THE REVENGE OF FLORIDA JACK

FLORIDA JACK WAS A SORT THE WEST SELDOM KNEW AND NEVER WANTED TO KNOW. BUT FLORIDA JACK KNEW HOW TO MAKE TROUBLE—TROUBLE THAT MADE GUN-FLAMING HISTORY THAT DAY IN WOOLVILLE’S DUSTY STREET

Every man in the yard knew the sky was about to fall on Florida Jack. Even Florida Jack, coming up the trail to the ranch-house, must have known it, for Jim Kitchin’s feet were planted athwart the trail and his great kettle-like head rolled slowly around the axis of his huge neck as if accenting the fury that blazed out of his eyes. One of Jim Kitchin’s immense fists—a fist large enough to maul a steer, folks of the county maintained—gripped the loose neck skin of a sheep dog, the other was jammed in a pocket. And never for an instant did his attention stray from the advancing herder. The half-dozen men of the place draped themselves around the yard with a studied carelessness, lids narrowing, and wondered just how hard the big boss would hit Florida Jack.

It was a scene worth remembering; the later recounting of it in Woolville would be certain to draw an audience, for Jim Kitchin was a figure of importance and Jim Kitchin loved to be at peace with his fellows, loved to laugh at the world. The thunder of his glee, it had often been said, was so powerful that the furthermost sheep on his range laid down its ears and stopped browsing. A huge, rollicking creature he was, who treasured a practical joke and who, even in the fist fights of his earlier days, could never bring himself to punish a man after he had delivered the first few stunning blows. Yet there he was, boiling mad.

Nor did he delay. As Florida Jack opened and came inside the ranch gate, Jim Kitchin jerked his free fist forward, stabbing at the herder. His first words fell on the man with all the force of a black snake whip.

“You gimlet-eyed, halfbreed galoot, yo’re fired! After you walk down this trail don’t you never set another foot on my land or I’ll wring you like a dishrag.”

Florida Jack stopped. His dusky eyes ventured a single glance at the big boss and slid evasively away. Some expression flared and subsided on his lank, copper-colored face. And thus he stood, a saturnine, shambling figure shifting from one foot to another as if the weight of his body hurt him; he was the image of indolence and instability. The very sight of him was enough to waken distrust, an emotion sure to be strengthened from the manner he constantly twitched his thin nose and snapped the muscles of his jaws.

“What yuh talkin’ at me thataway fer?” he inquired, his words soft and slurring. “Did yuh hail me in clear from the herd just to gimme a sassin’?”

Jim Kitchin nodded toward the dog. “What you been doin’ to this here animal, you slab-faced trout?”

Florida Jack looked at both man and dog from the corner of his eyes, much in the manner of a vicious horse. “Nuthin’,” he grumbled.

“Nothin’? Hell, you know better’n that! Look at the welts acrost his back! Look at the tooth you busted outa his jaw! You son-of-a-jackass, don’t stand there an’ tell me you didn’t do nothin’. A week ago when he come lopin’ home with his tongue hangin’ out I figgered mebbe he was turnin’ bad. But I ships him back to you for another trial. Here he turns up this mornin’ lookin’ like what’s left of a hamburger steak. You doggone fool, I got a notion to lick you!”

It seemed further to arouse Jim Kitchin’s anger. He hated cruelty with all his jovial soul; and here was evidence of extreme brutality right under his big paw.

“He’s ornery,” said Florida Jack. “He wouldn’t mind my orders. He ain’t no account. He’s bull-headed.”

“You lie,” snorted Jim Kitchin. “I trained this dog. He worked fine with every herder in my outfit—nary a complaint. If he don’t work with you it’s because he knows yore blood’s rotten! Listen, peon; I took you because I was short on herders. But I know yore kind and I don’t like it, none whatsoever. Ain’t harborin’ no blackhearts. You git to hell outa here! Sudden, see? Draw yore money in town.”

The verbal lashing stung Florida Jack. He attempted his first direct look at Kitchin, the yellow anger churning up. “Don’t take it han’some to be laid on like that. That damn dog made me mad, understand? I don’t allow no animal to be smart with me.”

Jim Kitchin released the dog and rolled along the trail until he stood within arm’s reach of the herder. He didn’t lift his hands, but such was the expression of his face that Florida Jack’s right arm began to slip inside his coat. Jim Kitchin grinned ironically. “Don’t draw no steel on me, you yellow belly or I’m apt to squash you. Any man which mistreats his best friend—and that’s a herder’s dog—ain’t got no call on anybody’s respect. Now, light outa here before I tear the hide offen yore carcass.”

