The Sheriff of Badger

It may come as a shock to many to learn that we have in cowland a considerable number of full-blooded men who have never made it a practice to step outside the door of a morning and shoot a fellow-citizen before breakfast. This is true; vital statistics and fiction to the contrary, notwithstanding. They are well-grown, two-fisted men, also, and work very hard seven days in the week, and whenever they go to town they get drunk. But in the main they are law-abiding, and steal calves only for their employers.

There was Lafe Johnson. This story has him for its central figure.

"It's right queer about men," Lafe used to say, when in a reflective mood. "A feller will knock in a friend what he'd be like to do himself. And he'll act mean one day so he's sure ashamed of it the next. Yes, sir; the best of 'em will. It all depends on how a man feels, I reckon, and what shape his stomach's in. No man ain't always going to do the right thing, and I've never met a feller yet who was all bad. What's more, nobody thinks he's bad, or I expect he wouldn't be. Don't you reckon? Why, a man'll be plucky one day and the next morning he'd cry if a jackrabbit was to slap him in the face."

Lafe started man's estate as a cowboy. What his antecedents were I don't know and don't care, nor did anybody else in our country. We have so many more important matters to engage us. Punching cattle happened to be his profession. In every other respect Lafe was a normal individual-no better than you or I, and assuredly no worse. Some thought he was worse, and among them a Mrs. Tracey-or she pretended to-who thought that and a few other things besides. That was why Mrs. Floyd, just before Johnson departed the ranch, insisted that he accompany her to the Tracey home in Rowdy Ca?on.

"I'll tell her to her face what I think," she said.

Lafe tried to pacify her.

"I ain't much of a fighter, ma'am," he said. "You'd better go alone and have it out. Miz Tracey, she's got me scared off the map right now."

"You'll come, too!" Mrs. Floyd assured him, pulling on her gauntlets.

This is what Mrs. Floyd said, sitting her horse in front of the Tracey gate, her erstwhile friend being on the veranda: "I've heard the stories you've been spreading about me, Tracey!"

"Stories? Gracious, what's got into you, Sally? I never mentioned your name! Do you reckon I've got nothing better to talk about?"

"Don't lie," Mrs. Floyd continued, her voice rising. "You know what I mean. And I've got Mr. Johnson with me to hear it, too. You keep your mouth shut about me-do you hear? If you don't, I'll shut it for you. I'm right proud and glad to know Lafe Johnson-he's a friend of my husband, too-and-and-"

She had much more to impart, having rehearsed it mentally on the way over in order to be effective, but here rage and tears choked speech. Perhaps it was as well; finical people may even find something to deplore in what Mrs. Floyd did say. Mrs. Tracey answered, tucking her chin into her neck, that she was very, very glad to hear it, but, for herself, she must confess complete inability to discover any grounds for pride in Mr. Johnson's acquaintance. Upon which she slammed the door.

"Now, I wonder if that lady meant something?" Lafe murmured gently.

That was forever the way. People were never indifferent to Johnson. They either swore by him or execrated his name, which ought to be held to his credit. A man's virtues must be negative if he make no enemies.

Here is the story of Lafe's advent in our part of the world-merely the facts, and not the tale Mrs. Tracey spread. No man will blame him, and let those of her sex judge Mrs. Floyd who have never erred a hair's breadth. We will then consider the jury.

The Lazy L outfit was loading a train with cattle-ones and twos, graded stuff and some bulls-when Johnson first appeared. He arrived on a freight, presumably. It is my belief he was heading back for Texas on the bumpers of an eastbound that passed. It stopped for water and he dropped off when he perceived us shipping.

Forty yearlings had been manhandled and heaved into a car, and one old bull was added which would eventually visit eastern parts in tins. Perhaps the range monarch had some suspicion of this, for he turned round to walk out. They yelled, and prodded at his neck and ribs with poles, but the bull shook his head in settled determination and started down the chute. If he gained the crowding pen, where more yearlings and another bull waited, there would be a fight and a lot of mussing and long delay. The boss danced up and down, swearing like a moss-trooper.

"Bar the chute! Bar the chute!" he yelled from the top of the corral fence.

Ere the poles could be thrust in, a seedy individual stepped down directly in front of the giant Hereford and began to lash him furiously over the face with a rope.

