Elder Conklin by Frank Harris (rom com books to read TXT) đ
- Author: Frank Harris
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âSheriff, do you reckon to take any of us uns with you tomorrow?â
With an indefinable ring of sarcasm in his negligent tone, the Sheriff answered:
âI guess not, Mr. Reid.â
Quickly Reid replied: âThen I reckon thereâs no use in us stayinâ;â and turning to a small knot of men among whom he had been sitting, he added, âLetâs go, boys!â
The men got up and filed out after their leader without greeting the Sheriff in any way. With the departure of this group the shadow lifted. Those who still remained showed in manner a marked relief, and a moment or two later a man named Morris, whom I knew to be a gambler by profession, called out lightly:
âThe crowd and youâll drink with me, Sheriff, I hope? I want another glass, and then we wonât keep you up any longer, for you ought to have a nightâs rest with tomorrowâs work before you.â
The Sheriff smiled assent. Every one moved towards the bar, and conversation became general. Morris was the centre of the company, and he directed the talk jokingly to the account in the âTribune,â making fun, as it seemed to me, though I did not understand all his allusions, of the editorâs timidity and pretentiousness. Morris interested and amused me even more than he amused the others; he talked like a man of some intelligence and reading, and listening to him I grew light-hearted and careless, perhaps more careless than usual, for my spirits had been ice-bound in the earlier gloom of the evening.
âFortunately our County and State authorities can be fully trusted,â some one said.
âMark that âfortunately,â Sheriff,â laughed Morris. âThe editor was afraid to mention you alone, so he hitched the State on with you to lighten the load.â
âAy!â chimed in another of the gamblers, âand the âaid and succour of each and every citizen,â eh, Sheriff, as if youâd take the whole town with you. I guess two or threeâll be enough fer Williams.â
This annoyed me. It appeared to me that Williams had addressed a personal challenge to the Sheriff, and I thought that Johnson should so consider it. Without waiting for the Sheriff to answer, whether in protest or acquiescence, I broke in:
âTwo or three would be cowardly. One should go, and one only.â At once I felt rather than saw the Sheriff free himself from the group of men; the next moment he stood opposite to me.
âWhat was that?â he asked sharply, holding me with keen eye and out-thrust chinârepressed passion in voice and look.
The antagonism of his bearing excited and angered me not a little. I replied:
âI think it would be cowardly to take two or three against a single man. I said one should go, and I say so still.â
âDo you?â he sneered. âI guess youâd go alone, wouldnât you? to bring Williams in?â
âIf I were paid for it I should,â was my heedless retort. As I spoke his face grew white with such passion that I instinctively put up my hands to defend myself, thinking he was about to attack me. The involuntary movement may have seemed boyish to him, for thought came into his eyes, and his face relaxed; moving away he said quietly:
âIâll set up drinks, boys.â
They grouped themselves about him and drank, leaving me isolated. But this, now my blood was up, only added to the exasperation I felt at his contemptuous treatment, and accordingly I walked to the bar, and as the only unoccupied place was by Johnsonâs side I went there and said, speaking as coolly as I could:
âThough no one asks me to drink I guess Iâll take some whisky, barkeeper, if you please.â Johnson was standing with his back to me, but when I spoke he looked round, and I saw, or thought I saw, a sort of curiosity in his gaze. I met his eye defiantly. He turned to the others and said, in his ordinary, slow way:
âWall, good night, boys; Iâve got to go. Itâs gittinâ late, anâ Iâve had about as much as I want.â
Whether he alluded to the drink or to my impertinence I was unable to divine. Without adding a word he left the room amid a chorus of âGood night, Sheriff!â With him went Martin and half-a-dozen more.
I thought I had come out of the matter fairly well until I spoke to some of the men standing near. They answered me, it is true, but in monosyllables, and evidently with unwillingness. In silence I finished my whisky, feeling that every one was against me for some inexplicable cause. I resented this and stayed on. In a quarter of an hour the rest of the crowd had departed, with the exception of Morris and a few of the same kidney.
When I noticed that these gamblers, outlaws by public opinion, held away from me, I became indignant. Addressing myself to Morris, I asked:
âCan you tell me, sir, for you seem to be an educated man, what I have said or done to make you all shun me?â
âI guess so,â he answered indifferently. âYou took a hand in a game where you werenât wanted. And you tried to come in without ever having paid the ante, which is not allowed in any gameâat least not in any game played about here.â
The allusion seemed plain; I was not only a stranger, but a foreigner; that must be my offence. With a âGood night, sir; good night, barkeeper!â I left the room.
*
The next morning I went as usual to the office. I may have been seated there about an hourâit was almost eight oâclockâwhen I heard a knock at the door.
âCome in,â I said, swinging round in the American chair, to find myself face to face with Sheriff Johnson.
