W. C. TUTTLE
        tells of a whittling sheriff and the feud of Mojave Wells

                          BY ORDER OF BUCK BRADY


Buck Brady was always whittling. Thin shavings were an obsession with
Buck. He would sit for hours, tilted back in a broken chair against the
shady side of his little office, knees almost touching his chin, his long,
thin face serious over the task of reducing a piece of soft pine to thin
shavings.

Buck was the sheriff of Mojave Wells, and Mojave Wells was a heat and sand
scoured, false fronted town in Road Runner Valley. The town was invisible
from a distance, because even the painted signs on the business houses had
been sand blasted until they were unreadable.

It was the end of the roundup in Road Runner Valley, and Buck knew that
before night the town would be filled with thirsty cowboys, whose overall
pockets were lined with money, and that when whisky met cowboy there might
be plenty of work for the sheriff.

The first to arrive was Ben Dolan, a thin faced, gaunt sort of cowboy,
astride a weary looking roan. Instead of heading for a saloon, Ben
dismounted in front of the sheriff’s office, dropped his reins in the dirt
and sat down beside the sheriff.

“Hyah, Buck.”

“Purty good,” drawled Buck squinting at his handiwork. “Whatcha know,
Ben?”

“Not much.”

“In kinda early, ain’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Ben made a few marks in the sand with a lean forefinger.

“Had a reason t’ come in early, Buck. Some of the boys said it wouldn’t do
no good, but I thought I’d tell you how it was. ’Long about an hour from
now Bud Hickman will ride in. He’ll have his gang with him and they’ll
imbibe real freely. Mebbe ’long about that same time Pete Asher’ll ride in
with his gang. They’ll also imbibe freely, and some of ’em will likely get
kinda drunk. The boys are all thirsty, you know. I expect it’ll be kinda
wooly around here t’night, Buck.”

“Uh-huh.”

Buck cut a particularly long shaving, looked at it critically and nodded
with satisfaction.

“You shore rode in early to explain all this to me,” he said. “If you’re
all through, you might tell me the rest.”

“It’s thisaway,” explained Ben seriously. “You know what a feud is, Buck?”

“Yea-a-ah.”

“Well, that’s what she amounts to right now. And it’s all over a danged
girl!”

“I’m glad there’s a reason, Ben. Mostly allus them feuds starts over
nothin’. Go ahead and tell me the details.”

“Rosie Smith.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what I said. You know how Bud and Pete kinda shined around her a
month ago. I don’t guess she knowed which one to pick. Of course, Bud
thinks it’s him, and Pete thinks it’s him. And there you are. It’s been
kinda achin’ both of ’em, I reckon. Anyway, Chuck Lester makes a remark
the other night that he supposed Bud wouldn’t be with us in Mojave Wells
at the finish of the roundup, ’cause he’d stop along a picket fence before
he reached the main street, and head straight through the gate.

“Pete was there, and I reckon it hit him in a sore spot, cause he chips in
with a remark, which didn’t set well with Bud. There wasn’t much said, but
it took all of us to take their guns away. We didn’t want no killin’ in
camp. Bud was reasonable. He says to Pete, ‘We’ll settle this in Mojave
Wells.’”

“Pete was agreeable. He says, ‘That suits me. We’ll make a truce until
sundown, both agreein’ to keep away from her. When that sun goes down, all
truce is off, and we shoot on sight.’”

                *       *       *       *       *

Buck sliced another shaving, laid the stick aside and began whetting the
blade on the counter of his left boot.

“And one of them damn’ fools is goin’ to get killed,” added Ben.

“It’s kinda hard to git straight grain stuff these days,” said the sheriff
seriously. “I ’member when I was runnin’ a tradin’ post down Yuma way, I
used to git the best danged boxwood for whittlin’. I don’t suppose it runs
so good these days.”

“Ben and Pete are both friends of yours,” said Ben thoughtfully.

“Uh-huh. I like ’em both.”

“A killin’ might start trouble. The boys has kinda took sides.”

“I s’pose.”

“Bud and Pete are both good shots.”

“Yea-a-ah--purty good shots. Awful damn’ fools in lotsa ways, but good
shots. Uh-hu-u-uh. Well, I’ve got to write me some signs, Ben. It’s two
hours till sundown.”

“I thought you’d like to know about it, Sheriff.”

“Yeah, I do. Thank you kindly.”

“You’re welcome.”

