"If yuh want to see somethin' rich, ripe, and rare," proclaimed Steve Steers, bursting into Grogan's, "come over to the courthouse."
This being on a Saturday afternoon, Grogan's was crowded and lively. The gentlemen to whom Steve addressed his remarks—Denver, Steele, and the Englishman—were considering the state of the nation at one corner of the bar, a bottle conveniently disposed at their elbows.
"Nothing less than murder could interest anybody in Yellow Hill these days," replied Cal Steele amiably. "Have a drink and forget your sorrows."
"It's Fleabite Wilgus and his hoss," said Steve.
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" drawled Denver. By common consent the four of them grouped together and left the saloon. Just outside all stepped aside and lifted their hats. Lola Monterey walked past with a red parasol bobbing over her jet hair; and her eyes, smiling impartially on them, came to temporary rest on Dave.
"Supper at five, David."
He grinned. "I'll be there, Lola."
She passed on, and the men cut over to the courthouse, Cal Steele grumbling. "How do you rate that, Mister Denver? Seems to me the wicked have all the fun. Going to the dance?"
"Never heard about it."
"You will," prophesied Cal Steele. "It's next week at the Copperhead school. Figure out which woman you're takin' so I can ask the other."
They walked through the courthouse door and turned into the judge's chamber, half filled with spectators. Crowding against the wall, they saw Fleabite Wilgus leap to his feet and interrupt a line of legal palaver. "I'm dummed if I make head er tail to this. The true facts is, that's my horse and I mean to have it."
"Keep your pants on," admonished John Coke, judge of Sundown's justice court. "You're paying attorney fees to Langdell, so let him do the talking. Now, Tuggs..."
Tuggs was an unhappy and impoverished appearing little man past the prime of life. He moved his warped and calloused hands rather helplessly around. "Well, they ain't much more to it, Judge. I come to town and let my rig stand. When I walked outa the New York Store Wilgus had unhitched my hoss and was leadin' him away."
"My horse," said Wilgus in a subterranean mutter.
Tuggs swallowed and said nothing. Niland, who was representing him, said, "All right, Tuggs. Go on. What then?"
"Well, I walks up to Wilgus and I says, 'Fleabite, you got no call to monkey with other people's proputty that away. Gimme my hoss.' I took holt of the headstall. Fleabite says, 'Git away, it's my hoss!' Fleabite then belts me in the face and takes the hoss away. So I had him arrested."
"A pretty pass," fumed Fleabite Wilgus, "when a skinny, no- account runt like him can arrest a man able to buy him out ten thousand times over. Ain't there no decent respeck fer social standin' in this here community?"
Langdell frowned at his client and said, "Shush, you ain't helpin' yourself." Facing the judge, he added, "Why carry it on? Wilgus will admit he struck Tuggs and take the fine. In so far as the horse is concerned, that's another case. If Tuggs will not admit the animal to be Wilgus's horse, then we will start replevin proceedings."
The judge leaned forward and nodded at Wilgus. "What makes you think this to be your horse?"
Wilgus got up, a shambling, ragged man for all his wealth in land and cattle. All about him was the air of narrow sharpness. He spoke in a falsetto whine. "Well, they ain't nothin' to it. I missed that horse four years ago and never heard of him since till this mornin' when I saw Tuggs come to town. I spoke to Tuggs about it, but he wouldn't give me no satisfaction. I will admit bein' a little hasty, but it's my horse."
"Wait a minute," interposed Niland. "You missed that horse four years ago? Now you run a pretty big horse ranch. How many of the brutes have passed through your hands in those four years?"
"Couldn't say," mumbled Wilgus evasively. "Mebbe three-four thousand."
"And you maintain you recognized this particular horse out of four thousand, over an interval of four years?"
"Sure," said Wilgus. "I never forgot a horse's face. Anyhow, that was a particular horse. Sentiment attached to it. I nourished that horse, I loved him like a pet."
Denver leaned near the Englishman, chuckling. "He'd sell his grandmother down the river. Sentiment—shucks."
"What's all this got to do with an assault and battery case?" protested Langdell. "Let's have the fine. We'll go into the other matter later."
"I'm interested," said his honor. "I know Wilgus, I know Tuggs, and I have recollections of the horse. This being a court of first resort I consider it no less than my duty to go so far afield as necessary in any case to prevent subsequent litigation. Why should we embrace the thought of replevin when a simple face- to-face parley might do away with such action? Tuggs, you maintain it is your horse. Where did you get it?"
"I bought it from a trader," said Tuggs. "He ain't in the country any more. That was two years ago. Maybe he's got a Wilgus brand. Most hosses around here have. But he's got other brands likewise. I paid money for the beast. He's mine."
"Hm," said the judge. "Sheriff, bring in the horse."
"Oh, now," protested Langdell, "he'll kick hell out of the furniture."
The judge considered the objection briefly and ruled it out. "Speaking from personal recollection of Tuggs's horse I would say that if the beast is able to kick hell out of this court's furniture, then he is not the horse I think he is. Bring him in, Ortez."
Ortez, the sheriff, departed. In a little while the courtroom heard a hollow, stumbling clatter, followed by the sheriffs pleading voice. "Come on, boy, this ain't goin' to be hard. Listen, you condemned lost soul, hold up yore head! Yeah, now lift yore foot. Quit leanin' on me—yore supposed to be the horse, not me! Well, I know yore tired, but what the hell am I to do about it? Henry—Henry, for God's sake come over here and get this damned brute off my chest!"
Presently Ortez came perspiring into the chamber, dragging a long rope. Next in order was Henry, also hauling on the rope. And finally Tuggs's horse limped through the door. Undoubtedly he was a tired horse. Planting his feet wide apart he rolled his jaded eyes and fetched a dismal groan. He was a wrinkled horse, a sway- backed horse, a horse that embodied every disgraceful thing a horse should not be. His ears flopped limply, his knees interfered, and his lips quivered as if he were about to burst out crying. Practically the only sign of life he displayed to the incredulous courtroom was to sway toward the wall with the presumable intent of leaning against it. Ortez warned the court glumly.
"If you want any testimony from this horse yuh better take it quick. I got to git him out of here afore he dies on me."
"That brings up a debatable point of fact," reflected Niland. "Is he a horse?"
"Well," grunted Ortez, "they's horses and they's horses. This is still another kind of horse."
"He must have been born old," added Niland. "Makes me tired to look at him."
"If he were able to sit," said the court, "I'd offer him a chair. Tuggs, is this the animal you use as a beast of burden?"
"Well, he's all right," muttered Tuggs. "When I got him hitched to a load on a level stretch I can ride in the wagon too. Of course, I have to favor him a little. When we hit a mite of a grade I walk. If the grade gets steep I push. I got to have a horse, don't I?"
"What seems to be the record as to brands?" inquired the court.
Ortez shook his head. "If there's any outfit which ain't put their brand on this horse durin' the past thirty years I fail to detect the absence. He's a walkin' directory."
Denver walked to the beast and ran his hand over one scarred side. Cattleland brands its beef stock freely and without regard for appearances, but a horse is marked as little as possible. Starting just above the stifle, the customary branding spot, Denver began to unravel the story of this jaded charger's peregrinations.