“Whar in thunder have yuh been all mawnin’?” demanded Sheriff Joe Cook of Monte Vista, as his deputy, “Shorty” McKay, strolled into the office at noon. “I been lookin’ fer yuh up one side o’ the town an’ down the other!”
“I’ve been in the public library, boss,” said Shorty, as soothingly as he could; but the sheriff was in no mood to be calmed by soft words. The daring robbery of the Second National Bank the day before, when a lone, masked bandit had made a successful get-away with three thousand dollars in bank cash, had put the sheriff in bad humor.
“Been in the library, eh?” snarled Sheriff Cook angrily. “Been readin’ up on how to ketch bank robbers, no doubt, in some ol’ book that some nut wrote a hundred years ago, I suppose! A lot o’ help yuh are—an’, say, yuh wasn’t in the library, after all, come to think o’ it, ’cause I stuck my haid in thar lookin’.”
“I left thar about eleven o’clock,” said Shorty meekly, “so yuh musta been thar after that, boss. I left thar an’ went over to the Monte Vista Clarion office fer a bit——”
“Blabbin’ about how yuh was intendin’ to ketch the robber, I reckon!” cut in Sheriff Cook hotly.
“No, lookin’ up the ol’ files thar,” said Shorty quickly. “Yuh see, boss, thar’s a big feelin’ in town here that—waal, that the town oughter do somethin’ handsome fer Max Hill, that hero cow-punch! Max might have got that bank robber ef luck had been with him.”
“We gotta git that bank robber, whether luck is with us or not!” said the sheriff tartly. “An’ as fer Max Hill——”
“He’s the hero o’ the hour!” reminded Shorty.
“Yes, he’s the hero o’ the hour, right enough,” admitted the sheriff, “but what has that got to do with yuh wastin’ yuhr hull mawnin’ between the public library an’ the Monte Vista Clarion office? We got to git the robber—clues or no clues. Gosh knows we’ve lost enough time already without yuh vanishin’ fer a mawnin’ an’ holdin’ up matters! We gotta git downright busy.”
Shorty grinned brazenly at his nettled boss.
“On what clues?” he asked meaningly. “Yuh know waal as I do, boss, we’ve run down every idear we got! Nobody recognized that cooky as did the job at the bank. He went in at noon, when everybody but Jim Holcomb, the cashier, was out. He locked Jim in the vault, scooped up the cash, an’ blowed, an’ nobody seen him blow in’, after Jim Holcomb had touched off the big gong alarm, but Max Hill. Max shot at him, but had no luck, an’ the robber disappeared—an’ left us with absolutely nuthin’ to start work on.”
“I know all that, Shorty.”
“We chases up one road an’ down another,” went on Shorty swiftly; “we has a posse scramblin’ hither an’ thither, but thar ain’t no clues! Holcomb kain’t identify the bandit, an’ neither kin Max Hill; an’ the robber seems to have vanished right inter the earth. We has nuthin’ to go on, boss, as I said, an’ while we is markin’ time, waitin’ fer somethin’ to kinda turn up, I kinda thought it would be nice fer us to take the initiative in arrangin’ an affair in honor o’ Hero Hill, jus’ to show our appreciation o’ his efforts to shoot the bandit.”
Sheriff Cook’s eyebrows went up in a questioning arch.
“An affair?” he asked. “What kind o’ an affair?”
“Waal,” said Shorty, “the town should show honor to Max Hill in a substantial way. But we’ve had other heroes in Monte before this. So I got the idear that we could avoid jealousies an’ the like by havin’ a big congress o’ heroes right here in town, to pay homage to Max Hill in the fust place, an’ to honor all the livin’ local heroes in the second place—speeches, music, mebbe a barbecue, a dance, a general good time.”
“Yeh?” drawled the sheriff, narrowing his gray eyes.
