Calliope Catesby was in his humours again. Ennui was upon him. This
goodly promontory, the earth--particularly that portion of it known as
Quicksand--was to him no more than a pestilent congregation of
vapours. Overtaken by the megrims, the philosopher may seek relief in
soliloquy; my lady find solace in tears; the flaccid Easterner scold
at the millinery bills of his women folk. Such recourse was
insufficient to the denizens of Quicksand. Calliope, especially, was
wont to express his ennui according to his lights.
Over night Calliope had hung out signals of approaching low spirits.
He had kicked his own dog on the porch of the Occidental Hotel, and
refused to apologise. He had become capricious and fault-finding in
conversation. While strolling about he reached often for twigs of
mesquite and chewed the leaves fiercely. That was always an ominous
act. Another symptom alarming to those who were familiar with the
different stages of his doldrums was his increasing politeness and a
tendency to use formal phrases. A husky softness succeeded the usual
penetrating drawl in his tones. A dangerous courtesy marked his
manners. Later, his smile became crooked, the left side of his mouth
slanting upward, and Quicksand got ready to stand from under.
At this stage Calliope generally began to drink. Finally, about
midnight, he was seen going homeward, saluting those whom he met with
exaggerated but inoffensive courtesy. Not yet was Calliope's
melancholy at the danger point. He would seat himself at the window of
the room he occupied over Silvester's tonsorial parlours and there
chant lugubrious and tuneless ballads until morning, accompanying the
noises by appropriate maltreatment of a jangling guitar. More
magnanimous than Nero, he would thus give musical warning of the
forthcoming municipal upheaval that Quicksand was scheduled to endure.
A quiet, amiable man was Calliope Catesby at other times--quiet to
indolence, and amiable to worthlessness. At best he was a loafer and a
nuisance; at worst he was the Terror of Quicksand. His ostensible
occupation was something subordinate in the real estate line; he drove
the beguiled Easterner in buckboards out to look over lots and ranch
property. Originally he came from one of the Gulf States, his lank six
feet, slurring rhythm of speech, and sectional idioms giving evidence
of his birthplace.
And yet, after taking on Western adjustments, this languid pine-box
whittler, cracker barrel hugger, shady corner lounger of the cotton
fields and sumac hills of the South became famed as a bad man among
men who had made a life-long study of the art of truculence.
At nine the next morning Calliope was fit. Inspired by his own
barbarous melodies and the contents of his jug, he was ready primed to
gather fresh laurels from the diffident brow of Quicksand. Encircled
and criss-crossed with cartridge belts, abundantly garnished with
revolvers, and copiously drunk, he poured forth into Quicksand's main
street. Too chivalrous to surprise and capture a town by silent
sortie, he paused at the nearest corner and emitted his slogan--that
fearful, brassy yell, so reminiscent of the steam piano, that had
gained for him the classic appellation that had superseded his own
baptismal name. Following close upon his vociferation came three shots
from his forty-five by way of limbering up the guns and testing his
aim. A yellow dog, the personal property of Colonel Swazey, the
proprietor of the Occidental, fell feet upward in the dust with one
farewell yelp. A Mexican who was crossing the street from the Blue
Front grocery carrying in his hand a bottle of kerosene, was
stimulated to a sudden and admirable burst of speed, still grasping
the neck of the shattered bottle. The new gilt weather-cock on Judge
Riley's lemon and ultramarine two-story residence shivered, flapped,
and hung by a splinter, the sport of the wanton breezes.
The artillery was in trim. Calliope's hand was steady. The high, calm
ecstasy of habitual battle was upon him, though slightly embittered by
the sadness of Alexander in that his conquests were limited to the
small world of Quicksand.
Down the street went Calliope, shooting right and left. Glass fell
like hail; dogs vamosed; chickens flew, squawking; feminine voices
shrieked concernedly to youngsters at large. The din was perforated at
intervals by the /staccato/ of the Terror's guns, and was drowned
periodically by the brazen screech that Quicksand knew so well. The
occasions of Calliope's low spirits were legal holidays in Quicksand.
