Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher Part 22

"If he's 'lected sheriff, it's goin' t' be risky business gittin'

in to a' argyment with anybody," I says. "He'd just _like_ t' git one of us jugged. Say, what's goin' to be did fer Hank?"

"Wal," answers Hairoil, mouth screwed up anxious, "we're in a right serious fix. So they's to be a sorta convention this afternoon, and we're a-goin' t' cut out whisky whilst the session lasts."

"I'll come. _Walker_ fer sheriff! _Huh!_"

"Good fer you! So long."

"So long."

We made fer the council-tent at three o'clock--the bunch of us. The deepot waitin'-room was choosed, that bein', as the boys put it, "the most _re_spectable public place in town that wouldn't want rent."

Wal, we worked our jaws a lot, goin' over the sittywaytion from start to finish. "Gents let's hear what you-all got to say," begun Chub Flannagan, standin' up. Doc Trowbridge was next. "_I ad_vise you to rope Shackleton," he says, "and lemme give him some hoss liniment t'

put him on his laigs." (We was agreed that the hull business depended on the _Eye-Opener_.) But the rest of us didn't favour Billy's plan.

So we ended by pickin' a 'lection committee. No dues, no by-laws, no chairman. But ev'ry blamed one of us a sergeant-at-arms with orders t'

keep Hank Shackleton _outen the saloons_. 'Cause why? If he could buck up, and _stay_ straight, and go t' gittin' out the _Eye-Opener,_ Bergin 'd sh.o.r.e win out.

"Gents," says Monkey Mike, "soon as ever Briggs hears of our committee, we're a-goin' t' git pop'lar with the nice people, 'cause we're tryin' t' help Hank. And we're also goin' t' git a black eye with the licker men account of shuttin' off the Shackleton trade.

A-course, us punchers must try t' make it up t' the thirst-parlours fer the loss, though I _ad_mit it 'll not be a' easy proposition.

But things is _desp_'rate. If Walker gits in, we'll have a nasty deputy-sheriff sent up here t' cross us ev'ry time we make a move. We got t' _work,_ gents. You know how _I_ feel. By thunder! Bergin treated me square all right over that Andrews fuss." (Y' see, Mike's a grateful little devil, if he _does_ ride like a fool Englishman.)

"Wal," says Buckshot Milliken, "who'll be the first sergeant? I call fer a volunteer."

All the fellers just kept quiet--but they looked at each other, worried like.

"Don't all speak to oncet," says Buckshot.

I got up. "_I'_m willin' t' try my hand," I says.

"_Thank_ y', Cupid." It was Buckshot, earnest as the d.i.c.kens.

"But--but we hope you're goin' to go slow with Hank. Don't do nothin' foolish."

"What in thunder 's got _into_ you fellers?" I ast, lookin' at 'em.

"Is Hank got the hydrophoby?"

"You ain't saw him since he begun t' drink, I reckon," says Chub.

"No."

"_Wal,_ then."

By this time, I was so all-fired et up with curiosity t' git a look at Hank that I couldn't stand it no more. So I got a move on.

Hank is a turrible tall feller, and thin as a ramrod. He's got hair you could flag a train with, and a face as speckled as a turkey aig. And when I come on to him that day, here he was, stretched out on the floor of Dutchy's back room, mouth wide open, and snorin' like a rip-saw.

I give his shoulder a jerk. "Here, Hank," I says, "wake up and pay fer you' keep. What's got into you, anyhow. My goodness me!"

He opened his eyes--slow. Next, he sit up, and fixed a' awful ugly look on me. "Wa-a-al?" he says.

"My friend," I begun, "Briggs City likes you, and in the present case it's a-tryin' t' make 'lowances, and not chalk nothin' agin y', but----"

"Blankety blank Briggs City!" growls Hank. "Ish had me shober and ish had me drunk, and neither way don't shoot."

"Now, ole man, I reckon you're wrong," I says. "But never mind, anyhow. Just try t' realise that they 's a 'lection comin', and that you got t' help."

"Walkersh a friend of mine," says Hank, and laid down again.

