# THE REVENGE OF FLORIDA JACK

by Ernest Haycox
Author of “The Octopus from Pilgrim Valley,”
“The Man from Montana,” etc.

> FLORIDA JACK WAS A SORT THE WEST SELDOM KNEW AND NEVER WANTED TO KNOW. BUT FLORIDA JACK KNEW HOW TO MAKE TROUBLE—TROUBLE THAT MADE GUN-FLAMING HISTORY THAT DAY IN WOOLVILLE’S DUSTY STREET

Every man in the yard knew the sky was about to fall on Florida Jack. Even Florida Jack, coming up the trail to the ranch-house, must have known it, for Jim Kitchin’s feet were planted athwart the trail and his great kettle-like head rolled slowly around the axis of his huge neck as if accenting the fury that blazed out of his eyes. One of Jim Kitchin’s immense fists—a fist large enough to maul a steer, folks of the county maintained—gripped the loose neck skin of a sheep dog, the other was jammed in a pocket. And never for an instant did his attention stray from the advancing herder. The half-dozen men of the place draped themselves around the yard with a studied carelessness, lids narrowing, and wondered just how hard the big boss would hit Florida Jack.

It was a scene worth remembering; the later recounting of it in Woolville would be certain to draw an audience, for Jim Kitchin was a figure of importance and Jim Kitchin loved to be at peace with his fellows, loved to laugh at the world. The thunder of his glee, it had often been said, was so powerful that the furthermost sheep on his range laid down its ears and stopped browsing. A huge, rollicking creature he was, who treasured a practical joke and who, even in the fist fights of his earlier days, could never bring himself to punish a man after he had delivered the first few stunning blows. Yet there he was, boiling mad.

Nor did he delay. As Florida Jack opened and came inside the ranch gate, Jim Kitchin jerked his free fist forward, stabbing at the herder. His first words fell on the man with all the force of a black snake whip.

“You gimlet-eyed, halfbreed galoot, yo’re fired! After you walk down this trail don’t you never set another foot on my land or I’ll wring you like a dishrag.”

Florida Jack stopped. His dusky eyes ventured a single glance at the big boss and slid evasively away. Some expression flared and subsided on his lank, copper-colored face. And thus he stood, a saturnine, shambling figure shifting from one foot to another as if the weight of his body hurt him; he was the image of indolence and instability. The very sight of him was enough to waken distrust, an emotion sure to be strengthened from the manner he constantly twitched his thin nose and snapped the muscles of his jaws.

“What yuh talkin’ at me thataway fer?” he inquired, his words soft and slurring. “Did yuh hail me in clear from the herd just to gimme a sassin’?”

Jim Kitchin nodded toward the dog. “What you been doin’ to this here animal, you slab-faced trout?”

Florida Jack looked at both man and dog from the corner of his eyes, much in the manner of a vicious horse. “Nuthin’,” he grumbled.

“Nothin’? Hell, you know better’n that! Look at the welts acrost his back! Look at the tooth you busted outa his jaw! You son-of-a-jackass, don’t stand there an’ tell me you didn’t do nothin’. A week ago when he come lopin’ home with his tongue hangin’ out I figgered mebbe he was turnin’ bad. But I ships him back to you for another trial. Here he turns up this mornin’ lookin’ like what’s left of a hamburger steak. You doggone fool, I got a notion to lick you!”

It seemed further to arouse Jim Kitchin’s anger. He hated cruelty with all his jovial soul; and here was evidence of extreme brutality right under his big paw.

“He’s ornery,” said Florida Jack. “He wouldn’t mind my orders. He ain’t no account. He’s bull-headed.”

“You lie,” snorted Jim Kitchin. “I trained this dog. He worked fine with every herder in my outfit—nary a complaint. If he don’t work with you it’s because he knows yore blood’s rotten! Listen, peon; I took you because I was short on herders. But I know yore kind and I don’t like it, none whatsoever. Ain’t harborin’ no blackhearts. You git to hell outa here! Sudden, see? Draw yore money in town.”

The verbal lashing stung Florida Jack. He attempted his first direct look at Kitchin, the yellow anger churning up. “Don’t take it han’some to be laid on like that. That damn dog made me mad, understand? I don’t allow no animal to be smart with me.”

