tomcat as he leaped into thesaddle.

  This was a lie, but the horse-hustler never mistrusted. It was not thathe had faith in the veracity of the Tomcat, but he relied upon his wantof courage. Mr. Cook, while an excellent soul in the main, was prey torestless petulances. The horse-hustler did not believe that the Tomcatwould intromit with the possessions of Mr. Cook lacking that gentleman'sconsent. When Shylock was ready the Tomcat turned his nervous muzzletowards the north and was off at a cheerful road-gait.

  While scrambling up an arroya and pointing for the table-lands beyond,the Tomcat ran into Mr. Cook, picking his way towards the outfit'sevening camp. Mr. Cook was surprised at the picture of the Tomcatastride his sacred Shylock. The Tomcat appeared dashed, not to saydismayed, by the meeting.

  "What be you-all doin' on my Shylock?" demanded Mr. Cook, his hand notat all distant from the butt of his Colt's-45. "What be you-all doin' onmy Shylock?" he repeated. Then, as the Tomcat was not ready with anexplanation: "If you can't talk, make signs; an' if you can't makesigns, shake a bush!"

  Since a threat seemed to find lodgment in the manner of the choleric Mr.Cook, the Tomcat deemed it wise to be heard. Realising with a sigh thatmendacity would not clear the way, the Tomcat, in a cataract ofconfidence, imparted to Mr. Cook his scheme of vengeance against Mr.Masterson.

  "An' I ought to have a good pony, Jack," pleaded the Tomcat. "I may needit to get away on."

  When the Tomcat unfolded his plans to bring back the scalp of Mr.Masterson, Mr. Cook first stared and then went off into a gale oflaughter. He almost forgot his valued Shylock.

  "You bump off Bat Masterson!" he exclaimed. "Why, Tomcat, it needs thesharpest hand on the Canadian for that job, needs somebody as good asOld Tom Harris. Better go back to camp an' sleep it off. Bat Mastersonwould down you like cuttin' kyards."

  The Tomcat, however, did not waver. Relieved when he noted the mollifiedvein of Mr. Cook, he urged his claim for the Shylock pony.

  "Say 'yes,' Jack," said the Tomcat, "an' I'll be back in a month withthat Bat Masterson's top-knot dangling from Shylock's bits."

  "Well," remarked Mr. Cook, giving space in the arroya for the Tomcat topass, "onder the circumstances you-all can have Shylock. I don't feellike refusin' the last request of a dyin' man. Ride on, an' may yourluck break even with your nerve."

  The Tomcat went his northward path, but in the treacherous hollows ofhis heart he hated Mr. Cook. The Tomcat raged for that he could not facea white of the pure blood without turning craven to the bone. It wasthat recreant cross in his veins; he knew, but couldn't cure the defect.He could hold his own with a Comanche, he could bully a Mexican to astandstill, but his heart became the heart of a hare whenever the cold,gray-eyed gaze of one of clean white strain fell across him inhostility. Halted by the high-tempered Mr. Cook, the Tomcat had fairmelted in his saddle; and, while he gained his point and the pony, hiswolfish soul was set none the less on fire.

  "If I'd had two drinks in me I'd shot it out with him," considered theTomcat by way of consoling himself. "I'd have filled him as full of leadas a bag of bullets! After I come back I'll nacherally take a crack atJohnny Cook. He won't front up to me so plumb confident an' gala afterI've killed Bat Masterson."

  Dodge took no absorbing interest in the Tomcat. His kind was frequent inits causeways, and the Tomcat as a specimen owned no attributes beyondthe common save an inordinate appetite for liquor and a Ballard rifle.He could drink more whisky than was the custom of Dodge; also, theBallard attracted attention in a region where every fool used aWinchester and every wise man a Sharp's. But neither the Tomcat'scapacity for strong drink nor yet his rifle could hold public curiosityfor long, and within ten minutes after he strode into the Alhambra andcalled for his initial drink Dodge lost concern in him and turned to itsown affairs.

  The Tomcat, now he was in Dodge, seemed in little haste to search outMr. Masterson. This was in no wise strange; for one thing his Shylockpony needed rest. Shylock had been put in Mr. Trask's corral and,gorging on alfalfa, was bravely filling out the hollows of his flanks.

