After Mr. Masterson killed Messrs. Wagner and Walker, who murdered his brother Ed, the word of that bloodshed was not slow in reaching Texas. The tale, when told throughout those cow-camps whose hundred fires winked1 along the Canadian, aroused an interest the fundamental element whereof was wrath2.
The tragedy deeply displeased3 all Texas people of cows. The dead gentlemen had been Texans. Mr. Masterson, on the exasperating4 other hand, was an emanation of Illinois. That he was sheriff of Ford5 owned no importance. That Messrs. Wagner and Walker had slain6 Mr. Masterson’s brother and were killed while their hands were red was permitted to have no weight. Cowboys are a volatile7 lot; they probe no question over-deep, surely none so commonplace as a question of homicide. Wherefore, in connection with the blinking out of Messrs. Wagner and Walker, they of Texas chose to consider only the Texas origin of deceased. Angry with the injured vanity of tribe, they spake evil of Mr. Masterson and nursed vague feuds9 against him in their hearts.
There was a Mr. Gato, just then riding for the Turkey Track. Mr. Gato was neither old nor reputable. He is dead now, and the ravens11 and coyotes have wrangled12 over his ignoble13 bones. Other Turkey Track boys called Mr. Gato the “Tomcat”—this latter to give his name in English.
Mr. Gato was native of the Panhandle. Twenty-three years before, his Mexican father and Comanche mother had had a family row in selecting for him a name. His mother desired to call him two or three Comanche gutterals which, when hyphenated, stand for Scorpion14. It was a notion not without merit; but his Mexican father objected, hence that household jar. The padre of their church came finally to the rescue and led the clashing couple to “Patricio” as a compromise. The infant, howling like a pagan, was baptised “Patricio Gato.” Next day everybody forgot all about it as a thing of little consequence. As set forth15, however, his mates of the ranges renamed Mr. Gato the “Tomcat.” On second thought it may be just as well to follow their example; the word will sound more convincing to American ears.
If the Tomcat had been all Mexican or all Comanche this leaf might never have been written. But he was half Mexican and half Comanche, and the blend was unfortunate. The Tomcat, ignorant, vicious, furtive16, savage17, was upon an intellectual level with the wolf, and of impulses as secret and as midnight. Also, he was dominated of an inborn18 pride to shed blood. He had been withheld19 from feeding that pride by stress of the rickety cross in his veins21; he lacked the downright courage which was the enterprise’s first demand.
The riders of the Turkey Track were fairly aware of the Tomcat’s congenital depravity. In regions where there is but little of the law, as against a deal of the individual, men who would call themselves secure must learn to estimate the folk about them. And they do. It was common knowledge, therefore, that the Tomcat was blood-hungry. It was likewise known that his hardihood in no sort matched his crimson22 appetite. As spoke23 Mr. Cook—a promising24 youth was Mr. Cook, and one wise of his generation:
“He’d admire to take a skelp, that Tomcat would, but he’s shy the sand.”
This was Turkey Track decision, and, since it was so, the Tomcat went vested of no personal terrors. He was not loved, but he was not feared; and his low standing25 in that community—if so sparse26 a thing as a cow-camp may be thus described—of which he was a fameless unit, found suggestion in occasional sneers27 of more or less broadish point, the latter contingent28 on the vivacious29 recklessness of the author in each instance.
The Tomcat, during their lives, had not been numbered among the friends of Messrs. Wagner and Walker. He was not possessed30 of even a drinking acquaintance with those vanished ones. Indeed, he never so much as heard of their existence until he heard that they were dead. It is due the Tomcat to say that this was chance and not because of any social delicacy31 on the part of the ones departed.
Despite a lack of personal interest, while the Tomcat listened to the sour comments of those spurred and broad-brimmed ones of Texas as the story of Mr. Masterson’s pistol practice found relation, a thought took struggling shape in the narrow fastnesses of his wit. He would ride those two hundred northward32 miles to Dodge33 and destroy Mr. Masterson. Throughout two seasons he had gone with the beef herds34 over the Jones and Plummer trail, and, since the terminus of that thoroughfare lay in Dodge, he knew the way.
