THE SHERIFF AND HIS PARTNER. 

By Frank Harris

One afternoon in July, 1869, I was seated at my desk in Locock'slaw-office in the town of Kiota, Kansas. I had landed in New York fromLiverpool nearly a year before, and had drifted westwards seeking invain for some steady employment. Lawyer Locock, however, had promised tolet me study law with him, and to give me a few dollars a month besides, for my services as a clerk. I was fairly satisfied with the prospect, and the little town interested me. An outpost of civilization, it wassituated on the border of the great plains, which were still lookedupon as the natural possession of the nomadic Indian tribes. It owed itsimportance to the fact that it lay on the cattle-trail which led fromthe prairies of Texas through this no man's land to the railway system, and that it was the first place where the cowboys coming north couldfind a bed to sleep in, a bar to drink at, and a table to gamble on. Forsome years they had made of Kiota a hell upon earth. But gradually theland in the neighbourhood was taken up by farmers, emigrants chieflyfrom New England, who were determined to put an end to the reign ofviolence. A man named Johnson was their leader in establishing orderand tranquillity. Elected, almost as soon as he came to the town, to thedangerous post of City Marshal, he organized a vigilance committeeof the younger and more daring settlers, backed by whom he resolutelysuppressed the drunken rioting of the cowboys. After the ruffianshad been taught to behave themselves, Johnson was made Sheriff of theCounty, a post which gave him a house and permanent position. Thoughmarried now, and apparently "settled down, " the Sheriff was a sort ofhero in Kiota. I had listened to many tales about him, showing desperatedetermination veined with a sense of humour, and I often regretted thatI had reached the place too late to see him in action. I had littleor nothing to do in the office. The tedium of the long days was almostunbroken, and Stephen's "Commentaries" had become as monotonous andunattractive as the bare uncarpeted floor. The heat was tropical, andI was dozing when a knock startled me. A negro boy slouched in with abundle of newspapers: "This yer is Jedge Locock's, I guess?" "I guessso, " was my answer as I lazily opened the third or fourth number ofthe "Kiota Weekly Tribune. " Glancing over the sheet my eye caught thefollowing paragraph:

 "HIGHWAY ROBBERY WITH VIOLENCE. 

 JUDGE SHANNON STOPPED. 

 THE OUTLAW ESCAPES. HE KNOWS SHERIFF JOHNSON. 

"Information has just reached us of an outrage perpetrated on the personof one of our most respected fellow-citizens. The crime was committed indaylight, on the public highway within four miles of this city; a crime, therefore, without parallel in this vicinity for the last two years. Fortunately our County and State authorities can be fully trusted, and we have no sort of doubt that they can command, if necessary, thesuccour and aid of each and every citizen of this locality in order tobring the offending miscreant to justice. 

"We now place the plain recital of this outrage before our readers. 

"Yesterday afternoon, as Ex-Judge Shannon was riding from his law-officein Kiota towards his home on Sumach Bluff, he was stopped about fourmiles from this town by a man who drew a revolver on him, telling himat the same time to pull up. The Judge, being completely unarmed andunprepared, obeyed, and was told to get down from the buckboard, whichhe did. He was then ordered to put his watch and whatever money he had, in the road, and to retreat three paces. 

"The robber pocketed the watch and money, and told him he might tellSheriff Johnson that Tom Williams had 'gone through him, ' and that he(Williams) could be found at the saloon in Osawotamie at any time. TheJudge now hoped for release, but Tom Williams (if that be the robber'sreal name) seemed to get an afterthought, which he at once proceeded tocarry into effect. Drawing a knife he cut the traces, and took out ofthe shafts the Judge's famous trotting mare, Lizzie D. , which he mountedwith the remark:

"'Sheriff Johnson, I reckon, would come after the money anyway, but thehoss'll fetch him--sure pop. '

"These words have just been given to us by Judge Shannon himself, whotells us also that the outrage took place on the North Section Line, bounding Bray's farm. 

"After this speech the highway robber Williams rode towards the townshipof Osawotamie, while Judge Shannon, after drawing the buckboard to theedge of the track, was compelled to proceed homewards on foot. 

"The outrage, as we have said, took place late last evening, and JudgeShannon, we understand, did not trouble to inform the County authoritiesof the circumstance till to-day at noon, after leaving our office. What the motive of the crime may have been we do not worry ourselves toinquire; a crime, an outrage upon justice and order, has been committed;that is all we care to know. If anything fresh happens in thisconnection we propose to issue a second edition of this paper. Ourfellow-citizens may rely upon our energy and watchfulness to keep themposted. 

