“Say it out loud!” he snapped. “Tell thelady you’re sorry ...!”
“Pull that man out of there!” barkedCreel. “And you ...!” He glared at Stretch, “unstrap your guns andraise your hands!”
“Arrest them!” glared Collier.
“Deputy,” called Martha, “this ruckus wasstarted by Sunday and his no-account pards. You can’t blame Larryand Stretch for finishing it.”
Creel’s gun hand sagged, and so did hisjaw.
“Who ...” he breathed.
“The tall one is Stretch Emerson,” sheannounced. “The one giving Sunday a bath is Larry Valentine.”
To Stretch’s acute astonishment, thedeputy holstered his Colt and doffed his Stetson. So swift was thechange in his demeanor that Larry’s attention was distracted. Herose up, frowning at the lawman. Sunday withdrew his head from thetrough and flopped to a sitting position, spluttering.
“’Scuse me, Mr. Emerson,” pantedCreel. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Valentine ...!”
“Holy Hannah,” blinked Stretch. “He must besick.”
“He sure looks sick,” opined Larry.
“Don’t you gents worry about a thing,”mumbled Creel. “I’ll take care of this here situation. Welcome toBosworth, gents.”
The senior lawman now arrived. Sheriff AdamUpshaw was fifty, hefty and durable, and looking all the moreformidable for the shotgun with which he threatened thestrangers.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he loudlydemanded. “By Godfrey, I got troubles enough without havin’ tosettle a street brawl. He glowered suspiciously at the Texans. “Whoare these hellraisin’ sons of guns anyway?”
“Take it easy, Adam,” begged Creel. “Forgosh sakes—take it easy!”
“Clarence,” scowled Upshaw, “how come youlook so sick?”
Creel gestured urgently.
“They didn’t start it anyway, Adam. MissMartha claims it was Sunday and his pards.”
“All right, all right.” Upshaw eyed himimpatiently. “But who in tarnation are they?”
“Valentine ...” sighed Creel.
“No!” breathed Upshaw.
“And Emerson,” finished Creel.
Again the startling reaction. In onecontinuous movement, Upshaw uncocked and lowered his shotgun,whisked out two cigars and forced them on the new arrivals.
“Proud to meet you, gents. Have a cigar.Welcome to Bosworth. I’m Sheriff Upshaw—at your service. Anythingyou need, all you got to do is come ask me.”
Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked atLarry, shook his head dazedly and asserted,
“It can’t be true. We must be dreamin’it.”
“Collier ...” Upshaw turned to frown atthe gambler, “I have to say I’m surprised to see you mixed intosuch a ruckus. You’re a feller that always stays on the outside oftrouble.”
“This fight was no concern of mine,” saidCollier, quietly, “but I tried to end it. I—huh—I was afraid someharmless passer-by might be hurt. Unfortunately, I made the mistakeof drawing my gun.” He nodded to Larry. “Can’t say I blame you fordisarming me, but I assure you I had no attention of shooting atyou. I only meant to—uh—discourage you.”
“Mister,” grunted Larry, “when you poke ahogleg at me you’re just beggin’ for grief.”
Creel picked up Collier’s gun and returnedit to him, then asked his chief,
“What about Sunday and his pards?”
“If we arrest ’em,” said Upshaw, “they getfed at the county’s expense waitin’ trial.” He called a query toMartha. “You want to swear out charges? It’s yourprivilege.”
“The law couldn’t punish them,” shecheerfully opined, “any worse than they’ve already suffered. I’llbet this is the last time they’ll lay a paw on me.”
“Sunday,” growled Upshaw, “you be gratefulI got my hands full right now—out every day with search-parties. IfI wasn’t so almighty busy, I’d be glad to lock you away for awhile. And I’ll do it, by Godfrey, next time you step out of line.”He gestured northward. “Now vamoose—and take your no-good pardswith you.”
After a last scowl at the Texans, Sunday andhis men beat a retreat. The slumbering one revived and stumbledfrom the wagon-wheel and hauled the befuddled Ellis to his feet.Larry was still pensively eyeing the lawman and, for that reason,failed to note the significant glance that passed between Collierand Sunday and Collier’s sly wink.
The drifters retrieved and donned theirStetsons, explored their pockets in search of matches with which tolight their cigars. Creel quickly produced a match, scratched it tolife and held it to their stogies. They puffed appreciatively atthe Long 9s and, for the second time, traded wondering glances.Generally speaking, they couldn’t claim to be popular with theduly-appointed wearers of law badges; it was a natural consequenceof their long-standing antipathy for all legal authority. Theyexpected lawmen to distrust them on sight. But, here and now, thepeace officers of Bosworth County seemed doggedly determined totreat them with respect. To Larry’s way of thinking, it wasdownright unusual—and a mite weird.
“You got a place to stay?” asked Creel.“Maybe you’d like us to recommend you a good hotel?”
“We already decided on the Lincoln House,”frowned Larry.
“As good a place as any,” the sheriffassured them.
“Well—huh—pleasure to meet you, Mr.Valentine—Mr. Emerson.” He nudged his deputy. “Come on,Clarence.”
They hustled away toward the county lawoffice. The Texans stared after them.
“What d’you make of that?” demandedStretch.
“You can search me,” said Larry.
After waving aside Martha’s fervent thanks,they bade her a temporary farewell and returned to the L.P. Corralto collect their rifles and saddle-packs. Their next stop would bethe Lincoln House, where they would check in and remove a two-daycoating of trail-dust.
Reaching the law office, Upshaw and hisdeputy closed and locked the door. Upshaw strode purposefully tohis desk, opened a drawer and produced a quart of whisky. Creelfound two glasses. They filled the glasses to the brims, tradedfurtive frowns, then gulped greedily.
“A close call,” breathed Upshaw.
“Too close,” sighed Creel. “Hell—if they’dturned mean ...!”
“If they’d insisted on gettin’ arrested...!” Upshaw shuddered, took another pull at his drink.
“Think of it,” grunted Creel. “Valentineand Emerson—in our jail!”
“Think of all those other lawmen that madethe same terrible mistake,” mused Upshaw. “They arrested thosehell-raisers, thinkin’ they were just a couple driftin’ cowpokes.And then it was too late. They were stuck with ’em—stuck with twocrazy Texans that near drove ’em out of their minds.” Despite arestricted education, Upshaw was an inveterate letter-writer, andhis favorite correspondents were fellow-lawmen. Thus, over a periodof some years, he had read many a harrowing story, penned bycolleagues who had rashly tangled with the Texas trouble-shooters.“I keep rememberin’ Eli Richwater. He was sheriff of RandolphCounty in Colorado, you know. Hell is what they gave him—and thensome. They even stole his star and hung it
