The Sunset Trail

by Alfred Henry Lewis

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE LAST VISIT TO DODGE

  There was a County Seat war between the towns of Cimarron and Ingalls,and it was in the final phases of that involvement the historian firsthears of Mr. Masterson's brother Jim. Those differences between Cimarronand Ingalls carried interesting features. Not a least of these was thedeath of Mr. Prather at Mr. Tighlman's positive hands. The latter exactpersonage was a citizen of Dodge. Being, however, one who resentednarrowisms and to whom any "pent up Utica" was as the thing unbearable,Mr. Tighlman permitted himself an interest in that Gray Countycontention and, since Cimarron was the natural-born enemy of Dodge,sympathized with Ingalls.

  This sentiment on Mr. Tighlman's part did not meet with the approbationof Mr. Prather, who was a partisan of Cimarron, and when the formerappeared at the special election called to settle the question, Mr.Prather--to employ a childish phrase--fell into a profound pout. Mr.Tighlman's attendance meant nothing beyond a desire to humour hiscuriosity and flatter that interest which possessed him in favour of anIngalls success. Mr. Prather, however, in his jealousy for Cimarron,construed it differently and pulled his gun.

  Being alert and sensitive, and having had his nerves sharpened byperilous experiences, Mr. Tighlman was instantly aware of this hostiledemonstration. As corollary, his own gun left its scabbard coincidentwith that of Mr. Prather, the result being a weakening of the Cimarroncause by the loss of one. There was no criticism of Mr. Tighlman; forthe best belief of folk ascribed a first wrong step to the vanished Mr.Prather. The common feeling was summed up by an onlooker who spokewithout prejudice. He said:

  "Prather reached for his six-shooter, an' Billy"--meaning Mr.Tighlman--"beat him to it. That's all thar was to the fuss."

  The county records were in Cimarron, which had been _de facto_ theCounty Seat. Ingalls came forth of the election victor, and many heldthat the taking off of Mr. Prather in its moral effect had much to dowith bringing the triumph about. It may have been this thought thatsuggested to Ingalls the enlistment of Mr. Tighlman's services when,following the election and in defiance of that ballot decision then andthere obtained, Cimarron scoffed at every mention of surrendering therecords. Those marks of county authority were the property of Ingalls.What cared Cimarron for that? Cimarron snapped thumb and finger beneaththe Ingalls nose! It scorned the election and contemned the result! IfIngalls wanted those records, Cimarron, furbishing up its firearms,would admire to see it get them.

  Florence in the fourteenth century retained the military genius of SirJohn Hawkwood to its standards and set him to lead its armies in thefield. Sir John, as rental for his valour, was given a princely salarywhile he lived and a marble tomb when he died, which latter monument isstill extant, a Florentine exhibit when tourists turn that way.Impressed by the Italian example, Ingalls upon being met by thebelligerent obstinacy of Cimarron retained Mr. Tighlman. Would he getthose records? Mr. Tighlman would.

  Mr. Tighlman possessed a capacity for strategy. He went after therecords on Sunday. He argued that, Sunday being a day of rest, the maleinhabitants of Cimarron would one and all be in the saloons. Mr.Tighlman deduced rightly on that point, and his rapine of the recordswas only discovered by chance. A Cimarronian, journeying from onebarroom to another, observed him as he threw the last volume into thewaggon and sounded an alarm.

  Within two minutes thereafter, Mr. Tighlman was shot at five hundredtimes. And yet he got away and took the records with him. His onlyinjury was received when, a shot having killed a dog at his very feet,he fell over the dog and broke his leg. For all that, he dragged himselfaboard the waggon and escaped.

