The Deputy (Bower)

by B. M. Bower

 

The Deputy

By B. M. Sinclair

Lots of people have showed a consuming curiosity over the Bill Bruner business, and why he wasn't cinched when the gang he headed was broke up and scattered. I know why, all right, and I'm here to elucidate.

I'm some patriotic, and so when old Cullen, the sheriff, hazed me into a corner at Malta and asked me if I wouldn't help round up Bill Bruner and his gang, and said his deputy was laid up with a boil on his neck, and wouldn't I help him out, I permits my self to be swore in—especially when Cullen remarks that there's good money in it if we bring in Bill Bruner and collect the reward, which he said he'd split in the middle with me. Two of the Bruner gang had been pinched and sent up for six years apiece, but that didn't stack up very high, unless Bill himself was put where the coyotes couldn't bite him. So Cullen was good and anxious to gather him in; election day wasn't so far off yuh had to go to the calender to hunt it up, and Cullen had his eye on a second shift at the sheriff graft.

I won't say he couldn't 'a' chose a better man than me, but he must uh knowed what he wanted in the line uh deputies; and, any way, I stood ace-high on riding and shooting and knowing the country like my letters. So I laid in a stock uh shells for my six-gun, and Cullen staked me to a rifle, and we loaded up a pack-horse and moseyed out to uphold the majesty uh the law. We started at sun-up and rode about forty miles out where the country is large and lonesome and spreads out over all outdoors nobody laying much claim to it. Cullen said Bill Bruner was rambling around loose somewhere out that way. But, Lord! there was sure plenty uh room for all of us without knocking elbows, and if we run onto him, it looked to me like it would have to be straight, fool's luck. That night we camped under a cut-bank, and I began to feel more at home than I did in town, even if Malta ain't such a hive uh humanity. Cullen seemed kind a despondent because we hadn't got sight uh Bruner yet, and he wasn't the best uh company.

Second day out, it commenced to rain. We got into our slickers and plugged along, telling each other it was a good thing for the country, and we hoped it wouldn't get tired and quit before it done any good. We was glad to see the range get a wetting up, and we didn't mind a little dampness. We camped that night on the dry side of a huddle uh rocks, and when found something beside our matches and tobacco that would burn, we got a fire going and started in to fry bacon and boil coffee, philosophical. The coffee came out all right, but the bacon wound up more boiled than fried; the wet was coming down for keeps. We turned in, some gloomy, and slept with a like in every hollow of the tarp we had on top uh the bed.

Next morning it was still leaking ice water, and we commenced remarking that it could quit any time now without any objections from us. It didn't, though; it kept coming right down till it went through our slickers, even. Cullen quit worrying about Bill Bruner and looking for clues, and wanted to know if I couldn't locate a ranch close handy by. He said Bill Bruner wouldn't de dubbing around in the rain, and we'd likely find him laying low at some ranch.

I'm some patriotic, as I said; but patriotism don't flourish none on rain-water and coffee-wash and parboiled bacon. I was like Cullen; I wasn't half as anxious to come across Bill Bruner as I was to get a roof over me; and the sooner I got it the happier I'd feel. So I says, after doing a stunt uh thinking:

"There's a ranch and an old sheep camp, both within riding distance; which one'll yuh take in yours?"

Cullen studied a minute, and I could see he was fair pining for shelter and a square meal; and the old swine didn't give a cuss whether I got in on the comforts uh home or not.

"We mustn't take no chance on missing our man," he says, judicial. "And as sheriff it's my duty to go where he's most apt t' be. So," he says, looking righteous, "I guess I better head for the ranch. You can take the outfit and go on to the sheep camp, and join me when the storm lets up. No objections, have yuh?"

"None whatever," says I—and I sure hadn't; for the camp wasn't more than six or eight miles, with the storm at my back. And the ranch he'd hid for was a good fifteen miles, and the rain beating in his face all the way; and when yuh got there, the old fellow that owned it was one uh these arguing jaspers that'll make a man plot murder by the time he's listened to him awhile. And the grub he sets up is something fierce. No, I was dead willing to take the pack outfit and the old sheep camp for mine.

So we parted company right there, and I took the pack-horse and started up the creek, and moseyed along for a mile or so, thinking how it don't pay a man to always be feeling for soft snaps. Then I turns a bend in the creek bottom I was following, and comes slap onto a suspicious-looking individual riding a K-L horse. He seen me at the same time and kinda pulled off sideways, like he was aiming to do the vanishing act. The K-L had been losing some horses, I'd heard, and the way the fellow acted didn't look to good to me. So I spurs up some to overtake him.

