Part 2

But the team had ideas of their own. They swung sidewise, kicking, plunging, with Baldy digging his heels into the hard surface of the street, trying to stop them. Further around they swung, until at right angles to the wagon they straightened out the rope and fairly yanked the bear-cage through the side-board of the wagon.

For a moment it seemed to hang in midair, then crashed down to the hard earth, striking on one corner. Came the snapping of overwrought rawhide, the splintering of poles, and the grizzly, dazed, fighting mad, shook the poles off his roached neck and stood forth as free as he was the day before La Clede’s trap cut off his freedom.

Brick Davidson was riding into Silverton, and drew up his horse about a hundred feet away from the scene of action. He did not know what was being done until the grizzly emerged from the shattered cage.

In the excitement Baldy let loose of his lines and the team bolted with the remnants of the cage bounding and crashing along behind them. Horses broke away from the hitch-racks and dashed wildly about the street, but no one paid them any heed. The crowd had scattered for places of safety, except little Whizzer Malloy, and now they fairly screamed their warnings to the little, brown-faced, brown-eyed baby, who stood there in the middle of the street, spur in hand, facing a blood-hungry grizzly.

They were not over six feet apart. Somewhere a six-shooter cracked, fired by a nervous hand, and the bullet spouted dust between the baby and the bear. With almost incredible speed for such an unwieldy-looking animal, the grizzly closed the gap, knocking little Whizzer flat on his back.

“Don’t shoot!” screamed Baldy Malloy. “My God, don’t shoot!”

The big bear was master of the situation now. With mane erect, rumbling defiance at those who had attempted to send him into captivity, he crouched lower over the dazed child. Suddenly his head dropped and he gathered the child in his mouth. As he swung up his head Brick Davidson was running toward him, six-shooter in his hand.

Someone yelled a warning at the red-headed sheriff, but he did not hesitate. Brick was making his attack from the rear and he was making it at top speed. Someone in the crowd threw a sombrero in the direction of the bear, which swung its head, as though to meet this new danger; and at that moment Brick fairly leaped through the air and landed on the grizzly.

It was so unexpected that the bear remained motionless for a second; and in that moment Brick twisted his left hand into that roached mane and set his spurs deeply into the powerful shoulders of the animal.

With a flip of its neck the grizzly flung little Whizzer aside and the little boy started crawling blindly away. Quick as a flash the bear whirled completely around, seeking to dislodge this new enemy, but Brick was all set for the ride.

Two powerful lunges failed to unseat the rider, and then the bear reared upright, clawing wildly, roaring with rage. Brick was, in range parlance, “pullin’ leather,” but none of the audience denied him that right. It was the first time that any of them had seen a bucking grizzly.

But no one came to his assistance; no one wanted to get within reach of that terrible mount. And as the grizzly, upright on its hind legs, threatened to fall backward, Brick’s six-shooter spouted flame and lead into the animal’s brain.

Twice the big .45 roared dully before the grizzly plunged forward from its upright position. It went flat in the dirt, surged to all fours, but went down again from the third shot, sprawling in a grotesque heap. Brick fell off, rolled over once and came back to his feet, ready for more.

But the grizzly was finished. The three big slugs of lead had done their work, and the Eastern zoo would never see the big grizzly from the Smoky Hills.

* * * * *

The crowd surged into the street, too amazed for words. They quickly surrounded Brick and the grizzly, trying to congratulate Brick and to alibi themselves at the same time.

“I throwed the hat,” announced Slim Hunter proudly. It was like the sparrow’s announcement of, “I killed Cock Robin.”

Baldy Malloy, hatless, his face streaked with perspiration and dust, carrying little Whizzer under his arm, broke through the crowd and halted in front of Brick. He was breathing too heavily for words, and could only stare at Brick, who grinned widely at the serious expression on little Whizzer’s face.

Baldy did not offer to shake hands with Brick; just stared at him in a dazed way. The crowd was silent now. Then the youngster shoved out two little grimy hands, clutching at the big spur, and announced in a triumphant treble—

“By golly, I held onto her, y’betcha!”

Baldy glanced down at the two hands, shifted the boy to where he could grasp him with both hands, hugged him tightly to his breast and stumbled away with the one muttered exclamation—

“God!”

