Mavericks
eastern tailoring house. Pink was short, chunky, red headed, with
decided bowlegs. He was about twenty-five years of age—and in love.
He lost no time in getting down to the sheriff’s office where he found
Dud Evans, the slat-like sheriff, in the rear of the office which he and
Pink used as living quarters. He was shaving. He was standing before a
cracked mirror, clad in a suit of ill fitting red flannel underwear and
high-heel boots.
“They come,” said Pink, depositing the packages on the bunk.
“Yea-a-ah?” Dud screwed his face painfully. He was bleeding from many
cuts and scratches.
“My gawsh, this razor’s sharp!” he grunted. “I look like I’d been drug
over a lot of busted glass.”
“You got my pet razor?” asked Pink, trying to get a glimpse of the
instrument.
“Pet! This here thing a pet?”
“That’s my pet, holler ground razor! Dud, you ornery Injun! And I broke
my hone last week. Your whiskers would turn a mowin’ machine. I’ll
betcha I could write m’ name in the aidge of it right now.”
“Oh, it’s plenty sharp. I whittled off a couple warts jist as slick as a
whistle. You got any court plaster, Pink?”
“No, I ain’t!”
Pink yanked savagely at the cord on his package, and finally cut it with
his knife. He took off the cover, removed some tissue paper and lifted
out a black coat. Dud stopped shaving to look at it. Pink wrinkled his
nose thoughtfully as he considered the garment.
“That damn’ thing,” said Dud seriously, “looks like a overcoat with part
of the front cut off. A feller could wear a pair of them seatless Injun
pants with that coat, and never be an exposure.”
Pink looked at him curiously.
“Funniest damn’ thing I ever seen,” he whispered.
He took out the vest and looked it over critically.
“Dirty cheat!” he snorted. “If that drummer ever shows up here again,
I’ll pistol whip him if it’s the last—”
“Ain’t that a funny vest?”
“Funny! My Gawd, it wouldn’t— Look at your own suit, will you?”
“I can’t hurt yours none by jist lookin’ at it, can I?”
Pink sat down on the bunk and began rolling a cigarette with trembling
fingers. He was so mad that his red hair stood up in an arch. Dud untied
his package and found his suit to be an exact replica of the one on the
bunk, except in size.
Dud sat down on a broken back chair and stared at Pink.
“You talked with that drummer,” he said slowly. “All I done was to stand
up and be surrounded by a tape measure. What in hell did you tell him?”
“Don’t try to put no deadwood on me—” belligerently. “Me and you both
decided that we wanted black suits, didn’t we? Well, he asked me what
style we wanted, and I said we wanted somethin’ awful damn’ dressy. He
asked me if we wanted dress suits, and I said we shore did.”
“Well—” mournfully—“we done throwed away eighty dollars apiece.”
“Put on your coat, Dud. They might not be so bad.”
Dud slipped into the coat, and Pink circled him slowly. Then:
“Dud, you’re the damndest lookin’ insect I ever seen. From the rear, you
look like a black beetle with red laigs. You do, honestly. But from the
front you look like a unsuccessful operation. My gosh, what a chance to
show off a fancy vest.”
“It’s probably this red underwear.”
“Well, that’s part of it. But it ain’t all, Dud. Mebbe a shirt front
would help a lot, but jist as you are now, you look like one of them
charts the medicine doctors use to show the heart, lungs, liver and
lights, or the bad effect of liquor on the insides of man.”
Dud flung the coat aside and went back to the basin where he dabbled
cold water on his bruises, while Pink dug deeper into the suit box.
Tucked within the folds of the trousers was a little booklet depicting
styles in men’s wearing apparel. On the last page of the pamphlet was a
picture of the suits he had ordered.
“Here you are,” he grunted. “Here’s what we got, Dud.”
Dud came over, mopping his face with a towel, and gazed upon the
illustration.
“F’r looks,” said the sheriff slowly, “that feller is a dinger.”
“Slicker’n frawg hair. But we ain’t got no white shirts.”
“Nor stand-up collars. Well, what’s the difference? That red and black
silk shirt of yours is a damn’ sight prettier than plain white, ain’t
it? I’ve got a green silk one. I’ll let you wear my yaller silk tie.
What you better do is run up to the store and git some stove polish.
We’ve got to run a shine on our boots.”
“You go git the polish. I’ve got to whittle m’ whiskers with a dull
razor. Damn’ nice cloth in them suits, Dud.”
“Ought to be at eighty a suit, and half the cloth missin’.”
* * * * *
The town of Willow Wells had never outgrown its infancy. It was slightly
over twenty years of age, but looked older because the original false
front buildings, facing along the narrow street, had long since lost any
vestige of paint they may have had. The signs were barely visible,
having been heat and sand scoured many times. The two biggest buildings
in the town were the courthouse and the livery stable.
Of saloons there were plenty—the War Paint was the most fashionable. It
was not a pretentious structure, although it covered plenty of ground
space and, it was said, a multitude of sins. Twenty miles south of
Willow Wells was the town of Newton, on the railroad. When Willow Wells
was born there was no railroad down there, no town. The railroad brought
Newton, and Newton wanted to be the county seat; but the bulk of the
votes were in the northern end of the county and Willow Wells retained
the honors.
The Willow Wells stage made the round trip daily to Newton, piloted most
of the time by Comanche Beadle, who believed himself in partnership with
Wells Fargo. Three miles southwest of Willow Wells, on the road to
Newton, was the Diamond R ranch, owned by Jim McGowan, a big, handsome
man of about forty-eight years, cordially hated by Pink Lowry. In fact,
Pink hated the whole Diamond R outfit.
