The Project Gutenberg eBook of Bad and mad

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Title: Bad and mad

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: January 9, 2025 [eBook #75071]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith Corporation, 1928

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75071

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAD AND MAD ***

BAD AND MAD

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Dangling Doom”, etc.

“You better put yore hands up, pardner.”

The man on his knees at the water hole turned his head slowly and looked at the other man, who was covering him with a rifle. This second man had popped up like a Jack-in-a-box from behind a sandstone boulder. Near the water hole stood a dejected-looking bay horse, head hanging, one hind leg cocked listlessly.

The man at the water hole got slowly to his feet, keeping his hands above his waist. He squinted closely at the other man, his eyes puzzled. Then, with momentarily sagging jaw, he uttered an expression of astonishment.

“Ben!” he exclaimed. “Well, what won’t yuh see when yuh ain’t got no gun!”

It was a sarcastic expression, because the speaker had a heavy gun in the holster at his right thigh. The other man came closer, but did not lower the muzzle of his weapon. The sun glinted from a badge fastened on the lapel of his vest.

They were as alike as two peas, these two. Both smooth shaven, slightly grizzled, neither of them carrying an ounce of surplus weight. Even their clothes were pretty much the same.

“Well, I’ll be darned!” snorted the man with the rifle. “Harry!”

They stood for a while, looking at each other. Then:

“Oh, would some power the giftie give us, to see ourselves as others see us,” misquoted the empty-handed man, and then added quickly, “if it would do any good.”

“Set down,” said the sheriff, indicating a boulder. “But keep yore hands in sight. I don’t trust you no more than I ever did.”

“You allus was a lovin’ brother,” grinned the other. “I’ve heard that twins have queer affections for each other—and it’s right. You might lower that cannon, Ben. I know when I’m stopped.”

“You robbed the bank in Oro City, yuh know.”

“Thasso? How long have you been in this country, anyway?”

“What’s that got to do with robbin’ a bank?”

“Nothin’. Must have been here quite a while. They don’t elect a sheriff in this country until they know something about him.”

“I’ve been here seven years,” said the sheriff gruffly. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, around up in the northwest.”

“Stealin’ horses?”

“That’s none of yore business; and if yuh wasn’t my twin brother, I wouldn’t be that civil.”

“Why didn’t yuh go straight, Harry?”

“Aw, don’t start preachin’! Slip the bracelets on me and take me back to yore jail. Heredity’s what ails me, I suppose.”

The sheriff smiled grimly. “Heredity! Why didn’t it affect me?”

“Don’t pull that holier-than-thou, Bennie.”

“Don’t like to hear about yore sins, eh? Well, it shore is funny to have you pullin’ a job in my county. Makes it bad for me, don’tcha know it? I can’t let yuh go, and it’ll shore reflect on me if I take yuh back. Anybody’d know you was my twin brother.”

“Yeah, we do look alike. Everybody used to say that I looked more like you than you do yourself. How far are we from Oro City? I shore traveled in a circle.”

“It’s only three miles, due south of here.”

“Thasso? Yo’re thought pretty well of down there, ain’t yuh?”

“I’m the sheriff.”

“You would be! I ’member you was allus bossin’ things when we was kids. Yo’re a right big man, I take it.”

“I have somethin’ to say about things in Oro City.”

“You ain’t married, I imagine.”

A peculiar expression flashed across the sheriff’s face.

“No, I ain’t married.”

“That’s queer. You allus was kinda shineful around the wimmin’.”

“Where’s the money yuh got from the bank?”

The other grinned slowly.

“That’s what a lawyer would call a leadin’ question.”

“Don’t be a fool, Harry. I’ll make yuh a trade.”

“Eh? A trade?”

“Give me that money, and I turn yuh loose.”

“Yea-a-ah? On the square?”

“I don’t want to take yuh back. If the bank gets its money, they won’t howl very loud. I can say I made yuh drop it but that yuh got away on me.”

“Brotherly love, eh?”

“Love be dashed! I’d look well takin’ my own brother to jail.”

“Uh-huh! But suppose I won’t tell yuh where it is?”

“Oh, yes, you will! I’ll rope yuh tight and leave yuh out there in the rocks for a few days. Nobody ever comes by here; it’s out of the beaten trail.”

“And then you’ll trade me water for information, eh?”

“Yeah—and you’ll trade.”

The robber threw back his head and began laughing. It seemed to strike him as a huge joke and he shook with merriment. The muzzle of the sheriff’s rifle had been lowered perceptibly and his left hand rubbed his stubbled chin wonderingly.

