False face

By Ernest Haycox Author of “A Good Man to Lie For,” etc.

“Now listen, you gol-durned, slab-footed curmudgeon,” exclaimed Sheriff Bart McKenzie, “you’re goin’ to take the deppity star I give you! Don’t want to hear no more objections. It’s my duty an’ privilege to draft an’ swear in whomsoever I choose. You ain’t got no right to stand there an’ tell me you feel disinclined to serve yore country; it’s a downright perversion of public sperrit, and I’m not a-goin’ to stand fer it.”

“Don’t want nuthin’ to do with it,” repeated old Dave Budd with a still greater vehemence. “Ain’t goin’ to go around with that hunk o’ tin on my shirt lookin’ like a dumb fool.”

“Fool?” roared Bart McKenzie. “I take it I look like a fool fer carryin’ my star, then?’

“You’re a duly ’lected sheriff,” explained Budd. “People wanted you to serve, or they wouldn’t have voted you in. As fer me, I’m a fat, old man, and my fightin’ days are plumb past. Git yoreself some young and spry feller that likes to ride saddle all night long, or live on a slice o’ bacon four days runnin’. Me, I got to have more comfort in my old age, Bart.”

The sheriff neatly strung together a series of strong words. “Why, you idiot, you’re no older’n me! Call forty-eight old? Howsomever, I ain’t askin’ you to track no criminals across the desert. You don’t have to. Yore word is pretty much law in these parts, anyhow.”

“Well, that bein’ so,” replied Budd, “why should I have to wear a gol-durned piece o’ soldered tin on my shirt? Now you listen to me, old-timer. I got my own way o’ dispensin’ sech justice as these parts need. It don’t have anything to do with totin’ a badge around, either. Why, that’d set all my folks agin’ me, Bart. No, sir, you let me be. We’re real peaceful at this end o’ the country and don’t need no deppities. When suthin’ outrageous happens, you git here soon enough, anyhow.”

McKenzie opened the clasp of the deputy’s badge and got hold of Budd’s dusty vest. “Ain’t listenin’ to no more palaver,” he said, snorting. “I’m a-goin’ to brand you right now, critter. There, Deppity Budd, you’re a handsome-lookin’ peace officer.”

The storekeeper’s huge face was wreathed in a scowl as he stared at the trinket of authority on his vest. “It’s all turrible foolish,” said he. “What’m I to look after? Jack rabbits and coyotes?”

“You old maverick,” said the sheriff in placating tones, “I been lettin’ you alone fer a good while, but now’s time fer some serious work. Jest take a look out in yore front pasture, and I reckon you’ll know what I’m deppitizin’ you for.”

Budd had no need to glance through his front door. The invasion had descended upon him a week ago in the form of broken down farm wagons, old-time schooners, buggies, pack mules and solitary riders on every shade and size of horse. Mostly it was a family affair; the clearing in front of the store was dotted with tents and lean-tos and stray baggage and fires. Men clustered in groups, speaking guardedly or else in heated discussion, while the women bustled about the flames and prepared the night meal. Even as the storekeeper scanned the group he heard the creaking of fresh wagons through the trees.

They came from every corner of the State and from adjoining States; rough people and refined, all eager to share in a new prospect of comfort and prosperity. The cause of this boom was a mere rumor, a thin, unsubstantiated report that the government, long idle in this part of central Oregon, was about to dam a distant river in the hills and construct great main canals to irrigate the land. Budd shook his head solemnly. It was, he repeated to himself, only a rumor--and rumors had ugly ways of dying out, never again to be heard. Nevertheless these hopeful people came, camped in his clearing, while preliminary scouts were sent out to find land that had not been homesteaded, and then vanished through the jack pines, bound for their new El Dorado, somewhere beyond in the open country.

“Reminds me of the old days in Oklahoma,” said Budd. “Dang me ef there wasn’t a rush fer the Indian lands. I can still hear the bugles sound for the sign we could cross in. By golly! Reckon I was younger then.”

“Ne’m mind that sad extemporizin’,” interrupted the sheriff. “Jest foller my ideas a spell. You see that red-headed young man with the scowl on his face? I want you should keep an eye on him, Budd. Folks have been complainin’ about losin’ money and valuables from their wagons and sleepin’ places durin’ the night. Well, now, he’s a reckless-lookin’ son of a gun, and he’s been hangin’ round these diggin’s fer a week, hain’t he?”