Jim Kitchin released the dog and rolled along the trail until he stood within arm’s reach of the herder. He didn’t lift his hands, but such was the expression of his face that Florida Jack’s right arm began to slip inside his coat. Jim Kitchin grinned ironically. “Don’t draw no steel on me, you yellow belly or I’m apt to squash you. Any man which mistreats his best friend—and that’s a herder’s dog—ain’t got no call on anybody’s respect. Now, light outa here before I tear the hide offen yore carcass.”

The assembled spectators were both astonished and disappointed at Jim Kitchin’s restraint. Florida Jack, studying the big one through half-closed lids, thought he had scared the man with his motion. It made him a little contemptuous; he spat on the ground, swung about and delivered a last phrase. “To hell with yore ranch, yore dog an’ yore woollies. Never did like this cheap John outfit, anyhow.”

Jim Kitchin had blown the steam out of his system and the words amused him. He chuckled and trudged back toward the house, hearing one of the men speak.

“Why didn’t yuh belt him acrost his greasy smeller?”

“Naw,” said Jim Kitchin. “I ain’t got no call to go bullyin’ with my strength. Mebbe I was a leetle harsh, but it’s only a skunk which’ll lam a dog. Reckon I’ll put a little arnica on the mutt’s hide. It shore does look tough.”

Florida Jack went down the trail with big Jim’s chuckle in his ears.

It was like his kind not to show anger where it would be dangerous; but now that he was out of Kitchin’s sight he gave free play to his temper, kicking at the stones, cursing the sky, the fence, Jim Kitchin, vilifying everything that occurred to him. Also, like his kind, he was as proud as he was shiftless and the farther he walked the more did his secretive sullen nature feed upon its injuries. Each mile magnified the force of Jim Kitchin’s violent epithets; he recalled the faces of the men who had stood about and listened to his humiliation and he was well aware that they would spread the tale until it was common knowledge throughout the sheep range. Everywhere he might go, they would be remembering what Jim Kitchin had said; and in their hearts they would be laughing.

Thus he reasoned as he shambled along. Reasoned rightly, too, for many men disliked Florida Jack for many different reasons. The effect of it was to inflame Florida Jack beyond reason. He took to swinging his arms back and forth; his eyes grew bloodshot and his tapering jaw worked spasmodically. From time to time he opened his mouth to display a row of white teeth and to say, “Ah, the man says I ain’t nuthin’ but a breed, a no-good breed. Jus’ another crazy sheepherder.”

Florida Jack had met that ridicule often, and always it enraged him. He did not understand wholly the attitude of the country toward his kind. All mixed breeds were not shiftless and tricky; all sheepherders were not queer. This was the matured opinion of the land. But it well knew that some breeds, like Florida Jack, were very bad; it also knew that the nature of herding attracted some unique types and upon these the long and lonely vigil acted almost like a poison. It had seen men very much like Florida Jack, muttering queer things along the bench, sharpening their knives by the night fire and eventually coming out stark mad. Therefore it avoided all Florida Jacks as much as possible.

And this Florida Jack fulfilled their suspicions to the last degree. By the time he reached Woolville he was a murderer at heart; the light of it was in his eyes and the purpose of it in his knife hand. Still, he was sly and already he had struck upon a method of revenge that would appease his burning hatred of Jim Kitchin and yet leave no telltale mark at his door.

It was quite after dark when he entered town. He ate at the restaurant, lit a cigarette and for the better part of a half hour lounged on a street corner concealed in the shadows and watched men drift by. He seemed to be busy studying them; some he spent no more than a glance on. Others he watched until they had disappeared into the saloon doors or rode away. But there came a figure presently that entered the Fannie Bell with a rolling step and a shrewd, twinkling face. On seeing him, Florida Jack dropped his cigarette and followed.

He was shiftless, worthless, this Florida Jack; but when his passions were touched he had all the cunning of a stalking animal. His man stood at the bar, but Florida Jack took his time in approaching. He watched a poker game, idled over to a session of a game of “twenty-one,” and then, in the course of his wanderings, arrived likewise at the bar, beside the one he had followed. And when Florida Jack named his drink in a soft, slurring voice the man swung about and grunted:

“Hell, where you been, Florida? Ain’t seen you long time.”

