*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79643 ***


                              SOME TOWN

                           By Ray Humphreys
                       Author of “No Shots,” etc.


“Shorty,” said Sheriff Joe Cook of Monte Vista to his deputy, Shorty
McKay, as the hot August day began to cool with dusk, “I’ve had
something on my mind to say to yuh fer a long time, an’ now I’m a-gonna
say it. I wants yuh to spend more time around this office, at yuhr
official duties, an’ less time up to the telephone exchange blabbing
with that Haynes gal!”

Shorty, who was sitting back in a comfortable chair, feet cocked up on
his desk, cleaning his revolver, brought feet and chair to the floor
with a simultaneous thud.

“Says which, boss?”

“Yuh heard me the fust time, Shorty, but I’m obligin’ an’ willin’ to
repeat—I says I wants yuh to spend less time up thar chinnin’ with that
Belle Haynes operator an’ more time here where yuh is paid to be!”

“Why, what——” sputtered Shorty, flushing a bit, but the sheriff made
haste to cut him short.

“What fer, yuh’re gonna say, eh? Waal, fer one thing, that gal doesn’t
give no too good service up thar at the exchange nohow, an’ it ain’t
helpin’ matters none to have yuh up thar disturbing her further, an’ fer
another thing yuh ain’t givin’ the taxpayers o’ Monte Vista no good fer
their money when yuh’re up thar instead o’ here. When I wants a subpœna
served or a notice tacked up, yuh ain’t here to do it, an’ besides, I
wants yuh hangin’ around this office when I’m out, so that in case o’
an’ emergency——”

“Yes, sir,” said Shorty respectfully.

“Now, this evenin’ I’m headin’ fer the depot an’ then to the Red Spruce
Hotel,” said the sheriff, “where I goes into conference with a coupla
big cattlemen from Denver, aimin’ to sell ’em that bunch o’
three-year-old white-faces I got back in the hills. Yuh stay here in
case anything happens; mind, I mean here, not at the telephone
exchange!”

“But, boss——” protested Shorty.

“She’ll just have to git used to bein’ lonesome up thar by herself ef
that’s what yuh’re gonna say,” cut in the sheriff. “I’m plumb sick o’
yuhr sentimental nonsense, Shorty, an’ besides, that gal wouldn’t make
nobody no wife. Now, ef it was Susie Kirk, the day operator, yuh was
sparkin’——”

“Well, it ain’t,” said Shorty crisply.

The sheriff arose and put on his black hat and made for the door,
turning to cast a last look at his unhappy deputy.

“Waal, I’m headin’ fer the depot,” he remarked. “The six forty is about
due; I’ll be at the Red Spruce after that ef any one wants me, an’ yuh
stay here, fer, while I don’t place much stock in them anny-nominous
letters, still——”

The sheriff paused, drew his lips tight, turned and went out, banging
the office door after him.

Shorty, again at the task of polishing up his gun, although only
half-heartedly now, scowled as the banging door told him his peevish
boss had departed. Shorty knew what Sheriff Cook had meant by his last
unfinished remark. The sheriff had received an anonymous letter two days
before, and it was worrying him a bit, evidently. The letter, unsigned
and undated, had simply stated, tersely, that the writer had overheard
the plans of several gunmen to make a cleaning in Monte Vista. That was
all. There were no details. And while Sheriff Cook ordinarily, as he
said, took small stock in such missives, still——

“He’s worrying about _that_,” moaned Shorty unhappily, “an’ that’s why
he orders me to keep open house here in the office while he entertains
his cattle buyers! Now how about Belle, up thar at that lonesome
telephone exchange all alone like she is? Pore gal—an’ glory be, what
eyes she has! Great big blue sparklers! An’ her hair—golden as a
five-dollar gold piece just outten the mint—pore little gal.”

Shorty drew his big watch from his pocket and glanced at it. Six
forty-five, almost time for Belle to go on duty. Just fifteen minutes
more and she would be on duty. Shorty shrugged his shoulders and sighed.
He’d call her up then. Maybe, too, if he could screw up sufficient
courage, he’d disregard his orders and go up there. Belle would be
lonesome, he knew. Besides, she was a pretty girl—and—well, Shorty was
very fond of her.

