Part 1 (2/2)
Sheriff Johnson was a man of medium height, st.u.r.dily built. A broad forehead, and clear, grey-blue eyes that met everything fairly, testified in his favour. The nose, however, was fleshy and snub. The mouth was not to be seen, nor its shape guessed at, so thickly did the brown moustache and beard grow; but the short beard seemed rather to exaggerate than conceal an extravagant out jutting of the lower jaw, that gave a peculiar expression of energy and determination to the face.
His manner was un.o.btrusively quiet and deliberate.
It was an unusual occurrence for Johnson to come at night to the bar-lounge, which was beginning to fall into disrepute among the puritanical or middle-cla.s.s section of the community. No one, however, seemed to pay any further attention to him, or to remark the unusual cordiality of Martin's greeting. A quarter of an hour elapsed before anything of note occurred. Then, an elderly man whom I did not know, a farmer, by his dress, drew a copy of the ”Kiota Tribune” from his pocket, and, stretching it towards Johnson, asked with a very marked Yankee tw.a.n.g:
”Sheriff, hev yeou read this 'Tribune'?”
Wheeling half round towards his questioner, the Sheriff replied:
”Yes, sir, I hev.” A pause ensued, which was made significant to me by the fact that the bar-keeper suspended his hand and did not pour out the whisky he had just been asked to supply--a pause during which the two faced each other; it was broken by the farmer saying:
”Ez yeou wer out of town to-day, I allowed yeou might hev missed seein'
it. I reckoned yeou'd come straight hyar before yeou went to hum.”
”No, Crosskey,” rejoined the Sheriff, with slow emphasis; ”I went home first and came on hyar to see the boys.”
”Wall,” said Mr. Crosskey, as it seemed to me, half apologetically, ”knowin' yeou I guessed yeou ought to hear the facks,” then, with some suddenness, stretching out his hand, he added, ”I hev some way to go, an' my old woman 'ull be waitin' up fer me. Good night, Sheriff.” The hands met while the Sheriff nodded: ”Good night, Jim.”
After a few greetings to right and left Mr. Crosskey left the bar.
The crowd went on smoking, chewing, and drinking, but the sense of expectancy was still in the air, and the seriousness seemed, if anything, to have increased. Five or ten minutes may have pa.s.sed when a man named Reid, who had run for the post of Sub-Sheriff the year before, and had failed to beat Johnson's nominee Jarvis, rose from his chair and asked abruptly:
”Sheriff, do you reckon to take any of us uns with you to-morrow?”
With an indefinable ring of sarcasm in his negligent tone, the Sheriff answered:
”I guess not, Mr. Reid.”
Quickly Reid replied: ”Then I reckon there's no use in us stayin';” and turning to a small knot of men among whom he had been sitting, he added, ”Let's go, boys!”
The men got up and filed out after their leader without greeting the Sheriff in any way. With the departure of this group the shadow lifted.
Those who still remained showed in manner a marked relief, and a moment or two later a man named Morris, whom I knew to be a gambler by profession, called out lightly:
”The crowd and you'll drink with me, Sheriff, I hope? I want another gla.s.s, and then we won't keep you up any longer, for you ought to have a night's rest with to-morrow's work before you.”
The Sheriff smiled a.s.sent. Every one moved towards the bar, and conversation became general. Morris was the centre of the company, and he directed the talk jokingly to the account in the ”Tribune,” making fun, as it seemed to me, though I did not understand all his allusions, of the editor's timidity and pretentiousness. Morris interested and amused me even more than he amused the others; he talked like a man of some intelligence and reading, and listening to him I grew light-hearted and careless, perhaps more careless than usual, for my spirits had been ice-bound in the earlier gloom of the evening.
”Fortunately our County and State authorities can be fully trusted,”
some one said.
”Mark that 'fortunately', Sheriff,” laughed Morris. ”The editor was afraid to mention you alone, so he hitched the State on with you to lighten the load.”
”Ay!” chimed in another of the gamblers, ”and the 'aid and succour of each and every citizen,' eh, Sheriff, as if you'd take the whole town with you. I guess two or three'll be enough fer Williams.”
This annoyed me. It appeared to me that Williams had addressed a personal challenge to the Sheriff, and I thought that Johnson should so consider it. Without waiting for the Sheriff to answer, whether in protest or acquiescence, I broke in:
”Two or three would be cowardly. One should go, and one only.” At once I felt rather than saw the Sheriff free himself from the group of men; the next moment he stood opposite to me.
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