Adventure/Kingbird

by Hugh Pendexter

Kingbird

By HUGH PENDEXTER

Once They Had Played at Sheriff and Badman

David Geen in the tall grass by the creek watched the dot down the Indian Nation trail develop into a small man on an unusually large roan horse. The rider, on discovering Geen's horse picketed up the creek, reined the roan down to a walk. He did not locate Geen in the thick grass until he had approached within easy pistol-shot. Geen sprang to his feet and quickly gained the trail and stood with his hands on his hips, close to his two guns. He scrutinized the horseman closely. The latter approached at a walk. The thinness of his face was accentuated by the big hat. An attempt at a beard had not advanced beyond a yellow, scrubby fuzz which was insufficient to conceal the receding chin. Geen, as he stared at him, was trying to remember something.

The stranger halted and cheerily called out—

“Be I aiming right to hit Medicine Lodge?”

“Off your course some miles,” mechanically replied Geen, as his memory almost recalled an elusive something. “Medicine Lodge is northeast of here. This crick runs into the Salt— Wait a second— Good land and hallelujah! That's who you are! Charlie Pottle from Ryansville back in Iowy! Little Charlie Pottle, or I'm seven liars! Off that hoss, you runt, and shake hands!”

The small, inquisitive eyes darted up and down the tall figure. The lips parted in the beginning of a pleased smile, then straightened as the heavily bearded face remained that of a stranger. He slipped from his horse and in a shrill, chirrupy voice admitted:

“You're dead right, mister, I'm Charlie Pottle of Ryansville. But darned if I can place you.”

With a deep laugh Geen advanced with both hands outstretched.

“Look sharp, you little rat,” he commanded. “Mean to say you don't know me, even with these whiskers on?”

Pottle puckered his brows, then yelped with delight and seized Geen's hands and pumped them up and down.

“Dave Geen, you big ox! Well, of all things! Them whiskers plumb fooled me. And meeting up like this down on the edge of the Injun Nation!”

“And seeing you coming up from the Nation!” broke in Geen. “It's the beatenist thing I ever herd tell.”

“And the last time I saw you was the day the teacher licked me and you chipped in so's I could scoot through the winder— What? What?” He dropped Geen's hands and stared at the small badge pinned on the flannel shirt.

“The badge? Yes, sirree. I'm the sheriff,” acknowledged Geen.

Pottle had to shake hands again; and cried admiringly:

“Doggone! Might 'a' known you'd go and do it sometime, somewhere. You always played you was the sheriff in our games. Prob'ly because you was the biggest lummox in the village. Always the sheriff, busy hounding desp'rate outlaws. And here you be, with a truly-goodness badge on!”

“Squat down here and talk!” roared Geen, his big hand fondly patting Pottle's shoulder, “I'll picket your nag.”

“Hoss won't wander any. You've made quite a waller on the grass already.” And Pottle threw himself down on his back and clasped his hands back of his head and urged, “Now tell me things.”

Geen dropped beside him, and demanded:

“Where'd you go when you pulled out of Ryansville? You quit town first. You talk first. Where you been? What you been doing these dozen years? I can't get over meeting you here! And won't Annie be surprized!”

Pottle stared round-eyed at his boyhood playmate, and mumbled:

“Dave Geen, sheriff. Wearing a badge like all git-out. Packing two guns, just as he used to pack wooden ones.” Then he ruffled his scant thatch of yellow hair and said more soberly, “Annie? Annie Bent, of course.”

Geen grinned and corrected:

“Annie Geen. Married me and come out here and has stuck like a Trojan through some mighty slim pickings.”

Pottle came to a sitting posture and plucked idly at the grass and murmured:

“Of course. You two was made for one t'other. She knew you'd make good. Big feller like you can't help making good. No one can shove you around. If I'd had your beef, the teacher wouldn't tried to lick me that day, and I'd prob'ly stuck to Ryansville. Well, well, you've certainly had the luck, Dave, to git a girl like Annie Bent.”

He fell silent. Geen filled his pipe, then stuffed it back in his shirt pocket and mumbled:

“Charlie, I'm not always a hero. I'm a big jump from it just now. I'd never say as much to any living soul but you.”

“Bosh!” Then apprehensively, “But you've treated Annie all right, ain't you?”

“Good land! As if any one would ever want to treat Annie bad. Nothing like that, Charlie. Let me tell you. We come out here to Kansas in '81. Come to Caldwell. Wildest town on the border. You had to have guts to live there—with the prettiest woman in Kansas for your wife. We was poor as Job's turkey, but I worked and worked and got ahead a bit. I found no one wanted to shove me around if I held my head up and my chin out. I was deputy under Mike Meagher.”

“Served under Meagher! Why, I heard tell about him down in the Nation. He killed a feller named Powell and then was killed by Powell's cousin, Jim Talbot. But go on. Now you're a sheriff as big as Billy-be— Tell the rest.”

“I ain't trying to tell all I've done out here, Charlie. I'm working up to confessing something. We moved to Medicine Lodge, and two years ago I was made sheriff. Still keeping my head up and chin out.”

“Of course you'd be sheriff. You always was that in all our games. I was always the desp'rate cuss who got caught.”

“Shut up. I'm trying to confess something. And it ain't easy to do. Three months ago we got word Annie's old bachelor uncle had died—”

“Old Sawdust!” interrupted Pottle. “Always reckoned he'd live forever to save the cost of a burying. Old Sawdust cashed in. Well, who cares? He never had a smile for any one.”