The crowd stared after him for a moment and turned back to Brick, whose eyes were suspiciously moist. Mose La Clede’s big, bony hand was thrust out to Brick, and his voice boomed:

“By gosh, dat was nervy treek! I’m los’ de bear, but I’m glad for save de leetle keed. You mak’ de good ride, sheriff; by gosh, you mak’ de —— good ride!”

“I sure throwed that hat,” announced Slim again. If there was any glory to spare, Slim wanted some of it.

“I’m sure glad yuh thought of doin’ that, Slim,” said Brick warmly. “It attracted him long enough to give me a chance to make my mount.”

“I knowed it,” grinned Slim, “and I sure timed m’ throw. It takes quick thinkin’ in a case like that.”

“I’m buyin’ a drink for everybody!” yelled Otto Falk, proprietor of the Short Horn saloon. “Come and get it.”

The crowd was willing. They needed something strong now.

“I’ve got a perfectly good team out there some’ers, draggin’ what used to be a bear cage,” complained Hank Stagg. “They’ll prob’ly be plumb ruined; but I’m goin’ to have a drink. By ——, I’m through with grizzly bears. That big son-of-a-gun was jist about to glom that poor little kid.

“Wasn’t he sore? Whoo-ee! I betcha that grizzly could ’a’ whipped all the lions in Africky. Might as well try to stop a railroad ingine. Quick, too; quick as ——”

“My hat’s ruined, too,” complained Slim ruefully. “That —— bear done his war-dance on it and then some of these heavy-heeled cow-persons walked all over it. They’re so —— ignorant that they don’t know what a hat is, ’less it’s on somebody’s head.”

* * * * *

Baldy Malloy headed straight toward his own shack, going down the main street, clinging tightly to Whizzer, who was willing to ride, even if he did not understand what it was all about.

As they came past McGill’s saloon, McGill, a portly, hard-faced man, stopped them and asked Baldy what had caused all the excitement up the street. There were three other men with McGill.

“Didn’t yuh see it?” asked Baldy hoarsely.

“Wouldn’t ask you, if we did?” growled McGill. “We was playin’ poker and heard them shots fired.”

Baldy stood the boy up on the sidewalk while he hastily sketched out what had been done.

“And he rode that bear, straight-up, made him let go of Whizzer, and then killed the bear with his six-gun,” finished Baldy.

McGill spat thoughtfully and squinted at the three men in the doorway.

“Made a hero out of himself right in front of a crowd,” said McGill sarcastically. “Pretty —— good advertisin’, eh?”

McGill laughed hoarsely and turned to Baldy, just in time to receive Baldy’s right fist square in his nose; and the fist had every ounce of weight and strength that Baldy possessed behind it.

Baldy’s one punch was sufficient. McGill fell into his own doorway, his shoulders striking the edge of the step and the back of his head fairly bouncing off the floor. None of the three men made any move to assist McGill. Baldy blew on his bruised knuckles, picked Whizzer off the sidewalk, and went on toward his own shack.

McGill recovered sufficiently to get back on his feet, spat out a tooth, along with a weird assortment of profanity, and went back into the saloon to try and find out, with the aid of a mirror, just why his nose seemed so out of proportion to the rest of his face.

“You touched Baldy on a tender spot, Mac,” said one of the men. “Yuh see, Brick Davidson jist saved Baldy’s kid.”

“All right,” growled McGill, like a man suffering from a heavy cold. “There can’t nobody hit me and get away with it.”

“As far as Baldy is concerned, you better let things go as they lie,” advised one of the men.

“Yeah, I s’pose,” said McGill darkly, squinting at himself in the mirror. “Didja ever see a nose like that? And I lost a good tooth, too.”

Brick accepted several drinks, along with the adulations of the crowd. Every one had a different version of the affair, and Brick knew that inside of an hour there would be a dozen men who would swear that he had killed at least fifty grizzly bears single-handed.

Slim Hunter had reached the crying stage—sobbing over the ruination of his new sombrero; so Brick managed to sneak out during a heated argument. Across the street, in a general store, he encountered Soapy Caswell and Sam Leach.

Soapy was a typical cattleman; as gray as a badger, and with a similar disposition. He had acquired control of the banking business of Sun Dog County, with banks at Marlin City, Silverton and Redrock; but his personal interests ran stronger to draw poker than to finances. He owned the Circle Cross ranch, located about three miles east of Silverton.

