Under His Shirt/Chapter 2

HEN the news of Joe Daly's return was first carried to Pete Burnside, the deputy sheriff did not believe it. And there were good reasons for his incredulity. Through a long life of battle on the Western frontier, he was well-acquainted with what happens to the heart and soul of a man who is once beaten in fight. After the shameful and conclusive beating which Joe Daly had sustained seven months before, Pete Burnside would have sworn that the latter could never return and hold up his head among his old companions.

To be sure, Pete Burnside knew that there are some men who can be beaten in battle, shot down in the midst of the fight by a fair foe, and then arise at a later time and crush the once-victorious enemy. These are phlegmatic fighters—English warriors, so to speak. But there is another kind, the kind to which Joe Daly belonged. These are men whose muscles are set upon hair-trigger nerves. Their movements in a crisis become blindingly swift. The draw of their gun is like the uncurling of the lash when the whip is snapped. In a tenth part of a second, a single terrible explosion of mental and nervous energy, the bullet is fired, the enemy is dropped, the battle is over. Or, if it is maintained, the battle while it lasts is simply a prolongation of that original conflict.

But when such a man is beaten to the draw, he is very apt to lose his nerve. After one defeat he is no account. Joe Daly, as Pete knew, was one of that high-strung type. And the reason that Pete knew so well was because he was himself in the very same category. He knew that he himself conquered in the same spirit in which Daly fought. There was that resistless union of hysteria of nerves and muscles working together in great flashes of effort. His life, it might be said, was composed of a scattered series of such flashes of effort. Daly's was compased [sic] of the same thing. The chief difference was the use to which they put their abilities to paralyze the efforts of ordinary men. Daly was, as Burnside was practically confident, the leading member of a gang which rustled cattle and in other ways defied the law. But Burnside was a deputy sheriff.

So well known were Burnside's ability with a gun and his dauntless courage in the pursuit and destruction of outlaws, that he might have been sheriff in half a dozen counties. But he preferred to hold a more or less roving commission, going here and going there, striking at random, as the occasion moved him, and always acting as an invaluable coadjutor of the law.

Burnside had trailed Joe Daly and his gang until Burnside was on the verge of cornering half a dozen of them. On that occasion Joe himself had turned back to face and destroy the destroyer. And in that memorable encounter Joe had, gone down. The bullet of Burnside had crashed through the shoulder of Joe just a fraction of a second before Joe's own gun had exploded and sent a slug whistling past the head of the deputy sheriff.

But, no matter how close a call it had been, there was never a truer maxim than that a miss is as good as a mile. The burden of victory rested with Pete. He lifted the fallen enemy and carried him to town. On the way he assured Joe that the time had come when Joe must hunt for better camping grounds, and if he returned in that direction, after his recovery, he, Pete Burnside, would make it his duty and his pleasure to call upon him and blow him off the face of the earth. For Pete Burnside was well convinced that Joe was a rustler of cattle, a horse thief, and other things unspeakable. He would never forget the peculiar expression of horror with which Joe had looked up into his face on that day. And in that instant he had known that Daly would never dare to face him again.

He knew that by consulting his own inner man. And, concerning himself, he was calmly confident that no human being could ever beat him if the chances to draw were equal at the start. If they were not, that was another story, and defeat would be no disgrace—would mean nothing except death, perhaps, and death was meaningless compared to the glory of being the greatest and most dreaded man hunter in the mountain ranges. In the meantime he believed that it was impossible for any other human being to possess that flashing speed with a gun and that deadly certainty in action with which he was blessed—a blessing which he cultivated and improved by constant practice. But if the impossible should ever happen—if another should surpass him in speed and precision—what would happen to that perilously finely organized nervous system?

At the thought he shuddered and felt his pride disintegrate. He could feel himself crumble at the prospect. He would sink as low as he had once been high!

Such was the thought of Pete Burnside. And, knowing what he did, it was no wonder that he blinked and then shook his head when it was told to him that Joe Daly was back in town, more insolent than ever and clamorously announcing that he was ready to meet the terrible deputy sheriff whenever that worthy desired a meeting.

The sheriff himself was worried. He could not send for Pete, because there  was no charge against Joe. There was only a huge weight of suspicion. Legally speaking the deputy had not had the slightest shadow of a right to command Joe Daly to leave those parts and never to return. But in the eye of the public at large, Pete had every right. And it had been noticed that after the disappearance of Joe Daly the rustling of cattle, the stealing of horses, the occasional holdups through the adjacent hills fell away to nothingness, comparatively speaking.

What could be a more vivid proof that Pete Burnside, as usual, had been right and had solved the problem for the community. They would have voted him a whole flock of gold watches and chains and huge diamond pins. But gifts were not wanted. Pete lived for the pleasure of battle, and he did not wish to be paid for doing his duty. His salary, he often said, represented living expenses, not a reward for service!

And when the distinguished deputy heard that Joe Daly was returned to the town, he shrugged his shoulders, removed his cigarette from his lips, and blew a cloud of smoke at the moon.