Geen frowned slightly and explained:

“He left all his property to Annie. She's a rich woman. We're going back to Iowy and I'm going to manage her property.”

He paused and fumbled for his pipe, but did not take it from the pocket.

“I can't see no shame in that. Only decent thing Old Sawdust ever done,” mused Pottle. “Of course you'll look after her property, being her husband. If you'd stay out here you'd double in no time. In a year or so they'll open that pretty stretch in the Nation the redskins call Oklahoma. With ready cash, and being johnny-on-the-spot—”

“No, no, Charlie. We've decided to go back East. Annie never liked out here.”

Pottle's gaze rested dreamily on the range of low hills in the southwest. In a low voice he said:

“I can see the town now, Dave. Sleepy. Almost death-struck. We used to see who'd hear the first frogs singing in the spring. All the roads lined with trees. Make a hoss feel sleepy just to jog along in the shade. Well, well. I'm mooning. Why shouldn't you go back? Nothing to confess in doing that. If I hadn't been so undersized and onery I'd prob'ly be living there today. We keep gitting off the trail. You was going to tell me something—how I used to break my small back building sod'n' ditch fences! And frost-bitten roasting ears! I can almost taste 'em now—Old gander leading the wild geese giving his call high in the sky. Wind moaning through the trees in late fall—”

“Shut up! Good land, Charlie, how can I get along if you keep that up? It's hard enough anyway.”

Then Geen was silent again and tugged at his beard. This time Pottle kept silent. Geen groaned, said:

“You're the only person on God's green footstool I'd say it to, Charlie—Annie's the last one I'd tell—I'm afraid.”

Geen averted his face. Pottle sagged backward until he rested on his elbows. Bewilderment and incredulity stared from his small eyes. After a count of five he querulously cried—

“I can't git the right slant of it!”

Keeping his face turned toward the creek, Geen pulled up long grass stalks and slowly explained:

“It's Old Sawdust's property that done it. When we was poor I was always keen to take any chance. That's how I got to be sheriff. That's why I got the name of the 'Fighting Sheriff.' Ready to stand up against any odds. Had only my life to lose. Always felt luck was with me— Now it's vastly different.”

“But ain't you quick as ever with your irons?” shrilly demanded Pottle.

Geen ceased plucking the wild grass and stared for a bit toward the low range of hills. His voice lacked vibration, life, when he finally said:

“It's deeper'n that. You prob'ly won't catch what I mean. Of a sudden I find I'm mighty precious to myself. So much to live for.”

“But you've always had Annie, and have her now,” reminded Pottle sharply.

Geen nodded slowly several times and agreed:

“Yes, I've had her as my sweetheart back in Ryansville. I've had her out here to meet me when I come back from a long ride, when I was fetching in a prisoner, or a dead man tied to a hoss. Now there's the property to enjoy along of her. If I stop a hunk of lead it means I've not only lost my life, but seventy-five thousand dollars and a life of ease and happiness with Annie. Why should I run any more chances of being brought home, slung across a hoss like a bag of meal?”

Pottle sucked in his thin cheeks with an explosive sound, and said fiercely:

“All right. Play it that way. But why tell folks about it? Why ain't you back in Iowy, hogging your luck? What's to hinder? The trail's open. And just what'n —— do you mean, anyhow, Dave?”

Geen kept his gaze on the hills, three miles away, and refused to meet his companion's boring scrutiny. Squaring his shoulders as if to withstand a physical shock, he bluntly confessed:

“The property's made a coward of me, Charlie. Fate's waited till this property was dumped into our laps before arranging for me to git myself rubbed out. I know it! And if I'd only quit office a few days ago it would have been all right! But I thought I'd hang on till I was leaving for Iowy. Then Fate sprung the trap. A few days ago the Curt Smith gang robbed the Cass Town bank, killed the cashier and wounded a citizen. Smith'n' his men rode off with seventy thousand dollars. After that happened I couldn't quit.”

“You quit? The Fighting Sheriff quit? I'd like to meet the man who'll dare say as much!”

“But I want to quit, Charlie. There's the shame of it. I'm 'mazed to finding myself telling you this.”

Pottle laughed uneasily and said:

“Reason's plain enough. You feel free to tell me because I'm an undersized runt. I don't count. It used to gruel me, but I got used to it. Even in the old days I was always the feller who was chased and always got caught'n' put in prison. One of 'Old Sawdust's' henhouses was our prison.”

“That's not it at all, Charlie,” protested Geen. “It's because you're my friend from the old town.”

“Putting salve on the little feller's feelings. Well, let it go that way. Now you've talked right out in meeting, I've found nerve enough to tell something I'd never tell any one but you: I used to be crazy about Annie Bent when we was younkers back in Ryansville. No one knew it. I was a runt and knew I didn't ever stand any show. I didn't mind being licked that day by the teacher. I did mind most mortal to have Annie see him lam me and to know she was pitying me. So I dug out. There! I've matched your card. Your bacon's burning. Pull it off the fire. Here's the guts of our talk—gang busted a bank and you wanted to quit. But you couldn't quit and you ain't quit. Why be ashamed?”

