Jerry Brown

BY CLARENCE E. MULFORD

T}}HE patrons of the “Oasis” liked their tobacco strong. The pungent smoke drifted in sluggish clouds along the low, black ceiling, following its upward slant toward the east wall and away from the high bar at the other end. This bar, rough and strong, ran from the north wall to within a scant two feet of the south wall, the opening bridged by a hinged board forming part of the counter. Behind the bar was a rear door, low and double, the upper part of which was barred, for the lower half was used most. In front of and near the bar was a large, round table, upon which four men played cards silently, while two smaller tables were located along the north wall. Besides dilapidated chairs there were half a dozen low, wooden boxes partly filled with sand, and attention was directed to the existence and purpose of these by a roughly lettered sign on the wall, reading: “Gents will look for a box first,” which the “Gents” sometimes did.

On the wall behind the bar was a neater, smaller request: “Leave your guns with the bartender.—Edwards.” This, although a month old, still called forth caustic and profane remarks from the regular frequenters of the saloon, for hitherto restraint in the carrying of weapons was unknown; and they evaded the order in a manner consistent with their characteristics by carrying smaller guns where they could not be seen.

Edwards, the new marshal, had a reputation as a fighter, which had preceded him, and when he took up his first day's work he was kept busy proving that he was the rightful owner of it. With the exception of one instance the proof had been bloodless, for he reasoned that gun-play should give way, whenever possible, to a crushing “right” or “left” to the point of the jaw or pit of the stomach. The last doubting Thomas to be convinced “came to” five minutes after his diaphragm had been rudely raised several inches by a right upper-cut, and as he groped for his bearings he asked, feebly, where “Kansas” was, and the name stuck.

When Harlan heard the nickname for the first time he remarked casually: “I allus reckoned Kansas was purty close to hell.” Harlan was the proprietor and bartender of the “Oasis” and catered to the excessive and uncritical thirsts of the ruck of range society, and had objected to the placing of the second sign in his place of business; but at the close of an incisive if inelegant reply from the marshal, the sign went up.

Edwards did not like the “Oasis,” for it was a thorn in his side, and he was only waiting for a good excuse to wipe it off the local map. He was the Law, and behind him were the range-riders, who would be only too glad to have Harlan's nest of rustlers wiped out and its gang of ne'er-do-wells scattered to the four winds. Indeed, he understood that if this was not done lawfully they would essay it themselves, and this would not do in a law-abiding community, as he called it.

One bleak and blustering night of late spring, when the air had an unusual, penetrating chill for that latitude, most of the regular habitués had assembled at Harlan's, where, besides the card players already mentioned, eight men lounged against the bar. There was some laughter, much loud talking and a little whispering. More whispering went on under that roof than in all the other places in town; for here rustling was planned, wayfaring strangers were “trimmed” in “frame-ups” at cards, and a hunted man was certain to find assistance. Harlan had once boasted that no fugitive had ever been taken from his saloon, and he was behind the bar and standing on the trap door which led to the six-by-six cellar when he said it.

Talking ceased and card playing was suspended while all looked up as the front door crashed open and two punchers entered and looked the crowd over. “Stay here, Johnny,” Hopalong Cassidy told his friend and companion, and then walked forward, scrutinizing each scowling face in turn, while Johnny Nelson stood with his back to the front wall, keenly alert, his hand resting lightly on his belt.

Harlan's thick neck grew crimson and his eyes hard: “Looking for somethin'?” he asked with bitter sarcasm, his hands under the bar. Johnny grinned.

“Yes,” replied Hopalong coolly, “but it ain't here. Johnny, get out,” he ordered, backing after his companion and, safely outside, the two walked to Jackson's store, where they met the marshal.

“He ain't in there yet,” Hopalong reported.

“Did you look all over? Behind th' bar?” Kansas asked. “He can't get out of town through that cordon you've placed, an' he ain't no place else.”

“Come on back!” excitedly exclaimed Johnny, “you didn't look behind th' bar!”

In the saloon there was strong language, and Jack Quinn, expert skinner of other men's cows, looked inquiringly at the proprietor: “What's up, anyhow?”

Harlan laughed harshly but said nothing, as was his custom: “Cigars?” he asked, pushing out a box to a customer.

But the man at the far end of the line was unlike the proprietor and he prefaced his remarks with a curse: “I know what's up! They want Jerry Brown, that's what!”

“He was shore careless, blotting that brand so near th' ranch house,” remarked Boston, adept at sleight-of-hand with cards and very much in demand when a “frame-up” was to be “rung in” on some stranger.

“Them big ranches make me mad,” announced the first speaker. “Ten years ago there was a lot of little ranchers, an' each had his herd, an' free grass an' water for it. Where are th' little herds now? Where are th' herds that we used to own?” he cried. “What happens to a maverick hunter nowadays? By God, if a man helps hisself to a he's hunted down an' shot!”

