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Short Stories & Tall Tales
The Old Dogs Day
By Lee Aaron Wilson
Most days Old John Jordan sat in his rocking chair in the sun and watched the world pass by. The scent of the lilacs and roses, planted by his wife, Ellen, and mostly tended by her, surrounded him. He sipped iced tea or lemonade, or coffee when the weather got chilly, and talked to his old dog, Shadow, and passersby. He and Shadow were taking a little sun when a big brindle dog trotted up the street, swinging his head from side to side as he surveyed his kingdom. Shadow's tail stopped moving as he watched the younger dog.
"New top dog in town," the old man commented.
Shadow turned his head to look at Old John and his slender tail made three listless slaps on the wooden porch floor. He was a good hunter, which implied some trace of hound in his ancestry. His black coat with occasional white spots, and huge head suggested Black Labrador somewhere in his background, too. But mostly he was "dog."
At one time Shadow walked proud, and all the other dogs got out of his way, or paid. Today, as the noisy pack, the bridle mastiff-like dog in the lead, approached the house, Shadow pushed himself to his feet and slunk around the corner of the house.
"Don't blame ya none, old-timer," said the old man. "You an' me, we're jist a coupla old dawgs thet nobuddy's got any use for."
Moments later, a boisterous group of riders entered town. They didn't bother to notice Old John's glare as they raced past toward the center of town. They jerked their mounts to a halt in front of the bars. The boss and his foreman entered Jess' Hotel Bar; the rest of the crew trouped across the street to the less illustrious "Sam's Place."
"Huh," Old John snorted. "They think they're top dawgs now. Too bad I'm so stove up. I'd take 'em down a peg."
John Jordan, at 67, was an old man for that time. He had been sheriff the last ten years before he and Grandma Ellen moved to the five acres at the edge of town, two years ago.
Now his chores consisted of tending their canning garden, feeding their flock of chickens, and picking berries from their strawberry and raspberry patches. He and Ellen sold eggs and garden truck from their front porch.
Old John was strong as ever, by his own admission, and almost as canny. During the winter and at roundup he visited "the old ranch" now owned by his youngest child, "Little Johnny." At roundup time he tended the fires with the excuse "I'm jist a stove-up ole man." But he could still dab a rope on a calf or yearling as well as any, though he pointed out, "it was mostly the horse what did the work."
When one of the boys, his grandsons now, got hold of a rambunctious calf, John could still throw it "with a little help from the boy." In the winter he sat in the bunkhouse and beat all comers at checkers.
"Hi, Pops." His son's voice broke into his reverie.
"Son," Old John began without preamble, "when you gonna trim those Circle M varmints down t'size."
"Little Johnny" was the child of his and Ellen's early middle age. After the hard years of getting the ranch going had past, twelve years after the youngest of their three daughters, the son they always wanted came along. By then the ranch was a paying proposition and the two had time to hunt and fish, though it was "just to put some variety in the menu" from beef.
Little Johnny held the job of deputy sheriff for this end of the county besides operating the ranch. He had two sons of his own, seven and nine years old, and a daughter four. When he came to town, he left his mount in Old John's corral and walked to his office, a room off the hotel's main level.
"Pops, for the umpteenth time, I can't arrest them for being worthless varmints. They haven't broken any laws. Not yet."
"Didn't they burn down the Nelson's haystack and barn?"
"Maybe. Probably. But I haven't any proof." Little Johnny sat on the top step of the porch. "Jake himself allowed he might've left a lantern burning when he was seeing about an ailing mare."
"Hah!" Old John rocked vigorously for a minute. "I s'pose they din't have anything to do with the Bancroft's pulling out."
"Pops, Pat Bancroft said Orville Clark bought him out."
"Yeah. Sure he did!" The older man scowled and rocked harder. "He also said Clark had his gun-slick foreman, Jay Sharps, standing there looking hungry the hull time he was arguin' Pat into selling. If'n that ain't coercion, I dunno what is."
"I talked with Pat," Little Johnny said patiently. "The judge talked with Pat. There might've been pressure, but Pat couldn't come right out and say Clark told him to sell or else."
"Hmpf!"