“Yeh!” agreed Shorty. “So I was over to the library lookin’ up the files o’ the ol’ Monte Vista Bugle, which went extinct ten years ago. Then I looked up the Clarion files, too, makin’ a list o’ all the fellers as could be considered heroes. Oh, yes, I was over to the chamber o’ commerce, too, seein’ Bill Webster, the secretary, about sendin’ out the invitations to the different heroes fer Thursday, an’ he agreed. Then I saw the mayor an’ got his promise o’ coöperation, along with the city council; an’ I talked to Wade Mountford about arrangin’ the barbecue, an’ to Tom Hartsell about the music—the Hartsell Happy Harmonizers will play fer us. Mebbe yuh could make a speech, boss, an’——”
The sheriff got to his feet suddenly.
“Yes, dang yuh, Shorty, I kin make a speech, an’ I’m gonna make it right now an’ not wait until day after tomorrow to do so!” The sheriff pointed an accusing finger at Shorty. “The great trouble with yuh, Sap, is that yuh kain’t ever foller a main idear in nuthin’. What we got to do fust is to git that robber, afore we go entertainin’ any heroes. That entertainin’ business is a secondary consideration. Fust, we gotta git the robber.”
“How?” demanded Shorty suddenly.
“I dunno,” said the sheriff, frankly enough now that he was too angry to mince words; “but we gotta git him. We won’t git him holdin’ no congress o’ heroes! Yuh drap that idear until later. Yuh go git yuhr hoss an’ start ridin’—makin’ every dog-gone ranch on the Gun Barrel Road. I’ll make all the places on the Wagon Wheel Gap Road. It’s a cinch that robber didn’t git through any o’ the towns on the main roads, seein’ we had ’em all warned half an hour after the robbery. He must be hidin’ out here in the valley. We gotta run a fine comb over it fer him.”
“An’ all we know is—from the cashier an’ Max Hill—that the robber was tall, masked, dressed in cowboy clothes, an’ rode a bay hoss,” said Shorty. “Thar’s a thousand men in the valley would answer that description. It’s like lookin’ fer a haystack in a needle, as the poet said. It’s hopeless.”
“It ain’t hopeless,” retorted the sheriff.
“Waal——”
“Shorty, yuh do as I tell yuh afore I loses my temper in earnest an’ swings a jolt off yuhr jaw!” said the sheriff sullenly. “Git goin’! Git goin’! Yuh hear me—git goin’!”
Shorty got going, naturally enough, but he did not go far. He put the saddle on his pony and rode around a few blocks, hiding the horse in a feed stable and hastening off to the city hall to further arrange matters for the congress of heroes. The idea, Shorty had discovered, had caught on like wildfire. It appealed to the popular fancy. The mayor and the council were for it whole-heartedly. So was the Monte Vista Clarion. So was everybody in town, it appeared, except the sheriff. Every one felt that Max Hill, the Perry Park cow poke, deserved some sort of recognition for his efforts to balk the holdup—even if those efforts had been in vain.
The whole town knew what Max Hill had tried to do. Max had admitted it, bashfully, after Lew Walker, the hardware dealer, had spread the story. Max was in the Walker store, just putting some shells into a new rifle he had purchased, when the big gong alarm over the front door of the Second National Bank, across the street, had begun to sound. It was the noon hour and few persons were on the street. At the sound of the alarm, which Cashier Holcomb had set off the minute the bandit had locked him in the vault, Lew Walker, who was in the back of the store, had yelled to Max Hill:
“Max, that’s the bank robbery alarm goin’!”
“I know it!” Max had cried, making for the front door, rifle in hand. He had raised it to his shoulder and was ready when the tall, masked bandit had run from the bank, making for his waiting bay horse. Max had fired, but—unfortunately—he had missed. And before Max could fire a second time, the robber had spurred around the corner out of sight. There had been immediate confusion. A posse was in the saddle inside of fifteen minutes, but the bandit had vanished. And he had left no clues. So all the townfolks could do, after the excitement had cooled off, was to congratulate Max Hill on his nerve and daring, even if he had not hit the robber.
“He may have hit him,” said Lew Walker proudly, “fer it was a good rifle, an’ Max is a good shot; but ef he did hit him, he didn’t git him in a vital spot.”
“I don’t think I hit him,” said the truthful Max Hill. He seemed quite abashed by the attention paid him. The fact that he had missed the bandit seemed to weigh heavily on him. Modesty—or regret—had sealed his lips. He refused to talk much of the matter, merely shaking his head sadly at any mention of it.
