Corkscrew and Other Stories (6 page)

The cañon deserved its name—a rough and stony, tree and bush-choked, winding gutter across the face of Arizona. But it was nicely green and cool compared to most of the rest of the State.

I hadn't gone far when I ran into Milk River, leading his horse toward me. He shook his head.

“Not a damned thing! I can cut sign with the rest of 'em, but there's too many rocky ridges here.”

I dismounted. We sat under a tree and smoked some tobacco.

“How'd you come out?” he wanted to know.

“So-so. The rope is Peery's, but he didn't want to come along with me. I figure we can find him when we want him, so I didn't insist. It would have been kind of uncomfortable.”

He looked at me out of the end of his pale eyes.

“A hombre might guess,” he said slowly, “that you was playing the Circle H. A. R. against Bardell's crew, encouraging each side to eat up the other, and save you the trouble.”

“You could be either right or wrong. Do you think that'd be a dumb play?”

“I don't know. I reckon not—if you're making it, and if you're sure you're strong enough to take hold when you have to.”

X

Night was coming on when Milk River and I turned into Corkscrew's crooked street. It was too late for the Cañon House's dining-room, so we got down in front of the Jew's shack.

Chick Orr was standing in the Border Palace doorway. He turned his hammered mug to call something over his shoulder. Bardell appeared beside him, looked at me with a question in his eyes, and the pair of them stepped out into the street.

“What result?” Bardell asked.

“No visible ones.”

“You didn't make the pinch?” Chick Orr demanded, incredulously.

“That's right. I invited a man to ride back with me, but he said no.”

The ex-pug looked me up and down and spit on the ground at my feet.

“Ain't you a swell mornin'-glory?” he snarled. “I got a great mind to smack you down, you shine elbow, you!”

“Go ahead,” I invited him. “I don't mind skinning a knuckle on you.”

His little eyes brightened. Stepping in, he let an open hand go at my face. I took my face out of the way, and turned my back, taking off coat and shoulder-holster.

“Hold these, Milk River. And make the spectators behave while I take this pork-and-beaner for a romp.”

Corkscrew came running as Chick and I faced each other. We were pretty much alike in size and age, but his fat was softer than mine, I thought. He had been a professional. I had battled around a little, but there was no doubt that he had me shaded on smartness. To offset that, his hands were lumpy and battered, while mine weren't. And he was—or had been—used to gloves, while bare knuckles was more in my line.

Popular belief has it that you can do more damage with bare hands than with gloves, but, as usual, popular belief is wrong. The chief value of gloves is the protection they give your hands. Jaw-bones are tougher than finger-bones, and after you've pasted a tough face for a while with bare knuckles you find your hands aren't holding up very well, that you can't get the proper snap into your punches. If you don't believe me, look up the records. You'll find that knock-outs began to come quicker as soon as the boys in the profession began to pad their fists.

So I figured I hadn't anything to fear from this Chick Orr—or not a whole lot. I was in better shape, had stronger hands, and wasn't handicapped with boxing-glove training. I wasn't altogether right in my calculations.

He crouched, waiting for me to come to him. I went, trying to play the boob, faking a right swing for a lead.

Not so good! He stepped outside instead of in. The left I chucked at him went wide. He rapped me on the cheek-bone.

I stopped trying to out-smart him. His left hand played a three-note tune on my face before I could get in to him.

I smacked both hands into his body, and felt happy when the flesh folded softly around them. He got away quicker than I could follow, and shook me up with a sock on the jaw.

He left-handed me some more—in the eye, in the nose. His right scraped my forehead, and I was in again.

Left, right, left, I dug into his middle. He slashed me across the face with forearm and fist, and got clear.

He fed me some more lefts, splitting my lip, spreading my nose, stinging my face from forehead to chin. And when I finally got past that left hand I walked into a right uppercut that came up from his ankle to click on my jaw with a shock that threw me back half a dozen steps.