“Trade me water for information! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

The robber threw back his head and slapped himself on the thigh. It was evidently the biggest joke he had ever heard. Again he roared his mirth, slapped his thigh heavily, and when his hand came up again it was comfortably filled with the butt of a Colt .45, and the muzzle was covering the sheriff.

The man had jerked forward off the rock, head hunched between his shoulders, his eyes glittering. For several moments the sheriff stared at him, realizing what a fool he had been not to take that gun away when he had the chance, and then let his rifle slide to the sand.

“I’ve done bought out yore tradin’ establishment,” growled the robber slowly. “Now, you’ll trade on my terms.”

“I was givin’ you the best of the trade,” said the sheriff, “What’s a few dollars to years in prison?”

“It’s jist accordin’ to how bad yuh need money. Back away from that rifle, Bennie. Hands up to the shoulders! Oh, shore, I’ll take yore six-gun! We may be twin brothers, but we’re not twin fools. That’s yore part of the heredity.”

“What are you goin’ to trade with me?”

The sheriff was sullen now, as he measured his brother.

“Trade? I’ll tell yuh what I’ll trade—me for you? Get what I mean? No? Then here’s the idea; I’ll be the sheriff, and you lie out here in these hot rocks. I’ve allus wanted to have a chance to boss things a little m’self. You’ve been sheriff for so long that it won’t hurt yuh to let yore brother handle the job for a few hours or days; it’s all accordin’ to how yuh stand the heat. I’ll come out to-morrow and give yuh feed and water. I can alibi that by the fact that I’m lookin’ for the man you didn’t find.

“Yeah, that’s what I said! I never robbed yore bank; never was in Oro City in my life. You trailed the wrong man. I’ve dodged sheriffs from Laredo to Vancouver, but yo’re the first one ever to put the deadwood on me—and for somethin’ I never done! But I’m through dodgin’ for a while, at least as long as I can keep you under cover.

“I’ll jist go down to Oro City and be the sheriff for a while, and what I want you to do right now is to tell me a few things.”

“Tell yuh a few things?” parroted the sheriff.

“Yeah. What’s the name of yore deputy?”

An expression of animal cunning flashed across the sheriff’s face.

“Find out for yourself,” he said.

“Meanin’ that you won’t come through with any information, eh?”

“I’m not tellin’ what I know.”

“Do yuh think that’ll stop me?” The speaker laughed shortly. “I’ve brought contraband from Mexico under the noses of the rangers, and I’ve had mounties ride with me on a wagon load of hooch into Alberta. I’ve run, when the runnin’ was good, and I’ve shot my way through, when it was blocked. I’ve preached in Seattle and dealt faro in Reno.

“I’ve lived on my nerve, Bennie; and I’ll keep on livin’ on my nerve. Yore little penny-ante town don’t scare me. I’ll go down there and be the sheriff. I’m glad yuh said that few people ever come out here. You’ll stay here, while I play sheriff, and after a few days I’ll crack that bank for every cent she’s got, and then I’ll turn you loose.”

“You goin’ to take my star and my guns?”

“I shore am. C’mon over to my horse while I get a rope.”

“Yo’re crazy.”

The sheriff shuffled ahead and stood there dumbly, while the other man shook out a lariat.

“I’ll have to turn my horse loose,” he told the sheriff. “I’ll cache the saddle and bridle. Whew! that sun is hot. It’s a wonder it don’t drive all you folks crazy down here. It’s a cinch I won’t stay here very long, but I’ll go away with more than I brought. So yo’re a big man in this county, eh? I’ve never had a chance to be a big man. Mebbe I’ll go straight, Ben. It all depends on how you stand the heat out here in the rocks. With you out of the way, I might play a straight game.”

“Yo’re crazy,” said the sheriff in a dull voice.

“Crazy? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Not me, Bennie. Yo’re crazy, if you think I am.”

“Are you goin’ to tie me up?”

“Y’betcha.”

The sheriff was standing there dumbly, hands hanging at his sides, while his brother examined the rope. They were several feet apart. Suddenly, without any warning, the sheriff sprang at his brother, the swift leap of a wild cat, slashing as he did so with both hands.

It was so unexpected that the man had no chance to guard himself, except to throw up both hands with the rope, staggering back in the yielding sand. A slashing fist barely missed his jaw, but struck across his throat, cutting off his breath. Another fist banged against his ear, and then they went down in a heap, clawing, striking, gouging.

There were no rules in this fight. Like two animals, battling to the death, they rolled in the sand, fighting with fists, elbows, knees; berserk creatures of the desert they were, fighting to the finish. There was no conversation, only grunting, choking, panting noises as they fought.

Rolling over and over, they went surging to their knees, only to go down again; digging their feet into the sand, growling, whimpering. Suddenly they fell apart and stumbled to their feet. Without a pause, the sheriff lowered his head and dived for the other, who was clawing at his holster for the gun which had been lost early in the fight. It was out there, shining on the sand, but there was no time to get it now.

