# Sheriff Jack Flood

Extracted from Cosmopolitan magazine, April 1924, pp. 65–68; 165–168, 170.
Sheriff Jack Flood
A Romance of a Cow-Puncher
By FREDERICK R. BECHDOLT
AFTER supper Sheriff Jack Flood rode over to the little red brick court-house which was the pride of Chiricahua. On the main street he encountered various of the young town's citizens—Bob Hatch, the owner of the Pony Saloon, a cowman or two, old Jim Burnet the justice of the peace, and the new Wells Fargo agent. They waved him salutation from the sidewalk as he passed; he barely nodded response and rode on looking straight before him, which was his fashion always; a block of a man, tight-lipped and narrow-eyed.
Before going to his own office he dropped in at the jail.
“If anything turns up,” he told the deputy in charge, “they can find me at Chandler's ranch. I'll be home by midnight.” When he had turned his back the man smiled broadly.
The Sheriff went on down the hallway to his office. He locked the door behind him and seated himself at his desk. From one of the drawers he took a parcel which had come to him in that day's mail. He undid the paper wrappings with clumsy care and sat there for some moments looking upon the blue plush box within. At length he released its little clasp of burnished metal and opened the lid, revealing two cut glass bottles of perfume. They lay side by side in nests of blue satin, and narrow silken ribbons were elaborately knotted about their stoppers. Jack Flood's face remained as heavy as ever as he gazed upon them, but when he had closed the cover he stroked the plush timidly with his big blunt fingers. Then he retied the package, fumbling over the knot, and placed it carefully in his coat pocket.
The sun was setting when he rode away from Chiricahua. By the time he had descended the hill to the mesquite flat, which stretched away to the foot of the Dragoon Mountains, the air was cooling. Long shadows were creeping across the plain; a mocking bird was singing in a palo-verde bush. Jack Flood rode on without shifting his body in the saddle, looking straight before him. The dusk crept upward along the flanks of the distant mountains. The mocking birds were awakening on both sides of the road, filling the soft air with their full-throated liquid melody. He did not change his expression; there was no sign on the Sheriff's face to show that he was thinking of gentler things than flaming guns and sudden death.
There was no sign. For habit grows strong with the years and Sheriff Jack Flood had been holding a stern face against bad men and Apaches for two decades in a land where he who faltered by the dropping of an eyelash was very likely to die. So, as he rode on toward the foothills of the ragged granite mountains, only the little beads of perspiration which were appearing on his brow betrayed the hope and fear which were fighting for mastery within that thick chest of his.
It was barely six months since the morning when he had stopped off at the low adobe ranch-house in the foothills to inquire about some stolen horses and to discover that Chandler's red-headed daughter Nell had suddenly burst into the blossom of womanhood. The thing had taken him completely by surprise; it had seemed only the other day when she was a lean girl riding bareback with her hair dangling in two thick braids. And he had recovered from his astonishment to find himself dazed by another revelation. He could not keep away from Chandler's ranch.
Heretofore he had been vaguely aware of such women as he had encountered in passing from one grim adventure to another; but during these hot years when love comes naturally to a man, he had been too busy—as shotgun messenger, Indian fighter and peace officer—at looking out for his own life and taking the lives of others, to indulge in romances.
Now that the country was beginning to settle down a little and a man could fare forth without the expectation of meeting marauders, red or white, at any turn; now that his life was drifting into milder channels, it was different. He was trying to make up for the lost time, trying to snatch some of the sweetness which he had passed by in other days. Twice every week and sometimes oftener he had been riding over to Chandler's in the evening, with his lips in a straight line and his eyes narrowed as if he were setting out for gun fighting instead of courting. The only difference was those little beads of moisture which always began to gather as he drew near his destination. Neither Apache nor bad man had been able to stir his pulses; it had taken a red-haired girl to bring the cold sweat to his brow.
Darkness had fallen; the stars were out and the mountains were a tall black wall before him when he rode up to the hitching rack by Chandler's corral. He dismounted, and after he had tied his horse he stood beside the animal for a moment. His hand went into his coat pocket and he felt the lump which the parcel made. It was the first present he had ever brought for her and only the high hopes which she had kindled by the manner of her smile and the softness of her speech on many an evening visit had made him dare to send for this. He patted the pocket and drew a long breath. Then he started toward the ranch-house.
There was a light within. As he drew nearer he noticed that the window from which the radiance came was wide open. He heard the sound of voices and there was something in that murmur, some note of resonance, which made him stop.