“Howdy, Slim. Me? Oh, I been herdin’ fer Jim Kitchin.”

“Ol’ Big Jim, eh? That white-haired grizzly. Well, how’s tricks over there?”

It was noticeable that Slim did not offer to treat Florida Jack. It was a matter of caste with Slim. Florida was only a passing acquaintance and his greeting had been entirely casual, entirely without warmth. Florida Jack understood this very well and his resentment glowed. But he drank his whisky and wiped his mouth before answering the question. Then his glance slid across Slim’s face and one lid dropped suggestively. “Oh, good enough.”

He had judged his man correctly. Slim’s attention was arrested by the air of mystery. He shoved himself closer. “Huh?”

Florida Jack muttered, “It ain’t none of my business, Slim. I’d oughta keep my trap shut, see? But if you hear about a bust of gunplay any time now, jus’ remember I winked my eye.”

“Get out. Listen, have a drink. Now was you namin’ names, amigo? What’s itchin’ Jim Kitchin?”

Florida Jack refused the treat, turning away. “He’s heard a certain party’s been sayin’ things about him. Yunnow. Talkin’ about certain crookedness back in the early day. See?”

“Fightin’ talk, eh?” murmured Slim. Light flared in his shrewd eyes. Here was something to think about during the long rides across country, something he could darkly hint to others. Feud—the one electrical impulse that would stir a country from end to end overnight. He bent still closer. “Did you mention a name, Florida?”

“Why should I?” parried Florida, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve said too damn much now. Listen, you ain’t heard me say a word, Slim. It’s none of my business an’ I’m like to get my head shot off if Big Jim sh’d hear. He’d natcherly deny anything. You ain’t heard me say a word, understan’?”

“Shore, shore. Nary a word,” agreed Slim. And Florida Jack knew Slim had, by those few words, bound himself to silence. It was a matter of code. So he started off; but he swung about swiftly and leaned very near the man, whispering a name.

“Belisarius Tuggs.”

That was all; but it was enough. He went out of the place hurriedly, as if afraid of what he had disclosed. Once outside he took a position and again watched the men drifting by. Twice again that evening he repeated this same ceremony in different saloons, varying the manner of his tale according to the temper and character of the men he approached. After that he left town and made his camp beside a near-by creek, not wishing to be seen.

The hints he had dropped were pure lies. Jim Kitchin had no feuds; he had never heard that Belisarius Tuggs was passing remarks about his character. It made no difference. Florida Jack was creating the machinery of his revenge. He meant to establish a feud between these two men, a feud that would result in gunplay and the death of his former boss. And he had chosen Belisarius Tuggs to be the second man in the affair for several good reasons, the first of which was that Tuggs had the reputation of being the deadliest shot in the country.

As for himself, Florida Jack was out of that affair. In each of the three instances he had asked that his own name be withheld; and he knew enough of the country’s ethics to understand that pledge would be well kept. None of the three men was an intimate of Tuggs. He had taken care not to go too near the principals of the plot. But these three would spread this yarn quietly from friend to friend and in time it would reach some one who was close to Tuggs. Then Tuggs would hear it. He would be warned, not once but perhaps from several sources; it would come at him from different directions and with each warning the thing would be stronger, more definite. Florida Jack’s few dark hints would grow and amplify as they passed from mouth to mouth, obtain veracity and reach the dignity of a challenge. By that time the original spreaders of the tale would be forgotten.

The halfbreed stuck to his camp for three days, warming himself with the ever-glowing embers of his anger, nursing them, constantly reviewing the scene of his humiliation. Meanwhile, he knew the story had gone abroad and on the morning of the fourth day he judged it was time for him to stir the pot again. So he started away into the hills, traveling in a direction that took him something like ten miles from Jim Kitchin’s place. It brought him to the very ceiling of the county; into a country bare and rugged along the major part of its surface, but here and there spreading out in a natural meadow or falling into a stand of pines.

