The Greatest Westerns of Charles Alden Seltzer. Charles Alden Seltzer
face bloated with a sudden anger, but he wheeled without replying and gave his attention to some papers lying on the desk in front of him.
For a long time the four sat in silence. Outside arose voices of men–growing in volume. There was a jam around the door; looking out Hollis could see the bronzed, grim faces of the punchers as they crowded close, moved by a spirit of curiosity. Hollis could hear exclamations of impatience, though the majority of the men outside stood in silence, waiting.
Plainly, nothing was to be done until the arrival of Dunlavey. And presently he came.
He had not been drinking; he was undeniably sober and self-possessed. As he entered the door of the office there was a sudden surge on the part of the crowd–several of the men tried to force their way in behind Dunlavey. But he halted on the threshold, scowling back at them and uttering the one word: “Wait!” The crowd fell back at the command and watched.
Dunlavey stepped across the room, standing beside Watkins, his rapid glance noting the presence of the three members of the opposition. He ignored Hollis and Norton, speaking to Allen.
“So you’re sure enough going to run?” he said.
“Sure,” returned Allen. He rose slowly, stepped deliberately across the room, closed the door, and stood with his back to it.
“We’re all here now,” he said quietly, “and I want to talk a little. There ain’t no one going to hear what I’ve got to say but them I’m going to say it to. I reckon that goes?” He turned to Dunlavey.
Dunlavey had shown some evidence of surprise over Allen’s action in closing the door, but this immediately gave way to a sneer of mockery. “I reckon you’ve forgot Greasy,” he said.
“Why, I sure have!” returned Allen evenly. He opened the door a trifle and called: “Greasy!”
Evidently Greasy had been waiting at the door, for he immediately came in, slouching across the floor and standing beside Watkins and Dunlavey. Allen closed the door and adjusted the fastenings carefully. Then he turned again to Dunlavey.
“Now we’ll proceed to do the talking,” he said. He walked over to the chair that he had previously vacated, dropping carelessly into it and leaning comfortably back. His movements had been those of a man unquestionably sure of peace. The expression of his eyes, the tones of his voice, his deliberation hinted at a desire for a peaceful compromise.
But once seated in his chair a startling change came over him. There was a rapid movement at his sides, a mere flash of light, and two heavy six-shooters appeared suddenly in his hands and lay there, unaimed, but forbiddingly ready. He sat erect, his eyes chilled and glittering, alert, filled with menace.
“Now,” he said sharply, “the first man who peeps above a whisper gets his so plenty that he won’t care a damn who’s nominated for sheriff!” He spoke to Norton and Hollis without turning his head. “You two get whatever guns them gentlemen happen to have on them, standing to one side so’s I can see to perforate anyone who ain’t agreeable to handing them over.”
Norton rose and approached Dunlavey, while Hollis stepped forward to the sheriff and secured the weapon that reposed in a holster at his right hip. He did likewise with Greasy. While Norton was relieving Dunlavey of his weapon the sheriff opened his lips to speak, his gaze fixed doubtfully on one of Allen’s sixes.
“The law—” he began. But Allen interrupted with a grin.
“Sure,” he said, “the law didn’t figure on this. But I reckon you heard Big Bill say once that the law could be handled. I’m handling it now. But I reckon that lets you out–you ain’t in on this and the mourners’ll be after you to-morrow if you open your trap again!”
The sheriff swelled with rage, but he closed his lips tightly. When Hollis and Norton had completed their search for weapons and had laid the result of their search on the table near Allen they sought their chairs.
Dunlavey had said nothing. He stood beside Watkins’s desk, still self-possessed, the mocking smile still on his face, though into his eyes had come a doubting, worried expression. Plainly he had not anticipated such drastic action from Allen.
The latter laughed grimly, quietly. “Sort of unexpected, wasn’t it, Bill?” he said, addressing Dunlavey. “It ain’t just the sort of politics that you’ve been used to. But I’m kind of used to it myself. Had to pull the same game off over in Colfax County when I was runnin’ for sheriff the first time. It worked, too, because the folks that was mixed up in it knowed I wasn’t ringing in any bluff.” He looked at Dunlavey with a level, steady gaze, his eyes gleaming coldly. “If you think I’m bluffing now, chirp for some one of your pluguglies to bust into this game. I’d sort of like to let off my campaign guns into your dirty gizzard!”
Hollis had been watching Dunlavey closely. There was no fear in the man’s eyes; even the doubt and worry that had been there had disappeared and his expression was now mildly ironical, contrasting oddly with the demeanor of Watkins–who was plainly frightened–and that of Greasy–who smirked and showed his teeth like some beast at bay and in fear of death. It was evident that Dunlavey possessed the spirit of the fighter, that indomitable courage which enables a man to face any situation and still retain his presence of mind, which permits him to face death unafraid and unyielding. In spite of the enmity that had existed between them from the beginning, Hollis had always respected Dunlavey for these very qualities, and within the last few minutes that respect had grown.
Dunlavey’s eyes gleamed as he looked at Allen. “I don’t think you would try to work any bluff on me, Allen,” he said quietly. “You’ve took me by surprise, that’s a fact. But let’s get down to business. What’s your game?”
“I reckon that’s a sensible way to look at it,” returned Allen evenly. “That’s the way I expected you’d look at it when you begun to realize that I was holding some pretty good cards. There ain’t nothing personal in this; I’m out for a square deal and I’m going to get it. I want you to understand that I’m running this game to-night and I’m running it square. If I get enough votes I’m going to be the next sheriff. If I don’t get enough votes Bill Watkins’ll be it. But the votes are going to be real votes. I ain’t figuring on letting your gang pack in here and keep my friends from voting.
“I’m going to put your hat on this table. Then Norton will open the door and let one man come in. That man will vote–for whoever he pleases. Then Mr. Hollis will let him out the back door and Norton will let another man in the front. There won’t be any row. I’m telling you that you and Bill Watkins and Greasy are going to set here and watch the voting. I’m going to stand behind you with one of my guns tucked under your fifth rib. If you, or Watkins, or Greasy let out a yawp that can be construed as a signal for anyone to bust into the game, or if there’s anything started by your friends which ain’t your doing, I’m going to pump six chunks of lead into you so fast that they’ll be playing tag with one another going through. I reckon you get me. That ends the palaver.”
He arose, snatched Dunlavey’s hat from his head, placed it on the table, and walked behind Dunlavey, standing against the wall.
“Open the door!” he directed, looking at Norton.
Chapter XXV. Handling the Law
Norton opened the door a trifle and called “One man at a time!” There were some hoarse shouts from without–presumably from Dunlavey’s friends; a chorus of derisive laughter from Allen’s. Then the first man entered.
It was Ace. The poet stood for an instant, blinking at the light, then he grinned as his gaze rested on the occupants of the room. He was directed how to cast his ballot. He took the piece of paper that was given him by Norton, scrawled “Allen” across it with a pencil that Norton had previously placed on the table, and dropped the paper into