Keeping after me, he swarmed all over me. The evening air was full of fists. I pushed my feet into the ground and stopped the hurricane with a couple of pokes just above where his shirt ran into his pants.

He copped me with his right again—but not so hard. I laughed at him, remembering that something had clicked in his hand when he landed that uppercut, and plowed into him, hammering at him with both hands.

He got away again—cut me up with his left. I smothered his left arm with my right, hung on to it, and whaled him with my own left, keeping them low. His right banged into me. I let it bang. It was dead.

He nailed me once more before the fight ended—with a high straight left that smoked as it came. I managed to keep my feet under me, and the rest of it wasn't so bad. He chopped me a lot more, but his steam was gone.

He went down after a while, from an accumulation of punches rather than from any especial one, and couldn't get up.

His face didn't have a mark on it that I was responsible for. Mine must have looked as if it had been run through a grinder.

“Maybe I ought to wash up before we eat,” I said to Milk River as I took my coat and gun.

“Hell, yes!” he agreed, staring at my face.

A plump man in a Palm Beach suit got in front of me, taking my attention.

“I am Mr. Turney of the Orilla Colony Company,” he introduced himself. “Am I to understand that you have not made an arrest since you have been here?”

This was the bird who had advertised me! I didn't like that, and I didn't like his round, aggressive face.

“Yes,” I confessed.

“There have been two murders in two days,” he ran on, “concerning which you have done nothing, though in each case the evidence seems clear enough. Do you think that is satisfactory? Do you think you are performing the duties for which you were employed?”

I didn't say anything.

“Let me tell you that it is not at all satisfactory,” he supplied the answers to his own questions. “Neither is it satisfactory that you should have employed this man”—stabbing a plump finger in Milk River's direction—“who is notoriously one of the most lawless men in the county. I want you to understand clearly that unless there is a distinct improvement in your work—unless you show some disposition to do the things you were engaged to do—that engagement will be terminated!”

“Who'd you say you are?” I asked, when he had talked himself out.

“Mr. Turney, general superintendent of the Orilla Colony.”

“So? Well, Mr. General Superintendent Turney, your owners forgot to tell me anything about you when they employed me. So I don't know you at all. Any time you've got anything to say to me, you turn it over to your owners, and if it's important enough, maybe they'll pass it on to me.”

He puffed himself up.

“I shall certainly inform them that you have been extremely remiss in your duty, however proficient you may be in street brawls!”

“Will you put a postscript on for me,” I called after him as he walked away. “Tell 'em I'm kind of busy just now and can't use any advice—no matter who it comes from.”

Milk River and I went ten steps toward the Cañon House, and came face to face with the Reverend Dierks, Miss Janey, and old Adderly. None of them looked at me with anything you could call pleasure.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” Miss Janey ground out between her false teeth. “Fighting in the street—you who are supposed to keep the peace!”

“As a deputy sheriff you're terrible,” Adderly put in. “There's been more trouble here since you came than there ever was before!”

“I must say, brother, that I am deeply disappointed in your actions as a representative of the law!” was the minister's contribution.

I didn't like to say, “Go to hell!” to a group that included a minister and a woman, and I couldn't think of anything else, so, with Milk River making a poor job of holding in his laughter, I stepped around the better element, and we went on to the Cañon House.

Vickers, the sallow, pudgy proprietor, was at the door.

“If you think I got towels to mop up the blood from every hombre that gets himself beat up, you're mistaken,” he growled at me. “And I don't want no sheets torn up for bandages, neither!”

“I never seen such a disagreeable cuss as you are,” Milk River insisted as we climbed the stairs. “Seems like you can't get along with nobody. Don't you never make no friends?”

“Only with saps!”

I did what I could with water and adhesive tape to reclaim my face, but the result was a long way from beauty. Milk River sat on the bed and grinned and watched me.

“How does a fellow go about winning a fight he gets the worst of?” he inquired.