Also, at those beef times he had been given glimpses of Mr. Masterson, about the streets in his rôle of protector of the public peace. The Tomcat did not recall Mr. Masterson as one uncommonly35 dangerous. He remembered him as of middle size and a tolerant, thoughtful eye. The Tomcat, when he thus gazed on Mr. Masterson, was somewhat thickened of drink. Still, had Mr. Masterson been more than usually perilous36, the fact would have left some impress upon him, however steeped in rum. No; he was convinced that Mr. Masterson was not a problem beyond his powers. He would repair to Dodge and solve Mr. Masterson with his six-shooter.
Whenever he should return to the Panhandle, bearing Mr. Masterson’s hair upon his bridle-rein, the Tomcat foresaw how his status as one of iron-bound fortitude37 would be thereby38 and instantly fixed39. He would be placed in the deadly foreground with such worthies40 as Doc Holiday, Shotgun Collins, Curly Bill and Soapy Smith. Poets would make verses about him as they had about the sainted Samuel Bass41, dance-hall maidens42 would sing his glory in quavering quatrains. Thus dreamed the Tomcat on the banks of the Canadian as he lay by a Turkey Track campfire, while his comrades declaimed of Mr. Masterson and the sorrowful taking off of Messrs. Wagner and Walker, aforesaid. It was the Tomcat’s vision of fame; rude, bloody43, criminal, but natural for the man and the day and the land it grew among.
It was in the hot middle hours of the afternoon. The Tomcat had come into camp bringing five cows with their unmarked offspring—this was the spring round-up. The five cows with their bawling44 children were thrown into the general bunch, which would start next day for the branding pen.
Having gotten a mouthful at the grub-wagon the Tomcat thoughtfully walked his tired bronco towards the band of ponies45 which the horse-hustler was holding in the bottom grass that bordered the Canadian. There were eight riders with this particular outfit46. Wherefore the band of ponies counted about sixty head, for each cowboy employs from seven to ten personal ponies in his labours and rides down three a day.
The Tomcat’s pregnant purpose formed the night before was in no sort abated47; it had grown more clear and strong with the hours. It looked sensibly feasible, too, as all things do when miles and weeks away. The Tomcat was wholly decided48; he would ride to Dodge and collect the hair of the offensive Mr. Masterson. Likewise, since the idea improved upon him pleasantly, he would start at once.
In and out among the grazing ponies wound the Tomcat. At last he discovered what he sought. He pitched the loop of his rope over the head of a little bay, with four black legs and an eye like the full-blown moon.
This pony49 had name for speed and bottom. He had come from the ranges of the Triangle-dot, whose ponies, as all the cow-world knows, have in them a streak50 of the thoroughbred. The one roped by the Tomcat, carrying a thirty-pound saddle and a hundred-and-fifty-pound man, could put one hundred even miles behind him between dark and dark. He had never tasted anything better than mother’s milk and grass and would have drawn51 back and hollyhocked his nostrils52 at an ear of yellow corn as though that vegetable were a rattlesnake.
As the Tomcat was shifting his saddle from the weary one to the pony freshly caught the horse-hustler came riding out from the shadow of a cottonwood.
“I wouldn’t be in your saddle,” observed the horse-hustler to the Tomcat, busy over his girths, “for the price of fifty steers54 if Jack55 Cook crosses up with you on his little Shylock hoss.” The name of the bay pony was the name of Shakespeare’s Jew.
Upon a round-up a cowpony has two proprietors57. His title, doubtless, is vested in the ranch58 whose brand he wears. Body and soul, however, he belongs to that cowboy to whom he is told off. Each boy has his string, and any other boy would as soon think of rifling that youth’s warbags as riding one of his ponies without permission. The pony from whose neck still hung the detaining lariat59 of the Tomcat had been detailed60 by the Turkey Track to the use and behoof of Mr. Cook.
