15 Western Short Stories — page 94: what you’re looking at

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

04 his riders lounged nearby. Joe Kirby could feel their eyes on his back as he moved down the street to the hash house. Dusk was settling over Tum- bleweed Town as the Chinaman set his food before him. And in the dusk, men moved silent- ly about. Grim, hard men, with guns slung low, whose watchful eyes kept track of the movements around town. One strolled into the restaurant and ordered pie and coffee, but Joe Kirby didn’t turn around. He knew that he wouldn’t have to watch his back—not yet. He kept on eating, and presently, the man who’d ordered moved over and sat on the stool-next to Kirby. The Chinaman padded back toward the kitchen on soundless feet. “Was talking to Alf Masden a few minutes ago,” the man said conversa- tionally. He didn’t lift his eyes from his plate. “Said he figured you'd make a right good sheriff.” “We already got a sheriff,’ Kirby said. “Yeah, but you never can tell when we gonna need another one,” the other grunted. “Tumbleweed City might need one before morning. Never can tell. And Masden’s got a lot of pull— he could make a man sheriff—if that man already wore a deputy’s badge anyhow.” “You can go now,” Joe Kirby said. “Tell Masden that you spoke your piece—and that I listened.” THE MAN hesitated a minute, de- bating whether to say more. But the Chinaman came back, and the man left, lingering a long moment in the doorway. Kirby let him get well up the street. The food he was eating had become tasteless lumps. He shoved his plate aside and left. Hank Bowers’ voice was rumbling, loud and sneering, when the deputy reentered the office. The sound of Kirby entering stopped Hank. Sheriff Hawkes walked into the office and dropped the letter on the top of the desk. He slumped into his chair, and for thé*first time, Joe Kirby noticed how old and tired the Jawman looked. “They've talked to him—made him be- heve that they’re going to get him out. He’s cocky and impudent.” His gnarled old hand clenched, then re- WESTERN SHORT STORIES laxed. “And right when I was on the verge of breaking the crookedness around here wide open!” Joe Kirby nodded, busy with his own thoughts. He’d been on the verge of something, too. He’d had it in his grasp, only to have to turn it loose. But did he have to turn it loose? He remembered what the man in the eatery had said. He, Joe. Kirby, sheriff of Tumbleweed City! He looked at Sheriff Hawkes, suddenly fearful that the wise old lawman could read his thoughts. But the law- man was staring moodily out the win- -dow. Presently, he arose. “Reckon [ll get some grub.” “Watch the shadows,’ Joe Kirby said, and didn’t know why he did. Hawkes nodded, giving him a long elance. “You keep your eyes open,” he re- plied. “There’s—things going on in Tumbleweed—” ~A moment after the door slammed, Hank Bowers called cautiously, “Kir- by! Hawkes in there?” “He’s gone out,’ Joe Kirby said. “Come back here. Want to talk to you.” Kirby walked back. Hank was gripping the bars of his cell door tight. Masden talk to you?” “T saw him on the street,” Kirby ad- mitted. “Lemme outta here,” Bowers said bluntly. “You dam’ fool! shouldn't have arrested me in the first place.” “On the contrary, it was a smart trick,” Alf Masden said. Kirby whirled quickly. He hadn’t heard the rancher come into the outer office. Masden stood in the doorway of the little corridor that ran down the cell block. The dim light fell on his face, showing the tight half-grin he wore. “Nothing like a future sheriff building up a reputation, so’s people b “will have confidence in him. C’mon out in the office, Kirby. Wanta talk to you. And you, Hank! Shut up! That big mouth of yours’ll git you killed Someday.” Hank muttered profanity and sprawled on his bunk. “I better git: out of here—that’s all,” he growled. “T ain’t hankering to stretch rope—re- member that, Masden! And you, Kir- by—I saw you lift that dead deputy’s com S MICLOO© You- CO