Meantime the puffing narrow gauge had pulled in and disgorged its
passengers into the arms of the town, for all of Monte Vista made it a
point to be at the depot for the arrival of the six forty from Denver.
The two cattle buyers whom the sheriff had been expecting swung off and
Sheriff Cook spotted them and made them welcome. They all climbed into
the creaking old bus from the Red Spruce and rattled up the street to
the hotel, where the sheriff was host at supper. And after the meal,
which was a good one, the sheriff and his guests retired to a secluded
spot in the lobby, to talk over the proposed deal. The fate of more than
a thousand head of prime white-faces, back in the timber, was to be
decided. The sheriff produced three fat cigars.

Meantime, too, other train passengers had come straggling into the Red
Spruce and registered. There was an extra large quota this evening, it
appeared, and the cattle buyers, who had struck up an acquaintance with
some of the passengers on the train en route, pointed out various comers
to the sheriff.

“See that feller with the whiskers just registerin’?” asked Bill Grant,
one of the cattle buyers. “Well, he’s a jewelry salesman from New
York—says he’s got a small fortune in jewels on him. Shouldn’t think
he’d be safe carryin’ stuff like that around this country. Told him so,
but he laughed.”

The sheriff fixed a glassy eye on Grant. “He’s safe enough; I’m sheriff
o’ this county, Mr. Grant, an’ that bird’s safer here than he’d be in
New York City!”

The cattle buyers exchanged significant glances and changed the subject.
The jewelry salesman went up to his room. Other guests scattered to the
dining room and to the street, and the old-fashioned clock over the
clerk’s desk boomed out the hour of eight o’clock. Old Jerry Curtis, the
clerk, seated at the hotel telephone switchboard, munched an apple and
glanced over _The Clarion_ between calls from the various rooms for
ice water, letter paper, envelopes, and other free donations. Sheriff
Cook, expounding the cause of his good white-faces, glowed and grew
eloquent, intending to say plenty before the buyers put in a bid. The
sheriff had sold plenty of cattle before.

“Hullo,” yipped Jerry Curtis complainingly. “Ya, this is the clerk
hisself talkin’. Our new safe ain’t been installed yet. Awful sorry.
Just hide ’em somewhars in the room—under the carpet or back o’ the
dresser—sure!”

The clerk clicked off.

“Huh,” said the sheriff, growing interested, “an’ who was that, Jerry,
callin’ about valuables?”

“That New Yark salesman up in 308,” said Jerry, “wanted to store some
jewelry in a safe overnight. I told him to hide it under the carpet or
back o’ the dresser.”

“Sure, what is he afraid of in Monte Vista?” demanded the sheriff with
pride. “I’m sheriff here, an’ ef I do say so, we ain’t got no thieves
an’ robbers here—no, sirree, boys.”

“Well, sheriff,” said one of the cattle buyers, “let’s come to terms on
those white-faces. We’ll take yuhr word that they’re all yuh
say—prime—an’ now, delivered here, on the hoof, an’ loaded into cars,
billed to us——”

The sheriff held his breath. The bid was coming.

“All right—go on,” he said.

“We figger, Grant and I, that the company can pay yuh——”

The cattle buyer paused, for effect, the sheriff instantly decided—and
the sheriff waved him on.

“Yes—go on!”

But the buyer did not go on. He was staring with wide eyes and slightly
opened mouth toward the sheriff. A full minute and still the fellow did
not go on. Sheriff Cook blinked. The other buyer, Grant, was also
staring. For a minute the sheriff was puzzled before he realized that
both men were staring not at him but past him. He turned for a look.

In the doorway of the hotel, rifles leveled, stood a group of dusty men.
Just as the sheriff saw them the leader, advancing gingerly into the
lobby, bawled out a thunderous command.

“Hands up, everybody—good an’ high, too!”

There wasn’t a bit of doubt in the minds of all who heard him but that
he meant it. Hands accordingly went up—and high. Sheriff Cook reached
for the ceiling along with the rest, for he had been taken from behind,
and by surprise as well. Old Jerry Curtis, the clerk, sprang from his
chair at the switchboard and straightened up on his tiptoes, so as to be
able to reach all the higher. The bell hops reached, too. The silence
was ominous as the leader advanced farther into the lobby and the pack
at his heels followed him, eyes and rifles sweeping to all sides.