All along the main street in advance of his coming clerks were putting
up shutters and closing doors. Business would languish for a space.
The right of way was Calliope's, and as he advanced, observing the
dearth of opposition and the few opportunities for distraction, his
ennui perceptibly increased.
But some four squares farther down lively preparations were being made
to minister to Mr. Catesby's love for interchange of compliments and
repartee. On the previous night numerous messengers had hastened to
advise Buck Patterson, the city marshal, of Calliope's impending
eruption. The patience of that official, often strained in extending
leniency toward the disturber's misdeeds, had been overtaxed. In
Quicksand some indulgence was accorded the natural ebullition of human
nature. Providing that the lives of the more useful citizens were not
recklessly squandered, or too much property needlessly laid waste, the
community sentiment was against a too strict enforcement of the law.
But Calliope had raised the limit. His outbursts had been too frequent
and too violent to come within the classification of a normal and
sanitary relaxation of spirit.
Buck Patterson had been expecting and awaiting in his little ten-by-
twelve frame office that preliminary yell announcing that Calliope was
feeling blue. When the signal came the city marshal rose to his feet
and buckled on his guns. Two deputy sheriffs and three citizens who
had proven the edible qualities of fire also stood up, ready to bandy
with Calliope's leaden jocularities.
"Gather that fellow in," said Buck Patterson, setting forth the lines
of the campaign. "Don't have no talk, but shoot as soon as you can get
a show. Keep behind cover and bring him down. He's a nogood 'un. It's
up to Calliope to turn up his toes this time, I reckon. Go to him all
spraddled out, boys. And don't git too reckless, for what Calliope
shoots at he hits."
Buck Patterson, tall, muscular, and solemn-faced, with his bright
"City Marshal" badge shining on the breast of his blue flannel shirt,
gave his posse directions for the onslaught upon Calliope. The plan
was to accomplish the downfall of the Quicksand Terror without loss to
the attacking party, if possible.
The splenetic Calliope, unconscious of retributive plots, was steaming
down the channel, cannonading on either side, when he suddenly became
aware of breakers ahead. The city marshal and one of the deputies rose
up behind some dry-goods boxes half a square to the front and opened
fire. At the same time the rest of the posse, divided, shelled him
from two side streets up which they were cautiously manoeuvring from a
well-executed detour.
The first volley broke the lock of one of Calliope's guns, cut a neat
underbit in his right ear, and exploded a cartridge in his crossbelt,
scorching his ribs as it burst. Feeling braced up by this unexpected
tonic to his spiritual depression, Calliope executed a fortissimo note
from his upper register, and returned the fire like an echo. The
upholders of the law dodged at his flash, but a trifle too late to
save one of the deputies a bullet just above the elbow, and the
marshal a bleeding cheek from a splinter that a ball tore from the box
he had ducked behind.
And now Calliope met the enemy's tactics in kind. Choosing with a
rapid eye the street from which the weakest and least accurate fire
had come, he invaded it at a double-quick, abandoning the unprotected
middle of the street. With rare cunning the opposing force in that
direction--one of the deputies and two of the valorous volunteers--
waited, concealed by beer barrels, until Calliope had passed their
retreat, and then peppered him from the rear. In another moment they
were reinforced by the marshal and his other men, and then Calliope
felt that in order to successfully prolong the delights of the
controversy he must find some means of reducing the great odds against
him. His eye fell upon a structure that seemed to hold out this
promise, providing he could reach it.
Not far away was the little railroad station, its building a strong
box house, ten by twenty feet, resting upon a platform four feet above
ground. Windows were in each of its walls. Something like a fort it
might become to a man thus sorely pressed by superior numbers.
Calliope made a bold and rapid spurt for it, the marshal's crowd
"smoking" him as he ran. He reached the haven in safety, the station
agent leaving the building by a window, like a flying squirrel, as the
garrison entered the door.
Patterson and his supporters halted under protection of a pile of
lumber and held consultations. In the station was an unterrified
desperado who was an excellent shot and carried an abundance of
ammunition. For thirty yards on either side of the besieged was a
stretch of bare, open ground. It was a sure thing that the man who
attempted to enter that unprotected area would be stopped by one of
Calliope's bullets.