Ben took his horse and headed for a saloon, while more cowboys came racing
in, their horses covered with lather and dust. The sheriff watched the
first contingent arrive. It was Bud Hickman and his gang from the Tumbling
K. Bud was a likable looking cowboy, about twenty-five years of age, tall,
lithe, swarthy as an Indian, with curling black hair and a white toothed
smile. His crew was a wild riding lot of hard bitted punchers, ready for
fun or fight at a moment’s notice.

They noted that Pete Asher and the J88 boys had not arrived yet; so they
all headed for the Desert Well Saloon, the biggest place of its kind in
Mojave Wells. The sheriff stood on the edge of the sidewalk for a while,
cogitating deeply. He had been sheriff of that particular county for
nearly two terms, which meant that Buck Brady was pretty much of a man.
Finally he went into his little office, and after a search he found an old
paint brush and a few ounces of almost dried paint in a battered can. He
kicked the ends out of a soap box, drew out the nails and sat down at his
desk.

Pete Asher and his crew rode in from the J88, tied their horses farther up
the street and entered the Prospect Saloon. Asher was a heavily built,
hard faced cowboy, about the same age as Bud Hickman. His hair was almost
a neutral shade, his eyes deep set and blue. There was little to choose
between his gang and the one which came in with Bud Hickman, and in
numbers they were about equal.

There were more outfits to come, but they were not connected with the
feud. Rud and his men were at the bar when the sheriff came in, and they
greeted him noisily. He was carrying a box end and a hammer, and without
any leave from the proprietor he proceeded to nail his sign to one of the
walls. It read:

                          FROM NOW ON EVERY MAN
                          MUST TURN HIS GUN OVER
                         TO MY OFFICE UNTIL HE IS
                           READY TO LEAVE TOWN.
                               BY ORDER OF
                              --BUCK BRADY.

                *       *       *       *       *

Some of the men laughed: some swore. Bud Hickman strode over to the
sheriff and glared at him belligerently.

“You tryin’ to kid somebody, Buck?” he asked.

The sheriff looked steadily at Bud for several moments.

“I ain’t in the habit of kiddin’ anybody, am I?”

Bud flushed quickly, but he recognized the fact that Buck Brady would back
up his sign. That was why Buck was their sheriff.

“Kinda sudden, ain’tcha?” asked Bud.

“No-o-o. I’ve been thinkin’ this out quite a while, Bud.”

“Is this the idea?” queried Bud. “We all turn our guns over to you, and
you turn ’em back when we’re ready to leave town?”

“That’s what the sign says, Bud; and I wrote the sign.”

Bud laughed and turned to his men.

“It’s all right, boys. Shuck your guns. I reckon we can stand it, if the
others can.” And then to the sheriff, “You might have a little trouble
with Pete and his gang.”

“I hope they’ll be reasonable.”

The men put their guns on a poker table, and the sheriff picked them up,
putting some in his pockets, some inside the waistband of his overalls.

“You’ll have to remember your own guns, boys,” he said.

“I reckon I can spot mine,” said Bud. “I made them handles.”

                *       *       *       *       *

The sheriff thanked them kindly and went back to his office, where he
locked the guns in his desk. Then he went over to the Prospect Saloon,
where he nailed up his other notice. Asher and his men didn’t take so
kindly to the idea. Some of them were openly belligerent, and it seemed
for a few moments that the sheriff had a tough job, but Asher took the
matter out of their hands.

“I suppose this thing only applies to me and my men, eh?”

“You’re supposin’ wrong, Pete; I’ve already collected from the Tumblin’
K.”

“You’ve collected from Bud Hickman?”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I jist wondered. But suppose we don’t give you our guns?”

The sheriff considered Pete calmly. Then:

“I’ve allus liked you, Asher. You’ve been a damn’ fool in lotsa ways, but
you’re jist human like the rest of us. I’ve posted my notice, and I wrote
it myself.”

“But jist suppose we refuse to give up our guns?”

“That,” said the sheriff calmly, “would be jist too damn’ bad.”

“Oh--” softly--“and if I should happen to want to leave town, you’d give
me back my gun?”

“Jist like the sign says, Pete.”

“All right; here’s mine. Take ’em off, boys. We don’t need ’em--now.”

The sheriff looked over the guns as he deposited them about his person; he
walked out, swinging the hammer in his hand.

“Don’t that beat hell?” laughed Pete.

