The Big-Town Round-Up

  CHAPTER VIII

  "THE BEST SINGLE-BARRELED SPORT IVER I MET"

  Clay drifted back to a world in which the machinery of his bodycreaked. He turned his head, and a racking pain shot down his neck.He moved a leg, and every muscle in it ached. From head to foot he wassore.

  Voices somewhere in space, detached from any personal ownership,floated vaguely to him. Presently these resolved themselves into wordsand sentences.

  "We're not to make a pinch, Tim. That's the word he gave me before heleft. This is wan av Jerry's private little wars and he don't want ajudge askin' a lot of unnicessary questions, y' understand."

  "Mother av Moses, if this he-man from Hell's Hinges hadn't the luck avthe Irish, there'd be questions a-plenty asked. He'd be ready for themorgue this blissed minute. Jerry's a murderin' divvle. When I breezein I find him croakin' this lad proper and he acts like a crazy manwhen I stand him and Gorilla Dave off till yuh come a-runnin'. At thatthey may have given the bye more than he can carry. Maybe it'll beroses and a nice black carriage for him yet."

  The other policeman, a sergeant--by this time the voices had localizedthemselves in persons--laughed with reluctant admiration.

  "Him! He's got siven lives like a cat. Take a look at the Sea Siren,Tim. 'T is kindling the lad has made of the place. The man that runsthe dump put up a poor mouth, but I told him and the nuts that crowdedround squawkin' for an arrest that if they hollered the police wouldclose the place and pull the whole bunch for disorderly conduct. Theymelted away, believe me." He added, with an access of interest,"Yuh've heard the byes tell the story of the rube that tied up theSwede janitor on the Drive into a knot with his own hose. This'll bethe same lad, I'm thinkin'."

  The other nodded. He was bending over Clay and sprinkling water on hisface. "He'll be black and blue ivery inch of him, but his eyelids areflickering. Jerry's an ill man to cross, I've heard tell. Yuh'd thinkthis lad had had enough. But Jerry's still red-eyed about him andswears they can't both live in the same town. You'll remember likelyhow Durand did for Paddy Kelly? It was before my time."

  "Yuh're a chump copper, Tim Muldoon, else yuh'd know we don't talkabout that in the open street. Jerry has long ears," the older manwarned, lowering his voice.

  Clay opened his eyes, flexed his arm muscles, and groaned. He caressedtenderly his aching ribs.

  "Some wreck," he gasped weakly. "They didn't do a thing to me--outsideof beatin' me up--and stompin' on me--and runnin' a steam roller--overthe dear departed."

  "Whose fault will that be? Don't yuh know better than to start a fightwith a rigiment?" demanded the sergeant of police severely.

  "That wasn't a fight. It was a waltz." The faint, unconquered smileof brown Arizona, broke through the blood and bruises of the face."The fight began when Jerry Durand and his friend rushed me--and itended when Jerry landed on me with brass knucks. After that I was afootball." The words came in gasps. Every breath was drawn in pain.

  "We'd ought to pinch yuh," the sergeant said by way of reprimand."Think yuh can come to New York and pull your small-town stuff on us?We'll show youse. If yuh wasn't alfalfa green I'd give yuh a ride."

  "You mean if Durand hadn't whispered in yore ear. I'll call thatbluff, sheriff. Take me to yore calaboose. I've got one or two thingsto tell the judge about this guy Durand."

  The officer dropped his grumbling complaint to a whisper. "Whisht,bye. Take a straight tip from a man that knows. Beat it out of town.Get where the long arm of--of a friend of ours--can't reach yuh. Yuhmay be a straight guy, but that won't help yuh. Yuh'll be framed thesame as if yuh was a greengoods man or a gopher or a porch-climber.He's a revingeful inemy if ever there was wan."

  "You mean that Durand--"

  "I'm not namin' names," the officer interrupted doggedly. "I'm tellin'yuh somethin' for your good. Take it or leave it."

  "Thanks, I'll leave it. This is a free country, and no man livin' candrive me away," answered Clay promptly. "Ouch, I'm sore. Give me alift, sergeant."

  They helped the cowpuncher to his feet. He took a limping step or two.Every move was torture to his outraged flesh.

  "Can you get me a taxi? That is, if you're sure you don't want me inyore calaboose," the range-rider said, leaning against the wall.

  "We'll let yuh go this time."

  "Much obliged--to Mr. Jerry Durand. Tell him for me that maybe I'llmeet up with him again sometime--and hand him my thanks personal forthis first-class wallopin'." From the bruised, bleeding face therebeamed again the smile indomitable, the grin still gay and winning.Physically he had been badly beaten, but in spirit he was still the manon horseback.

  Presently he eased himself into a taxi as comfortably as he could."Home, James," he said jauntily.

  "Where?" asked the driver.

  "The nearest hospital," explained Clay. "I'm goin' to let the doctorsworry over me for a while. Much obliged to both of you gentlemen. Ialways did like the Irish. Friend Jerry is an exception."

  The officers watched the cab disappear. The sergeant spoke the commentthat was in the mind of them both.

  "He's the best single-barreled sport that iver I met in this man'stown. Not a whimper out of the guy and him mauled to a pulp. Game asthey come. Did youse see that spark o' the divvle in his eye, and himnot fit to crawl into the cab?"

  "Did I see it? I did that. If iver they meet man to man, him andJerry, it'll be wan grand little fight."

  "Jerry's the best rough-and-tumble fighter on the island."

  "Wan av the best. I wouldn't put him first till after him and this guyhad met alone in a locked room. S'long, Mike."

  "S'long, Tim. No report on this rough-house, mind yuh."

  "Sure, Mike."