It was a subject of common regret when Mr. Masterson, as Sheriff of Ford, decided to resign. He had shown himself equipped for the position, being by nature cool and just and honest, and disposed to accuracy in all things, especially in his shooting. It was those laws prohibitive of the sale of strong drink throughout the State of Kansas that prompted the resignation of Mr. Masterson.
“The rounding up of horse thieves and hold-ups, Bob,” observed Mr. Masterson to Mr. Wright, “is legitimate work. And I don’t mind burning a little powder with them if such should be their notion. But I draw the line at pulling on a gentleman, and dictating water as a beverage.”
Whereupon Mr. Masterson laid down his office, and Mr. Wright and Mr. Short and Mr. Kelly and Mr. Trask and Mr. Tighlman and Cimarron Bill sorrowfully gathered at the Wright House and gave a dinner in his honor. Following the dinner, Mr. Masterson translated himself to Arizona, while Dodge relieved its feelings with the circulation of a document which read:
“We, the undersigned, agree to pay the sums set opposite our
names to the widow and orphans of the gent who first informs on
a saloonkeeper.”
The white American is a mammal of unusual sort. He doesn’t mind when his officers of government merely rob him, or do no more than just saddle and ride him in favour of some pillaging monopoly. But the moment those officers undertake to tell him what he shall drink and when he shall drink it, he goes on the warpath. Thus was it with the ebullient folk of Dodge on the dry occasion of Prohibition. The paper adverted to gained many signatures, and promised a fortune to those mourning ones it so feelingly described.
When Mr. Masterson laid down his regalia as Sheriff and the public realised that he had pulled his six-shooters, officially, for the last time, a sense of loss filled the bosoms of those who liked a peaceful life. There was another brood which felt the better pleased. Certain dissolute ones, who arrive at ruddiest blossom in a half-baked Western camp, made no secret of their satisfaction. Withal, they despised Mr. Masterson for the certainty of his pistol practise, and that tacit brevity wherewith he set his guns to work.
Perhaps of those who rejoiced over the going of Mr. Masterson, a leading name was that of Bear Creek Johnson. Certainly, Bear Creek jubilated with a greater degree of noise than did the others. Having money at the time, Bear Creek came forth upon what he meant should be a record spree.
The joyful Bear Creek was fated to meet with check. He had attained to the first stages of that picnic which he planned, “jest beginnin’ to onbuckle,” as he himself expressed it, when he was addressed upon the subject by Mr. Wright. The latter was standing in the doorway of his store, and halted Bear Creek, whooping up the street. Mr. Wright owned a past wherein rifle smoke and courage were equally commingled to make an honoured whole. Aware of these credits to the fame of Mr. Wright, Bear Creek ceased whooping to hear what he might say. As Bear Creek paused, Mr. Wright from the doorway bent upon him a somber glance.
“I only wanted to say, Bear Creek,” observed Mr. Wright, “that if I were you I wouldn’t tire the town with any ill-timed gayety. If the old vigilance committee should come together, and if it should decide to clean up the camp, the fact that you owe me money wouldn’t save you. I should never let private interests interfere with my duty to the town, nor a lust for gain keep me from voting to hang a criminal. It would be no help to him that I happened to be his creditor.”
This rather long oration threw cold water upon the high spirits of Bear Creek Johnson. He whooped no more, and at the close of Mr. Wright’s remarks returned to his accustomed table in the Alamo, where he devoted the balance of the evening to a sullen consumption of rum.