"Just before going to press we learn that Sheriff Johnson was out oftown attending to business when Judge Shannon called; but Sub-SheriffJarvis informs us that he expects the Sheriff back shortly. It isnecessary to add, by way of explanation, that Mr. Jarvis cannot leavethe jail unguarded, even for a few hours. "

As may be imagined this item of news awakened my keenest interest. Itfitted in with some things that I knew already, and I was curious tolearn more. I felt that this was the first act in a drama. Vaguely Iremembered some one telling in disconnected phrases why the Sheriff hadleft Missouri, and come to Kansas:

"'Twas after a quor'll with a pardner of his, named Williams, who kickedout. "

Bit by bit the story, to which I had not given much attention when Iheard it, so casually, carelessly was it told, recurred to my memory. 

"They say as how Williams cut up rough with Johnson, and drawed aknife on him, which Johnson gripped with his left while he pulledtrigger. --Williams, I heerd, was in the wrong; I hain't perhaps got theright end of it; anyhow, you might hev noticed the Sheriff hes lost thelittle finger off his left hand. --Johnson, they say, got right up andlit out from Pleasant Hill. Perhaps the folk in Mizzoori kinder likedWilliams the best of the two; I don't know. Anyway, Sheriff Johnson'sa square man; his record here proves it. An' real grit, you bet yourlife. "

The narrative had made but a slight impression on me at the time; Ididn't know the persons concerned, and had no reason to interest myselfin their fortunes. In those early days, moreover, I was often homesick, and gave myself up readily to dreaming of English scenes and faces. Nowthe words and drawling intonation came back to me distinctly, and withthem the question: Was the robber of Judge Shannon the same Williams whohad once been the Sheriff's partner? My first impulse was to hurry intothe street and try to find out; but it was the chief part of my duty tostay in the office till six o'clock; besides, the Sheriff was "out oftown, " and perhaps would not be back that day. The hours dragged to anend at last; my supper was soon finished, and, as night drew down, Ihastened along the wooden side-walk of Washington Street towards theCarvell House. This hotel was much too large for the needs of the littletown; it contained some fifty bedrooms, of which perhaps half-a-dozenwere permanently occupied by "high-toned" citizens, and a billiard-roomof gigantic size, in which stood nine tables, as well as the famous bar. The space between the bar, which ran across one end of the room, andthe billiard-tables, was the favourite nightly resort of the prominentpoliticians and gamblers. There, if anywhere, my questions would beanswered. 

On entering the billiard-room I was struck by the number of men who hadcome together. Usually only some twenty or thirty were present, halfof whom sat smoking and chewing about the bar, while the rest watched agame of billiards or took a "life" in pool. This evening, however, thebilliard-tables were covered with their slate-coloured "wraps, " whileat least a hundred and fifty men were gathered about the open space ofglaring light near the bar. I hurried up the room, but as I approachedthe crowd my steps grew slower, and I became half ashamed of my eager, obtrusive curiosity and excitement. There was a kind of reproof in thelazy, cool glance which one man after another cast upon me, as I wentby. Assuming an air of indecision I threaded my way through the chairsuptilted against the sides of the billiard-tables. I had drained a glassof Bourbon whisky before I realized that these apparently careless menwere stirred by some emotion which made them more cautious, more silent, more warily on their guard than usual. The gamblers and loafers, too, had taken "back seats" this evening, whilst hard-working men of thefarmer class who did not frequent the expensive bar of the Carvell Housewere to be seen in front. It dawned upon me that the matter was serious, and was being taken seriously. 

The silence was broken from time to time by some casual remark of nointerest, drawled out in a monotone; every now and then a man invitedthe "crowd" to drink with him, and that was all. Yet the moralatmosphere was oppressive, and a vague feeling of discomfort grew uponme. These men "meant business. "

Presently the door on my left opened--Sheriff Johnson came into theroom. 