“Jack said I could take him,” returned the Tomcat as he leaped into the saddle.
This was a lie, but the horse-hustler never mistrusted. It was not that he had faith in the veracity61 of the Tomcat, but he relied upon his want of courage. Mr. Cook, while an excellent soul in the main, was prey62 to restless petulances. The horse-hustler did not believe that the Tomcat would intromit with the possessions of Mr. Cook lacking that gentleman’s consent. When Shylock was ready the Tomcat turned his nervous muzzle63 towards the north and was off at a cheerful road-gait.
While scrambling64 up an arroya and pointing for the table-lands beyond, the Tomcat ran into Mr. Cook, picking his way towards the outfit’s evening camp. Mr. Cook was surprised at the picture of the Tomcat astride his sacred Shylock. The Tomcat appeared dashed, not to say dismayed, by the meeting.
“What be you-all doin’ on my Shylock?” demanded Mr. Cook, his hand not at all distant from the butt65 of his Colt’s-45. “What be you-all doin’ on my Shylock?” he repeated. Then, as the Tomcat was not ready with an explanation: “If you can’t talk, make signs; an’ if you can’t make signs, shake a bush!”
Since a threat seemed to find lodgment in the manner of the choleric66 Mr. Cook, the Tomcat deemed it wise to be heard. Realising with a sigh that mendacity would not clear the way, the Tomcat, in a cataract67 of confidence, imparted to Mr. Cook his scheme of vengeance68 against Mr. Masterson.
“An’ I ought to have a good pony, Jack,” pleaded the Tomcat. “I may need it to get away on.”
When the Tomcat unfolded his plans to bring back the scalp of Mr. Masterson, Mr. Cook first stared and then went off into a gale69 of laughter. He almost forgot his valued Shylock.
“You bump off Bat Masterson!” he exclaimed. “Why, Tomcat, it needs the sharpest hand on the Canadian for that job, needs somebody as good as Old Tom Harris. Better go back to camp an’ sleep it off. Bat Masterson would down you like cuttin’ kyards.”
The Tomcat, however, did not waver. Relieved when he noted70 the mollified vein20 of Mr. Cook, he urged his claim for the Shylock pony.
“Say ‘yes,’ Jack,” said the Tomcat, “an’ I’ll be back in a month with that Bat Masterson’s top-knot dangling71 from Shylock’s bits.”
“Well,” remarked Mr. Cook, giving space in the arroya for the Tomcat to pass, “onder the circumstances you-all can have Shylock. I don’t feel like refusin’ the last request of a dyin’ man. Ride on, an’ may your luck break even with your nerve.”
The Tomcat went his northward path, but in the treacherous72 hollows of his heart he hated Mr. Cook. The Tomcat raged for that he could not face a white of the pure blood without turning craven to the bone. It was that recreant73 cross in his veins; he knew, but couldn’t cure the defect. He could hold his own with a Comanche, he could bully74 a Mexican to a standstill, but his heart became the heart of a hare whenever the cold, gray-eyed gaze of one of clean white strain fell across him in hostility75. Halted by the high-tempered Mr. Cook, the Tomcat had fair melted in his saddle; and, while he gained his point and the pony, his wolfish soul was set none the less on fire.
“If I’d had two drinks in me I’d shot it out with him,” considered the Tomcat by way of consoling himself. “I’d have filled him as full of lead as a bag of bullets! After I come back I’ll nacherally take a crack at Johnny Cook. He won’t front up to me so plumb76 confident an’ gala after I’ve killed Bat Masterson.”