Soapy and Leach had heard of the grizzly incident, and Soapy congratulated Brick with:

“Hear yo’re ridin’ ’em savage these days, Brick. Ha, ha, ha! By golly, yuh ought to get a medal for that. Shore took a lot of nerve. How are yuh?”

He held out his hand to Brick, but Leach merely lifted his brows slightly and busied himself with looking into a fly-specked showcase. They shook hands and Soapy indicated with a gesture that he wanted to see Brick outside.

Brick bought some tobacco and moved out of the store with Soapy, halting out near the hitch-rack. Soapy was not one to beat about the bush.

“Brick, if you don’t slap the deadwood on some of these stick-up jaspers, yore cake’ll be all dough at the primaries. There’s a lot of folks that has an idea that a sheriff must be smarter’n ——; don’tcha know it?”

“I’m smart,” said Brick seriously.

Soapy nodded quickly.

“I know yuh are, Brick. The smartest man I ever knowed was a plumbed ——ed fool.”

“Who was he?” queried Brick.

“Well,” Soapy spat thoughtfully, “I hate to give him away like this, but bein’ as yuh asked kinda point-blank—it’s me.”

Soapy chuckled at his own wit and slapped Brick on the shoulder.

“That Redrock stage hold-up cost me five thousand dollars, Brick. I’m not sendin’ any more money by stage, y’betcha. That other hold-up cost the Red Hill mine a nice piece of change, and that bank robbery here nicked me for a nice little pot.

“I _sabe_ that yo’re doin’ everythin’ yuh can. Don’tcha get the idea that Soapy Caswell is ridin’ yuh, son. I’m just tellin’ yuh how the voters stand. Right now you’d carry Silverton, cause they remember the grizzly. T’morrow they quit thinkin’ bear.”

Brick nodded. He knew that Soapy was right. Sun Dog County wanted a sheriff to do things right now. Past performances did not count.

“Have you got any idea, Soapy?” asked Brick.

“Not a danged idea, Brick. From the three descriptions, there’s a big man, a medium-sized one and one that’s kinda tall and thin. Of course you’ve got to kinda discount descriptions, ’cause the human eye ain’t noways accurate after it’s looked down the muzzle of a cocked gun. Anyway, I know danged well mine ain’t.”

“Would they nominate Hank Stagg and then elect him?” queried Brick.

“If they nominate him, they’ll sure elect him. He wouldn’t be worth a plugged dime as a sheriff, but that don’t count now.”

“Well,” Brick yawned wearily, “I dunno as I care a lot, Soapy. I’ve had two years of misery for two hundred and twenty dollars per month. I suppose it would be kinda tough to go back to the old forty a month, punchin’ cows.”

“Now you get the idea out of yore mind,” advised Soapy. “Sun Dog needs a reg’lar sheriff—not a —— chilblain like Hank Stagg.”

“Soapy, do yuh think that Bill Grant, Hendricks and Leach will be nominated?”

“Leach don’t have to—he’s a hold-over, Brick. But I reckon Grant and Hendricks will be elected ag’in. They’re as good as we can pick.”

“They don’t like me, Soapy.”

“Well, my ——, what do you care? Are yuh gettin’ so that folks has to send yuh vi’lets?”

Brick laughed widely at the serious expression on Soapy’s face.

“Listen, Soapy,” he said softly, “they’ve hired a professional detective to come here to unravel our troubles.”

“No! A—a—well, that’s fine. I suppose we’ll have to take up a collection to send his body back to Iowa, or to some other ——ed seaport. By golly, that’s fine! Well—” Soapy cuffed his hat sideways on his head, and bit off a generous chew of tobacco—“that settles all our troubles. You can just set down and let him bring yuh the criminals.

“I wonder whose idea that was? Mebbe all three. By ——, if their combined brains were turned into dynamite and loaded into a .22 shell, it wouldn’t have power enough to kick the bullet out of a two-inch barrel. Professional detective, ——! I’m goin’ to find me a poker game, Brick. I crave action, I do. So-long!”

* * * * *

Brick stood at the hitch-rack and grinned at Soapy, who was bow-legging his way across the street toward the Short Horn saloon. Sam Leach came out of the store, started to turn the other way, but noticed Brick and came over to him.

“You remember we spoke to you about that expert investigator the other day, Davidson?” said Leach.

Brick nodded slowly.

“He will be here almost any day now,” continued Leach. “We told you this in strict confidence, and—well, we want you to keep the information to yourself. His value is gone, if his identity is known.”