“I haven't quit,” slowly agreed Geen. “I started trailing the gang. If my hoss hadn't stumbled and thrown me, and hurt my arm, it would be all over by this time.” And he nodded gloomily toward the low range. “And there's the notion burning in my brain, like a oil-lamp in a winder, that I'm sure to be killed if I go into those hills. I know it. It's the trap Fate has set for me. Git myself killed just because folks have the notion a sheriff must always go ahead against all odds.”

“But you being here on this crick shows you have the strongest, simon-pure brand of courage,” insisted Pottle. “You ain't to blame if your hoss tossed you and hurt your arm so's to make you slow with a gun. Who's in the gang? How many? I've been in Texas, this country's new to me.”

“Texas? Then you've heard of 'Kingbird.' It's said he was with Curt Smith. Gawd, Charlie! If I went into those hills that Texas hellion is sure to wipe me out.”

Pottle burst into a cackling laugh of derision.

“Kingbird rub you out! Then it would be because you're blind, 'n' deef. Funny how folks will build up a big name for a man. That Kingbird's mostly a bluff. Another thing, he ain't up here. Chased down into Old Mexico. How many in the Smith band?”

“Five.”

“Then first 'n' last'n' all the time you, or any other sheriff, would be crazy in the head to ride into such a nest alone. Where's your posse?”

Geen stroked his beard and wearily explained:

“Afraid to fetch one along. I'm telling you everything. I'm afraid I might show I was scared if I had any men along.”

“Uh-huh? Five of 'em.”

“Trail split a mile back. Two swung wide to the west—probably to cut up the chase. Well, Charlie, you hold northeast for twenty miles and you'll bump into Medicine Lodge. Go to my house. Annie will put you up. She always liked you as a younker; you was always that grinning and good-natured. Keep her mind off me till I come back, or am brought back. I must always be the Fighting Sheriff to her.”

“Yeah. Fine. Let's have a look at your arm.”

And without waiting for permission Pottle rolled up the right shirt-sleeve.

“Probably won't show much. The hurt seems to be in the bone,” hastily said Geen.

Pottle stared at the heavily muscled shoulder. He could discover no sign of a hurt. He lowered his gaze as he turned away and said—

“Seems to be swelling fast.”

He squatted and pulled at the grass and kept his gaze directed toward the hills. He did not believe Geen would ride into the outlaws' lair once he was left alone. Still staring into the southwest, he began insisting:

“Time the sun goes down you'll be slower'n cold molasses with the right-hand gun. I can't figger out why Annie should be made a widder just because you're foolish. Never git yourself killed to prove you're brave. Now here's what we'll do: I'm too onery'n' small to hold attention. But because I'm undersized and used to being put upon I'm like a weasel in smartness. Now I can enter the hills and, if they're there, look 'em over without being seen. Then I'll ride back here 'n' report. Then you can send for a posse or, if your arm's better, go back with me and out-Injun 'em. If they've passed through the hills the chase is ended so far as you're concerned. And you can quit the job without being ashamed.”

“If Annie knew what I've told you, or ever got the notion I held back—”

“What she don't know won't hurt her,” snapped Pottle. “She sure would think you was a fine fool to toss your life away to a band of low-down cowardly murderers. I'm going to do some spying before it gits dark.”

He was on his feet. Geen also rose and protested:

“It ain't reg'lar. A sheriff never should hold back and let an outsider do the trailing. We'll wait till morning—”

“No, I'm going. I'm free born 'n' white. You stay here, and nurse your arm. Mighty little for me to do for the sake of the old days when you used to save me from being licked by the older boys. You was a prime fool to come down here alone.”

“It ain't reg'lar for an outsider—”

“I'm an insider,” interrupted Pottle. “Swear me as a reg'lar. Swear in my hoss—only be spry about it. I'm going anyway.”

More than ever did Geen fear his activities would end in the hills if the outlaws were there. If they were gone the chase was ended. Shame had sent him this far on a one-sided errand. Ryansville appealed as being very beautiful. Nothing to worry one there, especially if he possessed Old Sawdust's money. Then there was the fiction about his arm. He could legitimately profit by it, now he had told the lie. And there could be no danger to Charlie Pottle, who would reconnoiter from a distance. In the old days playing Injun none could compete with young Pottle when it came to slyness.

Pottle whistled and the big roan promptly came toward him. Geen fumbled in a pocket and fished out a small silver badge. He said earnestly:

“If I thought there was any danger in this for you, Charlie, I'd never permit it. But you've convinced me I'm a fool not to take every advantage in trailing that outfit. You're to keep under cover and take no risks. If you fail to see a light or smoke, you'll know they're gone and you'll come back at once. Hold up your right hand.”

Pottle slowly repeated the oath and the badge was pinned to his shirt. Then Geen reminded him—

“You haven't any gun.”

And he started to pull one of his own, but Pottle backed away, explaining:

“I sha'n't need any gun. If I do I've got one in my blanket-roll. But I ain't carrying any fight to that gang. Slop some crick-water on that arm'n' shoulder to stop the swelling. Be back in the morning. Maybe tonight, but don't think so. Don't fret.”

Agile as a monkey he scrambled to the back of the big roan. He nodded a farewell with the same vacuous grin that always characterized him in Ryansville, and forded the creek and rode for the hills.

