Part 2 (1/2)
Pringle took a long look and held up his hand. ”I will,” he said soberly.
”John Wesley, do you or do you not believe Stephen W. Lake, of Agua Chiquite, to be a low-down, coniferous skunk by birth, inclination and training?”
”I do.”
”John Wesley, do you or do you not possess the full confidence and affection of Felix, the night-hawk, otherwise known and designated as John Taylor, Junior, of b.u.t.terbowl, Esquire?”
”I do.”
”Do you, John Wesley Pringle, esteem me, Jeff Bransford, irrespective of color, s.e.x or previous condition of turpitude, to be such a one as may be safely tied to when all the hitching-posts is done pulled up, and will you now promise to love, honor and obey me till the cows come home, or till further orders?”
”I do--I will. And may G.o.d have mercy on my soul.”
”Here are your powders, then. Do you go and locate the above-mentioned and described Felix, and impart to him, under the strict seal of secrecy, these tidings, to wit, namely: That you have a presentiment, almost amounting to conviction, that the b.u.t.terbowl contest is decided in Lake's favor, but that your further presentiments is that said Lake will not use his prior right. If Taylor should get such a decision from the Land Office don't let him or Felix say a word to no one. If Mr. B.
Body should ask, tell 'em 'twas a map, or land laws, or something.
Moreover, said Felix he is not to stab, cut, pierce or otherwise mutilate said Lake, nor to wickedly, maliciously, feloniously and unlawfully fire at or upon the person of said Lake with any rifle, pistol, musket or gun, the same being then and there loaded with powder and with b.a.l.l.s, shots, bullets or slugs of lead or other metal. You see to that, personal. I'd go to him myself, but he don't know me well enough to have confidence in my divinations.
”You promulgate these prophecies as your sole personal device and construction--_sabe?_ Then, thirty days after Lake signs a receipt for his decision--and you will take steps to inform yourself of that--you sidle casually down to Roswell with old man Taylor and see that he puts preemption papers on the b.u.t.terbowl. Selah!”
III
The first knowledge Lake had of the state of affairs was when the Steam Pitchfork punchers informally extended to him the right hand of fellows.h.i.+p (hitherto withheld) under the impression that he had generously abstained from pus.h.i.+ng home his vantage. When, in the mid-flood of his unaccountable popularity, the situation dawned upon him, he wisely held his peace. He was a victim of the accomplished fact.
Taylor had already filed his preemption. So Lake reaped volunteer harvest of good-will, bearing his honors in graceful silence.
On Lake's next trip to Escondido, Pappy Sanders laid aside his marked official hauteur. Lake stayed several days, praised the rosebush and Ma Sanders' cookery, and indulged in much leisurely converse with Pappy.
Thereafter he had a private conference with Stratton, the Register of the Roswell Land Office. His suspicion fell quite naturally on Felix, and on Jeff as accessory during the fact.
So it was that, when Jeff and Leo took in Roswell fair (where Jeff won a near-prize at the roping match), Hobart, the United States Marshal, came to their room. After introducing himself he said:
”Mr. Stratton would like to see you, Mr. Bransford.”
”Why, that's all right!” said Jeff genially. ”Some of my very great grandfolks was Dacotahs and I've got my name in 'Who's Sioux'--but I'm not proud! Trot him around. Exactly who is Stratton, anyhow?”
”He's the Register of the Land Office--and he wants to see you there on very particular business. I'd go if I was you,” said the Marshal significantly.
”Oh, that way!” said Jeff. ”Is this an arrest, or do you just give me this _in_-vite semi-officiously?”
”You accuse yourself, sir. Were you expecting arrest? That sounds like a bad conscience.”
”Don't you worry about my conscience. 'If I've ever done anything I'm sorry for I'm glad of it.' Now this Stratton party--is he some aged and venerable? 'Cause, if he is, I waive ceremony and seek him in his lair at the witching hour of two this _tarde_. And if not, not.”
”He's old enough--even if there were no other reasons.”
”Never mind any other reasons. It shall never be said that I fail to reverence gray hairs. I'll be there.”
”I guess I'll just wait and see that you go,” said the Marshal.
”Have you got any papers for me?” asked Jeff politely.
”No.”
”This is my room,” said Jeff. ”This is my fist. This is me. That is my door. Open it, Leo. Mr. Hobart, you will now make rapid forward motions with your feet, alternately, like a man removing his company from where it is not desired--or I'll go through you like a domesticated cyclone.