Emersons Wife and Other Western Stories | Page 7

But against Tuttle's suggestion of postponing the conflict he presented a
surprised and combative front. "What you-all thinkin' of, Tom? Why,
we 've got 'em holed up now, and all that's to do is to smoke 'em out!"
"It's Emerson I 'm thinkin' of--and Mrs. Emerson. He--he wrote her a
letter this mornin', and put it in his pocket, and asked me if anything
happened to him to see that she got it. Nick, I--I don't like to think
about that! If we put this thing off, he 'll go home, and then we-all can
fight it through without him, mebbe. Nick, you was a sure kiote to send
for him yesterday."
"Yes, I sure was," said Nick with sorrowful conviction. Then he added,
with an air of cheerful finality, "Well, I would n't 'a' done it if I had n't
been drunk! But you 're right, Tommy. It ain't the square deal to Mrs.
Emerson for us to take him into this business. It 'll be a fight to a finish,
for one side or the other, and it's just as likely to be us as them."

At that moment Mead came up, saying briskly, "Well, boys, had n't we
better be starting out?"
Like his two friends, Emerson Mead was Texan born and bred; but a
New England strain in his blood, with its potent strength and sanity,
had given him such poise and force of character as had made him the
leader of the three through their long and intimate friendship and
strenuous life.
"I 've just been sayin' to Nick," Tom replied, his eyes evading those of
his friend, "that mebbe we 'd better let this thing slide till Black and
Williamson get back."
"Well, Tom, this is your shindy, and whatever you say goes. But I sure
think that if you really want to get this Dysert gang, the thing to do is to
trot in and get 'em, right now. You know yourself that Black ain't any
too warm about it, and Williamson is so under Dell Baxter's thumb that
he 's more likely to trip you up, if he can, than he is to help. You-all
won't get another chance as good as this!"
Ellhorn's martial ardor, and his buoyant belief that Mead's marriage had
in no wise lessened his immunity from bullets, obscured for the
moment his anxiety about Mrs. Mead. He slapped his thigh, exclaiming,
"Them's my sentiments, boys! Come on! Let's pull our freight!"
Tuttle's manner still showed some reluctance, but he said no more, and
the three Texans, each of them six feet three or more in his stockings,
broad-shouldered, and straight as an arrow, swung into the street.
They took with them Willoughby Simmons, the deputy sheriff for
whose judgment Tom had so little esteem. Tuttle sent him to guard the
rear of the house, a small, detached adobe, in which Dysert and an
unknown number of his followers had fortified themselves. Some
twenty feet in front and toward one corner of the house grew a large old
apple tree, its leaves and pink-nosed buds just beginning to make
themselves manifest, and underneath it were some piles of wood. It was
the only position that offered cover. Tuttle asked Mead to station
himself there, where he could command one end of the house, a view

toward the rear, and the whole front. Ellhorn he placed similarly at the
other front corner. His own position he took midway between the two,
facing the door and two small windows that blinked beneath the narrow
portal.
Mead saw that he was the only one for whom protection was possible,
and exclaimed, "Say, Tom, this ain't fair!"
But Tuttle paid no attention to his protest, and began to call loudly:
"Dysert! Faustin Dysert! We know you 're in there, you and your men,
and if you 'll give yourselves up you won't get hurt. But we 're goin' to
take you, dead or alive! If there 's anybody in there that don't belong in
your gang, send 'em out, and we 'll let 'em go away peaceable!"
There was no reply from the house. Evidently those within meant to
play a waiting game until they could get the officers of the law under
their hands, or perhaps take them unawares. Tuttle glanced at Mead and
saw that he was standing apart from the tree and the piles of wood.
Tom thought of the letter in his friend's pocket and remembered the
look that had crossed his face at the mention of his wife. Great beads of
sweat broke out on Tom's forehead. With his lips set and his eyes on
those squinting front windows he walked across to his friend and said
in a low tone:
"I reckon, Emerson, we 'd better just stand