His brother's keeper
as bad as the exterior, as it had been used by some cattlemen during a
recent roundup. There was a roll of blankets, tightly wrapped in a
tarpaulin, swinging from a rafter, while from a tightly closed box he
took flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, beans and some cans of
vegetables and fruit.
“Thought there might be a cache here,” he said, as he removed the
provisions.
He took down the bed-roll and spread it out on one of the bunks, before
going out after the sheriff, whom he dragged in and put to bed. He
looped the sheriff’s belt around a bunk post, removed his clothes, and
prepared a breakfast, before attending to the horses.
* * * * *
The sheriff was burning with fever, tossing his arms, mumbling
incoherently all the while.
After a breakfast, in which the sheriff did not join him, Cowan brought
a pail of the cold water to the house and proceeded to give the sheriff
a sponge bath. This treatment seemed to sooth the sick man, and he
dropped into a slumber.
Cowan found an old pair of hopples, which he put on the sheriff’s horse,
and turned his own mount loose to forage. There was little to be done.
Cowan did not want to leave the sick man long enough to go after a
doctor, which would take at least two days; so there was only one thing
for him to do, and that was to stay and see it through, hoping that
someone might come along and lend them a hand.
For the next three days and nights he worked with the sheriff. There
were no medicines of any kind, and it seemed to be a losing battle. He
killed a steer and made beef broth, which the sheriff could not eat,
gave him both cold and hot baths, worked over him like a mother over a
child, and on the evening of the third day the sheriff awoke--conscious
for the first time.
* * * * *
After a period of deliberation he remembered starting out after Red
Cowan. Seated near the bed, his head in his hands, snoring loudly, was a
red-headed man. The sheriff did not know any red-headed men. He was very
weak; so he shut his eyes and tried to think. After a while he heard the
man move, and opened his eyes.
“That’s better,” said the red-head wearily.
“Who are you?” asked the sheriff, and was surprised that his voice was
so weak.
“I’m Red Cowan.”
The sheriff closed his eyes quickly.
“I guess I don’t know yuh,” he said slowly.
“Mebbe not. I was with the JB a while. What’s the matter with yuh,
anyway? You’ve been here three days.”
“Three days?” The sheriff’s eyes popped open.
Red told him all about it.
“Didn’t have no medicine,” he explained. “Had to do the best I could.”
“Know who I was?”
“Saw yore star. Yo’re Deming of Calor, ain’t yuh? Yeah, I thought yuh
was. I’ve heard of yuh. How’d yuh happen to be out there in the lava
beds?”
The sheriff closed his eyes, thinking swiftly. Cowan must not know why
he was out there.
“I dunno,” he said. “Took sick. Must have ridden a long ways.”
“You picketed yore horse.”
“Oh, I wasn’t plumb out until after--just awful sick.”
“You shore know how to be sick,” grinned Cowan. “Do you feel like some
eats?”
The sheriff shook his head.
“Better not talk any more, pardner. You’ve been pretty sick, and it
might fever yuh up, if yuh talked much.”
That suited the sheriff. He didn’t want to talk; he wanted to think. His
eyes shifted to his belt and gun on the bunk-post at the head of his
bed, and he wondered if the gun was loaded.
When Cowan went outside he lifted a hand toward the gun, and as he did
so he glanced at his hand. He felt of his stubby face, and a look of
horror spread over his face.
“Smallpox!” he exclaimed to himself. “That’s what it is--all them little
red specks. I got it from that damn’ hobo!”
* * * * *
Cowan came back into the house, but the sheriff did not tell him. He was
afraid that Cowan might leave him in fear of the disease. Not exactly
that he felt an immediate need of Cowan, but he wanted to take Cowan
back a prisoner.
“Still feelin’ pretty good?” asked Cowan as he busied himself around the
stove.
“I don’t feel so good, Cowan.”
“Probably not. Can’t expect to. But I reckon I’ve busted the fever. How
about a little broth, eh?”
“Not now.”
“Uh-huh. Tomorrow mornin’, if yo’re feeling pretty good, I think I’ll
head for Mesquite River and send some folks in to take care of yuh. You
need a doctor pretty bad, and you’ll need the right kinda food.”
That was not so good. The sheriff huddled down in bed, trying to think
of some way to prevent Cowan from leaving. Just now his thoughts ran in
circles, because his head ached again. Ten minutes later he was
delirious again.
And all that night Cowan had to use force to keep him in bed. He babbled
of murderers, horse thieves and of his own prowess as a sheriff. And in
the light of the candle Cowan saw the rash on the sheriff’s hands and
face.
“Smallpox!” grunted Cowan. “So that’s what’s the matter, eh? Lucky I’ve
had a good dose of it. Tomorrow I’ll tie him down and head for a
doctor.”
It was daylight again before the sheriff became conscious. The fever had
abated enough to allow him to realize and recognize again. Cowan’s face
was drawn and tired, his eyes red from lack of sleep.
“Sane again, eh?” he grunted. “Well, you’ve shore been off yore nut
a-plenty, pardner. Listen to me and get this straight. I’m goin’ out and
round up my bronc. You’ve got a sweet case of smallpox, which means
yo’re goin’ to be here mebbe a couple weeks. I can’t stay all that time;
so I’m headin’ for Mesquite River to get yuh a doctor and a nurse.
“Yuh take her easy while I get my horse. Mebbe I better tie yuh down,
’cause you might go wanderin’ around and die out in the desert. Anyway,
yo’re all right for a while, and I’ll see yuh before I pull out. I’ll
leave plenty water, such as it is, where yuh can reach it. But you’ve
got to have plenty nursin’ and the right kinda food.”