Dodge took no absorbing interest in the Tomcat. His kind was frequent in its causeways, and the Tomcat as a specimen77 owned no attributes beyond the common save an inordinate78 appetite for liquor and a Ballard rifle. He could drink more whisky than was the custom of Dodge; also, the Ballard attracted attention in a region where every fool used a Winchester and every wise man a Sharp’s. But neither the Tomcat’s capacity for strong drink nor yet his rifle could hold public curiosity for long, and within ten minutes after he strode into the Alhambra and called for his initial drink Dodge lost concern in him and turned to its own affairs.
The Tomcat, now he was in Dodge, seemed in little haste to search out Mr. Masterson. This was in no wise strange; for one thing his Shylock pony needed rest. Shylock had been put in Mr. Trask’s corral and, gorging79 on alfalfa, was bravely filling out the hollows of his flanks.
The Tomcat decided that he would abide80 in Dodge two days before sounding his warcry. Then, just as night was drawing, he would saddle up and hunt the obnoxious81 Mr. Masterson. Upon meeting that officer the Tomcat would shoot him down. His mission thus happily concluded, he would make a spurring rush Panhandleward. Once on the Canadian he need not fear for his safety.
Running the plan forward and back in what he called his mind, the Tomcat reflected on his coming glorious reward! His daring manhood should be the theme on every lip! He would be called no more the “Tomcat,” but gain rebaptism as the “Man who downed Bat Masterson!” The girls of the hurdy-gurdies would set his fame to music! Indeed, the Tomcat foresaw a gorgeous picture when, returning to his native heath, he should wear laurel as that stout82 one who, from the fame of Texas, had washed a stain away. These matters ran like a millrace in the vainglorious83 thoughts of the Tomcat as he loafed about the barrooms of Dodge waiting for Shylock to recuperate84 and the moment of murder to ripely arrive.
On occasion the Tomcat brushed by Mr. Masterson in the narrow walks of Dodge. But the Tomcat did not give his victim-to-be a look. There was a steadfastness85 in the stare of Mr. Masterson that was as disconcerting to the Tomcat as had been the flinty eye of Mr. Cook when the latter brought him to bay that evening in the arroya. Wherefore when they met, the Tomcat gazed up or down the street, but never once at Mr. Masterson, albeit86 there reposed87 beneath his belt the whiskey whose absence he lamented88 when he quailed89 before the overbearing Mr. Cook.
It was the day appointed by the virulent91 Tomcat for the downfall of Mr. Masterson. The Tomcat programmed the slaughter92 for that last moment when the setting sun should touch the hard, gray skyline. The Tomcat might want in mental depth, but he was clear concerning the value of night as a trail-coverer. Under the pressure of events to come, the Tomcat’s cunning had been so far promoted that he even thought of riding out of Dodge to the north after Mr. Masterson had been successfully obliterated93. Then, when it was dark, he could swing to the south; not along his trail, but his direction would be thus lost to whomsoever should pursue. A hot all-night ride should bring him to the Cimarron. There he would be out of Kansas and into the Indian Territory, Texas and celebration within easy fling. Now all this might have come to pass as the slender wisdom of the Tomcat schemed it had it not been for the unexpected.
It stood four for the hour with every honest clock in Dodge when the Tomcat, killing94 time, came into the Alhambra. There, among other attractions, he found a non-committal Mexican dealing95 monte.
The Tomcat cast a careless dollar on the queen, and lost. A second dollar vanished in pursuit of its predecessor96. At that the Tomcat, holding Mexicans in cheap esteem97, lifted up condemnatory98 voice.
Mr. Kelly, proprietor56 of the Alhambra, was present, dozing100 in a chair. The clamorous101 Tomcat aroused him with his uproar102. It struck Mr. Kelly that the extravagance of the Tomcat’s remark multiplied the insult it conveyed. Without ado Mr. Kelly arose and exhaustively “buffaloed” that individual.
When an offender104 is “buffaloed” he is buffeted105, shoved, choked, manhandled, and chucked into the street. Once on the sidewalk he is kicked until justice craves106 no more. In this instance the Tomcat was excessively “buffaloed,” and at the close of the ceremony crawled to the cheap hotel wherein he had pitched his camp, there to nurse his bruises107 and bind108 up his wounds.