Outlined against the yellow light, enframed by the open window as if they were a picture hanging there on the house wall, he saw two heads in profile. The voices ceased. The faces remained immobile for a moment. It occurred to Jack Flood that he had never beheld this light in Nelly Chandler's eyes.
Then he became conscious of the eyes into which hers were looking—bold eyes; and of the big young face, burned by the sun, alive with recklessness. For the first time he realized that he had met Lon Hudson here more than once; it came to him with the sudden shock of a discovery. Somehow he had never given a thought to it before, or to the other young riders who had been loping across the foothills to tie their ponies at Chandler's hitching rack. It had seemed altogether natural, something that did not matter one way or the other.
And now, as he was standing there in a dull daze turning these matters over in his mind, the voices resumed.
“Sometimes”—it was the cowboy who was speaking—“I used to think it would be Jack Flood, Nelly.”
The Sheriff's face went hot. It seemed as if his limbs did not belong to him; they would not stir.
“Oh Lon!” she laughed and the notes floated out into the night, soft and full-throated as the song of the mocking birds. “Jack Flood is a fine old man. I like him, but——” She paused. The Sheriff's heart ceased beating for an instant.
The two heads were moving now, drawing closer to each other. He saw their lips meet. Habit is a strong thing. After some time he became conscious of the fact that his fingers were clasping the butt of his six-shooter. Then he shook himself together and stole out of earshot as silently as if he were a thief.
He untied his pony at the hitching rack and swung into the saddle. He rode away toward Chiricahua. The mocking birds were singing in the mesquite; the breeze came soft from the granite peaks, caressing his hot cheeks. He did not hear the birds nor feel the stirring air. But when he had gone nearly half-way he happened to drop his hand to his side and felt the lump of the package in his pocket. He drew it forth and threw it as far as he could.
Some days later a ragged Apache on his way back from a begging expedition to town found the bottles and drank their contents with great gusto.
Silver was booming that year; the grass was strong and three-year-old steers were bringing a good price. So the town of Chiricahua determined to celebrate the nation's birthday in a manner befitting a community where Apache raids and outlaws had become history and the new grammar school building was an established fact.
Heretofore the anniversary had been observed after the old fashion of the cow-towns, with a coroner's inquest or two as a sequel on the morning of the fifth; but popular sentiment willed that, on what the local weekly was pleased to term “this auspicious occasion,” firecrackers were to take the place of forty-five caliber revolvers and there should be exercises on the school grounds.
On the morning of the Fourth of July Sheriff Jack Flood was sitting at the edge of the sidewalk before the Crystal Palace Gambling House with old Jim Burnet, who had been justice of the peace ever since the days when the court had kept a double-barreled shotgun on his desk in order to enforce his rulings. Behind them arose the sound of many footfalls. Under the wooden awnings which stretched from the building fronts to the curb the populace of Chiricahua was gathering, along with visitors from the valleys of the San Pedro, the Sulphur Springs and the San Simon, to watch the parade which was to open the festivities.
From the wide open doors of the saloons drifted a babel of male voices and the odor of freshly drawn beer. Long strips of bunting fluttered in the dry breeze. Now and again a buckboard rattled by, or a light wagon, with a woman in white lawn and colored ribbons beside the driver. Groups of young horsemen came down the street with their tight jean breeches tucked into their boot-tops and their wide-rimmed hats aslant over their sun-burned faces. Jim Burnet eyed a quartet of these lithe riders who swept whooping by on the dead run; he stroked his long white beard.
“'Pears like the boys might get lively before night,” he said. “Be yo' going to keep an eye on things?”
Sheriff Jack Flood shook his head.
“Me,” he answered, “I aim to ride over to South Pass this afternoon. This town has got a marshal.”
“I saw Wes Adams down the street this mo'nin',” the other announced, “and he was saying how no town marshal was a-goin' to keep him from wearin' his six-shooter. Wes is a killer.”
The Sheriff uttered a contemptuous grunt.
“I was in the Pony Saloon the night when he was tellin' everybody how he aimed to shoot Lon Hudson on sight. I saw Lon walk up to him while he was talkin' an' take his gun away from him without laying a hand on his revolver.”
“It ain't Wes's style,” the Justice of the Peace replied placidly, “to face the music. I was playing monte in that El Paso gambling house the time he shot Bill Lang. He laid fer him outside an' sent a man into the place after him. When Lang came out he drilled him between the eyes from ambush.”