"Come out of there! You'll get killed. Come out!" cried the boss.

The bull bellowed with rage, but the sting of the blows forced his head up. Blood trickled down his nose, and there were livid wales above the eyes. One lurch forward and this man would be crushed, but the rope cut fiercely and without pause, and the bull began to back. The stranger did not let up, but drove him into the car with savage recklessness.

"What the Sam Hill are you, anyhow?" said the boss, straddling the fence. "A circus or a town cowboy?"

Now, a "town cowboy" is a term of reproach among us, signifying a young man who never did range work, but wears the clothes and does trick roping for the delectation of visitors. Ultimately he joins a Wild West show and instructs the rising generation.

"I reckon you're cleverer than me," Johnson said, "but you ain't awake to me yet. Turn over. You're on your back."

Without concerning himself further about the boss, he clambered out on to the platform and threw the borrowed rope to Reb. We saw that he was tall and big of bone, and his shoulders had an indolent droop. Although he could not have been over twenty-five, his hair was plentifully flecked with gray.

Presently Buffalo Jim, who was keeping tally of the cattle going through the chute, lost count and admitted frankly that he could not say whether there were thirty-seven or forty in the car. He tried to appear grave in confessing this, but was unable to repress a snigger. Everything would have gone smoothly, he contended, had he not chanced to recall a story Uncle Hi Millet had told him the previous night.

"If that feller could count up to fifty," said Johnson, in an aside to the buyer, "he would be back in Texas still, a-teaching school."

"Hello, Lafe!" the other exclaimed. "Where did you drop from? Want a job? Seventy a month?"

"Eighty."

"No, sir; seventy."

"Eighty. I got a lot of unfinished business down the line unless."

"Have it your own way. Eighty it is. Fly at it."

Johnson replaced Buffalo Jim and sat on a board between two posts, dangling his legs, staring at everything but the plunging steers. Yet he never once failed to tally.

The boss's wife rode up to the corrals. With her was Mrs. Tracey.

"Who's them there ladies?" Lafe whispered to a cowboy who wielded a prodpole.

"That pretty one's Miz Floyd. I cain't rightly see the other. Oh, yes. Shore. She's a widow woman-owns a flock of mines way up in them mountains."

"The pretty one's the one I meant," said Lafe.

We sealed the door of the last car, and a brakeman waved to the engineer to pull forward. The buyer grabbed Lafe by the shoulder and jabbered instructions into his ear. Then he caught the caboose rail as it sped by, and Johnson informed the amazed Floyd that he had been commissioned to receive the other herds when gathered.

"And he don't even know your name? Oh, he does? All the same, that's sure rushing it. Glad to do business with you, anyhow. I want you to be acquainted with my wife. Shake hands with Mr. Johnson, Sally."

Mrs. Floyd came down the platform, striding like a man. She was wearing a divided skirt, very useful-looking spurs on her high-heeled boots, and a man's felt hat. All the cowboys stopped work to eye her. She was only twenty-two and had an amazingly trim figure. With that meaningless smile of polite welcome with which a woman greets her husband's friends, Mrs. Floyd drew off a glove to give Johnson her hand.

"Lafe Johnson! Lafe!" she squealed. And with that she was pumping the big fellow's arm up and down, her cheeks red with excitement.

"Why, it's li'l Sally!"

"I take it you two know each other," said her husband mildly.

"Do we? Why, we were raised together, Tom. Lafe was one of my best beaux. Weren't you, Lafe?"

"Ain't got over it yet," said Lafe.

The widow put in a reminder that she was on earth by a furtive pull at Mrs. Floyd's sleeve. Lafe said, "Pleased to meet you, ma'am," very correctly, and shook hands. After the hand shake he looked at Mrs. Tracey again, with a new interest. The boss shouted for his horse. He could never be idle a minute.

"Let's go home. Reb, give Johnson your horse and double up with one of the boys. I'm sure getting hungry."

Laughing and indulging in horse-play, the Lazy L men set out. Mrs. Tracey paired off with Floyd and took especial pains to lead him well in advance. There would have been nothing in this maneuver but for her manner of executing it.

"What does she mean by that?" said Sally hotly.

