The Ramblin Kid | Page 7

wide steps, narrow
windows, dingy weather-board sides and blackened roof, still stands to
remind old-timers of the days of long ago.
A city marshal, Tom Poole, a long, slim, Sandy-mustached Missourian,
completes the picture of Eagle Butte. Regularly he meets the arriving
trains and by the glistening three-inch nickel star pinned to his left
suspender announces to the traveling world that here, on the one time
woolly Kiowa, law and order at last prevail. Odd times the marshal
farms a ten-acre truck patch close to the river at the southern edge of
the town. Pending the arrival of trains he divides his time between the
front steps of the old hotel and the Elite Amusement Parlor, Eagle
Butte's single den of iniquity where pocket pool, billiards,
solo--devilish dissipations these!--along with root beer, ginger ale, nut
sundaes, soda-pop, milk shakes and similar enticements are served to
those, of reckless and untamed temperaments.
From the open door of the pool hall the marshal saw a thin, black streak
of smoke curling far out on the horizon--a dozen miles--northeast of
Eagle Butte.
"Seventeen's comin'," he remarked to the trio of idlers leaning against
the side of the building; "guess I'd better go over an' see who's on her,"
moving as he spoke out into the sizzling glare of the almost deserted
street. Glancing toward the east his eyes fastened on a cloud of dust
whirling rapidly along the road that came from the direction of the
lower Cimarron.
"Gosh, lookey yonder," he muttered, "that must be Old Heck drivin' his
new automobile--th' darn fool is goin' to bust something some day,

runnin' that car the way he does!"
Walking quickly, to escape the heat, he crossed the street to the station.
Two minutes later the cloud of dust trailed a rakish, trim-lined,
high-powered, purring Clagstone "Six" to a stop in front of the
Occidental Hotel and Old Heck and Skinny Rawlins climbed glumly
and stiffly from the front seat, after the thirty-minute, twenty-mile run
from the Quarter Circle KT.
Old Heck had his peculiarities. One of them was insistence for the
best--absolutely or nothing. The first pure-bred, hot-blood stallions
turned on the Kiowa range carried the Quarter Circle KT brand on their
left shoulders. He wanted quality in his stock and spent thousands of
dollars importing bulls and stallions to get it. When the automobile
came it was the same. No jit for the erratic owner of the last big
genuine cow-ranch on the Cimarron. Consequently the beautiful car--a
car fit for Fifth Avenue--standing now in front of the old hotel in Eagle
Butte.
The smoke on the northeastern sky-line was yet some miles away.
The lanky marshal had reached the station.
"It's a good thing there's prohibition in this town," Skinny muttered as
he stepped from the car and started brushing the dust from his coat;
"Why?"
"'Cause I'd go get drunk if there wasn't--. Wonder if a feller could get
any boot-leg liquor?"
"Better leave it alone," Old Heck warned, "that kind's worse than none.
It don't make you drunk--just gives you the hysterical hydrophobia!'
"Well, I'd drink anything in an emergency like this if I had it," Skinny
declared doggedly.
"Train's comin'," Old Heck said shortly; "reckon we'd better go over to

the depot--"
"Let's wait here till they get off first," Skinny said. "We can see them
from where we are and kind of size 'em up and it won't be so sudden."
"Maybe that would be better," Old Heck answered.
A moment later Number Seventeen, west-bound Santa Fe passenger
train, stopped at the yellow station. The rear cars were obscured from
the view of Skinny and Old Heck by freight sheds along the track. With
the exception of the engine, baggage, mail and express cars, which
were hidden by the depot, the rest of the train was in plain sight.
A couple of men got off the day coach. These were followed by a
gawky, weirdly dressed girl of uncertain age carrying an old-fashioned
telescope traveling bag. At sight of the girl Skinny caught his breath
with a gasp. Immediately following her was the tallest, homeliest
woman he had ever seen. Thin to the point of emaciation, a wide
striped, ill-fitting dress of some cheap material accentuated the angular
lines of her body. A tiny narrow-brimmed hat, bright green, with a
white feather, dingy and soiled, sticking straight up at the back made
her more than ever a caricature. The woman also carried a bag. The two
stepped up to the marshal, standing at the cornet: of the station,
apparently asking him a question. He answered, pointing as he did to
Old Heck and Skinny leaning silently against the side of their car. The
woman and girl started toward them.
Fascinated, the cow-men watched them approach.
"My Gawd!" Old Heck