The city marshal was resolved. He had decided that Calliope Catesby
should no more wake the echoes of Quicksand with his strident whoop.
He had so announced. Officially and personally he felt imperatively
bound to put the soft pedal on that instrument of discord. It played
bad tunes.
Standing near was a hand truck used in the manipulation of small
freight. It stood by a shed full of sacked wool, a consignment from
one of the sheep ranches. On this truck the marshal and his men piled
three heavy sacks of wool. Stooping low, Buck Patterson started for
Calliope's fort, slowly pushing this loaded truck before him for
protection. The posse, scattering broadly, stood ready to nip the
besieged in case he should show himself in an effort to repel the
juggernaut of justice that was creeping upon him. Only once did
Calliope make demonstration. He fired from a window, and some tufts of
wool spurted from the marshal's trustworthy bulwark. The return shots
from the posse pattered against the window frame of the fort. No loss
resulted on either side.
The marshal was too deeply engrossed in steering his protected
battleship to be aware of the approach of the morning train until he
was within a few feet of the platform. The train was coming up on the
other side of it. It stopped only one minute at Quicksand. What an
opportunity it would offer to Calliope! He had only to step out the
other door, mount the train, and away.
Abandoning his breastwork, Buck, with his gun ready, dashed up the
steps and into the room, driving upon the closed door with one heave
of his weighty shoulder. The members of the posse heard one shot fired
inside, and then there was silence.
*****
At length the wounded man opened his eyes. After a blank space he
again could see and hear and feel and think. Turning his eyes about,
he found himself lying on a wooden bench. A tall man with a perplexed
countenance, wearing a big badge with "City Marshal" engraved upon it,
stood over him. A little old woman in black, with a wrinkled face and
sparkling black eyes, was holding a wet handkerchief against one of
his temples. He was trying to get these facts fixed in his mind and
connected with past events, when the old woman began to talk.
"There now, great, big, strong man! That bullet never tetched ye! Jest
skeeted along the side of your head and sort of paralysed ye for a
spell. I've heerd of sech things afore; cun-cussion is what they names
it. Abel Wadkins used to kill squirrels that way--barkin' 'em, Abe
called it. You jest been barked, sir, and you'll be all right in a
little bit. Feel lots better already, don't ye! You just lay still a
while longer and let me bathe your head. You don't know me, I reckon,
and 'tain't surprisin' that you shouldn't. I come in on that train
from Alabama to see my son. Big son, ain't he? Lands! you wouldn't
hardly think he'd ever been a baby, would ye? This is my son, sir."
Half turning, the old woman looked up at the standing man, her worn
face lighting with a proud and wonderful smile. She reached out one
veined and calloused hand and took one of her son's. Then smiling
cheerily down at the prostrate man, she continued to dip the
handkerchief, in the waiting-room tin washbasin and gently apply it to
his temple. She had the benevolent garrulity of old age.
"I ain't seen my son before," she continued, "in eight years. One of
my nephews, Elkanah Price, he's a conductor on one of them railroads
and he got me a pass to come out here. I can stay a whole week on it,
and then it'll take me back again. Jest think, now, that little boy of
mine has got to be a officer--a city marshal of a whole town! That's
somethin' like a constable, ain't it? I never knowed he was a officer;
he didn't say nothin' about it in his letters. I reckon he thought his
old mother'd be skeered about the danger he was in. But, laws! I never
was much of a hand to git skeered. 'Tain't no use. I heard them guns
a-shootin' while I was gettin' off them cars, and I see smoke a-comin'
out of the depot, but I jest walked right along. Then I see son's face
lookin' out through the window. I knowed him at oncet. He met me at
the door, and squeezes me 'most to death. And there you was, sir,
a-lyin' there jest like you was dead, and I 'lowed we'd see what might
be done to help sot you up."
"I think I'll sit up now," said the concussion patient. "I'm feeling
pretty fair by this time."