Wal, I didn't want t' be there all day. I wanted t' have _some_ time to myself, y' savvy, so 's I could keep track of Mace. So I grabbed him again.

This whack, he got up, straddlin' his feet out like a mad tarantula, and kinda clawin' the air. They wasn't no gun visible on him, but he was loaded, all right. Had a revolver stuck under his belt in front, so 's the bottom of his vest hid it.

I jerked it out and kicked it clean acrosst the floor. Then I drug him out and started fer the bunk-house with him. _Gos.h.!.+_ it was a job!

Wal, the pore cuss didn't git another swalla of forty-rod that day; and by the next mornin' he was calm and had a' appet.i.te. So three of us sergeant-at-arms happened over to see him. Bill Rawson was there a'ready, keepin' him comp'ny. And first thing y' know, I was handin'

that editor of ourn great big slathers of straight talk.

"_I_ know what you done fer me, Cupid," says Hank. "And I'm grateful,--yas, I am. But let me tell you that when I git started drinkin', I cain't _stop_--never do till I'm just wored out 'r stone broke. And I git mean, and on the fight, and don't know what I'm doin'. But," he _con_-tinues (his face was as long as you'

arm), "if you-all 'll fergive me, and let this spree pa.s.s, why, I'll go back t' takin' water at the railroad tank with the Sante Fee ingines."

"Hank," I says, "you needn't t' say nothin' further. But pack no more loads, m' son, pack no more loads. And _try_ t' git out another _EyeOpener_. Not only is this sheriff matter pressin', but the lit'rary standin' of Briggs City is at stake."

"That's dead right," he says. "And I'll git up a' issue of the _Opener_ p.r.o.nto--only you boys 'll have t' help me out some on the news part. I don't recollect much that's been happenin' lately."

Wal, things looked cheerfuller. So, 'fore long, I was back at the deepot, settin' on a truck and watchin' the eatin'-house windas, and the boys--Bergin and all--was lined up 'longside Dutchy's bar, celebratin'.

But our work was a long, l-o-n-g way from bein' done. Hank kept sober just five hours. Then he got loose from Hairoil and made fer a thirst-parlour. And when Hairoil found him again, he was fuller'n a tick.

"I'm blue as all git out about what's happened," says Hairoil. "But I couldn't help it; it was just rotten luck. And I hear that when the _Tarantula_ come out yesterday it had a hull column about that Walker, callin' him a brave ex-soldier and the next sheriff of Woodward County."

"And just ten days 'fore 'lection!" chips in Bill Rawson. "Cupid, it's root hawg 'r die!"

"That's what it is," I says. "Wal, I'll go git after Hank again."

He was in Dutchy's, same as afore. But not so loaded, this time, and a blamed sight uglier. Minute he _seen_ me, his back was up! "Here, you snide puncher," he begun, "you tryin' to arrest _me?_ Wal, blankety blank blank," (fill it in the worst you can think of--he was beefin'

somethin' _awful_) "I'll have you know that I ain't never 'lowed _no_ man t' put the bracelets on me." And his hand went down and begun feelin' fer the b.u.t.t of a gun.

"Look oudt!" whispers Dutchy. "You vill git shooted!"

But I only just walked over and put a' arm 'round Hank. "Now, come on home," I says, like I meant it. "'Cause y' know, day after t'-morra another _Eye-Opener_ has _got_ to rise t' the top. Hank, think of Bergin!"

He turned on me then, and give me such a push in the chest that I sit down on the floor--right suddent, too. Wal, that rubbed me the wrong way.

And the next thing _he_ knowed, I had him by the back of the collar, and was a-draggin' him out.

I was plumb wored out by the time I got him home, and so Chub, he stayed t' watch. I went back to the deepot. And I was still a-settin' there, feelin' lonesome, and kinda put out, too, when here come Buckshot Milliken towards me.

"I think Hank oughta be 'shamed of hisself," he says, "fer the way he talks about you. Course, we know why he does it, and that it ain't true----"

"What's he got t' say about me?" I ast, huffy.

"He said you was a ornery hoodlum," answers Buckshot, "and a loafer, and that he's a-goin' t' roast you in his paper. He'd put Oklahomaw on to _you,_ he said."