“Well, if that's the kind of a gun-fighter Wes Adams is,” Jack Flood commented, “I reckon the marshal can handle him all right. If he cain't he better quit his job before some of these cowboys gets filled up with whisky.”
“It wan't a nice killin',” old Jim Burnet acknowledged, “an' that's a fact.”
The rattle of a passing buckboard made both men look up.
“Mo'nin', Nelly,” the Justice of the Peace called. His hat came off with a wide flourish. “Howdy, Lon.”
Jack Flood raised his hat and muttered an inaudible greeting. His face had flushed darkly.
“Nelly,” the older man declared, “is shore lookin' bloomin'.” He glanced at his companion and, with the freedom which his years gave him: “Yo' co'ted her a spell yo'self, Jack.”
“Me,” the Sheriff growled, “I done lost out. Too old.”
“Well, she has got a young one there.” Jim Burnet stroked his beard. “An right lively. I reckon them cowboys will raise the devil with him fer a leader this evenin'.”
The Sheriff had pulled out his pocket-knife. He picked up a bit of shingle from the gutter and went to whittling.
“Lon's married now,” he said presently.
“Them kind,” the' Justice asserted with quiet conviction, “don't stand without hitchin' and even then they're liable to break loose.”
“Think so?” Jack Flood peeled off a thin shaving and regarded it with somber eyes.
“I've married off a few of 'em in my time before the preachers come along an' cut in on the business.” Old Jim nodded emphatically. “They're all alike. After Lon gits older he may stiddy down, but not on this Fo'th when the whisky is goin' round. No, sir. He ain't even halter-broke yet. I bet them punchers makes the marshal wisht somebody else had his job tonight.”
Sheriff Jack Flood dropped his fragment of shingle into the gutter. He snapped the jack-knife shut and thrust it back into his pocket. His eyes were narrow and there was a cold gleam in them. “I reckon I'll stay in town and keep an eye on things.”
“That was ol' Jack Flood,” Lon Hudson told his wife. “Ain't laid eyes on him for the last three months.”
“I saw him,” she answered, “and I am good and mad at him. He didn't show up at our wedding.”
He laughed light-heartedly and stole a brief glance at her. The breeze had stirred her hair into a glorious disorder and the color was mounting to her cheeks; her eyes were bright with the joy of their first holiday together.
“Yo' shore are lookin' pretty this mo'nin', honey,” he cried and shook the reins from sheer exuberance. The half broken bronchos sprang forward. He pulled them down and her eyes grew softer as she watched him holding the taut reins in one strong hand, with his wide-rimmed hat aslant and his big sun-browned face aglow beneath it.
Now while they sped down the main street he picked out old acquaintances from the sidewalk crowd and waved his free hand in greeting.
“Howdy there, Bob. Hulloa, Owl Head. Mo'nin', Jack. Soldier, I'll see yo' later.”
“Reckon the boys is all here,” he told her when he had brought the ponies to a reluctant stop in front of the Continental Hotel. “All right. Jump out, sis. I'll drive over to the livery stable an' put the team up.”
“Come straight back,” she called from the sidewalk. “The parade is going to start soon.”
“Be with yo' in two shakes,” he promised over his shoulder and was off to the tune of scuffling hoofs and rattling wheels.
Nelly found a chair in the dingy little parlor which opened from the office of the hotel and took her place among half a dozen other women who were biding the coming of their lords. The two shakes stretched into a long half-hour. But she was not noticing the time. She had forgotten her parting admonition; her thoughts were of the happiness which she was tasting.
She knew her bridegroom's reckless spirit. More than one wild incident in his life before their marriage had been revealed to her. But these things only made her proud of her dominion over him. She was serene in her confidence in that mastery; in the knowledge that she could do what no one else could with him. Gradually her thoughts strayed to other suitors; there had been a goodly number of young horsemen riding over to Chandler's ranch in those days. Their faces passed in review before her; she saw Jack Flood's heavy features. And then the picture came to her of the Sheriff sitting there on the sidewalk's edge this morning looking at her with narrowed eyes. She remembered that he had suddenly ceased coming to the ranch~house; and she was wondering how he had learned the hopelessness of his suit, whether he had really taken it so hard as things seemed to indicate. Others had lost and come to dance at her wedding. He had not even the grace to wish her well.
She found herself looking up into her husband's eyes.
“I done met up with some of the boys,” he announced, “and we had a beer or two together. I didn't reckon I would be so long.”
She laughed. “You didn't think I was going to hold you away from the boys, did you?”
