The Spirit of the Day

by Hugh Pendexter

THE SPIRIT OF THE DAY

By HUGH PENDEXTER

THE Sheriff of Mudge Creek threw back his head and raised his corded arms in the luxury of relaxation. It had been a trying day and his small office with its sparkling fire seemed good. His eyes were drowsy with content as he slowly brought his fists to his shoulders, but even while he was twisting his bearded face into a mighty yawn his gaze flamed fire at hearing a staccato voice advise:

"I kind o' like ye that way. Keep 'em up."

The Sheriff was standing, back to the speaker, and at the first word he stiffened. Beyond this sudden rigidity his square form evidenced nothing to show he was aware of any intrusion; nor did he turn for several seconds, and then very deliberately. His steady eyes beheld an old man, white bearded and with shoulders that stooped. What focused the Sheriff's attention, however, was a limp, scrawny hand, holding a blue-steel Colt's, whose menacing muzzle never wavered a hair's breadth.

"Jem Peace, eh?" murmured the Sheriff, the veins on his tanned forehead standing out like whipcords as he endeavored to eradicate any semblance of interest from his voice; but he could not quench his eyes, which blazed in the thin, weak light of the one kerosene lamp.

"Ya-as," admitted Mr. Peace, slowly advancing. Then sharply, "Turn 'round. Easy! Stand still!" And his left hand deftly encircled the other's waist and removed the belt and its sagging holster, "Now, if ye'll condescend t' take a chair at this leetle table ye kin lower yer hands, while we gossip a bit, jest like ol' neighbors. Tut! tut! keep 'em on th' table. An', mebbe, ye'd better kind o' clasp 'em. That's better."

"Wa-al, Jem; what's th' game?" inquired the Sheriff gently, his eyes never leaving the dark barrel of the thirty-eight now resting at a slight slant on the table.

"I got th' idee from promiscus circus posters 'round th' settlement that I'm wanted," began Mr. Peace.

"Five hundred, dead or alive, no particular difference which; an' we a-hankerin' fer ye," confirmed the Sheriff. "But what's th' game? Me?"

"I hope not," sighed Mr. Peace. "I hope I ain't got t' make it a thousan' fer my ol' hide. But it all depends on how ye take a leetle proposition I've come t' make. Ye jest brought in a prisoner, unbeknownst ter anybody—Fred Turner. Ye fetched him in slylike, so's there 'u'd be no premachoor hangin'."

"Ye're gittin' t' be a truthful man in yer ol' age," admired the Sheriff. "Yep; he's th' man that shot my deputy through th' arm. So, ye've come fer him, eh?"

"In a way I have," mildly confessed Mr. Peace; "but not in a rough, onlawful way. Fer I opine ye're goin' t' help me."

"Ye might as well crook yer finger an' be done with it," growled the Sheriff, his beard bristling. "That's th' only way ye kin git th' key."

"Softly, softly," soothed Mr. Peace, stiffening his arm a trifle. "Hear me out afore ye think o' tryin' t' tip th' table. Now, what man of all others had ye ruther jam inter that jail in his place? "

"Jem Peace, th' worst of sinner that ever fretted Wyomin'," declared the Sheriff, without a second's hesitation.

"It does me good t' hear ye say it," purred Mr. Peace, his eyes beaming with pride. "An' ye'd be keen t' swap a dozen calves like yer prisoner fer jest one ol' steer like me, eh? "

"I'd swap a hundred," readily assured the Sheriff.

"Now that's kind o' ye, an' it makes tippin' tables onnecessary," cried Mr. Peace, heartily. "I've come t' take his place; him t' go free."

"What!" gasped the Sheriff, jolted out of his composure; and his hands unclasped and rested on the table as he made to rise.

"Slump back in yer chair," commanded Mr. Peace, in a low, even tone, while his words were accentuated by the elevated muzzle of his gun. "Please don't fergit ag'in an' make me nervous. * * * "Ya-as, I've come t' take his place; th' place of a fool young man, who never did nuthin' worse'n lick up cheap whisky, in which ye could count th' finecut terbacker. Arter roundin' up a heap o' that stuff, it seems, he went on a rampage an' spiled yer deputy's gun arm fer a while. But he ain't bad. He jest strayed onter th' wrong range. I'll swap myself fer him. No one knows he shot yer man; no one, but ye an' yer deputy, knows he's corralled. What d'ye say?"

