Part 3

“I’m mak’ t’ink we better off wit’out drink, Blaze.” Frenchy spoke softly. “Whisky ver’ good when everybody she’s happy, but nobody she act happy over de Mora business. Mebbe de sonn of a gonn she’s need more convince, eh?”

“I reckon you’re right, Frenchy. Come on.”

* * * * *

They sauntered out of the door into the street, and once more the Eureka seemed to grow hilarious; as if a weight had been removed from its mind. Blaze told Frenchy of his conversation with the man.

“He no say w’at he want? Ba gosh! Mebbe she’s trap from Black Mora.”

Blaze shook his head.

“No, I reckon not, Frenchy. I’ll take that chance.”

“Sure ’nough. I’m bet Black Mora mak’ t’ink we die in de fire. He not know us. His two men see us close, but one is got busted arm and de oder she’s no set on saddle for week. I’m like dis ---- town, Blaze. Ba gosh, nobody’s she get rusty from live her, you bet me my life.”

Several cowboys whirled their horses away from a hitch-rack, and one of them came bucking down the center of the street, its rider swinging sidewise in the saddle, his right spur hooked into the cinch, while he fanned the bronco’s ears with his sombrero.

Another forced his horse to enter the saloon, spurring the frightened beast into a jerky buck as it went inside and a few moments later bucked out again with a big bottle held aloft in his hand. His horse passed Blaze and Frenchy in a whirl of dust as he raced to catch the others.

Across the street was a sign: SHERIFF’S OFFICE. A notice was pinned to the door. Blaze and Frenchy crossed the street and read the notice.

CLOSED BY ORDER OF VIGILANT

Blaze studied the crudely lettered sign.

“The same man wrote both signs--this one and the one we found on that dead man, Frenchy. The letters are made just the same way.”

“What dis wan say?” asked Frenchy.

Blaze read it aloud.

“Ba gosh!” exclaimed Frenchy. “I’m mak’ t’ink de lawyer starve to death in dis countree. De hangman she’s good for do de hang, but she’s ---- poor judge, I’m t’ink.”

“Crooked sheriff, I reckon,” observed Blaze. “The vigilantes likely found him out and made him hard to catch.”

They strolled from saloon to saloon, but there was no sign of Black Mora nor his two men. Frenchy watched Blaze walk past game after game without interest, and wondered what had come over his partner. Somehow the games of chance did not attract Blaze now.

No one paid any attention to them, which proved that news of Black Mora’s humiliation had not reached their ears. Every one seemed intent on his own pleasures. Groups of cow-punchers drifted from saloon to saloon, singing, playing like a crowd of overgrown children; their spurs jingling over the rough floors.

Already the huge, shaded oil-lamps had been lighted over the gambling-tables, and their smoky odors mingled with the scent of alcohol and tobacco fumes. Dealers finished their shifts and made way for fresh, clear-eyed men, in shirt sleeves and eyeshades. Blaze and Frenchy sat tilted back against the wall, watching the action of the place, but taking no part in it. Finally, Blaze tilted forward and got to his feet. It was time to go.

He spoke to Frenchy and they threaded their way through the crowd and into the street. They saddled their own horses, paid the small fee and rode away. A pale moon lighted the dusty road while a film of dust cloud seemed to hang above the road, marking the swift passing of some one a short time before.

The house was easy to find, standing alone, bulking black in the dim moonlight. Not a window was lighted; not a horse nor a vehicle was in evidence.

“Must be the right place,” observed Blaze, swinging sidewise in his saddle.

The door opened and the blue-eyed man’s voice spoke--

“Would you mind leaving your horses behind the house where no one could see them from the road?”

“Sure thing,” replied Blaze, and they rode to the rear.

The door was opened for them and they stepped into a dark room. The door was closed behind them. A match flared up and they watched a man light a small oil-lamp. As the glow lighted up the room they glanced around. Sitting in a semi-circle were at least a dozen men. Blaze glanced at the window and saw that it was covered with several thicknesses of blankets. The lamp had likely been extinguished before opening the door.

The blue-eyed man stepped beside Blaze and spoke to the men.

“Gentlemen, these are the two men. One of them knocked Black Mora down in the Eureka this afternoon. His pardner would have killed Mora in another moment. They are strangers in Wolf Butte.”

A tall, rangy man got to his feet and held out his hand to Blaze.

“Pardner, I’d admire to shake your hand.”

Blaze smiled and shook hands with him. Not to be outdone, Frenchy stepped forward and offered his hand.