Cries of approbation arose, for his auditors ignored the fact that their kind, by avarice and thievery, had forever killed the occupation of maverick hunting.

Slivers Lowe leaped up from his chair: “Yore right, Harper! Dead right! I was a little cattle owner onct, so was you, an' Jerry, an' most of us!” Slivers found it convenient to forget that fully half of his few hundred head had perished in the bitter winter of five years before, and that the remainder had either flowed down his parched throat or had been lost across the big, round table near the bar. Not a few of his cows were banked in the East under Harlan's name.

The rear door opened slightly and one of the loungers looked up and nodded: “It's all right, Jerry. But lively!”

“Here, you!” called Harlan, bending over the trap door. “Lively!” 

Jerry was half way to the proprietor when the front door swung open and Hopalong, closely followed by the marshal, leaped into the room, and immediately afterward the back door banged open and Johnny entered. Jerry's right hand was in his side coat pocket and Johnny, young and self-confident, and with a lot to learn, was certain that he could beat the fugitive on the draw.

“I reckon you won't blot no more brands!” he cried, triumphantly.

The card players had leaped to their feet and at a signal from Harlan surged forward to the bar and formed a barrier between Johnny and his friends, and as they did so, that puncher jerked at his gun, half facing the crowd. Then it was that fire and smoke spurted from Jerry's coat pocket and the odor of burning cloth arose. As the puncher turned half around and fell the rustler ducked low and sprang for the door; a gun roared twice in the front of the room and he swore as he gained the darkness outside and threw himself into the saddle.

When the crowd massed Hopalong leaped at it and strove to tear his way to the opening at the end of the bar, while the marshal covered Harlan and the others. Finding that he could not get through, Hopalong sprang on the shoulder of the nearest man and succeeded in winging the fugitive at the first shot, the other going wild. Then, frantic with rage and anxiety, he beat his way through the line, hammering mercilessly at heads with the butt of his heavy Colt, and knelt at his friend's side.

Edwards, angered almost to killing, ordered the crowd against the wall, and laughed viciously when he saw two men senseless on the floor. “Hope he killed you!” he gritted, savagely. “Harlan, put yore paws up in sight or I'll get you! Now climb over an' get in line—Quick!”

Johnny moaned and opened his eyes: “Did, did I get him?”

“No, but he gimleted you, all right,” Hopalong replied. “You'll come 'round if you keep quiet.” He arose, his face hard. “I'm coming back for you, Harlan, after I get yore friend! An' all th' rest of you pups, too!”

““Get me outen here,” whispered Johnny.

“Shore enough, but keep quiet,” replied Hopalong, picking him up in his arms and going toward the door. “We'll get him, Johnny; an' all th' rest, too, when—” the voice died out in the direction of Jackson's and the marshal, backing to the front door, slipped out and to one side, running backwards, his eyes on the saloon. “Yore day's about over, Harlan,” he muttered. “There's going to be some funerals around here.”

When he reached the store he found the owner and two Double-Arrow punchers taking care of Johnny. “Where's Hopalong?” he asked.

“Gone to tell his foreman,” replied Jackson. “Hey, youngster, you let them bandages alone!”

“Hullo, Kansas,” remarked John Bartlett, foreman of the Double Arrow. “I near got yore man; somebody rode past me like a streak in th' dark, so I just let drive for luck, an' so did he. I heard him cuss, an' then I emptied my gun after him.”

“Th' rest was a passing th' word along to ride in when I left,' remarked one of the other punchers. “How you feeling now, Johnny?”

rain slanted down in sheets and the broken plain, thoroughly saturated, held the water in pools or sent it down the steep sides of the arroyo, to feed the turbulent flood which swept along the bottom, foam-flecked and covered with swiftly moving driftwood. Around a bend in the arroyo, where the water flung itself against the ragged bulwark of rock and flashed away in a gleaming line of foam, a horseman appeared, bending low in the saddle for protection against the storm. He rode along the edge of the stream on the side opposite the steep bluff, forcing his wounded and jaded horse to keep fetlock deep in the water which swirled and sucked about its legs. He was trying to hide his trail. Lower down the hard, rocky ground extended to the water's edge, and if he could delay his pursuers for an hour or so he felt that, even with his tired horse, he would have a chance.

But they had gained more than he knew. Suddenly above him on the top of the steep bluff across the torrent a man loomed against the clouds, peered intently into the arroyo and then waved his sombrero to an unseen companion. A puff of smoke flashed from his shoulder and streaked away, the report of the shot lost in the gale. The fugitive's horse reared and plunged into the deep water and with its rider was swept rapidly toward the bend.