  Mr. Tighlman covered his retreat with a shotgun. As a bloodless methodof engaging the local faculties, he opened right and left with buckshoton the large front windows that fenced the street. There was aprodigious breaking of glass, and the clatter thereof carried Cimarronalmost to a stampede. As showing the blind hurry of the inhabitants, Mr.Tighlman said that he saw one gentleman miss his footing and fall, andbefore he could even think of getting up eight of his fellow townsmenfell on top of him. It was through such stirring scenes that Mr.Tighlman made his exit, and Jim gained mention because he drove thewaggon. The foregoing has nothing at all to do with what follows, and isthrown in only because it may serve as an introduction to Jim.

  At what might be called the true beginning of this sketch, Mr. Mastersonwas located in Tucson, nursing an interest in mines. He had been absentfrom Dodge divers years. In the interim he had made but a single trip toDodge, and that a flying one. His brother Jim was temporarily in CampSupply at the time, two hundred miles to the south, and he missed him.This, however, did not disturb Mr. Masterson, who was in Dodge for thecommercial restoration of Mr. Short.

  During those years of Mr. Masterson's absence, the hungry tooth of timehad left its marks. Mr. Kelly was dead, Mr. Tighlman was in New Mexico,Mr. Trask had drifted to Montana, Cimarron Bill was in Utah, while Mr.Wright was in Topeka, a member of the Legislature. Of those who had beenclose to Mr. Masterson only Mr. Short remained.

  The others--who if not enemies were but unfriends--had had better luck.Mr. Peacock still ran the Dance Hall, while Mr. Webster kept the Alamoas in days of yore, and maintained under the leadership of Mr.Updegraffe a numerous following.

  Even in the time of Mr. Masterson there had been soreness between Mr.Webster and Mr. Short. The Long Branch was garnering a harvest beyondany that lent itself to the reaping hook of the Alamo, and this did notsit easily with Mr. Webster. To be sure, Mr. Short's success in itscauses was easily understood. His deal boxes, like Caesar's wife, wereabove reproach. Folk were never quite sure about the Alamo's. Also theradical temper of Mr. Short despised a limit. One might pile his stakeas tall as he pleased, Mr. Short would turn for it. In the words of anadmirer:

  "He'd let you play 'em higher'n a cat's back!" This was not the liberalcase with Mr. Webster, who failed of the monetary courage of Mr. Short.

  In the carelessness of local politics Mr. Webster became Mayor of Dodge,and he at once took advantage of his power and his elevation to exileMr. Short. With the latter out of town, the Alamo would fatten and theLong Branch fade.

  Being exiled, Mr. Short, following a usual course, hunted up Mr.Masterson, and told his wrongs. Ever and always Mr. Short's friend, thelatter began a roundup of the clan. The old Scotch Chiefs burned a crossand sent it about; Mr. Masterson sent messages and burned the wires.

  From East and West and North and South, the loyal tribesmen droppedgrimly into Dodge. There was Cimarron Bill and Wyatt Earp and DocHoliday and Ben Thompson and Henry Brown and Charlie Bassett and ShotgunCollins and Shoot-your-eye-out Jack and many another stark fighting man.When these had assembled, Mr. Masterson and Mr. Short appeared, and theformer took command.

  There was no trouble; Mr. Webster turned the colour of ashes, and Mr.Short resumed his place in trade. Mr. Webster did not like Mr. Mastersonany better for this work, although the latter, in adjusting affairs,stretched a point and went excessively out of his way to keep Mr.Webster from being killed. Mr. Masterson said he wasn't worth it. Mr.Short said he was; but yielded the point in compliment to Mr. Masterson.

  When Mr. Short had been restored to the commercial niche that of rightwas his, Mr. Masterson shook the dust of Dodge from his moccasins, as heimagined for the final time. Nor was he sorry. His friends were gone;and the Dodge he had known and loved and defended had passed away.

  In the wake of Mr. Masterson's departure, Mr. Webster saw, in the hard,gray glance of Mr. Short, that which alarmed his blood. Being wise in away, he nodded prudently to one who, upon the hint, proffered a romanticfigure, and bought out Mr. Short. The latter went to Texas, while Mr.Webster again began to sleep o' night. With the going of Mr. Short, Jim,for any on whom he might rely, was left alone in Dodge.