He sat, somewhat weakly yet, leaning against the wall. He was a rugged
man, big-boned and straight. His eyes, steady and keen, seemed to
linger upon the face of the man standing so still above him. His look
wandered often from the face he studied to the marshal's badge upon
the other's breast.
"Yes, yes, you'll be all right," said the old woman, patting his arm,
"if you don't get to cuttin' up agin, and havin' folks shooting at
you. Son told me about you, sir, while you was layin' senseless on the
floor. Don't you take it as meddlesome fer an old woman with a son as
big as you to talk about it. And you mustn't hold no grudge ag'in' my
son for havin' to shoot at ye. A officer has got to take up for the
law--it's his duty--and them that acts bad and lives wrong has to
suffer. Don't blame my son any, sir--'tain't his fault. He's always
been a good boy--good when he was growin' up, and kind and 'bedient
and well-behaved. Won't you let me advise you, sir, not to do so no
more? Be a good man, and leave liquor alone and live peaceably and
goodly. Keep away from bad company and work honest and sleep sweet."
The black-mitted hand of the old pleader gently touched the breast of
the man she addressed. Very earnest and candid her old, worn face
looked. In her rusty black dress and antique bonnet she sat, near the
close of a long life, and epitomised the experience of the world.
Still the man to whom she spoke gazed above her head, contemplating
the silent son of the old mother.
"What does the marshal say?" he asked. "Does he believe the advice is
good? Suppose the marshal speaks up and says if the talk's all right?"
The tall man moved uneasily. He fingered the badge on his breast for a
moment, and then he put an arm around the old woman and drew her close
to him. She smiled the unchanging mother smile of three-score years,
and patted his big brown hand with her crooked, mittened fingers while
her son spake.
"I says this," he said, looking squarely into the eyes of the other
man, "that if I was in your place I'd follow it. If I was a drunken,
desp'rate character, without shame or hope, I'd follow it. If I was in
your place and you was in mine I'd say: 'Marshal, I'm willin' to swear
if you'll give me the chance I'll quit the racket. I'll drop the
tanglefoot and the gun play, and won't play hoss no more. I'll be a
good citizen and go to work and quit my foolishness. So help me God!'
That's what I'd say to you if you was marshal and I was in your
place."
"Hear my son talkin'," said the old woman softly. "Hear him, sir. You
promise to be good and he won't do you no harm. Forty-one year ago his
heart first beat ag'in' mine, and it's beat true ever since."
The other man rose to his feet, trying his limbs and stretching his
muscles.
"Then," said he, "if you was in my place and said that, and I was
marshal, I'd say: 'Go free, and do your best to keep your promise.'"
"Lawsy!" exclaimed the old woman, in a sudden flutter, "ef I didn't
clear forget that trunk of mine! I see a man settin' it on the
platform jest as I seen son's face in the window, and it went plum out
of my head. There's eight jars of home-made quince jam in that trunk
that I made myself. I wouldn't have nothin' happen to them jars for a
red apple."
Away to the door she trotted, spry and anxious, and then Calliope
Catesby spoke out to Buck Patterson:
"I just couldn't help it, Buck. I seen her through the window a-comin'
in. She never had heard a word 'bout my tough ways. I didn't have the
nerve to let her know I was a worthless cuss bein' hunted down by the
community. There you was lyin' where my shot laid you, like you was
dead. The idea struck me sudden, and I just took your badge off and
fastened it onto myself, and I fastened my reputation onto you. I told
her I was the marshal and you was a holy terror. You can take your
badge back now, Buck."
With shaking fingers Calliope began to unfasten the disc of metal from
his shirt.
"Easy there!" said Buck Patterson. "You keep that badge right where it
is, Calliope Catesby. Don't you dare to take it off till the day your
mother leaves this town. You'll be city marshal of Quicksand as long
as she's here to know it. After I stir around town a bit and put 'em
on I'll guarantee that nobody won't give the thing away to her. And
say, you leather-headed, rip-roarin', low-down son of a locoed
cyclone, you follow that advice she give me! I'm goin' to take some of
it myself, too."
"Buck," said Calliope feelingly, "ef I don't I hope I may--"
"Shut up," said Buck. "She's a-comin' back."
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