"Sooner or later they'll make a mistake I can prove. Then I'll arrest 'em."
It was simply stated, but Old John glanced up at his son. He'd do it, just like that, too. Five feet eleven inches of rawhide and sinew. He stood for what he believed, as Old John had taught him, and backed up what he said. Like the old man had.
"I reckon." The old man sighed. "But in the old days, when I was sheriff, I'd've tole 'em ...”
"Things were different then. Laws weren't all written down. What counted was what ever'body knew. Sometimes you had to be lawman, judge, and jury in the blink of an eye. Things ain't that way any more."
"It burns me. Ever'body knows Clark is takin' land after driving the owner off." Old John studied his hands. "Guess I'm jist like ole Shadow, an ole dawg whose day is past."
Little Johnny stood and entered the house, then strolled up town carrying an old Mason jar of his mother's coffee. After three cups had gone uptown and it took her a month to get them back, he had been relegated to coffee in jars.
Johnny was barely out of sight when the Tetlow boys stopped by. Caleb drove a buckboard, Jed and Obadiah sat their horses. Their father, Zeke, had come from Tennessee ten years after John and Ellen staked out their ranch. More familiar with rolling hill country, the Tetlows had a foothill ranch, way back in.
Though they kept to themselves, they had always been treated warmly by the Jordans, and responded in a "neighborly" manner. The "boys" now grown men themselves, could no more pass the Jordans without stopping then could Little Johnny. Like their father, all were tall and long-geared. Also like their father, they carried rifles most of the time. Only Jed, the middle son, ever wore a handgun. As with Little Johnny, it looked as much a part of him as his boots.
"Hoddy, Mr. Jordan," they chorused.
"How do, boys. Light 'n' set. Gitting warm out there."
"A mite. We needed flour an' salt, an' sich." It was a long speech for Caleb.
"Pa sends his 'howdys' and Ma, too." Jed slipped smoothly from his saddle.
"Hello, boys," Ellen came out carrying a tray of glasses and pitcher of lemonade.
They all removed their hats and said "Hoddy, Ma'am" to her.
"How is your Pa?" she asked. "An your Ma?"
"She's fine as a fiddle," replied Obadiah. "He's a bit stiff of a morning, but still gets about. Fact is, he shot a venison jist yestidy. Sent a haunch of it to y'all." He got a package from the buckboard.
"Why, thank you, boys. You tell your folks we appreciate this." Ellen took the package. "We got ripe tomatoes and squash. You boys stop on the way home, y'hear? I'm agonna send them some. Got more'n we can eat of put by."
"Yes'm." Caleb and Obadiah said.
Jed just nodded. His face serious, he moved over beside Old John. When Ellen disappeared into the house, he spoke. "Mr. Jordan, Pa sent a message for ye. I reckon it's from all of us."
He glanced at his brothers and they nodded solemnly.
"The Circle M hands been gettin' kind of pushy. Sooner or later, they's gonna go over the line. So," his voice dropped a tad lower, "y'all being neighbors and Little Johnny being depity, we want y'all to know we don't hold with what they been doing."
"Thank you, boys. I'll let Little Johnny know."
"I mean," Jed's voice had the same seriousness Little Johnny's had earlier. "They's three 'er four of them riders paid to use guns. Little Johnny ain't gotta go after them alone. Yell and we'll come arunning."
"That's right neighborly of you boys. We surely will." John's voice sounded low and hoarse to himself. It was nice to know you could depend on your friends, no matter what.
#
Two days later, the Marvin farm was attacked before dawn. Arnold Marvin, the head of the family, caught a bullet in the chest after an arrow in the leg knocked him down on their porch. Carny Marvin, his son, and Wayne Brown, a visiting nephew, were seriously wounded. Fire took out the buildings, house, barn, and haystacks. Mae Marvin and her fifteen-year-old daughter, Becky, helped the three badly wounded, and the younger members of the family through a trap door into the root cellar before the house roof came down. Arnold died while they huddled there.
At sunup, Becky caught a mare when it returned home. She rode first to the doctor's home, then to Old John's and Grandma Ellen's. Ellen made the girl rest and eat a bite. Old John put up the girl's mare and hitched the team to the wagon. The girl would use that to bring in the family.