"Who? What?"

"The way she went off there. Didn't you see her? You'd think we-oh, I don't know how to say it."

"I reckon this lady knows her way about, ma'am?"

"She's awfully nice, Lafe. Really she is. When we're alone, I love her. But sometimes, when men are around-well, you saw how she acted."

"Sure," said Lafe, in his soft bass, and he grinned at her. "It ain't what she does, but it's what she don't do. That smile she smothers, now-"

"Have you noticed that, too? Tom did, very first thing. He doesn't like her."

Johnson asked her of her marriage and how it had come about. It was five years since he had seen her, wasn't it? Mrs. Floyd said four, and he murmured that it seemed longer. She laughed, but was pleased, nevertheless. As they rode, she studied him without disguise, and remarked that the gray in his hair was an improvement. He was dressed very poorly, and his boots were down at the heel and worn through the soles, but she did not appear to notice their plight and he suffered no confusion therefrom. Twice she detected him looking from her to Tom, loping in the van.

"What're you thinking about?" she said.

"Nothing much. Ideas don't get much of a hold on me. There ain't nothing to grip."

"I know-I can see it in your face. It's mean of you, Lafe, just because he's forty and-and-well, he's the truest and best-"

"Hold on there. Pull up!" He was chuckling. Abruptly sober: "Sure, I'll bet he's got a kind heart."

She glared at him for an instant. Then they both exploded into laughter and she shook her horse into a gallop.

"You're just the same old Lafe. Nothing'll ever sober you," she called over her shoulder. "Remember-I'm a married woman, Lafe Johnson."

"I won't forget it if you don't, ma'am," he said amiably, upon which she gave him a fearfully stern look and giggled.

* * *

Many authorities assert that a man's looks count for nothing in the pursuit of women and the game of love. And they seem to have the rights of the matter. Citations can be had in plenty. Take the case of the Lazy L boss. Floyd was not unlike an amiable gorilla. Well over the two-score mark in years, he rambled somewhat in his shape. In the first place, his shoulders were too broad for his height, and his jaw and mouth were entirely too wide. Moreover, his legs had the liveliest scorn one for the other. The boss always compelled interest and respect, it is true; but so does a bulldog.

Yet he owned the Lazy L and all its herds; he had the prettiest wife in the country, and there were those who said she adored him; and he had a son and heir, two years old. All of which set Lafe to marveling over the inscrutable contrivings of Providence.

It was seven miles from the shipping pens to the ranch, another seven to the Tracey home. Consequently the widow stayed to supper, though it meant enduring Floyd's cold scrutiny for an hour of chat. The boss was civil to her in a heavy, formal way, bestowing sidelong looks when he was persuaded she could not see him. However, there was a full moon and it would fall to Johnson to take her home. She was a persevering woman.

Floyd presented himself to his wife on the second day and said, in his usual blunt style: "Sally, better be decent to that fellow Johnson. Will you?"

"Why, sure, Tom. What's got into your head now?"

"Some of this last bunch of cattle are awful poor stuff. Where the tarnation Reb picked up these brindles and swaybacks and old, hipped long-horns beats me. Lafe will cut 'em all back. He'll just go through that herd like a prairie fire. So keep him in a good humor, Sally, will you? Is it a go?"

"Tom, you're dreadful. Do you think I'll help you cheat Mr. Horne by flirting with Lafe? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Floyd."

"Who asked you to flirt? I've seen you mighty handy with them eyes of yours on other fellows, without being asked," he said good-humoredly.

"Oh, what a lie, Tom! I won't. Remember, I won't."

But, being a good wife, she did.

Autumn was rattling the dry bones of summer, and she and Johnson rode together every day. A keen southwest wind swirled the dead grass and leaves about their horses' feet. He would listen to her chatter by the hour, watching the pink grow in her cheeks. Lafe was very good-humored, indeed. With the improvement in his circumstances had come a marked improvement in appearance. He had imported what is known as a "hand-me-down" suit at the cost of a week's pay, and he took a pardonable pride in it, for the reason that the tailors expressly stated in their advertising that they catered only to gentlemen of refined tastes. Also, he had done some trafficking with Buffalo Jim, thereby obtaining a pair of whole boots.