"Good evenin', " he said; and a dozen voices, one after another, answeredwith "Good evenin'! good evenin', Sheriff!" A big frontiersman, however, a horse-dealer called Martin, who, I knew, had been on the old vigilancecommittee, walked from the centre of the group in front of the bar tothe Sheriff, and held out his hand with:

"Shake, old man, and name the drink. " The Sheriff took the profferedhand as if mechanically, and turned to the bar with "Whisky--straight. "

Sheriff Johnson was a man of medium height, sturdily built. A broadforehead, and clear, grey-blue eyes that met everything fairly, testified in his favour. The nose, however, was fleshy and snub. Themouth was not to be seen, nor its shape guessed at, so thickly did thebrown moustache and beard grow; but the short beard seemed rather toexaggerate than conceal an extravagant out jutting of the lower jaw, that gave a peculiar expression of energy and determination to the face. His manner was unobtrusively quiet and deliberate. 

It was an unusual occurrence for Johnson to come at night to thebar-lounge, which was beginning to fall into disrepute among thepuritanical or middle-class section of the community. No one, however, seemed to pay any further attention to him, or to remark the unusualcordiality of Martin's greeting. A quarter of an hour elapsed beforeanything of note occurred. Then, an elderly man whom I did not know, a farmer, by his dress, drew a copy of the "Kiota Tribune" from hispocket, and, stretching it towards Johnson, asked with a very markedYankee twang:

"Sheriff, hev yeou read this 'Tribune'?"

Wheeling half round towards his questioner, the Sheriff replied:

"Yes, sir, I hev. " A pause ensued, which was made significant to me bythe fact that the bar-keeper suspended his hand and did not pour out thewhisky he had just been asked to supply--a pause during which the twofaced each other; it was broken by the farmer saying:

"Ez yeou wer out of town to-day, I allowed yeou might hev missed seein'it. I reckoned yeou'd come straight hyar before yeou went to hum. "

"No, Crosskey, " rejoined the Sheriff, with slow emphasis; "I went homefirst and came on hyar to see the boys. "

"Wall, " said Mr. Crosskey, as it seemed to me, half apologetically, "knowin' yeou I guessed yeou ought to hear the facks, " then, with somesuddenness, stretching out his hand, he added, "I hev some way to go, an' my old woman 'ull be waitin' up fer me. Good night, Sheriff. " Thehands met while the Sheriff nodded: "Good night, Jim. "

After a few greetings to right and left Mr. Crosskey left the bar. The crowd went on smoking, chewing, and drinking, but the senseof expectancy was still in the air, and the seriousness seemed, ifanything, to have increased. Five or ten minutes may have passed when aman named Reid, who had run for the post of Sub-Sheriff the year before, and had failed to beat Johnson's nominee Jarvis, rose from his chair andasked abruptly:

"Sheriff, do you reckon to take any of us uns with you to-morrow?"

With an indefinable ring of sarcasm in his negligent tone, the Sheriffanswered:

"I guess not, Mr. Reid. "

Quickly Reid replied: "Then I reckon there's no use in us stayin';" andturning to a small knot of men among whom he had been sitting, he added, "Let's go, boys!"

The men got up and filed out after their leader without greeting theSheriff in any way. With the departure of this group the shadow lifted. Those who still remained showed in manner a marked relief, and amoment or two later a man named Morris, whom I knew to be a gambler byprofession, called out lightly:

"The crowd and you'll drink with me, Sheriff, I hope? I want anotherglass, and then we won't keep you up any longer, for you ought to have anight's rest with to-morrow's work before you. "

The Sheriff smiled assent. Every one moved towards the bar, andconversation became general. Morris was the centre of the company, andhe directed the talk jokingly to the account in the "Tribune, " makingfun, as it seemed to me, though I did not understand all his allusions, of the editor's timidity and pretentiousness. Morris interested andamused me even more than he amused the others; he talked like a man ofsome intelligence and reading, and listening to him I grew light-heartedand careless, perhaps more careless than usual, for my spirits had beenice-bound in the earlier gloom of the evening. 

"Fortunately our County and State authorities can be fully trusted, "some one said. 

"Mark that 'fortunately', Sheriff, " laughed Morris. "The editor wasafraid to mention you alone, so he hitched the State on with you tolighten the load. "

"Ay!" chimed in another of the gamblers, "and the 'aid and succour ofeach and every citizen, ' eh, Sheriff, as if you'd take the whole townwith you. I guess two or three'll be enough fer Williams. "

This annoyed me. It appeared to me that Williams had addressed apersonal challenge to the Sheriff, and I thought that Johnson shouldso consider it. Without waiting for the Sheriff to answer, whether inprotest or acquiescence, I broke in:

"Two or three would be cowardly. One should go, and one only. " At once Ifelt rather than saw the Sheriff free himself from the group of men; thenext moment he stood opposite to me. 