  The Tomcat decided that he would abide in Dodge two days before soundinghis warcry. Then, just as night was drawing, he would saddle up and huntthe obnoxious Mr. Masterson. Upon meeting that officer the Tomcat wouldshoot him down. His mission thus happily concluded, he would make aspurring rush Panhandleward. Once on the Canadian he need not fear forhis safety.

  Running the plan forward and back in what he called his mind, the Tomcatreflected on his coming glorious reward! His daring manhood should bethe theme on every lip! He would be called no more the "Tomcat," butgain rebaptism as the "Man who downed Bat Masterson!" The girls of thehurdy-gurdies would set his fame to music! Indeed, the Tomcat foresaw agorgeous picture when, returning to his native heath, he should wearlaurel as that stout one who, from the fame of Texas, had washed a stainaway. These matters ran like a millrace in the vainglorious thoughts ofthe Tomcat as he loafed about the barrooms of Dodge waiting for Shylockto recuperate and the moment of murder to ripely arrive.

  On occasion the Tomcat brushed by Mr. Masterson in the narrow walks ofDodge. But the Tomcat did not give his victim-to-be a look. There was asteadfastness in the stare of Mr. Masterson that was as disconcerting tothe Tomcat as had been the flinty eye of Mr. Cook when the latterbrought him to bay that evening in the arroya. Wherefore when they met,the Tomcat gazed up or down the street, but never once at Mr. Masterson,albeit there reposed beneath his belt the whiskey whose absence helamented when he quailed before the overbearing Mr. Cook.

  "Never mind!" gritted the Tomcat behind his teeth; "I'll try a shot athim if I swing for it."

  It was the day appointed by the virulent Tomcat for the downfall of Mr.Masterson. The Tomcat programmed the slaughter for that last moment whenthe setting sun should touch the hard, gray skyline. The Tomcat mightwant in mental depth, but he was clear concerning the value of night asa trail-coverer. Under the pressure of events to come, the Tomcat'scunning had been so far promoted that he even thought of riding out ofDodge to the north after Mr. Masterson had been successfullyobliterated. Then, when it was dark, he could swing to the south; notalong his trail, but his direction would be thus lost to whomsoevershould pursue. A hot all-night ride should bring him to the Cimarron.There he would be out of Kansas and into the Indian Territory, Texas andcelebration within easy fling. Now all this might have come to pass asthe slender wisdom of the Tomcat schemed it had it not been for theunexpected.

  It stood four for the hour with every honest clock in Dodge when theTomcat, killing time, came into the Alhambra. There, among otherattractions, he found a non-committal Mexican dealing monte.

  The Tomcat cast a careless dollar on the queen, and lost. A seconddollar vanished in pursuit of its predecessor. At that the Tomcat,holding Mexicans in cheap esteem, lifted up condemnatory voice.

  "This is a robbers' roost!" quoth the depleted Tomcat, "an' every gentin it is a hoss-thief!"

  Mr. Kelly, proprietor of the Alhambra, was present, dozing in a chair.The clamorous Tomcat aroused him with his uproar. It struck Mr. Kellythat the extravagance of the Tomcat's remark multiplied the insult itconveyed. Without ado Mr. Kelly arose and exhaustively "buffaloed" thatindividual.

  When an offender is "buffaloed" he is buffeted, shoved, choked,manhandled, and chucked into the street. Once on the sidewalk he iskicked until justice craves no more. In this instance the Tomcat wasexcessively "buffaloed," and at the close of the ceremony crawled to thecheap hotel wherein he had pitched his camp, there to nurse his bruisesand bind up his wounds.

  No, every violator of Western ethics is not "buffaloed." It is a methodof reproof reserved for folk who are of slight estate. When one is knownfor the sandstone sort of his courage and the dignified accuracy of hisgun, he is never "buffaloed." By his achievements he has raised himselfsuperior to such reprimand, just as a Sioux warrior may lift himselfabove the power of tribal judges to "soldier-kill" him for misde
meanors,by his prowess in the field. Only humble offenders are "buffaloed."Those whose eminence forbids the ordeal may be shot instead. When one istoo great to be "buffaloed" he is free to the gun of any man he injures.The law has abandoned him and his hand must keep his head. That theTomcat was disgracefully "buffaloed" may be accepted as evidence that hehad no respectful standing in Dodge.

