Home > Authors Index > William MacLeod Raine > Big-Town Round-Up > This page
The Big-Town Round-Up, a fiction by William MacLeod Raine |
||
Chapter 8. "The Best Single-Barreled Sport Iver I Met" |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER VIII. "THE BEST SINGLE-BARRELED SPORT IVER I MET" Clay drifted back to a world in which the machinery of his body creaked. He turned his head, and a racking pain shot down his neck. He moved a leg, and every muscle in it ached. From head to foot he was sore. Voices somewhere in space, detached from any personal ownership, floated vaguely to him. Presently these resolved themselves into words and sentences. "We're not to make a pinch, Tim. That's the word he gave me before he left. This is wan av Jerry's private little wars and he don't want a judge askin' a lot of unnicessary questions, y' understand." "Mother av Moses, if this he-man from Hell's Hinges hadn't the luck av the Irish, there'd be questions a-plenty asked. He'd be ready for the morgue this blissed minute. Jerry's a murderin' divvle. When I breeze in I find him croakin' this lad proper and he acts like a crazy man when I stand him and Gorilla Dave off till yuh come a-runnin'. At that they may have given the bye more than he can carry. Maybe it'll be roses and a nice black carriage for him yet." The other policeman, a sergeant--by this time the voices had localized themselves in persons--laughed with reluctant admiration. "Him! He's got siven lives like a cat. Take a look at the Sea Siren, Tim. 'T is kindling the lad has made of the place. The man that runs the dump put up a poor mouth, but I told him and the nuts that crowded round squawkin' for an arrest that if they hollered the police would close the place and pull the whole bunch for disorderly conduct. They melted away, believe me." He added, with an access of interest, "Yuh've heard the byes tell the story of the rube that tied up the Swede janitor on the Drive into a knot with his own hose. This'll be the same lad, I'm thinkin'." The other nodded. He was bending over Clay and sprinkling water on his face. "He'll be black and blue ivery inch of him, but his eyelids are flickering. Jerry's an ill man to cross, I've heard tell. Yuh'd think this lad had had enough. But Jerry's still red-eyed about him and swears they can't both live in the same town. You'll remember likely how Durand did for Paddy Kelly? It was before my time." "Yuh're a chump copper, Tim Muldoon, else yuh'd know we don't talk about that in the open street. Jerry has long ears," the older man warned, lowering his voice. Clay opened his eyes, flexed his arm muscles, and groaned. He caressed tenderly his aching ribs. "Some wreck," he gasped weakly. "They didn't do a thing to me--outside of beatin' me up--and stompin' on me--and runnin' a steam roller--over the dear departed." "Whose fault will that be? Don't yuh know better than to start a fight with a rigiment?" demanded the sergeant of police severely. "That wasn't a fight. It was a waltz." The faint, unconquered smile of brown Arizona, broke through the blood and bruises of the face. "The fight began when Jerry Durand and his friend rushed me--and it ended when Jerry landed on me with brass knucks. After that I was a football." The words came in gasps. Every breath was drawn in pain. "We'd ought to pinch yuh," the sergeant said by way of reprimand. "Think yuh can come to New York and pull your small-town stuff on us? We'll show youse. If yuh wasn't alfalfa green I'd give yuh a ride." "You mean if Durand hadn't whispered in yore ear. I'll call that bluff, sheriff. Take me to yore calaboose. I've got one or two things to tell the judge about this guy Durand." The officer dropped his grumbling complaint to a whisper. "Whisht, bye. Take a straight tip from a man that knows. Beat it out of town. Get where the long arm of--of a friend of ours--can't reach yuh. Yuh may be a straight guy, but that won't help yuh. Yuh'll be framed the same as if yuh was a greengoods man or a gopher or a porch-climber. He's a revingeful inemy if ever there was wan." "You mean that Durand--" "I'm not namin' names," the officer interrupted doggedly. "I'm tellin' yuh somethin' for your good. Take it or leave it." "Thanks, I'll leave it. This is a free country, and no man livin' can drive me away," answered Clay promptly. "Ouch, I'm sore. Give me a lift, sergeant." They helped the cowpuncher to his feet. He took a limping step or two. Every move was torture to his outraged flesh. "Can you get me a taxi? That is, if you're sure you don't want me in yore calaboose," the range-rider said, leaning against the wall. "We'll let yuh go this time." "Much obliged--to Mr. Jerry Durand. Tell him for me that maybe I'll meet up with him again sometime--and hand him my thanks personal for this first-class wallopin'." From the bruised, bleeding face there beamed again the smile indomitable, the grin still gay and winning. Physically he had been badly beaten, but in spirit he was still the man on horseback. Presently he eased himself into a taxi as comfortably as he could. "Home, James," he said jauntily. "Where?" asked the driver. "The nearest hospital," explained Clay. "I'm goin' to let the doctors worry over me for a while. Much obliged to both of you gentlemen. I always did like the Irish. Friend Jerry is an exception." The officers watched the cab disappear. The sergeant spoke the comment that was in the mind of them both. "He's the best single-barreled sport that iver I met in this man's town. Not a whimper out of the guy and him mauled to a pulp. Game as they come. Did youse see that spark o' the divvle in his eye, and him not fit to crawl into the cab?" "Did I see it? I did that. If iver they meet man to man, him and Jerry, it'll be wan grand little fight." "Jerry's the best rough-and-tumble fighter on the island." "Wan av the best. I wouldn't put him first till after him and this guy had met alone in a locked room. S'long, Mike." "S'long, Tim. No report on this rough-house, mind yuh." "Sure, Mike." _ |
||