His brother's keeper
“A little authority has made you your brother’s keeper, eh?”
“I’m the sheriff.”
“Oh, I can see that. But what right have you to haul me off that train?
It isn’t your train. You’re not paid to guard that train, are you? Don’t
shove me. Can’t you see I’m a sick man?”
“Sick man!” sneered the sheriff. “Sick because I’m goin’ to lock yuh up
for a few days. Don’t play ’possum with me.”
“I’m not playing ’possum, as you say; I’m sick.”
The man really looked sick, in spite of his grimy face, but the sheriff
twisted him around by the shoulder and started him toward the jail.
Several persons, including the deputy, waited on the depot platform to
see what the sheriff was going to do, and as the sheriff marched his
prisoner past them he told the deputy to come with him.
* * * * *
The deputy followed down to the jail, where the hobo was locked behind
the bars. The deputy made no comment, but followed the sheriff back to
the office, where they sat down.
“Said he was sick,” remarked the sheriff disgustedly.
“Looked sick,” said the deputy wearily, fanning himself with his
sombrero.
The sheriff studied the lean face of his deputy for a length of time.
“How did you happen to bring the old lady in today, Joe?” he asked.
“She asked me to. I came past the ranch. I told her I’d take the team
back and get my horse. She was comin’, anyway,” as though to defend his
position in the matter.
“She was, eh? You never stopped to think that you were workin’ for me,
did yuh? You waste a day, bringin’ her in, and waste another day in
goin’ back with that team. Do you think I’m payin’ you to use up time
that way?”
The deputy flushed slightly and his lips tightened.
“I didn’t know that _you_ paid me anythin’, Deming. Ain’t I paid by the
county?”
“I’m part of that county, Joe; the sheriff part of it. I hired yuh,
didn’t I?”
The deputy got slowly from his chair and put on his hat.
“You hired me, Deming, but I’ll be damned if you fire me; I quit right
now.”
“All right; suit yourself.”
“I intend to, Deming. In fact, I intended to quit yuh when I came down
here. You never even told yore wife good-by; just walked away to arrest
a hobo, who wasn’t doin’ you any harm. Yo’re plumb loco over duty, ain’t
yuh? I’m scared of yuh, Jim; honest, I am. Yore wife said you was
worshippin’ that tin god on yore vest; that sheriff’s star. I reckon yuh
are.
“She said somethin’ about it raisin’ up and killin’ yuh. Said somethin’
about what the Bible said about not havin’ wrong gods. I don’t sabe just
what she meant. But I do sabe how she feels toward yuh. Deming, you’ve
gone crazy over duty to the law. It’s all right to enforce the law, but
yo’re just a damn’ fool over it. I knowed you was crazy when yuh sent
Harry to the pen. You didn’t need to do it, and you know yuh didn’t. Oh,
I’m glad I quit yuh.”
Deming’s face flushed hotly and he started to rise from his chair, but
sank back heavily, a queer expression in his hard gray eyes.
“What did she mean by sayin’ that it would rise up and kill me?” he
demanded. “That’s fool talk; women’s talk. Nobody can scare me. I’m glad
yuh quit, if yuh feel the way yuh do about me--and yore job. You didn’t
always fulfill yore oath, Joe. Mebbe it’s best that yuh did quit. I’m
goin’ to be more particular in the next deputy I hire.”
“They’ll probably be, too,” said Joe. “You’ll have a hell of a time,
hirin’ a new man, ’cause everybody knows how hard yuh are, Deming. Well,
I’ll pack my stuff and get out.”
“All right, Joe; give me your star. And them ca’tridges in yore belt
belong to the county.”
* * * * *
Several days passed in which Deming was obliged to run the office alone,
which meant that twice a day he must carry food to his prisoner, against
whom no formal complaint had been made. But the hobo was far too ill to
care whether he had food or freedom. He spent most of the time on his
cot, talking deliriously, and in the dim light of the little cell the
sheriff could see nothing wrong with the man, except a fever.
But finally he called in the doctor, who was also the coroner, and he
immediately pronounced it a malignant case of smallpox; quarantining the
jail. He was minded to quarantine the sheriff, but while he was making
up his mind just what to do a cowboy, Slim Delong, fairly tore up the
street of Calor, bringing news of a murder.
Delong was fairly incoherent. Red Cowan, another cowboy working for the
JB outfit, had murdered Al Mitchell, owner of the outfit, and had headed
for the lava beds. Delong, riding in at the ranch, had seen Red Cowan
riding away swiftly toward the lava bed country, and a few minutes later
he had found Mitchell lying on the front porch, shot through the heart.
* * * * *
Mitchell was a big cattleman in that part of the country, and the
sheriff’s son had been sent to the penitentiary for stealing Mitchell’s
cattle. The town was rather in an uproar over the murder, but the
sheriff did not ask any of the cowboys to ride with him.
He saddled his roan horse, tied a quantity of food to his saddle, filled
a canteen and headed for the lava bed country. He did not need help. He
knew every inch of the lava bed country, although he did not know Red
Cowan. Red had only been there a short time and he had heard Joe speak
of meeting him at the JB.
