Part 7 (1/2)

”Show him how I can shoot,” said he.

The amazing Boogies waddled--yet with dignity--to a point ten paces distant, drew a coin from the pocket of his dingy overalls, and spun it to the blue of heaven. Ere it fell the deadly weapon bore swiftly on it and snapped.

”Crack!” said the marksman grimly.

His a.s.sistant recovered the coin, scrutinized it closely, rubbed a fat thumb over its supposedly dented surface, and again spun it. The desperado had turned his back. He drew as he wheeled, and again I was given to understand that his aim had been faultless.

”Good Little Sure Shot!” declaimed Boogies fulsomely.

”Hold it in your hand oncet,” directed Little Sure Shot. The intrepid a.s.sistant gallantly extended the half dollar at arm's length between thumb and finger and averted his statesman's face with practiced apprehension. ”Crack!” said Little Sure Shot, and the coin seemed to be struck from the unscathed hand. ”Only nicked the aidge of it,” said he, genially deprecating. ”I don't like to take no chancet with the lad's mitt.”

It had indeed been a pretty display of sharpshooting--and noiseless.

”Had me nervous, you bet, first time he tried that,” called Boogles.

”Didn't know his work then. Thought sure he'd wing me.”

Jimmie Time loftily ejected imaginary sh.e.l.ls from his trusty firearm and seemed to expel smoke from its delicate interior. Boogies waddled his approach.

”Any time they back Little Sure Shot up against the wall they want to duck,” said he warmly. ”He has 'em hard to find in about a minute. Tell him about that fresh depity marshal, Jimmie.”

”I already did,” said Jimmie.

”Ain't he the h.e.l.l-cat?” demanded Boogles, mopping a brow that Daniel Webster would have observed with instant and perhaps envious respect.

”I been a holy terror in my time, all right, all right!” admitted the hero. ”Never think it to look at me though. One o' the deceivin' kind till I'm put upon; then--good-night!”

”Jest like that!” murmured Boogles.

”Buryin' ground--that's all.” The lips of the bad man shut grimly on this.

”Say,” demanded Boogles, ”on the level, ain't he the real Peruvian doughnuts? Don't he jest make 'em all hunt their--” The tribute was unfinished.

”You ol' Jim! You ol' Jim Time!” Shrilly this came from Lew Wee, Chinese cook of the Arrowhead framed in the kitchen doorway of the ranch house.

He brandished a scornful and commanding dish towel at the bad man, who instantly and almost cravenly cowered under the distant a.s.sault. The garment of his old bad past fell from him, leaving him as one exposed in the market-place to the scornful towels of Chinamen. ”You run, ol' Jim Time! How you think catch 'um din' not have wood?”

”Now I was jest goin' to,” mumbled Jimmie Time; and he amazingly slunk from the scene of his late triumphs toward the open front of a woodhouse.

His insulter turned back to the kitchen with a final affronting flourish of the towel. The whisper of Boogles came hoa.r.s.ely to me: ”Some of these days Little Sure Shot'll put a dose o' cold lead through that c.h.i.n.k's heart.”

”Is he really dangerous?” I demanded.

”Dangerous!” Boogles choked warmly on this. ”Let me tell you, that old boy is the real Peruvian doughnuts, and no mistake! Some day there won't be so many c.h.i.n.ks round this dump. No, sir-ee! That little cutthroat'll have another notch in his gun.”

The situation did indeed seem to brim with the cheerfullest promise; yet something told me that Little Sure Shot was too good, too perfect.

Something warned me that he suffered delusions of grandeur--that he fell, in fact, somewhat short of being the real doughnuts, either of a Peruvian or any other valued sort.

Nor had many hours pa.s.sed ere it befell emphatically even so. There had been the evening meal, followed by an hour or so of the always pleasing and often instructive talk of my hostess, Mrs. Lysander John Pettengill, who has largely known life for sixty years and found it entertaining and good. And we had parted at an early nine, both tired from the work and the play that had respectively engaged us the day long.

My candle had just been extinguished when three closely fired shots cracked the vast stillness of the night. Ensued vocal explosions of a curdling shrillness from the back of the house. One instantly knew them to be indignant and Chinese. Caucasian ears gathered this much. I looked from an open window as the impa.s.sioned cries came nearer. The lucent moon of the mountains flooded that side of the house, and starkly into its light from round the nearest corner struggled Lew Wee, the Chinaman.

He shone refulgent, being yet in the white or full-dress uniform of his calling.