He smiled down upon her. He understood that pride of hers and gloried in it. Sometimes a newly broken colt shows the same feeling towards its master, but if the rider be wise he knows, for all that, that he will do well to hold a tight rein in mounting on a frosty morning.
“All right, honey,” said he. “We'll go an' register.”
He wrote their names with an awkward flourish, “Lon Hudson and wife,” and smiled broadly at the clerk. “Be here for dinner an' supper,” he said and unbuckled his belt. He handed the big six-shooter over the counter. “Take care of this.” As they were leaving, “They say Jack Flood's give it out that he is going to help keep the town quiet,” he informed her. “I reckon they mean business. No gun toting. That is the rule.”
She made no answer; in spite of that security of hers she felt relieved to know that he was without his weapon. The band was playing; they took their places on the crowded sidewalk to watch the passing of the parade.
Chiricahua, to use the expression of more than one sunburned young visitor, had spread herself. For nearly half an hour the main street resounded with the strains of march music, and after the procession had dispersed the crowd got an additional thrill from a couple of lively runaways. Firecrackers popped and babies lamented loudly. In the afternoon the populace packed the school grounds and stoically stood while a chorus of children in white sang patriotic songs. They sweltered in the fervid sunshine during the ensuing hour of oratory and manfully stuck it out through the band concert which closed the program. During all that day, while other young matrons wandered aimlessly among the audience looking for their vanished husbands, Nelly had her bridegroom close beside her.
Now and again some sunburned ex-suitor came up and greeted her. Before the afternoon was over she had smiled upon them all—save one. Jack Flood had not approached her.
Late in the afternoon when the cavalry band had put up their instruments and were departing for the post, Lon took her back to the hotel. She saw the eagerness in his big young face and, knowing what was in his mind, she spoke.
“You go and see the boys now, dear.”
“I'll be back before supper time,” he assured her and was off at once. Then, as she sat down in the musty little hotel parlor, she found herself for the first time that day without him, alone among her own sex.
Four or five fat babies were sleeping on improvised beds or on their mothers' laps; now and again an older youngster tugged at some tired woman's skirts and loudly voiced his desire to go home at once. Nelly talked with neighbors whom she had not seen for months, getting the tidings of expected additions to families and such other news of a domestic character as was going around.
The time went by. First one and then another of those about her was called away by a returning husband to depart for home; until there remained of the original group only a dismal half-dozen whose care-lined faces betrayed the fact that this was by no means the only time they had suffered the anxiety of wondering what had become of their truant menfolk. There was no talking now; Nelly sat off to one side alone; her lips were tight. The pride which had been hers during the day began to ooze away and in its place there was coming a sinking of the heart which she had never experienced before.
The supper hour passed. She rose from her chair and went out to the office desk. It was with a feeling of relief that she looked upon her bridegroom's pistol in the key box. As she was returning to the parlor she overheard two men talking in the barroom doorway.
“Yes, sir,” one was saying, “Jack Flood is helping to keep them cowboys straight. They've arrested five or six of 'em already.”
She went on into the other room and sat down wearily. There had come to her, in one of those flashes of intuition which are sometimes wrong but are so often right, the vision of the Sheriff's narrow eyes as she had seen them regarding her from the sidewalk when she and Lon drove by; and with the picture a suspicion which left her cold. Could Jack Flood have arrested him?
If Jack Flood intended helping the marshal enforce the ordinances that evening he showed no sign of it at supper time. While the young town's harassed peace officer was being kept busy down the street, the Sheriff was sitting in a small side room off the Pony Saloon engrossed in draw poker. Old Judge Jim Burnet drifted in through the front door and took his place behind his friend's chair.
“Aces on fives,” Jack Flood was saying. He gathered in the chips and turned his head. “What's doing?”
“Well”—the Justice of the Peace fondled his extensive beard—”Wes Adams has jest shot up the dance hall.”
“I heard him,” the Sheriff answered placidly. “My deal.” He picked up the deck and shuffled it.
“The marshal,” said Jim Burnet, “done asked me to tell yo' ef I run acrost yo' that he was up against it. Some of them cowboys is raising the devil.”
The other merely grunted. When he had dealt the cards around: “Stick here awhile.” He jerked his head in the direction of the crowded barroom.
Six cowboys were standing at the lower end of the mahogany counter. As the Justice of the Peace glanced at them one of the group threw back his head and uttered a long shrill yell. Jack Flood was regarding his new hand, apparently oblivious to the disturbance.