“All I kin say is that I’m sorry,” Max had announced.
But the town knew that Max deserved some token of appreciation. There were mighty few men in Monte Vista who would have acted so quickly and so utterly without thought of personal safety as had Max. He had not wasted a second getting to the door. He had fired almost instantly. The sad fact that he had missed could not be blamed on him. It was a pot shot, at best. He had been using a brand-new rifle. The bandit had been quick as a cat, too. So when Shorty had broached the idea of the celebration to honor Max and all the other unsung heroes of the old cow town, Monte Vista had agreed with a whoop.
The arrangements for the congress of heroes went on steadily. Shorty did not ride the Gun Barrel Road that afternoon, as the sheriff had ordered. He knew—or rather felt—that it was a wild-goose chase. He laughed frequently as he busied himself with the celebration arrangements, thinking what Sheriff Cook would say if he only knew what was going on. But the sheriff did not know, luckily. The invitations to the congress of heroes went out to the heroes on that afternoon’s mail. The sheriff, coming in late in the evening from his fruitless ride along the Wagon Wheel Gap Road, found Shorty waiting with a report for him.
“The bandit,” said Shorty, “don’t seem to be anywhars around the Gun Barrel section. Yuh git any trace o’ him, boss?”
“No, I never,” admitted the sheriff sullenly. “Tomorrow we tries the other two roads, Shorty—the Alamosa an’ the Red Cliff Pikes. Yuh kin take one an’ I’ll take the other. It’s about all that we kin do, I’m afraid. I reckon the scamp has given us the slip.”
But Shorty rode neither the Alamosa nor the Red Cliff Pikes the next day. The sheriff rode the latter, and he thought that Shorty was patrolling the former. But not Shorty. There were a thousand-and-one items to attend to in final preparation for the congress of heroes, and Shorty, as originator and chairman of the committee in charge, was busy.
Wednesday night found everything arranged for the celebration on the morrow. The grand jubilee was to open at noon with a rally in the park, where the Hartsell Happy Harmonizers would render a selection entitled “See, the Conquerin’ Hero Comes!” and after that Mayor Louie Swift would welcome the heroes, introducing them to the crowd. Then would follow speeches by the city councilmen, prominent citizens, and the local preachers. The city marshal, Art Wachter, would then pin pretty red, white, and blue ribbons on the breasts of the manly heroes, decorating them, as it were. The sheriff would speak—perhaps—and after that would come the great barbecue, more music, and the afternoon and evening would be devoted to games and dancing.
Sheriff Cook, coming in “dog tired,” as he expressed it, from his long day in the saddle on the Red Cliff Road, heard with indifference that the town had just completed all arrangements for the big congress of heroes’ celebration set for the following day in Monte Vista.
“Waal,” he sighed sadly, “I guess that’s about all we got left to do, Shorty, come to think o’ it. We kin pay honor to Max Hill an’ figger we’re doin’ our duty. Thar wasn’t a trace o’ hide or hair o’ that bandit monkey on the Red Cliff Road. I went to every ranch in that territory. How about yuh an’ the Alamosa Road?”
Shorty carefully crossed his fingers behind his back.
“Boss,” he said, choosing his words with precision, “I fell down, too. It’s a blame shame, all right enough! Mebbe after the celebration fer Max we kin start all over ag’in.”
The day for the congress of heroes broke clear and cool. The streets were jammed early by the incoming ranchers and folks from as far away as Gunsight, Como, Squaw Mountain, Globeville, Cherry Hills, and Lakewood. The heroes began to dribble in, most of them on horseback, and some of them accompanied by their families in buckboards. Most of them came in with startled, awed expressions, because, until they had received the invitations to appear, they had not realized that they were heroes. It was a tardy celebration for some of them, who had performed their deeds of valor many years before. But the crowds were happy. Frontier Park was soon crowded. The Hartsell Happy Harmonizers were on the job, tooting away. Popcorn and peanut venders were in competition with the band. Mayor Louie Swift and Marshal Art Wachter and Deputy Shorty McKay were bustling around. Monte Vista was all set to honor her heroes in splendid style.