Down they went again, but fell apart and got to their feet. Once more the sheriff charged swiftly, but this time the other man was not trying for his gun. The sheriff was coming in low, like a football tackler, and the other man met his charge, jerking up one knee as they crashed together. But the sheriff’s clutching hands went limp, as the knee caught him beneath the chin, and he flopped sidewise in the sand, his head twisted at a queer angle.

The other man slumped down in the sand, his head hanging, as he tried to pump air into his tortured lungs. His eyes were filled with perspiration and sand, his nose and mouth bleeding. He looked at the sheriff, blinking foolishly. Then he crawled to the water hole and stretched for a drink. The water was warm, bitter to the taste, but he drank heavily. He washed his face and hands, which dried immediately, and then he rolled a cigarette.

There was no remorse for what he had done. He looked at the inert figure on the sand indifferently. It had been fifteen years since he had seen Ben, and then only for a few days. Their paths had always been far apart. He snapped the cigarette aside and got to his feet. With callous indifference he changed clothes with the dead sheriff.

Then he loaded the body on his horse and took it far back into a little canyon, where he hid it among the rocks. The saddle and bridle he also hid away in a deep crevice, and turned the horse loose to shift for itself.

Back he went to the water hole, where he proceeded to wipe out all evidences of a fight. With a mesquite branch he smoothed the sand, knowing that the first breeze would finish the job. He threw his own gun off among the rocks, shoved his belt beneath a mesquite bush, and put on the sheriff’s belt.

Picking up the sheriff’s rifle and revolver, he went down to where the dead man’s horse was tied to a juniper, and climbed into the saddle. He knew he was playing a risky game, but he was banking entirely on his physical appearance. He had bluffed and stalled his way through life and knew his own ability. For six months, at one time, he had acted as a deputy sheriff in a New Mexico county, which gave him an insight into a sheriff’s duties. He remembered that Ben had always been a man of few words, and he intended to keep his mouth shut until he had found out a few things.

It was not difficult for him to find Oro City. It was larger than he had thought. He didn’t know where his office was located, and his eyes searched the main street for the court house or a sign which might direct him. He glanced keenly at the bank, as he rode past, and it seemed to be doing business.

“I reckon it didn’t get nicked very hard,” he told himself. “Just wait’ll I get a whack at it!”

A cowboy stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and looked closely at him. The sheriff half waved at the cowboy, who shoved his hands deeply in his pockets and watched him go on down the street.

“Evidently not a friend of mine,” the other observed dryly. “I’ve got to be careful until I get the lay of this thing, ’cause I might make a bad break.”

Ah, there it is! Just a little further down the street was the sign:

SHERIFF’S OFFICE.

The newcomer smiled grimly. A man was standing in the doorway, but now he turned and stepped back into the office. Boldly, the sheriff dismounted at the little hitch rack, slapped the dust off his sombrero, and walked into the office. His eyes were not very keen, after coming in out of the bright sunlight, and he didn’t realize what was happening, except that one man had landed on his back, while two more had grappled him from in front, whirling him sidewise into the wall.

He had no chance to fight back. His arms were twisted behind him, and the handcuffs clicked tightly around his wrists.

“That’ll hold him!” panted one of the men.

“Not for mine,” protested another. “Soak him in a cell before anybody finds out he’s here.”

“Good idea! C’mon.”

They hustled him through the office, down a corridor to a cell, where they locked him in, still handcuffed. He stared blankly at them—his mind whirling. What was it all about, he wondered?

Another man came in—the cowboy who had stood on the edge of the sidewalk.

“Wasn’t that Ben Allen?” he asked.

“It shore was,” growled one of the men, who wore a deputy’s badge.

“What did the fool come back here for?”

“Quién sabe, Jim? I reckon the jury was right when they judged him crazy. He argued with them that he was sheriff of this county. Bob was to take him to the asylum yesterday, yuh know, but somehow he got Bob’s gun away, shot him twice, and made a getaway with Bob’s star, rifle, and six-gun.”

“And then the danged fool came back!”

“Merely provin’ that he is crazy.”

They moved down the corridor, and the prisoner came up to the bars, his eyes wide, jaw sagging. For a long time he stared into space, licking his dry lips with a drier tongue. Then he rested his hot forehead against the cool metal of the bars.

“Yessir,” he said bitterly. “It’s the first time in my life I ever agreed with a deputy sheriff. Solomon, in all his wisdom, never made a wiser statement.”

THE END

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 19, 1928 issue of Western Story Magazine.

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BAD AND MAD

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