SHOTGUN GOLD
“And that’s how it comes that I’m sheriff of Black Horse—and may I behung with horseshoes and rabbit-feet, et cettery.”
Roaring Rigby tilted back in an old swivel chair and lookeddisconsolately at the white-haired man who sat across the battered desk.The man had a long, deeply-lined face, slightly reddish nose, somberblue eyes beneath white eyebrows.
Roaring Rigby himself was long, lean, bony of face and figure, with thepouched eyes of a bloodhound. His nose was long too, and slightly out ofline; his cheekbones were almost visible through the tightly stretchedskin that covered them. His ears were of the hating variety, and hisneutral-colored hair was thin, like foxtail grass on alkali flats.
The room in which these two men sat was the sheriff’s office in the townof Turquoise, the county-seat of Black Horse County. It was a smallroom, unpapered, except for an array of reward notices, a State map anda calendar of the previous year. A desk, several chairs and agun-cabinet completed the furnishings. The floor was uncarpeted and hadbeen scored deeply by years of high heel scraping.
Roaring Rigby lifted his feet and rasped one spurred heel across the topof the desk, as if to express his contempt for such a piece offurniture.
“And so Jim Randall, sheriff of this county, went away, did he?” sighedthe old man.
“He did that.”
Roaring Rigby turned his sad-dog eyes upon the old man.
“Yea-a-ah, he went away, Jim Randall did. He wrote out his resignation,packed up his fambly, folded his tent, as you might say, and silentlystole away. But I don’t blame him, Judge. He’s a married man. You’re asmuch to blame as he is. You two opined to make Turquoise sanitary. Youought to know better, Judge; you’re an old-timer. Jim Randall was bornand raised in a cow-town, and he knew better. ’Sall right to set downupon crime. Oh, I ain’t sayin’ your motives ain’t right. Turquoise needscleanin’. English Ed’s honkatonk ain’t noways a Sunday School, and thatredlight district hadn’t ought to be there, but—”
“I know,” nodded Judge Beal.
“Yea-a-ah, you know now. You should have knowed before. Jim Randall gothis warnin’ twice. They told him he’d get the third one in the dark, andJim always was scared of the dark. You’ve got your first one, Judge.”
“Turquoise isn’t fit for a decent woman. Why, a—”
“It was before you two started yore crew—crew—”
“Crusade, Roaring.”
“Yeah, that’s it. You posted your notices, and you didn’t have nothin’to back ’em. Jim Randall posts his notice, demandin’ that every puncherbring his gun to the sheriff’s office when he got to town, or getarrested. Did they, I ask you, Judge? They did like hell! You told ’emin plain English that the honkatonk must go. Did it?”
“No,” said the judge sadly. “I am obliged to admit that it is stillthere. I heard that Jim Randall had resigned, so I came to you, Roaring;you will be appointed sheriff, because you were Jim’s deputy. Now, whatare you going to do?”
“Me, huh?”
Roaring savagely rasped his spurred heel half-wayacross the desk top.
“I’m goin’ to try and hold the job, Judge.”
“Meaning that you are not in sympathy with my campaign?”
“Meanin’ that I’m in sympathy with my own skin. Your campaign! Judge, ifyou’ll take my friendly advice, you’ll foller Jim Randall. The road isplenty wide. Why, doggone you, Judge, nobody takes you