“I’ll betcha somebody told him somethin’,” said a cowboy.

“I don’t like the idea of a moth eaten old sidewinder takin’ my gun away,”
complained a cowboy who was new to the country. “We’d ’a’ had some fun, if
we’d refused.”

“You’ve got a sweet idea of fun,” growled Pete. “That moth eaten old
sidewinder is jist thirty-two years old, and if we hadn’t turned them guns
over to him he’d jist about ruined the whole gang of us with his pet
Winchester. When you see ‘By order of Buck Brady,’ you better read the
upper part of it and act accordingly.”

                *       *       *       *       *

All the cowboys went back to their drinking, and the sheriff was
forgotten, but both Bud and Pete kept track of the sun. The sheriff,
humped in his chair, still whittling, saw Pete come out, saunter to the
hitching rack, where he could view the sun. It was still an hour high.

Ben Dolan, fairly well filled with liquor, came over again and squatted on
his heels beside the sheriff. Ben was as hard bitted as the rest of the
cowboys, but he liked both Bud and Pete so well that he hated to see
either of them wounded or killed. And Ben was wise enough to understand
that both men would claim their guns at sundown.

They saw Bud leave the Desert Well Saloon, walk halfway across the street,
as if heading for a store, stop and look toward the west. He too was
keeping cases on the sun. Then he turned and went back to the saloon. Ben
made meaningless marks in the sand with a forefinger, while the sheriff
whittled thoughtfully.

“You shore collected a lot of guns, Sheriff.”

“Yea-a-ah.”

“Almost sundown.”

The sheriff shut one eye and considered Ben. Then he looked toward both
saloons, and went on whittling.

“The boys are gettin’ nervous,” said Ben.

“I notice.”

Several cowboys were standing in front of the Prospect Saloon now, and one
of them essayed a clog dance. His boots sounded loud on the old wooden
sidewalk. Another beat time on a porch post with the end of a quirt. It
was like the beating of a tomtom, and he kept it up for a time after the
dancer had stopped. The beater was swarthy, with high cheek bones.

Some of Bud’s gang came from the Desert Well and stood around in front of
the building. One of them, a little drunker than the rest, started across
the street toward the sheriff’s office, but the others stopped him and,
after an argument, persuaded him to desist.

“It’s kinda sultry,” said Ben, rubbing his forehead.

The sheriff nodded and looked at the sun, only half of which was visible
now. He blinked from the strong light and cut several shavings, which did
not suit him at all. A couple of dogs met in the middle of the street;
town dogs, fat and with a friendship of long standing. But now they
growled ominously at each other, as they circled, looking for an opening.

“Sic ’em!” hissed a cowboy from in front of the Desert Well.

“Take him, Tige! Shake his fleas loose. Four bits on the yaller one.”

“You’ve done made a bet, cowboy. Choose him, Ponto.”

But the dogs only circled and growled, and finally separated.

“Mebbe they’re waitin’ for the sun to go down,” whispered Ben.

The sheriff shook his head.

“Got more sense than men have.”

                *       *       *       *       *

The sun was down. Only the tip was visible, and the crests of the broken
hills showed a golden highlight. It was very still in Mojave Wells. The
shadows were gone now and the street glowed with a yellow light, which
would not last long. Twilight was unknown in Mojave Wells. Sundown, a
streak of gold, would quickly fade to blue, and then darkness.

Bud Hickman came from the Desert Well and went straight to the hitch rack,
where he untied his horse and swung into the saddle. Simultaneously with
Bud’s move, Pete Asher came riding from the rack beside the Prospect. It
was not a casual move. They intended to deceive nobody, not even the
sheriff of Mojave Wells. The cowboys of both outfits were in the street,
watching intently.

Bud came straight to the sheriff, and fifty feet behind him was Pete.
Bud’s face was grim, his mouth set in a thin line.

“I’m pullin’ out, Buck,” he said softly. “Would you mind handin’ me my
gun?”

The sheriff stopped whittling, tilted forward in his chair and got slowly
to his feet. He looked closely at Bud, but said nothing, as he turned and
went into the office. Pete moved in closer, but he and Bud ignored each
other. Ben sighed and leaned against the wall.

The sheriff came out, carrying a gun in each hand. For several moments he
looked at the two men rather sorrowfully.

“I reckon you’re pullin’ out, too, ain’tcha, Pete?”

