Emersons Wife and Other Western Stories | Page 4

then, and there
ain't now. We 'll load up with warrants, and arrest every kiote that's
thought to be a member of the gang; and we 'll start in with Faustin
Dysert himself!"
Tuttle looked perplexed. He had in his veins a strain of German blood,
which showed in his frank, sincere, blonde countenance and in his
direct and unimaginative habit of mind. But Ellhorn supplemented his
solidity and straightforwardness with an audacity of initiative and a
disregard of consequences that told of Celtic ancestry as plainly as did
the suggestion of a brogue that in moments of excitement touched his
soft Southern speech.
"Marshal Black would be dead agin goin' at it that way," said Tuttle
doubtfully.
"Of course he would! But he ain't here, and we 'll run this round-up to
suit ourselves; and if we don't bunch more bad steers than was ever got

together in this town before, I 'll pull my freight for hell without takin'
another drink!"
"Mebbe you 're right," said Tuttle slowly, "and I think likely that would
be Emerson's judgment too. If he hadn't got married we 'd be all right.
Us three could go up agin the whole lot of 'em and win out in three
shakes!"
"Then let's send for him, and see if he 'll come!"
But Tuttle shook his head. "No," he said positively, "that would n't be a
square deal for Mrs. Emerson, and we won't do it. We 'll stack up alone
against this business, Nick. We 'll put on all the guns we 've got and
keep together. We might get Willoughby Simmons--he 's deputy sheriff
now; but he 's got no judgment, and he 's likely to get rattled and shoot
wild if things get excitin'. We 'll get the warrants and start out right
away, for we 've got to keep the thing quiet and nab 'em before they
find out we 're on the warpath. You-all remember you 're sure goin' to
keep sober!"
"Well," said Nick with a laugh, "I 'll be sober enough to stack up with
any measly kiote that's pirootin' around this town!"
Tuttle went for the warrants, and Ellhorn said he would get some
breakfast. But first he waited until his friend was out of sight and then
paid a visit to the bar-room. Next he went to the telegraph office. The
message that he sent was addressed to Emerson Mead, Las Plumas,
New Mexico, and it read:
"Tommy and me are up against the Dysert gang alone, and I 'm drunk.
Nick."
He came out of the telegraph office smiling joyously and humming
under his breath the air of "Bonnie Dundee." "I did n't ask him to
come," he said to himself, "and if he wants to now, that's his affair.
Well, I reckon he ain't any more likely to have daylight let through him
now than he was before he got married; and nobody's gun has made
holes in him yet!"

It was early afternoon when the two friends started out on their
round-up of bad men. To attract as little notice as possible they took a
closed hack and drove rapidly toward the Mexican quarter. Nick's
manner showed such recklessness and high spirits that Tuttle regarded
him with anxiety and began to wonder if it would not be wiser to carry
out his threat of the morning before attempting anything else. But he
caught sight of two Mexicans coming toward them, one handsome and
well built and the other slouching and ill-favored.
"There come two of 'em now! Liberate Herrera and Pablo Gonzalez!"
he exclaimed, with sudden concentration of interest and attention.
"Liberate is a boss knife-thrower, and I think likely he 's the one that
did the business for old man Paxton. Look out for 'im, Nick!"
The carriage came abreast of the two men and Tuttle jumped out, with
Ellhorn close behind him. But quick as they were, Herrera, the
handsome one of the two, understood what was happening and leaped
to one side, a long knife flashing from his sleeve, before Tuttle's hand
could descend upon him. The other was slower and Ellhorn had him by
the arm before he could thrust his hand into his pocket for his revolver.
Herrera's knife slid into position against his wrist and Tuttle's revolver
clicked. The Mexican looked dauntlessly into its black muzzle, but saw
that his companion was submitting, and that both were covered by the
guns of the officers.
"It's all right, Señor Tuttle," he said coolly. "You 've got the best of me.
I give up."
They drove back to the adobe jail; and while Tuttle was turning his
prisoners into the custody of Willoughby Simmons, the deputy sheriff,
Ellhorn slipped out, crossed the street, and went into a saloon. The men