"What was that?" he asked sharply, holding me with keen eye andout-thrust chin--repressed passion in voice and look. 

The antagonism of his bearing excited and angered me not a little. Ireplied:

"I think it would be cowardly to take two or three against a single man. I said one should go, and I say so still. "

"Do you?" he sneered. "I guess you'd go alone, wouldn't you? to bringWilliams in?"

"If I were paid for it I should, " was my heedless retort. As I spoke hisface grew white with such passion that I instinctively put up my handsto defend myself, thinking he was about to attack me. The involuntarymovement may have seemed boyish to him, for thought came into his eyes, and his face relaxed; moving away he said quietly:

"I'll set up drinks, boys. "

They grouped themselves about him and drank, leaving me isolated. Butthis, now my blood was up, only added to the exasperation I felt at hiscontemptuous treatment, and accordingly I walked to the bar, and asthe only unoccupied place was by Johnson's side I went there and said, speaking as coolly as I could:

"Though no one asks me to drink I guess I'll take some whisky, bar-keeper, if you please. "

Johnson was standing with his back to me, but when I spoke he lookedround, and I saw, or thought I saw, a sort of curiosity in his gaze. I met his eye defiantly. He turned to the others and said, in hisordinary, slow way:

"Wall, good night, boys; I've got to go. It's gittin' late, an' I've hadabout as much as I want. "

Whether he alluded to the drink or to my impertinence I was unable todivine. Without adding a word he left the room amid a chorus of "Goodnight, Sheriff!" With him went Martin and half-a-dozen more. 

I thought I had come out of the matter fairly well until I spoke tosome of the men standing near. They answered me, it is true, but inmonosyllables, and evidently with unwillingness. In silence I finishedmy whisky, feeling that every one was against me for some inexplicablecause. I resented this and stayed on. In a quarter of an hour the restof the crowd had departed, with the exception of Morris and a few of thesame kidney. 

When I noticed that these gamblers, outlaws by public opinion, held awayfrom me, I became indignant. Addressing myself to Morris, I asked:

"Can you tell me, sir, for you seem to be an educated man, what I havesaid or done to make you all shun me?"

"I guess so, " he answered indifferently. "You took a hand in a gamewhere you weren't wanted. And you tried to come in without ever havingpaid the _ante_, which is not allowed in any game--at least not in anygame played about here. "

The allusion seemed plain; I was not only a stranger, but a foreigner;that must be my offence. With a "Good night, sir; good night, barkeeper!" I left the room. 

The next morning I went as usual to the office. I may have been seatedthere about an hour--it was almost eight o'clock--when I heard a knockat the door. 

"Come in, " I said, swinging round in the American chair, to find myselfface to face with Sheriff Johnson. 

"Why, Sheriff, come in!" I exclaimed cheerfully, for I was relievedat seeing him, and so realized more clearly than ever that theunpleasantness of the previous evening had left in me a certainuneasiness. I was eager to show that the incident had no importance:

"Won't you take a seat? and you'll have a cigar?--these are not bad. "

"No, thank you, " he answered. "No, I guess I won't sit nor smoke jestnow. " After a pause, he added, "I see you're studyin'; p'r'aps you'rebusy to-day; I won't disturb you. "

"You don't disturb me, Sheriff, " I rejoined. "As for studying, there'snot much in it. I seem to prefer dreaming. "

"Wall, " he said, letting his eyes range round the walls furnished withLaw Reports bound in yellow calf, "I don't know, I guess there's a biglot of readin' to do before a man gets through with all those. "

"Oh, " I laughed, "the more I read the more clearly I see that law isonly a sermon on various texts supplied by common sense. "

"Wall, " he went on slowly, coming a pace or two nearer and speaking withincreased seriousness, "I reckon you've got all Locock's business to seeafter: his clients to talk to; letters to answer, and all that; and whenhe's on the drunk I guess he don't do much. I won't worry you any more. "

"You don't worry me, " I replied. "I've not had a letter to answer inthree days, and not a soul comes here to talk about business or anythingelse. I sit and dream, and wish I had something to do out there in thesunshine. Your work is better than reading words, words--nothing butwords. "

"You ain't busy; hain't got anything to do here that might keep you?Nothin'?"

"Not a thing. I'm sick of Blackstone and all Commentaries. "

Suddenly I felt his hand on my shoulder (moving half round in thechair, I had for the moment turned sideways to him), and his voice wassurprisingly hard and quick:

"Then I swear you in as a Deputy-Sheriff of the United States, and ofthis State of Kansas; and I charge you to bring in and deliver at theSheriff's house, in this county of Elwood, Tom Williams, alive or dead, and--there's your fee, five dollars and twenty-five cents!" and he laidthe money on the table. 