“Yeah?” Brick grinned.

“You can see that for yourself, can’t you? He will probably go to work as a cowpuncher.”

“He ought to be worth forty a month,” mused Brick.

Leach scowled slightly. He had crossed verbal swords with Brick before, and he knew that the red-headed sheriff carried a sharp weapon in range-repartee. Brick looked up quickly.

“Seems to me that yo’re takin’ a —— of a lot of interest in my office, Leach.”

“Not in your office—in the good of the county, Davidson.”

“Yeah? She was a pretty good county before you came here, Leach. Mebbe she’ll be a good county after yo’re gone.”

“I don’t think I understand you, Davidson.”

“Don’tcha? Well, that’s all right then. What yuh don’t understand won’t worry yuh none.”

Brick turned and crossed the street to a hitch-rack, where he mounted his horse and rode back toward Marlin City. Leach watched him ride away, shrugged his shoulders indifferently and walked down the street toward McGill’s saloon.

Sam Leach had lived in Sun Dog County about four years and had prospered in his cattle buying. For nearly two years he had held office as a commissioner and had proved himself a capable man, although his disposition had gained him few friends.

He knew the cattle business well, having been a cowboy, cattle-raiser, and previous to his coming to Sun Dog he had been a range detective. He lived alone in a little house on the outskirts of Silverton, but spent a great part of his time in riding over the range, looking at the stock.

As Leach went down the street, Bill Grant came out of the livery-stable, where he had just left his horse, and crossed over to Leach. Jimmy McKeever, the stableman, had told Grant of how Brick had saved Baldy Malloy’s youngster.

“Hello,” greeted Grant, “I guess I showed up too late to see the fun, eh? Did you see Brick ride the grizzly?”

“No, I didn’t see it,” replied Leach a trifle sullenly.

“Wish I had,” laughed Grant. “Jimmy tells me that it was worth seein’. Brick’s got plenty of nerve.”

“Yes, that’s a cinch.”

“Hear anythin’ more from that detective, Sam?”

“Not a word. But that don’t bother me. Santel said he’d be here as soon as he could make the trip, and he’ll be here.”

“Good man, eh?” reflectively. “Yuh know we’re kinda leavin’ this up to you, Sam. I know that Brick didn’t like the idea, and I don’t know that I do. I had a talk with Hendricks——”

“Want me to send him back?” queried Leach, “——, I thought you fellows——”

“No, we’ll let him go ahead, Sam. If he cleans up this gang, it will be fine. Still, I wonder if Brick——”

Two men were coming from McGill’s saloon and Grant stopped with his question unasked. It was two of the men who had been there when Baldy had knocked McGill down. They were Bud Keller and Ed Smeed, two cowboys from over in the Smoky Hills.

“Did you fellers see it?” asked Keller, laughing.

“No, we got here too late,” replied Grant. “Brick must have made a good ride.”

“Oh, not that,” laughed Smeed. “We didn’t see that either. We meant, did yuh see Baldy Malloy knock McGill down?”

“Eh?” grunted Leach. “Knock McGill down?”

“Uh-huh. Baldy was comin’ past, packin’ his kid, when McGill asked Baldy what was goin’ on up the street. Yuh see, we was all playin’ poker and didn’t know anythin’ unusual was goin’ on, until we hears the shots.

“Baldy was kinda excited and his eyes was like saucers, when he tells us how Brick saved his kid’s life. Anyway, McGill makes a remark about Brick tryin’ to make a hero out of himself, and then Baldy almost ruins McGill’s nose. Honest to gosh, he laid McGill stiff.”

“And,” added Smeed, “if yuh meet Baldy, don’t say nothin’ ag’in Brick Davidson. I never knowed that that fat stage-driver had that kind of a wallop. Whoo-ee! He sure caressed McGill.”

Grant laughed widely. He did not like McGill. But Leach did not see anything humorous in the incident.

“What did McGill do?” asked Leach.

“Aw, he spat out a tooth and soaked his smeller in cold water,” grinned Keller. “It sure was right good to look upon.”

“It must have been,” said Leach dryly.

“C’mon up to the Short Horn, and I’ll buy a drink,” offered Keller.

“No thanks,” Leach shook his head. “I’m going home.”

“How about you, Grant?” queried Keller. Grant grinned and started up the street.

“Just to show that I’m a hail-feller-well-met, c’mon.”

