The Sheriff And His Partner | Page 7

say that
Williams was a ruffian? It was plain that his quarrel with the Sheriff
was one of old date and purely personal He had "stopped" Judge
Shannon in order to bring about a duel with the Sheriff. Why should I
fight the Sheriff's duels? Justice, indeed! justice had nothing to do with
this affair; I did not even know which man was in the right. Reason led
directly to the conclusion that I had better turn the horse's head
northwards, drive as fast and as far as I could, and take the train as soon
as possible out of the country. But while I recognized that this was the
only sensible decision, I felt that I could not carry it into action. To run
away was impossible; my cheeks burned with shame at the thought.
Was I to give my life for a stupid practical joke? "Yes!"--a voice within
me answered sharply. "It would be well if a man could always choose
the cause for which he risks his life, but it may happen that he ought to

throw it away for a reason that seems inadequate."
"What ought I to do?" I questioned.
"Go on to Osawotamie, arrest Williams, and bring him into Kiota,"
replied my other self.
"And if he won't come?"
"Shoot him--you are charged to deliver him 'alive or dead' at the
Sheriff's house. No more thinking, drive straight ahead and act as if you
were a representative of the law and Williams a criminal. It has to be
done."
The resolution excited me, I picked up the reins and proceeded. At the
next section-line I turned to the right, and ten or fifteen minutes later
saw Osawotamie in the distance.
I drew up, laid the reins on the dashboard, and examined the revolver.
It was a small four-shooter, with a large bore. To make sure of its
efficiency I took out a cartridge; it was quite new. While weighing it in
my hand, the Sheriff's words recurred to me, "It wouldn't stop any one
with grit in him." What did he mean? I didn't want to think, so I put the
cartridge in again, cocked and replaced the pistol in my right-side
jacket pocket, and drove on. Osawotamie consisted of a single street of
straggling frame-buildings. After passing half-a-dozen of them I saw,
on the right, one which looked to me like a saloon. It was evidently a
stopping-place. There were several hitching-posts, and the house
boasted instead of a door two green Venetian blinds put upon
rollers--the usual sign of a drinking-saloon in the West.
I got out of the buggy slowly and carefully, so as not to shift the
position of the revolver, and after hitching up the horse, entered the
saloon. Coming out of the glare of the sunshine I could hardly see in
the darkened room. In a moment or two my eyes grew accustomed to
the dim light, and I went over to the bar, which was on my left. The
bar-keeper was sitting down; his head and shoulders alone were visible;
I asked him for a lemon squash.

"Anythin' in it?" he replied, without lifting his eyes.
"No; I'm thirsty and hot."
"I guessed that was about the figger," he remarked, getting up leisurely
and beginning to mix the drink with his back to me.
I used the opportunity to look round the room. Three steps from me
stood a tall man, lazily leaning with his right arm on the bar, his fingers
touching a half-filled glass. He seemed to be gazing past me into the
void, and thus allowed me to take note of his appearance. In
shirt-sleeves, like the bar-keeper, he had a belt on in which were two
large revolvers with white ivory handles. His face was prepossessing,
with large but not irregular features, bronzed fair skin, hazel eyes, and
long brown moustache. He looked strong and was lithe of form, as if he
had not done much hard bodily work. There was no one else in the
room except a man who appeared to be sleeping at a table in the far
corner with his head pillowed on his arms.
As I completed this hasty scrutiny of the room and its inmates, the
bar-keeper gave me my squash, and I drank eagerly. The excitement
had made me thirsty, for I knew that the crisis must be at hand, but I
experienced no other sensation save that my heart was thumping and
my throat was dry. Yawning as a sign of indifference (I had resolved to
be as deliberate as the Sheriff) I put my hand in my pocket on the
revolver. I felt that I could draw it out at once.
I addressed the bar-keeper:
"Say, do you know the folk here in Osawotamie?"
After a