No, every violator of Western ethics109 is not “buffaloed.” It is a method of reproof110 reserved for folk who are of slight estate. When one is known for the sandstone sort of his courage and the dignified111 accuracy of his gun, he is never “buffaloed.” By his achievements he has raised himself superior to such reprimand, just as a Sioux warrior112 may lift himself above the power of tribal113 judges to “soldier-kill” him for misdemeanors, by his prowess in the field. Only humble114 offenders115 are “buffaloed.” Those whose eminence116 forbids the ordeal117 may be shot instead. When one is too great to be “buffaloed” he is free to the gun of any man he injures. The law has abandoned him and his hand must keep his head. That the Tomcat was disgracefully “buffaloed” may be accepted as evidence that he had no respectful standing in Dodge.
As stated, after he had been “buffaloed” the Tomcat withdrew to cure his aches while Mr. Kelly modified his own fatigues118 with three fingers of an Old Jordan which he kept especially for himself. The Tomcat had been so deeply “buffaloed” that he did not move from his blankets for two days. Thereby the taking off of Mr. Masterson was deferred119. Indeed, the current of the Tomcat’s blood-desires found itself deflected120. When he again crept forth, his ambition to kill Mr. Masterson had been supplanted121 by a vengeful wish to murder Mr. Kelly.
No one should marvel122 at this. Mr. Masterson, according to the Tomcat, had injured only the Texas public. Mr. Kelly had come more nearly home with injuries personal to the limping Tomcat himself. All men prefer a private to a public interest. It was but nature moving when the wronged Tomcat, forgetting Mr. Masterson, for whose hair he had come so far, now gave himself heart and soul to how he might best spill the life of Mr. Kelly.
After mature study, when now he was again abroad, the Tomcat could devise nothing better than to pull up his pony in front of the Alhambra at the hour of eight in the evening and attempt, from the saddle, to pot Mr. Kelly with the Ballard. The Tomcat banged away with the Ballard all he knew, but the enterprise went astray in double fashion. The Tomcat missed Mr. Kelly by a wide foot; also, he killed a girl whose mission it had been to dance and sing in the Alhambra for public gratification.
Shylock jumped sidewise at the flash, and the Tomcat, whose seat in the saddle had not been strengthened by his troubles, was thrown upon his head. Before he might recover the Dodge populace had piled itself above him, and the Tomcat was taken captive by twenty hands at once. He would have been lynched, only Mr. Masterson charged into the press. With the Tomcat held fast in one fist Mr. Masterson drew his six-shooter with the other and established therewith a zone of safety. Since Mr. Wright, who acted as alcalde, was at leisure, Mr. Masterson haled the Tomcat instantly before him.
If one were writing fiction, one from this point would find open sailing. One would have nothing more difficult to do than empanel a jury, convict and swing off the Tomcat. In this relation, however, there opens no such gate of escape. One must record a temporary good fortune that fell to the share of the Tomcat.
The Tomcat, somewhat a-droop, was brought into the presence of Mr. Wright, alcalde. Before a word might be said, a fusillade of pistol shots split the evening into splinters at the far end of the street. Two gentlemen were disagreeing; the dispute, audible to all in Dodge, aroused the liveliest curiosity. There befell a general stampede, every man rushing towards the forum123 where debate was being waged.
So universal was that sentiment of curiosity that it even swept the careful Mr. Masterson from his official feet. He forgot for the nonce the Tomcat. He recovered himself only to learn that the Tomcat was gone. Our furtive one had slipped away in the hurly-burly, and since Shylock—who had been left saddled in the street—was also absent, the assumption obtained that the two had departed together and were already overhauling124 the distant Panhandle at the rate of fifteen miles the hour. Disgruntled by what he looked upon as his own gross neglect Mr. Masterson threw a hurried saddle onto the best horse in Dodge and flashed southward after the Tomcat.