The Sheriff's eyes were now glistening with a half hope his whimsical visitor meant what he said. To bring old Jem Peace to justice would fill his official career with glory, and would insure him another term. For Mr. Peace was the most wanted man in all North Wyoming.

"Jest explain a bit more," begged the Sheriff, earnestly. "Lead yer ace. Why d'ye do it?"

The old man bowed his head a notch and scrutinized his gun thoughtfully. He seemed hesitant, but at last laughed awkwardly, and asked: "Did ye know Turner's mother once lived out here, 'way back in '67? She was one o' th' first women in th' first settlement, I reckon. Wyomin' was a maverick then; hadn't even been branded as a territory. I knew her in them days."

"I don't know her, or of her," said the Sheriff.

"Ye missed a heap," sighed the old man, reminiscently. "She was Kate Connolly then; th' fetchin'est bit o' woman gear in th' whole West. She sent her boy out here t' round up health an' muscle, an' she don't know he's been runnin' wild."

"Go on," encouraged the Sheriff, now studying his visitor with new interest. "Yer reason fer chippin' in?"

"Wa-al," confessed Mr. Peace, sheepishly, "I reckon I thought a heap o' Kate Connolly." And he lowered his eyes so completely as to render his position hazardous had the man across the table been less curious. "She seemed t' take t' me, too," he continued, proudly.

"An' then?" prompted the Sheriff.

"An' then her pa took her ter Iowy, an' she grew t' fergit me an' married a dude what prob'ly wore galluses. An' I turned maverick an' ain't been nobody's darlin' since. But I'm here t' give her son suthin' more of a square deal than she ever give me. He looks like his ma, ye know."

"I'll be dam'd!" ejaculated the Sheriff.

"Ye will be if ye don't keep them fins clustered in front o' ye," growled Mr. Peace, resenting the other's surprise.

"But such a kantankerous ol' whelp as Jem Peace ever bein' in love," remonstrated the Sheriff, hardly heeding the warning. "That gits me."

"Be ye game, or not?" barked Mr. Peace, angrily, and tapping the table with his gun.

"I be," cried the Sheriff, warmly. "An' it speaks well fer ye, Jem, t' have these soft feelin's. I'll be hanged if ye ain't almost human. Come right back t' th' younker's room, an' in ye go, an' out he comes. Ye kin trust me t' keep my word, I reckon."

"I never asked or give much credit," demurred Mr. Peace. "Besides, there's a leetle more t' th' game. Th' next p'int is this: on th' nine o'clock stage ter-morrer, Kate Connolly arrives t' visit her son an' t' take him back home with her. Her dude husband is dead an' she's lonely. She's writ him several letters which he didn't git, as he was hidin' up, until twenty-four hours ago, when he rode inter Searsville. Ye nabbed him there a hour arter he showed me th' last letter, what said she'll be here ter-morrer. He'd 'a' jumped a train an' cut her out from th' Crick, only it was too late."

"An' ye're wantin', Mister Peace?"

"I want him free from sunup ter-morrer, t' meet his ma an' spend th' day with her. I want her t' find him a highly respected citizen. What more, she must find me a highly respected citizen. He'll take her away on th' afternoon stage; then ye kin have my gun."

The Sheriff gazed long and earnestly at the blue circle across the table and then stared intently into the old man's narrowed eyes. At last he suddenly decided: "I'm game. I'll do it."

Mr. Peace slipped his weapon into the holster under his left arm and rose and said: "Lemme see th' younker alone fer a minute, t' explain things t' him. Then if ye'll kindly have yer deputy take down all decorations from th' street where I'm branded as wurth five hundred, I'll drop inter Big Mike's place early in th' mornin' an' mention I'd like t' have th' posters removed from th' barroom. Not that she's likely t' go in there, but I'm keen t' have th' whole town play my game fer a few hours. Ye see," and he smiled, whimsically, "I'm jumpin' back forty years t' pick up th' good name I had when a kid an' when she was Kate Connolly."

