Chapter 2

A few hundred yards I went, and then wheeled to the right past the post office, and so on for a quarter of a mile, till I reached the descent from the higher ground, on which the town was built, to the river. There, on my left, on the verge of the slope, stood the Sheriffs house in a lot by itself, with the long, low jail attached to it. Down the hill I went, and across the bridge and out into the open country. I drove rapidly for about five miles--more than halfway to Osawotamie--and then I pulled up, in order to think quietly and make up my mind.

I grasped the situation now in all its details. Courage was the one virtue which these men understood, the only one upon which they prided themselves. I, a stranger, a “tenderfoot,” had questioned the courage of the boldest among them, and this mission was their answer to my insolence. The “boys” had planned the plot; Johnson was not to blame; clearly he wanted to let me out of it; he would have been satisfied there in the office if I had said that I was busy; he did not like to put his work on any one else. And yet he must profit by my going. Were I killed, the whole country would rise against Williams; whereas if I shot Williams, the Sheriff would be relieved of the task. I wondered whether the fact of his having married made any difference to the Sheriff. Possibly--and yet it was not the Sheriff; it was the “boys” who had insisted on giving me the lesson. Public opinion was dead against me. “I had come into a game where I was not wanted, and I had never even paid the _ante_”--that was Morris’s phrase. Of course it was all clear now. I had never given any proof of courage, as most likely all the rest had at some time or other. That was the _ante_ Morris meant....

My wilfulness had got me into the scrape; I had only myself to thank. Not alone the Sheriff but Martin would have saved me had I profited by the door of escape which he had tried to open for me. Neither of them wished to push the malice to the point of making me assume the Sheriff’s risk, and Martin at least, and probably the Sheriff also, had taken my quick, half-unconscious words and acts as evidence of reckless determination. If I intended to live in the West I must go through with the matter.

But what nonsense it all was! Why should I chuck away my life in the attempt to bring a desperate ruffian to justice? And who could 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 pause he replied:

“Most on ‘em, I guess.”

Another pause and a second question:

“Do you know Tom Williams?”

The eyes looked at me with a faint light of surprise in them; they looked away again, and came back with short, half suspicious, half curious glances.

“Maybe you’re a friend of his’n?”

“I don’t know him, but I’d like to meet him.”

“Would you, though?” Turning half round, the bar-keeper took down a bottle and glass, and poured out some whisky, seemingly for his own consumption. Then: “I guess he’s not hard to meet, isn’t Williams, ef you and me mean the same man.”

“I guess we do,” I replied; “Tom Williams is the name.”

“That’s me,” said the tall man who was leaning on the bar near me, “that’s my name.”

“Are you the Williams that stopped Judge Shannon yesterday?”

“I don’t know his name,” came the careless reply, “but I stopped a man in a buck-board.”

Plucking out my revolver, and pointing it low down on his breast, I said:

“I’m sent to arrest you; you must come with me to Kiota.”

Without changing his easy posture, or a muscle of his face, he asked in the same quiet voice:

“What does this mean, anyway? Who sent you to arrest me?”

“Sheriff Johnson,” I answered.

The man started upright, and said, as if amazed, in a quick, loud voice:

“Sheriff Johnson sent _you_ to arrest me?”

“Yes,” I retorted, “Sheriff Samuel Johnson swore me in this morning as his deputy, and charged me to bring you into Kiota.”

In a tone of utter astonishment he repeated my words, “Sheriff Samuel Johnson!”

“Yes,” I replied, “Samuel Johnson, Sheriff of Elwood County.”

“See here,” he asked suddenly, fixing me with a look of angry suspicion, “what sort of a man is he? What does he figger like?”

“He’s a little shorter than I am,” I replied curtly, “with a brown beard and bluish eyes--a square-built sort of man.”

“Hell!” There was savage rage and menace in the exclamation.

“You kin put that up!” he added, absorbed once more in thought. I paid no attention to this; I was not going to put the revolver away at his bidding. Presently he asked in his ordinary voice:

“What age man might this Johnson be?”

“About forty or forty-five, I should think.”

“And right off Sam Johnson swore you in and sent you to bring me into Kiota--an’ him Sheriff?”

“Yes,” I replied impatiently, “that’s so.”

“Great God!” he exclaimed, bringing his clenched right hand heavily down on the bar. “Here, Zeke!” turning to the man asleep in the corner, and again he shouted “Zeke!” Then, with a rapid change of manner, and speaking irritably, he said to me:

“Put that thing up, I say.”

The bar-keeper now spoke too: “I guess when Tom sez you kin put it up, you kin. You hain’t got no use fur it.”

The changes of Williams’ tone from wonder to wrath and then to quick resolution showed me that the doubt in him had been laid, and that I had but little to do with the decision at which he had arrived, whatever that decision might be. I understood, too, enough of the Western spirit to know that he would take no unfair advantage of me. I therefore uncocked the revolver and put it back into my pocket. In the meantime Zeke had got up from his resting-place in the corner and had made his way sleepily to the bar. He had taken more to drink than was good for him, though he was not now really drunk.

“Give me and Zeke a glass, Joe,” said Williams; “and this gentleman, too, if he’ll drink with me, and take one yourself with us.”