The assembled spectators were both astonished and disappointed at Jim Kitchin’s restraint. Florida Jack, studying the big one through half-closed lids, thought he had scared the man with his motion. It made him a little contemptuous; he spat on the ground, swung about and delivered a last phrase. “To hell with yore ranch, yore dog an’ yore woollies. Never did like this cheap John outfit, anyhow.”

Jim Kitchin had blown the steam out of his system and the words amused him. He chuckled and trudged back toward the house, hearing one of the men speak.

“Why didn’t yuh belt him acrost his greasy smeller?”

“Naw,” said Jim Kitchin. “I ain’t got no call to go bullyin’ with my strength. Mebbe I was a leetle harsh, but it’s only a skunk which’ll lam a dog. Reckon I’ll put a little arnica on the mutt’s hide. It shore does look tough.”

Florida Jack went down the trail with big Jim’s chuckle in his ears.

It was like his kind not to show anger where it would be dangerous; but now that he was out of Kitchin’s sight he gave free play to his temper, kicking at the stones, cursing the sky, the fence, Jim Kitchin, vilifying everything that occurred to him. Also, like his kind, he was as proud as he was shiftless and the farther he walked the more did his secretive sullen nature feed upon its injuries. Each mile magnified the force of Jim Kitchin’s violent epithets; he recalled the faces of the men who had stood about and listened to his humiliation and he was well aware that they would spread the tale until it was common knowledge throughout the sheep range. Everywhere he might go, they would be remembering what Jim Kitchin had said; and in their hearts they would be laughing.

Thus he reasoned as he shambled along. Reasoned rightly, too, for many men disliked Florida Jack for many different reasons. The effect of it was to inflame Florida Jack beyond reason. He took to swinging his arms back and forth; his eyes grew bloodshot and his tapering jaw worked spasmodically. From time to time he opened his mouth to display a row of white teeth and to say, “Ah, the man says I ain’t nuthin’ but a breed, a no-good breed. Jus’ another crazy sheepherder.”

Florida Jack had met that ridicule often, and always it enraged him. He did not understand wholly the attitude of the country toward his kind. All mixed breeds were not shiftless and tricky; all sheepherders were not queer. This was the matured opinion of the land. But it well knew that some breeds, like Florida Jack, were very bad; it also knew that the nature of herding attracted some unique types and upon these the long and lonely vigil acted almost like a poison. It had seen men very much like Florida Jack, muttering queer things along the bench, sharpening their knives by the night fire and eventually coming out stark mad. Therefore it avoided all Florida Jacks as much as possible.

And this Florida Jack fulfilled their suspicions to the last degree. By the time he reached Woolville he was a murderer at heart; the light of it was in his eyes and the purpose of it in his knife hand. Still, he was sly and already he had struck upon a method of revenge that would appease his burning hatred of Jim Kitchin and yet leave no telltale mark at his door.

It was quite after dark when he entered town. He ate at the restaurant, lit a cigarette and for the better part of a half hour lounged on a street corner concealed in the shadows and watched men drift by. He seemed to be busy studying them; some he spent no more than a glance on. Others he watched until they had disappeared into the saloon doors or rode away. But there came a figure presently that entered the Fannie Bell with a rolling step and a shrewd, twinkling face. On seeing him, Florida Jack dropped his cigarette and followed.

He was shiftless, worthless, this Florida Jack; but when his passions were touched he had all the cunning of a stalking animal. His man stood at the bar, but Florida Jack took his time in approaching. He watched a poker game, idled over to a session of a game of “twenty-one,” and then, in the course of his wanderings, arrived likewise at the bar, beside the one he had followed. And when Florida Jack named his drink in a soft, slurring voice the man swung about and grunted:

“Hell, where you been, Florida? Ain’t seen you long time.”

“Howdy, Slim. Me? Oh, I been herdin’ fer Jim Kitchin.”

“Ol’ Big Jim, eh? That white-haired grizzly. Well, how’s tricks over there?”

It was noticeable that Slim did not offer to treat Florida Jack. It was a matter of caste with Slim. Florida was only a passing acquaintance and his greeting had been entirely casual, entirely without warmth. Florida Jack understood this very well and his resentment glowed. But he drank his whisky and wiped his mouth before answering the question. Then his glance slid across Slim’s face and one lid dropped suggestively. “Oh, good enough.”