Then he threw a saddle on his gelding and rode to the Jay-bar ranch. Johnny sent two men to meet and escort Becky to the homestead, then into town. He would meet them at the hotel late in the day. "Go straight in and straight out. I'll look over the sign later, so don't mess it up."
Then his voice lowered. "Don't take backtalk from anyone. Shoot if you have to."
"You reckon we got Indian problems again?" asked a young rider.
"Not likely," Johnny growled. "But ride careful."
Old John went with Little Johnny when he talked to Mae and Becky in the hotel. His office had a separate entrance on the ground floor of the hotel, and he had asked the owner to put the Marvin's up.
"Where the hell else would they go?" Jess asked. "'Course they're staying here."
"They was a lot of yelling and screaming," Mae told them, "but we've fit Indian's afore. These weren't Indians!"
Little Johnny squatted in front of the chair where Becky huddled. The girl was strong enough, but this had been a night to unnerve anyone. "What did you see, Becky?"
"Men in war paint and feathers." Her eyes narrowed in anger. "But they sat their horses just like cowboys. I've seen Indians ride."
"Whatcha gonna do about it?" asked Mae. "It has to've been Circle M riders."
"Did you see anyone you could identify? Any face or . . . anything?"
"Well, no. But I know it was them."
"I expect you do, Miz Marvin. But I need proof to take to court."
"Hmpf. I got all the proof I need. I got a dead husband, three days after he tole Clark to get offa the place 'fore he turned the dogs on him. That's what I got!"
Johnny stood. "You stay put. I don't want you out of this hotel."
She looked at Old John. "You'd go an' git 'em."
Which was exactly what he wanted to do. "Likely. But these days," he glanced at his son, "they'd walk out of court if we din't have proof."
"I'm going out and look around," said Little Johnny. "If I find sign that tells me anything, I'll cut wood and let the chips fall where they may. This ain't back east, I'll find evidence a Western jury will buy."
From the hotel, Johnny went to the telegraph office. He reported by wire to the sheriff:
"No leads yet. I'm going out and look around. You might see if any Indians have left the reservation or are restless. But I think our troubles are local."
"I'm gonna chat with Miz Marvin," said Old John. "Stop by the house. I wanna ride out with you." He headed back to the hotel, and started up to visit with Mae, and ask a few more questions.
"Okay, Pops." Little Johnny called after Old John, but his face had that thoughtful look. He was considering what he'd be looking for.
Old John got the story from Mae.
Johnny started across the street to get Hal Manders, the liveryman to ride out with him. Hal had been an army scout, and usually rode with any posse that needed a tracker. Johnny was in the middle of the street when Clark and Sharps stepped off the boardwalk opposite him.
"Hear there's some wild Injuns about," Jay Sharps said. His voice had the slight elevation of a taunt, as if he knew better and dared anyone to do anything about it.
"Nope," Little Johnny faced them. "Not that I'd heard."
Jay's brow creased. "Now that's strange. I heard they'd robbed the Marvin spread and plumb burned them out.
"Don't our depity know that?" A leering grin spread across Clark's face.
Little Johnny let that hang until both Jay and Clark fidgeted. Johnny kept his gaze on the gunman, but watched the ranch owner. Sharps wore two guns, but today held a cigarette in his left hand. His right hung at his side. Clark stood a little straighter, and his jaw muscles became more prominent.
They had come for him, and Johnny didn't much care. Save a trial and hanging. "It wasn't Indians," he answered, "just no account white men trying to let on they were Indians. They did a damn poor job."
Jay took another drag on his cigarette. "I'd swear I heard Injuns yelling and yipping as they passed heading into the hills, just above the Circle M. Are you saying that's not so?"
"I expect I'll find a trail pointin' from the Marvin spread into the hills, but I doubt it'll go past the Circle M."
Clark's head jerked and Sharps took a deep breath. He smiled, like a snake that has a mouse cornered.
Johnny bit off his words. "Arnold Marvin was murdered and the boys damn near killed. When I find the white men who did it, they'll hang."