“Nobody moves,” said the bandit leader loudly, “unless they are tired o’
livin’. Fust, we want whatever guns you——”

The leader didn’t finish. One of the men behind him darted out and
quickly frisked the guests in the lobby, as well as the clerk and the
bell boys. The guns were piled on the counter.

“Joe,” said the leader, “git on that telephone board an’ see no calls
goes outta here while we’re workin’. Better start callin’ the rooms an’
tell ’em that the proprietor is comin’ up to inspect the rooms er
something, so they’ll open up fer us.”

Joe obediently took his post. He plugged in a line and opened the plug.
It was plain that he knew something of switchboards.

“Marty,” said the leader, “yuh an’ ‘Pug’ search these gents in the lobby
here, an’ guard ’em, while me an’ ‘Blackie’ goes around to the rooms an’
collects. Remember, Joe, yuh watch that board, fer them bazoos will
start yelpin’ as soon as we gits around past ’em—yuh kid ’em along
gentle till we gits down.”

“Sure,” said Joe.

The bandit leader, followed by one assistant, strode for the stairs and
vanished, while the two men left in the lobby began a systematic search
of Sheriff Cook, Clerk Curtis, the cattle buyers, and a group of
salesmen who had been chatting in an alcove.

Meanwhile the man at the switchboard did his stuff and kept up a running
fire of talk.

“Yep . . . this is the Red Spruce Hotel . . . Mr. O’Neill, no, he ain’t
in just now . . . call later . . . all right. Hello, room 312? Well,
say, this is the clerk downstairs speakin’. The proprietor is comin’ up
in a minute to see yuh; open up when he raps, will yuh? All right!
Hello, yes, this is the clerk . . . ice water, 402 . . . right away!
Hello, room 313 . . . this is the clerk downstairs . . . the proprietor
is comin’ up to see yuh in a minute . . . open up when he raps, will ya?
All right.”

“Well, well,” said the bandit who had been searching the sheriff, “looky
this, gents—blamed ef this party ain’t got a badge on—purty one,
too—sheriff, by gum. Well, ain’t this nice. How are yuh, sheriff? No,
never mind shakin’ hands. Yuh keep yuhr hands up or yuh’ll be shakin’
hands with Saint Peter. We don’t mind sheriffs at all, mister. We robs
them, too.”

“Hello,” the man at the switchboard was droning, “yes, this is the
clerk. What’s that? Yuh was just robbed? Well, keep still an’ stay right
thar until the sheriff gits up. What room . . . 211? All
right . . . yes, the sheriff is right here in the lobby now . . . all
right, all right . . . don’t get so excited! Hello! Yes, this is the Red
Spruce Hotel. No, nobody here by that name. Nope . . . good-by! Hello,
room 314 . . . say, this is the clerk speakin’ . . . the proprietor is
comin’ up . . . will yuh open up, please?”

“Sufferin’ snakes,” groaned the sheriff weakly, as the perspiration
stood out on his forehead, “yuh birds must be the Hollis band I got a
letter about. I never thought yuh’d have the nerve—like this—in a big
hotel.”

“We like ’em big, sheriff,” smiled one of the gunmen coolly. “So yuh got
a letter about us, eh? How nice.”

“I didn’t put much stock in it,” gasped Sheriff Cook, and then, under
his breath, to Grant, the cattle buyer, who was shivering at the
sheriff’s left, he muttered—“now whar do yuh reckon that fool deputy o’
mine is, eh? Sparkin’ that phone gal I’ll bet a hat, an’ leavin’ us to
be robbed an’ insulted!”