In ancient times great pockets were scooped from the sides of the hills. Some of these pockets, accessible from the plains, had almost perpendicular walls and contained deep pools. They were so many culs-de-sac. Pottle made several false starts before finding a path which promised to lead him over the crest of the range. The western sky was old gold and rose when he dismounted and led the roan through a stretch of broken ground. Twilight had changed to dusk when a well defined trail brought him clear of the rocks and to a fringe of trees along the rim of a shallow amphitheater. At the foot of a gentle slope were several houses of logs and sod. There was the aroma of wood-smoke. A horse whinnied. A blob of light suddenly appeared in one of the houses.

Pottle took a broad leather belt and two guns from his blanket roll and shifted the badge from his shirt to the inside of his big hat. Leading the roan he proceeded down the slope without any pretense at secrecy. The light vanished.

“Hi, the house!” he shouted. “Show that light so's I can see where I'm going.”

A gun clicked on his right and a low voice announced—

“Stranger, you're going to —— a-fluking if you can't give a good reason for being here.”

Pottle quickly replied:

“I'm a stranger from Texas. Give me some grub and a snort of liquor before you do any shooting.”

“Keep on down to the first house. I'll be close behind you.”

“My hoss ain't done nothing. Don't shoot him,” requested Pottle, as he resumed the descent.

Behind him scuffed the boots of his captor. When close to the house a voice commanded—

“Stand where you are.”

“I've got him covered, Curt,” called out the man in the rear. “Seems to be alone.”

“Mebbe a trap,” growled Curt. “One of you boys make a light inside.”

Pottle remained motionless until a lighted lantern was taken into the house. Then came the command:

“Clasp your hands back of your neck and walk inside.”

Pottle did as bid and turned the corner of the house and entered the lighted room. He could hear men taking positions so as to scrutinize him through the small hole of a window of the open door.

Suddenly one of the unseen burst into a guffaw of laughter, and exclaimed:

“The guns! See the rat's guns! Bigger'n he is.”

Three men came through the doorway and stared at him curiously. The leader a tall, slim man, was the first to speak. He told Pottle:

“We don't know how you happen to come here. We'll prob'ly have to leave you here for the next feller to find. But you're sure funny to look at, stranger.”

Grinning good-naturedly Pottle explained:

“Been running away from Texas. Run clean through the Injun Nation. These hills looked likely for a hiding-place till I could rest and git the lay of the land. As to rubbing me out, any one with the drop can do that. But what's the p'int? You're strangers to me, so there can't be bad blood between us. I'm striking north to make Nebraska. Just what chance is there for a bite to eat and drink of liquor while you folks are deciding what you'll do with me?”

The leader made a gesture, and the man behind Pottle yanked the heavy guns from the broad belt. Then the leader explained:

“I'm Curt Smith, boss of this outfit. Mebbe you've heard of me down in Texas.”

“Met a thousand Smiths down there. You're some punkins up here, I take it.”

“I'm boss in these hills. You can put your hands down. Squat in the corner and tell who you be and how you come to quit Texas and be —— sudden about it,” savagely ordered Smith. Then to one of the men—

“Hanks, fetch some bacon'n' beans'n' a drink.”

“I'll bet he's Billy the Kid come to life,” jeered Hanks as he slipped through the door.

Pottle dropped in a corner and smiled good-naturedly at the tall leader. He gave his name and explained:

“Been living down on the Trinity and other places in Texas. Couldn't agree with a marshal. They're saying I rubbed him out. I quit on the jump.”

“Never heard of no powder-burner by the name of Pottle,” said the leader.

“Texas is a big place. Down there we don't hear much about you folks up here.”

For nearly a minute Smith lowered at him in silence, then he asked the third man:

“Ever see him or hear of him before, Tusk?”

Tusk shook his shaggy head. For emphasis he said—

“If he'd ever crossed my path I'd either overlook him or remember him—he's that onery.”

Smith told Pottle:

“I allow you're a lying little runt. Don't believe you ever hurt anybody, let alone shooting a marshal.”

Chuckling softly. Pottle corrected:

“Never let on I'd killed any marshal. I said that's what Texas folks is saying.”

“Chief, I don't believe he's even hefty enough to swing one of them big guns,” said Tusk, as his gaze dwelt on the huge dragon Colt revolvers—too heavy and awkward for a man to carry unless mounted on a horse.

Pottle plucked at his fuzzy yellow beard and asked—

“Ain't none of you reckoning that such an onery critter could be a law-officer?”

Smith smiled and promptly replied—

“No, I'll be —— if any of us can think that.”

“And you'd never pick me for a feller to come in search of this outfit, would you?”

“Not if you knew Curt Smith,” grimly replied the leader. Then he significantly reminded him. “But you've stumbled on to us. That's bad.”

“Mebbe it's good,” said Pottle. “This whole business seems as plain as my face to me. I come into these hills by chances. You ain't law-officers. You ain't a posse out hunting for my kind. Then you must be my kind. You don't know anything about me, and I don't know anything about you. I ain't asking to be took on yet. I sure ain't honing to throw in with an outfit till I know it's got the fighting guts. But there's no earthly reason why you should want to rub me out.”

“So you're fussy about the company you keep,” sneered Smith. “You've got to pick'n choose. You must be some fine hellion.”

“It ain't for me to do any bragging while I'm waiting to be fed and, mebbe, rubbed out,” Pottle replied quietly. “If I hadn't run into you I'd 'a' rested my hoss, took a long sleep and started for Nebraska. I'd 'a' stopped just long enough to call on some bank and git some money.”

