It was lucky that we organized a city government when we did. All communities have streaks of bad luck, and it was just after we had elected a mayor, a marshal, and a full quota of officers that Red Hoss Mountain had a spell of experiences that seemed likely at one time to break up the camp. There 's no telling where it all would have ended if we had n't happened to have a corps of vigilant and brave men in office, determined to maintain law and order at all personal hazards. With a camp, same as 'tis with dogs, it is mighty unhealthy to get a bad name.
The tidal wave of crime—if I may so term it—struck us three days after the election. I remember distinctly that all our crowd was in at Casey's, soon after nightfall, indulging in harmless pleasantries, such as eating, drinking, and stud poker. Casey was telling how he had turned several cute tricks on election day, and his recital recalled to others certain exciting experiences they had had in the states; so, in an atmosphere of tobacco, beer, onions, wine, and braggadocio, and with the further delectable stimulus of seven-year-old McBrayer, the evening opened up congenially and gave great promise. The boys were convivial, if not boisterous. But Jim Woppit, wearing the big silver star of his exalted office on his coat-front, was present in the interests of peace and order, and the severest respect was shown to the newly elected representative of municipal dignity and authority.
All of a sudden, sharp, exacting, and staccato-like, the telephone sounded; seemed like it said, "Quick—trouble—help!" By the merest chance—a lucky chance—Jim Woppit happened to be close by, and he reached for the telephone and answered the summons.
"Yes." "Where?" "You bet—right away!"
That was what Jim said; of course, we heard only one side of the talk. But we knew that something—something remarkable had happened. Jim was visibly excited; he let go the telephone, and, turning around, full over against us, he said, "By ——, boys! the stage hez been robbed!"
A robbery! The first in the Red Hoss Mountain country! Every man leapt to his feet and broke for the door, his right hand thrust instinctively back toward his hip pocket. There was blood in every eye.
Hank Eaves' broncho was tied in front of Casey's.
"Tell me where to go," says Hank, "and I 'll git thar in a minnit. I 'm fixed."
"No, Hank," says Jim Woppit, commanding like, "I 'll go. I 'm city marshal, an' it's my place to go—I 'm the repersentive of law an' order an' I 'll enforce 'em—damn me ef I don't!"
"That's bizness—Jim's head 's level!" cried Barber Sam.