Part 22 (1/2)

”If he's 'lected sheriff, it's goin' t' be risky business gittin'

in to a' argyment with anybody,” I says. ”He'd just _like_ t' git one of us jugged. Say, what's goin' to be did fer Hank?”

”Wal,” answers Hairoil, mouth screwed up anxious, ”we're in a right serious fix. So they's to be a sorta convention this afternoon, and we're a-goin' t' cut out whisky whilst the session lasts.”

”I'll come. _Walker_ fer sheriff! _Huh!_”

”Good fer you! So long.”

”So long.”

We made fer the council-tent at three o'clock--the bunch of us. The deepot waitin'-room was choosed, that bein', as the boys put it, ”the most _re_spectable public place in town that wouldn't want rent.”

Wal, we worked our jaws a lot, goin' over the sittywaytion from start to finish. ”Gents let's hear what you-all got to say,” begun Chub Flannagan, standin' up. Doc Trowbridge was next. ”_I ad_vise you to rope Shackleton,” he says, ”and lemme give him some hoss liniment t'

put him on his laigs.” (We was agreed that the hull business depended on the _Eye-Opener_.) But the rest of us didn't favour Billy's plan.

So we ended by pickin' a 'lection committee. No dues, no by-laws, no chairman. But ev'ry blamed one of us a sergeant-at-arms with orders t'

keep Hank Shackleton _outen the saloons_. 'Cause why? If he could buck up, and _stay_ straight, and go t' gittin' out the _Eye-Opener,_ Bergin 'd sh.o.r.e win out.

”Gents,” says Monkey Mike, ”soon as ever Briggs hears of our committee, we're a-goin' t' git pop'lar with the nice people, 'cause we're tryin' t' help Hank. And we're also goin' t' git a black eye with the licker men account of shuttin' off the Shackleton trade.

A-course, us punchers must try t' make it up t' the thirst-parlours fer the loss, though I _ad_mit it 'll not be a' easy proposition.

But things is _desp_'rate. If Walker gits in, we'll have a nasty deputy-sheriff sent up here t' cross us ev'ry time we make a move. We got t' _work,_ gents. You know how _I_ feel. By thunder! Bergin treated me square all right over that Andrews fuss.” (Y' see, Mike's a grateful little devil, if he _does_ ride like a fool Englishman.)

”Wal,” says Buckshot Milliken, ”who'll be the first sergeant? I call fer a volunteer.”

All the fellers just kept quiet--but they looked at each other, worried like.

”Don't all speak to oncet,” says Buckshot.

I got up. ”_I'_m willin' t' try my hand,” I says.

”_Thank_ y', Cupid.” It was Buckshot, earnest as the d.i.c.kens.

”But--but we hope you're goin' to go slow with Hank. Don't do nothin' foolish.”

”What in thunder 's got _into_ you fellers?” I ast, lookin' at 'em.

”Is Hank got the hydrophoby?”

”You ain't saw him since he begun t' drink, I reckon,” says Chub.

”No.”

”_Wal,_ then.”

By this time, I was so all-fired et up with curiosity t' git a look at Hank that I couldn't stand it no more. So I got a move on.

Hank is a turrible tall feller, and thin as a ramrod. He's got hair you could flag a train with, and a face as speckled as a turkey aig. And when I come on to him that day, here he was, stretched out on the floor of Dutchy's back room, mouth wide open, and snorin' like a rip-saw.

I give his shoulder a jerk. ”Here, Hank,” I says, ”wake up and pay fer you' keep. What's got into you, anyhow. My goodness me!”

He opened his eyes--slow. Next, he sit up, and fixed a' awful ugly look on me. ”Wa-a-al?” he says.