"Why depity," Sharps took a final drag from his cigarette. "That sound as if you was accusing the Circle M." He tossed the cigarette into the street, then his hand swept past his left gun butt.
But he didn't touch it.
Johnny had seen the cigarette trick before and his own hand dropped to his pistol. When Sharps did not draw, Johnny released his gun.
Sharps' right gun cleared leather, its barrel pointing at Little Johnny. It spit an orange flame at him before he could get his out.
A slug in his side spun Johnny so his first shot missed. He was pulling his weapon back into line when the second slug hit him. Still he got a shot off and saw the gunman's left leg buckle. That caused his third shot to miss Johnny's chest and hit his arm.
He did a border shift to his left hand, and tried to get his gun lined up before Clark, who now held a pistol, or Sharps could finish him. But Johnny's gun moved so slowly.
Sharps, his right knee on the ground, raised his gun toward Johnny's face. Clark used both hands to point his pistol at Little Johnny.
Dust flew up between the parties. A 50 caliber rifle bellowed. From a second story hotel window the big barrel pointed at the two men. Sharps, wounded leg and all, lunged for cover when he saw the barrel settle on him. Clark ran the other way, yelling in fear as the rifle barked again.
When Old John, alerted by gunfire, rushed out and reached his down son, the street was clear. Two horses, Clark leading Sharps' while he hunched over the horn, thundered out of town. John scooped up his son's pistol, then lowered it. They were out of range.
He looked up at the window as the gun was withdrawn and Mae's head came out. Still holding her rifle, she told him what happened, naming the two men. "An' you tell Johnny, I never left this room, neither!"
No one of Johnny's three wounds was deadly, but the loss of blood from all of them left him in a bad way. When the doctor was finished they bedded Little Johnny down at Grandma Ellen's house. One of the town boys rode out to tell Cindy and help her bring the kids to town.
Ellen bustled about the house, not happy, but obviously feeling good at being needed. Little Johnny's sisters heard. One took the boys to their ranch so Cindy and Ellen could look after Little Johnny. Another sister sent word she would pick up the little girl so she and her own daughter could play together 'til her daddy was well.
Old John sat on the porch and rocked. He felt angry, and helpless and worthless. Ellen told him to ease off, that he was shaking the whole house. He rocked harder, remembered his injured, son and slowed down.
The big brindle mastiff paraded up the street. John started to warn Shadow, then saw the old dog's head was up as he watched the younger dog. Shadow didn't move until the brindle was twenty yards away. Then he came to his feet and loped into the road, right in front of Brindle.
Instantly, Brindle went after him. Shadow glanced back at the younger dog, then veered to his right and loped out of sight around the barn. Moments later, the yelps and growls of a ferocious dog fight drifted to John. He shook his head sadly.
"Shadow, why'd you go and do that? You ain't a young dog anymore."
With a sigh, Old John picked up the rifle from inside the front door and walked toward the sounds. He expected to have to put Shadow out of his misery. But if he got there in time, he could put a couple of shots near them and try to scare the brindle away.
He rounded the corner of the barn, stopped, stared, then chuckled. He set down the gun and rested his shoulder against the barn so he wouldn't fall over laughing. Shadow had gone through a hole in the chicken yard fence. Brindle, trying to follow, got hung up. Shadow got behind him and was nipping and snapping at Brindle's hind quarters, ripping into him pretty good.
Eventually Shadow sat back, and John swore the old dog was grinning. Other dogs sat and watched. Brindle struggled free of the fence. At a three legged run, carrying his left rear foot, he started for Shadow.
Shadow loped into the middle of the road, Brindle right behind him. There the old dog turned, fangs bared, and met Brindle head to head. Brindle fought, but his hind quarters were bleeding, one rear foot injured, and he was up against an older, wiser scrapper. The town dogs, those that hadn't seen the start, heard the war, and came to watch.
Shadow snapped, lunged, feinted, bit, and slashed in a vivid reminder of his youth. He administered as thorough a trouncing as any dog ever survived. Then Brindle ran. His head high, Shadow watched him go. One by one the other dogs paid the old warrior obeisance, then trotted on about their business. The old dog was acknowledged king once more.