Before the singular speech was half ended I had swung round facing him, with a fairly accurate understanding of what he meant But the momentfor decision had come with such sharp abruptness, that I still did notrealize my position, though I replied defiantly as if accepting thecharge:

"I've not got a weapon. "

"The boys allowed you mightn't hev, and so I brought some along. You kensuit your hand. " While speaking he produced two or three revolvers ofdifferent sizes, and laid them before me. 

Dazed by the rapid progress of the plot, indignant, too, at the trickplayed upon me, I took up the nearest revolver and looked at it almostwithout seeing it. The Sheriff seemed to take my gaze for that of anexpert's curiosity. 

"It shoots true, " he said meditatively, "plumb true; but it's too smallto drop a man. I guess it wouldn't stop any one with grit in him. "

My anger would not allow me to consider his advice; I thrust the weaponin my pocket:

"I haven't got a buggy. How am I to get to Osawotamie?"

"Mine's hitched up outside. You ken hev it. "

Rising to my feet I said: "Then we can go. "

We had nearly reached the door of the office, when the Sheriff stopped, turned his back upon the door, and looking straight into my eyes said:

"Don't play foolish. You've no call to go. Ef you're busy, ef you'vegot letters to write, anythin' to do--I'll tell the boys you sed so, andthat'll be all; that'll let you out. "

Half-humorously, as it seemed to me, he added: "You're young and atenderfoot. You'd better stick to what you've begun upon. That's the wayto do somethin'. --I often think it's the work chooses us, and we've justgot to get down and do it. "

"I've told you I had nothing to do, " I retorted angrily; "that's thetruth. Perhaps" (sarcastically) "this work chooses me. "

The Sheriff moved away from the door. 

On reaching the street I stopped for a moment in utter wonder. At thathour in the morning Washington Street was usually deserted, but nowit seemed as if half the men in the town had taken up places round theentrance to Locock's office stairs. Some sat on barrels or boxes tippedup against the shop-front (the next store was kept by a German, who soldfruit and eatables); others stood about in groups or singly; a few wereseated on the edge of the side-walk, with their feet in the dust of thestreet. Right before me and most conspicuous was the gigantic figureof Martin. He was sitting on a small barrel in front of the Sheriff'sbuggy. 

"Good morning, " I said in the air, but no one answered me. Masteringmy irritation, I went forward to undo the hitching-strap, but Martin, divining my intention, rose and loosened the buckle. As I reached him, he spoke in a low whisper, keeping his back turned to me:

"Shoot off a joke quick. The boys'll let up on you then. It'll be allright. Say something for God's sake!"

The rough sympathy did me good, relaxed the tightness round my heart;the resentment natural to one entrapped left me, and some of myself-confidence returned:

"I never felt less like joking in my life, Martin, and humour can't beproduced to order. "

He fastened up the hitching-strap, while I gathered the reins togetherand got into the buggy. When I was fairly seated he stepped to theside of the open vehicle, and, holding out his hand, said, "Good day, "adding, as our hands clasped, "Wade in, young un; wade in. "

"Good day, Martin. Good day, Sheriff. Good day, boys!"

To my surprise there came a chorus of answering "Good days!" as I droveup the street. 

A few hundred yards I went, and then wheeled to the right past the postoffice, and so on for a quarter of a mile, till I reached the descentfrom the higher ground, on which the town was built, to the river. There, on my left, on the verge of the slope, stood the Sheriffs housein a lot by itself, with the long, low jail attached to it. Down thehill I went, and across the bridge and out into the open country. Idrove rapidly for about five miles--more than halfway to Osawotamie--andthen I pulled up, in order to think quietly and make up my mind. 

I grasped the situation now in all its details. Courage was the onevirtue which these men understood, the only one upon which they pridedthemselves. I, a stranger, a "tenderfoot, " had questioned the courageof the boldest among them, and this mission was their answer to myinsolence. The "boys" had planned the plot; Johnson was not to blame;clearly he wanted to let me out of it; he would have been satisfiedthere in the office if I had said that I was busy; he did not like toput his work on any one else. And yet he must profit by my going. Were Ikilled, the whole country would rise against Williams; whereas if I shotWilliams, the Sheriff would be relieved of the task. I wondered whetherthe fact of his having married made any difference to the Sheriff. Possibly--and yet it was not the Sheriff; it was the "boys" who hadinsisted on giving me the lesson. Public opinion was dead against me. "Ihad come into a game where I was not wanted, and I had never even paidthe _ante_"--that was Morris's phrase. Of course it was all clear now. I had never given any proof of courage, as most likely all the rest hadat some time or other. That was the _ante_ Morris meant. .. . 