“That's th' fourth time I missed him!” angrily exclaimed Hopalong, as Red Connors joined him.

The other quickly raised his rifle and fired; and the horse, spilling its rider out of the saddle, floated toward the bend tail first. The fugitive, gripping his rifle, bobbed and whirled at the whim of the greedy water as shots struck near him and, making a desperate effort, staggered up the bank and fell exhausted behind a bowlder.

“Well, th' coyote's afoot, anyhow,” said Red, with satisfaction.

“Yes, but how are we going to get him?” Hopalong asked. “We can't get th' cayuses down here, an' we can't swim it without 'em. An' if we could, he'd pot us.”

“There's a way, somehow,” Red replied, disappearing over the edge of the bluff.

A puff of smoke sailed from behind a bowlder on the other bank and Hopalong, hazarding a shot, followed his friend. Red was down stream casting at a rock across. the torrent, but the wind toyed with the heavy riata as though it were a string. As Hopalong reached his side a piece of driftwood ducked under the water and an angry humming sound died away down stream.

“He's some shaky,” Hopalong remarked, looking back. “I must a hit him harder than I thought in Harlan's.”

“I was trying to rope that rock over there,” Red replied, coiling the rope. “If I could anchor to that th' current would push me over. But it's too far.”

“We can't do nothing here 'cept get plugged,” Hopalong replied. And then, suddenly, “Say! Remember that meadow back a piece? We can make it there.”

“That's what we got to do. He's sending 'em nearer every shot. Gee, it's stopped raining!”

They clambered up the slippery, muddy bank to where they had left their horses, and cantered back over the trail. Minute after minute passed before the cautious skulker among the rocks could believe in his good fortune. When he at last decided that he was alone he left his shelter and started away, with slowly weakening stride over a blind trail.

Sometime later the two irate punchers appeared upon the scene, and their comments, as they hunted slowly over the hard ground, were numerous and bitter. Deciding that it was hopeless in that vicinity, they began casting in great circles on the chance of crossing the trail further back from the river. But they had little faith in their success. As Red remarked, snorting like a horse in his disgust: “I bet fo' bits he's swum down th' stream clear to h—l just to have th' laugh on us.” Red had long since given it up as a bad job, though continuing to search, when a shout from the distant Hopalong sent him forward on a run.

“Hey, Red!” cried Hopalong, pointing ahead of them. “Look there! Ain't that a house?”

“Naw, course not—it's a ship!” Red snorted sarcastically.

“G'wan!” retorted his companion, “It's a mission.”

“Ah! What's a mission doing up here?” Red snapped.

“What do they do anywhere?” rejoined Hopalong, hotly, thinking about Johnny. “There! See the cross?”

“Shore enough!”

“An' here's tracks at last—mighty wobbly, but tracks just th' same—Red, I bet you he's cashed in.”

“Cashed nothing! Them fellers don't.”

“Well, if he's in that joint we won't get him, anyhow,” declared Hopalong.

“You wait an' see!” replied Red, pugnaciously.

“Reckon you never run up agin a mission real hard,” Hopalong responded.

“Think I'm a fool kid?” Red snapped, aggressively.

“Well, you ain't no kid.”

“You let me do th' talking. I'll get him.”

“Here's where I laugh,” snickered Hopalong as they arrived at the door. “Sic “em, Red!”

The other boldly stepped into a small vestibule, Hopalong at his heels. Red hitched his holster and walked heavily into a room at his left. With the exception of a bench, a table and a small altar, the room was devoid of furnishings, and the effect of these was lost in the dim light from the narrow windows. The peculiar, not unpleasant odor of burning incense and the dim light awakened a latent reverence and awe in Hopalong, and he removed his sombrero, an inexplicable feeling of guilt stealing over him.

Red was peering into the dark corners, his hand on the butt of his heavy Colt. “This joint must a looked plumb good to that coyote, all right. He had a h—l of a lot of luck, but he won't keep it long,” he remarked.

“Quit cussing!” ordered Hopalong, “an' for God's sake put out that d—d cigarette! Ain't you got no sense?”

Red listened intently and then grinned: “Hear that?—they're playing dominoes—come on!”

“Ah, you chump! Dominee means father!”

“T“ll bet it's a frame-up so that coyote can get away. I'm going inside an' ask questions.”

Before he could put this plan into execution the silent figure of a monk stepped into the room and stood gravely regarding them. “Look here, stranger,” said Red with quiet emphasis, “we're after that cow-lifter, an' we mean to get him.”

The monk did not appear to hear him, so he tried another tack. “Habla Espanola?” he asked, experimentally.

“You have ridden far?” replied the monk in perfect English.

“All th' way from th' Bend,” Red replied. “We're after Jerry Brown, who tried to kill Johnny. An' I reckon he's treed, judgin' from the tracks.”