âWhy, Sheriff, come in!â I exclaimed cheerfully, for I was relieved at seeing him, and so realized more clearly than ever that the unpleasantness of the previous evening had left in me a certain uneasiness. I was eager to show that the incident had no importance:
âWonât you take a seat? and youâll have a cigar?âthese are not bad.â
âNo, thank you,â he answered. âNo, I guess I wonât sit nor smoke jest now.â After a pause, he added, âI see youâre studyinâ; pârâaps youâre busy to-day; I wonât disturb you.â
âYou donât disturb me, Sheriff,â I rejoined. âAs for studying, thereâs not much in it. I seem to prefer dreaming.â
âWall,â he said, letting his eyes range round the walls furnished with Law Reports bound in yellow calf, âI donât know, I guess thereâs a big lot of readinâ to do before a man gets through with all those.â
âOh,â I laughed, âthe more I read the more clearly I see that law is only a sermon on various texts supplied by common sense.â
âWall,â he went on slowly, coming a pace or two nearer and speaking with increased seriousness, âI reckon youâve got all Locockâs business to see after: his clients to talk to; letters to answer, and all that; and when heâs on the drunk I guess he donât do much. I wonât worry you any more.â
âYou donât worry me,â I replied. âIâve not had a letter to answer in three days, and not a soul comes here to talk about business or anything else. I sit and dream, and wish I had something to do out there in the sunshine. Your work is better than reading words, wordsânothing but words,â
âYou ainât busy; hainât got anything to do here that might keep you? Nothinâ?â
âNot a thing. Iâm sick of Blackstone and all Commentaries.â
Suddenly I felt his hand on my shoulder (moving half round in the chair, I had for the moment turned sideways to him), and his voice was surprisingly hard and quick:
âThen I swear you in as a Deputy-Sheriff of the United States, and of this State of Kansas; and I charge you to bring in and deliver at the Sheriffâs house, in this county of Elwood, Tom Williams, alive or dead, andâthereâs your fee, five dollars and twenty-five cents!â and he laid the money on the table.
Before the singular speech was half ended I had swung round facing him, with a fairly accurate understanding of what he meant. But the moment for decision had come with such sharp abruptness, that I still did not realize my position, though I replied defiantly as if accepting the charge:
âIâve not got a weapon.â
âThe boys allowed you mightnât hev, and so I brought some along. You ken suit your hand.â While speaking he produced two or three revolvers of different sizes, and laid them before me.
Dazed by the rapid progress of the plot, indignant, too, at the trick played upon me, I took up the nearest revolver and looked at it almost without seeing it. The Sheriff seemed to take my gaze for that of an expertâs curiosity.
âIt shoots true,â he said meditatively, âplumb true; but itâs too small to drop a man. I guess it wouldnât stop any one with grit in him.â
My anger would not allow me to consider his advice; I thrust the weapon in my pocket:
âI havenât got a buggy. How am I to get to Osawotamie?â
âMineâs hitched up outside. You ken hev it.â
Rising to my feet I said: âThen we can go.â
We had nearly reached the door of the office, when the Sheriff stopped, turned his back upon the door, and looking straight into my eyes said:
âDonât play foolish. Youâve no call to go. Ef youâre busy, ef youâve got letters to write, anythinâ to doâIâll tell the boys you sed so, and thatâll be all; thatâll let you out.â
Half-humorously, as it seemed to me, he added: âYouâre young and a tenderfoot. Youâd better stick to what youâve begun upon. Thatâs the way to do somethinâ.âI often think itâs the work chooses us, and weâve just got to get down and do it.â
âIâve told you I had nothing to do,â I retorted angrily; âthatâs the truth. Perhapsâ (sarcastically) âthis work chooses me.â
The Sheriff moved away from the door.
On reaching the street I stopped for a moment in utter wonder. At that hour in the morning Washington Street was usually deserted, but now it seemed as if half the men in the town had taken up places round the entrance to Locockâs office stairs. Some sat on barrels or boxes tipped up against the shop-front (the next store was kept by a German, who sold fruit and eatables); others stood about in groups or singly; a few were seated on the edge of the sidewalk, with their feet in the dust of the street. Right before me and most conspicuous was the gigantic figure of Martin. He was sitting on a small barrel in front of the Sheriffâs buggy.
âGood morning,â I said in the air, but no one answered me. Mastering my irritation, I went forward to undo the hitching-strap, but Martin, divining my intention, rose and loosened the buckle. As I reached him, he spoke in a low whisper, keeping his back turned to me:
âShoot off a joke quick. The boysâll let up on you then. Itâll be all right. Say somethinâ, for Godâs sake!â
The rough sympathy did me good, relaxed the tightness round my heart; the resentment natural to one entrapped left me, and some of my self-confidence returned:
âI never felt less like joking in my life, Martin, and humour
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