  That was the situation when one Tucson evening in the Oriental, Mr.Masterson was handed a telegram. He had been hearing evil news all dayabout his mines, and thinking this a further bad installment tore openthe envelope with o
nly a listless interest. What he read stiffened him.The message said:

  "Updegraffe and Peacock are going to kill Jim. Come at once. --A."

  With the stop at Deming and a sand-storm raging near Raton, Mr.Masterson was thirty hours reaching Dodge. They were hours withoutsleep. The imagination of Mr. Masterson raced ahead to Dodge, and drewhim pictures. At Albuquerque he feared Jim was already dead; at LasVegas he entertained no doubt; at Trinidad he knew it was so.

  "It'll be with Jim as it was with Ed," sighed Mr. Masterson. "I'll cometoo late."

  What increased the depression of Mr. Masterson was the raw newness andthe youth of Jim. The threatened one was gifted, too, with therecklessness that had betrayed Marshal Ed. This, with his inexperience,only made him the surer victim.

  As against this there would arise to Mr. Masterson the hopeless thoughtof Mr. Updegraffe--as coldly game as any who ever spread his blankets inDodge! There was none more formidable! Cautious, resolute, without fearas without scruple, it called for the best name on the list when onetalked of matching Mr. Updegraffe!

  Mr. Peacock was not so dangerous. Still, even he might be expected toshoot an enemy who was looking the other way and thinking on somethingelse. At the least he made a second gun to add to Mr. Updegraffe's, andwith that invincible one for a side partner and only a boy to face, Mr.Peacock must be counted. These were the sorrowful reflections of Mr.Masterson when the conductor passed through, crying:

  "Dodge the next stop! Twenty minutes for lunch!"

  Whether it were the work of the mysterious "A" who summoned Mr.Masterson, or of some one other than that concealed individual, word hadbeen furnished to Mr. Peacock and Mr. Updegraffe of Mr. Masterson'scoming. There the pair stood waiting in the center of the grass-greenplaza of the town.

  Mr. Masterson saw them as he stepped from the train; he never saw anyone else. This genius for concentration is a mark of the borngun-player. Mr. Masterson did not parley. His brother had been slain,and here before him were his destroyers. He could feel therevenge-hunger seize him! Making straight for the waiting ones hecalled:

  "You murderers might better begin to fight right now!"

  Mr. Updegraffe, with all the coolness of ice, fired point-blank at Mr.Masterson. The shot was two inches wide, and buried itself in a Pullman.At this, certain tourists who had filled the windows with their eagerfaces, crept beneath the seats.

  Mr. Masterson, ignoring Mr. Peacock and honouring Mr. Updegraffe as theelement perilous, opened on the latter. The bullet drove before it apiece of rib, and sent the splinter of bone through Mr. Updegraffe'slungs. The death-blindness upon him, and never a notion of what he wasabout, he slowly walked a pace or two, and fell dead.

  As Mr. Updegraffe went down, Mr. Peacock, who had not fired a shot, tookrefuge behind a little building that stood in the plaza and was bothcalaboose and Court House. This discreet disposition of himself by Mr.Peacock was doubtless allowable. None the less it smelled of anunspeakable meanness, impossible to any Bayard of the guns. Thus to takecover is the caste-mark of a mongrel.

  So contemptible did this move for safety seem to Mr. Masterson that hewould have walked away, leaving Mr. Peacock to enjoy his ignoblesecurity. Mr. Peacock, however, inched his desperate nose around thecorner and fired on Mr. Masterson. The bullet broke a third-story windowone hundred yards away.

  Mr. Masterson's rancorous interest was rearoused in Mr. Peacock by thesetactics. When that gentleman again protruded his nose, Mr. Mastersonshot twice at that feature like the ticking of a clock. The leadguttered the side of the building within an inch of the target. Mr.Masterson charged Mr. Peacock, who thereupon took to his heels, andescaped into Gallon's, which hostelry lay open in his rear.