He had judged his man correctly. Slim’s attention was arrested by the air of mystery. He shoved himself closer. “Huh?”

Florida Jack muttered, “It ain’t none of my business, Slim. I’d oughta keep my trap shut, see? But if you hear about a bust of gunplay any time now, jus’ remember I winked my eye.”

“Get out. Listen, have a drink. Now was you namin’ names, amigo? What’s itchin’ Jim Kitchin?”

Florida Jack refused the treat, turning away. “He’s heard a certain party’s been sayin’ things about him. Yunnow. Talkin’ about certain crookedness back in the early day. See?”

“Fightin’ talk, eh?” murmured Slim. Light flared in his shrewd eyes. Here was something to think about during the long rides across country, something he could darkly hint to others. Feud—the one electrical impulse that would stir a country from end to end overnight. He bent still closer. “Did you mention a name, Florida?”

“Why should I?” parried Florida, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve said too damn much now. Listen, you ain’t heard me say a word, Slim. It’s none of my business an’ I’m like to get my head shot off if Big Jim sh’d hear. He’d natcherly deny anything. You ain’t heard me say a word, understan’?”

“Shore, shore. Nary a word,” agreed Slim. And Florida Jack knew Slim had, by those few words, bound himself to silence. It was a matter of code. So he started off; but he swung about swiftly and leaned very near the man, whispering a name.

“Belisarius Tuggs.”

That was all; but it was enough. He went out of the place hurriedly, as if afraid of what he had disclosed. Once outside he took a position and again watched the men drifting by. Twice again that evening he repeated this same ceremony in different saloons, varying the manner of his tale according to the temper and character of the men he approached. After that he left town and made his camp beside a near-by creek, not wishing to be seen.

The hints he had dropped were pure lies. Jim Kitchin had no feuds; he had never heard that Belisarius Tuggs was passing remarks about his character. It made no difference. Florida Jack was creating the machinery of his revenge. He meant to establish a feud between these two men, a feud that would result in gunplay and the death of his former boss. And he had chosen Belisarius Tuggs to be the second man in the affair for several good reasons, the first of which was that Tuggs had the reputation of being the deadliest shot in the country.

As for himself, Florida Jack was out of that affair. In each of the three instances he had asked that his own name be withheld; and he knew enough of the country’s ethics to understand that pledge would be well kept. None of the three men was an intimate of Tuggs. He had taken care not to go too near the principals of the plot. But these three would spread this yarn quietly from friend to friend and in time it would reach some one who was close to Tuggs. Then Tuggs would hear it. He would be warned, not once but perhaps from several sources; it would come at him from different directions and with each warning the thing would be stronger, more definite. Florida Jack’s few dark hints would grow and amplify as they passed from mouth to mouth, obtain veracity and reach the dignity of a challenge. By that time the original spreaders of the tale would be forgotten.

The halfbreed stuck to his camp for three days, warming himself with the ever-glowing embers of his anger, nursing them, constantly reviewing the scene of his humiliation. Meanwhile, he knew the story had gone abroad and on the morning of the fourth day he judged it was time for him to stir the pot again. So he started away into the hills, traveling in a direction that took him something like ten miles from Jim Kitchin’s place. It brought him to the very ceiling of the county; into a country bare and rugged along the major part of its surface, but here and there spreading out in a natural meadow or falling into a stand of pines.

About evening he rounded the trail and found himself before a small shanty. It seemed deserted; but he had not arrived within a hundred yards of it when an extraordinarily tall man ducked through the open door and stood watching for him. As he got closer he saw the grim, gaunt face of Belisarius Tuggs; and though Florida Jack was never a man endowed with outright courage—for all he knew his scheming might be leading him straight into a trap—he experienced a quick, vicious pleasure at the certain knowledge that this mountaineer could put a ball through Jim Kitchin before the latter could so much as reach his gun.

He stopped ten yards off, waiting. Belisarius Tuggs studied him through and through before announcing in a grave manner, “Whar y’ from?”

“Woolville,” said Florida Jack. “Hittin’ acrost the hump fer Two Pass. Guess I’ll have to hit right along or I’ll never make it by dark.”

Tuggs seemed to weigh each word and decided upon their truth. “Sheepherder?”

“Uhuh.”

“Well, y’ kin drag a chair to my table, friend. Never want to see a herder go ’thout a meal. But you ought to git plenty to do over this side, ’thout havin’ to walk down Two Pass way.”