“Hello! Hello!” the man at the switchboard was rasping, as the little
lights began to flash all over the board, signaling. “Room 218 . . . all
right! Yuh say yuh just been robbed? All right, the sheriff will be
right up! Yuh stay right thar. Hello, yes . . . this is the clerk.
Yes . . . room 220 . . . all right . . . robbed? All right, wait thar.
I’ll be right up . . . hello . . . hello . . . 221 . . . yes . . . just
been held up . . . well, remain right there. Hello . . . yes, this is
the Red Spruce . . . no, not here. Hello . . . room 221 . . . yes, I
heard yuh . . . just been robbed . . . yes . . . stay right there!”

The bandits known as Marty and Pug, having searched the victims in the
lobby and relieved them of all valuables, stood back now and grinned at
their comrade, Joe, at the switchboard.

“Yuh is _some_ operator, Joe,” cried Pug. “Yuh sure can talk fast ’n
plenty, I’ll say!”

“Plenty, heck!” whooped Joe, jerking off his headpiece long enough to
grin at his pals. “I’m losin’ ground. Thar’s forty people on here tryin’
to talk at once, reportin’ a robbery! Reckon the boss is makin’ fast
work o’ it! Two or three hollerin’ in my ear at once—to say nuthin’ o’
outside calls comin’ in, too.”

“Quiet ’em down,” advised Pug softly. “Tell ’em to stay put in their
rooms. We don’t want the buzzards swoopin’ inter the lobby. We could
handle ’em, all right, but it might look bad from the street to see a
lot o’ excited people crowdin’ around. Get talkin’ an’ tell ’em to be
calm an’ stay put!”

“I’ll open the whole dog-gone board,” said Joe with sudden decision, “so
that they can all hear me at one time. Hello, everybody! Yes . . . this
is the clerk speakin’. We know thar’s been a robbery . . . everybody
stay right in their rooms until the sheriff arrives. Remain
quiet . . . fer a few minutes . . . yes . . . _Hello!_ Yes, this is the
Red Spruce Hotel. _Yuh quit ringin’ in my ear._ Who tol’ yuh to put in,
anyhow. We ain’t got no Mr. O’Neill here. All right.
Good-by . . . everybody stay quiet now . . . best thing.”

Joe ripped off the headpiece again.

“Somebody rung in from outside an’ near busted my eardrum,” wailed Joe.
Dog-gone it, Pug, things is gettin’ hot upstairs. Thar goes the signal
from 401—the boss has reached the top floor. Thar’s 402! He’s sweepin’
right along handsomelike!”

Meantime the sheriff was wilting with mortification, but there wasn’t a
chance in a thousand that Shorty would happen along and be able to
handle the situation—no, the bandits would soon finish their wholesale
plundering and depart, leaving the sheriff to be shamed before the whole
county.

“The money we was to pay yuh down on them steers,” whispered Grant, the
cattle buyer, “it’s gone—and the deal’s off!”

“Hello!” shouted the bandit at the switchboard, and he held up a hand to
attract the attention of Pug and Marty, the other outlaws, and he winked
at them. “Yes . . . this is the clerk . . . oh, yes, 308 . . . oh,
yes . . . yuh say yuh’re the man asked about the safe place fer yuhr
jewelry? Oh, yes. I told yuh to hide it under the
carpet . . . yes . . . an’ yuh did . . . yes . . . an’ the bandits never
found it, yuh say? Well, well . . . that’s great . . . room 308, eh?
Fine . . . leave it right thar under the carpet, mister. That’s right!”

The bandit operator whirled and yelled at Pug. “Beat it up to 308,
Pug—gent thar phones down to thank me fer tellin’ him to hide his stuff
under the carpet. He says the robbers missed it. Git yuh up thar an’
grab it. The boss overlooked a good haul. Hurry, Pug!”

“My gosh,” wailed Curtis, the clerk, “that’s that New Yark jewelry
salesman that I told to hide his stuff!”

Pug, with a sneering look at Curtis, ran up the stairs.

“Great stuff,” chuckled the bandit at the switchboard, doubling up in
mirth. “The boss overlooks a bet an’ the pore sucker calls down to brag
about it an’ Pug goes right up an’ gits it!”

“Ain’t had so much fun in a year!” agreed Marty, shifting his rifle a
bit, “and this is some killing, too.”

“Liable to be ef yuh move!” whooped a strange voice from the rear, and
Marty and Joe felt their blood freeze in their veins. “Yuh, with the
rifle—drop it. Thanks. An’ yuh, at the switchboard thar—hands up high.
Now stand up—thanks!”

