“And after that,” said Steve dryly, “we’ll find us a cow.”
“That’s right—a couple cows. How much does a kid eat, Steve? I ain’t never tended one. Have you?”
“Not me. I dunno nothin’ about ’em, except that they squawl when they’re hungry. This’n must be starvin’, judgin’ by his yelp. Tradin’ gold for a couple kids. Well, I reckon we was lucky to get away alive. They’ll get Spike—what’s left of him.”
CHAPTER II — MURDER OR SELF-DEFENSE?
“Don’t lie, Comanche. They was due here a week ago, and they better be on this stage.”
Pink Lowry, deputy sheriff of Willow Wells, pointed a finger at the body of the stage which had just arrived in front of the stage office, while Comanche Beadle, the attenuated old driver, craned his neck down toward where Pink was pointing, spat violently and straightened up with a visible effort.
“There’s a couple packages in there,” he admitted. “I didn’t see your name, but there’s a package for Dudley D. Evans, and one for Alexander Washin’ton Lowry, which can’t noways be you.”
“Them’s her,” said Pink, “and you keep your damn’ tongue off them two names of mine, Comanche.”
“Oh, shore—” seriously. “Your folks named you after ginerals, didn’t they? How’d they ever miss Coxey? No, I can’t give you them packages; you’ve got to git ’em from the agent. There’s four dollars apiece charges.”
“Well, dig ’em out, will you?”
“I’ll do m’ best, but they’re on the bottom.”
He wound the lines around the brake, climbed slowly down, took a fresh chew and began unlashing the boot.
“Gittin’ new duds, eh?” he grunted. “Suppose you and Evans are goin’ to cut a figger at the SP ranch tonight. New clothes ’n’ everythin’. I jist wonder how much Miss Pelliser’s got to do with all this dudin’ up.”
“You ain’t packed them new suits under all that stuff, have you?” wailed Pink. “Ain’tcha got no sense? My gosh, they’ll be a mess!”
“You can’t hurt cloth, can you? You and Evans didn’t buy no glass suits, didja? There you are! No, that’s Evans’. Here’s yours. No, you don’t. Foller me in, cowboy, and pay your money. That’s how we make a livin’—me and Wells Fargo.”
Pink followed him obediently, and finally paid the eight dollars and received both suits—the crushed packages which bore the name of an eastern tailoring house. Pink was short, chunky, red headed, with decided bowlegs. He was about twenty-five years of age—and in love.
He lost no time in getting down to the sheriff’s office where he found Dud Evans, the slat-like sheriff, in the rear of the office which he and Pink used as living quarters. He was shaving. He was standing before a cracked mirror, clad in a suit of ill fitting red flannel underwear and high-heel boots.
“They come,” said Pink, depositing the packages on the bunk.
“Yea-a-ah?” Dud screwed his face painfully. He was bleeding from many cuts and scratches.
“My gawsh, this razor’s sharp!” he grunted. “I look like I’d been drug over a lot of busted glass.”
“You got my pet razor?” asked Pink, trying to get a glimpse of the instrument.
“Pet! This here thing a pet?”
“That’s my pet, holler ground razor! Dud, you ornery Injun! And I broke my hone last week. Your whiskers would turn a mowin’ machine. I’ll betcha I could write m’ name in the aidge of it right now.”
“Oh, it’s plenty sharp. I whittled off a couple warts jist as slick as a whistle. You got any court plaster, Pink?”
“No, I ain’t!”
Pink yanked savagely at the cord on his package, and finally cut it with his knife. He took off the cover, removed some tissue paper and lifted out a black coat. Dud stopped shaving to look at it. Pink wrinkled his nose thoughtfully as he considered the garment.
“That damn’ thing,” said Dud seriously, “looks like a overcoat with part of the front cut off. A feller could wear a pair of them seatless Injun pants with that coat, and never be an exposure.”
Pink looked at him curiously.
“Funniest damn’ thing I ever seen,” he whispered.
He took out the vest and looked it over critically.
“Dirty cheat!” he snorted. “If that drummer ever shows up here again, I’ll pistol whip him if it’s the last—”
“Ain’t that a funny vest?”
“Funny! My Gawd, it wouldn’t— Look at your own suit, will you?”
“I can’t hurt yours none by jist lookin’ at it, can I?”
Pink sat down on the bunk and began rolling a cigarette with trembling fingers. He was so mad that his red hair stood up in an arch. Dud untied his package and found his suit to be an exact replica of the one on the bunk, except in size.
