Part 3

The speech was neatly sheared in the middle by a high screech and the accent of a revolver shot. A cavalcade poured through the street, the furies broke loose; guns flamed, the hotel windows tinkled with breaking glass. To a man the cohorts of Jingle Bell rushed toward the exits of the hostelry and moved in the direction of the Geyser, which seemed to be the point of attack.

Indigo stood alone, greatly agitated with conflicting emotions. The sound of battle rang up and down the narrow thoroughfare, the smell of burnt powder was in the air. Indigo sniffed it and shook his head. It seemed a shame for him to be idle. “I’d ought to lend a hand. Still, nobody invited me.”

There was a noise in the adjacent dining room and presently Gabe Wales crept out, a gun swinging from each fist. Yet though he was laden with the armaments of war, he seemed singularly lackluster. Indigo surveyed him up and down and with that glance had completely measured and docketed the man. “Wasn’t you the fella who wanted to fight, a minute ago?”

“I’m protectin’ the hotel,” explained Wales taciturnly.

“It’s yore hotel, huh?”

“I got an equity in it,” was the morose rejoinder.

“You got an equity in a damsite hotter place, too,” jeered Indigo, and forthwith ran from the hostelry. He had feared he was too late, but a glance dispelled the notion. Down in front of the Geyser, men and horses were jammed in a whirlpool of conflict. Jets of light traced across the darkness; voices shrilled defiance and counter defiance. And from sundry rending, smashing sounds, it was plain that the Geyser was being competently wrecked. Half of the invading party was inside, the other half standing guard along the street, while the outraged citizenry of Jingle Bell sniped at them from all angles. Indigo added his falsetto crow to the confusion and looked about him with the air of a tactician. “Why stand in the street an’ get a lead irrigation?” he wanted to know. “These boys must be green.”

* * * * *

He came against four Jingle Bell men huddled in a patch of shadows, firing alternately. “Foller me,” said Indigo. “We’ll blast ’em. Come on.” He ducked along the street until he reached a rickety four-by-four pillar supporting one end of a second-story porch. Up this he shinned, with the Jingle Bell cohorts behind. “Now,” breathed Indigo, “fly at it.”

The entrance to the Geyser was across the street and a few doors westward. From the porch Indigo and his volunteers commanded a clear sweep of the indistinct horsemen. Methodically they went to work. This concentration of fire quite immediately disturbed the invaders; it likewise warned them that Jingle Bell was organizing its resistance. A yell called the wrecking party out of the saloon; they milled, throwing lead in all directions, and galloped into darkness. A last shot echoed from the open prairie and a last ribald yell ricocheted back. The men of Jingle Bell ventured into the Geyser. Indigo dropped from the porch and followed suit.

Indigo was not a hand much given to bothering about property values; he had broken many a plate mirror himself and scarred many a mahogany bar top. Nevertheless, the utter devastation wrought within the saloon absolutely shocked him. And while the crowd took nourishment, he stood gloomily aside and listened to the dictates of his conscience. It wasn’t his fight, it wasn’t his saloon--and it wasn’t his town. Still---- At that point Indigo’s guardian angel turned a fresh page and reached for the red ink. He heard someone calling. Already his dash for the second-story porch had been heralded and the townsmen were regarding him as if he had established himself as a definite personage. He moved up, drank, and continued to brood as the talk eddied over his head. There was a scuffle at the saloon door; in came a brace of men bearing a fellow somewhat wounded, yet still fighting back. The invading party had left at least one hostage.

“Throw him in the cooler,” said Indigo. Meanwhile, he had something else on his mind. “Where was those gents from, anyhow?”

“Oh, it’s the Big Elk bunch again. It’s allus the Big Elk bunch.”

“Well, I’ll be singed,” grunted Indigo. “How long’s this been goin’ on?”

“Blamed if I know. It was a habit when I come here ten years ago.”

“Think of that! An’ when was the last time you returned the visit?”

The crowd had closed around him. Someone else took up the story. “Well, Indigo, Big Elk’s sorter outgrown us. Las’ time we sashayed over there was two years back, an’ we like to got all killed. They’re twice our number.”

“Think of that!”

* * * * *

At this point there was a diversion. Through the door galloped Gabe Wales, bellowing like a bull. The guns still dangled in his fists, his gimlet eyes were aflame with mighty wrath. “Come on, boys, le’s go get ’im! Le’s wipe Big Elk offen the map!”

The proper response was lacking. The assembled force of Jingle Bell looked toward Indigo. Indigo twitched his nose at sight of Wales and spoke soothingly. “If here ain’t little Albert again.”

Wales turned on him furiously. “I’ll bet you know somethin’ about that bunch!”

“Listen, Albert, you got an awful habit of comin’ into the picture a little late. You was pickin’ yore teeth last I saw, and not very anxious to find trouble, either.”

“A dam’ spy!”

“Hush,” said Indigo. And, unaccountably, Gabe Wales hushed. Indigo’s eyes were a bright green and wrinkles splayed across his face. Thus for a moment he surveyed the gentleman, then swung and ignored him. He addressed the crowd. “One thing’s certain. They’ll be back after the partner they left behind.”

“Then,” spoke up a bystander, “let’s get busy to meet ’em.”

“They won’t come tonight,” said Indigo. And the deliberateness of each word gave him immeasurable authority. “They’ve had ample for one night. Prob’ly they’ll come tomorra.”

“Then le’s be ready to watch ’em arrive.”