About evening he rounded the trail and found himself before a small shanty. It seemed deserted; but he had not arrived within a hundred yards of it when an extraordinarily tall man ducked through the open door and stood watching for him. As he got closer he saw the grim, gaunt face of Belisarius Tuggs; and though Florida Jack was never a man endowed with outright courage—for all he knew his scheming might be leading him straight into a trap—he experienced a quick, vicious pleasure at the certain knowledge that this mountaineer could put a ball through Jim Kitchin before the latter could so much as reach his gun.

He stopped ten yards off, waiting. Belisarius Tuggs studied him through and through before announcing in a grave manner, “Whar y’ from?”

“Woolville,” said Florida Jack. “Hittin’ acrost the hump fer Two Pass. Guess I’ll have to hit right along or I’ll never make it by dark.”

Tuggs seemed to weigh each word and decided upon their truth. “Sheepherder?”

“Uhuh.”

“Well, y’ kin drag a chair to my table, friend. Never want to see a herder go ’thout a meal. But you ought to git plenty to do over this side, ’thout havin’ to walk down Two Pass way.”

“Oh, I been workin’ a-plenty,” said Florida Jack. “Jus’ wanted a change of scenery. Herded a long time fer Jim Kitchin.”

“Then,” grunted Tuggs, “you ain’t welcome around my place. I’ll feed no Kitchin man.”

“Hell,” said Florida Jack, “don’t judge me by him. I seen a-plenty and I’ve heard a-plenty.”

“I guess you have, feller. When a man goes to spreadin’ false words agin another, like he’s doin’, it must be ’cause he’s lookin’ for a fight. He’ll shore git one, if he’s so minded.”

Florida Jack grinned. “Well, he’s a great hand to want more land. Mebbe he’s aimin’ to run yuh off an’ take yores.”

Tuggs spat on the ground and hooked a long arm inside the door. It reappeared with a rifle. “If it’s fight Jim Kitchin hones fer, let him come. He may be a big mogul, but he won’t git my six-forty.”

His hazel eyes darkened as he looked upon Florida Jack and he seemed to feel the same distrust that all men felt when they saw the halfbreed. “Mebbe yo’re agin Jim Kitchin an’ mebbe you ain’t. If yo’re a spy, you go tell him what I said. Now go along an’ don’t come back, or I’m apt to take a shot at yuh.”

Florida Jack studied the gun for a moment, making note of its kind and calibre. Then he shrugged his shoulders and continued up the trail. Out of the corner of his eyes he swept the house, the adjacent barn and the wire fence inclosing a part of the field. Presently he was down-grade and out of sight, grinning maliciously. “Well, he’s been warned all right. Now the news’ll go back to Jim Kitchin.”

He had chosen well. Belisarius Tuggs was Tennessee born and understood something about feuds. The warning which had been passed along to him had all the earmarks of an affair trumped up for some ulterior motive. Since he had not said the words which Jim Kitchin had attributed to him, it must be that Kitchin was manufacturing trouble to overrun his place and put him out of the way. He had said as much to Florida Jack, which was just the reasoning Florida Jack wanted him to adopt.

Now the same willing couriers of suspicion would spread the fact that Belisarius Tuggs was waiting for Jim Kitchin. And the jovial ranchman would receive it from his friends. Florida Jack, cunning in the ways of words and men, was seeing the prospective duel right before him. And once the two men met nothing could keep Kitchin from being killed.

Of course it was still possible for Belisarius to take his gun, ride over to Kitchin’s and explain he had never harbored ill feeling or spoken the words he was supposed to have said. But Florida Jack knew Tuggs would do no such thing. The Tennessean would not willingly enter enemy territory; since he believed Kitchin had created the whole thing out of spite he would fall into no traps, but wait and meet the issue halfway.

As for Kitchin, he would roar his amusement; then he would grow sober at the thought of the garbled tale coming through the air. But for him to visit Tuggs and try to clear away the trouble would be a confession of fear, a lowering of himself in the eyes of the whole country. First and foremost he was a Westerner. He would accept the situation, shoot it out and do his explaining later.