“Ba gosh, you shake hands wit’ good man, when you shake wit’ Blaze Carlin and Frenchy Ditteau.”

That seemed to break the tension.

“You are wondering why I asked you to come here, aren’t you?” asked the blue-eyed man.

“Feller kinda like to know,” admitted Blaze.

“You do the talkin’, will yuh, judge?” asked one of the men. “You _sabe_ the kinda stuff to say.”

The blue-eyed man nodded and turned to Blaze.

“I am Judge Whalen. These men--” indicating the semicircle of men--“these men and myself compose the vigilance committee.”

“Ba gosh, you be ashamed!” blurted Frenchy. “You hang old crippled man.”

Judge Whalen glanced at the men and back at Frenchy.

“What was that, Ditteau?”

“We buried a victim of the vigilantes yesterday,” replied Blaze. “It was an old man.”

“Another one,” said the judge sadly. “Where was this done, Carlin?”

Blaze tried to describe the place, but was interrupted by one of the men, who got to his feet.

“I know the place, judge, but I don’t know the man. It’s west of Mora’s ranch. This man has only been there a short time. I talked with him, but he had little to say. He acted kinda queer.”

“Their idea seems to be to kill, regardless of who their victim may be,” observed the judge, but turned quickly to Blaze. “I forgot that you did not know. We are the original vigilance committee, but we have not been active for over two months.

“Law and order seemed to have been established by us, after all other means had failed. Our sheriff was unable to handle the situation; so we gave him our assistance and then disbanded.

“Since then another organization has appeared, operating under our name; an organization which has undone all our good work, put us to shame, and are now terrorizing the country. Murder after murder has been done in the name of the vigilantes. Our sheriff has disappeared, perhaps killed, and his office door bears a warning from the vigilantes.

“No man knows where they will strike next. The cripple you found hanging to the tree is only one of the many they have murdered. No doubt you are aware that the law and order crowd are greatly in the minority. We were a power for a while, but that power is gone, it seems. Our investigations are useless as no man seems to want to tell what he knows for fear of vengeance.

“The bank has closed its door after a raid by the same gang, in which the cashier, one of our organization, was killed. Stores have been looted. Things have come to such a state that a decent woman does not dare be seen on the street of Wolf Butte. You have seen the reckless riding, shooting, profanity, the flaunting of morals. Each day it grows worse.”

“She sure is a stem-winder, judge,” admitted Blaze. “What do yuh want us to do?”

“You knocked Black Mora down today. It is the first time that any man has raised his hand against Mora and lived. He is the swiftest, most deadly pistol-shot in the country; a man without a shred of conscience. The men who work for him are the pick of the outlaws. There is no question but what he has spies everywhere. Five of our organization have been killed.

“You will ask why we do not remove Black Mora? He has a larger organization than we have. He knows our every move. Practically every man in our crowd is married. I am not ashamed to admit to you that we are afraid. Honest men can not be on their guard every moment. No man will accept the sheriff’s office. It is suicide. We want a man who is unafraid and who is willing to put his soul, his life into it.”

Judge Whalen’s voice was softly pitched; impassioned as if pleading before a jury of twelve instead of telling plain facts to two men. The shadows of the cattlemen bulked grotesquely on the wall, as they humped forward, listening intently to the one man among them who could tell calmly of their wrongs.

Blaze got to his feet and adjusted his belt. The flickering light accentuated the bronze high-lights of his Indian-like features and seemed to intensify the white strip of hair.

“Can yuh make a sheriff without an election?” he asked.

“By appointment,” nodded the judge. “We have with us the commissioners of this county, who may, in the event of no incumbent, appoint a sheriff to serve the remainder of the unexpired term.”

“A sheriff wouldn’t have a chance in the world,” objected a grizzled cowman. “That’s why nobody wants the job.”

“I wish you’d appoint Frenchy Ditteau for sheriff,” said Blaze. “Frenchy’d make a danged good sheriff.”

“Ba gosh, I’m vote for Blaze Carlin,” declared Frenchy. “I’m----”

“Why not you?” asked the judge.

Blaze shook his head.

“Judge, you need brains in that office. Frenchy has more _sabe_ than I have. If you can make him sheriff, I’ll be his deputy.”

“It wouldn’t be quite legal,” stated the judge. “Neither of you are voters here.”

“Just came into the State,” admitted Blaze.

Another of the group got to his feet.

