# Ducky Entertains

By Douglas H. Woodworth

“Hello, Ducky, what’s yours?”

The moon-faced deputy of Silver Springs waddled to the bar, hitched up his trousers, laid a sweat-stained sombrero upon the battered wood, and wiped his perspiring face before replying.

No one looking at Ducky Drake’s pink and white features and well-padded form would have guessed him to be fifty-two years old, still less would they have imagined that here was the shrewdest and most feared man hunter in the region.

His indolent, complacent manner masked a brain as keen and sure as a finely tempered blade, and his corpulent, slow-appearing body gave no indication of the surprising strength and agility the man possessed.

Ducky returned his bandanna to his pocket and regarded the barkeeper in the Colorado mournfully.

“Jimmy,” he said pleadingly, “I hankers fer somethin’ tuh take my mind offen the cares an’ troubles of my exactin’ duties. I craves some hard likker, the kind that falls with a clatter an’ lands with a bang. I’m plumb meloncolic, that’s what. Don’t keep me in expense no longer.”

The grinning bartender slid a bottle and glass across the battered “mahogany” and leaned his elbows upon the bar as he watched the fat deputy pour himself a drink.

“I’ll betcha business is rushin’,” he agreed facetiously. “What all yuh been pesterin’ around at this bright mornin’?”

“Collectin’ tacks.”

“Collectin’ taxes? You? Say, Silver Springs ain’t needed a tax collector like you since Sittin’ Bull was a calf. Quit stringin’.”

The only other occupant of the room—a tall, quiet, keen-eyed man dressed in “Eastern” clothes, standing at the other end of the bar—set down his glass and looked at the bartender.

“I wonder now—perhaps this gentleman could—”

“My mistake,” declared Jimmy. “This here’s Napoleon Drake—we calls him Ducky because he toes in an’ waddles when he walks—an’ this, Ducky, is Mr. Armstrong, of Milwaukee. That’s some place back East. He is honin’ to invest some dollars in more or less real estate in our fair parts. Gents, there yuh are.”

Ducky had unobtrusively scrutinized the other upon entering, but now his moon face beamed full upon the Easterner as he held out a moist, limp hand.

“Perhaps I’m in luck,” Armstrong said with a slightly superior air. “I heard you speak of taxes, and I thought perhaps, having access to the rolls, you could—”

“Mister, yuh got me wrong,” broke in Ducky. “I ain’t no Fairy-see goin’ round collectin’ any tax. It was tacks I got—t-a-k-s, see?”

Ducky, after a short struggle, withdrew from his pocket a box of carpet tacks and tossed it on the bar. “No, sir,” he corrected, shaking his head dolefully. “Me, I’m only a pore paper-hanger, but buh-leeve me, gents, if I ever gits the chance I’m gonna be a printer.”

“Oh, I see,” the stranger murmured politely. “My mistake.”

“Paper-hanger?” Jimmy lifted an incredulous eyebrow.

“By cripes, yes! All the mail we gits is reward notices of hombres what never poke their snoots within a hundred mile of Silver Springs, an’ I’ve plastered them up so thick in the office I tremble every time I go there fer fear the walls ’ll cave in on me. I was jest thinkin’ the printer what makes all of them notices must be some wealthy.”

“I neglected tuh mention, Mr. Armstrong,” the bartender bowed in mock gravity, “that Ducky here is our prized an’ cherished deputy sheriff. One of the biggest in the glorious West, if I do say it.”

The stranger seemed taken aback for a moment, but there was no doubt of his interest.

“Let’s all have another, bartender,” he suggested easily. “I am still certain that Mr. Drake can give me good advice about the purchase of land in this region. I suppose,” he continued, turning to Ducky, “that you make quite a bit now and then, cashing in on those rewards, don’t you?”

The fat deputy waxed sarcastic. “Yeah, we shore do. If I’d ’a’ got the five hundred that was offered fer ‘Squint’ Sanborn last summer and jest five hundred more, I’d have a cold thousand now, I would. Who in heck would come out here in the open tuh hide, I asks yuh?”

“Who indeed?” agreed Jimmy sympathetically.

“On the other hand,” went on Ducky, “there’s what yuh might call fittin’ e-mollyments. Them reward notices is the only funny readin’ that comes tuh the office. Here, lissen tuh this one that come yesterday.”

Ducky reached into the inside pocket of his vest, and his face went blank. One by one every pocket was explored without result.

