The Sheriff And His Partner | Page 3

as I
approached the crowd my steps grew slower, and I became half
ashamed of my eager, obtrusive curiosity and excitement. There was a
kind of reproof in the lazy, cool glance which one man after another
cast upon me, as I went by. Assuming an air of indecision I threaded
my way through the chairs uptilted against the sides of the

billiard-tables. I had drained a glass of Bourbon whisky before I
realized that these apparently careless men were stirred by some
emotion which made them more cautious, more silent, more warily on
their guard than usual. The gamblers and loafers, too, had taken "back
seats" this evening, whilst hard-working men of the farmer class who
did not frequent the expensive bar of the Carvell House were to be seen
in front. It dawned upon me that the matter was serious, and was being
taken seriously.
The silence was broken from time to time by some casual remark of no
interest, drawled out in a monotone; every now and then a man invited
the "crowd" to drink with him, and that was all. Yet the moral
atmosphere was oppressive, and a vague feeling of discomfort grew
upon me. These men "meant business."
Presently the door on my left opened--Sheriff Johnson came into the
room.
"Good evenin'," he said; and a dozen voices, one after another,
answered with "Good evenin'! good evenin', Sheriff!" A big
frontiersman, however, a horse-dealer called Martin, who, I knew, had
been on the old vigilance committee, walked from the centre of the
group in front of the bar to the Sheriff, and held out his hand with:
"Shake, old man, and name the drink." The Sheriff took the proffered
hand as if mechanically, and turned to the bar with "Whisky--straight."
Sheriff Johnson was a man of medium height, sturdily built. A broad
forehead, and clear, grey-blue eyes that met everything fairly, testified
in his favour. The nose, however, was fleshy and snub. The mouth was
not to be seen, nor its shape guessed at, so thickly did the brown
moustache and beard grow; but the short beard seemed rather to
exaggerate than conceal an extravagant out jutting of the lower jaw,
that gave a peculiar expression of energy and determination to the face.
His manner was unobtrusively quiet and deliberate.
It was an unusual occurrence for Johnson to come at night to the
bar-lounge, which was beginning to fall into disrepute among the

puritanical or middle-class section of the community. No one, however,
seemed to pay any further attention to him, or to remark the unusual
cordiality of Martin's greeting. A quarter of an hour elapsed before
anything of note occurred. Then, an elderly man whom I did not know,
a farmer, by his dress, drew a copy of the "Kiota Tribune" from his
pocket, and, stretching it towards Johnson, asked with a very marked
Yankee twang:
"Sheriff, hev yeou read this 'Tribune'?"
Wheeling half round towards his questioner, the Sheriff replied:
"Yes, sir, I hev." A pause ensued, which was made significant to me by
the fact that the bar-keeper suspended his hand and did not pour out the
whisky he had just been asked to supply--a pause during which the two
faced each other; it was broken by the farmer saying:
"Ez yeou wer out of town to-day, I allowed yeou might hev missed
seein' it. I reckoned yeou'd come straight hyar before yeou went to
hum."
"No, Crosskey," rejoined the Sheriff, with slow emphasis; "I went
home first and came on hyar to see the boys."
"Wall," said Mr. Crosskey, as it seemed to me, half apologetically,
"knowin' yeou I guessed yeou ought to hear the facks," then, with some
suddenness, stretching out his hand, he added, "I hev some way to go,
an' my old woman 'ull be waitin' up fer me. Good night, Sheriff." The
hands met while the Sheriff nodded: "Good night, Jim."
After a few greetings to right and left Mr. Crosskey left the bar. The
crowd went on smoking, chewing, and drinking, but the sense of
expectancy was still in the air, and the seriousness seemed, if anything,
to have increased. Five or ten minutes may have passed when a man
named Reid, who had run for the post of Sub-Sheriff the year before,
and had failed to beat Johnson's nominee Jarvis, rose from his chair and
asked abruptly:

"Sheriff, do you reckon to take any of us uns with you to-morrow?"
With an indefinable ring of sarcasm in his negligent tone, the Sheriff
answered:
"I guess not, Mr. Reid."
Quickly Reid replied: "Then I reckon there's no use in us stayin';" and
turning to a small knot of men among whom he had been sitting, he
added, "Let's go, boys!"
The men got up and filed out after their