  As stated, after he had been "buffaloed" the Tomcat withdrew to cure hisaches while Mr. Kelly modified his own fatigues with three fingers of anOld Jordan which he kept especially for himself. The Tomcat had been sodeeply "buffaloed" that he did not move from his blankets for two days.Thereby the taking off of Mr. Masterson was deferred. Indeed, thecurrent of the Tomcat's blood-desires found itself deflected. When heagain crept forth, his ambition to kill Mr. Masterson had beensupplanted by a vengeful wish to murder Mr. Kelly.

  No one should marvel at this. Mr. Masterson, according to the Tomcat,had injured only the Texas public. Mr. Kelly had come more nearly homewith injuries personal to the limping Tomcat himself. All men prefer aprivate to a public interest. It was but nature moving when the wrongedTomcat, forgetting Mr. Masterson, for whose hair he had come so far, nowgave himself heart and soul to how he might best spill the life of Mr.Kelly.

  After mature study, when now he was again abroad, the Tomcat coulddevise nothing better than to pull up his pony in front of the Alhambraat the hour of eight in the evening and attempt, from the saddle, to potMr. Kelly with the Ballard. The Tomcat banged away with the Ballard allhe knew, but the enterprise went astray in double fashion. The Tomcatmissed Mr. Kelly by a wide foot; also, he killed a girl whose mission ithad been to dance and sing in the Alhambra for public gratification.

  Shylock jumped sidewise at the flash, and the Tomcat, whose seat in thesaddle had not been strengthened by his troubles, was thrown upon hishead. Before he might recover the Dodge populace had piled itself abovehim, and the Tomcat was taken captive by twenty hands at once. He wouldhave been lynched, only Mr. Masterson charged into the press. With theTomcat held fast in one fist Mr. Masterson drew his six-shooter with theother and established therewith a zone of safety. Since Mr. Wright, whoacted as alcalde, was at leisure, Mr. Masterson haled the Tomcatinstantly before him.

  If one were writing fiction, one from this point would find opensailing. One would have nothing more difficult to do than empanel ajury, convict and swing off the Tomcat. In this relation, however, thereopens no such gate of escape. One must record a temporary good fortunethat fell to the share of the Tomcat.

  The Tomcat, somewhat a-droop, was brought into the presence of Mr.Wright, alcalde. Before a word might be said, a fusillade of pistolshots split the evening into splinters at the far end of the street. Twogentlemen were disagreeing; the dispute, audible to all in Dodge,aroused the liveliest curiosity. There befell a general stampede, everyman rushing towards the forum where debate was being waged.

  So universal was that sentiment of curiosity that it even swept thecareful Mr. Masterson from his official feet. He forgot for the noncethe Tomcat. He recovered himself only to learn that the Tomcat was gone.Our furtive one had slipped away in the hurly-burly, and sinceShylock--who had been left saddled in the street--was also absent, theassumption obtained that the two had departed together and were alreadyoverhauling the distant Panhandle at the rate of fifteen miles the hour.Disgruntled by what he looked upon as his own gross neglect Mr.Masterson threw a hurried saddle onto the best horse in Dodge andflashed southward after the Tomcat.

  Mr. Masterson was twenty minutes behind the hurrying Tomcat. Laid flaton the ground and measured, those twenty minutes, in the swallow-likeinstance of Shylock, would mean seven miles. Mr. Masterson cursed as heremembered this and considered how a stern chase is never a short chase.For all that Mr. Masterson was resolved, dead or alive, to have his managain.

  "I'll get him," said Mr. Masterson, "if I have to swing and rattle withhim from Dodge to the Rio Grande!"

  Mr. Masterson had an advantage over the Tomcat. He knew the country as abeggar knows his dish. At the end of the first three miles he struckinto a short cut to the left. His design was to outride the Tomcat andcut him off at the ford of the Medicine Lodge.

  Once in the side trail Mr. Masterson, like a good rider, disposedhimself in the saddle so as to save his horse; the latter--big andrangy--uncoupled into that long, swinging gallop which carries thefarthest because it is the easiest of gaits.

  "It is the foxy thing to head this party off," communed Mr. Masterson ashe swept along. "Once I'm in his front he ought to be sure. A flying mannever looks ahead."