"Hi stranger!" I yells, "don't be in such a hurry!"

He was, though; and his hurry got more violent. So I took out my gun and cut down on him a couple uh times, and he pulled up reluctant and waited meek till I come up with him. I had a big hunch that I'd made a ten-strike accidental, and this was Bill Bruner. He sure eyed me unfriendly—but my gun was looking his way, so he couldn't do nothing worse than scowl.

"What d'yuh want?" growls his nibs, giving me and my gun the bad-eye.

"I just wanted to see the color uh your hair," I smiles back. "Yuh was going so fast I couldn't make sure whether it was red or not."

He looked plumb murderous. "Well," he snorted, "if you've found out, I'll ride on."

"Oh, I don't know," I says. "I was thinking we'd travel together, cully. I'm plumb lonesome. What did yuh say your name was?"

"Peter Marks," he snaps. "I'm a horse buyer, and in a hurry. And, hang yuh! what yuh holding me up this way for?"

I looked him over, and, near as I could recollect, he answered Cullen's description uh Bruner; so I settles down to business.

"Where did yuh get that K-L horse?" I asks.

"Bought him."

"Well," I says, "I'll gamble his owner wasn't none satisfied with the deal. But if yuh got the bill uh sale handy, dig it up; I know old Smith's handwrite."

He cussed some, but he didn't show up no bill uh sale. So I dug up the handcuffs Cullen had staked me to, and got 'em on him all right, and annexed his six-shooter. Then I headed him up creek for the camp, tickled to death at the way I'd put it all over Cullen. Yuh see, I was so new to the business I fair squeaked.

I hazed him right along, and him cussing and explaining things by turns. But his explanations sounded some thin—which I won't say for the cussing; you could chop off chunks uh that with an axe. When we got up to the camp, a fellow came out and stood on the dry streak under the eaves, with his thumbs stuck in his chap-belt, and regarded us meditative.

"Hello, pardner!" I sings out. "Any room at the inn for me and my protygee?"

He looks at the irons on my prisoner, and grins. "Sure," he says, "if you got your own blankets, and ain't too fastidious about the chuck. Say, how about smoking material? One uh the guests is plumb out and wants a smoke bad."

I got down and handed over my papers and tobacco, and told him who I was and who I'd got hobbled. He said he was almighty glad to see somebody that had nerve enough to take in Bill Bruner; he'd lost a couple uh good saddle horses himself, he said, and I could gamble he'd watch his nibs faithful while I picketed the horses.

He had a good fire going when I got in, and when I unpacked and started to cook some supper, he pitched in and mixed as good flapjacks as I ever put my teeth into. Then he helped me search Bruner; and the first pass we made, we glommed a wad that stacked up over two thousand dollars. There was also a big, wicked jack knife, and a lot uh stuff that didn't amount to nothing.

I give the new man Bill Bruner's gun to keep whilst we stopped together; he didn't have one of his own, and he said he'd feel a heap better, camping with a horse thief, if he had something to shoot with.

So then, having warned Bill aplenty, I took the hobbles off his wrists and let him eat supper. He was a surly cuss, and mighty poor company, but the other fellow and me got real sociable and acquainted. His name was Fawn Ellery, and he'd been riding for the Seventy-Nine over on the Musselshell. He'd started over to strike the K-L for a Winter's job, and the storm headed him off, so he was going to lay up here till it quit raining. He'd got there about an hour before we pulled in. We found out we knew a lot uh the same fellows, so we was chumming to beat four of a kind before we got through eating.

After supper we smoked and talked, whilst Bill Bruner kept quiet and nursed the grouch he had against the world—and against me in particular. Then I found a deck uh cards on a shelf, and asked Fawn if he wanted to play. So we played pitch awhile. Then Bill he kinda come out from under his blanket uh gloom, and said if we had nerve enough, and would give him back the roll we swiped off him, he'd take a hand at draw poker. I was agreeable, but Fawn said he wasn't loaded with dough, like our friend was, and couldn't stand anything higher than penny ante.

We used matches for chips, and played penny ante till Fawn said he was as near broke as he cared to be, and he guessed he'd have to draw out; but I'd been taking in matches off Bill Bruner till I felt plumb generous, so I staked Fawn to all I'd won off Bill, and we went on playing.