  Mr. Masterson would have followed, but it was here that Mr. Webster, alla-tremble, ran up with a shotgun. At this Mr. Masterson's eyes shiftedviciously to Mr. Webster. That the latter was shaking as with an aguedid not lessen Mr. Masterson's interest in him. Mr. Webster saw that hehad attracted the whole of Mr. Masterson's attention, and was in no wisereassured.

  "What are you going to do with that shotgun, Web?" asked Mr. Masterson,tones low and steady but with a deadly focus on Mr. Webster.

  "Well," stammered Mr. Webster, "I'm Mayor, Bat, an' this shootin' 's gotto stop."

  "I've been reckoned a judge," returned Mr. Masterson, coming closer toMr. Webster, watching him the while with constant and forbidding eye;"I've been reckoned a judge, and I should say it had stopped unless youbegin it again."

  "I shan't begin it!" hastily asserted Mr. Webster.

  "Then let me hold your shotgun," returned Mr. Masterson, voice iron andsyrup. "It doesn't become your office."

  And Mr. Webster gave Mr. Masterson his gun.

  What Mr. Masterson next beheld was as though he saw a ghost. Thereacross the plaza came Jim. Mr. Masterson stared.

  "Aren't you dead?" he whispered. "Dead?" echoed Jim, in wide surprise."I was asleep over in the Wright House until your guns woke me up!"

  Mr. Masterson never understood; Jim never understood; Dodge neverunderstood! Not a soul came forward as the "A" of that message; and thetelegraph man said he didn't know!

  And yet it was sure that Mr. Updegraffe and Mr. Peacock were in battlearray, awaiting Mr. Masterson. Mr. Peacock being guaranteed a peace,came out of Gallon's and admitted this. He, too, displayed a messagesigned "A." The Peacock message was from Tucson. It ran:

  "Masterson has just left for Dodge to kill you and Updegraffe. --A."

  The cloud was never lifted. The queries of "Who sent them?" and "Why?"remain to this hour unanswered.

  While the puzzle was fresh, and Mr. Peacock's message was going fromhand to hand, together with the one received by Mr. Masterson, thelatter--all vigilance and caution--turned to Jim.

  "Get your blankets," was his low command. "The train will be here in anhour, and we're going West."

  "We'll have to put you under arrest!" faltered Mr. Webster.

  An ominous shadow settled about Mr. Masterson's mouth. He opened Mr.Webster's shotgun with militant prudence; there were two shells in it.Without a word he reloaded the empty chambers of his six-shooter. Beingorganised, he looked at Mr. Webster and shook his head.

  "I must take the next train West," he said. "I haven't time to-day to bearrested."

  "Only for voylatin' an ordinance!" whiningly explained Mr. Webster, whomust do something for his honour. "Dodge has become a city since you washere, Bat, an' the fact is we ought to fine you five dollars forshootin' inside th' limits. As for Updegraffe: onder th' circumstancesno one thinks of blamin' you for downin' him."

  "City!" mused Mr. Masterson. "Five dollars! If you'll consider court asheld and the fine imposed, I'll yield to these metropolitan exactions,"and Mr. Masterson snapped a gold-piece towards Mr. Webster. "And now,"concluded Mr. Masterson, pleasantly, tossing the shotgun into the hollowof his arm, "since I see but few familiar faces, Web, I want you to stayclose by my side till I leave."

  "Why, shorely!" murmured Mr. Webster, whom the suggestion discouraged.

  When the train drew in, Mr. Masterson saw Jim aboard. Taking the shellsfrom the shotgun, he returned the weapon to Mr. Webster.

  "They'd be a temptation to you, Web," said Mr. Masterson, referring tothe shells, "and only get you into trouble. Like many another, you'resafest with an empty gun. Adios!"

  "Adios!" repeated Mr. Webster, and he watched the train until it diedout of sight in the West.