  The white alkali trail spoke hard and loud beneath the horse'shoof-irons. There was a veil of cloud across the face of the sky. Thenthe west wind put it aside and the moon and the big stars looked down. Acoyote punctuated the stillness with its staccato song. A jackrabbitjumped up and went bustling ahead, never leaving the paper-white streakof trail that seemed to fascinate it. At last, breath gone and whollypumped, it had just instinctive sense enough to wabble a yard to oneside and escape being run down by the galloping horse. A band ofantelope brushed across in front like startled shadows. Mr. Mastersonwas not to be engaged by these earmarks of the hour and place; he mustreach the Medicine Lodge in advance of the Tomcat. Lifting his horse tothe work Mr. Masterson coaxed it through trail-devouring hours. Thenthere came an interference.

  It was midnight by the shining word of the moon when a low roaring,distant and muffled, like the beat of a million drums, broke on Mr.Masterson. It was up the wind and from the west.

  "What!" exclaimed Mr. Masterson aloud, and he pulled up his horse tolisten. "It's a good ways off as yet," he continued. "It must be ahummer to send its word so far." Then, patting his horse's neck: "Mysympathies will be all with you, old boy, when it reaches us."

  Over in the northwest a cloud came suddenly up with the swiftness of adrawn curtain. One by one it shut out like a screen the stars and themoon. Mr. Masterson was on the ground in the puff of an instant.

  "It'll detain him as much as it does me," thought Mr. Masterson, whosemind ran always on his quarry.

  Mr. Masterson took a pair of hopples from the saddle and fastened thefore fetlocks of his horse. Then he stripped off the saddle.

  "I'll leave you the blanket," remarked Mr. Masterson, "but I'm going toneed the saddle for myself."

  Mr. Masterson crouched upon the ground, making the saddle a roof tocover his head, the skirts held tight about his shoulders by the girths.The roar grew until from a million drums it improved to be a millionflails on as many threshing-floors. Mr. Masterson clawed thesaddleskirts tight as with a swish and a swirl the hailstorm was uponhim. The round hailstones beat upon the saddle like buckshot. Theyleaped and bounded along the ground. They showed of a size and hardnessto compare with those toys meant for children's games.

  Saved by the saddle, Mr. Masterson came through without a mark. Hishorse, with nothing more defensive than a square of saddle-blanket, hadno such luck. Above the drumming of the hailstones Mr. Masterson mighthear that unfortunate animal as, torn by mixed emotions of pain,amazement and indignation, it bucked about the scene in a manner thatwould have done infinite grace to a circus. A best feature of thehailstorm was that it did not last five minutes; it passed to the southand east, and its mutterings grew fainter and more faint with everymoment.

  The storm over, Mr. Masterson caught up his horse, which seemed muchsubdued of spirit by what it had gone through. As gently as might be--tohumour the bruises--he recinched the heavy saddle in its place.

  "Better keep you moving now, old boy," quoth Mr. Masterson, "it'll takethe soreness out. You needn't shout about it," he concluded, as thesorely battered horse gave a squeal of pain; "a hailstone isn't abullet, and it might have been worse, you know."

  Again Mr. Masterson stretched southward, and again the moon and starscame out to light the way. The storm had drawn forth the acridearth-smells that sleep in the grass-roots on the plains. To mix withthese, it brought a breath from the pine-sown Rockies four
hundred milesaway. These are the odours which soak into a man and make him forever ofthe West.

  It was broad day when Mr. Masterson rode down to the lonely ford of theMedicine Lodge. He sighed with relief as his hawk-eye showed him how noone had passed since the storm.

  "I'm in luck!" said he.

  Mr. Masterson hoppled his horse and set that tired animal to feed amongthe fresh green of the bottom. Then he unslung a pair of field-glasses,which he wore for the good of his office, and sent a backward glancealong the trail. Rod by rod he picked it up for miles. There was no onein sight; he had come in ample time.

  "I had the best of him ten miles by that cut-off," ruminated Mr.Masterson.

