The Mesa Trail. H. Bedford-Jones
of dust gave notice of the approach of a large automobile.
Suddenly rising, Mrs. Crump knocked out her pipe, then caught Shea by the shoulder. Her hand swung him about as though he were a child. His eyes widened in surprise upon meeting the warm regard in her face, the steady and sympathetic smile upon her lips.
“Thady,” she said, bluntly, “how old are ye?”
“Fifty-eight,” he mumbled in astonishment.
“Huh! Two year older’n me. Made a mess of your life, ain’t ye? Don’t know as I blame ye none, Thady. When Crump passed out, I come near throwin’ up the sponge; but I got to fightin’ and I been fightin’ ever since, and here I am! Now, Thady, you got strength and you got guts; I can see it in your eye. All ye need is backbone. Why don’t ye buck up?”
“I’ve tried,” he faltered, controlled by her personality. “It’s no use——”
“You go get in that car.” Mrs. Crump glanced again at the approaching automobile, then half flung the gaunt Shea toward her dust-white flivver. “Get in and don’t say a word, savvy? One thing about you, ye can be trusted—which is more’n can be said for some skunks in this here country! Get in, now, and leave me palaver with Sheriff Tracy.”
Shea, shivering at mention of the sheriff, jack-knifed his length upon the car’s front seat.
From some mysterious recess of her ample person Mrs. Crump produced an immense old-fashioned revolver, which she began to burnish with seeming absorption. The big automobile slowed up. It halted a few feet behind the flivver, and a hearty hail came forth.
“By jingoes, if it ain’t Mis’ Crump! Hello, old-timer—ain’t seen you in ages!”
From the car sprang a hale and vigorous man who advanced with hand extended.
“I kind o’ thought it was you, Sam Tracy,” said Mrs. Crump. “Thought I recognized that there car o’ yours. How’s the folks?”
“All fine. And you? But I needn’t ask—why, you grow younger every month——”
“See here! What ye doin’ over in this county, Sam? Why don’t ye get back to Bernalillo where ye belong?”
The sheriff waved his hand.
“Going to Santy Fé. I’m looking up a fellow who came this way from Albuquerque—a hobo and sneak thief name o’ Shea. Where ye been keepin’ yourself, ma’am? It don’t seem like the same old state not to see ye from time to time.”
“Sam Tracy,” observed Mrs. Crump with a look of severity, “I’ve knowed you more years than I care to reckon up. And you know me, I guess! Now, Sam, I sure hate to do it—but I got to. Stick up your hands, Sam, and do it damn sudden!”
The muzzle of her revolver poked the astounded sheriff in the stomach. For a moment he gazed into her shrewd blue eyes, then slowly elevated his hands.
“Are you crazy, ma’am?” he demanded.
She removed his holstered weapon, then lowered her own and shook her head.
“Nope. I’m heap sane right here and now. Set down and smoke whilst I explain.”
CHAPTER II—THADY SHEA ENCOUNTERS PURPOSE
“Your man Shea is settin’ in my car yonder,” said Mrs. Crump.
Heedless of the glaring sun, she picked up her pipe and disposed her giant frame for converse. From narrowed lids the sheriff eyed the lanky, up-drawn figure of Shea, which he now noticed for the first time. Then he produced the “makings” and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
“Glad you picked him up,” said he. “I’ll take him back with me.”
“No, ye won’t,” retorted Mrs. Crump, calmly. “You’ll not touch him, Sam Tracy.”
“He’s a thief and a drunkard and a hobo,” said the sheriff.
“If they wasn’t no drinks to be had in heaven, I reckon hell would be majority choice,” quoth the lady. “When it comes to that, I’ve seen you and Crump so paralyzed you couldn’t talk. There was that night down to Magdalena when the railroad spur was finished and they held a celebration——”
The sheriff grinned. “No need to argue further along them lines, ma’am. You win!”
“I reckon I do, Sam. Besides, you ain’t got no authority over in this county. You can run a bluff on ignorant hoboes an’ greasers, but not on Mehitabel Crump! Your authority quit quite a ways back. Thady Shea only stole because he was starving, which I’d do the same in his place. I picked him up here and I’m goin’ to keep him.”
“You always was soft-hearted,” reflected Tracy. “Now you got him, what’s your programme?”
Mrs. Crump refilled and lighted her corncob with deliberation, then made response:
“Sam, I’m sure in a thunderin’ bad pinch. Damned good luck it ain’t worse, as Crump used to say at times. You know I ain’t no legal shark, huh? Well, three weeks ago I had a blamed good hole in the hills, until Abel Dorales come along and located just below me. Then in rides old Sandy Mackintavers and offers a thousand even for my hole, saying that Abel had located the thrown apex of my claim——”
“The apex law don’t obtain here,” put in Tracy.
“I know it; but who’s goin’ to argue with Mackintavers? If it wasn’t that, it’d be somethin’ worse. Anyhow, he offered to compromise and so on.”
The sheriff nodded. “I see how you come to have the flivver,” he observed, drily.
“Yas, ye do!” Mrs. Crump’s response was raw-edged. “If you was the kind o’ man you used to be, ye’d up and give them jumpers a hemp necktie! But now ye play politics, Sam Tracy, and ye lick the boots o’ Sandy Mackintavers——”
“That’s enough, Mis’ Crump!” broke in the sheriff, icily. “I don’t blame ye for feelin’ sore, but the likes of us can’t fight Mackintavers in the courts. We ain’t slick enough! And Dorales is a Mormon-bred greaser, than which the devil ain’t never fathered a worse combination. Now, Mis’ Crump, you show me the least excuse for doin’ it legally, and I’ll pump them two men full o’ lead any day! I’m only surprised that you didn’t do it.”
“I did.” A smile of grim satisfaction wreathed the lady’s firm lips. “First I took Sandy’s money, then I lets fly. They was several hired greasers with Dorales, and I reckon I got two-three; ain’t right sure. I only got Abel glancingly, and when I threw down on Sandy his arms was both elevated for safety. All I could decently do was to nick his ear so’s he’d remember me.”
“You didn’t kill Dorales?”
“Afraid not.” Mrs. Crump sadly shook her head. “I didn’t wait to inquire none, but it looked like I’d only blooded his shoulder and he was layin’ low to plug me in the back, so I belted him over the head with the butt, and slid for home.”
The sheriff, astounded, emitted a long whistle. “Whew-w!” he said, slowly. “Say, whereabouts did all this happen?”
“Down the Mogollons. Over Arizony way.”
“Why didn’t ye go west into Arizony, then? After that doin’s this state will be too hot to hold ye——”
“Oh, Sandy won’t go to law over the shootin’. It’d make him look too ridic’lous.”
The sheriff threw back his head and laughed with all the uproarious abandon of a man who laughs seldom but well.
“Best