My wilfulness had got me into the scrape; I had only myself to thank. Not alone the Sheriff but Martin would have saved me had I profited bythe door of escape which he had tried to open for me. Neither of themwished to push the malice to the point of making me assume the Sheriff'srisk, and Martin at least, and probably the Sheriff also, had takenmy quick, half-unconscious words and acts as evidence of recklessdetermination. If I intended to live in the West I must go through withthe matter. 

But what nonsense it all was! Why should I chuck away my life in theattempt to bring a desperate ruffian to justice? And who could say thatWilliams was a ruffian? It was plain that his quarrel with the Sheriffwas one of old date and purely personal He had "stopped" Judge Shannonin order to bring about a duel with the Sheriff. Why should I fight theSheriff's duels? Justice, indeed! justice had nothing to do with thisaffair; I did not even know which man was in the right. Reason leddirectly to the conclusion that I had better turn the horse's headnorthwards, drive as fast and as far as I could, and take the train assoon as possible out of the country. But while I recognized that thiswas the only sensible decision, I felt that I could not carry it intoaction. To run away was impossible; my cheeks burned with shame at thethought. 

Was I to give my life for a stupid practical joke? "Yes!"--a voicewithin me answered sharply. "It would be well if a man could alwayschoose the cause for which he risks his life, but it may happen that heought to throw it away for a reason that seems inadequate. "

"What ought I to do?" I questioned. 

"Go on to Osawotamie, arrest Williams, and bring him into Kiota, "replied my other self. 

"And if he won't come?"

"Shoot him--you are charged to deliver him 'alive or dead' at theSheriff's house. No more thinking, drive straight ahead and act as ifyou were a representative of the law and Williams a criminal. It has tobe done. "

The resolution excited me, I picked up the reins and proceeded. At thenext section-line I turned to the right, and ten or fifteen minuteslater saw Osawotamie in the distance. 

I drew up, laid the reins on the dashboard, and examined the revolver. It was a small four-shooter, with a large bore. To make sure of itsefficiency I took out a cartridge; it was quite new. While weighing itin my hand, the Sheriff's words recurred to me, "It wouldn't stop anyone with grit in him. " What did he mean? I didn't want to think, soI put the cartridge in again, cocked and replaced the pistol in myright-side jacket pocket, and drove on. Osawotamie consisted of a singlestreet of straggling frame-buildings. After passing half-a-dozen ofthem I saw, on the right, one which looked to me like a saloon. It wasevidently a stopping-place. There were several hitching-posts, andthe house boasted instead of a door two green Venetian blinds put uponrollers--the usual sign of a drinking-saloon in the West. 

I got out of the buggy slowly and carefully, so as not to shift theposition of the revolver, and after hitching up the horse, entered thesaloon. Coming out of the glare of the sunshine I could hardly see inthe darkened room. In a moment or two my eyes grew accustomed to the dimlight, and I went over to the bar, which was on my left. The bar-keeperwas sitting down; his head and shoulders alone were visible; I asked himfor a lemon squash. 

"Anythin' in it?" he replied, without lifting his eyes. 

"No; I'm thirsty and hot. "

"I guessed that was about the figger, " he remarked, getting up leisurelyand beginning to mix the drink with his back to me. 

I used the opportunity to look round the room. Three steps from me stooda tall man, lazily leaning with his right arm on the bar, his fingerstouching a half-filled glass. He seemed to be gazing past me intothe void, and thus allowed me to take note of his appearance. Inshirt-sleeves, like the bar-keeper, he had a belt on in which were twolarge revolvers with white ivory handles. His face was prepossessing, with large but not irregular features, bronzed fair skin, hazel eyes, and long brown moustache. He looked strong and was lithe of form, as ifhe had not done much hard bodily work. There was no one else in the roomexcept a man who appeared to be sleeping at a table in the far cornerwith his head pillowed on his arms. 