Dud sat down on a broken back chair and stared at Pink.
“You talked with that drummer,” he said slowly. “All I done was to stand up and be surrounded by a tape measure. What in hell did you tell him?”
“Don’t try to put no deadwood on me—” belligerently. “Me and you both decided that we wanted black suits, didn’t we? Well, he asked me what style we wanted, and I said we wanted somethin’ awful damn’ dressy. He asked me if we wanted dress suits, and I said we shore did.”
“Well—” mournfully—“we done throwed away eighty dollars apiece.”
“Put on your coat, Dud. They might not be so bad.”
Dud slipped into the coat, and Pink circled him slowly. Then:
“Dud, you’re the damndest lookin’ insect I ever seen. From the rear, you look like a black beetle with red laigs. You do, honestly. But from the front you look like a unsuccessful operation. My gosh, what a chance to show off a fancy vest.”
“It’s probably this red underwear.”
“Well, that’s part of it. But it ain’t all, Dud. Mebbe a shirt front would help a lot, but jist as you are now, you look like one of them charts the medicine doctors use to show the heart, lungs, liver and lights, or the bad effect of liquor on the insides of man.”
Dud flung the coat aside and went back to the basin where he dabbled cold water on his bruises, while Pink dug deeper into the suit box. Tucked within the folds of the trousers was a little booklet depicting styles in men’s wearing apparel. On the last page of the pamphlet was a picture of the suits he had ordered.
“Here you are,” he grunted. “Here’s what we got, Dud.”
Dud came over, mopping his face with a towel, and gazed upon the illustration.
“F’r looks,” said the sheriff slowly, “that feller is a dinger.”
“Slicker’n frawg hair. But we ain’t got no white shirts.”
“Nor stand-up collars. Well, what’s the difference? That red and black silk shirt of yours is a damn’ sight prettier than plain white, ain’t it? I’ve got a green silk one. I’ll let you wear my yaller silk tie. What you better do is run up to the store and git some stove polish. We’ve got to run a shine on our boots.”
“You go git the polish. I’ve got to whittle m’ whiskers with a dull razor. Damn’ nice cloth in them suits, Dud.”
“Ought to be at eighty a suit, and half the cloth missin’.”
* * * * *
The town of Willow Wells had never outgrown its infancy. It was slightly over twenty years of age, but looked older because the original false front buildings, facing along the narrow street, had long since lost any vestige of paint they may have had. The signs were barely visible, having been heat and sand scoured many times. The two biggest buildings in the town were the courthouse and the livery stable.
Of saloons there were plenty—the War Paint was the most fashionable. It was not a pretentious structure, although it covered plenty of ground space and, it was said, a multitude of sins. Twenty miles south of Willow Wells was the town of Newton, on the railroad. When Willow Wells was born there was no railroad down there, no town. The railroad brought Newton, and Newton wanted to be the county seat; but the bulk of the votes were in the northern end of the county and Willow Wells retained the honors.
The Willow Wells stage made the round trip daily to Newton, piloted most of the time by Comanche Beadle, who believed himself in partnership with Wells Fargo. Three miles southwest of Willow Wells, on the road to Newton, was the Diamond R ranch, owned by Jim McGowan, a big, handsome man of about forty-eight years, cordially hated by Pink Lowry. In fact, Pink hated the whole Diamond R outfit.
It was not a hate of long standing. Pink had been indifferent to Jim McGowan until Mary Pelliser came back from school and took up her residence at the SP ranch. Pink did not realize that ninety per cent. of the cowboys had fallen violently in love with Mary; he only saw Jim McGowan paying court to her. Jim was handsome and Pink knew it. He realized his own shortcomings, both in face and figure, and he proceeded to hate all of the Diamond R outfit.
Pink was barely past his majority in years, which might excuse him. He was the youngest deputy they had ever had in Willow Wells, and many of the old-timers shook their heads over Dud Evans’ choice as a helper; but Pink was efficient and capable, and Evans knew it.
McGowan had owned the Diamond R for three years, having bought the brand and the ranch from Edward Hart, owner of the Bank of Willow Wells. The Diamond R personnel was, in range vernacular, rather salty. It consisted of Scotty McGowan, a brother of Jim, Buck Haskell, Barney East, Sam Hall and a disreputable Chinese cook named Mulligan. Of course, this was not his name, but it sufficed. Mulligan loved gin and his one-string fiddle, both of which caused him to make weird noises.