“No,” replied the bar-keeper sullenly, “I’ll not drink to any damned foolishness. An’ Zeke won’t neither.”

“Oh, yes, he will,” Williams returned persuasively, “and so’ll you, Joe. You aren’t goin’ back on me.”

“No, I’ll be just damned if I am,” said the barkeeper, half-conquered.

“What’ll you take, sir?” Williams asked me.

“The bar-keeper knows my figger,” I answered, half-jestingly, not yet understanding the situation, but convinced that it was turning out better than I had expected.

“And you, Zeke?” he went on.

“The old pizen,” Zeke replied.

“And now, Joe, whisky for you and me--the square bottle,” he continued, with brisk cheerfulness.

In silence the bar-keeper placed the drinks before us. As soon as the glasses were empty Williams spoke again, putting out his hand to Zeke at the same time:

“Good-bye, old man, so long, but saddle up in two hours. Ef I don’t come then, you kin clear; but I guess I’ll be with you.”

“Good-bye, Joe.”

“Good-bye, Tom,” replied the bar-keeper, taking the proffered hand, still half-unwillingly, “if you’re stuck on it; but the game is to wait for ‘em here--anyway that’s how I’d play it.”

A laugh and shake of the head and Williams addressed me:

“Now, sir, I’m ready if you are.” We were walking towards the door, when Zeke broke in:

“Say, Tom, ain’t I to come along?”

“No, Zeke, I’ll play this hand alone,” replied Williams, and two minutes later he and I were seated in the buggy, driving towards Kiota.

We had gone more than a mile before he spoke again. He began very quietly, as if confiding his thoughts to me:

“I don’t want to make no mistake about this business--it ain’t worth while. I’m sure you’re right, and Sheriff Samuel Johnson sent you, but, maybe, ef you was to think you could kinder bring him before me. There might be two of the name, the age, the looks--though it ain’t likely.” Then, as if a sudden inspiration moved him:

“Where did he come from, this Sam Johnson, do you know?”

“I believe he came from Pleasant Hill, Missouri. I’ve heard that he left after a row with his partner, and it seems to me that his partner’s name was Williams. But that you ought to know better than I do. By-the-bye, there is one sign by which Sheriff Johnson can always be recognized; he has lost the little finger of his left hand. They say he caught Williams’ bowie with that hand and shot him with the right. But why he had to leave Missouri I don’t know, if Williams drew first.”

“I’m satisfied now,” said my companion, “but I guess you hain’t got that story correct; maybe you don’t know the cause of it nor how it began; maybe Williams didn’t draw fust; maybe he was in the right all the way through; maybe--but thar!--the first hand don’t decide everythin’. Your Sheriffs the man--that’s enough for me.”

After this no word was spoken for miles. As we drew near the bridge leading into the town of Kiota I remarked half-a-dozen men standing about. Generally the place was deserted, so the fact astonished me a little. But I said nothing. We had scarcely passed over half the length of the bridge, however, when I saw that there were quite twenty men lounging around the Kiota end of it. Before I had time to explain the matter to myself, Williams spoke: “I guess he’s got out all the vigilantes;” and then bitterly: “The boys in old Mizzouri wouldn’t believe this ef I told it on him, the dog-goned mean cuss.”

We crossed the bridge at a walk (it was forbidden to drive faster over the rickety structure), and toiled up the hill through the bystanders, who did not seem to see us, though I knew several of them. When we turned to the right to reach the gate of the Sheriff’s house, there were groups of men on both sides. No one moved from his place; here and there, indeed, one of them went on whittling.

I drew up at the sidewalk, threw down the reins, and jumped out of the buggy to hitch up the horse. My task was done.

I had the hitching-rein loose in my hand, when I became conscious of something unusual behind me. I looked round--it was the stillness that foreruns the storm.

Williams was standing on the side-walk facing the low wooden fence, a revolver in each hand, but both pointing negligently to the ground; the Sheriff had just come down the steps of his house; in his hands also were revolvers; his deputy, Jarvis, was behind him on the stoop.

Williams spoke first:

“Sam Johnson, you sent for me, and I’ve come.”

The Sheriff answered firmly, “I did!”

Their hands went up, and crack! crack! crack! in quick succession, three or four or five reports--I don’t know how many. At the first shots the Sheriff fell forward on his face. Williams started to run along the side-walk; the groups of men at the corner, through whom he must pass, closed together; then came another report, and at the same moment he stopped, turned slowly half round, and sank down in a heap like an empty sack.

I hurried to him; he had fallen almost as a tailor sits, but his head was between his knees. I lifted it gently; blood was oozing from a hole in the forehead. The men were about me; I heard them say:

“A derned good shot! Took him in the back of the head. Jarvis kin shoot!”

I rose to my feet. Jarvis was standing inside the fence supported by some one; blood was welling from his bared left shoulder.

“I ain’t much hurt,” he said, “but I guess the Sheriff’s got it bad.”

The men moved on, drawing me with them, through the gate to where the Sheriff lay. Martin turned him over on his back. They opened his shirt, and there on the broad chest were two little blue marks, each in the centre of a small mound of pink flesh.

4TH April, 1891.

End of Project Gutenberg’s The Sheriff And His Partner, by Frank Harris