“He did that.”
Roaring Rigby turned his sad-dog eyes upon the old man.
“Yea-a-ah, he went away, Jim Randall did. He wrote out his resignation, packed up his fambly, folded his tent, as you might say, and silently stole away. But I don’t blame him, Judge. He’s a married man. You’re as much to blame as he is. You two opined to make Turquoise sanitary. You ought to know better, Judge; you’re an old-timer. Jim Randall was born and raised in a cow-town, and he knew better. ’Sall right to set down upon crime. Oh, I ain’t sayin’ your motives ain’t right. Turquoise needs cleanin’. English Ed’s honkatonk ain’t noways a Sunday School, and that redlight district hadn’t ought to be there, but—”
“I know,” nodded Judge Beal.
“Yea-a-ah, you know now. You should have knowed before. Jim Randall got his warnin’ twice. They told him he’d get the third one in the dark, and Jim always was scared of the dark. You’ve got your first one, Judge.”
“Turquoise isn’t fit for a decent woman. Why, a—”
“It was before you two started yore crew—crew—”
“Crusade, Roaring.”
“Yeah, that’s it. You posted your notices, and you didn’t have nothin’ to back ’em. Jim Randall posts his notice, demandin’ that every puncher bring his gun to the sheriff’s office when he got to town, or get arrested. Did they, I ask you, Judge? They did like hell! You told ’em in plain English that the honkatonk must go. Did it?”
“No,” said the judge sadly. “I am obliged to admit that it is still there. I heard that Jim Randall had resigned, so I came to you, Roaring; you will be appointed sheriff, because you were Jim’s deputy. Now, what are you going to do?”