It was not a hate of long standing. Pink had been indifferent to Jim
McGowan until Mary Pelliser came back from school and took up her
residence at the SP ranch. Pink did not realize that ninety per cent. of
the cowboys had fallen violently in love with Mary; he only saw Jim
McGowan paying court to her. Jim was handsome and Pink knew it. He
realized his own shortcomings, both in face and figure, and he proceeded
to hate all of the Diamond R outfit.
Pink was barely past his majority in years, which might excuse him. He
was the youngest deputy they had ever had in Willow Wells, and many of
the old-timers shook their heads over Dud Evans’ choice as a helper; but
Pink was efficient and capable, and Evans knew it.
McGowan had owned the Diamond R for three years, having bought the brand
and the ranch from Edward Hart, owner of the Bank of Willow Wells. The
Diamond R personnel was, in range vernacular, rather salty. It consisted
of Scotty McGowan, a brother of Jim, Buck Haskell, Barney East, Sam Hall
and a disreputable Chinese cook named Mulligan. Of course, this was not
his name, but it sufficed. Mulligan loved gin and his one-string fiddle,
both of which caused him to make weird noises.
The occasion of the two new suits at the sheriff’s office was a party at
the SP ranch, two miles northeast of town, given partly in honor of
Mary, but more as a celebration of Edward Hart’s wedding anniversary.
Steven Pelliser, owner of the SP, was as much of an old-timer as Edward
Hart, and Steven Pelliser liked parties. In fact, he never overlooked a
chance to hold a regular _fiesta_ at the SP. Edward Hart had been
married nineteen years, and the woman he married had done much in a
financial way in the old days to put both Hart and Pelliser on their
feet.
Between them they owned quite a lot of Willow Valley. East of town,
about two miles away, was the HN outfit, connected brand, owned by Uncle
Hoddy Noon, also an old-timer in the Valley. Uncle Hoddy was a little
old man, typical of the range country, held down to hard and fast rules
of conduct by his fleshy wife, Aunt Ida, who believed that the souls of
all drinking men were doomed. Uncle Hoddy said he would rather be doomed
than dry, and drank in secret and swore he was captain of his own
soul—and ate cloves.
Uncle Hoddy’s thirst was aided and abetted by Caliente Smith and Piute
Jones, fifty year old cowboys, to whom Aunt Ida had tried to preach
religion for years. They worked for Uncle Hoddy, along with Chris
Halvorsen and Ed Lane, the latter being Uncle Hoddy’s son-in-law and
foreman.
Aunt Ida’s religious talks did little more than amuse Caliente and
Piute, but they gave Aunt Ida considerable satisfaction. Her theme was
usually temperance, which brought the idea of a little liquor forcibly
to the objects of her discourse, and they usually acted accordingly.
They were all at the SP ranch that night. The Simpson brothers with
their violin and bull fiddle; Banty Culler with his guitar; Jeff Miller
with a banjo. When Steve Pelliser gave a party it was a case of come and
get it.
Mary Pelliser never looked more beautiful than when she came down the
old stairway to greet her guests that night. Tall, slender, with a
wealth of chestnut hair, an oval face, tanned slightly, red cheeks
untouched by rouge. She wore a simple white dress, not made by any of
the Willow Valley _modistes_, and at her throat she wore a gorgeous old
cameo.
Jim McGowan met her at the foot of the stairs, assuming a sort of
proprietorship over her. Steve Pelliser, tall, gaunt, with serious eyes,
stood across the room, smiling proudly at her; but a frown of annoyance
flashed for a moment when Jim McGowan took her arm.
Edward Hart, the banker, standing near the door, glanced quickly toward
Pelliser and their eyes met. Hart was of medium height, his hair as
white as snow. He seemed much older than Pelliser, although they were
nearly of an age. Hart had the jaw and lips of a fighter. His wife,
several years his junior, stood beside him, a robust woman about his
height, dressed in black silk.
* * * * *
With much trepidation the assembled cowboys shook hands with Mary. Many
of them had known her for years, but now they looked at her as if she
were a stranger. The other girls seemed ill at ease for several
moments—until Mary left McGowan to join them. The men grouped by
themselves in one corner, laughing at jokes, rolling cigarettes.
“There’s somethin’ in the kitchen,” said Hank Blue, one of the SP
cowboys, cautiously. “Steve said to not make a rush, ’cause Uncle
Hoddy’s out there and if Aunt Ida ever gets a suspicion—”
Eyebrows lifted knowingly, and the men milled around, losing numbers
with great regularity. The door between the kitchen and dining room
needed oiling. Every entrance or exit was advertised with a whining
squeak. Steve Pelliser watched Aunt Ida closely. She was talking with
several other women, but he could see her face and he knew she was
listening. Once she got to her feet, but one of the women was explaining
something to her and she was obliged to sit down.
Jim McGowan came over close to Steve, as if to speak with him, but
someone left the door open and they heard Uncle Hoddy’s voice:
“You don’t need to shush me, I’ll tell you that. I’m old enough to be a
daddy to any danged one of you. I’m a man among men.”
“That last part is shore true,” said Caliente, “but if Aunt Ida ever
hears or smells—”
Someone shut the door, and the last of the discourse was lost to the
ears in the living room. Aunt Ida got up slowly, her cheeks very red,
and looked around.
“You will excuse me, I’m sure.” Her voice had a metallic ring. Steve
caught her at the doorway and put a hand on her arm.
“Don’t blame Uncle Hoddy,” he said. “It’s all my fault, Aunt Ida.”