Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

"You won't be out," contradicted Mark Eagle. "A coroner's jury named you at eight this mornin'. Doc Fancher couldn't stand against the pressure. Nobody listened to him. Grand jury met at nine and bound you over. You're to be tried in the mornin'."

"Why the big hurry with the first two juries, and then a delay on the trial?" asked Chaffee. "If they're doin' some railroadin' it seems to me they lost a bet by not passin' sentence an' hangin' me in time for supper."

Mark Eagle moved his hands. Only an Indian could convey meaning so clearly with those swift, silent gestures. "Many things can happen between now and morning, Jim. They got a coroner's verdict for a purpose. It's a nickel's worth of dog meat for the pack. Maybe there won't be no trial in the mornin'. Town's full of gents."

Chaffee shook his head. "Don't believe sentiment in Roarin' Horse runs that way, Mark."

"I do," was the Indian's blunt answer. He looked behind him, lowered his voice. "I know. I have heard. You are too dangerous. You die. I have heard."

Still Jim Chaffee was not convinced. He walked around the cell and came to the window. "Blamed if I read the cards that way, Mark. Shucks, I've lived among these people all my life. They ain't that kind of folks."

The Indian only lifted his shoulders. Presently he switched the subject. "One of those tar boot tracks in Fancher's office is mine, Jim. The broad-toed one is mine."

"Well, I'll—" muttered Chaffee, profoundly astonished. "What do you know about that stuff?"

"The broad-toed one is mine," remedied Mark Eagle with stoic gravity. "I was behind the stable when the shot was fired. I saw you take the tar impressions. You are my friend and I tell you. I did not kill Satterlee, for he was my friend, too. But you poured tar into the tracks of the man who did kill him. Do you know?"

"One set I ain't identified yet," murmured Chaffee, studying the Indian's enigmatic features. He tried to read through and beyond the broad and flattened copper mask. Nothing was revealed to him. The dusky eyes were shuttered, without depth. He wanted to question Eagle, yet he knew that until the red man voluntarily chose to speak, such a course was futile.

"You will find out sometime," said Eagle. "If you do not I will tell you." Boots scraped along the back area. The Indian looked over his shoulder, murmuring: "I am going to Stirrup S and warn your friends."

A lank gentleman dressed like a scarecrow closed in and challenged Eagle with a surly, half-savage authority. "I been watchin' yuh plenty long. And I'm tired of lookin' at yuh. Skin outen here, yuh no-count Pi-ute Git."

Mark Eagle rose and squared himself. "I am an American, the same as you," said he solemnly.

"Don't gimme no sass. American—like fun. Yore a darn worthless Injun. The kind my pap used to skelp for bounty. Git yore greasy mug outen my sight."

Mark Eagle never stirred. Chaffee saw his chest swell and his chin lift proudly. "I am a Umatilla, the son of a chief who was the son of a chief. We were chiefs when your people bowed humbly to a noble master. We have never bowed. I am your equal."

"Why, gol darn yore cussed hide!" shouted the stranger. "My ekal! Dum it, git!" His fist shot out and knocked the Indian from sight. Chaffee gripped the iron bars and tried to see around the corner of the window. The stranger retreated, gun drawn. "Mosey, and don't come back."

Chaffee stared at the stranger. "What makes you so proud? Where'd you come from?"

"Who wants to know?" grunted the stranger, plainly contemptuous. He took a chew of tobacco and kicked a spray of dust through the window. "What business o' yores is it?"

"Like to know where your kind of trash grows," drawled Chaffee, holding down his wrath. "Seems to be a lot of it driftin' in. Your old man must sure be proud of you, providin' you ever had an old man."

The last phrase sank in. The stranger's malarial features took a red tint. "I've heard ki-otes howl before, Mister Chaffee. So I won't pay no heed to yore remarks."

"I wouldn't figger shoe polish tasted like much," went on Chaffee. "Never had an appetite for it myself."

"What's that mean?"

"You're a boot licker. Whose boots?"

The stranger whirled and tramped away, swearing fluently. "I'll see yore boots from the bottom soon enough! Git that? I'll see 'em swingin' in the breeze. That's what we're here for."

Chaffee roamed the cell restlessly. "He sort of let the feline out of the bag. Maybe Mark Eagle's right. That gent with the fever and ague map looks like a hired gun artist. Another mark of somebody's thoughtful plannin'. A whistle and a jerk—and a bunch of tough eggs come out of the woods on the lope. Planted there a long time and waitin'."

Noon arrived, and a tray from the restaurant, packed in by yet another stranger. Luis Locklear came along as an extra precaution and stood back while the tray went through the door.

"Who's all these flunkies you got, Luis?" Chaffee wanted to know.

The sheriff's red eyes slanted across Chaffee. "I ain't answerin' questions to-day. Eat that fodder or I'll take it back. No time to waste on you."

Chaffee put a cheerful face on the situation and tackled the food. "Luis, a kind word is like a lightnin' rod. It averts much trouble. You don't appreciate that right now, but you will when the weight of the star begins to sag heavy on your vest."

"You ain't scarin' me none whatsoever."

"All right," agreed Chaffee. "But just remember I warned you against playin' with fire. Small boys and damn' fools should never do it."

"Take his grub away," snapped Locklear. The helper obeyed, grinning at this petty punishment. The sheriff's caviling, ignorant face peered between the bars. "Chaffee, I wish I could use a rawhide on yore frame. It's a regret to me them days have passed. I mean it. They's no way to break a man's stubbornness or humble his pride like a whip or a screw. You're just downright poison to me. Allus have been, and I'd appreciate the satisfaction o' payin' off. But I will content myself with knowin' what I know. And that is ample."

They climbed the stairs and left Chaffee alone. Beyond the barred window the shadows marched farther into the strewn back area and out along the dessert. Above him was a ceaseless tramping of feet and a ceaseless murmur of talk. During the morning a guard had been posted beyond Chaffee's view. Now a pair of them, neither of whom Chaffee had ever seen before, stood in front of the window with shotguns. He could tell that the town's traffic grew heavier as the afternoon passed, for he could hear the echo of feet on the sidewalk and the passing of horses. Something of the rising nervous tension was likewise communicated to him in the abruptness of the talk that drifted down, and in the increasing watchfulness of the two guards. Around three or four the whole jail trembled to the furious passage of a cavalcade. One shot broke the air and boots pounded up the courthouse steps, crossing swiftly into Locklear's office. Chaffee heard the talk swell angrily. Three more guards came running toward the cell window, muttering some sort of news. The cavalacade whirled away. Another shot was fired.

Chaffee was in the process of rolling a cigarette. He threw it to the floor. "That's Stirrup S. They wouldn't let Mack come in. By Jupiter, have I got to pull this place apart?" Discouragement rode him. For a moment he felt like a rat cornered in a hole. "Maybe I made a mistake cornin' into town last night. But I don't think so. I left a mark on that bunch, and they're callin' my bet. If I'm forcin' an issue I guess that's better than hidin' out." What hurt him was to feel so absolutely helpless.

Mark Eagle made a quick trip toward the Stirrup S after leaving Chaffee. Halfway to the ranch he ran into Mack Moran leading twenty riders in the direction of the lava country, loaded down with ammunition. He gave them the news and swept away. Mack swore, setting in his spurs; and it was Mack's party Chaffee later heard thundering through Roaring Horse. It was Mack's impatient tread that sounded across the floor of the sheriff's office. Locklear, surrounded by six or seven full- jowled strangers, refused Mack entrance to the cell.