All this Florida Jack knew. He didn’t reason the matter, for his head was not built for reasoning. Inside that narrow sloping cranium was nothing but ignorance, fear and hate. And animal cunning. Instinctively he understood. The time for reconciliation would soon be past, even if the principals involved wished to be peaceful, which was doubtful considering Tuggs’ suspicions. In another twenty-four hours the whole country would expect a duel as the only proper solution and if either of the two men wished to retain the respect of their friends and the whole region in general they could not back out. And in that twenty-four hours Florida Jack expected to add fuel to the fire.

One incident transpired as he was trudging into Two Pass Valley which he had not expected. It was dusk and as he entered a stand of pine he heard the thudding of hoofs. A rider reined in right before him and leaned down in the saddle. Florida Jack, not knowing the man, felt a fresh recoiling of nerves, a quick fear. But it passed as the fellow spoke.

“Hoofin’ it over the hill?”

“Uhuh. How far to town?”

“Six miles, friend. Come by Tuggs’ place?”

“I saw him.”

The rider’s countenance freshened with interest. “What was the old geezer doin’?”

Florida Jack groped for words. Something barbed. Something that would spread like fire in dry pine tops.

“He was a-polishing his gun fit to kill,” said Florida.

“The hell!” murmured the rider, straightening. “Well, ain’t that excitin’? I guess it’s shore enough, then.”

He was off dodging through the trees. The herder listened until all sound of the rider had vanished in the night air. “That’ll reach Jim Kitchin before mornin’,” he mumbled. “The fat, pot-bellied——” Other words, vicious and unprintable trailed in his throat.

A quarter mile on he saw the glow of a herder’s fire and he stopped and hid himself in the trees. At any other time he would have gone forward and been welcomed with both bed and meal. Every sheepherder in the hills would have been glad of his company, not for the conviviality there was in Florida Jack, but for the sound of his voice to break the spell of loneliness; no questions asked, no inquisitiveness shown. Yet, hungry and tired as he was, Florida Jack ventured no closer. Stretching out in his covert he slept fitfully. That herder was a Kitchin man, tending Kitchin sheep out along the far edge of the big boss’ range.

In the rose-blue light of morning, Florida watched the herder get his breakfast and follow the sheep away through the trees. Long after the leader’s bell had ceased to echo, he crept to the camp. There was coffee still in the pot and a biscuit or two. Florida Jack ate greedily whatever he found, eyes darting through the lanes of the forest. Going to the tent, he found the herder’s rifle propped in the corner and he studied it for some time, recalling that the gun Belisarius Tuggs carried was the same calibre and make as this one. It made no great difference to Florida; he would have taken the weapon anyhow, but it seemed an omen to him that all his plans would succeed, all his steps be covered. Throwing back the bolt of the rifle he found cartridges in the magazine, four of them. As a matter of precaution he rummaged around the herder’s war bag until he found a box of shells. Putting a half-dozen extra in his pocket, he inspected the clearing again and went out.

He wasted no time in getting on the herder’s trail. For an hour he dodged from tree to tree, following the plain path of the band of sheep. The forest thinned and Florida Jack began to plant his feet flat on the ground with each forward step. Somewhere echoed the tinkle of a bell and within a hundred yards Florida Jack was down on his stomach, peering across a natural meadow.

The herder sat on the ground, his back propped against a rock, reading something. Florida Jack could even see the man’s lips now and then spelling out a word and the cigarette smoke spiraling in the crisp air. The sight of the peaceful, unsuspecting figure made him grin evilly. Pulling up the borrowed gun he took sight along the barrel, aiming at the rock and slightly beside the herder.

It was his purpose to scare the herder away, send him back to the Kitchin ranch. Big Jim would lay the blame on Tuggs, and thus the feud would be made the more bitter. But Florida Jack was a poor hand with the gun. It was not his kind of weapon; realizing this, he aimed very close to the herder, expecting the bullet to go wide of its mark. There was a flat detonation in the thin quiet air. A wisp of smoke trailed out of the muzzle and when Florida Jack lowered the gun he saw the herder slipping sidewise along the rock and doubling over in a grotesque heap.

“Damn ’im!” he grunted. “Why don’t he run?”

Not for several moments did he realize he had struck the herder. Then all the craven, slinking instinct of his nature took hold of his nerves, shook him from head to foot. He heard a thousand stray sounds among the trees and the echo of the shot seemed to roll farther and farther over the hills, warning every living soul. And he saw how deathly still the herder lay, he shrank back, swept the forest with terror in his saffron eyes and began to run. He had killed the man, not intending to.