“And if you capture him?”

“He won't have no more use for a pocket gun.”

“T see; you will kill him.”

“Shore's it's wet outside.”

“I'm afraid you are doomed to disappointment.”

“Ya-as?” asked Red with a rising inflection.

“You will not want him now.”

Red laughed sarcastically. “There ain't agoing to be no argument about it. Trot him out!”

The monk turned to Hopalong: “Do you, too, want him?”

Hopalong nodded.

“My friends, he is safe from your punishment.”

Red turned and ran outside, returning in a few minutes, smiling triumphantly: “There are some tracks coming in, but there ain't none going away. If you don't lead us we'll have to poke him out for ourselves; which is it?”

“You are right—he is here, and he is not here.”

“We're waiting,” Red replied, grinning.

“When I tell you that you will not want him, do you still insist on seeing him?”

“We'll see him, an' we'll want him, too.”

As the rain poured down again the sound of approaching horses was heard, and Hopalong ran to the door in time to see Buck Peters swing off his mount and step forward to enter the building. Hopalong stopped him and briefly outlined the situation, begging him to keep the men outside. The monk met his return with a grateful smile and, stepping forward, opened the chapel door, saying, “Follow me.”

The unpretentious chapel was small and nearly dark, for the usual dimness was increased by the lowering clouds outside. The deep, narrow window openings, fitted with stained glass, ran almost to the rough-hewn rafters supporting the steep-pitched roof, upon which the heavy rain beat with a sound like that of distant drums. Gusts of rain and the water from the roof beat against the south windows, while the wailing wind played its mournful cadences about the eaves, and the staunch timbers added their creaking notes to swell the dirge-like chorus.

At the further end of the room two figures knelt and moved before the white altar, the soft light of flickering candles playing fitfully upon them and glinting from the altar ornaments, while before a rough coffin, which rested upon two pedestals, stood a third, whose rich, sonorous Latin filled the chapel with impressive sadness: “Give eternal rest to them, Oh, Lord—” the words seemed to become a part of the room, the ineffably sad, haunting melody of the mass whispered back from the roof between the assaults of the enraged wind; while from the altar came the responses in a low, Gregorian chant, and through it all the clinking of the censer chains added intermittent notes. Aloft streamed the vapor of the incense, wavering with the air currents, now lost in the deep twilight of the sanctuary, and now faintly revealed by the glow of the candles, perfuming the air with its aromatic odor.

As the last deep-toned words died away the celebrant moved slowly around the body, swinging the censer over it and then, sprinkling it and making the sign of the cross above its head, solemnly withdrew. From the shadows along the base of the side walls other figures silently emerged and formed around the coffin. Raising it from the pedestals they turned it slowly around and carried it down the dim aisle in measured tread, moving silently as ghosts.

“He is with God, Who will punish according to his sins,” said a low voice, and Hopalong started, for he had forgotten the presence of the guide. “God be with you, and may you die as he died—repentant, and in peace.”

Buck chafed impatiently before the chapel door leading to a small, well-kept graveyard, wondering what it was that kept quiet for so long a time his two most assertive men, when he had momentarily expected to hear more or less turmoil and confusion.

C-r-e-a-k! He glanced up, gun in hand and raised as the door swung slowly open. His hand dropped suddenly and he took a short step forward; six black-robed figures shouldering a long box stepped slowly past him, and his nostrils were assailed by the pungent odor of the incense. Behind them came his fighting punchers, humble, awed, reverent, their sombreros in their hands and their heads bowed.

“What in h—l!” exclaimed Buck, wonder and surprise struggling for the mastery as the others cantered up.

“He's cashed,” Red replied, putting on his sombrero and nodding at the procession.

Buck turned: “Skinny! Lanky! Follow that glory-outfit an' see what's in that box.”

Billy Williams grinned at Red: “Yo're shore pious.”

“Shut up!” snapped Red, anger glinting in his eyes, and Billy subsided.

Lanky and Skinny soon returned and the former reported: “I had to look twict to be shore it was him. His face was plumb happy, like a baby. But he's gone, all right.”

“Deader 'n h—l,” remarked Skinny.

“All right—he knowed how he'd finish when he began. Now for Mr. Harlan,” Buck replied, vaulting into the saddle. He turned and looked at Hopalong, and his wonder grew. “Hey, you! Yes, you! Come out of that an' put on yore lid! Straddle leather—we can't stay here all night!”

Hopalong started, looked at his sombrero and silently obeyed.

Billy, grinning, turned and playfully punched him in the ribs: “Getting glory, Hoppy?”'

Hopalong looked him steadily in the eyes and Billy, losing his curiosity and the grin at the same instant, looked ahead, whistling softly.