“Guess I lost it,” he sighed. “Well, it’ll save me the trouble of tackin’ it up, an’ I can remember what it said pretty well. Goes somethin’ like this: One thousand dollars reward will be paid fer information leadin’ tuh the arrest of Clarence B. ‘Dandy Claire’ Winslow, formerly of Chicago. This man is wanted fer the theft of diamonds worth over two hundred thousand dollars from a Chicago jewelry salesman. Believed to have headed West. Possibly the coast. Notify somebody or other at Chicago.

“Course they was other information included, sech as this Winslow feller had two legs an’ a pair of arms, an’ he was a des’prit critter, an’ so on. But if he was plumb foolish enough tuh come tuh Silver Springs, who would know him anyhow?”

“I have heard of this man Winslow,” nodded the newcomer. “I understand he is a very dangerous rascal and would not hesitate to shoot at sight.”

Ducky held up a restraining hand.

“Don’t make it no worse,” he begged, gulping down another glass of whisky. “By cripes, I’m so nervous right now betcha I won’t sleep a wink tuh-night. I shore hopes none of them critters invade this here vale of peace an’ plenty of heat. One more snifter, mister, an’ I’ll be on my way back tuh barricade myself in the office. Here’s how!”

Armstrong barely sipped at his glass and set it down quickly as Ducky picked up his package of tacks and slapped his limp hat upon his thinning locks.

“About the land, now—”

“Come over tuh the office any time,” suggested Ducky. “Come over right now, if yuh wanta. I ain’t got much tuh do, now I lost that notice an’ won’t have to nail her up.”

“Are you certain it’s lost?” inquired Armstrong as he retrieved his satchel from the end of the bar and followed the deputy outside. “You see, I am locating land for a party back in Milwaukee, and I carry quite a bit of cash on my person. I would like to read an accurate description of this Winslow. Who knows, I might meet him some day?”

“If yuh did,” declared Ducky, “yuh prob’ly wouldn’t have a lot of time tuh bury no dust. Yeah, it’s lost, all right. Must ’a’ dropped it on the way up from the post office, an’ with this wind she’s halfway tuh Californy by now. Here’s the office. Right tidy place, huh?”

The stranger surveyed the weather-beaten little jail building without enthusiasm. It was a one-story structure, standing alone in the hot sun a few yards back from the board sidewalk. Behind it was the stable where Sheriff Frank Parker kept the horses.

“It looks hot,” he decided, “but I guess it’s hot everywhere to-day.”

Ducky nodded and sank down into an old swivel chair that creaked protestingly and threatened to emulate the end of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Waving a fat hand toward another chair by the wall, Ducky leaned back, placed both feet upon the sheriff’s desk, and started to roll a cigarette.

“The sheriff, I take it, isn’t in?” remarked Armstrong.

“Nope,” grunted Ducky, searching for a match. “Frank and Nate Rossman—Nate is the other deputy—they went down toward Rosalie tuh serve some papers, an’ left me plumb lonesome.”

“Well, well. Only the prisoners for company, eh?”

“Nope. Nary a prisoner. Gittin’ so dang peaceful hereabouts the jack rabbits make love tuh the coyotes. But a few year ago!” Ducky rolled his eyes dramatically and pointed to the wall behind Armstrong. “Mister, lookathere. Purty near every one of them lead slingers was took from des’prit bad men.”

The entire side wall of the room was literally covered with firearms of all sizes and shapes. The stranger stared at the array in silence, while Ducky chuckled to himself.

The collecting of guns was Drake’s only weakness. Almost every cent of extra cash he had scraped together had been put into these firearms, and Ducky knew as well as any one that the collection was now worth far more than it had cost him.

Guns, rifles, and pistols of every description were represented, from long-barreled flintlock Kentucky rifles to the latest model Winchesters, and from engraved dueling pistols to modern double-action Colts. If ever a man loved guns, it was Ducky Drake.

Now as the stranger stared at the wall the deputy unblushingly began the recital of the history of some of them.

“That there flintlock at the top, now,” he declared, “that’s the gun Dan’l Boone shot the coon with. Davy Crockett had the one next to it. Jim Bridger had that there hand cannon next tuh the corner, an’ that six-gun with all the notches belonged tuh Sam Bass. Them two-hand guns with the rosewood stocks was old ‘Chilled’ Steele’s, what lived down on the Diamond S south of here a piece. See that funny shaped Evans rifle there? Holds twenty-six ca’triges in the magazine. Dick Brownlee down in Arizony shot twenty-seven ’Paches with that one day without reloadin’. Yuh see, two got in line wunst.”

