CHAPTER XXI

A FIGHT IN THE DARK

As Lafe was coming from dinner at the Fashion annex next noon, a Mexican handed him a letter. It was undated and without beginning.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "As Lafe was coming from dinner ... a Mexican handed him a letter."]

Steve's sore. Look out for him.

ANNIE.

The sheriff had received so many warnings in his time that he had grown callous and seldom attached any significance to them, but he knew that Dutch Annie was not given to foolish alarm. So he tore her note into minute particles and saw to the oiling of his six-shooter. That was the only preparation against trouble that Johnson was wont to make.

The sheriff's two-roomed frame shack was somewhat removed from its neighbors. It was a full half mile from the Widow's house, where Hetty lodged. His housekeeping had a fine touch of simplicity. If all things were favorable, and he had nothing else to do, Lafe would make the bed once in a while. To do him justice, he had been known to sweep the place, also. That was not a particularly arduous task, because the furniture consisted of the bed aforesaid, one chair, one table with three legs, which stood propped against the wall, and a packing case for a washstand.

About seven o'clock that evening he led a spare horse to the Widow's house and took Hetty for a ride. They talked of the future--soberly, almost as a staid married couple. She never indulged in coquetry, and their courtship had not been of the kind to make jealousy of others expedient or a desirable weapon for her use. After she had dismounted at the gate:

"I wish you weren't going. I'm sort of nervous to-night."

The sheriff smiled down at her. "I reckon you'd best get a gla.s.s case to keep me in, hon."

"I know it's silly--but you'll be awful careful, won't you, Lafe?"

"Sure," he said. "There ain't a native in ten counties that likes getting hurt less'n I do."

He put the horses up and repaired to the Fashion, for he had it in mind to ascertain the latest gossip of Moffatt. It was not to be supposed that a man of the outlaw's temper would take the expulsion of Picnic Kate from Badger in a spirit of decorous humility.

The proprietor had it on excellent authority that Steve was far down on the Baccanochi range, endeavoring to cheat the natives out of a herd of stock cattle. The sheriff stood at the bar and conversed for a s.p.a.ce.

"You got a new gun, Lafe?" asked the Fashion man, pointing to his belt.

"No-oo. Just been cleaning this up some."

The other held out a languid hand and Johnson pa.s.sed him the gun. It was a workmanlike .45 Colt, single action, and the hammer rested on an empty chamber for safety. The Fashion proprietor turned it over with the ease and appreciation of an expert. He pulled back the hammer and twirled the chambers.

"She's a beaut," said he.

"Yes, that's a right good gun," Lafe agreed. He received it back carelessly, and slipped it into the holster. They chatted indifferently for a moment, and Lafe drank a nightcap and started home.

The night was thick and sticky. Back of the mountains thunder was muttering. The air clung about him like a soft blanket. Some bull-bats wheeled above his head. Lafe glanced at the dirty sky and wondered whether those hurrying wracks of clouds would shed rain. They had a pitiless habit of holding out hope, only to blow over, leaving the country gasping.

His door was shut. It struck him as odd, because he never locked his house, having nothing of value to safeguard. Inside, it was so black that the darkness seemed to rise up and buffet him in the face. He crossed the empty outer room and felt his way to the table against the far wall. On it stood always an empty bottle, a candle crammed into the neck. This was the sheriff's light system.

His hands groped over the rough surface, but he could not find the candle, nor the matches usually piled close beside. He fumbled in his pocket--nothing there but some keys and loose silver.

"Pshaw!" he muttered. "Well, it don't matter. I can undress in the dark."

He moved towards the bed. Then he halted and his stomach muscles contracted. Slowly his head turned to see what was behind. There was somebody in the room. He stared until his eyes smarted, but could see nothing. He listened, but could catch no sound. Yet, somewhere close to him, a living thing moved; he was positive of that. n.o.body had ever questioned Johnson's courage, but now he experienced a peculiar gripping of the throat and a pringling over all his skin.

"Who's there?" he asked, and waited.

"Who's there, I say?"

Surely there was a faint stirring in the corner, the merest pinpoint of a sound. The sheriff whipped out his gun. He could descry nothing, but pointing his forefinger along the barrel to where he thought an object crouched, he thumbed the hammer. It fell with a click on an empty chamber. Before he could pull again, a body hurled itself through the dark on Johnson.

Instantly he grappled it. A knife thrust was the danger now, and he locked his arms about his a.s.sailant and heaved sideways, driving his hip against the opposing hip to give momentum to the throw. The other lost his feet and Lafe swung with all his weight, but they crashed against the wall, which brought them upstanding. While one could count ten, the two stood breast to breast, panting.

The sheriff suddenly brought his right knee upward with force, desirous of driving it into his opponent's stomach, but the blow was caught on the thigh, and again they went lurching about the room, gasping for breath, but voiceless. As he strove to pin the jerking arms, Johnson's mind ran automatically on the empty chamber. How had the hammer happened on that? Sure--the Fashion man had done it.

The discovery gave him new strength. In swift rage he tried for a lower hold, feeling his enemy weaken. The momentary release of his grip was enough. The other wrenched one arm free and swung it. Lafe was dimly conscious of a crash and the tinkle of broken gla.s.s. He felt no pain. It seemed to him that trains were rushing by at high speed, and he was beset with the idea that he had something to do that he was powerless to perform. He crumpled up and slid to the floor, his fingers scratching the boards for the handle of his six-shooter, but all the strength seemed gone from them. And now, mingling with the roar of the train and the harsh screaming of brakes, was the rattle of a horse's hoofs. The sheriff stretched out on his back and sighed.

The patter of rain on the roof was the first sound that aroused Johnson.

a.s.suredly the house leaked, for there were warm drops falling on his face, too. Next, he heard somebody strike a match, and he began to speculate in a sort of languid wonder as to what a woman was doing there and what made her cry. Then a shooting pain above the right ear wrung an exclamation from him and he tried to sit up.

"Don't. Don't. You must lie still."

"Hetty," he said.

She knelt beside him and held a wet handkerchief to the wound.

"You're hurt bad, Lafe. Don't talk," she whispered.

"Steve Moffatt--"

"Yes, I know, dear. Lie still."

Splinters of a bottle strewed the floor around him. So Moffatt had got away. The sheriff looked weakly at Hetty.

"How did you get here?"

"Hush. You mustn't talk. Keep still and I'll go for Dr. Armstrong."

"How--?"

"I heard you calling me," she said.

"Calling you?" the sheriff repeated. "Why, hon, I never said a word."

CHAPTER XXII

CAPTURE OF MOFFATT, THE GUNMAN

For more than a month, the sheriff lay sick. Armstrong feared concussion of the brain, but his diagnosis proved incorrect. And Hetty nursed him as never a man was nursed before, in that country of rough methods.