"There's sure queer things happening around, these parts," said Pete Burnside and straightway mounted his horse and started for the town.

It was just after twilight when he started. It was eight o'clock when his horse jogged down the main street knocking up a cloud of alkali dust which stung the nostrils of the riders. He knew where to go, but he did not know what he should expect to meet. Strange doubts had been rising in his mind, and he had pushed on his horse until the poor creature was almost exhausted in his eagerness to get at once to his enemy and settle all doubts with the guns. But what had nerved Joe Daly to return?

A chill of terror struck through the deputy sheriff. It was not fear of Joe, to be sure, but it was fear of some power which might be behind Daly. It was fear of fear, one might have said. Something had happened not to the body of Daly, of course, but to his spirit. Something which must have been like a miracle, for he could vividly remember how Daly had cringed before him on the occasion of their last meeting.

Where he would find Joe now was not a matter of question. Daly would be on the hotel veranda. At the coming of the deputy he would rise. They would exchange words, so that both could be said to have received their warning, and then they would go for their weapons of one accord. He who died would be buried. He who survived might be arrested, but in that case he would plead that he saw the hand of his opponent go toward the holster at his side, and that he had shot in self-defense. And not the most prejudiced jury that could be brought together in the mountains would convict where there was a reasonable doubt about that plea of self-defense. For, as the good citizens told themselves and one another, how could they tell when they themselves might be in such an encounter? When they were about to fight for their lives, would they wish to know that the law would hang them, should they happen to escape from the bullets of the enemy?

Straight up to the hotel, then, rode Pete Burnside. How would Joe Daly appear, and what would be his manner? The deputy saw even from a great distance; even from a great distance he heard a ringing and loud laughter. And when he came a little closer he saw Joe Daly tilted far back in a chair on the veranda, with his thumbs hooked into the armholes of his vest, and his hat thrust to the back of his head. And his ugly, square-face was wreathed with grins of confidence and self-satisfaction.

The deputy hesitated a single instant. Then he gritted his teeth and made the nervousness leave him. He swung to the ground and advanced. There was a gripping chill in his stomach, and his head was light and empty; his lips trembled, his knees were unstrung; his face was white. Now a great coldness of spirit was translated into a physical chill.

It was fear. But, for that matter, he never entered a battle without being in the hold-of this same terror. He fought it away and forced himself up the steps to the upper level of the veranda. This, after all, was the great joy of the battle—to feel himself on the verge of collapse through terror, to fight away that weakness, to summon all his faculties for the great effort, to whip out the gun at the opportune moment, to dash the enemy to the ground with his flying bullet—this was a joy compared with which all else was as nothing. The gaming table had no fascination for one who had taken the chances of life and death in his hand.

Suddenly he stood in the full blaze of the big lamp which lighted the veranda. Joe Daly, he noted, had chosen a distant and obscure corner, where the light fell only with half the radiance that shone upon Pete at the head of the steps. But let Joe have that handicap in his favor. He, Pete Burnside, had ever been willing to take the worse portion in the battle. It made the glory of victory all the sweeter.

As he appeared, Daly sprang to his feet.

"Is that mean four-flusher and lying hound that's been spreading talk about me around these parts?" asked Daly. "Is that you, Pete Burnside?"

Pete pushed back his hat, then remembered that he must not expose the utter pallor of his face. Now he jerked his sombrero lower, so that its shadow might protect him from the prying eyes of Daly.

"I allow it's me; all right," he said. "I been hearing that you want to see me, Joe."

"I ain't said a word like that. I just sent out to say that I'm back in town. Does that mean anything to you?"

He was working himself into his battle fury, but Pete Burnside hesitated. He had not yet evoked that coldly hostile frame of mind which he liked best before he struck. The fear had been pushed to the back of his mind, but it was still present.

"I ain't going to say 'Welcome home,' if that's what you expect, Joe."

"You know very well what I'm driving at. When I got out of town you said that you'd come with your gun ready and shoot me full of holes, if I came back. Well, here I am, Pete. And how come that your gat is in the leather still, eh?"

There was no chance to wait after such a direct insult. Pete Burnside reached for his gun. Daly had not waited; no sooner had he hurled his defiance than he jerked out his Colt. And yet the deputy, watching the movements of his antagonist, knew that he had the result of the battle in the hollow of his hand. He could still delay for a thousandth part of a second the convulsive move which would stretch Joe Daly bleeding and dying on the boards of the veranda.

But now was the time. The gun of Daly was clear of the holster. All men must admit, afterward, that he had allowed Daly to have the advantage in the start of the draw. Then he made his own motion. It was an explosion of mind and muscle. The gun was literally thought out of its holster, the heavy butt of the Colt struck the palm of his hand, and he fired. It was a clean death to his credit. For that bullet struck straight over the heart of Daly. There could be no doubt about it. Pete saw Daly stagger under the blow, he could have sworn, and yet Joe did not go down! No, amazing though it seemed, Joe Daly stood! And, before Burnside could fire again, Joe's gun exploded. There was an ocean of darkness poured over the spirit of Pete Burnside, and he pitched forward upon his face.