He ran for half a mile before his reason exerted itself; the very first thing he thought about was the bullet which doubtless had lodged somewhere in the dead herder’s body. It would be the same kind of a bullet that Tuggs owned. When some of Kitchin’s men or a passerby discovered the murder it would be immediately laid at Tuggs’ door. Then and there Big Jim, always a man to settle his own quarrels, would look to his revolver and be ready to shoot it out.

That brought Florida Jack to a halt. Crouching against a tree, he got the cleaning brush and thong from the butt of the rifle, ran it through the barrel several times and refilled the magazine with a shell out of his pocket. For several minutes he remained immovable, groping along the succession of incidents that had already transpired, trying to discover if he had at any point left himself open to suspicion. As far as he could judge, only one single thing went against him; that man he had met on the road the night before might remember he had said he was going on into Two Pass; if the fellow were inquisitive he might go down to the hamlet and ask questions. Florida Jack’s face wreathed itself in scowls. By and by he rose and with less caution than before, headed for the herder’s camp. “They can’t prove nuthin’ about me,” he muttered. “Nuthin’ at all. Anyhow everybody’ll be thinkin’ of Tuggs.”

Big fires obscured little ones. Florida Jack reached the herder’s camp, circled about to see if anyone had approached meanwhile, and put back the rifle. In a place or two the earth had received the deep imprint of his shoe and he spent some time in stamping them out. After that he left the camp hurriedly, striking back toward Belisarius Tuggs.

Far up in the hills he found a convenient shelter and for the rest of the day he rested. Toward evening he got out the stub of a pencil and a piece of paper, writing a note in huge, scrawling letters. What he meant it to be was something that would seem like a challenge from Jim Kitchin and when he had composed it he re-read it, grinning spitefully:

> Tuggs. Damn a man which talks beyond folks backs. That goes for you. I’m in Woolville Saterday and I’ll be wating for you.

He had done no guessing. It was big Jim’s habit to visit Woolville of a Saturday, striding up and down the street with his kettle-like head bobbing forward and back, booming out his greetings. And like all others, he carried a gun. Florida Jack, seeing night fall, approached Belisarius Tuggs’ place, using infinite caution. He knew the Tennessean would be on the alert and though he very much wanted to pin that note on the shanty door he could not bring it about. But he did the next best thing. He transfixed it to the barbed-wire fence near the barn. Tuggs would see it, would read it. And if the mountaineer didn’t show up in Woolville on Saturday, which was two days ahead, then he had changed his nature. Which wasn’t possible. The duel was practically assured now; and as far as Florida Jack was concerned, the result of the duel was equally assured. No man in the county could measure up to the swift accuracy of Belisarius Tuggs.

He crept away and struck away over the hills and down toward Woolville.

The air had borne many a tale abroad in those two intervening days and Woolville held a greater crowd that Saturday afternoon than it had contained since the Hayes-Tilden contest. Greater even than the time Black Bruce was hung back of the court house. But though the crowd was larger, it was also in a different temper. This was no holiday; men walked very quietly up and down the street, seeming to have interest in nothing save the path ahead of them. Yet from the most important rancher down to the most shiftless stable loafer, there was a suppressed excitement, an ill-concealed expectancy. It sparkled in their eyes and showed in the manner they snapped the muscles of their jowls. Friends, meeting at the saloon bars raised their glasses, winked significantly, saying perhaps, “Here’s to a certain party.” Or, if they were partisans of neither side, “Well, le’s drink to crime. May she flourish.” The saloons were full, the hotel porch crowded.

Now and then a rider, hoping to get advance information would gallop out of town along the road to Kitchin’s or in the opposite direction, from which Belisarius Tuggs was expected, and when these couriers came loping back, the town experienced a sudden tightening of nerves. So the day wore on; the restaurant did a land office business, the poker tables flourished and the gentlemen in the white-boiled shirts made their profits.