* * *

"She and Johnson rode together every day."

* * *

Often he spent hours with the baby Tommy, fashioning him ridiculous playthings, and tumbling on the ground for the child's delectation. And Sally gloated over Mrs. Tracey, who scarcely saw Lafe at all. Mrs. Floyd looked not an hour over eighteen.

Twice she brought Johnson up short.

"Now, Lafe, none of that. I won't listen."

Let us disregard the fruits of our experience and believe that Mrs. Floyd did not perceive what was growing in Johnson during those two weeks of companionship, although we may be convinced that even a stupid woman can sense it a mile off; and Mrs. Floyd was clever. But she would not give ear to her own doubts.

"That widow won't get him, anyhow," she said, standing in front of a mirror. She could not resist giving her hips an approving pat, and she smiled.

One evening, as they sat on the veranda, Lafe put up a forefinger languidly and touched a stray curl. She dashed his hand away.

"It's just as black and silky as ever," he said.

"Perhaps. But you keep your hands off! Do you hear?" Then she added: "There's no gray in it, anyhow."

Just for whom this shaft was meant will ever remain a profound mystery. Both Lafe and Mrs. Tracey had gray in their hair. That night Sally was demonstrative with Floyd, hanging over the back of his chair with her hands locked under his chin and her face snuggling against the top of his head. The boss blew clouds of smoke and seemed gently amused. These manifestations of devotion had become frequent of late, but it should not be hastily inferred that because Lafe was a spectator they were done for his benefit. That could not be, because he took them with such extraordinary fortitude. If he was harassed, Johnson stifled all expression of his condition grandly.

Floyd was much away from home. Sometimes he was in the south, buying stock cattle. Again, he went north and east to sell of his herds. Sally told Lafe that he left her alone too much. Lafe coughed and said something unintelligible, and lighted a cigarette.

"What did you say?" she asked sharply.

"When a feller is getting old and ain't got long to live-"

"You quit that kind of talk right now. I won't stand for it."

It was the first time she had been really angry at any of his frequent sallies concerning Floyd, and it put them at once on a different footing. The safe frankness of raillery was gone.

Alas, that Lafe could draw the line so sharply between business and the courtesies of leisure hours. A trail herd arrived. They plied Johnson with strong drink and worked in relays to get him drunk. He partook sociably, but without noticeable impairment of his faculties, and he cut the herd ruthlessly to a remnant. The boss grew dizzy figuring his losses and departed from the roundup, unable to endure the spectacle without interference, leaving instructions to be notified when the fool was done.

"I'm working for Horne," said Lafe cheerfully. "Did you think I couldn't tell a two-year-old from a three, Floyd? Those boys tried to run a bunch by me."

Mrs. Tracey drove over to the Floyd headquarters twice, on matters relating to a recipe for a cake and certain patterns, and then asked her friend and Mr. Johnson to dinner. She invited Floyd, too, but it was done so perfunctorily that Sally felt the stab and was furious. However, she went. The widow was as sleek as a kitten and wore such a secretive air that Mrs. Floyd had much ado to keep her temper during the meal. Afterward, Mrs. Tracey excused herself for a few minutes on some pretext and left them alone in the sitting-room. When she had to pass through on her way upstairs, she hurried as though intruding, and said: "Oh, I beg your pardon!"

"The cat!" Mrs. Floyd cried, gritting her teeth.

"There wasn't no call for her to say that?"

"Of course there wasn't, booby. That doesn't make it any better. It makes it worse."

Two days later: "Now guess what?"

"I done quit guessing," Johnson answered.

"That Tracey woman tried to tell me this morning that my Tom was too friendly with one of those Baptismo girls."

"Pshaw!" said Lafe. "Pshaw! What does she want to go and tell them lies for? What good does it do?"

"You don't see?"

"I reckon I'm dull."

"Oh, you great baby!" Mrs. Floyd gurgled delightedly.

This display of malice disturbed Lafe greatly. Such weapons were beyond his knowledge and capacity, and he felt hotly uncomfortable when Sally intimated that they might expect Mrs. Tracey to be talking of them next-if, indeed, she had not done so already. She was for going to Rowdy Ca?on without delay to bestow a tongue-lashing on the widow.

