The Sheriff And His Partner | Page 5

you weren't wanted. And you tried to come in without ever
having paid the ante, which is not allowed in any game--at least not in
any game played about here."
The allusion seemed plain; I was not only a stranger, but a foreigner;
that must be my offence. With a "Good night, sir; good night,
barkeeper!" I left the room.

The next morning I went as usual to the office. I may have been seated
there about an hour--it was almost eight o'clock--when I heard a knock
at the door.
"Come in," I said, swinging round in the American chair, to find myself
face to face with Sheriff Johnson.
"Why, Sheriff, come in!" I exclaimed cheerfully, for I was relieved at
seeing him, and so realized more clearly than ever that the
unpleasantness of the previous evening had left in me a certain
uneasiness. I was eager to show that the incident had no importance:
"Won't you take a seat? and you'll have a cigar?--these are not bad."
"No, thank you," he answered. "No, I guess I won't sit nor smoke jest
now." After a pause, he added, "I see you're studyin'; p'r'aps you're busy
to-day; I won't disturb you."
"You don't disturb me, Sheriff," I rejoined. "As for studying, there's not
much in it. I seem to prefer dreaming."
"Wall," he said, letting his eyes range round the walls furnished with
Law Reports bound in yellow calf, "I don't know, I guess there's a big
lot of readin' to do before a man gets through with all those."
"Oh," I laughed, "the more I read the more clearly I see that law is only
a sermon on various texts supplied by common sense."
"Wall," he went on slowly, coming a pace or two nearer and speaking
with increased seriousness, "I reckon you've got all Locock's business
to see after: his clients to talk to; letters to answer, and all that; and
when he's on the drunk I guess he don't do much. I won't worry you any
more."
"You don't worry me," I replied. "I've not had a letter to answer in three
days, and not a soul comes here to talk about business or anything else.
I sit and dream, and wish I had something to do out there in the
sunshine. Your work is better than reading words, words--nothing but

words."
"You ain't busy; hain't got anything to do here that might keep you?
Nothin'?"
"Not a thing. I'm sick of Blackstone and all Commentaries."
Suddenly I felt his hand on my shoulder (moving half round in the
chair, I had for the moment turned sideways to him), and his voice was
surprisingly hard and quick:
"Then I swear you in as a Deputy-Sheriff of the United States, and of
this State of Kansas; and I charge you to bring in and deliver at the
Sheriff's house, in this county of Elwood, Tom Williams, alive or dead,
and--there's your fee, five dollars and twenty-five cents!" and he laid
the money on the table.
Before the singular speech was half ended I had swung round facing
him, with a fairly accurate understanding of what he meant But the
moment for decision had come with such sharp abruptness, that I still
did not realize my position, though I replied defiantly as if accepting
the charge:
"I've not got a weapon."
"The boys allowed you mightn't hev, and so I brought some along. You
ken suit your hand." While speaking he produced two or three revolvers
of different sizes, and laid them before me.
Dazed by the rapid progress of the plot, indignant, too, at the trick
played upon me, I took up the nearest revolver and looked at it almost
without seeing it. The Sheriff seemed to take my gaze for that of an
expert's curiosity.
"It shoots true," he said meditatively, "plumb true; but it's too small to
drop a man. I guess it wouldn't stop any one with grit in him."
My anger would not allow me to consider his advice; I thrust the

weapon in my pocket:
"I haven't got a buggy. How am I to get to Osawotamie?"
"Mine's hitched up outside. You ken hev it."
Rising to my feet I said: "Then we can go."
We had nearly reached the door of the office, when the Sheriff stopped,
turned his back upon the door, and looking straight into my eyes said:
"Don't play foolish. You've no call to go. Ef you're busy, ef you've got
letters to write, anythin' to do--I'll tell the boys you sed so, and that'll be
all; that'll let you out."
Half-humorously, as it seemed to me, he added: "You're young and a
tenderfoot. You'd better stick to what you've begun upon. That's the
way to do somethin'.--I often think it's the work