Pete nodded quickly and held out his hand for the gun. They had been
friends, these two, until a woman had come between them. Bud holstered his
gun, swung his horse around and rode slowly down the street, looking
straight ahead. Pete accepted his gun, glanced at it to see that it was
fully loaded, snapped it down in his holster and swung his horse around,
riding back to the center of the street.

Ben swore softly under his breath. Both of these men were good revolver
shots.

“Goin’ to be a funeral around here--mebbe two,” he muttered. “Why don’tcha
stop it, Buck? Gawd A’mighty, this ain’t right! Look at Bud--he’s
turnin’!”

“You didn’t expect he’d run away, didja?”

The contestants in this desert town drama were two hundred feet apart,
facing each other, both horses moving slowly. They had both played a
square game. There was no advantage now. Two hundred feet is a long shot.
Both men had drawn their guns. Bud’s horse was dancing a little, and he
spurred it viciously.

Pete waited.

Ben’s hands were gripping the wall beside him. He had seen gun fights
before, but they had all been unpremeditated affairs. This one was too
much like an execution. The groups of cowboys were as immobile as dummy
figures. Even the horses at the hitch racks had ceased moving.

Bud and Pete were closing the gap between them, closing it slowly, each
waiting for the other to make the first move with a gun. They were only a
hundred feet apart now. It was close enough. But neither of them made a
move to lift his gun.

Ninety feet; thirty yards. Either of them could hit a tomato can at that
distance. Eighty feet! Horses walking slowly, Seventy feet; sixty feet.
Twenty yards now. They were almost in front of the sheriff’s office. Ben
laughed foolishly. It would be a double funeral. He had seen Bud shoot the
head from a prairie dog at that distance.

“It’s a nice evenin’ for it,” said the sheriff rather inanely.

And then it happened!

                *       *       *       *       *

Both guns came up at exactly the same instant. Ben’s eyes snapped shut and
he turned his head aside.

Came a tiny ping, hardly louder than the mere snapping of a revolver
hammer. Another and another. Bud’s eyes jerked open. The two riders were
thirty feet apart, leaning forward in their saddles. Not a shot had been
fired.

With a swift movement, Bud Hickman swung out the cylinder of his Colt and
emptied the cartridges in his hand. Every primer had been dented. There
were marks on the bullets, marks made by the jaws of a pair of pliers.

Pete was swearing viciously, as he drew cartridges from his belt and
started to stuff them in his gun.

But the sheriff halted him with a sharp word.

“Damn you, you pulled the powder on my shells!” snarled Pete.

“Yeah; and I’ll pull somethin’ else out of you, if you make one more
move,” said the sheriff calmly. “C’mere, Bud.”

Bud rode up to him, still holding the empty gun in his hand. Pete had quit
trying to load his gun. They looked coldly at each other.

“You boys hadn’t ort to fight,” said the sheriff calmly. “Both of you
goin’ off kinda half cocked, as you might say.”

The men from both outfits had moved in close now, trying to understand
what it was all about, their enmity all but forgotten in this queer turn
of events.

“I pulled them bullets,” admitted the sheriff. “I don’t reckon either of
you showed any yaller streak. You played the game square, and I like you
both for it. Personally I kinda enjoyed it. It was like lookin’ at a show.
I was the only one that knowed how it would turn out.”

“Was it any of your damn’ business how it turned out?” demanded Pete
hotly.

“In a way, it was, Pete--” calmly. “Barrin’ my friendship with both of
you, and my position as sheriff, it still was my business, in a way. Now,
you two boys was aimin’ to kill each other over a woman. Yeah, Ben told me
about it. You might thank Ben instead of glarin’ at him.

“He liked both of you, and he didn’t want no killin’ done; so he told me
about it. I don’t think for a minute that this Smith girl would care to
have you killin’ each other over her. Most girls don’t. Anyway, it was a
sucker idea, because there ain’t no Smith girl around here any more; so
you was tryin’ to kill each other for nothin’.”

“What do you mean?” blurted Bud.

“The Smiths ain’t moved away,” offered a cowboy.

“If you hadn’t had so much killin’ on your mind, you might have found out
that me and the Smith girl was married over a week ago. You boys better go
back and have your spree, as soon as you give me back them guns, ’cause
I’ve got work to do.”

“Whittlin’?” asked Bud blankly.

“Lookin’ for somethin’ to whittle on.”

                                 THE END


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 1, 1928 issue of
Adventure magazine.]