Emersons Wife and Other Western Stories | Page 6

right, Tommy. I promise."
Tattle got up and looked at his friend with an expression of mingled
apology and triumph on his big, red face. "I 'm sorry I had to do it. Nick.
You-all know that. But I had to, and you know that, too. We can't do
another thing now till to-morrow, and you 're sober again. I don't see,"
he went on grumblingly, "as long as they were goin' to kill old man
Paxton anyway, why they did n't do it before Emerson got married!"
Nick had been soaking his head in the wash-bowl and he wheeled
around with the water streaming over his face. "Tom, I sure reckon
Emerson would come if you 'd send for him!"
"Mebbe he would, Nick, but I ain't goin' to do it. For he sure had n't
ought to go and get himself killed now, just on our account. But if he
was here," Tommy went on wistfully, "we 'd wipe up the ground with
that Dysert gang too quick!"
Nick rolled over on the bed, sleep heavy on his eyelids. "Well, I gave
Emerson the chance this mornin' to let us know whether he 's goin' to
keep on bein' one of us, or whether he 's goin' to bunch alone with Mrs.
Emerson after this!"
Tuttle gazed in open-mouthed and wide-eyed astonishment.

"What--what--do you mean, Nick? You did n't wire him to come?"
"No, I did n't! I told him you and me was up against the Dysert gang--"
Nick's voice trailed off into a sleepy murmur--"alone, and I--was
drunk--and likely to get--disorderly."
"You measly, ornery--" Tuttle began. But he saw that Ellhorn was
already asleep and he would not abuse his friend unless Nick could
hear what he said. So he shut his mouth and considered the situation.
He knew well enough that in the days before Emerson's marriage any
such message would have brought Mead to their aid as fast as steam
could carry him. But now, if he did not come--well, what Nick had said
was true, and they would know that the end of the old close friendship
had come. But, for the young wife's sake, if he should come, he and
Nick must not let him do anything foolhardy and they must try to keep
him out of danger.
Tuttle waited up for the midnight train, on which, if Mead heeded
Nick's telegram, he would be likely to arrive. In the meantime, he did
some spying out of the land and learned that Dysert and some of his
followers had hidden themselves, with arms, ammunition, and
provisions, in an empty adobe house belonging to the head of the band.
The deputy marshal knew this meant that the criminals would resist to
the last, and that any attempt to take them would be as perilous an
adventure as he and his friends had ever faced. If Emerson came and
anything happened to him--and it was very unlikely, if they carried the
thing through, that any one of them would come out of it without at
least serious injury--then he and Ellhorn would feel that they had been
the cause of the young wife's bereavement. And yet, with Mead's help,
they might succeed. And success in this enterprise would be the biggest,
the crowning achievement in all their experience as officers of the law.
As midnight approached, Tuttle scarcely knew whether he more hoped
or dreaded that Mead would come. He had faced the muzzle of loaded
guns with less trepidation and anxiety than he felt as he stepped out on
the sidewalk when he heard the rattle of the omnibus. A tall figure, big
and broad-shouldered, swung down from the vehicle.

"Emerson--Emerson--" Tuttle stammered, his voice shaking and dying
in his throat into something very like a sob. Then he gripped Mead's
hand and said casually, "How 's Mrs. Emerson?"
Mead replied merely, "She's well"; but Tom caught an unwonted
intonation of tenderness in his voice and saw his face soften and glow
for an instant before he went on anxiously, "What's up?--and where 's
Nick?"
Tuttle wavered a little the next morning in his purpose of attacking the
Dysert retreat. He took Ellhorn aside and asked his opinion about
letting the matter rest until the return of Marshal Black and Sheriff
Williamson.
Nick was quite sober again and looked back over his misdeeds of the
day before with a jaunty smile and a penitent shake of the head. "Sure,
Tom," he said, and the Irish roll in his voice showed that his contrition
was sincere enough to move him deeply, "sure and I was a measly,
beastly, ornery kiote to go back on you like that, and you 'd have served
me right if you 'd set on me twice as long as you did!"