Mr. Masterson was twenty minutes behind the hurrying Tomcat. Laid flat on the ground and measured, those twenty minutes, in the swallow-like instance of Shylock, would mean seven miles. Mr. Masterson cursed as he remembered this and considered how a stern chase is never a short chase. For all that Mr. Masterson was resolved, dead or alive, to have his man again.
“I’ll get him,” said Mr. Masterson, “if I have to swing and rattle53 with him from Dodge to the Rio Grande!”
Mr. Masterson had an advantage over the Tomcat. He knew the country as a beggar knows his dish. At the end of the first three miles he struck into a short cut to the left. His design was to outride the Tomcat and cut him off at the ford of the Medicine Lodge125.
Once in the side trail Mr. Masterson, like a good rider, disposed himself in the saddle so as to save his horse; the latter—big and rangy—uncoupled into that long, swinging gallop126 which carries the farthest because it is the easiest of gaits.
“It is the foxy thing to head this party off,” communed Mr. Masterson as he swept along. “Once I’m in his front he ought to be sure. A flying man never looks ahead.”
The white alkali trail spoke hard and loud beneath the horse’s hoof-irons. There was a veil of cloud across the face of the sky. Then the west wind put it aside and the moon and the big stars looked down. A coyote punctuated127 the stillness with its staccato song. A jackrabbit jumped up and went bustling128 ahead, never leaving the paper-white streak of trail that seemed to fascinate it. At last, breath gone and wholly pumped, it had just instinctive129 sense enough to wabble a yard to one side and escape being run down by the galloping130 horse. A band of antelope131 brushed across in front like startled shadows. Mr. Masterson was not to be engaged by these earmarks of the hour and place; he must reach the Medicine Lodge in advance of the Tomcat. Lifting his horse to the work Mr. Masterson coaxed132 it through trail-devouring hours. Then there came an interference.
It was midnight by the shining word of the moon when a low roaring, distant and muffled133, like the beat of a million drums, broke on Mr. Masterson. It was up the wind and from the west.
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Masterson aloud, and he pulled up his horse to listen. “It’s a good ways off as yet,” he continued. “It must be a hummer to send its word so far.” Then, patting his horse’s neck: “My sympathies will be all with you, old boy, when it reaches us.”
Over in the northwest a cloud came suddenly up with the swiftness of a drawn curtain. One by one it shut out like a screen the stars and the moon. Mr. Masterson was on the ground in the puff134 of an instant.
“It’ll detain him as much as it does me,” thought Mr. Masterson, whose mind ran always on his quarry135.
Mr. Masterson took a pair of hopples from the saddle and fastened the fore8 fetlocks of his horse. Then he stripped off the saddle.
“I’ll leave you the blanket,” remarked Mr. Masterson, “but I’m going to need the saddle for myself.”
Mr. Masterson crouched136 upon the ground, making the saddle a roof to cover his head, the skirts held tight about his shoulders by the girths. The roar grew until from a million drums it improved to be a million flails137 on as many threshing-floors. Mr. Masterson clawed the saddleskirts tight as with a swish and a swirl138 the hailstorm was upon him. The round hailstones beat upon the saddle like buckshot. They leaped and bounded along the ground. They showed of a size and hardness to compare with those toys meant for children’s games.
Saved by the saddle, Mr. Masterson came through without a mark. His horse, with nothing more defensive139 than a square of saddle-blanket, had no such luck. Above the drumming of the hailstones Mr. Masterson might hear that unfortunate animal as, torn by mixed emotions of pain, amazement140 and indignation, it bucked141 about the scene in a manner that would have done infinite grace to a circus. A best feature of the hailstorm was that it did not last five minutes; it passed to the south and east, and its mutterings grew fainter and more faint with every moment.
The storm over, Mr. Masterson caught up his horse, which seemed much subdued142 of spirit by what it had gone through. As gently as might be—to humour the bruises—he recinched the heavy saddle in its place.