"What's the use?" the cowboy said. "Her talk can't hurt nobody. They all know you."

"Some people will believe her."

"Some people will do anything. Never bother with poor trash, Sally. It don't matter what that kind thinks. Leave her be. What can you expect from a pig but a grunt?"

That was no way to speak of a lady, but Mrs. Floyd jumped from her chair and cried "Goody!", greatly consoled. Just before the evening meal, she put on a pink dress for which Lafe had professed admiration, and parted her hair in the middle. Had there been a woman within seven miles, she would not have done this, but Lafe liked it that way. So also did her husband, for that matter.

"As if I'd get jealous of Tom!" she sniffed. "Huh! you won't get Lafe that way, my lady."

I have said that they rode together every day. Sometimes Floyd watched the two meditatively. His instructions were being carried out-no doubt of that-and Johnson was good-natured. But the boss was a silent man and opposed no objection. As for Sally, if she gave it a thought at all, she probably found justification in a dozen reasons a woman would appreciate, which are beyond male ken.

Lafe helped her down from her horse late one afternoon, though she needed no help. And he held her for just the fraction of a second. She stiffened with an injured air, but she did not reprove him. On another occasion-they were on the veranda and it was growing to dusk-after staring helplessly at her for a full quarter of an hour, while she purposely said as little as possible and toyed with the lace of her handkerchief, her head on one side that he might get the benefit of her profile-suddenly he seized her in his arms and tried to kiss her. He did, in fact, obtain the merest peck at the tip of her ear.

"You darn fool!" she said, tearing loose.

Then she saw his face, and went hastily indoors and huddled in a chair in a dark corner. She sat there until called to supper, striving to fix recent happenings in proper sequence.

After putting the baby to bed, she beckoned Lafe on to the veranda. Her manner was hurried.

"Lafe, you've got to go away. You've got to go to-morrow."

"Why? I can't, Sally. There's three thousand more-"

"You must! You must! Can't you see? You've got to go. We're-"

"Sure, I see," he said. It was very dark and he came closer. "You care! That's what it is. You used to, Sally, and you do now."

"Lafe, let me go! Please-please!"

She broke away and gained the door. She was panting. In the lighted entrance, she looked back.

"You've got to go to-morrow, remember," she said faintly.

But he did not go on the morrow. Floyd was astir before dawn-he usually fell asleep on a sofa immediately after his supper, thereby gaining a few hours on everyone else-and rode away with ten men to bring up the last herd of the sixteen thousand head he would ship.

Sally was distrait and restless all day. She punished the baby for upsetting a pitcher, and then ordered the Mexican nurse to take him and keep him out of her sight. Johnson stayed away from the house and busied himself at the corrals, where some newly purchased mules were being broken to harness for his employer. He never gave an order, yet the boys obeyed his slow-voiced suggestions with the same promptitude they gave to the boss's crisp commands. Lafe could always get obedience without visible exercise of authority. He knew his business and followed it without fluster.

At sunset, a cloud of dust whirled madly across country, with the rain close behind it. Sally ate alone-Lafe had evidently stayed at the bunkhouse-and she felt vaguely resentful. About nine she tucked the child into his bed and went out on to the veranda. The wind was dying, and the rain fell in a soft, steady murmur.

Johnson came running along the pathway and took the steps at a jump. He was wet, but jeered at her suggestion that he change.

"Only got this one suit," he said. "If it gets to shrinking much more on me, I'll have for to steal a blanket to-morrow, Sally."

He took a chair beside her and they watched the lightning play above the black jumble of hills to the east. Sally uttered hardly a syllable. When she spoke at all, the words came jerkily. Lafe leaned over once to brush some sparks of his cigarette from his coat. A delicate perfume reached him.

"The river," he said, clearing his throat, "the river'll be way up. Bridge is like to go out."

"I'm afraid so. Oh, dear! Tom promised he'd come home to-night, too."

"Come home to-night? Why, it's thirty miles."

"I know it. But he's never failed to keep his word yet," she said.

"He won't come home to-night."

A writhing fork of lightning leaped from east to north. There was no thunder. They sat tensely quiet and the rain dripped sadly from the roof.

"No, he won't come home to-night," he said in a hoarse voice. "He can't."

