The Sheriff of Badger Part 10

A murmur swept over the court-room and beat against the walls.

Coroner.--"You've killed six men, ain't you?"

"No, sir; you're wrong. Only four," Thomas corrected, licking his dry lips.

"Gen'l'men," said the coroner, not without sternness toward Thomas, "this. .h.i.ts me like so plain a case of shooting in self-defense, that I reckon we don't need to bother no more about the evidence."

"Hold on," the sheriff said. "Hold on, there; I'd like for to say something."

Being duly sworn, he started off like this: "Gentlemen, this wasn't a killing. It was a murder."

Everybody waited open-mouthed to hear more. Thomas turned on him a quick, startled glance. Then someone said: "What's the matter with you, Lafe?"

"It's just what I done said. Murder."

There was a stir, and a ripple of unbelieving laughter. "Order!" the coroner cried. He was looking to Johnson for explanation.

"I was kind of wondering," the prisoner muttered, half aloud, as though not altogether surprised at the turn of events.

"Yes, sir, Bud Walton was murdered. This man here didn't kill him at all. Here's Jeff's gun. Take a look at it. It's a .45. Bud, he was killed with a 30-30 rifle. Here's the bullet. Jeff's first shot went way above his head into the ceiling, and the next two are in the boards."

CHAPTER X

A JOURNEY TO SATAN'S KINGDOM

"What're you giving us?" "Go on, Lafe." "Hush, let's hear him." "Quit crowding there, will you?" "Say, are you looking for trouble?" "Well, quit it." It was long before quiet could be obtained.

The sheriff waited for absolute silence before taking up the thread of his explanation again. Then he said, slowly scanning the faces around him--"Mr. Coroner, if you'll adjourn this here court for two days, I'll bring the murderer here."

The inquest adjourned in confusion. Thomas was released, only to be rearrested.

"I'll learn fellers like you a lesson," the sheriff told him. "Bob, give him thirty days for stealing that there Bible of yours."

The justice of the peace imposed the sentence with alacrity. It had the appearance of spite, but Jeff exhibited no resentment and left for the county town in charge of a deputy, without a word of protest. To me, he appeared a broken man.

Not a word of enlightenment would the sheriff give, although all Badger was agog with excitement and babbled questions wherever he moved. They would cling to his arm in their eagerness, but he shook them off. At dinner, he ordered me to fetch my horse, for he planned a hard ride.

It was early afternoon when we set out for Satan's Kingdom. Our way took us through the Willows, which we threaded at dusk. We were pa.s.sing a certain pile of rocks, when the sheriff pointed with his forefinger.

"Look," he said.

The Mother of Cottonwoods towered above the lesser trees, plain to the sight. She was black and stark, bare as though blasted by lightning. We jogged along mutely.

"Look a-here," the sheriff said, as we neared the mountain village, "you done heard that shooting. What did you hear? Tell me as near as you can."

I strove to focus all my faculties on the task.

"There was a first shot--that must have been Bud's."

"Never mind whose it was," said Johnson.

"Then there seemed to be two very close together. I'm not sure about that, Lafe, because it might have been one, sort of drawn out. But I was watching Jeff's hand and it looked only half-way out of his s.h.i.+rt when that second shot started."

"Good. How did it sound?"

"Well, she began with more of a ring to her--sharper than a six-shooter--and she ended heavily, just like a .45."

"Sure," he said, with great satisfaction. "That was the 30-30. It just beat Jeff to the mark. Why didn't you tell that at the inquest?"

"I wasn't sure," I answered lamely. "n.o.body would have believed me, anyway."

"So you think a feller ought to tell only what he figures folks will believe? Well, it don't matter. Don't get hot. Listen. We'll bring back the feller who shot Bud, to-night or to-morrow. He was hiding in that dark hall back of Thomas, just waiting for a chance. As quick as I saw the hole in Bud's head, I said to myself, 'A .45 never made that, son.'

No, sir; I sure knew that 30-30 mark."

"How did you know where it came from?"

"That's easy. Bud was shot in front, wasn't he? Well, Jeff didn't do it, so I hunted in that pa.s.sage to find out who did. Sure enough, a feller had braced himself with his hand on the wall. He was a powerful big brute, too--more'n six feet high, easy."

The sheriff chuckled, pleased as a boy with his own astuteness.

"Say, Dan, it's almost funny the way things turn out. Ol' Miguel, the lazy rascal, he done left a tin of axle grease on a shelf beside the back door, and when this feller come in and went sneaking along the hall, a-feeling his way so as not to make a noise, he stuck his hand into it. Then he leaned with that hand bracing him, while he waited for Bud. Do you get that? That was the hand he leaned on. Wouldn't that most scare you? That gives his size away. Why couldn't his luck have made him lean with the other hand? I tell you, it makes a man think."

He would not talk more on the subject and evinced impatience when pressed. We put up at Kelley's place in the Kingdom, and the sheriff had a few words with Kelley himself before we ate a meal specially prepared for us.

"No, he ain't here just now," Kelley said. "He done rode off just after supper. But he'll be here in the morning for breakfast. I hope there ain't nothing wrong, Lafe?"

"No-oo. We just want a talk, that's all. Don't tell him, Kelley."

There were half a dozen persons at the table when we took our places not long after daylight. Three were prospectors, one was a cowboy, and a miner sat next him. Opposite me was a long, lank, youthful-appearing man, who consumed his food with his nose very close to his plate. He had little to say, except when he desired something.

Now, if a man be a l.u.s.ty trencherman, or if he wolf his food, either by tearing or the process of inhalation, we never pa.s.s direct criticism.

That might hurt his feelings and the sensibilities of the other diners.

No; instead, one glances good-naturedly about the board to pick up the eyes, and remarks in a slow, modulated tone--"Say, ol' Bill here don't eat enough to fatten a hog, does he?"

The sheriff watched this individual intently for a s.p.a.ce. His scrutiny made me uneasy, although it is true that the gentleman's table manners were offensive. Then he leaned toward him and remarked, smilingly: "Say, you don't eat enough to fatten a steer, do you?"

I expected an outbreak. The long person raised his eyes and a sickly smile overspread his face. And then I knew what manner of man we had to deal with. Because, when a man of pluck receives a blow that hurts, he first looks serious and perhaps thoughtful; that is followed by a determined squaring of the jaw. At last he said, essaying a sneer:

"I reckon you've got the world by the tail with a down-hill pull, ain't you?"

"Perhaps," said Johnson. "I've got you, anyhow, Slim. You're under arrest. Finish that coffee and come on."

"Who're you?" the other asked slowly.