“Better keep you moving now, old boy,” quoth Mr. Masterson, “it’ll take the soreness out. You needn’t shout about it,” he concluded, as the sorely battered143 horse gave a squeal144 of pain; “a hailstone isn’t a bullet, and it might have been worse, you know.”
Again Mr. Masterson stretched southward, and again the moon and stars came out to light the way. The storm had drawn forth the acrid145 earth-smells that sleep in the grass-roots on the plains. To mix with these, it brought a breath from the pine-sown Rockies four hundred miles away. These are the odours which soak into a man and make him forever of the West.
It was broad day when Mr. Masterson rode down to the lonely ford of the Medicine Lodge. He sighed with relief as his hawk-eye showed him how no one had passed since the storm.
“I’m in luck!” said he.
Mr. Masterson hoppled his horse and set that tired animal to feed among the fresh green of the bottom. Then he unslung a pair of field-glasses, which he wore for the good of his office, and sent a backward glance along the trail. Rod by rod he picked it up for miles. There was no one in sight; he had come in ample time.
Then Mr. Masterson began to wish he had something to eat. He might have found a turkey in the brush-clumps along the Medicine Lodge. He might have risked the noise of a shot, being so far ahead. But Mr. Masterson did not care to eat a turkey raw and he dared not chance a smoke; the Tomcat would have read the sign for miles and crept aside. Mr. Masterson drew his belt tighter by a hole and thought on other things than breakfast. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had missed a meal, and with that thought he consoled himself. It is an empty form of consolation147, as one who tries may tell.
“If there’s anything I despise, it’s hunger,” said Mr. Masterson. He was a desperate fork at table.
Mr. Masterson lay out of view and kept his glasses on a strip five miles away, where the trail ribboned over a swell148. There, in the end, he found what he sought; he made out the Tomcat, a bobbing speck149 in the distance.
Mr. Masterson put aside his glasses and planted himself where he would do the most good. While concealed150 he still commanded the approach to the ford. To give his presence weight Mr. Masterson had his sixteen-pound buffalo103 gun.
“As I remember this party,” soliloquised Mr. Masterson, “I don’t reckon now he’s got sense enough to surrender when he’s told. And when I think of that little lady dead in Dodge I don’t feel like taking many chances. I’ll hail him, and if he hesitates, the risk is his.”
Thirty minutes had come and gone since Mr. Masterson, through his glasses, followed the Tomcat down the far-off slope. Shylock, staunch as whalebone though he was, had found the clip a killer151. He was not covering ground as in the beginning. There they were at last, the weary pony and the hunted man, both showing the wear and tear of pace.
Ballard ready on his hip152, the Tomcat, giving a nervous over-shoulder look, brought Shylock to a walk. The broken pony came stumbling down to the ford. Mr. Masterson, with his mighty153 buffalo gun, aroused himself for official business.
“drop that rifle!” said Mr. Masterson.
It was like a bolt from the blue to the spent and shaken Tomcat. He caught his breath in a startled way. Then, despair standing in the stead of courage, he tossed the Ballard into his left hand and fired, point-blank, at Mr. Masterson’s face where it showed above the bank. The bullet tossed the dust a yard to the left. Mixed bloods and Indians at their best are but poor hands with a rifle, and the Tomcat was at his worst.
With the crack of the Ballard came the bellow154 of the Sharp’s. The great bullet, which would have torn its way through the vitals of a buffalo-bull at eight hundred yards, brought the Tomcat whirling from the saddle like a stricken wild duck. What with sheer weariness and an inadvertent yank at the Spanish bits as the Tomcat went overboard, poor Shylock crossed his tired forelegs, tripped, blundered, and fell. He came down on the Tomcat; in the scramble155 to get to his feet Shylock fell upon the Tomcat again.
Mr. Masterson slipped another cartridge156 into the buffalo gun. Then he warily157 approached the Tomcat, muzzle to the fore, finger on the trigger. A dying man will sometimes pull a six-shooter with the last flicker158 of his failing strength, and snatch a vengeance as he quits the earth.