As I completed this hasty scrutiny of the room and its inmates, thebar-keeper gave me my squash, and I drank eagerly. The excitement hadmade me thirsty, for I knew that the crisis must be at hand, but Iexperienced no other sensation save that my heart was thumping and mythroat was dry. Yawning as a sign of indifference (I had resolved tobe as deliberate as the Sheriff) I put my hand in my pocket on therevolver. I felt that I could draw it out at once. 

I addressed the bar-keeper:

"Say, do you know the folk here in Osawotamie?"

After a pause he replied:

"Most on 'em, I guess. "

Another pause and a second question:

"Do you know Tom Williams?"

The eyes looked at me with a faint light of surprise in them; theylooked away again, and came back with short, half suspicious, halfcurious glances. 

"Maybe you're a friend of his'n?"

"I don't know him, but I'd like to meet him. "

"Would you, though?" Turning half round, the bar-keeper took down abottle and glass, and poured out some whisky, seemingly for his ownconsumption. Then: "I guess he's not hard to meet, isn't Williams, efyou and me mean the same man. "

"I guess we do, " I replied; "Tom Williams is the name. "

"That's me, " said the tall man who was leaning on the bar near me, "that's my name. "

"Are you the Williams that stopped Judge Shannon yesterday?"

"I don't know his name, " came the careless reply, "but I stopped a manin a buck-board. "

Plucking out my revolver, and pointing it low down on his breast, Isaid:

"I'm sent to arrest you; you must come with me to Kiota. "

Without changing his easy posture, or a muscle of his face, he asked inthe same quiet voice:

"What does this mean, anyway? Who sent you to arrest me?"

"Sheriff Johnson, " I answered. 

The man started upright, and said, as if amazed, in a quick, loud voice:

"Sheriff Johnson sent _you_ to arrest me?"

"Yes, " I retorted, "Sheriff Samuel Johnson swore me in this morning ashis deputy, and charged me to bring you into Kiota. "

In a tone of utter astonishment he repeated my words, "Sheriff SamuelJohnson!"

"Yes, " I replied, "Samuel Johnson, Sheriff of Elwood County. "

"See here, " he asked suddenly, fixing me with a look of angry suspicion, "what sort of a man is he? What does he figger like?"

"He's a little shorter than I am, " I replied curtly, "with a brown beardand bluish eyes--a square-built sort of man. "

"Hell!" There was savage rage and menace in the exclamation. 

"You kin put that up!" he added, absorbed once more in thought. I paidno attention to this; I was not going to put the revolver away at hisbidding. Presently he asked in his ordinary voice:

"What age man might this Johnson be?"

"About forty or forty-five, I should think. "

"And right off Sam Johnson swore you in and sent you to bring me intoKiota--an' him Sheriff?"

"Yes, " I replied impatiently, "that's so. "

"Great God!" he exclaimed, bringing his clenched right hand heavily downon the bar. "Here, Zeke!" turning to the man asleep in the corner, and again he shouted "Zeke!" Then, with a rapid change of manner, andspeaking irritably, he said to me:

"Put that thing up, I say. "

The bar-keeper now spoke too: "I guess when Tom sez you kin put it up, you kin. You hain't got no use fur it. "

The changes of Williams' tone from wonder to wrath and then to quickresolution showed me that the doubt in him had been laid, and that Ihad but little to do with the decision at which he had arrived, whateverthat decision might be. I understood, too, enough of the Western spiritto know that he would take no unfair advantage of me. I thereforeuncocked the revolver and put it back into my pocket. In the meantimeZeke had got up from his resting-place in the corner and had made hisway sleepily to the bar. He had taken more to drink than was good forhim, though he was not now really drunk. 

"Give me and Zeke a glass, Joe, " said Williams; "and this gentleman, too, if he'll drink with me, and take one yourself with us. "

"No, " replied the bar-keeper sullenly, "I'll not drink to any damnedfoolishness. An' Zeke won't neither. "

"Oh, yes, he will, " Williams returned persuasively, "and so'll you, Joe. You aren't goin' back on me. "

"No, I'll be just damned if I am, " said the barkeeper, half-conquered. 

"What'll you take, sir?" Williams asked me. 

"The bar-keeper knows my figger, " I answered, half-jestingly, not yetunderstanding the situation, but convinced that it was turning outbetter than I had expected. 

"And you, Zeke?" he went on. 

"The old pizen, " Zeke replied. 

"And now, Joe, whisky for you and me--the square bottle, " he continued, with brisk cheerfulness. 