When noon came, the congress of heroes assembled on the wooden platform erected in the center of the infield at Frontier Park. There were seven heroes on hand, it appeared, including the hero of the hour—Max Hill. He seemed quite uncomfortable, but he tried to grin despite his embarrassment. A couple of the remaining six heroes were right at home, however, perfectly willing to be lionized, it seemed. The remainder appeared to be like Hill, doubtful as to the why and the wherefore of all this fuss. The Hartsell Happy Harmonizers opened the program with a raucous selection that drowned out the popcorn and peanut peddlers without difficulty. Sheriff Cook, arriving late—and disgusted—took a seat on the platform.
“Ladies an’ gents,” said Mayor Swift, rising after the music had ceased, “it is with the greatest o’ pleasure that I stands here to introduce to yuh all the great heroes o’ Monte Vister—men who have unselfishly risked life an’ limb, dared death an’ disaster, pooh-poohed at danger in various forms, to render assistance to their feller man! They are worthy successors, these seven heroes o’ Monte Vister, to that great ol’ hero o’ ancient times, as Mr. McKay told me about this mawnin’—Nero, who fiddled while ol’ Rome burned, riskin’ his life to finish a public concert despite the cracklin’ o’ great flames all around him.”
There was thunderous applause from the spectators.
“An’ speakin’ o’ flames,” went on Mayor Swift grandly, making a great arch with the fat, black, smoking cigar he held in his right hand, “I desires to introduce to yuh at this time the fust o’ our famous heroes that yuh sees gathered here on this platform with us in Monte Vister today! I refers to Mr. Terrell Davis, the gent with the whiskers on the far left end, who so distinguished hisself fifteen years ago, when, unaided an’ with overwhelmin’ nerve, he run into the burnin’ Doc Brown livery stable an’ drug out four valuable saddle hosses, worth all o’ a hundred bucks per each, at a loss o’ his own eyebrows an’ a wallet containin’ three dollars in cash which he lost while gropin’ in the smoke fer the halter straps!”
The crowd roared its appreciation as Terrell Davis rose bashfully and bobbed his head to the applause.
Doc Brown, in the audience, cupped his hands, at the height of the uproar, and shouted a correction to Mayor Swift:
“I later sold one o’ them rescued hosses fer one hundred and twenty dollars,” he cried, “tharby increasin’ my gratitude to Mr. Davis by twenty dollars. I say, three whoopees fer Terrell Davis—hip, hip, hooray!”
The crowd joined in on the three cheers.
“An’ next, in the way they are seated, is a man who needs no introduction to yuh all today—Mr. Max Hill, famous cow poke, who is our latest hero!” roared Mayor Swift. “He, without so much as a moment’s hesitation, seized up a rifle from the Lew Walker hardware-store counter an’ blazed away at the dare-devil bandit who had robbed the Second National Bank here day before yesterday! It wasn’t Mr. Hill’s fault that he didn’t wing that robber—mebbe he did wing him—but the feller didn’t drap. It was not Hill’s fault that he didn’t drap! Max was handlin’ a new rifle, an’ in this day an’ age rifles are not what they was once, when our grandfathers hunted the U-tays an’ the Sigh-Ox Injuns in this valley.”
There was another burst of thunderous applause, and another man arose in the audience, cupped his hands, and shouted. He was Lew Walker, the hardware dealer.
“Thar wasn’t nuthin’ wrong with that rifle!” he protested indignantly. “I guarantee my rifles and I resents any such——”
But the crowd paid no heed. Mayor Swift was talking again.
“I now interduce the next hero, Mr. Al Cooper, who stopped that runaway stage on the Platte River Road twelve years ago, steppin’ in front o’ said gallopin’ hosses an’ wavin’ his hat so furiously that stage stopped!” said Mayor Swift. “Give him a hand, folks. That’s the ticket—hooray fer Al Cooper!”