Mr. Masterson seized the Tomcat by the shoulders and dragged him from under Shylock—still heaving and plunging159 to regain160 his feet. There was no call for a second look; the experienced Mr. Masterson could tell by the ash-colour struggling through the brown that the death-draw was on the Tomcat at the very moment.
The Tomcat, hiccoughing and bleeding, lay on the short stiff grass and rolled a hateful eye on his executioner. Mr. Masterson, thinking on the girl who died in Dodge, gave back a look as hateful. And this, in the midst of the lonesome plains, is what these two spoke to one another—these, the slayer161 and the slain, to show how bald is truth!
“You blank-blanked-blankety-blank! you ought to have made a better shot than that!” said the Tomcat. “Well, you blank-blanked murderer, I did the best I could,” said Mr. Masterson.
Mr. Masterson, as he walked his horse over the hill upon which he had first beheld162 the coming of the Tomcat, halted and looked back. Shylock of the empty saddle nosed up to Mr. Masterson’s horse in a friendly way. Five miles to the south, on the banks of the Medicine Lodge, a raven10 wheeled and stooped. Away to the west a coyote yelped163; another yelped an answer, and then another. Mr. Masterson shrugged164 his wide shoulders. The coyote by daylight makes gruesome melody.
“The ground was too hard to dig a grave,” said Mr. Masterson, as he turned his horse’s head again towards Dodge, “even if I’d had the tools. Besides, I wasn’t elected undertaker, but sheriff.”
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1
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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2
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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4
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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6
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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8
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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9
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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10
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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12
wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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14
scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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15
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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16
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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17
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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18
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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19
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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20
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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21
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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22
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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23
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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24
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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25
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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26
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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27
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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28
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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29
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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30
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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31
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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32
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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33
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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34
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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35
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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36
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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37
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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38
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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39
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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40
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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41
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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42
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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43
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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44
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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45
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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46
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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47
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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48
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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49
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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50
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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51
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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52
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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53
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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54
steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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55
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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56
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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57
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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58
ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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59
lariat
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| n.系绳，套索；v.用套索套捕 | |
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60
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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61
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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62
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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63
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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64
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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65
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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66
choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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67
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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68
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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69
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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70
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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71
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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72
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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73
recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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74
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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75
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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76
plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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77
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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78
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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79
gorging
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的现在分词 )；作呕 | |
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80
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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81
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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83
vainglorious
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| adj.自负的；夸大的 | |
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84
recuperate
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| v.恢复 | |
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85
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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86
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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87
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
gritted
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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91
virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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92
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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93
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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94
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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95
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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96
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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97
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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98
condemnatory
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| adj. 非难的，处罚的 | |
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99
depleted
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| adj. 枯竭的, 废弃的 动词deplete的过去式和过去分词 | |
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100
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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101
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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102
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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103
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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104
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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105
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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106
craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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107
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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108
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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109
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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110
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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111
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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112
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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113
tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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114
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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115
offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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116
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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117
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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118
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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119
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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120
deflected
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| 偏离的 | |
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121
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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123
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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124
overhauling
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| n.大修；拆修；卸修；翻修v.彻底检查( overhaul的现在分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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125
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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126
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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127
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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128
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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129
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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130
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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131
antelope
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| n.羚羊；羚羊皮 | |
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132
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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133
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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134
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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135
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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136
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
flails
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| v.鞭打( flail的第三人称单数 )；用连枷脱粒；（臂或腿）无法控制地乱动；扫雷坦克 | |
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138
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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140
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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141
bucked
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| adj.快v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的过去式和过去分词 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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142
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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143
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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144
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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145
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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146
ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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147
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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148
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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149
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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150
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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151
killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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152
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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153
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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154
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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155
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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156
cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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157
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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158
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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159
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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160
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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161
slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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162
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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163
yelped
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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