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If he gets word of the shootin' while he's out there, he'll just up and cut across the hills to Criswell a-smokin'. But if he gets this far back he's like to come through Jason and I can cool him down, mebby." "He ought to know; if his father is " "That's just it. But I'm thinkin' of the boy. Jim Waring's lived a big chunk of his life. But they ain't no use of the kid gettin' shot up.
Jan. 22, Bought about 70 gallons of rum. Got fine oysters there. Feb. 12. Went on board the New England man and bought some pots, axes and mackerel. Feb. 22. Drew the seine and got 125 fine rock and some shad. July 14. Drew the seine today and got some fine rock. Feb. 9, 1760. Went with my wife and Mr. Criswell to draw the seine. We met in Eyck's Creek a school of rock brought up 260.
Their evident haste caused Ramon to note their passing with some interest. Yet they had thundered past him so fast, and in such a cloud of dust, that he could not see them clearly. Waring, gaunt as a wolf, unshaven, his hat rimmed with white dust, pulled up in front of the weathered saloon in the town of Criswell on the edge of the desert. He dismounted and stepped round the hitching-rail.
They arrived in Criswell that evening, and were directed to the marshal's house, where Ramon met them. "How's Jim?" was Shoop's immediate query. "The Señor Jim is like one who sleeps," said Ramon. Mrs. Adams grasped Shoop's arm. "He wakens only when the doctor is come. He has spoken your name, señora."
His position as supervisor made him automatically a deputy sheriff. But had he been nothing more than a citizen homesteader, his aim would have been quite as sincere. It was nearly daylight when they arrived at The Junction. Shoop accompanied Mrs. Adams to a hotel. After breakfast he went out to get a buck-board and team. Criswell was not on the line of the railroad.
"He isn't bothering. I know what he wants." And she ran to the kitchen. Shoop's face grew grave. "I didn't want to scare the little lady, Bronson, but Lorry's father Jim Waring has been shot up bad over to Criswell. He went in after that Brewster outfit that killed Pat. I reckon he got 'em but I ain't heard." "Adams's father!" "Yes, Jim Waring. Here comes the little missy. I'll tell you later.
"You got everything off of me but my watch," laughed Bud. "I reckon you'll let me keep that?" "Is it a good watch?" she asked, and her eyes sparkled with a great idea. "Tol'able. Cost a dollar. I lost my old watch in Criswell. I reckon the city marshal got it when I wa'n't lookin'." "Well, you may keep it for a while yet. When are you coming up to visit us?" "Just as soon as I can, missy.
A pathway of lamplight floated out and across the main street of Criswell. A solitary figure lounged at the saloon bar. The sharp barking of a dog broke the desert silence. The lounger gazed at the path of lamplight which framed the bare hitching-rail. His companions of the afternoon had departed to their homes. Again the dog barked shrilly.
The closing line, in fact, of "Bride of the Monster". Woodian dialog had become part of Tom's internal clock. "Why didn't you say anything?" "I had to give Neoldner a hand threading 'Plan 9', and I forgot all about it. Sorry!" Tom heard Criswell begin his parting words, figured to hell with it, and abandoned his post in order to use the phone in the employee's lounge.
"So you pinched Jim's gun, eh? And when he couldn't lift a finger or say a word to stop you. Do you want to know what would happen if you was to try to get a holt of said gun if Jim Waring was on his two feet? Well, Jim Waring would pull said trigger, and Criswell would bury said city marshal." "The law is the law. This town's payin' me to do my duty, and I'm goin' to do it."
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