Armstrong shook his head with proper awe, and behind his back the grinning Ducky continued:

“Yes, sir, I’m right proud of them guns. Jest one thing I lack. I never see one of them newfangled automatics I’ve heerd about. I’d give a pretty penny fer one of them.”

The stranger turned to look into Ducky’s innocent eyes, then smiled coaxingly.

“You’re a collector all right,” he declared admiringly. “Tell you what I’ll do. Lead me to a good ranch near here that I can buy cheap, and I’ll see that you get an automatic. How’s that?”

Ducky’s blue eyes opened wide.

“By cripes, will ya? Got her with yuh? Le’s see it?”

“Yes, I have one with me,” Armstrong admitted. “My brother gave it to me when I started out here. Silly thing to do, of course, but I did it for his sake. Here.”

A little too smoothly for a novice, Armstrong’s hand slipped under the lapel of his coat and withdrew a .38 army style automatic. This was tendered to the delighted deputy.

“Look at her!” Ducky gloated, turning the shiny blue pistol over and over in his hands. “Say, I’ll take yuh down tuh the Steele place this very afternoon. Betcha could git that ranch cheap, now the old cuss is dead.”

Drake started to return the weapon, then suddenly drew his hand back as if in afterthought, and glared at the Eastern man.

“Well, I’ll be danged! ’Most fergot it. Don’tcha know it’s against the law tuh carry concealed weapons in this here town? By cripes, I’ll have tuh lock yuh up till Frank gits back.”

Armstrong studied the fat deputy coldly for a moment.

“Don’t be so anxious to complete that collection,” he sneered. “Did you steal all the rest of them?”

Ducky looked peeved.

“Let me tell yuh, mister, I know the law, an’ it says no concealed irons goes.”

For several minutes the stranger sat thinking deeply, then looked up with a pleasant smile.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” Armstrong’s tone was placating. “I could not give you that pistol, for it was a present. How about shipping it back to my brother and asking him to send another for you?”

“Can yuh play checkers good?” Ducky asked irrelevantly.

“Can I— Say, what’s the idea? Of course I can play checkers. What’s that got to do with it?”

“That settles it,” Ducky declared, dropping his feet to the floor with a bang. “Gotta lock yuh up till Frank gits back. Ain’t had a decent game of checkers since old man Ambrose died last winter.”

Armstrong sprang to his feet, his face white with righteous indignation.

“What kind of a damn fool are you?” he roared. “Think for a minute you can put that kind of a game over on me?”

“There, there,” soothed Ducky. “’Twon’t be but fer a little while, an’ I got orders tuh lock up every gazabo that’s packin’ concealed weapons till the sheriff looks into the case. Yuh’ll jest git a dinner on the county an’ have a chanst to rest up some from yore travels.”

The fat deputy drew his long .45, and waved Armstrong toward the open door that led to the back room, where two empty cells were waiting.

The stranger looked at the weaving gun muzzle and remembered the generous libations Ducky had been enjoying. Then he turned sullenly and headed for the indicated doorway.

Might as well humor this half-baked old fool; no telling what he might do. When the sheriff came he could get even easily enough.

Ducky picked up the Easterner’s bag, opened it, glanced casually at the contents, and slid it along the cell floor after his prisoner. The door clanged shut.

“There,” said Ducky. “Now I’ll git the checker board.”

“Wait a minute,” called Armstrong. “You aren’t going to steal that automatic, are you? Let me send it home, and honest to God I’ll have my brother send you another. Give me a box and let me wrap it up.”

Ducky chuckled silently to himself as he turned his back and searched diligently through a cupboard in the corner.

Presently he returned with a cigar box and an old piece of wrapping paper. Dropping the pistol into the box, he slid it between the bars and turned to leave.

“Fix it up yoreself,” he called over his shoulder. “I can’t be bothered with yore troubles. Gotta find the checker board.”

Armstrong looked at him curiously.

“Did you ever stop to think,” he said softly, “that with this gun I could shoot you where you stand?”

Ducky paused and looked back.

“Nope,” he admitted, “I never did, but wouldn’t the sheriff be mighty peeved if he come back an’ saw his best deputy shot an’ the killer behind the bars waitin’ fer him? Besides, I took all the ca’triges out.”

With that parting shot Ducky strolled into the office and began rummaging in the cupboard again. When he returned it was with a stool, a chair and the checkers.

The stool he placed next the cell door, upon it he laid the checker board, then waved for his prisoner to draw up his chair.