“As simple as that?” jeered Smith.

“Well, ain't that what banks are for?”

And Pottle grinned ingratiatingly.

Smith stared at him curiously. Tusk's eyes blazed ferociously. Smith slowly remarked:

“Mighty queer you should begin talking about robbing banks. A queer brand of talk for a man to make to strangers.”

Pottle replied evenly:

“Mebbe I've guessed the wrong card. But even in Kansas they can't jail a man for letting on he'd stop to get money from a bank. Mebbe I meant I would borrer it.”

At this point Hanks returned with a frying pan of hot beans and bacon and a jug. Smith said:

“Fill up, stranger. Rest of the talk can wait a bit.”

Pottle's eyes gleamed as he reached for the food. He used a short sheath knife as a fork. Between hungry mouthfuls he tipped the jug and drank generously. He appeared to be wolfishly hungry. Smith at last admonished—

“We didn't fetch a distill'ry along, stranger.”

“You've guzzled enough to eat a hole through a copper kettle,” growled Tusk.

“I could drink the whole jug and never roll an eye,” boasted Pottle.

The three men waited patiently. At last he had finished the food. He leaned back against the logs and sighed contentedly, and said—

“Brother Hanks, when it comes to bacon'n' beans fixin's you're a prime dabster.”

Smith told Hanks—

“Stay here and see he don't budge from that corner.” He walked to the door, motioning Tusk to follow him outside. The two voices were audible but Pottle could not understand what was being talked. Hanks leaned against the wall, his thumbs hooked in his belt, and lazily informed him:

“Chiefs trying to decide what he'll do with you. Sort of bad luck you should come mousing in here.”

“Mousing? Didn't I hoot the minute I saw the light?”

“I'm reckonin' it's bad luck for somebody just the same.” Tusk came through the doorway and jerked his head significantly. Hanks went outside. Pottle asked Tusk—

“How'd you vote?”

“We ain't voted yet—just talked. We feel you're too onery to be of any help. But mebbe you could do lots of mischief if we let you go and you went to Medicine Lodge or Cass Town and told what you knew.”

“But I don't know nothing. Medicine Lodge? What's that—Injun village? Never in Kansas before.”

“It's a town.”

“Let's drink its health.”

He started to reach for the jug. Tusk covered him quickly and commanded—

“First, throw over that knife.”

Pottle pulled the knife and tossed it to stick in a log under the eaves. It was a neat cast. Tusk smiled slightly.

“Now you can drink. You're a funny little cuss. Packing them big guns! Just what is your game?”

Pottle finished a pull at the jug. He smacked his lips and replied:

“Running away from Texas is my business just now. How goes the voting, Mister Smith?”

The last was occasioned by the abrupt entrance of the leader. Smith ignored the question and asked—

“How much money have you in your jeans, stranger?”

“Five hundred dollars. Git some cards and dig up some money and we'll play for it.”

“We don't have to play cards for your money,” Smith told him. “We can't just figger you out. You ain't sizable enough to be dangerous. Yet you seem to be too come-uppity for a man who ain't used to trouble. We might take on an other man if we was sure of him. Two men quit us a short time ago. But we don't know you from a buffler-hide.”

Pottle quickly assured him:

“I'm used to more simon-pure trouble than any man you ever see. I'm in something of the same fix you be, I'm keen to throw in with the right outfit. Too bad we don't know more about each other. Of course I can't afford to hitch up with the wrong outfit. Never heard of any of you boys before. On t'other hand, only the most likely ones up here ever make an echo down in Texas.”

“—— your blab! You talk gentle. Just who the —— be you? You brag tall enough for a mountain—and you're the size of a wart.”

Pottle puffed out his cheeks and asked quietly—

“Any of you ever hear of a Texas galoot called Kingbird?”

The three came to sharp attention. Smith said:

“We've heard quite a bit about Kingbird. What of it?”

Pottle sighed and answered—

“Probably won't do much good for me to say it, but I used to ride with Kingbird.”

“You little liar!” growled Smith.

“No, sirree, I ain't no liar! I'd be with Kingbird now if he hadn't lit out for Old Mexico. There's prime reasons why I can't cross the Rio. Liar, eh? See here, Mister Smith, I may be standing waist-deep in my grave, but give me a knife or a gun and meet me alone and you'll swaller what you catted me, or this outfit will need a new leader.”

Smith was surprized by the little man's defiance. After a few moments he smiled tolerantly and said:

“You wouldn't make a mouthful. If I knew you ever rode with Kingbird you'd be good enough for us. Well, we'll go into the bunk-house and sleep on it. We're pulling out in the morning. You'll either go with us or stay behind.”

“Couldn't do both,” grumbled Pottle. “But I know what you mean.”

Hanks and Tusk hooked their arms through the prisoner's, and Smith brought up the rear with a drawn gun. Hanks had left a lantern burning after procuring the beans and bacon and, as the four men entered, Pottle glanced curiously at the twelve bunks and inquired—

“Where's the rest of your boys?”

“All right here. Henry Brown used to hide up here after Billy the Kid was wiped out. Brown used to ride with the Kid. Trying to make this place when he was caught in a pocket on the east side of the hills.”