Shortly after Delong had delivered his message to the sheriff, Delong
imbibed a few drinks before starting back to the JB ranch with the
coroner and several others, who were going out there to bring the body
to town. He happened to be riding a half-broke bronco, and in the flurry
at the hitchrack, as they were starting out, Delong’s horse bucked
wickedly, throwing Delong against one of the hitchrack posts.
In the parlance of the range, it knocked Delong flatter than a snake’s
belly, and he was unable to get on his horse; so they half carried, half
led him back to the saloon, where they left him propped up in a chair.
* * * * *
The sheriff did not hurry his horse. He swung in west of the JB ranch
and headed for the lava bed country, making no attempt to pick up the
tracks of Red’s horse. He knew that Red would cut straight through the
lava beds and head for the Mesquite River country, sixty miles away;
sixty miles of waterless waste, a broken mass of twisted lava, which
seemed never to have cooled since those prehistoric days, when it had
been poured indiscriminately over the landscape.
The sheriff felt reasonably certain that Red Cowan had started without
any preparations for food or water, and would probably expect, at least,
to find water. But there was no water in that part of the country. And a
man must ride slowly, because the sharp lava would soon ruin the feet of
his horse, unless the animal was allowed to make its own pace.
Mile after mile he plodded along, squinting his eyes against the glare
of the sun, until he developed a queer sort of a headache; a dull throb
in the back of his head, which caused him to wince at times. It bothered
his eyes. He drank from his canteen, but the water did not seem to
quench his thirst.
His mouth felt dry a moment later; so he took another drink, which
caused him a slight nausea. Must be the sun, he decided. Still, the idea
did not seem so good, because he was used to the sun. It made him angry.
After a while he filled and lighted his pipe, but after the first few
puffs of the pungent weed, he put the pipe in his pocket.
* * * * *
Ahead of him stretched the interminable wastes of the lava beds, where
the heat devils danced before his eyes, and he cursed them aloud, as
though they could heed his voice. Then it seemed as though he realized
the utter absurdity of such things, and cursed himself.
The setting sun found the sheriff riding aimlessly. His eyes ached
continuously now, and he had lost all desire to scan the country. But he
was not going to turn back. He was following a murderer, a cold-blooded
killer, and the law must be avenged.
He felt a little better when the sun went down and the short desert
twilight had blended with the night; a time in which the temperature
drops swiftly from a hundred and fifteen in the shade to sixty in the
dark. The sheriff had ridden away without any blankets, and now he
shivered in a sudden chill, which seemed to crinkle his vertebrae.
Queer thing, that chill. It rattled his teeth like castanets and
increased his headache until every movement of the horse brought him
fresh misery. So he dismounted, uncoiled his lariat and picketed his
horse. It was only after several minutes that he was able to summon
enough energy to remove the saddle.
Duty Deming was a sick man--and knew it. He thought of saddling his
horse and heading for Calor, but he had lost all sense of direction. The
stars blurred in his eyes, and he flopped down beside his saddle,
burying his aching head in his arms.
* * * * *
It was possibly two hours later that the sheriff’s horse nickered softly
in the darkness, but the sheriff did not lift his head. Came the sound
of a horse walking, and the bulky form of a horse and rider came in
through the broken rocks, plainly visible by the light of the stars.
The rider drew rein near the picketed horse, as though rather surprised
to find a horse there. He dismounted and discovered the rope, speaking
softly to the horse. He turned away and soon discovered the sheriff.
“Sleepin’ kinda heavy, ain’t yuh, pardner?” he asked in a soft, drawling
voice; but the sheriff did not move.
Coming in closer, the man scratched a match. He was of medium height,
thin-faced, blue-eyed, dressed in a faded blue shirt, well-worn bat-wing
chaps, black Stetson. The light of the match glistened on the butt of a
big Colt in the holster swinging at his thigh. As he removed his hat to
shield the match the light glistened on his copper-colored hair.
He was Red Cowan, the murderer. He knelt down beside the sheriff and
shook him by the shoulder.
“Wake up, pardner,” he said softly, but the sheriff merely grunted and
began mumbling deliriously.
“Sick, eh?” muttered the red headed one. “Funny. Got a bad fever and
he’s plumb loco. And it’s a long ways to a doctor. Jist what’ll I do
next?”
* * * * *
He squatted on his heels and rolled a cigarette. After due deliberation
and another cigarette he saddled the sheriff’s horse. The sheriff was
not easy to arouse but he talked steadily, mumbling his words, swearing
and laughing foolishly, while Red Cowan swung him into the saddle and
roped him on. He swayed forward, both arms dangling loosely, while Cowan
mounted his own horse and picked up the lead-rope.
Cowan took his bearings from the North Star and started out, looking
back at the humped figure of the sheriff, swaying in the saddle.
“Stay with her, pardner,” he grunted. “We’ll make the old Alkali Spring
ranch by mornin’, and mebbe we’ll find somebody there.”
And all through the night they wended their way through the lava beds,
and it was just about daybreak when they came out at an old tumbledown
ranch house. The old buildings seemed about to fall down, the corrals
were in bad repair, and only one fan was left on the old windmill, which
creaked in the morning breeze.
Down by the old stable was an alkali spring, where a few cattle,
drifters from the herds in the Mesquite River ranges, came to drink. Red
Cowan looked them over appraisingly. They meant fresh meat.
He unroped the sheriff and lifted him to the ground, propping him
against the wall while he went inside. The inside of the house was not