15 Western Short Stories — page 33: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

WAY OF DYING a cool spring while the Kid had no water and, to their sure knowledge, had not had for at least 24 hours. “Well, we was lucky we jumped him off Apache Tanks ’fore he could fill his canteens anyway,” the sheriff grumbled, caim-willed despite the pain of small bones splintered into flesh. “He must be dry to the bone by now—can’t last much longer.” “Nor his horse, inside that bakeoven with him,’ Jess Hardy murmured, sympathy in his tone. For the horse. Nobody wasted sympathy on the Sheepfaced Kid, thief and many times murderer, his back trail black with things done that could make decent men go pale at hearing. “Horse must be in bad shape too,” the sheriff agreed. “Good thing fer us, maybe—-come dark when the Kid makes his break.” “Dunno which’d be worst,” sighed a posseman, he of the grazed hipbone. “The Kid thunderin’ out of there a- horseback with a six-shooter in each hand, or the Kid comin’ afoot like a ghost in the dark. Me, wisht I was home under the bed.” The words came through a wry grin like ten others, would not have traded his place here for any other spot across the wide world—for all their sure knowledge that more than one of eleven would stop a bullet of the Kid’s before he was finally downed. To be in on the stomping-out of the Sheepfaced Kid! That would be some- thing to remember, with a quiet pride, all of a man’s life; a thing to become part of each family history, passed down through the generations. Be- sides, it meant that a man might leave his wife and family safely home while he went to roundup. It came again, the Kid’s shout. “You fellers out there! Will you Jissen a minnit?” A TOUCH of desperation in the rasping tones, Jess Hardy thought. Could it be the Kid was cracking a little? Showing yellow now he was cornered? Jess doubted that. The Sheepfaced Kid’s courage, if his only redeeming trait, was legendary. Times before the Kid had maneuvered himself out of situations seemingly as that told of their falsity. Joe Carlin, Be 33 hopeless as this; had shot his way through tighter rings of men. No, the Kid wasn’t cracking. A trick, maybe— “Lissen. J kin stand it. Ain’t seen yet what J can’t stand! But my horse —he ain’t had water since’ yestiday at Apache Tanks, and then only a few swallers. If I turn him out the door, will you let him git to the spring? And one of you kind of regulate his drinkin’? I promise not to shoot, if the feller gits in sight doin’ that.” Surprise rippled all around the knoll. The Sheepfaced Kid, cornered and worrying about his horse! That was a good one! That would be one to tell around the bunkhouses, the sa- loons. To regale their grandchildren with many years from now.... A ruse, though, of course. One of the Kid's half-magic tricks that nobody ever saw through till it had worked, and the Kid thumbed his nose from safety. “Look.” Something like appeal was in the voice now, a wheedling; ut- terly foreign to the Kid’s defiant — surly nature as these men knew it. “Ain't asking nothing fer myself— won’t ask, neither. If you kin git me, | you're welcome—them as’ll be left of you. But it can’t hurt you none to let my horse drink—lockjaw’s a tough way to die—” These men knew lockjaw, and how it struck a horse too long deprived of water. Jess had seen it; so had most of the posse. A pitiful thing, and not. much you could do once jaws were tightlocked. Jess got suddenly to his feet, his torso above the low bank back of the spring, in plain view from the cabin. Men cried at him in urgent horror. “Get down, you fool! You know what the kid’s say-so is worth!” Others held their breath, weapons tensely ready. But no bullet came from the cabin’s chinks. “Send him out, Kid,’ Jess called levelly. “Ill look after him.” Heads, gun muzzles lifted reckless- ly. If the Kid was on that horse or behind it, coming out— But the horse came alone, reins wrapped to the horn, walking fast, then trotting straight downslope toward the smell of water, stumbling a little, uncertain on its feet. Jess Hardy caught the bridle, was hauled S CO COMmiclooo©