“I remember about Brown, along of his riding with the Kid,” softly said Pottle. “He was hung for some bank holdup. This place must be chuck full of fond mem'ries. I remember now that Brown had men in his outfit who went off half-cocked. That proves what I said about a man can't affording to throw in with a weak outfit. One weak critter will sp'ile everything. Brown must 'a' been all right to ride with the Kid, but some of his men had a yaller streak or got crazy in the head.”

“Oh, you talk too —— much. Close your trap and turn in. This bunk under the lantern. Or the floor. We ain't going to tie you up. One of the boys will be on guard all the time. Make a move and it'll be your last. Trouble with you Texas fellers is you reckon you're the whole thing. Kansas breeds better men every year.”

“Well, Kingbird is the whole thing in his line. I rode with him,” insisted Pottle.

“Shut up! Open your yawp again and I'll bend the bar'el of a gun over your peanut head!” roared Smith. “If you didn't talk so —— much there'd be a chance of us trying you out.”

This time Pottle kept silent. Smith was still muttering angrily as the prisoner chose the dirt floor and spread a blanket and composed himself for the night. The lantern flooded him with light. Throwing an arm over his head to shut out some of the light, he pretended to sleep. The three men did not talk, as two turned in and the third stood watch.

Pottle slept for short stretches. Each time he awoke he found the man on watch very alert and with a cocked gun in his lap. During his periods of wakefulness Pottle considered his situation and was confident he had won. He had irritated Smith, but a certain amount of boasting had been necessary to make the desired impression. And a man claiming to have followed Kingbird was sure to brag. In the morning he would shift to earnestness. He was confident he could overcome Smith's irritation. If he could secure a gun and catch them off their guard for the fraction of a minute the trick would be turned. Well satisfied with himself and confident of success, he slept heavily near morning.

The sun was up when Smith stirred him with his boot. Pottle rubbed his eyes and said:

“Clear and sunshiny. I'm hungrier'n a wolf.”

Smith eyed him soberly. There was something feral in the steady gaze. Pottle regretted he had not been awake early to try and influence the final verdict. He was not surprized when Smith slowly told him:

“Sunshine is all right. But you oughter be more interested in what we've voted to do with you.”

“If you mean business and got something likely in sight I'll throw in with you,” said Pottle.

“Like —— you will! Your blabbing has riled the boys. You're either a windbag, or else you're so —— good you'd be trying to boss this outfit inside of a week. Last night we couldn't decide. This morning we all see it one way. You're going to be left behind.”

Pottle met his gaze squarely, and after a bit of silence he said quietly:

“I see. Can I eat first?”

“Hank will fetch you some grub and a drink, if you feel that way.”

Smith started to leave him, then turned back as if feeling the need of justifying his decision. Pottle believed he could change the verdict. He kept quiet and Smith explained:

“We've made a killing. We don't plan another job till we've had some fun out of the money we've got. We can't share it with a new man, and it's better not to take on another man till we're ready to work. Either you're all wool like what you claim and would foller and make trouble for us, or else you're just filled to the chin with talk and will keep shooting off your mouth and make it bad for us—we can't decide which. But whatever you be, you stay behind. Hanks, hurry along the grub and whisky. Tusk, git the hosses ready.”

Hanks deposited the food and jug on the floor before the prisoner. The latter asked:

“You can't mean to kill me, Brother Hanks? Not right on top of feeding me?”

“You come here without being asked. You've talked tall and wide. You ask for grub and a drink. There they be. This outfit runs no risk of losing a big bunch of money by trying any 'speriments with you.”

Pottle had hoped to catch Hanks by the ankles when he brought the food, but Smith, with a gun loose, discouraged any such maneuver. Never were the little man's ears and eyes more alert. Hanging from a bunk, close to where Smith stood, was the broad belt and the two big guns. From the corner of his eye Pottle hungered for them. As he ate he slowly worked his heels under him. He was lifting the jug when Tusk, outside, loudly called:

“What about the big roan? Kill him or take him with us?”

Smith turned his head a trifle and opened his mouth to answer Tusk. Pottle lifted the jug above his head and hurled it against Smith, and as he did so he whistled shrilly. Smith almost dropped his gun. The big roan gave a terrible scream and plunged for the open door. Tusk, off one side, began emptying a gun into the maddened horse. Pottle leaped for his guns the moment the jug left his hands. Smith fired and Hanks yelled a warning and jumped into a bunk. Seeing Pottle reel and all but fall, Smith shifted his attention to the doorway and believed the big roan was about to effect an entrance. His second shot, two seconds after the first, struck the roan in the head at a distance of ten feet.

Hanks was yelling wildly. Smith jerked about, discharging his third shot into the dirt floor at Pottle's feet as the latter caught him under the chin with the big bullet. Smith pitched forward on his face. Hanks leaned from the bunk to rake Pottle. The latter beat him by an instant, and Hanks hung over the edge of the bunk, shot through the head. All this occurred inside of thirty seconds.

With his left arm hanging useless Pottle made for the doorway, partly filled by the head and shoulders of the dead roan. Dancing frantically around and waving two guns. Tusk was yelling, “What's up? What's up?”

Then he beheld Pottle, kneeling by the head of the roan. He fired with both guns, shooting wildly. Pottle fired once, and was mechanically blowing the smoke from the long barrel as Tusk wavered and fell.

Dropping the gun, Pottle caressed the big, bony head of his horse and half sobbed:

“You was worth many times their —— money, old friend. You tried to git to me, to help me. You was worth more'n all the money that was ever stole.”