“Judge, I says to ---- with legality! We’re considerin’ right and wrong--not law. I dunno how these two men aims to be of a ---- bit of use to us as a sheriff and deputy, but I’m willin’ to help appoint ’em.”

“Have you any ideas of what you are confronting?” asked the judge.

Blaze laughed.

“I’ve been a gambler most of my life, judge. I ain’t never cared much for law and order until I helped cut down an old man who had been hung. He was a cripple in one knee and his old hands was twisted from disease. He couldn’t neither run nor shoot. I don’t reckon I’d ever feel good if I didn’t do somethin’ to pay back the men who done that.”

“De devil do dat job,” added Frenchy, “I’m not ’fraid from any men w’at hang ol’ men. Bimeby I’m be ol’ man, I’m t’ink, an’ I’m no lak’ to stand on wind and look up de rope, ba gosh!”

“Hirin’ Frenchy for sheriff likely won’t be legal,” stated Blaze, “but neither is hangin’ legal, when yuh do it promiscuous-like. It ain’t because we want to be sheriff, gents. Me and Frenchy are just two ordinary men and we ain’t able to do no more than any two ordinary men, but bein’ sheriff and deputy kinda gives us somethin’ to work on. We only asks one favor of yuh, and that is to let us handle it in our own way. Yuh can never do anythin’ by arguin’ with ’em, gents. If we takes this job there won’t be no questions asked nor answered.”

The judge turned to the group.

“Men, I will write out the appointment at once, if you all agree. I think it will be a good night’s work for the country.”

“She be ---- bad luck for some-bodee,” grinned Frenchy enthusiastically. “Frenchy Ditteau, sheriff, eh? I’m get scare of myself, Blaze. Ho, ho, ho! Wolf Butte get ’fraid for scare, when she’s see de sheriff. Bimeby I’m hire de cow-punch to ride herd on de outlaw, biccause I’m t’ink de jail too small. Ho, ho, ho!”

The men grouped around the table, while Judge Whalen penciled the appointment and had it signed. He handed it to Frenchy.

“This is your authority, Mr. Ditteau.”

“Meester Ditteau.” Frenchy repeated the title as he grinned down at the document, which he could not read, and then put it in his pocket.

“Ba gosh, Frenchy Ditteau got regular job now. I’m t’ink de wolf and grizzly move in close, biccause dere be plenty feed bimeby. Ho, ho, ho!”

“Please do not underrate Black Mora,” said the judge seriously. “Bully he may be, but I do not think he is a coward. He has a heart as black as his face and he wields a dangerous power. I know you do not fear him, but I ask you to respect his ability.”

“Anybody else need watchin’?” asked Blaze.

“Everybody.” The judge’s gesture even encompassed present company. “Wolf Butte has become the hangout of every outlaw from Wyoming to Canada. This railroad will bring in the scum of the earth and Wolf Butte will be their headquarters. Unless conditions change, this town will be a red hell and we’ll pay for the pitch.”

“Ba gosh, I’m lak’ dis town,” grinned Frenchy. “I’m t’ink I’m stay here and grow up wit’ her.”

Blaze and Frenchy shook hands with the men, the lamp was extinguished and they all filed outside. The moon was hidden by clouds.

“We want to wish you the best of luck,” said the judge softly.

“I--I reckon we’ll need considerable,” smiled Blaze. “It looks kinda stormy.”

“Our horses are over in the coulée,” explained one of the men, and without further conversation they filed away in the dark, while Frenchy and Blaze rode back to the blazing lights of Wolf Butte, where they stabled their horses and went straight to the sheriff’s office. The door was unlocked. Inside they found two small cots and several blankets.

Blaze barred the door and they went to bed. The street echoed with galloping hoofs, the shouts of drunken men and women. From the dance-halls came the raucous notes of an orchestra as Wolf Butte danced. Blaze stared up at the dark ceiling of the office and wondered why he did not want to join the revelry; wondered why the green cloth had no attraction for him now.

From Frenchy’s cot came a stentorian snore. The new sheriff was doing no unnecessary worrying over the morrow. Blaze grinned and stretched his full length. Men had shaken his hand and expressed confidence in him--honest men. He was no longer Blaze Carlin, gambler; he was Blaze Carlin, the right arm of the law. He flexed his supple fingers and wondered how long the arm of the law would last. At least, it would start reaching.

* * * * *

Wolf Butte was a different place in the light of the morning sun. Few men were on the street. Swampers sluiced out the saloons and gambling-houses, sweeping out stacks of torn and stained playing-cards; cleaning up for the day and night to come. Freighters’ wagons, with red-eyed, cursing drivers, creaked away from the stores, headed back to the source of supplies.