Then as they walked to the door, still eying each other warily, Mr. Peace suddenly reminded: "An' ter-morrer's Thanksgivin' Day. Wa-al, I don't know whether I oughter be thankful fer seein' her once more, or not."

The adult male population of the settlement, almost to a man, was gathered in Big Mike's place, busy in pledging many healths. The spirit of the day had been invoked right early as an excuse for a liberal indulgence, and the proprietor, now approaching the sentimental stage, had called for volunteers to emulate him in toasting the entire State in one all-encompassing potation.

As the pleasing invitation was about to be accepted the door swung smartly open and a genial voice saluted: "Howdy, folkses."

"Ol' Jem Peace!" stuttered Big Mike, staggering in front of the cash drawer, while in mechanical unison a forest of upraised hands left the array of glasses untouched.

Mr. Peace took a lazy attitude at the end of the bar and seemed lost in meditation, quite unmindful of the row of startled eyes focused on him. But his right hand thrust carelessly inside his rough coat was suggestive enough to continue the tenseness of the situation. Suddenly he straightened and sharply explained: "I'm spendin' Thanksgivin' with th' Sheriff, an' he's backin' me in what I have t' say. I would like fer them signs up there t' be took down fer th' day," and his Colt's swung in a circle at the numerous placards bearing his name. "Kin ye find time t' see it's done afore th' stage comes in, Michael?"

"I'll do it myself an' right away, Mister Peace," cried the proprietor, eagerly. "Won't ye have a mild snort while I'm doin' it?" and his hand reached behind him.

"Quit," snarled Mr. Peace, throwing his gun forward. "Afore ye try hos'tality jest prance 'round th' room with hands up an' when ye come ter a poster, brush it down. There! that's much nicer, an' ye do it real graceful an' pretty like." This as the proprietor entered upon his task in a stiff, awkward manner. "Kindly be keerful an' don't tear any on 'em, as they cost th' county good money," continued the old man. "Now we'll all have a leetle sociable drink," and a handful of coins were rolled across the bar. "An' I'm takin' my tea out o' that bottle what seems t' be yer own favorite fount'in, Michael."

"Do we drink now, Mister Peace?" humbly asked the man beside him. "I don't want to do nothing hurried like."

"Sure ye kin; only, I allers admire t' see two flippers on th' bar rail fer every man present. Hi! Number Four, where's yer left duke?" and the Colt's was instantly trained along the line.

"If ye please, Mister Peace, I ain't got only one," babbled the offender.

"I'll 'scuse ye, then," said the old man, kindly, after craning his neck to discover the empty sleeve.

After the glasses were gently replaced on the bar in the midst of a prolonged smack Mr. Peace cleared his throat and explained:

"Fer one day I'm a highly respected citizen o' this settlement. Remember, ye all admire me as a soft-hearted, gentled-mannered ol' cuss, halter broke an' kind t' children. When th' stage comes in a ol' lady will git out. She will be here a few hours an' I should be desperate sorry t' hear any careless word dropped that might lead her t' believe I ain't peaceful by natur' as well as by name. I hope I won't have t' correct anybody, as she ain't use t' gun play. Th' Sheriff is backin' my game till arter th' last stage goes."

"We think a heap of Mister Peace, boys," shivered Big Mike.

"That's good; that rings true," grinned the old man. "It would be kind o' nice if ye all remembered ter use th' 'Mister.' Lemme hear ye say, all tergether, 'Howdy, Mister Peace.' All ready? Bark."

"Howdy, Mister Peace," growled the line.

"Don't sing it," remonstrated the old man. "Put more feelin', more heart inter it. Try it ag'in, an' sort o' smile as if ye was that tickled t' see me that ye'd swim seven miles under water, jest t' grip hands."

The next essay was more satisfactory, and the new citizen then turned to drilling Big Mike in crying, "Dear ol' Jem."

"Only, Michael," warned Mr. Peace, icily, "keep yer hands well up an' out, as if ye was swimmin', when ye say it. An' don't try t' fall on my neck, either."

As this bit of advice was being imparted the door opened again, and the men ducked for cover as the Sheriff stood on the threshold. "It's all right, boys," he shouted. "Mister Peace is my guest—till th' stage leaves this afternoon. Hope we'll all have a happy day."

"Here's th' stage!" cried Big Mike.