When the last dog had left, Shadow limped to the porch and flopped. He laid there panting, and licking a scratch or two.
"Wal, ya did it, din't ya?" Old John felt giddy with relief, and proud.
Shadow came slowly to a sitting position. His tail slapped the ground proudly at the praise.
Old John scratched his chin. "By gum, ya couldn't take him one way, so ya took him 'nother. You simply outsmarted him. Old dawg, you had your day . . . ."
The old man rocked a few minutes more, his brow wrinkled and his eyes squinted. Slowly a grin took over the worry lines on his face. He walked quietly into the house to his son's bedside.
"Are ya asleep, son?" he asked. Getting no answer, he reached over and picked up a couple of things from the bedside table. "You jist rest a mite. It's time a couple of ole dawgs gave them young Circle M varmints a lesson."
In his and Ellen's room he got his little hammerless revolver from its drawer.
Ellen saw him lead his gelding out of the barn. "Where ya going, Pa?"
"Out to gab with Zeke Tetlow. Be back after a spell," he waved.
From the road he heard Cindy call, "Ma, did you do something with Johnny's badge and gun? They aren't where I left 'em."
"No," Ellen replied. Then, "Pa! Oh, Lordy, Cindy. He's up to something."
Old John rammed his heels into the gelding's ribs and laughed as he galloped out of range of their yells. He felt young again. Well, not over fifty.
#
The sun was still high in the sky when Old John rode into the Tetlow yard. Zeke sat, tipped back in a chair on the porch.
"Wal, now," he let the legs down. "This is a real pleasure. Light and set, John--." He took two steps toward his old friend and stopped. He removed the corncob pipe from between yellowed teeth. "Your awearin' war paint. It's in your eyes. What's wrong?"
Obadiah came out of the house. "Yore wearin' a badge."
"Little Johnny's." John eased his old frame off his mount. "Ain't as spry as used to was, but I reckon my haid still works."
Jed came out the door to stand beside his Pa. He buckled on his hand gun and checked its loads. "Johnny ran into trouble?"
"Yep." Old John eased down on a bench on the porch. "Zeke, the Marvins was burned out and Arnold kilt last night."
"Naw! Now that's a shame. We din't neighbor, but he alwa's seemed a right nice man. Good fambly, too."
"It was supposed to look like Indians, but Miz Marvin, who's fit Indians, says it wasn't."
"Then it warn't," said Zeke. He eased himself back into his chair. But it was an alert pose. He was waiting for the rest of the story before he said or did anything more.
Old John answered Jed. "Sharps and Clark braced Little Johnny in the street. He's hurt."
"Damn," Jed said. "Reckon I'll go callin'."
"He at your place?" asked Miz Tetlow from the door.
"Yes. Cindy came in--."
Miz Tetlow turned to Obadiah. "You hitch up the wagon. Reckon they can use a mite more he'p. Jist took fresh loaves out. I'll take a couple."
Zeke agreed. "Obadiah, do thet. An' take a shootin' iron. You make sure none o' them Circle M riders call on Johnny 'til he's ready."
"I reckon I'm agoin, not you, Ma." A pretty young woman, her belly leaving no doubt she carried a baby with not over two months to go. "Obadiah is my husband. I'll help inside, he can watch outside."
Miz Tetlow looked at the young woman. "Guess thet's only right, May Belle. Let's see what you kin take, 'sides bread."
"They double-teamed Johnny?" Jed asked.
"Yep. Mis Marvin saw't. Says he used a trick."
"If'n Jay got lead into Little Johnny," Zeke said, "it was a trick. Ain't nobuddy faster, no more, 'ceptin' maybe Jed." Zeke sucked on his pipe again. "Thet ain't why you came?"
"Your eyes good as they used to be?"
"Yep. Jist the joints get kinda stiff of a morning." He pushed himself to his feet again. "Been a long time since you an' me took a trail. Wanna look over the sign those so-called Indians left?"
"Figgered. Time was, you tell anything about a rider but the color of his eyes by lookin' at his horse's sign." Old John made his legs work.