Red Cowan picked up his rope and went out, leaving the sheriff staring
at the rafters, trying to force his mind to function properly. He didn’t
want Red Cowan to leave him. He had never failed to bring in his man,
and if Red Cowan ever left that ranch----
* * * * *
His hand reached up weakly and drew the heavy Colt from the holster. It
was fully loaded. The weight of it quickly tired his wrist, and he
stared at his bloodless hand. The fever had sapped his strength badly,
and he lay back wearily, cursing himself for a quitter.
He was no match for Red Cowan now. Hadn’t Cowan said something about
tying him down? The sheriff tried to sit up. If Red Cowan tied him
down----
“Get up, you fool!” he told himself. “Yo’re all right. Are you goin’ to
lie here and let a murderer escape? You are Duty Deming, sheriff of
Calor!”
With a superhuman effort he managed to swing around on the bunk and get
his feet over the edge; but toppled back, where he lay breathing
heavily, gripping the gun in his right hand.
He could feel the fever coming back, but he would not let that stop him.
It was now or never. No thought of the future--only the present. The law
must be served.
He managed to reach the doorway, where he went to his knees, blinking
out at the sunlight. It dazzled his eyes, until the tears ran down his
cheeks, and he dropped his head to one knee, covering his eyes with his
arm.
“No other gods before Me,” he muttered. “What did she mean? What would
rise up and kill me?”
His fumbling fingers tried to locate his star, not realizing that he
wore nothing but his underclothes. He laughed foolishly in the crook of
his elbow. His mind was clouding again.
“I can’t die,” he told himself. “It’s my duty to live. I’ve got to
live!”
He got slowly to his feet, fighting hard. “They’ll hang him--hang Red
Cowan. Eye for an eye. The law demands that. I’m the law of Calor, ain’t
I? Don’t the law demand his life?”
The sheriff sagged wearily, gripping the side of the door with his left
hand.
“I’m the law,” he muttered drunkenly. “I demand----”
The fever cloud was enveloping him again, and the little blue devils
with their sledges were beating on his brain, trying to batter him into
insensibility.
* * * * *
Where was Red Cowan, he wondered? Where had he gone? He was obliged to
use both hands to cock the Colt. Red Cowan. That was what he wanted. The
man with the flame-colored hair. There was no gratitude for what Red had
done for him. No thought of the days and nights of nursing. The law must
be satisfied, and Duty Deming was the law.
He went stumbling across the uneven ground, sagging at the knees, his
head swinging from side to side, almost trailing the cocked revolver in
his right hand; fighting, fighting all the while.
Then he saw his quarry just at the corner of the old stable. It was Red
Cowan, looking at him. The big Colt swung up and his finger tightened on
the trigger. The recoil jerked the gun from his hands and he almost
fell.
He did not look for the gun. One shot had been enough. He hunched one
shoulder against the old stable wall, gasping for breath. The law had
been satisfied. He closed his eyes for a moment. The devils were still
hammering on his brain, but above it all he could hear another sound; a
thump, thump, thump of horses walking.
Slowly he opened his eyes and tried to see what the blurred thing was.
He knew it was a man on a horse, although his eyes did not register the
figures.
“Jim Deming!” said a voice. “For God’s sake, Jim!”
It was Joe Mills, the ex-deputy.
“Don’t yuh know me, Jim?” he asked.
“This is Joe Mills.”
“I know,” whispered Deming. “Yuh quit me.”
“Aw, forget that. We’ve been huntin’ all over the country for you, Jim;
and I----”
“I had to do my duty,” whispered Deming. He lifted his right hand with a
supreme effort and pointed a finger waveringly.
“That’s Red Cowan,” he said.
“Yo’re crazy!” blurted the deputy. “That ain’t Red Cowan.”
For several moments the sheriff did not move. His face twisted
strangely. “You say that ain’t Red Cowan?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Of course not, you danged fool.”
“Don’t lie to me, Joe! My God, don’t lie.”
“I ain’t lyin’, Jim. Yo’re crazy, I tell yuh. Of course this ain’t Red
Cowan. I know Red.”
For a moment the sheriff’s head sagged heavily, but he swung himself
away from the stable, started toward the house on uncertain legs, but
collapsed, falling flat on his face.
“Now, wouldn’t that rasp yuh!” snorted the deputy, as he swung off his
horse and walked over to the prostrate sheriff. He picked him up and
took him to the shade, where he laid him on the ground.
Something about the sheriff caused the deputy to make a quick
examination.
“I’ll be totally darned!” he said slowly.
Then he turned his head and saw Red Cowan, riding in from beyond the
stable; riding a bareback horse and leading another.
“Hello, Mills!” yelled Cowan. “Where’d you come from?”
“C’mere,” said the ex-deputy, and Cowan rode up to him.
“By golly, I thought I should have tied him down,” said Cowan.
“He’s dead,” said Mills slowly.
“Dead? Whatcha know about that? I found him several nights ago, plumb
flat over there in the lava beds. He was too sick to talk; so I brought
him here. I’ve had one hell of a time, nursin’ him, Joe. Got smallpox, I
reckon.”
“Measles,” said Joe. “Must ’a’ got ’em from a hobo he had in jail at
Calor. Hobo almost died, too. Didn’t Deming tell yuh what he was doin’
in the lava beds?”
“Too sick, I guess.”
“He was lookin’ for you, Red. Wanted yuh for the murder of Mitchell.”
“What?”
“Fact. Delong brought the news of it, and Deming started on yore trail.