It was an affecting spectacle, that of the little, bright-eyed, old woman rejoicing over her son. It appealed to the loungers in front of Big Mike's place as having been especially ordered for the day and Mudge Creek. And as the two lavished terms of endearment the onlookers assumed a playful proprietorial air, and benignly pronounced it all as very desirable. Imbued with this feeling of responsibility the settlement for a space forgot to wonder at the genial presence of Mr. Peace.

After mother and son had met, the Sheriff and Mr. Peace were duly presented, and those nearest heard her say, in a pretty, puzzled way: "Mr. Peace?" Then she clasped his withered hand and peered intently into his bearded face, while he stood stiffly, with his eyes staring over her shoulder. "Why, it can't be—why, it's Jemmy Peace!" she cried, softly. "It's the Jem I used to know." And she placed her other hand on his rough coat sleeve and beamed in delight at detecting him beneath his whiskers.

"Ya-as, it's me, ma'am," he awkwardly confessed. "Lawd! We two ain't met fer a dog's age. How d'ye know me? I s'posed th' brand had worn off."

"Know you!" she cried in a little bird-like voice; "as if I could ever forget you. You were—yes, Jem, you were—you were a handsome boy."

"A-kerchew!" loudly sneezed Big Mike.

Then the bystanders were precluded from hearing much more as the interruption caused Mr. Peace to suggest gently:

"Michael, ye're ketchin' cold out here. Please, please go inside an' take th' boys with ye."

"Dear ol' Jem," choked the proprietor, turning humbly away; and the crowd, remembering the morning's instructions, hoarsely chanted: "Howdy, Mister Peace."

Despite the irrelevancy of the salutation the widow's eyes sparkled with new pleasure as she cried:

"And to think, Jem, it's forty years since we've seen each other; and I find you, as I left you, exerting a kindly influence over these rough men."

The stage driver, catching the last, gave an excellent pantomime of a man strangling, and after kicking the off horse rushed blindly into the bar, whence issued a series of miniature explosions.

The Sheriff, quickly observing the warning glint in Mr. Peace's eyes, hurriedly suggested an inspection of the settlement, to be followed by a little dinner at his official residence. The gray-haired little mother had moved him to a softer mood, and as the four walked along he found himself lavishing praise on his recent prisoner.

"An' it's proud I be t' have ye an' yer son at my table ter-day," he concluded, warmly.

"Everyone is so kind," she protested, tearfully, "And you all seem to think so much of Fred. You'll be sorry to have him go?"

"I'd figgered on his stoppin' longer," said the Sheriff, gravely.

"Too bad ye have t' start back ter-night," observed Mr. Peace, sorrowfully.

"Why," she returned in surprise, "I had expected to spend a few days here; so Fred could bid all good-by. I could easily——"

"I've said my farewells, mother," broke in the son, anxiously.

"He's dyin' t' stay an' mix in a leetle gun play with th' rustlers," explained Mr. Peace, kicking the Sheriff. "But I've told him, ma'am, he must think of his mother furst, an' quit here this arternoon. Else th' Sheriff will have t' swear him in as a deputy. Sheriff's deputy got plugged through th' arm las' week, ye know."

"Ya-as; I shall have t' swear in every able-bodied man," affirmed the Sheriff.

"O Fred, let us go by all means, then," she cried, shivering with fear for her son. "But our dinner, Sheriff; isn't my old friend, Jem, to be one of us?"

"I couldn't think o' gittin' along without him," declared the Sheriff, warmly. "Bless him! he can stay with me so long as I'm here, an' never wear out his welcome."

"Thank ye, Sheriff," gulped Mr. Peace.

"How sweet it must be to be thought of like that," she murmured.

"He's worked for it," eulogized the Sheriff, passing his left arm affectionately about the old man's bowed shoulders and allowing his hand to rest on the bulging holster.

She halted and turned and surveyed them with happy eyes. "Do you know," she cried, "you are, for all the world like two dear old cronies."

"Brothers is a better word," choked Mr. Peace, warily clasping the Sheriff's inquisitive left.