Budd chuckled. “Huh, it’s a girl that keep him glued here, not money.”

“Powerful suspicious lookin’ to me, Dave. You keep an eye on him. I been sizin’ the whole crowd up, and he’s the only one I’d figger to watch.”

“All right, all right,” agreed the storekeeper, turning morose again. “Got to be a cussed bloodhound, have I?”

The red-headed young man evidently had something on his mind; he fished through his pockets and fumbled among the few effects piled on the ground by his saddle; rising empty-handed, he turned toward the store. The sheriff clapped on his sombrero and started out.

“I’ll vamose, Dave, and let you alone until next week.”

He climbed into the saddle as the young man swung to the porch. The sheriff’s horse, catching sight of a skittering sheet of white paper, reared and snorted, plunged against a porch column, knocked a board off with his feet, and drummed out of the clearing.

“Huh!” exclaimed the young man. “What’s he aimin’ to do, make a fence jumper out of that cayuse?”

“Horse is jest a mite skittish,” said Budd mildly. He opened a fresh box of tomatoes and began packing the cans to the shelf. Halfway, he stopped to observe. “Horses are plumb like women that a way. Purty, but skittish.”

“Yeah,” said the young man, suddenly looking harassed. “Ain’t it the solemn an’ miserable truth?”

He took off his Stetson and scratched his flaming thatch. By no means could he be called handsome, with his pugnacious chin and nose, his slate-gray eyes and his gaunt, weather-worn frame. It seemed as if he might have been recently subjected to an illness, for he seemed a little nervous and finely drawn. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll tell a man it’s so. First you’re it and then you ain’t.” His eyes were fixed on a couple that moved in and out of the trees.

Budd chuckled at the tomato cans and blandly asked, “What’d you say, Bill?”

“First you’re it, and then next thing the earth ain’t big enough to hold you.” He wrinkled his nose in surprise. “How’d you know my first monnicker?”

“Heard a gal call you by it,” said Budd.

“Huh! You won’t hear her callin’ me that no more. Oh, no, she don’t know I’m a human bein’ these days.” He was talking as if half to himself, still keeping his slate-gray eyes fixed on the couple. They had advanced from the main road and were twining around the wagons and fires--a sturdy girl and a tall man in chaps. “Huh,” he muttered. Then again: “Huh. Gimme a sack of tobacco, Budd. What road do I take out o’ this country? South, I mean.”

“Leavin’?” queried Budd. “Well, jest keep to the main way and you’ll strike Klamath by’n by.”

“Uhuh,” said Bill. He rolled a cigarette, licked it and reached for a match. “Thanks.”

He leaned against the counter and drew a mouthful of smoke. Budd saw his face turn perfectly bland and cheerful. There was a gay burst of laughter and a man’s short speech. The couple came in the door. The girl, foremost, stopped short at sight of Bill, looked at him and through him; her smile disappeared and a color came to her cheeks. Bill drew a deep draft of smoke and spoke to Budd as if continuing the conversation.

“Yeah, first thing in the mornin’, I guess. This country don’t strike me so much. Guess you’d better lay aside a can o’ them tomatoes and some bacon. I’ll be back for the duffle later.”

“Don’t let me interfere with your business,” said the girl haughtily. “Sam and I are only visiting.”

“Oh, no,” said Bill in sprightly tones, “there ain’t room enough for all of us in such a small place.” He walked by her and approached Sam. He had to look up a little to meet Sam’s eyes. The man was tall; his accouterments were neat and his clothes well kept. He had a face that, to the genial and shrewd Budd, seemed as uncommunicative as any a man could boast. It rarely smiled and it rarely displayed emotion. To cap off the expression, Sam was exceedingly sparing of his words. Bill ground his cigarette on the floor and spoke shortly, but to the point.

“So Sam’s the monnicker, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Don’t open yore mouth too wide, Sam, or you’ll show a tooth. Shucks, they named you wrong. It ought to be ‘Paralyzed.’”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” affirmed Bill.

He stepped back a trifle, teetered on his heels and swung his arms idly, the slate-gray eyes boring into the big fellow. Sam remained unconcerned; his face was perfectly impassive. It irked Bill. He snorted once, twice, and moved out of the door humming a tune to show his perfect indifference.