Leach looked after them, a half-sneer on his face, and went slowly down to McGill’s saloon, where he went inside.

* * * * *

_Tung-g-g, hung-g-g-g, bong-g-g, bong-g-g-g, zung-g-g-g._

Mrs. Wesson lifted her head from the pillow and strained her ears, trying to figure out what was making the peculiar noise. She had been listening to it for quite a while. It was a weird noise, half-metallic, half-human.

She reached over to a chair, where an alarm clock ticked loudly, and, in the dim light, took note of the time.

“Four o’clock,” she said aloud.

“Eh?”

Cale Wesson, her husband, lifted himself on one elbow and squinted at her.

“Whazzamatter?”

“That danged noise,” she replied. “Didn’t yuh hear it?”

Cale yawned audibly and turned his pillow over. He was not interested.

_Hung-g-g, bong-g-g, zung-g-g-g, zung-g-g, bong-g-g-g._

“What the —— is that?” demanded Cale, sitting up in bed.

“That’s what I’ve been talkin’ about,” said Mrs. Wesson. “I’ve been hearin’ it for quite a while. Sounds like a tight wire in a wind.”

“Um-m-m.”

Cale slid out of bed and went to a window. The sounds seemed to come from almost directly below them.

“It’s sure got me,” declared Cale. “I’m danged——”

“I care not for the star-r-r-rs that shi-i-ine.”

The voice was singing softly, unmusically; dwelling with fervor and longing upon the higher registers.

“I only ho-o-ope that you’ll be-e-e mi-i-i-ine.”

Cale Wesson slid the window up softly and looked down.

Harp Harris was sitting against a corner of the porch, his face lifted in the moonlight, eyes closed, as he poured out his soul in his own kind of melody—

“I only know I lo-o-o-ove you-u-u-u; Love me-e-e-e-e and the wor-r-r-rld is mi-i-i-i-ine.”

The last wailing note died away. Cale Wesson turned and looked at his wife. Mrs. Wesson was a big, raw-boned woman, with a sense of humor, and just now the curl-papers on her head were jerking from excess mirth.

She shoved Cale aside and leaned out of the window.

“Harp!” she called softly.

“Eh?” Harp’s eyes opened and he gasped up at the window above him.

“You ought to go home and git some sleep,” said Mrs. Wesson.

“Huh?” Harp’s vocal cords creaked slightly.

“We like yore music,” said Mrs. Wesson seriously, “but Cale’s got to have sleep, if he’s going to run a store. Pers’nally, I kinda like it. Yuh better try it ag’in some night when Cale ain’t at home.”

“Uh,” replied Harp.

He stepped off the porch, as if to sneak away, but summoned up a little nerve.

“Ain’t Miss Miller to home?” he asked. “I—I told her I was goin’ to serenade her sometime, yuh know.”

“Gosh, I thought yuh was serenadin’ me.” Mrs. Wesson was sadly serious. “Well, I s’pose I should have known better. Nope, Miss Miller ain’t home, Harp. She went to Silverton to a dance last night.”

“Uh-huh? She did? Who’d she go with?”

“Mister Leach.”

“Oh! Well, I’m much obliged, Mrs. Wesson.”

“No, yuh ain’t, Harp; but it’s the best I can do for yuh.”

“Sa-a-ay!” Cale Wesson’s voice rasped out angrily. “What in —— do yuh mean by singin’ love songs around my winder at this time in the mornin’? I’ve got a danged good notion——”

“No, yuh ain’t got no notion,” retorted Mrs. Wesson. “You never had any kind of a notion. You let the boy alone.”

The window slammed down, cutting off the argument. Harp put the offending instrument in his pocket and went back to the deserted street, where he slouched despondently along the sidewalk.

“Gone t’ Silverton with Leach, eh?” he muttered aloud. “And me wastin’ m’ melody on the Wesson fambly. My ——! Now, everybody in town will know about it. —— Sam Leach!”

Miss Miller was the new school-teacher in Marlin City, a tall, angular sort of girl; rather good-looking and with a pleasant disposition. She boarded and roomed with the Wesson family, which place, according to Mrs. Wesson, “was gittin’ to be a cowpuncher’s headquarters.”

Harp Harris had been fancy free until he had seen Della Miller. But in one month, Dan Cupid had riddled his heart with arrows of love; ruined his perspective, until he lost all track of time. Hence the four a.m. serenade.