“Shorty!” whooped Sheriff Cook, and he swayed, only to start like he had
been shot at the next words of the newcomer.

“Pick up that rifle, boss—and herd that pair o’ slickers one side. All
right, fellers, come on in!”

The next minute a young army swarmed in—armed with pitchforks, rifles,
shotguns, revolvers, and clubs. They were townsmen in various stages of
dress and undress. A posse!

“Scatter behind chairs, er curtains—an’ the counter,” ordered Shorty.
“The rest’ll be comin’ downstairs in a minute.”

Sure enough, grinning happily, Pug, a handful of jewelry clutched to his
chest, came romping down the stairs.

“Elevate ’em, mister!” cried Shorty, rising from behind the counter with
a pair of six-guns—and Pug did. The next minute the sheriff had another
cowed gunman under the muzzle of his rifle.

“More comin’,” said Shorty, as running footfalls sounded immediately
overhead, and the next minute he was popping up from behind the counter
again, covering two surprised gunmen.

“That’s all, Shorty,” cried Sheriff Cook, quickly recovering his poise.
“Thar was only five. We got ’em all!”

“Thar was six,” corrected Shorty tersely. “We nabbed the lookout outside
as we come up!”

“I was hopin’ yuh’d come, deputy,” beamed the sheriff, as he collected
the outlaws’ weapons from where they had dropped them. “Ef I could have
gotten a phone call to yuh——”

“Huh!” sneered the bandit leader, still pretty cocky. “We thought o’
that—we took no chances—we cut the wires right outside yuhr office,
sheriff, as we came in. We didn’t know yuh was here. Yuh couldn’t have
gotten yuhr deputy nohow.”

“I was at the office, boss,” said Shorty, and he reddened a little,
anticipating the bellow he knew would come. But before anything more
could be said, a pajama-clad form bounded down the stairs, half a dozen
at a time. It was the New York jewelry salesman. He saw his jewelry on
the floor, where Pug had dropped it when Shorty had covered him. He
pounced for it and clutched it tightly to him.

“Some town!” he howled sarcastically, as he glared around at Shorty, the
sheriff, the clerk, the posse, and the captured bandits. “Fine
town—where they ain’t no safes fer valuables an’ the clerk tells yuh
where to hide ’em an’ yuh telephone down to tell the clerk everything is
all right an’ thar’s a bandit on the switchboard who sends up another
bandit to rob yuh before yuh has time to turn around.”

“I wasn’t at the office, boss,” repeated Shorty, ignoring the New
Yorker. “I went up to the exchange to keep Belle company, she bein’
lonesome, an’ she wasn’t feelin’ very well, so I told her to go home an’
I’d handle the exchange, so she did, an’ I kept tryin’ to ring up the
Red Spruce here, to tell yuh whar I was should yuh need me, an’ I
couldn’t get no answer—until finally I does get in—and then I hears a
strange voice shouting fer everybody to stay quiet in their rooms until
the sheriff arrived—_that_ doesn’t sound good, so I collects a posse in
town——”

“_Some town!_” whooped the bandit leader crazily. “Some town—whar they
have deputy sheriffs fer centrals. No wonder we got caught, fellers.
Joe, yuh shouldn’t have answered any o’ them incomin’ calls.”

“Further,” broke in Shorty, “I suspected right off this was the birds
yuh got the anonymous letter about, boss. It was from Belle, that
letter. She overheard some talk on the wires. She didn’t dare sign her
name because she figgered yuh didn’t like her and she didn’t want to
give away the fact that she had listened in, fer fear I wouldn’t like
it, but to-night she tol’ me. I put two an’ two together, boss, an’ when
Belle went home an’ I heard——”

“Belle is a dandy fine gal, Shorty,” whooped the sheriff, and he patted
Shorty on the back. “Wonderful gal—make some feller a splendid wife. Yuh
better stick around close to her, Shorty—splendid gal, that Belle!”


[Notes on the Text: This story appeared in _Western Story Magazine_,
August 8, 1925. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United
States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79643 ***