“An’ now,” said the mayor, as the applause for Al Cooper subsided, “we go to our fourth hero, Mr. Earl Carpenter—the man who bravely swum Cherry Creek the time o’ the great spring flood, rescuin’ several families on the western bank by warnin’ them o’ the high waters, an’ leadin’ them an’ all their live stock, includin’ a large flock o’ imported Tottenberger—I think they was—goats to a cliff whar all was safe. Mr. Carpenter!”
Again the park rocked with the clapping and shouting of the thousands of hero worshipers. Mr. Carpenter rose and bowed.
“In addition to the three families an’ the goats,” he said loudly, “thar was a number o’ Holstein milch keows, a maverick brindle steer, four span young mules, two aged mares, a smooth-mouthed geldin’, three colts, a shepherd dawg, an’ one cat!”
“Hooray fer Earl Carpenter!” yelled the crowds.
“Our fifth hero is Mr. Jack Elliott,” went on Mayor Swift, “the man who got the Christmas mail through the ice blockade here years ago, bein’ forced to straddle a buckin’ broncho to do so! When his own hoss slipped an’ fell on the ice on Berthoud Pass, Mr. Elliott caught up an unbroke hoss in a snow drift, mounted him, an’ rid him inter town with the mail sack over his shoulder, said mail bein’ distributed in record time right here in Monte Vister, when the hoss started to buck, throwin’ Mr. Elliott so hard that one insured package was busted, likewise Mr. Elliott’s left ankle which laid him up in bed for two weeks.”
“I made good fer that insured package!” cried Elliott, above the applause. “It cost me one dollar and thirty-four cents to do it, too!”
“Our sixth hero,” went on Mayor Swift, with a grand gesture toward the right of the line of blushing heroes, “is none other than Mr. ‘Ace’ Barnhart, the man who was the fust youth to offer hisself as a sacrifice—a hooman sacrifice, folks—fer the new doctor to vaccinate in the fever scare here years ago! We all had our doubts about the doctor an’ his needle jabbin’, but Ace was brave enough to volunteer, comin’ through fine, although it was afterward learned that the doctor was a fake an’ that he had vaccinated Ace with plain water. Three cheers fer Ace Barnhart!”
The crowds applauded wildly.
“Our seventh an’ final hero is”—
Mayor Louie Swift hesitated and glanced at the slip of paper he held in his hand, as if in doubt—“he is—Mr. ‘Pud’ Gregory, who, I am reliably informed, distinguished hisself as a hero when he shot a bad man here some years ago jus’ when said bad man was about to plug a half dozen holes through an innercent an’ unarmed citizen. Three cheers fer Mr. Pud Gregory, folks—let ’er rip!”
The crowd let loose, but almost instantly Shorty McKay, who had been seated on the platform, jumped to his feet. He ran out in front of the mayor, holding up both hands for silence. The crowd, amazed, subsided, just in time to hear Shorty shout.
“This man Gregory is a dog-gone impostor!” whooped Shorty. “His name was put on the list through a error! He ain’t no hero! It’s all a mistake! He’s such a coward that he hadn’t nerve enough to explain things to us, but he comes up here with the real heroes to be honored! Gregory a hero—bah! I hereby arrests him fer false pretenses, impersonatin’ a hero, an’ receivin’ undue applause.”
The deputy laid violent hands on the surprised Gregory.
The crowd was in a furor immediately. There were many who had not understood all that Shorty had said and were astounded at his treatment of the man Gregory. There were others who, hearing the deputy’s explanation and knowing Shorty was always on the square, were heart and soul behind Shorty. Yells and catcalls, shouts and hisses, went up. Mayor Swift sought to intervene. The sheriff got to his feet, yelling at Shorty. Marshal Wachter was up, adding to the din. The city councilmen were in confusion. Even Max Hill and the other distinguished heroes were in the mêlée, but Shorty, wasting no time, dragged his unlucky captive, Gregory, down from the platform and hustled him off across the field, where the crowd was thinnest. It was plain that Gregory was going to jail!
The congress of heroes threatened to break up in a riot.