Apart from his fellows, surveying the ends of the street with a hot, yellow glance, was Florida Jack. He had come to Woolville early that morning with the dust of travel on his clothes. Since then he had scarcely moved from a little alcove near the Herder’s Resort. Passersby shouldered him, sometimes glancing incuriously his way, at other times dropping a stray word of greeting. His answer was always a short monosyllable that discouraged further parley. He wished to be inconspicuous, to have no finger of curiosity pointed toward him. And up in the high hills he had debated long and somberly whether he should come to town this fateful Saturday or not. In the end the fever of his passionate hatred overcame his fear; he wanted to be in at the kill. He wanted to see Jim Kitchin sprawl forward in the dust, wanted to hear that last hiccoughing breath. Then he would slip quietly away and Woolville would see him no more.

Anybody might have read the seething traitor of blood lust and revenge in Florida Jack’s muddy eyes. Standing there he was a figure such as the country seldom knew and never wanted to know. All the solitary days of herding, all the natural animus of his warped nature, and all the moody, outraged promptings of his pride had fused to create a state of mind not far from insanity. Florida Jack had gone utterly bad. And each time he scanned the street ends his thin lips stretched back from his teeth and a kind of gray pallor overspread his dusky features.

Thus he waited until he saw Big Jim Kitchin ride in from the south. Dropping his cigarette he drew back and the breath whistled through his mouth.

It was as if an electrical current had passed through Woolville, touching each man with its shock. The gaming tables were deserted, the street cleared and Jim Kitchin passed down the dusty way as if on parade. Usually he had a great shout for his friends and a broad, beaming smile. Today he was serious and as he examined the faces along the walks his face was grim and oppressive. In front of the Herder’s Resort he dismounted, laid the reins across the hitching rack and stepped to the middle of the street, arms held out a little from his sides, looking straight ahead, an open target. This was the man’s way.

And before the crowd quite realized it, Belisarius Tuggs appeared at the other end of the street, likewise advancing, his gaunt frame erect and hostile. Florida Jack, noting the man, gripped his fists tightly together when he saw that Tuggs had abandoned his rifle and on this occasion had a revolver strapped to his waist. Here was a change. The revolver was not the mountaineer’s favorite weapon.

How he had got into town, nobody knew. Nor did anybody know when he had arrived. But here he was, facing Big Jim Kitchin, advancing neither faster nor slower than Jim Kitchin, his shuffling feet creating little eddies of dust behind. And all of a sudden the crowd had gone indoors or sought better shelter. As far as either of the contestants was concerned they might have been alone in Woolville. Florida Jack crushed a cigarette between his fingers, every muscle rigid; he was breathing as if from punishing labor and a maniacal glare glittered through the muddied windows of his body.

It was Big Jim Kitchin, following the dictates of his aggressive nature, who started hostilities. His right arm dropped and rose again while the two of them were hardly within good range. The heavy silence was shattered with the roar of his gun and a ribbon of dust kicked up in front of Belisarius Tuggs, short of its mark.

Tuggs never stopped, nor made a motion toward his gun. Ten feet closer Kitchin’s gun spoke again and a second time a small streamer puffed up in the street. Tuggs’ feet lifted a little higher and his knees seemed to spring with the weight of his body; his hard black eyes were pinned to the bulky figure in his path; his lean face seemed cut from stone.

As for Kitchin, he had thrown back his head, shaking it like an angry bull. It even appeared he was enjoying the duel from the manner his whole countenance blazed with the light of battle. But for the next few yards he held his fire, waiting for Tuggs to draw.

Few men saw Belisarius reach for his gun, but no single soul within Woolville missed that flaring crack and spat of weapon answering weapon. Not once but several times. It reverberated down the narrow street and rattled the loose window panes. Dust rolled up and a great booming cry filled men’s ears. Then an unnatural silence descended. The dust subsided and exactly one-half of Woolville’s epic had passed into memorable history. Tuggs and Kitchin were a few scant yards apart, staring at each other, expressionless, wordless. The mountaineer’s gun had veered from its mark and swung downward. As for Kitchin, his weapon had fallen to the dust; he stood with his feet wide apart while the blood streamed along his arm, making a crimson reservoir of his hand.

“Hit, by Godfrey!” he roared. “Tuggs, I allus knew nobody could touch you with a gun!”

