THE GUN-FIGHT
Before supper that evening a passing traveller carried a letter to my ranche, and when my boys found out that there was going to be trouble in town they surely flirted gravel for fear of arriving too late. I placed them at a convenient saloon, explained my plans, made them swear that they would not stray. Then I went to Curly's room, and lay low, showing no light, but watching the Mortuary Hotel just across the street.
Ryan sat there in his piazza, ruddy and full, broad and bald as a barn, a ripe man with a grey chin beard. Yes, he was a cheery old soul, popular with the crowd, a power in local politics, well qualified on the outside of him for paradise, and in the innards of him for the other place. I covered him with my gun, and wondered where he would go to when he died. I expect he would be craving then for some of that lager beer he sipped so peaceful, and for the palm-leaf fan which he used to brush off the heat.
Away off to the right I could see Jim sitting on the sidewalk in front of the "Sepulchre." Little Crook was feeding brandy to him, and cigarettes to keep him away from sleep. Then the train came rumbling in, let out a screech, and stopped. It made me laugh to think what a big hurroar there would be presently when the news got wind of that train being held up by robbers, and Mr. Michael Ryan led away captive.
Yet there seemed to be no excitement. The usual buses and buggies came up from the station, the ordinary crowd of loafers, and then our only cab, which crawled to the "Mortuary" to drop one passenger. He was a fat young man, dressed most surprising in a stove-pipe hat, a Jew fur coat, gloves, and a smart valise. If any of our cowboys had happened around, they would have fired a shot for luck to see if he wasn't some new kind of bird, but old Ryan came down the steps with a roar of welcome.
"Michael!" he shouted, "where's your palace car? Have you sunk so low as to come in a mere cab? Oh, Mike!"
I could hear Mr. Michael explaining that something was wrong with the car, so he'd had to leave her at Lordsburgh for repairs. Of course, the robbers, not seeing the private car, had concluded that their prey had failed to arrive and the train was not worth attacking.
Now Michael had arrived, and after a talk and a drink with his father, these two would stroll over to finish the family vengeance on poor Balshannon. As far as we had missed getting help from the range wolves, so matters were getting mighty serious.
I slipped away to my men.
"Boys," says I, "we got to play at robbers to-night, I reckon, but I don't want you-all to get recognised. We may be bucking up against the law, and get ourselves disliked if we ain't cautious." So I took a big black silk handkerchief and cut it up into strips. "When the shooting begins," says I, "just you tie these round your heads to hide yo' homely faces. Now get yo' horses and come swift."