In silence the bar-keeper placed the drinks before us. As soon as theglasses were empty Williams spoke again, putting out his hand to Zeke atthe same time:

"Good-bye, old man, so long, but saddle up in two hours. Ef I don't comethen, you kin clear; but I guess I'll be with you. "

"Good-bye, Joe. "

"Good-bye, Tom, " replied the bar-keeper, taking the proffered hand, still half-unwillingly, "if you're stuck on it; but the game is to waitfor 'em here--anyway that's how I'd play it. "

A laugh and shake of the head and Williams addressed me:

"Now, sir, I'm ready if you are. " We were walking towards the door, whenZeke broke in:

"Say, Tom, ain't I to come along?"

"No, Zeke, I'll play this hand alone, " replied Williams, and two minuteslater he and I were seated in the buggy, driving towards Kiota. 

We had gone more than a mile before he spoke again. He began veryquietly, as if confiding his thoughts to me:

"I don't want to make no mistake about this business--it ain't worthwhile. I'm sure you're right, and Sheriff Samuel Johnson sent you, but, maybe, ef you was to think you could kinder bring him before me. Theremight be two of the name, the age, the looks--though it ain't likely. "Then, as if a sudden inspiration moved him:

"Where did he come from, this Sam Johnson, do you know?"

"I believe he came from Pleasant Hill, Missouri. I've heard that he leftafter a row with his partner, and it seems to me that his partner's namewas Williams. But that you ought to know better than I do. By-the-bye, there is one sign by which Sheriff Johnson can always be recognized;he has lost the little finger of his left hand. They say he caughtWilliams' bowie with that hand and shot him with the right. But why hehad to leave Missouri I don't know, if Williams drew first. "

"I'm satisfied now, " said my companion, "but I guess you hain't got thatstory correct; maybe you don't know the cause of it nor how it began;maybe Williams didn't draw fust; maybe he was in the right all the waythrough; maybe--but thar!--the first hand don't decide everythin'. YourSheriffs the man--that's enough for me. "

After this no word was spoken for miles. As we drew near the bridgeleading into the town of Kiota I remarked half-a-dozen men standingabout. Generally the place was deserted, so the fact astonished me alittle. But I said nothing. We had scarcely passed over half the lengthof the bridge, however, when I saw that there were quite twenty menlounging around the Kiota end of it. Before I had time to explainthe matter to myself, Williams spoke: "I guess he's got out all thevigilantes;" and then bitterly: "The boys in old Mizzouri wouldn'tbelieve this ef I told it on him, the dog-goned mean cuss. "

We crossed the bridge at a walk (it was forbidden to drive faster overthe rickety structure), and toiled up the hill through the bystanders, who did not seem to see us, though I knew several of them. When weturned to the right to reach the gate of the Sheriff's house, therewere groups of men on both sides. No one moved from his place; here andthere, indeed, one of them went on whittling. 

I drew up at the sidewalk, threw down the reins, and jumped out of thebuggy to hitch up the horse. My task was done. 

I had the hitching-rein loose in my hand, when I became conscious ofsomething unusual behind me. I looked round--it was the stillness thatforeruns the storm. 

Williams was standing on the side-walk facing the low wooden fence, arevolver in each hand, but both pointing negligently to the ground; theSheriff had just come down the steps of his house; in his hands alsowere revolvers; his deputy, Jarvis, was behind him on the stoop. 

Williams spoke first:

"Sam Johnson, you sent for me, and I've come. "

The Sheriff answered firmly, "I did!"

Their hands went up, and crack! crack! crack! in quick succession, threeor four or five reports--I don't know how many. At the first shots theSheriff fell forward on his face. Williams started to run along theside-walk; the groups of men at the corner, through whom he must pass, closed together; then came another report, and at the same moment hestopped, turned slowly half round, and sank down in a heap like an emptysack. 

I hurried to him; he had fallen almost as a tailor sits, but his headwas between his knees. I lifted it gently; blood was oozing from a holein the forehead. The men were about me; I heard them say:

"A derned good shot! Took him in the back of the head. Jarvis kinshoot!"

I rose to my feet. Jarvis was standing inside the fence supported bysome one; blood was welling from his bared left shoulder. 

"I ain't much hurt, " he said, "but I guess the Sheriff's got it bad. "

The men moved on, drawing me with them, through the gate to where theSheriff lay. Martin turned him over on his back. They opened his shirt, and there on the broad chest were two little blue marks, each in thecentre of a small mound of pink flesh. 

4TH April, 1891.