“Give me yore package first,” he advised. “Dassent let Frank come back an’ find it in the cell with yuh.”

“I haven’t a pen to put on the address,” Armstrong objected.

“Tha’s all right. Yuh can put that on at the post office when we go out fer dinner. I’ll take the blacks ’cause I’m used to ’em. They’re one short, an’ I hafta use a pants button. You move first.”

Ducky left his opponent arranging the checkers and carried the box into the office. Then he returned, and the two men settled down to their game. Armstrong caught something of the humor of the situation, and smiled as he pitted his skill against the wily Ducky.

What a story this would make when he got back and told the bunch! He was wearing a puzzled frown after Ducky had beaten him three straight games, but the fat deputy laughed happily and laid out his men again.

“I’m getting hungry,” Armstrong said suddenly. “Can’t we go and get some dinner?”

Ducky looked at his great silver watch. “By cripes, that’s right. Almost noon. Wait till I go feed the horses an’ I’ll take you down tuh the Chink’s.”

The Easterner waited with what patience he could, but he would have been more than surprised if he could have watched Ducky as the deputy gave the horses their noon meal.

“Was kinda expectin’ Frank back before dinner,” Ducky remarked as he reëntered.

“Then let’s hurry,” Armstrong said with a nervous grin. “I’d like to make the county buy at least one meal before I’m let go, just to pay for this foolishness.”

As they passed through the little office Armstrong retrieved his box from the desk.

“Let’s mail this first,” he suggested. “Won’t have to carry it all around.”

“All right,” agreed Ducky. “But buh-leeve me, mister, it ’ll take a lot of cash tuh mail that heavy box. Better leave it in the office safe till Frank gits here.”

“And have you steal that automatic? I guess not!”

Ducky chuckled again as he led the way to the musty post office.

“What time does the next train leave Silver Springs?” Armstrong asked of the dour old postmaster as the latter stamped and registered the package.

“’Bout fifteen minutes. Yuh shore got here jest under the wire. This ’ll cost yuh three seventy-five. What’s the value?”

“Fifty dollars,” answered the Milwaukee man promptly; and Ducky grinned.

“Do them dang things cost that much?” he asked, round-eyed. “By cripes. Betcha yore brother won’t send me one after all. Well, let’s hunt up the Chink an’ crawl around a snack.”

After a generous meal the two men returned to the jail, and Ducky insisted that Armstrong be locked up again.

“I take a nap every afternoon,” he explained, “an’ I don’t want yuh runnin’ out on me.”

“Then let’s play checkers,” growled the Easterner. “I’m going to skunk you if it takes all the afternoon.”

They were in the middle of their fifth game and Armstrong was still seeking revenge, when Sheriff Parker and his other deputy entered the office.

“How are yuh, travelers?” Ducky called over his shoulder. “Take off yore hats an’ rest yore faces an’ hands.”

“Whatcha doin’?” asked the sheriff, entering the cell room. Then his glance fell upon Armstrong, and he paused, staring at the prisoner.

“Well, I’ll be—” he breathed, drawing a reward notice from his pocket and comparing the printed picture with the man in front of him. Armstrong had leaped to his feet, his face twisted with rage.

“Good Lord, Ducky!” Parker cried. “Do you know who you’ve got? That is Dandy Claire Winslow, shore as I’m a foot high!”

“Kinda figgered it was,” admitted Ducky calmly. “Don’t git excited in this heat, Frank. He’s safe, ain’t he?”

“You dirty skunk!” Winslow bellowed, shaking his fist at the placid deputy. “You said you lost that notice. You tricked me into—”

Anger choked the prisoner into speechlessness.

“Up tuh yore old tricks, agin, eh, Ducky?” Parker grinned. “Now, what was it?”

“Aw, shucks!” the fat deputy defended himself. “If I’d ’a’ let on, where’d our checker games been?”

“One thing,” snarled the prisoner, coming close to the bars and pointing a triumphant finger at Ducky. “You missed out on the best part of it, you cheap crook. They can’t do much to me if they can’t find the swag. Know where it is? In that box I mailed! The train is gone. Know the address on the box? Try and git it, damn you!”

“Nope, I don’t know the address yuh put on that box,” admitted Ducky, packing the checkers away. “But I was honin’ tuh git that gun fer my collection, so I rung in a cold deck on yuh. Yore stuff is safe in the cupboard, an’ yuh paid three dollars and seventy-five cents tuh send a box of pebbles back East!”

Transcriber’s Note
This story appeared in Argosy, All-Story Weekly magazine, June 16, 1928. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.