“Oh, I been workin’ a-plenty,” said Florida Jack. “Jus’ wanted a change of scenery. Herded a long time fer Jim Kitchin.”

“Then,” grunted Tuggs, “you ain’t welcome around my place. I’ll feed no Kitchin man.”

“Hell,” said Florida Jack, “don’t judge me by him. I seen a-plenty and I’ve heard a-plenty.”

“I guess you have, feller. When a man goes to spreadin’ false words agin another, like he’s doin’, it must be ’cause he’s lookin’ for a fight. He’ll shore git one, if he’s so minded.”

Florida Jack grinned. “Well, he’s a great hand to want more land. Mebbe he’s aimin’ to run yuh off an’ take yores.”

Tuggs spat on the ground and hooked a long arm inside the door. It reappeared with a rifle. “If it’s fight Jim Kitchin hones fer, let him come. He may be a big mogul, but he won’t git my six-forty.”

His hazel eyes darkened as he looked upon Florida Jack and he seemed to feel the same distrust that all men felt when they saw the halfbreed. “Mebbe yo’re agin Jim Kitchin an’ mebbe you ain’t. If yo’re a spy, you go tell him what I said. Now go along an’ don’t come back, or I’m apt to take a shot at yuh.”

Florida Jack studied the gun for a moment, making note of its kind and calibre. Then he shrugged his shoulders and continued up the trail. Out of the corner of his eyes he swept the house, the adjacent barn and the wire fence inclosing a part of the field. Presently he was down-grade and out of sight, grinning maliciously. “Well, he’s been warned all right. Now the news’ll go back to Jim Kitchin.”

He had chosen well. Belisarius Tuggs was Tennessee born and understood something about feuds. The warning which had been passed along to him had all the earmarks of an affair trumped up for some ulterior motive. Since he had not said the words which Jim Kitchin had attributed to him, it must be that Kitchin was manufacturing trouble to overrun his place and put him out of the way. He had said as much to Florida Jack, which was just the reasoning Florida Jack wanted him to adopt.

Now the same willing couriers of suspicion would spread the fact that Belisarius Tuggs was waiting for Jim Kitchin. And the jovial ranchman would receive it from his friends. Florida Jack, cunning in the ways of words and men, was seeing the prospective duel right before him. And once the two men met nothing could keep Kitchin from being killed.

Of course it was still possible for Belisarius to take his gun, ride over to Kitchin’s and explain he had never harbored ill feeling or spoken the words he was supposed to have said. But Florida Jack knew Tuggs would do no such thing. The Tennessean would not willingly enter enemy territory; since he believed Kitchin had created the whole thing out of spite he would fall into no traps, but wait and meet the issue halfway.

As for Kitchin, he would roar his amusement; then he would grow sober at the thought of the garbled tale coming through the air. But for him to visit Tuggs and try to clear away the trouble would be a confession of fear, a lowering of himself in the eyes of the whole country. First and foremost he was a Westerner. He would accept the situation, shoot it out and do his explaining later.

All this Florida Jack knew. He didn’t reason the matter, for his head was not built for reasoning. Inside that narrow sloping cranium was nothing but ignorance, fear and hate. And animal cunning. Instinctively he understood. The time for reconciliation would soon be past, even if the principals involved wished to be peaceful, which was doubtful considering Tuggs’ suspicions. In another twenty-four hours the whole country would expect a duel as the only proper solution and if either of the two men wished to retain the respect of their friends and the whole region in general they could not back out. And in that twenty-four hours Florida Jack expected to add fuel to the fire.

One incident transpired as he was trudging into Two Pass Valley which he had not expected. It was dusk and as he entered a stand of pine he heard the thudding of hoofs. A rider reined in right before him and leaned down in the saddle. Florida Jack, not knowing the man, felt a fresh recoiling of nerves, a quick fear. But it passed as the fellow spoke.

“Hoofin’ it over the hill?”

“Uhuh. How far to town?”

“Six miles, friend. Come by Tuggs’ place?”

“I saw him.”

The rider’s countenance freshened with interest. “What was the old geezer doin’?”

Florida Jack groped for words. Something barbed. Something that would spread like fire in dry pine tops.

“He was a-polishing his gun fit to kill,” said Florida.

“The hell!” murmured the rider, straightening. “Well, ain’t that excitin’? I guess it’s shore enough, then.”