Tuggs held a piece of paper in his hand. He advanced within arm’s reach of the big rancher and spoke softly, coldly. “If I’d had my rifle you’d been dead now, Kitchin. Here’s yore challenge. I take nobody’s defi an’ I ain’t backin’ down, hear? But if you want to know the truth I never said nuthin’ behind your back, see? If I got anything to deliver offen my chest I’m old enough to say it to a man’s face.”

Kitchin took the paper. “Knew it was a cock-an’-bull yarn somebody started. Who’s got a grudge agin Big Jim Kitchin? Nary a soul, Bel. But I had to meet it, didn’t I?” He held the paper in his hand and wrinkled his face over it. “This ain’t my work. No, sir, it ain’t no literary composition of mine. Hell, I can spell ‘Saturday’ better’n that. But who shot my herder, anyhow?”

“Didn’t know nothin’ about it,” stated Tuggs. “You better wrop them there fingers, Jim. Yore a-bloodin’ the street.” His black eyes returned Kitchin’s speculative stare. “Mebbe you know the writin’?”

Kitchin scratched his whiskers with the active arm. “Who told you I was out to get yore hide?”

“Friends,” said Tuggs, softly, briefly.

“Sometimes friends is a man’s worst enemies,” grumbled Kitchin. “Just a cock-an’-bull yarn.”

Florida Jack’s heart swelled with the overflowing bitterness of frustrated hate. He had come to gloat, to witness the death of Kitchin. And now the big one was gravely explaining away the grudge he had so carefully nurtured. Florida Jack felt his security threatened. If once they should start tracing back——

A cowhand had crowded beside him, watching the scene with close interest. The butt of his gun swung high and clear of the holster, not a foot from Florida Jack’s rigid body. The renegade’s muddy eyes fastened themselves upon it and through the narrow, sloping head there was a sudden overthrowing of caution and fear. Panic rode him. Panic and the livid, burning thirst of revenge. Never for a moment understanding the danger of his act, he hitched one shoulder forward and his right arm crept out toward the gun butt.

“I had a man workin’ for me once,” murmured Big Jim, seeming to see nothing but that provocative slip of paper. The words barely reached Tuggs. “Seems like I sh’d know the writin’. Bel, lemme see the gun what could dent my tough hide.”

Tuggs proffered it gravely.

Kitchin hefted it in his left hand, spun it around smiling.

“I give you the palm for shootin’——”

The rest of it was whipped from his mouth. Once more the insecure peace of Woolville was broken and men were ducking out of range. The renegade had wrenched the gun from the puncher’s holster and was firing doggedly, his thin body weaving as if in a strong wind. Dust kicked around Kitchin’s feet; something like grim pleasure flashed across the big man’s face as he whirled toward the Herder’s Rest. And it seemed to Woolville that the single explosion of his revolver was twice as shattering as any that had gone before. Florida Jack wavered, showed his teeth in one awful grimace and pitched forward, stone dead.

“I was a-hopin’ the fool would give me an open, above-board chance,” said Kitchin, handing back the borrowed gun. “I guess I can still shoot left-handed. Let’s you an’ me git a drink. We’ve furnished plumb enough entertainment to this town for one day. After which mebbe the sheriff might want to ask a few questions.”

But the sheriff was not that kind of an official, nor was Woolville that kind of a town. It constituted itself a jury box and a witness stand en masse, arriving at a remarkable unanimity of opinion regarding the demise of Florida Jack, the whole proceeding being very informal and taking less time than any single man of them would have used in changing his shirt. Briefly, Florida Jack had died as the result of an act of God.

It was some weeks before all the evidence drifted in, yet at no stage did they repent their opinion. And during the hour or two that Florida Jack’s body lay in the street, like nothing so much as a stray dog in the gutter, it served as a warning, a sermon and a sound corroboration of the land’s matured opinion regarding sheepherders and breeds. All breeds weren’t bad and all sheepherders weren’t queer. But, according to a reflective oldtimer, “All Florida Jacks were shorely of no account.”

That evening Woolville celebrated handsomely the passing of a notorious citizen.

Transcriber’s Note
This story appeared in Short Stories Magazine, March 25, 1928. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.