“It's a gift,” was the only answer I could think up.

“You're a lot gifted. That Chick give you more gifts than a Christmas tree could hold.”

XI

My patching finished, we went down to the Jew's for food. Three eaters were sitting at the counter. I had to exchange comments on the battle with them while I ate.

We were interrupted by the running of horses in the street. A dozen or more men went past the door, and we could hear them pulling up sharply, dismounting, in front of Bardell's.

Milk River leaned sidewise until his mouth was close to my ear.

“Big 'Nacio's crew from down the cañon. You better hold on tight, chief, or they'll shake the town from under you.”

We finished our meal and went out to the street.

In the glow from the big lamp over Bardell's door a Mexican lounged against the wall. A big black-bearded man, his clothes gay with silver buttons, two white-handled guns holstered low on his thighs, the holsters tied down.

“Will you take the horses over to the stable?” I asked Milk River. “I'm going up and lie across the bed and grow strength again.”

He looked at me curiously, and went over to where we had left the ponies.

I stopped in front of the bearded Mexican, and pointed with my cigarette at his guns.

“You're supposed to take those things off when you come to town,” I said pleasantly. “Matter of fact, you're not supposed to bring 'em in at all, but I'm not inquisitive enough to look under a man's coat for them. You can't wear them out in the open, though.”

Beard and mustache parted to show a smiling curve of yellow teeth.

“Mebbe if
el senor jerife
no lak t'ese t'ings, he lak try take t'em 'way?”

“No.
You
put 'em away.”

His smile spread.

“I lak t'em here. I wear t'em here.”

“You do what I tell you,” I said, still pleasantly, and left him, going back to the Jew's shack.

Leaning over the counter, I picked the sawed-off shotgun out of its nest.

“Can I borrow this? I want to make a believer out of a guy.”

“Yes, sir, sure! You help yourself!”

I cocked both barrels before I stepped outdoors.

The big Mexican wasn't in sight. I found him inside, telling his friends about it. Some of his friends were Mexican, some American, some God knows what. All wore guns. All had the look of thugs.

The big Mexican turned when his friends gaped past him at me. His hands dropped to his guns as he turned, but he didn't draw.

“I don't know what's in this cannon,” I told the truth, centering the riot gun on the company, “maybe pieces of barbed wire and dynamite shavings. We'll find out if you birds don't start piling your guns on the bar right away—because I'll sure-God splash you with it!”

They piled their weapons on the bar. I didn't blame them. This thing in my hands would have mangled them plenty!

“After this, when you come to Corkscrew, put your guns out of sight.”

Fat Bardell pushed through them, putting joviality back on his face.

“Will you tuck these guns away until your customers are ready to leave town?” I asked him.

“Yes! Yes! Be glad to!” he exclaimed when he had got over his surprise.

I returned the shotgun to its owner and went up to the Cañon House.

A door just a room or two from mine opened as I walked down the hall. Chick Orr came out, saying:

“Don't do nothin' I wouldn't do,” over his shoulder.

I saw Clio Landes standing inside the door.

Chick turned from the door, saw me, and stopped, scowling at me.

“You can't fight worth a damn!” he said. “All you know is how to hit!”

“That's right.”

He rubbed a swollen hand over his belly.

“I never could learn to take 'em down there. That's what beat me in the profesh.”

I tried to look sympathetic, while he studied my face carefully.

“I messed you up, for a fact.” His scowl curved up in a gold-toothed grin. The grin went away. The scowl came back. “Don't pick no more fights with me—I might hurt you!”

He poked me in the ribs with a thumb, and went on past me, down the stairs.

The girl's door was closed when I passed it. In my room, I dug out my fountain pen and paper, and had three words of my report written when a knock sounded on my door.

“Come in,” I called, having left the door unlocked for Milk River.

Clio Landes pushed the door open.

“Busy?”

“No. Come in and make yourself comfortable. Milk River will be along in a few minutes.”