"You never axed me the color o' the rider's eyes!" Old Zeke gimped to the corral. Jed hurried ahead and led out two horses.
Moments later, Zeke swung up onto a mean looking roan mare. It tried to bite him and he kicked its nose. He chuckled. "Guess she's still got the ole vinegar in 'er."
"I'll be ridin' in with Obadiah an' May Belle,"Jed said. "If the Circle M boys behave themselves, we'll wait for y'all."
"Keep the lid on," said Old John. "We need what Little Johnny calls evidence."
"Beyond the slugs they put inta him?"
"Jed!" Zeke's head rose an inch.
"We'll wait, Pa, lessen they bring it to us. You learned us good."
"Cain't ast no more'n thet," said the head of the Tetlow clan. "Caleb," he bellowed.
"Yeah, Pa."
"You stick to home. Keep a gun handy."
"I'll shorely do thet. I heered what Mr. Jordan said." The young man nodded for emphasis. "The Marvins burned out by what was s'posed to be Indians. If they drop by, we'll tell 'em how 'tis. Maybe draw 'em some pitchers."
The two old men rode side by side, both straight up in the saddle, both moving easily with their mounts. "Like old times," said John.
Zeke just grinned around his pipe.
The sun was getting low when they reached the Marvin homestead. Old John held their mounts while Zeke prowled in widening circles about the buildings. A few times he knelt and made measurements with his hands.
While he waited, John found a dented bucket and got the pump going so he could water the horses. He refilled their canteens when the water was good and cold.
Zeke moved faster as darkness crept up on them. Finally he stood, dug his pipe out of his pocket and stuffed it as he strolled over to where Old John waited. He rinsed his mouth, then drank deeply.
"Seen enough, er do we havta look more in the morning?"
"Only if you need the color of the eyes of the ninth man," Zeke said with a straight face. "Three was blue-eyed, one hazel, and four brown-eyed. None was Indians. All their hosses was grain an' alfalfa fed. Ever see an Indian waste grain on his mount?" He lit his pipe, then broke the match and ground the ends into the dirt. "You wanna track 'em?"
"Naw, we both know where they went. Let's head back to town."
"Might jist as well." Zeke, satisfied his pipe was going good, pulled himself into his saddle.
As they neared town by the old trail, a group of eight or nine noisy riders entered town along the road from the Circle M direction. After the riders passed, John glanced at Zeke. "Shall we?"
"Now's as good a time as any."
They followed the group into town. At the first store with a light out front, they stopped. Again Old John held the mounts while Zeke knelt in the dirt.
"This's one," he said, "an' this's another. Six for sure was on that raid. Two more might've been. Reckon we found our Indians."
"Seems so," said Old John. "Now here's what--.'
A man stepped out of the shadows. "Thought I recognized you two when you rode by the house," Jed said. "These them that burned out the Marvins?"
"Yep." Old John squared his shoulders. "Here's how we're gonna do it. We're gonna tangle 'em in chicken wire."
"What?" Jed asked.
"Quiet, youngun, an' lissen," Zeke growled.
#
Old John shoved open the door to Sam's Place, hesitated, then sauntered to the bar. On the way he staggered into a chair and nearly fell down. "Oops, sorry." He righted the chair.
He stumbled to the bar and banged his hand on it. "Gimme whiskey."
"Old John," Sam whispered, "what in hell you doing? Don't you know who's here?"
"Don't whisper, son. Jist git me my whish . . . whis . . . Rye!"
The town knew Old John. Those not with the Circle M bunch shifted nervously, their fear for the old man clear on their faces. The Circle M riders nudged each other and grinned.
Old John tipped up the shot glass, rolled the liquor around in his mouth a moment, then swallowed it. He found it curious that, even in the danger he had placed himself, he really enjoyed the taste.
"Not bad," he slammed the empty glass down.
The hum of voices started to pick up again, and John added. "If there weren't such a damned bad smell in here, it would be a real pleasure."
"John, shut up," Sam whispered. "You'll git yourself killed."
"Ya know what it smells like, Son? Old John spoke loudly. "Kinda like Indians, except . . . ."