"Sally!" he breathed, bending toward her. "Sally!"

* * *

He was gripping both her hands and she had not moved. Her lips were open, but she seemed powerless to speak. A loud thump startled the pair. A shrill wail from the bedroom and Mrs. Floyd sprang up.

The baby had fallen from the bed and was now engaged in howling himself purple in the face. Mrs. Floyd swooped down on him in a tremor, and gathering him in her arms, went all over his sturdy body with speed and precision, to ascertain in just how many places bones were broken.

"Lafe," she cried, "he's bumped his head. Oh, just look at this lump! My own precious darling! Lafe, get the witch-hazel! Quick! No, no! In the bathroom, on the window sill. Oh, he's holding his breath! Baby! Baby!"

She shook Tommy until he was forced to release the air in his lungs, which he let go with a tearing yell. Johnson brought the bottle and stood awkwardly holding it, while she applied some of the contents to a red spot on the baby's forehead. Sally sat in a chair, rocking back and forward, with her lips against her child's neck and her arms holding him close. Little Tom clutched her tightly and gradually his cries and sobs ceased. Lafe tiptoed to the door. He remained there a few minutes to watch, leaning against the jamb. But Sally did not appear to notice him as she crooned to the baby, who was sinking to sleep.

Johnson was standing at the edge of the steps, staring into the blackness, when she came out. He threw away his cigarette on hearing her call his name.

"Just look at that dark, Sally, will you?" he said. "It beats all."

At the tone of his voice, she cried: "Oh, Lafe, Lafe! I'm so glad!"

Mrs. Floyd did not specify why she was glad, nor did Johnson ask her. She gave him both hands without hesitation, and they stood smiling at each other in comradely fashion in the half-light from the hall. When he spoke, it was to his childhood's playmate.

"Huh-huh!" she agreed. "Let's sit down and talk over old times. Do you remember, Lafe, the grass fights we used to have? You were an awful cheat."

"That's a lie, ma'am! Leastways, it ain't true. You done put a lizard down my back with a bunch of grass."

They were in high glee when a clatter of hoofs broke in on them. It startled Mrs. Floyd.

"What's that? Who's that?"

Two riders pulled up in front of the house, and Floyd stepped stiffly out of the saddle. He gave the reins to Miguel, who disappeared toward the corrals at a gallop. The boss was spattered with mud, and wringing wet and dog-weary. As he came into the light, he dragged his feet, and water ran in streams from his overalls and seeped from his boots.

"Tom!" His wife ran to him.

"Don't," he said. "I'm soaking."

"How did you get here? Mercy! You're a sight. Don't let the rain drip on the rug! Stand over here."

"How's the bridge, Floyd?" Johnson asked.

"The bridge is down," the boss answered. "We done swum the river." Then he chuckled grimly. "Miguel, he was plumb scared, but I pulled a gun on him and made him go ahead."

He threw himself into a chair and removed his muddied spurs.

"I never dreamed you'd get back to-night," said Sally.

"I said I would, didn't I?"

Johnson, resting his shoulders against the sitting-room mantel, suddenly bethought himself and went to his room, whence he returned briskly with a bottle of whisky.

"This'll keep the cold out."

"Why, you must be half dead, you poor, dear old Boy Blue!" Sally cried; the name fitted the boss as happily as Fido would a rhinoceros. "Wait, and I'll cook you something."

Something in her manner or her words caused Floyd to lift his head sharply. A slow smile twisted his features. He got up and went into the dining-room to pour some water into his drink. Before he drained it, he looked at his reflection in the glass above the sideboard. His eyes showed tired but well content.

"Come on, Lafe," he said brusquely. "Let's eat."

"You're on," said the cheery Mr. Johnson.

Sally hovered about them, constantly running to the kitchen for hot coffee and toast. Lafe sat back-it being his custom to bring his mouth down to his fork, instead of his fork up to his mouth-and surveyed the scene with much approval. Mrs. Floyd was at that moment pressing her husband to a second plate of scrambled eggs.

"There's nothing like a home, after all," said the boss, with a sigh of satisfaction. "You ought for to get married, Lafe."

"Hell!-yes!" said Lafe, who was sometimes careless in his speech.

* * *