Bad and mad

by W. C. Tuttle

“Y’betcha.”

The sheriff was standing there dumbly, hands hanging at his sides, while his brother examined the rope. They were several feet apart. Suddenly, without any warning, the sheriff sprang at his brother, the swift leap of a wild cat, slashing as he did so with both hands.

It was so unexpected that the man had no chance to guard himself, except to throw up both hands with the rope, staggering back in the yielding sand. A slashing fist barely missed his jaw, but struck across his throat, cutting off his breath. Another fist banged against his ear, and then they went down in a heap, clawing, striking, gouging.

There were no rules in this fight. Like two animals, battling to the death, they rolled in the sand, fighting with fists, elbows, knees; berserk creatures of the desert they were, fighting to the finish. There was no conversation, only grunting, choking, panting noises as they fought.

Rolling over and over, they went surging to their knees, only to go down again; digging their feet into the sand, growling, whimpering. Suddenly they fell apart and stumbled to their feet. Without a pause, the sheriff lowered his head and dived for the other, who was clawing at his holster for the gun which had been lost early in the fight. It was out there, shining on the sand, but there was no time to get it now.

Down they went again, but fell apart and got to their feet. Once more the sheriff charged swiftly, but this time the other man was not trying for his gun. The sheriff was coming in low, like a football tackler, and the other man met his charge, jerking up one knee as they crashed together. But the sheriff’s clutching hands went limp, as the knee caught him beneath the chin, and he flopped sidewise in the sand, his head twisted at a queer angle.

The other man slumped down in the sand, his head hanging, as he tried to pump air into his tortured lungs. His eyes were filled with perspiration and sand, his nose and mouth bleeding. He looked at the sheriff, blinking foolishly. Then he crawled to the water hole and stretched for a drink. The water was warm, bitter to the taste, but he drank heavily. He washed his face and hands, which dried immediately, and then he rolled a cigarette.

There was no remorse for what he had done. He looked at the inert figure on the sand indifferently. It had been fifteen years since he had seen Ben, and then only for a few days. Their paths had always been far apart. He snapped the cigarette aside and got to his feet. With callous indifference he changed clothes with the dead sheriff.

Then he loaded the body on his horse and took it far back into a little canyon, where he hid it among the rocks. The saddle and bridle he also hid away in a deep crevice, and turned the horse loose to shift for itself.

Back he went to the water hole, where he proceeded to wipe out all evidences of a fight. With a mesquite branch he smoothed the sand, knowing that the first breeze would finish the job. He threw his own gun off among the rocks, shoved his belt beneath a mesquite bush, and put on the sheriff’s belt.