Well, we played till the roosters would uh crowed, if there'd been any, and Fawn and me won quite a wad of Bruner's roll. He didn't seem none enthusiastic, and hinted strong that we was giving him the worst of it right along. Him and Fawn got to passing remarks considerable about it, and so I hobbled Bill again and told him to shut up and go to sleep. We went to bed, and I laid awhile listening to the rain singing its little song on the roof, and thinking uh Cullen's face when I hazed Bill over to him—and that was the last I knew for awhile.

When I come to, Fawn had a fire going in the stove that was there, and was whistling "In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree" kinda low while he cut bacon with his jack knife. I laid there a minute and listened to him. Then my prisoner turned over and commenced to cuss malignant, so I got up and pulled on my boots and told Fawn I'd cook the flapjacks.

"Looks like it was going to fair up," says Fawn. "I reckon we can pull out right after we eat. So if you want to take hold and get the rest uh the breakfast, I'll go wrangle the horses—yours and mine."

I said, "All right," and got busy. I was feeling pretty good, and willing to talk to somebody; but my prisoner turned sulky and wouldn't answer when I spoke, unless I grabbed the frying pan and offered to bat him over the head. We didn't converse none to speak of; I was using the frying pan constant for other things.

Time I had breakfast ready. Fawn come in and said the horses was ready outside, and passed me up a compliment on mine, which I called Rabbit on account of him jumping high and long when he got strung out. He said he'd like to own that horse, if I'd sell him. But I wouldn't, and told him so emphatic.

"Well," he grins, "yuh want to keep cases on your friend Bruner, then; for I reckon that same caballo is mighty tempting to a gent like him."

I made Bill Bruner help me pack, and Fawn held the horse for us. When we'd got the pack on, we started in to saddle up. I was just shaking out my saddle blanket, when somebody behind me yells: "Drop it!"—and it wasn't my prisoner, because he was in front uh me, where I could watch him.

I whirls around quick, and say! I like to fell over my jaw, it dropped so far and so sudden. Fawn he was standing there looking at us over two guns, and he was grinning kinda nasty, with his eyes drawed together till they looked like a wolf's. I wasn't raised in the woods; I've saw that look before. So I know when to pull my gun, and when not to commit suicide. I hangs right on to my little old Navajo and goes on shaking. "What t' 'ell, Fawn?" I inquires, like it was all a joke.

"Drop that blanket, Mr. Deputy, and put up your hands," he snaps, extremely business-like.

I done it. As I said, I wasn't raised in the woods. I ain't a plumb fool, like the kind yuh read about in stories, that jumps straight at a gun like that without batting an eye.

"Now, Mr. Prisoner, you take his gun and hand it over here—belt and all. And just dig up what money he's got on him. And don't be all day."

Well, my prisoner done it, and done it quick and thorough. He looked kinda dazed, but he didn't say nothing.

Fawn he tells my prisoner he'll trouble him for them two thousand dollars, and there's objections raised, and then a gun barks. I'm still scratching wood a foot higher than my head, and you can gamble I don't turn around to rubber: but my ears is taking in great wads of information to make up for what my eyes is missing. I size it up that he shoots wide, and when his victim still shows some reluctance about handing over his roll, Fawn up and taps him on the head with one uh the guns. There's some language which I recognize emanating from my prisoner, and directly he's standing beside me and trying to scratch higher than I'm doing. We ain't either of us what you could call joyful.

"Mr. Deputy," says Fawn, and I judge he's conversing from the top of his horse, "I'm obliged to you for all these little tokens, and glad I met yuh."

"Go to the devil," I answers. "If yuh ask me, I'm plumb full uh regret."

"I'm grateful for all this money, and the pack outfit, and the horses—most especially your Rabbit horse which is a peach. Yuh needn't blast that poor devil's reputation no longer—I'll gamble he's a poor, harmless horse buyer, like he claims. Any way, it's a cinch he ain't Bill Bruner—because I'm him. So long, boys."

We can hear him ride off, still whistling "In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree" kinda low and pensive. Lord! how I hate that tune! I turn my head and look at my prisoner, that ain't my prisoner no more, and he looks at me.

"You blasted bone-head, maybe you'll take a man's word next time," he growls.

I don't say anything back. So we stand there a minute longer, listening to the pluckety pluck of four horses galloping away over the wet sod. It sounded as dismal as anything I ever listened to—and the nearest ranch twenty miles off. When it comes kinda dim, we turn around and watch 'em out uh sight over a ridge where the sun is peeking at us sarcastic.

"A fine deputy, you are!" grunts the horse buyer, rubbing a red welt at the edge of his hair. "A doggoned fine deputy!"

I sighs deep and regretful, but still don't say anything. It ain't my turn.