Bad and mad

by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Dangling Doom”, etc.
“You better put yore hands up, pardner.”
The man on his knees at the water hole turned his head slowly and looked at the other man, who was covering him with a rifle. This second man had popped up like a Jack-in-a-box from behind a sandstone boulder. Near the water hole stood a dejected-looking bay horse, head hanging, one hind leg cocked listlessly.
The man at the water hole got slowly to his feet, keeping his hands above his waist. He squinted closely at the other man, his eyes puzzled. Then, with momentarily sagging jaw, he uttered an expression of astonishment.
“Ben!” he exclaimed. “Well, what won’t yuh see when yuh ain’t got no gun!”
It was a sarcastic expression, because the speaker had a heavy gun in the holster at his right thigh. The other man came closer, but did not lower the muzzle of his weapon. The sun glinted from a badge fastened on the lapel of his vest.
They were as alike as two peas, these two. Both smooth shaven, slightly grizzled, neither of them carrying an ounce of surplus weight. Even their clothes were pretty much the same.
“Well, I’ll be darned!” snorted the man with the rifle. “Harry!”
They stood for a while, looking at each other. Then:
“Oh, would some power the giftie give us, to see ourselves as others see us,” misquoted the empty-handed man, and then added quickly, “if it would do any good.”
“Set down,” said the sheriff, indicating a boulder. “But keep yore hands in sight. I don’t trust you no more than I ever did.”