John turned his gaze at the two tables where most of the Circle M hands sat. He let his voice go cold. "Real Indians smell a whole hell of a lot better."
"Now lissen, ya old coot," one the Circle M boys pushed himself to his feet, "we ain't takin' that offa anyone."
The townsmen who knew Old John edged back out of the way. They expected him to do something.
"You check 'em, Zeke?" Old John ignored the talker.
"Yep," Zeke spoke from the back door of the saloon. "All of the horses out front was on the raid to the Marvin's place. This's them."
Heads turned toward Zeke. He swung up a double-barreled ten gauge, and pulled back both hammers. The clicks were loud in the room.
Everyone not with the Circle M scrambled out of the way.
"Just stand easy. I don't hold with burning out a family." Jed cocked a second shotgun from a side door.
"Now," Old John stopped acting and turned to face the room, "you're all under arrest for murder, arson, and robbery." He was surprised how smoothly Johnny's .45 fit into his hand. It was cocked without him even thinking about it.
"It'd save us the cost of a trial if any of you wanna move so me or either of the Tetlows think you're going to use a gun or resist."
"You can't prove--," began a red-shirted rider.
"Shore can. Ain't a jury in this country won't take Zeke Tetlow's word a certain horse was in a certain place, carrying a certain rider at a certain time. You're all gonna hang."
Old John let that hang while the riders shifted nervously. He added. "Course, sometimes, some judges give a man a break if he tells the judge who the boss was, and when he tole the man to do something. That's if the story has enough facts so the judge can believe the man."
None of the men were fools. They kept their hands free of their guns. They all knew Old John had been sheriff and the Tetlows had a don't-mess-around rep. One-by-one they were disarmed, then escorted to the jail, next to the courthouse. The back way.
When the key turned on the last man, Old John slipped out the front door of the jail and walked to Jess' hotel. Out front he took a deep breath, checked the little .38 hammerless in his belt. He made sure the .45 in the holster on his hip sat nice and easy, and took a deep breath.
It didn't look like chicken wire, but it would do.
He pushed open the door and stalked into the hotel bar. Jay Sharps stood at the bar, a bottle by his elbow and a glass in his hand. Clark sat at a table with poker chips in the middle and cards in his hands and those of four other men.
Old John used his left hand to point out the star on his chest. He let his right hang by Little Johnny's pistol. "Jay Sharps and Orville Clark, I'm arresting you for murder, arson, robbery, and attempted murder."
Sharp's left hand banged the glass on the bar, and his hand swept past his holstered pistol. He didn't draw it.
Old John did. He palmed the .38 and shot Sharps' left arm. "Wanna try for the other gun?"
The men around Orville Clark scooted back their chairs and backed free of the table. All kept their hands in sight and empty.
Jay grabbed his bloody left forearm. "I didn't draw a weapon."
"So what? This ain't no contest. I'm arresting you. Move a hand toward a gun again and see if I wait."
"Shit. You ole coot." Jay swept his right hand to that pistol, scooped it out, cocked it, and tipped it level.
It exploded. Old John's second .38 slug hit the hand and gun. He had expected the little .38 to shoot exactly where he pointed it. He hadn't expected Jay's gun to blow up. "Shoulda kilt you, but I wanna see you and Orville hang."
"The hell I will." While the .38 was pointing at Sharps, Clark grabbed a .44 from under his coat.
Old John pulled Johnny's .45 out and let it rip. Caught Clark just inside his right shoulder, spun him around and off his feet.
As Clark lay on the floor, moaning over his wound. Sharps stood, staring at his ruined right hand, blood dripping from his left hand. Old John continued. "As I was saying, I'm arresting you for murder, arson, attempted murder of a peace officer. You'll hang."
Jed stepped through the door, his gun out. "Mr. Jordan, when it come to me where you'd gone, I purely stopped breathing. You worry me. You ain't as young as you used to be."
"Never bet against the ole dawgs son. Not long as there's chicken wire around."
"Huh?"
"Jist lock these two up, away from the others. Let's see who talks first." Old John reloaded the .45, then the .38 and put both away.
"This old dog just had his day."
Chuckling, Old John hurried home to see how his son was coming along.
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