“Bob West, Owl Head Johnson, Jack Welch, Soldier Jones,” old Jim named them off to himself, “Bud Roberts an' Lon Hudson. They're tunin' up,” he mused, “but Lon is peaceable. I reckon mebbe he has stiddied down.”
The staccato pop-popping of a big-caliber revolver came from the lower end of the street.
“I'm drawin' two,” Jack Flood announced and laid the cards before him. The betting went around.
“I'm a he-wolf from Bitter Crick,” a loud voice proclaimed. It was Bob West. “This is my night to howl.” He did so at great length and with ear-splitting resonance. Soldier Jones and Owl Head Johnson joined in. Jack Welch swept a dozen whisky glasses from the counter where the bartender had gathered them for cleaning. The fragments went across the floor.
“Me,” the Sheriff drawled, “I open fer five pesos.” He pushed the chips into the center of the table. “Cards?”
The game went on sedately. The noises in the long barroom were growing. Now and again there came the crash of more broken glassware. Jack Welch was hammering the bar with the butt of his six-shooter. The Justice of the Peace stroked his beard and eyed the Sheriff narrowly. The latter had glanced up but if the sight of the weapon reminded him of the ordinances which were being broken he did not betray the fact.
“Now,” old Jim asked himself, “I wonder what he is up to?”
Half an hour later the six cowboys started toward the front door. Jack Flood laid down his hand.
“Got business outside,” he told the other players. The Justice followed him. As they reached the sidewalk Lon Hudson allowed the exuberance of his feelings to master him for the first time that evening. His head went back and he lifted his voice in the long yell. Then the indifference which had lain upon the Sheriff vanished. He stepped forward briskly.
“Yo' there, Lon.” His voice was heavy with authority. “Dry up. This noise don't go tonight.”
The cowboy wheeled around. Amazement was written on his face. “Mean me?”
Jack Flood gazed at him with somber eyes. “I do.”
The smart of the injustice made the bridegroom's face flame. He stood there for a moment regarding his one-time rival steadily. Then he thrust his head forward until his lips were close to the other's ear.
“I dunno,” he hissed, “what yo' are drivin' at, a-pickin' on me that-a-way. But anyhow, here goes.” The street resounded with a second yell.
““Yo'll have to come along with me.” There was satisfaction in the Sheriff's eyes.
The cowboy laughed unpleasantly. He took a step back and leaned against the heavy iron bars which protected the saloon's window. He wrapped both arms about one of the metal strips.
“Jes' try an' take me,” he drawled.
Old Jim Burnet stood a pace or two away from the group stroking his white beard as he took in the details—the two antagonists facing each other, the grinning cowboys watching them. It struck him that Lon Hudson had decidedly the best of the situation; it would have taken one far larger than himself to tear him from his hold, and there did not appear to be a pound's weight difference between the pair. For a moment Jack Flood seemed nonplused. To draw his gun on an unarmed man would never do. The moment passed. The Sheriff's lips twisted into a sour smile.
“Jedge,” he said quietly, “come here. I want yo' to tell these boys the law. If I app'int a citizen as deputy and he refuses to help me make an arrest, what is the penalty?”
Old Jim stepped forward and confronted the bewildered cowboys. What lay behind this affair he did not know. Had he been capable of questioning a friend's motives he might have made a guess, but he belonged to a breed to whom such suspicions are impossible.
“Acco'din to the statutes of the territory of Arizona”—his voice was coldly judicial—“the co't has the right to fine a man five hundred dollars fer that. I know yo' punchers, all of yo', an' the outfits you are workin' fer. If one of yo' is brought before me on sech a charge I'll see he loses his hull season's wages.”
They gazed at him in open-mouthed silence. Then there came a murmur from all five of them.
“Five hundred dollars!” one was saying. “Oh thunder!”
“Five hundred dollars,” another whispered and shook his head.
Owl Head Johnson was looking pleadingly t the rebel. “Say, Lon,” he muttered, “why don't yo' go along peaceable?”
“Yes, Lon,” Jack Welch chimed in, “yo' go along.”
“We'll raise the bail fer yo',” Soldier Jones promised soothingly.
Lon's face was flaming no longer. It was white with rage.
“Jack Flood,” he said, “I know what yo' are up to. Yo've got me foul. But I am tellin' yo——”
“Do yo' aim to come now or shall I make them fetch yo'?” the Sheriff interrupted coldly.
Lon's arms came free from the bar. “I'm comin' with yo',” he announced between his teeth, “but us two will settle this some day.”
“Jedge,” said Jack Flood, “tell 'em I'll be back to play my hand within ten minutes.”
