Part 1

A MUNICIPAL FEUD

By ERNEST HAYCOX

Author of “Bound South,” “Starlight and Gunflame” etc.

WHEN ONE DESCRIBES A DESERT TOWN TO ITS ENTHUSIASTIC INHABITANTS AS A “SHRIVELLED UP GOPHER HOLE,” PERHAPS IT IS JUST AS WELL TO PUT YOURSELF RIGHT WITH THEM LATER ON BY STAYING FOR THEIR FIGHT WITH THE RIVAL METROPOLIS, WHICH, IT WAS FELT, WOULD STEAL ANYTHING THAT WASN’T RIVETED TO THE LANDSCAPE. BUT WHEN STEPS COME TO BE TAKEN FOR CIVIC HARMONY, THEN’S THE TIME TROUBLE IS HELL-BENT AROUND THE CORNER--SO TWO WELL-TRIED PARTNERS DRIFTED SOUTH

Joe Breedlove and his newly-found partner, Indigo Bowers, halted on the ridge to survey the country below and beyond them. The chariot of dawn thundered out of the east and every peak and bluff stood in clear outline, flaming with the careless interweaving of the raw primary colors; silver sparkled along the creek bottoms, scarlet and chrome ran side by side on the butte faces. Away in the remote distance a bright blue sky fused with the earth’s dun margin. It was like a bird’s-eye map splashed with pigment and Joe’s eyes kindled at the sight of so much prodigal beauty.

“Providence rises, and the earth is filled with light,” he murmured, rolling a brown paper cigarette.

“It just looks like another hot day to me,” grumbled Indigo Bowers. Indigo was a thin, undersized bundle of nerves. Upon his wizened face--where little wrinkling crow’s feet loved to dwell--was an abiding distrust of the world as he found it. His past life was a page written with the red ink of battle, feud and sudden violence, for Indigo was constitutionally unable to keep out of a quarrel, whether of his own making or somebody else’s.

“Take the beam out o’ yore eye, Indigo,” said Joe, smiling. No man on earth could withstand that smile; it was the shrewd, tolerant smile of a man who very well knew how devious were the ways of a wicked world and yet would not let that knowledge sour him. Joe Breedlove was tall and lean and as bronzed as the cigarette papers which came attached to his sack of smokin’ tobacco. The hair showing beneath his Stetson was prematurely silvered, his eyes were quite blue and mirroring an easygoing philosophy of existence.

“I ain’t got nothin’ in my eyes but sand an’ gravel,” retorted Indigo, “and I’ve swallered enough alkali water to corrode a boiler.”

They were a strangely mated pair and the wonder of all wonders was that they managed to endure each other. Joe Breedlove had met Indigo a month back on the trail when Indigo was in one of his characteristic difficulties--being chased by a posse. Joe had helped him out of it and a little later had in turn been given an assisting hand by Indigo. After that some chemical affinity had drawn them together. And for a month they had ridden southward, bound nowhere in particular, with nothing much in their minds.

* * * * *

Joe Breedlove stretched a long arm to the southeast. “Over yonder is a town. I was raised in it. There’s a piece of business I’ve got to finish up. Let’s ride.”

“Wait a minute,” said Indigo. “What town is it?”

“Big Elk.”

Indigo shook his head decisively. “I can’t go there.”

“Why not?” asked Joe.

“I was there once,” explained Indigo, and for some reason he felt called upon to draw his pointed features into a poker expression. He saw Joe grinning at him and he flared up. “Laugh, you idiot! You know blamed well I’m a peaceful man. I nev’ do butt my head into trouble unless I’m invited. But it is shorely funny how folks pick on me.”

“Well, that makes the fifth town hand-runnin’ we’ve had to circle because you’d been in ’em before,” mused Joe Breedlove. “If this keeps up we’ll have to go east o’ the Mississippi. It’s a mercy how you can develop friction in these municipal corporations. They see you an’ they start shootin’.”

“I’m not a hand to be picked on,” started Indigo with dignity.

“Guess we’ve got to separate for a couple days, then,” decided Joe. “I’ve got a chore to finish in Big Elk. Supposin’ I meet you here two sleeps from now?”

“If it’s a fight you aim to finish,” began Indigo wistfully, “I wouldn’t mind travellin’ along with you----”

“No, it’s peaceful.”

“All right, then,” decided Indigo. “Two sleeps from now, at this very spot. I’ll mosey around somewhere and fill up on ham an’ eggs.”

Joe Breedlove turned down the ridge side. “Try to keep out of trouble, Indigo.”

“I won’t start nothin’,” promised Indigo. “But I won’t avoid nothin’, either.”

* * * * *

The last part of the sentence was mumbled to Indigo’s own self. He watched Joe descend the slope and thread a patch of pines; then he turned toward the east and began a day’s wandering across a series of blistering hot upland pastures. At noon he stopped to eat a cold snack and inhale a brown paper cigarette, feeling somewhat bereaved. After this, he forged on, his horse casting longer shadows to the fore. And in that gloaming hour betwixt sunset and dark he sighted the scattered lights of a town bearing a little to his starboard quarter. He tacked and drifted down upon a street-end, stopping in the shadows. There was something Napoleonic in the manner he sat on his horse and memorized the relative positions of the livery stable, the hotel, the restaurant and the saloon--as well as the second-story porches and those little niches of darkness wherein a man might find shelter in time of stress.

“Well,” said he, advancing on the restaurant, “mebbe nothin’ will happen.”