A shrill neighing brought him to the alert. He peered around the edge of the door. Then he was climbing over the dead animal to meet Sheriff Geen.

Geen leaped from his mount and stared, wild-eyed, at the silent figure of Tusk. He exclaimed faintly: “My God, Charlie! You've had a fight. I heard guns and come on the gallop.”

“Peek inside and you'll allow it was a real fight,” groaned Pottle. “They busted my arm afore I could git started. Worst of all, they killed my hoss.”

Geen, with cocked gun, advanced through the doorway and looked about. The room was acrid with the reek of burned powder. He saw the man sprawling on the floor and another leaning out of the bunk as if trying to reach the revolver on the dirt.

“Three!” gasped Geen as he mopped the sweat from his face.

“They killed my hoss,” dully reminded Pottle! “He was worth more'n all the money.”

“Charlie Pottle! Little Pottle! To think you did for the three of them!” whispered Geen.

“They went and killed my hoss,” sniveled Pottle.

Geen conquered his runaway nerves and set about improvising a splint and a sling. The bone of the upper arm was broken. Finishing with Pottle the sheriff started to search the bunk-house. Pottle called after him—

“Fetch out my hat.”

Geen soon brought out the hat and a sack of money.

“Some twenty thousand dollars short,” he announced as he finished counting the loot.

“That's what the two missing men took away with 'em. Here's your badge.”

Geen pocketed it and said—

“Now to get you to town and a doctor.”

Pottle stared at his dead horse and asked—

“How you going to manage it, Dave?”

“You can ride a horse. I see three grazing. We'll take it easy.”

“But how'd you come here, Dave? You was to wait till I'd done some spying.”

“God forgive me for ever letting you come, Charlie. I'm punished as never a man was before. Early this morning I saw myself a coward and quitter. Shame spurred me here as fast as my hoss could make it. And I got here too late to take part and win any credit. All Kansas will know I sent a new deputy where I wouldn't go myself. Well, that's my medicine and I must take it. Facing Annie is the hardest of all.”

“Annie never wanted you to get killed.”

“Oh, she'll try to cover up. But this day's work will always be in the back of her head.”

“Well, of all the no-account talk,” jeered Pottle. “Sling those three men on their hosses and then take me up behind you. Here, let me look at your gun for a bit.”

And before Geen could guess his purpose Pottle had it clear of the holster and was shooting at the sky. Replacing the weapon, he told the astounded official:

“There you be. You rode in here with your old playmate, tagging along behind, and shot it out with 'em. My hoss was killed and I got plugged the first card out of the box. You done all the shooting and fetched your old friend home. Load my guns and roll 'em with the belt in the blankets.”

“It's cruel! It's wretched that you—”

“That's your suffering, if you enjoy it,” interrupted Pottle. “Annie comes first. Don't be a fool. Who've I got to make proud by my shooting? Fetch out the jug, then Mister Smith and Brother Hanks and all their guns. I'll empty a few shots from their irons. No one will ever know, and you'll have the proudest wife what ever was.”

Geen resigned as sheriff and won a rare reputation for modesty. He discouraged praise and refused to listen to his wife's adulation. His affairs were in order, but he would not leave Kansas until Pottle was fully recovered. That insignificant victim of outlaw lead mended rapidly and continued a guest at the Geen home. It was torture to Geen when people insisted on proclaiming him a hero. More than once he was tempted to tell the truth but Pottle fiercely argued that Mrs. Geen alone counted. Her peace of mind must not be disturbed.

“Look at it this way,” he would say, “no man but a crazy coot would ride into them hills alone in the night. I did, thinking I could do some spying. I was caught. My hoss saved me. You come on the jump in early morning. If I'd kept my fingers out the dish you'd been in time to corral the three of them. So you wa'n't a coward.”

“I even lied about hurting my arm,” Geen would groan.

“What you felt and said and did the day before the shooting is all wiped off the slate by your riding into the hill hellyterlarrup early next morning. You'd be worse'n a coward—you'd be a skunk to fret your wife.”

One day Mrs. Geen told her husband:

“Your loyalty to any friend from the old town is fine, David, but you wait on Charlie as if he were both child and invalid. He can use his arm. He told me this morning it's all right now. Can't we be going home?”

“Yes. Charlie's going away soon to look at some land. I'll tell you something you never knew about the little shaver, Annie. He was head over heels in love with you when we were in school together.”

“What nonsense!” She started to laugh at the absurdity of it; then found something very pathetic in the undersized figure sitting near the road.

“Of course I never dreamed such a thing, David. I'm sorry. You've finished your work out here. You'll always be remembered as the Fighting Sheriff. And I can't get back to Iowy too quick.”

He winced under her words and turned his head.

“I asked Charlie to go with us,” he told her awkwardly.

A little frown came and went. Then she was smiling and nodding her head, and saying:

“What you think best is always best, dear. We will make him welcome. Only I wish you'd never told me that bit of boyish nonsense.”

“He refused to go back with us. That's why I could tell you. He knows we are leaving soon. His arm is as good as new. Now I'll tell him we start in three days.”

His wife went out with him. Pottle heard Geen name the date of departure, smiling whimsically, his small, bright eyes darting from husband to wife. Mrs. Geen felt a sudden great pity as she contrasted his lonely lot with their happiness. She urged generously—

“Go back with us, Charlie, please.”