Men were packing a bunch of horses in front of a store. A hatless, disheveled person staggered out of a saloon and started across the street. He stopped and looked up at the sky, as if amazed that it should be morning. Perhaps he was ashamed to be seen in the full light of day for he staggered back from whence he came. There was no breeze and the passing of hoof and wheel left a film of alkali dust in the air; a film through which the heat waves began to dance a devil’s jig.

Wolf Butte awoke slowly--painfully. It was useless to try to sleep in that heat.

Men began to drift from the overcrowded hotels to the saloons. Men rolled out of their blankets at the feed corrals. The loft of the livery-stable furnished lodging for those unable to secure a bed. The bare ground furnished lodging for those who were unable to secure rooms, or were physically unable to reach loft, hotel or feed corral.

Dry of throat, bloodshot of eye and silent of voice, they headed for the oases of the town where, after a few crooks of the elbow, they would revive in spirit. Breakfast might or might not be forgotten. It was all according to the degree of thirst and the amount of liquid refreshments taken aboard before the pangs of hunger had a chance to manifest itself. Blaze and Frenchy were the first ones at breakfast.

A frowsy waiter, with one side of his face purpled from temple to nostril and a smear of blood on his collar, took their order. He mumbled something about a big time last night, but Blaze and Frenchy gave him no heed. Two men came in and sat down near them. One of them was explaining that his partner had been too drunk to see.

“I tell yuh that Chuck Sales would ’a’ nailed Mex Free jist like that.” The speaker snapped his fingers. “Jist like that, but he seen that Mex had a busted arm. Chuck and Mex had a argument to settle. Seems that Mex comes in to have Doc Brenton fix up his arm, but doc’s full of morphine and ain’t worth a ---- to fix nothin’.”

“Mex would git Sales if he wasn’t hurt,” argued the other. “I’d like to know who got Mex. Must ’a’ been a accident, ’cause Mex is fast as a rattlesnake. He ain’t Mora’s right-hand man for nothin’. Somebody told Chuck that Mora’s ranch-house burned down, and of course Chuck had to make a fool remark about the vigilantes. I sure looked for some of Mora’s gang to git Chuck. Chuck’s always talkin’ funny.”

“What’s Chuck got against Mora?” asked the other.

“Jealous, I reckon. Chuck Sales don’t want nobody he can’t boss and Mora won’t have nobody he can’t boss; so it--say, him and Mora’d make a good fight.”

“Chuck would whip him.” The man spoke with conviction, but the other laughed scornfully.

“Whip him? Mora’s big enough to tie Chuck in a hard knot. If Mora ever got his hands on Chuck he’d jist squash him complete.”

“Big enough,” agreed the other, “but size ain’t everythin’, Jud. Jist between me and you, I think Mora’s shy on guts.”

The one called Jud laughed.

“Don’tcha think it, Ben. Mora’s got the guts of a grizzly, so he has.”

“In size,” grinned Jud. “Only in size. The back of his head’s as flat as that there wall. I ain’t never seen a flat-head yet what ain’t lacked that somethin’ which makes men fight to the last ditch.”

“Sh-h-h!” cautioned Ben. “Yuh don’t need to yell it.”

The two men attacked their meal. More men drifted in, growling over their meals like hungry animals. Many of them bore marks of drunken conflict. Then came a tall man, stumbling in, his arm tied in a dirty sling. He pushed a man aside and sat down heavily.

Blaze and Frenchy glanced at each other and then at this newcomer. It was Mex Free, the man whom Blaze had shot in the arm near Mora’s ranch. He glowered around the room, his left hand rattling his knife on the table-edge nervously. Suddenly he looked straight at Blaze and Frenchy.

His face seemed to set in deep lines, his eyes almost disappeared under this frowning brows. He licked his lips and his hand, still holding the knife, brushed across his brow, as he tried to fathom the mystery. Blaze nudged Frenchy with his knee and whispered without moving his lips----

“He thinks we were burned in that fire.”

Free turned away, staring around the room, but his glance strayed back to Blaze and Frenchy and without a backward glance he got to his feet and stumbled out through the door. No one paid any attention to his going except Blaze and Frenchy.

“I’m mak’ t’ink you’re right,” grinned Frenchy. “She’s t’ink she sees ghos’, ba gosh!”

