The Sheriffs Son | Page 4

for help, and collapsed in a woeful

little huddle. His friends arrived in time to save Beaudry, damaged only
to the extent of a flesh wound in the shoulder, but the next week the
young wife gave premature birth to her child and died four days later.
In mental and physical equipment the baby was heir to the fears which
had beset the last days of the mother. He was a frail little fellow and he
whimpered at trifles. But the clutch of the tiny pink fingers held John
Beaudry more firmly than a grip of steel. With unflagging patience he
fended bogies from the youngster.
But the day was at hand when he could do this no longer. That was why
he was telling Royal about the mother he had never known. From his
neck he drew a light gold chain, at the end of which was a small square
folding case. In it was a daguerreotype of a golden-haired, smiling girl
who looked out at her son with an effect of shy eagerness.
"Give Roy pretty lady," demanded the boy.
Beaudry shook his head slowly. "I reckon that's 'most the only thing
you can ask your dad for that he won't give you." He continued
unsteadily, looking at the picture in the palm of his hand. "Lady-Bird I
called her, son. She used to fill the house with music right out of her
heart. . . . Fine as silk and true as gold. Don't you ever forget that your
mother was a thoroughbred." His voice broke. "But I hadn't ought to
have let her stay out here. She belonged where folks are good and kind,
where they love books and music. Yet she wouldn't leave me
because . . . because . . . Maybe you'll know why she wouldn't some
day, little son."
He drew a long, ragged breath and slipped the case back under his shirt.
Quickly Beaudry rose and began to bustle about with suspicious
cheerfulness. He whistled while he packed and saddled. In the fresh
cool morning air they rode across the valley and climbed to the mesa
beyond. The sun mounted higher and the heat shimmered on the trail in
front of them. The surface of the earth was cracked in dry, sun-baked
tiles curving upward at the edges. Cat's-claw clutched at the legs of the
travelers. Occasionally a swift darted from rock to rock. The faint, low

voices of the desert were inaudible when the horse moved. The riders
came out of the silence and moved into the silence.
It was noon when Beaudry drew into the suburbs of Battle Butte. He
took an inconspicuous way by alleys and side streets to the corral. His
enemies might or might not be in town. He wanted to take no chances.
All he asked was to postpone the crisis until Royal was safe aboard a
train. Crossing San Miguel Street, the riders came face to face with a
man Beaudry knew to be a spy of the Rutherfords. He was a sleek, sly
little man named Chet Fox.
"Evening sheriff. Looks some like we-all might have rain," Fox said,
rasping his unshaven chin with the palm of a hand.
"Looks like," agreed Beaudry with a curt nod and rode on.
Fox disappeared around a corner, hurried forward for half a block, and
turned in at the Silver Dollar Saloon. A broad-shouldered, hawk-nosed
man of thirty was talking to three of his friends. Toward this group Fox
hurried. In a low voice he spoke six words that condemned John
Beaudry to death.
"Beaudry just now rode into town."
Hal Rutherford forgot the story he was telling. He gave crisp, short
orders. The men about him left by the back door of the saloon and
scattered.
Meanwhile the sheriff rode into the Elephant Corral and unsaddled his
horse. He led the animal to the trough in the yard and pumped water for
it. His son trotted back beside him to the stable and played with a
puppy while the roan was being fed.
Jake Sharp, owner of the corral, stood in the doorway and chatted with
the sheriff for a minute. Was it true that a new schoolhouse was going
to be built on Bonito? And had the sheriff heard whether McCarty was
to be boss of Big Creek roundup?

Beaudry answered his questions and turned away. Royal clung to one
hand as they walked. The other held the muley gun.
It was no sound that warned the sheriff. The approach of his enemies
had been noiseless. But the sixth sense that comes to some fighting
men made him look up quickly. Five riders were moving down the
street toward the stable, Hal Rutherford in the lead. The alert glance of
the imperiled man swept the pasture back