True to his promise he was back within the appointed time.
“Them cowboys,” old Jim Burnet told him when he had resumed his chair, “wants to know the charge. They have got bail for Lon.”
“Ain't no charge.” The Sheriff picked up the hand which had been dealt him.
Owl Head Johnson, Bob West and Jack Welch were standing in their old place at the end of the bar but their mirth was gone; they were as solemn as the sextette at a poker game. Presently they left the counter and came silently to the alcove.
“Sheriff,” Owl Head Johnson asked, “what's the chances? Lon's wife is waitin' fer him at the hotel.”
“Ain't no chances.” Jack Flood's face was heavy with grim satisfaction as he made the answer. “Me, I will take one card.”
They stood there in the arched doorway which opened into the main room regarding him with puzzled expressions, but he paid no heed to them. Only his eyes betrayed the fact that he was thinking of other things than draw poker. Old Jim noticed how they would wander from the table whenever a man entered the saloon; sometimes it was a bare sidelong glance and occasionally he watched the new-comer until the latter had ordered a drink or taken his place among one of the noisy groups upon the floor.
The game went on. The cowboys drifted back to resume their drinking. They were talking among themselves in undertones.
“If it was anybody else——” Owl Head Johnson was saying, but Bob West interrupted him.
“Yo' know as well as I do how keen Jack Flood was after Nelly Chandler.”
“I call him a mighty pore loser,” Jack Welch muttered.
The swinging doors opened to admit one of those worthless derelicts who were to be found in every cow town, cadging drinks or begging chips from lucky gamblers. He looked about the room as if in search of someone, then started toward the group of punchers. Sheriff Jack Flood laid down his cards.
“Play my hand, Jim,” he bade the Justice of the Peace, and left the table. He overtook the man and touched him on the shoulder.
“Lookin' fer somebody?” he asked.
“Lon Hudson,” the other answered. “I got a message fer him.”
“I'll take it.” The Sheriff's voice was crisp. The messenger hesitated.
“I was told——” he was beginning, but the look in Jack Flood's face made him pause. He gulped and went on more briskly: “His wife wants to see him. She's waitin' around the corner near the alley.”
Jack Flood turned toward the front door. But before he left the room he took off his coat and laid it over a chair. To Jim Burnet who was watching him it occurred that he made a good figure for one of his years; save for the grayness of the mustache and the lines on the face he would have passed as one of those young cowboys at the end of the bar.
When he reached the sidewalk his tread became more catlike. He was leaning forward from his hips, and here, in the light of the main street, his face showed grim; his eyes were two slits. He glided around the corner and the shadows swallowed him.
He was keeping close to the building wall. In this side thoroughfare the blue southwestern night enveloped all objects. It hid the ugly look of his eyes; it hung as a mask before his face. He went straight on, hurrying through the gloom as one who comes all eager for the meeting.
He was nearing the alleyway when something stirred behind the corner of the building. He caught the sound and sank swiftly into a crouch. And by that sudden movement, while his hand was darting to the butt of his revolver, he saved his life. The bullet that had been meant for the middle of his forehead swept his hat from his head. While the dull heavy report of the forty-five was still resounding his own six-shooter spat a ruddy streak into the darkness and the would-be murderer pitched forward from the spot which he had chosen for his ambush. He fell face down upon the hard earth. It was Wes Adams.
When Sheriff Jack Flood had made quite certain of this fact he confronted the three cowboys who were in the van of the gathering crowd.
“Yo' boys,” he bade them quietly, “go tell the jailer that I said he can turn Lon Hudson loose now.”
It was not in his plans to meet the bridegroom again that evening, but while he was on his way home he heard the rattle of wheels behind him. A buckboard drew up along the curb.
“Oh Jack!” He recognized Lon Hudson's voice and he turned to face the cowboy and his wife.
“Evenin', Nelly,” he said and felt the hot blood mounting to his cheeks.
Her eyes were shining with a light which he could not fail to understand; she leaned forward from the seat with outstretched hand. He took it awkwardly and dropped it almost at once.
“I want to tell yo'——” Lon was saying; but the habit of the long grim years which had made Sheriff Jack Flood unfit for wooing women, the same habit which had made him carry out this business as he had been doing ever since he had seen the possibilities of what might happen, had its way. His hat was still in his hand. He thrust it toward the eager bridegroom, displaying the hole in the crown as he interrupted.
“Look here, young feller,” he growled, “next time yo' come to town jest remember yo' owe me a new hat.”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1950, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 73 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse