“Who’d you say you are?” I asked, when he had talked himself out.
“Mr. Turney, general superintendent of the Orilla Colony.”
“So? Well, Mr. General Superintendent Turney, your owners forgot to tell me anything about you when they employed me. So I don’t know you at all. Any time you’ve got anything to say to me, you turn it over to your owners, and if it’s important enough, maybe they’ll pass it on to me.”
He puffed himself up.
“I shall certainly inform them that you have been extremely remiss in your duty, however proficient you may be in street brawls!”
“Will you put a postscript on for me,” I called after him as he walked away. “Tell ’em I’m kind of busy just now and can’t use any advice—no matter who it comes from.”
Milk River and I went ten steps toward the Canyon House, and came face to face with the Reverend Dierks, Miss Janey, and old Adderly. None of them looked at me with anything you could call pleasure.
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” Miss Janey ground out between her false teeth. “Fighting in the street—you who are supposed to keep the peace!”
“As a deputy sheriff you’re terrible,” Adderly put in. “There’s been more trouble here since you came than there ever was before!”
“I must say, brother, that I am deeply disappointed in your actions as a representative of the law!” was the minister’s contribution.
I didn’t like to say, “Go to hell!” to a group that included a minister and a woman, and I couldn’t think of anything else, so, with Milk River making a poor job of holding in his laughter, I stepped around the better element, and we went on to the Canyon House.
Vickers, the sallow, pudgy proprietor, was at the door.
“If you think I got towels to mop up the blood from every hombre that gets himself beat up, you’re mistaken,” he growled at me. “And I don’t want no sheets torn up for bandages, neither!”
“I never seen such a disagreeable cuss as you are,” Milk River insisted as we climbed the stairs. “Seems like you can’t get along with nobody. Don’t you never make no friends?”
“Only with saps!”
I did what I could with water and adhesive tape to reclaim my face, but the result was a long way from beauty. Milk River sat on the bed and grinned and watched me.
“How does a fellow go about winning a fight he gets the worst of?” he inquired.
“It’s a gift,” was the only answer I could think up.
“You’re a lot gifted. That Chick give you more gifts than a Christmas tree could hold.”
XI
My patching finished, we went down to the Jew’s for food. Three eaters were sitting at the counter. I had to exchange comments on the battle with them while I ate.
We were interrupted by the running of horses in the street. A dozen or more men went past the door, and we could hear them pulling up sharply, dismounting, in front of Bardell’s.
Milk River leaned sidewise until his mouth was close to my ear.
“Big ’Nacio’s crew from down the canyon. You better hold on tight, chief, or they’ll shake the town from under you.”
We finished our meal and went out to the street.
In the glow from the big lamp over Bardell’s door a Mexican lounged against the wall. A big black-bearded man, his clothes gay with silver buttons, two white-handled guns holstered low on his thighs, the holsters tied down.
“Will you take the horses over to the stable?” I asked Milk River. “I’m going up and lie across the bed and grow strength again.”
He looked at me curiously, and went over to where we had left the ponies.
I stopped in front of the bearded Mexican, and pointed with my cigarette at his guns.
“You’re supposed to take those things off when you come to town,” I said pleasantly. “Matter of fact, you’re not supposed to bring ’em in at all, but I’m not inquisitive enough to look under a man’s coat for them. You can’t wear them out in the open, though.”
Beard and mustache parted to show a smiling curve of yellow teeth.
“Mebbe if el señor jerife no lak t’ese t’ings, he lak try take t’em ’way?”
“No. You put ’em away.”
His smile spread.
“I lak t’em here. I wear t’em here.”
“You do what I tell you,” I said, still pleasantly, and left him, going back to the Jew’s shack.
Leaning over the counter, I picked the sawed-off shotgun out of its nest.
“Can I borrow this? I want to make a believer out of a guy.”
“Yes, sir, sure! You help yourself!”
I cocked both barrels before I stepped outdoors.
The big Mexican wasn’t in sight. I found him inside, telling his friends about it. Some of his friends were Mexican, some American, some God knows what. All wore guns. All had the look of thugs.
The big Mexican turned when his friends gaped past him at me. His hands dropped to his guns as he turned, but he didn’t draw.
“I don’t know what’s in this cannon,” I told the truth, centering the riot gun on the company, “maybe pieces of barbed wire and dynamite shavings. We’ll find out if you birds don’t start piling your guns on the bar right away—because I’ll sure-God splash you with it!”
They piled their weapons on the bar. I didn’t blame them. This thing in my hands would have mangled them plenty!
“After this, when you come to Corkscrew, put your guns out of sight.”
Fat Bardell pushed through them, putting joviality back on his face.
“Will you tuck these guns away until your customers are ready to leave town?” I asked him.
“Yes! Yes! Be glad to!” he exclaimed when he had got over his surprise.
I returned the shotgun to its owner and went up to the Canyon House.
A door just a