As they turned a corner their conversation was broken into by the appearance of five men, sent out by Big Mike to spy on the situation. Mr. Peace immediately fell behind the widow and her son and ensconced his right hand in the bosom of his coat, whereat the broad grin of amusement instantly evolved into a wild-eyed, fervent gaze of admiration. And the quintet, lining the rough path, salaamed deeply and awkwardly and cried as one: "Howdy, Mister Peace."

"Dear me! I feel almost unworthy to be in such fine company," said the widow, playfully.

"I'd bet—that is, if I was a gamblin' man"—said the Sheriff, earnestly, "that every man or group we meet will salute him in that same respectful way."

"They do it t' please me," deprecated Mr. Peace. "It was th' furst thing I heard at th' hotel this mornin'."

The Sheriff's prophecy was fulfilled several times as they wandered about the settlement, while waiting for the dinner hour. The air was crisp and tingling, and the exercise put a bright light in the widow's eyes and brought a tinge of pink to her pale cheeks. The Sheriff could easily believe that as Kate Connolly she must have been very prepossessing.

Where the way was broad all four walked abreast; when it became narrow the Sheriff and Mr. Peace walked arm in arm. It pleased the widow not a little to observe their simple gallantry. For as the hours passed the Sheriff's solicitude for his old friend's ease increased. He could not bear, it seemed, to be away from his side. When they reached the Sheriff's house he courteously stood aside for Mr. Peace to precede him; and the latter, now given continually to a clerical pose, insisted the Sheriff should enter first. They compromised by locking arms and affectionately squeezing through together.

During the dinner the widow's quick glance decided her host must be uncomfortable from his heavy belt, and begged him to remove it. He turned his troubled gaze on Mr. Peace without complying. The old man smiled slightly and hastened to explain how even he had got into the habit of carrying firearms. In a final burst of confidence he added:

"Why, I've got one on now. Reckon we'd better discard, Sheriff."

And the two, narrowly meeting eyes, released buckle for buckle, as if playing a game, and slowly deposited their weapons behind them.

"Now for a toast!" cried the young man, in search of an expedient to divert his mother's attention.

"Let Mis' Turner give one," urged the Sheriff, carelessly swinging about sideways to the table.

"Very well," she fluttered. "To all that we should be thankful for on this day, and to all those whose sacrifices have made the day possible."

"We shall not meet again, Jem," she said, as they stood waiting for the stage, a little later. "We are near the grave."

"Huh! Give me a good hoss—Wa-al, there's a heap of truth in what ye say, ma'am," he stumbled.

"Call me Kate," she whispered. "You haven't to-day. We were good friends in the old times. And you've been a good friend to the last. The Sheriff says you've done more for my boy than I can ever appreciate."

"I may 'a' been accommodatin'; that's all," he belittled, averting his gaze.

"But, Jem," she continued, not heeding him, "it pleases me to think you did it all for my sake. We're both along in years and I can say it. I like to think you've wisely counseled my son for the sake of Kate Connolly."

"I'd 'a' done much fer her," he muttered. "There! there! Here comes th' stage. Good-by. S'long, my boy. Keep straight."

"If he'd only follow your example," she sobbed, turning to mount the step.

"He'll go high if he does," declared the Sheriff, gently.

"Jem, come here," she said, leaning from the window. Then seizing his limp hand she whispered: "And you never wrote me in answer to my last letter. I never forgot you. I felt bad to believe you'd forgotten."

"Gee lang!" called out the driver in response to a nod from the Sheriff.

And as the stage swung down the rough road, Mr. Peace removed his old hat and stood staring after it, while a drop of moisture on his hand burned like a bit of fire. As the vehicle swayed around a curve he sighed, heavily.

"Up with yer hands," broke in the Sheriff's metallic voice. "Th' game's over, an' we're takin' no chances. Take his gun, Mike."

But that night, just as the snow-laden wind succeeded in jamming the moon behind a rack of clouds, the settlement was aroused by a volley of pistol shots. An investigation revealed the coatless Sheriff dancing madly in front of the jail and emptying his second gun at the sound of clattering hoofs somewhere ahead. Occasionally a spurt of flame answered back from the darkness.

"Th' ol' pirut," raged the infuriated officer. "He's off on my best hoss." Then to himself: "An' I let him enter that cell an' hide a gun an' tools when he said he wanted t' chin th' younker!"