  Then Mr. Masterson began to wish he had something to eat. He might havefound a turkey in the brush-clumps along the Medicine Lodge. He mighthave risked the noise of a shot, being so far ahead. But Mr. Mastersondid not care to eat a turkey raw and he dared not chance a smoke; theTomcat would have read the sign for miles and crept aside. Mr. Mastersondrew his belt tighter by a hole and thought on other things thanbreakfast. It wouldn't be the first time that he had missed a meal, andwith that thought he consoled himself. It is an empty form ofconsolation, as one who tries may tell.

  "If there's anything I despise, it's hunger," said Mr. Masterson. He wasa desperate fork at table.

  Mr. Masterson lay out of view and kept his glasses on a strip five milesaway, where the trail ribboned over a swell. There, in the end, he foundwhat he sought; he made out the Tomcat, a bobbing speck in the distance.

  Mr. Masterson put aside his glasses and planted himself where he woulddo the most good. While concealed he still commanded the approach to theford. To give his presence weight Mr. Masterson had his sixteen-poundbuffalo gun.

  "As I remember this party," soliloquised Mr. Masterson, "I don't reckonnow he's got sense enough to surrender when he's told. And when I thinkof that little lady dead in Dodge I don't feel like taking many chances.I'll hail him, and if he hesitates, the risk is his."

  Thirty minutes had come and gone since Mr. Masterson, through hisglasses, followed the Tomcat down the far-off slope. Shylock, staunch aswhalebone though he was, had found the clip a killer. He was notcovering ground as in the beginning. There they were at last, the wearypony and the hunted man, both showing the wear and tear of pace.

  Ballard ready on his hip, the Tomcat, giving a nervous over-shoulderlook, brought Shylock to a walk. The broken pony came stumbling down tothe ford. Mr. Masterson, with his mighty buffalo gun, aroused himselffor official business.

  "Drop that rifle!" said Mr. Masterson.

  It was like a bolt from the blue to the spent and shaken Tomcat. Hecaught his breath in a startled way. Then, despair standing in the steadof courage, he tossed the Ballard into his left hand and fired,point-blank, at Mr. Masterson's face where it showed above the bank. Thebullet tossed the dust a yard to the left. Mixed bloods and Indians attheir best are but poor hands with a rifle, and the Tomcat was at hisworst.

  With the crack of the Ballard came the bellow of the Sharp's. The greatbullet, which would have torn its way through the vitals of abuffalo-bull at eight hundred yards, brought the Tomcat whirling fromthe saddle like a stricken wild duck. What with sheer weariness and aninadvertent yank at the Spanish bits as the Tomcat went overboard, poorShylock crossed his tired forelegs, tripped, blundered, and fell. Hecame down on the Tomcat; in the scramble to get to his feet Shylock fellupon the Tomcat again.

  Mr. Masterson slipped another cartridge into the buffalo gun. Then hewarily approached the Tomcat, muzzle to the fore, finger on the trigger.A dying man will sometimes pull a six-shooter with the last flicker ofhis failing strength, and snatch a vengeance as he quits the earth.

  Mr. Masterson seized the Tomcat by the shoulders and dragged him fromunder Shylock--still heaving and plunging to regain his feet. There wasno call for a second look; the experienced Mr. Masterson could tell bythe ash-colour struggling through the brown that the death-draw was onthe Tomcat at the very moment.

  The Tomcat, hiccoughing and bleeding, lay on the short stiff grass androlled a hateful eye on his executioner. Mr. Masterson, thinking on thegirl who died in Dodge, gave back a look as hateful. And this, in themidst of the lonesome plains, is what these two spoke to oneanother--these, the slayer and the slain, to show how bald is truth!

  "You blank-blanked-blankety-blank! you ought to have made a better shotthan that!" said the Tomcat. "Well, you blank-blanked murderer, I didthe best I could," said Mr. Masterson.

  Mr. Masterson, as he walked his horse over the hill upon which he hadfirst beheld the coming of the Tomcat, halted and looked back. Shylockof the empty saddle nosed up to Mr. Masterson's horse in a friendly way.Five miles to the south, on the banks of the Medicine Lodge, a ravenwheeled and stooped. Away to the west a coyote yelped; another yelped ananswer, and then another. Mr. Masterson shrugged his wide shoulders. Thecoyote by daylight makes gruesome melody.

  "The ground was too hard to dig a grave," said Mr. Masterson, as heturned his horse's head again towards Dodge, "even if I'd had the tools.Besides, I wasn't elected undertaker, but sheriff."