“Thank you, Annie, but they might make me return to school or give me a licking for running away.” And he laughed loudly at the notion. Then seriously, “In three days? That'll be Thursday morning. Dave knows I'm going land-looking. But I'll be back before you two pull out. Prob'ly just as you're catching the train. That hoss you give me, Dave, is a humdinger; but he never can come up to the roan.”

He rode away that day, and before night a committee of citizens waited on Geen and offered him any political preferment within the gift of southwestern Kansas. His wife scolded him, after the committee departed, for his lack of appreciation. His face was pale under the tan as he listened to her and his attempt at a smile was a grimace. She never could know the hell he visualized as the committee talked and compelled him to see himself in the National House, and winning the honor because of Charlie Pottle's heroism. Nor could she know how he counted the hours until they were walking to the station to take the train.

He braced himself to listen to more encomiums, for the town had turned out to bid him Godspeed. With drawn face he listened to the local orators and wondered whether it never would be train-time. Curiously enough his wife broke down and wept at the thought of going away.

At last the conductor was shouting “All aboard!” and the Geens were free to mount the back platform for final hand-waving and farewells. Geen smiled and gestured mechanically and stared eagerly over the heads of the people and hoped against hope that Charlie Pottle would return in time. Then he saw Pottle riding like mad and whipping his horse as if his life depended on his reaching the train. Geen leaned down and seized the conductor by the shoulder and insisted:

“Hold her for a minute. My best friend, little Charlie Pottle, is coming on a dead gallop.”

Those who heard this wondered why Pottle should be held as “best friend.” The conductor nodded and studied his watch. Geen, on the platform, watched Pottle swing to the ground on the edge of the crowd. He surrendered his horse to a man and handed him a piece of paper. Geen shouted to him to hurry. Then he laughed softly and told his wife:

“I'll bet he's sold the horse. The paper was a bill of sale. See? He's fetching his belongings in a bag. He's going through with us. Hurrah, Charlie! Hustle your boots.”

Grinning widely, Pottle burrowed his way through the mass of humanity and mounted the steps. Having no friends to bid farewell to, he went inside. The train was clear of the town when the Geens joined him.

“I'm so glad you're going back with us, Charlie,” said Mrs. Geen.

“No. Not this time, Annie. Just going a short distance with you. Gitting out at Pixley. Sent a telegraph message to a feller, who ought to be waiting there to take me to look at some cheap land south of Pixley.”

“But that's only a telegraph station, Charlie. Train doesn't stop unless flagged,” said Geen.

“I allowed you could fix it, Dave.”

Mrs. Geen smiled at this trust in her husband's ability to do things. Geen conferred with the conductor and was told:

“Against the rules for this particular train. But the man who cleaned out the Smith crowd deserves any accommodation the road can give. As we won't be flagged except in an emergency you have Pottle on the steps to drop off when we slow down.”

During the few miles to Pixley the three chatted over old times, with Charlie Pottle whimsically recalling some ludicrous incidents. The conductor came up the aisle and nodded for Pottle to be ready, as no flag was out. Pottle bid Annie good-by and carried his bag to the lower step. Geen stood above him, patting his shoulder fondly. Charlie twisted his head for a farewell glance, and grinned. As the train slowed down Geen knew Pottle's message had been received, as a man and three horses were waiting at the end of the platform.

Pottle dropped off and threw his bag over a horse and, mounted and, with a flourish of his hand to the Geens, was off, the three horses galloping rapidly. As the train began to increase its speed the telegraph operator emerged, waving a slip of paper, and raced forward. As he handed it over to the conductor he shouted:

“Come few seconds too late. Am notifying next station.”

The conductor read the telegram, his mouth agape. Turning to Geen on the step above him, he cried excitedly:

“You missed the biggest chance of your whole life! Cass Town bank's robbed for the second time. That Pottle feller got the money you got back from the Smith gang. Had all the loot in his bag, right under your nose! Had a pal planted in Pixley with horses. Pixley operator got the message just too late for you to nab him.”

If Geen had been on the lower step he might have fallen from the train. His amazement stunned him. The conductor gestured for him to get back on the platform. Once there, and with the conductor at his side, he gasped:

“Little Charlie Pottle a bank-robber? Oh, that's too ridiculous!”

“Little Charlie! That runt is Kingbird! And the West ain't turned out any more dangerous and deadly than him!”

Geen stared foolishly. He became alert as the conductor started to enter the car and spread the news. Seizing the conductor's arm he begged:

“The last favor I'll ever ask of Kansas. Say nothing till we've changed trains. I want to keep it from my wife. He went to school with us, back in Iowy.”

“All right,” gruffly promised the conductor. “But of all the bad ones that feller named after the little bird that'll ride a hawk out of a neighborhood, is the worst.”

“Not entirely bad,” faintly defended Geen. “He keeps his word. He's loyal.” Then he stared to the south where three specks, one of them little Pottle, was riding madly to gain the Salt Fork of the Arkansas. He herad himself muttering, “And I was always the sheriff, and he the feller I caught.”

He turned and with bowed head went up the aisle. “Why, what's the matter with your eyes, Dave?” she asked.

He applied his handkerchief in little dabs and explained—

“Cinders.”

---

“Kingbird,” copyright, 1927, by Hugh Pendexter.