They left the restaurant and went back to the office. Blaze tore the sign off the door and made another, which read--

OPEN FOR BUSINESS, and signed it FRENCHY DITTEAU, SHERIFF.

A man stopped and watched Blaze tack the sign on the door. Being unable to read and not being ashamed to acknowledge it he asked Blaze to read it aloud to him. The man made no comment, but turned and went across the street into a saloon. A few minutes later a curious crowd came over to prove the rumor that Wolf Butte had a new sheriff. It seemed to amuse them, but they withheld their laughter until they went back to the saloon where they became hilarious. Blaze and Frenchy listened to their mirth, but failed to be infected with the humor of the situation.

Blaze suggested that they replenish their supply of ammunition, and they went up to the general store, where the storekeeper welcomed them with a smile.

“I met yuh last night,” he informed them in a whisper. “Name’s McQuirk, Jim McQuirk.”

“You was with the judge?” asked Blaze and McQuirk nodded.

He furnished them with the required ammunition and refused to accept pay.

“It’s the least I can do,” he stated.

From under the counter he produced a Winchester repeating rifle, 44-40, which he handed to Blaze, along with several boxes of ammunition.

“Take this and try it out. I dunno how she shoots. It was sent to me from Helena and I ain’t never shot it. She’s faster than the Sharp’s.”

Blaze grinned.

“I _sabe_ that gun, pardner. Feller down on the north fork of the Cheyenne had one and I used it on antelope. I’m sure obliged to yuh.”

“You’re welcome, Carlin.”

Other men came in, but paid no attention to Blaze and Frenchy, who went out and back to their office. A crowd was congregated in front of the Square Deal saloon, and several of them laughed aloud as they watched Blaze and Frenchy go down the street.

“What’s our first move?” asked Blaze, after they reached the office.

Frenchy examined the new gun, testing the action, peering through the sights. Finally he laid it down and began filling the empty loops on his belt.

“Blaze, de notice in de livery-stable she’s to be continue.”

“Make ’em give up their guns?” wondered Blaze.

“Sure t’ing.”

“Means that we’ve got to make good a-whoopin’.”

“Jus’ like de sign say,” nodded Frenchy. “I’m be de sheriff or not. I’m say dat no man she’s can pack de gun in town. Whisky, card, female no mix good wit’ de gun. I’m no can stop de whisky, card, female, but I’m stop de gun, ba gosh! I’m go by de stable. You mak’ Frenchy Ditteau on de sign, eh? I’m tak’ de new gun, Blaze. De Sharp’s is good gun, but I’m need more fas’ shoot, mebbe.”

They went back to the stable and Blaze signed the new sheriff’s name to the order.

“Was this order ever enforced?” asked Blaze.

“No, it sure wasn’t.” The stable-man seemed greatly amused at the question. “Yuh can’t do a thing like that, pardner. Wolf Butte won’t stand for nothin’ like that and yuh can cinch your hull to that statement.”

* * * * *

Three men rode into the wide doors of the stable and got off their horses. They were a hard-looking trio, grimy from a long ride. They turned their horses in stalls and started for the door, when Frenchy called to them.

“Tak’ look,” said Frenchy pointing at the sign.

They stopped and glanced at the sign. One of them laughed and swung on his heel.

“Come on, boys; that don’t mean nothin’.”

“She’s mean w’at she say!” snapped Frenchy. “I’m de sheriff and you leave your gun wit’ me.”

The man looked at Frenchy, as if astonished. He looked at the sign again and laughed sneeringly.

“You the sheriff?”

“You leave de gun wit’ me.” Frenchy’s voice was softly pitched, as if asking a favor. His left hand swung out, as if to receive the gun, his fingers working nervously. It was as if he was crumbling something in the palm of his hand.

“Leave--my--gun? With--you?” The man’s words were widely spaced as he stared at Frenchy’s left hand.

Astonishment seemed to grip him, but indignation flashed across his eyes and his hand streaked for his gun. He was a fraction of a second too late. Frenchy fired from his hip and at the crack of the gun Blaze covered the other two.

The man’s hand relaxed from his gun which thudded to the soggy floor. Over his face came an astonished expression. He knitted his brows as if deep in thought and then sank to his knees, after which he slid softly on his face.

“De gun stay wit’ me,” declared Frenchy without emotion, reaching down and picking it up from the floor.

He turned to the astonished men and removed the guns from their holsters. Then he pointed down at the man on the floor.

“You pack de man down to de sheriff office. If you t’ink de doctor do heem any good--you call heem. I’m stay here to collect de gun.”