Part 23 (1/2)

”Well,” said Franklin, ”I thought I'd step over and sit awhile with Curly this evening. He may be feeling a little lonesome.”

”Quite right ye are, me boy,” said Battersleigh cheerfully. ”Quite right. An' if ye don't mind I'll just jine ye. It's lonesome I am meself the night.”

Battersleigh busied himself about his room, and soon appeared arrayed, as was Franklin himself, with a revolver at his belt.

”Shure, Ned, me boy,” he said, ”an officer an' a gintleman should nivver appear abroad without his side arms. At laste, methinks, not on a night like this.” He looked at Franklin calmly, and the latter rose and grasped the hand of the fearless old soldier without a word. The two strolled out together down the street in the direction of the shanty where Curly was keeping his ”prisoner.”

At this place they saw a few men sitting outside the door, calmly smoking--among these Sam, the liveryman, a merchant by name of Chapman, and a homesteader who was known as One-eyed Pennyman. Inside the house, playing cards with Curly, were four other men. Franklin noticed that they all were armed. They all appeared, from their story, to have just dropped in to pa.s.s a little time with Curly. From time to time others dropped in, most of them remaining outside in the moonlight, sitting on their heels along the porch, talking but little, and then mentioning anything but the one subject which was uppermost in every one's mind. Yet, though nothing was said, it might well be seen that this little body of men were of those who had taken the stand for law and order, and who were resolved upon a new day in the history of the town.

It was a battle of the two hotels and what they represented. Over at the great barroom of the Cottage there was at the same time a.s.sembled a much larger gathering, composed chiefly of those transient elements which at that time really made up the larger portion of the population of the place--wide-hatted men, with narrow boots and broad belts at which swung heavy, blued revolvers with broad wooden b.u.t.ts--a wild-looking, wild-living body of men, savage in some ways, gentle in others, but for the most part just, according to their creed. The long bar was crowded, and outside the door many men were standing along the wide gallery. They, too, were reticent. All drank whisky, and drank it regularly. Up to ten o'clock the whisky had produced no effect.

The a.s.sembly was still engaged in deliberation, drinking and thinking, calmly, solemnly.

At ten o'clock a big Texan raised his gla.s.s high above his head and smashed it upon the bar.

”Law an' order be d.a.m.ned!” said he. ”What kind o' law an' order is it to let a murderin' Greaser like that come clear? Which of us'll be the next he'd kill?”

There was no answer. A sigh, a s.h.i.+ver, a little rustling sound pa.s.sed over the crowd.

”We always used ter run our business good enough,” resumed the Texan.

”What need we got o' lawyers now? Didn't this Greaser kill Cal?

Crazy? He's just crazy enough to be mean. He's crazy so'st he ain't safe, that's what.”

The stir was louder. A cowman motioned, and the barkeeper lined the whole bar with gla.s.ses, setting out six bottles of conviction.

”Curly means all right,” said one voice. ”I know that boy, an' he's all right.”

”Sh.o.r.e he's all right!” said the first voice, ”an' so's Bill Watson all right. But what's the use?”

”_Loco_, of course the Greaser's _loco_,” broke in another speaker.

”So's a mad dog _loco_. But about the best thing's to kill it, so'st it's safer to be roun'.”

Silence fell upon the crowd. The Texan continued. ”We always did,” he said.

”Yes,” said another voice. ”That's right. We always did.”

”Curly'll never let him go,” said one irrelevantly. ”Seems to me we better sen' this Greaser off to the States, put him in a 'sylum, er somethin'.”

”Yes,” said the tall Texan; ”and I like to know ef that ain't a blame sight worse'n hangin' a man?”

”That's so,” a.s.sented several voices. And indeed to these men, born and bred in the free life of the range, the thought of captivity was more repugnant than the thought of death.

”The lawyer feller, he ain't to blame,” said one apologetically. ”He made things look right plain. He ain't no fool.”

”Well, I don't know as he helt no aidge over ole Claib Benson,” said another argumentatively. ”Claib puts it mighty powerful.”

”Yes, but,” said the other eagerly, ”Claib means fer hangin' by the Co'te.”

”Sh.o.r.e,” said a voice. ”Now, I'm one o' the jury, but I says in my own min', ef we convict this yer man, we got to hang him right away anyway, 'cause we ain't got no jail, an' we kain't afford no guard to watch him all the time. Now, he'd have to be hung right away, anyhow.” This half apologetically.

”What do most o' you fellers on the jury think? Does this here crazy business go with you all?”