The Girl at the Halfway House - Emerson Hough (summer books TXT) 📗

to Battersleigh's room and knocked, entering at the loud invitation of that friend.

"Shure, Ned, me boy," said Battersleigh, "ye've yer side arms on this evenin'. Ye give up the profission of arms with reluctance. Tell me, Ned, what's the campaign fer the evenin'?"

"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 pass 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 assembled 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 butts—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 assembly was still engaged in deliberation, drinking and thinking, calmly, solemnly.

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

"Law an' order be damned!" 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 shiver, a little rustling sound passed 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 glasses, setting out six bottles of conviction.

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

"Shore 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," assented 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."

"Shore," 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?"

"Well, kin savvy," replied the juror judicially. "Some o' the boys think it a leetle tough to hang a feller fer a thing he kain't remember and that he didn't never think was no harm. It don't look like the Greaser'd take any one right to where he would shore be convicted, ef he had of made this here killin'."

"Well," said a conservative soothingly, "let's wait till to-morrer.
Let's let the Co'te set another day, anyhow."

"Yes, I reckon that's right; yes, that's so," said others; "we'd better wait till to-morrer."

A brief silence fell upon the gathering, a silence broken only by tinklings or shufflings along the bar. Then, all at once, the sound of an excited voice rose and fell, the cry of some one out upon the gallery in the open air. The silence deepened for one moment, and then there was a surge toward the door.

Far off, over the prairie, there came a little flat, recurrent sound, or series of sounds, as of one patting his fingers softly together. It fell and rose and grew, coming rapidly nearer, until at length there could be distinguished the cracking and popping of the hoofs of running horses. The sound broke into a rattling rumble. There came across the still, keen night a wild, thin, high, shrilling yell, product of many voices.

"It's the Bar O outfit, from the Brazos, coming in," said some one. The crowd pressed out into the air. It opened and melted slightly. The crowd at Curly's shanty increased slightly, silently. Inside, Curly and his friend still played cards. The giant prisoner lay asleep upon the floor, stretched out on his thin native wool mattress, his huge bulk filling half the floor.

The rattle of many hoofs swept up to the door of the Cottage, where the restive, nervous horses were left standing while the men went in, their leader, a stocky, red-mustached man, bearing with him the rope which he had loosened from his saddle. Having drunk, the leader smote upon the bar with a heavy hand.

"Come along, men," he called out, "The quicker we hang that d——d Greaser the better it will be. We done heard there was some sort o' trial goin' on here in town over this. We cowmen ain't goin' to stand no such foolishness. This Greaser killed Cal Greathouse, an' he's got to hang."

He moved toward the door, followed by many silently, by others with steps that lagged. "Well, you see—" began one man.

"To h——l with all that!" said the newcomer, turning upon him fiercely.
"We don't need no cowards!"

"No, that ain't it," resumed the first man, "but we got to respeck the Co'te—fust Co'te ever did set here, you see. The fellers, some of 'em, thinks—some o' the jury thinks—that the feller's too crazy fer to hang."

"Crazy be d——d! We're goin' to hang him, an' that settles it. Law an' order kin take care of it afterward."

All the time they were shifting toward the door. Outside the band of cattlemen who had just ridden in, fresh from the trail, and with but a partial knowledge of the arguments that had been advanced in this court, for which they had but small respect at best, settled the immediate question in an instant. As though by concert they swung into saddle and swept off up the street in a body, above the noise of their riding now breaking a careless laugh, now a shrill yell of sheer joyous excitement. They carried with them many waverers. More than a hundred men drew up in front of the frail shelter over which was spread the doubtful aegis of the law.

Fifty men met them. The lights went out in the house in an instant, and in front of the door there swept a dark and silent cordon. The leader of the invaders paused, but went straight forward.

"We want that man!" he said.

There was no answer. The line in front of the door darkened and thickened. Finally the figure of the young lawyer appeared, and he said calmly, sternly:

"You know very well you can't have him."

"We don't know nothin' o' the sort. We want him, an' we're goin' to have him. We don't want no one else, an' we won't make no trouble, but we're goin' to take the Mexican. Git out the road!"

A second figure stood by the side of Franklin, and this man was recognised by the leader. "Aw, now, Curly, what d——d foolishness is this here? Bring him out."

"You know I won't, Jim," said Curly, simply. "We're tryin' him on the square. You ain't the Co'te. I kain't give him to no one but the Co'te."

"We are the Co'te!" came the hot reply. "The Co'te that runs this range fer hoss-thieves an' murderers. Now, see here, Curly, we're all your friends, an' you know it, but that feller has got to hang, an' hang to-night. Git out the way. What's the matter with you?"

"They ain't nothin' the matter with me," said Curly slowly, "'ceptin' I done said I wouldn't give this man up to no man but the Co'te. A lot o' us fellers, here in the settlement, we 'lowed that the law goes here now."

Silence fell for an instant, then from the rear of the party there came pushing and crowding and cries of "Burn the house—drive him out!" There was a rush, but it was met by a silent thickening of the line at the point assailed. Men scuffled with men, swearing and grunting, panting hard. Here and there weapons flashed dully, though as yet no shot was fired. Time and again Franklin raised his voice. "Men, listen to me!" he cried. "We promise you a fair trial—we promise—"

"Shut up!" cried the leader, and cries of "No talking!" came from the crowd. "Give him up, or we'll clean you all out!" cried another voice, angrily. The rushers toward the house grew closer, so that assailants and besiegers were now mingled in a fighting, swearing mass.

"You're no cowman, Curly," cried one voice, bitterly, out of the black shifting sea in front of the house.

"You're a d——d liar!" cried Curly in reply, "whoever says that to me! I'm only a-keepin' of my word. You kain't clean us out. I'll shoot the livin' soul out o' any man that touches that door! This here is the jail, an' I'm the deppity, and, by ——! you'll not have my prisoner!"

"Quite right, me man," said a cool voice at Curly's side, and a hand fell on his shoulder as a tall form loomed up in the crowd. "There's good matayrial in you, me bully. Hould yer position, an' be sure that Batty's with you, at the laste. Fair play's a jule, an' it's fair play we're