“Gentlemen,” cried Mayor Swift, taking the situation in hand, “please to be calm! This ain’t no way to pay honor to our great hero guests. I assure yuh all will turn out nice! We’ll find out about Gregory—quiet now, everybody—while City Marshal Art Wachter, assisted by Doc Brown, comes up here an’ pins the honorary badges o’ red, white, an’ blue on the breasts o’ our heroes! This way, Art an’ Doc—quiet everybody, please! Yuh two gents arguin’ thar in front please postpone yuhr fight until later.”
The crowd calmed gradually at the mayor’s insistent urging. There was a lot of murmuring, however. A few in the throng ran out after the disappearing Shorty and his protesting prisoner, Gregory; and among those who ran was Sheriff Joe Cook, bubbling over with indignation. Max Hill, the hero of the hour, also galloped out across the field. The bulk of the crowd remained for the rest of the hero program, however. By the time the sheriff, angered at what he termed his deputy’s rash imprudence, reached the Monte Vista jail, Shorty had his prisoner safely locked up in a cell. The sheriff had barely started to upbraid Shorty for rashness, when in came the breathless Max Hill, the hero of the hour, red-faced and raging.
“Shorty!” cried Max, interrupting the sheriff’s hot flow of words, “what’s the idear o’ draggin’ Gregory off like yuh did? Whar is he? That ain’t no way to bust up a program!”
“So I said!” put in Sheriff Cook.
“Gregory’s in jail,” said Shorty, scowling at Max Hill; “he’s a danged faker. I don’t know how his name got on the list, or how he come to have the nerve to git up on that platform when he must ’a’ knowed he was invited through a error.”
Max Hill’s face was now livid with rage.
“Error nuthin’!” he cried furiously! “I know that Gregory bird! I’ll tell yuh all somethin’—I was the innercent an’ unarmed citizen he saved from bein’ murdered years ago by ‘Slats’ Langer, the gunman. It was Gregory as saved my life—shootin’ Slats at risk o’ his own, after Slats had already drawed his weapon.”
Shorty, instead of showing anger, laughed softly.
“Oh, is that so, Max?” he asked. “I didn’t know yuh knowed Gregory. It all happened—what yuh say happened—so long ago that yuh must ’a’ been jus’ a mere kid. Yuh ain’t never been very chummy with Gregory, ef he did save yuhr life as yuh claim! How come that?”
“I never knowed the man’s name as saved me that day,” said Max Hill sadly, “because I was, as yuh say, jus’ a kid. An’ the man didn’t wait to interduce hisself after he shot Slats. But I recognized Gregory the minnit I saw him on the platform ter-day as the man who had saved me; an’ the mayor’s introduction o’ Gregory substantiated it when he tol’ how Gregory had saved an innercent citizen from a bad man. It was Gregory that saved me. I recognized him easy by his stooped shoulders, the way he holds his head to one side, an’——”
“Yuh recognized him the other day, too!” yelled Shorty.
“What?” asked Hill.
“Yuh recognized him the other day, too, I said!” repeated Shorty sternly. “I’ll tell yuh what I got Gregory in jail fer, Max. I got him in the coop fer bank robbery! He’s confessed. An’ I say ag’in that yuh recognized him the other day when yuh saw that bank robber comin’ out o’ the Second State Bank, Max—that’s why yuh missed him. Yuh might as well own up to that!”
Max Hill’s face had gone chalky white. He looked from Shorty to the startled sheriff. Then he nodded his head.
“Ef he’s confessed,” he said wearily, “I guess I might as waal admit that I did recognize him, Shorty, as yuh say; an’ that that was the reason I didn’t kill him—gratitude, I reckon, fer what he did to me. But I didn’t know his name until today—an’——”
Max Hill choked up suddenly.
“It was Gregory robbed the bank, wasn’t it?” persisted Shorty.
“Yes,” said Hill, and he sighed in evident relief.
“Yuh go back to the celebration, Max,” said Shorty kindly. “I guess yuh better not say anything about this, either. But I don’t blame yuh altogether fer not squawkin’ on Gregory. Yuh didn’t know his name, although yuh might have told us the truth why yuh didn’t shoot him comin’ out o’ the bank. Yuh go along, Max, we’ll have to have yuh appear later agin’ Gregory; but jus’ now yuh’re needed at the celebration. Go on back, brace up, an’ keep mum.”
“All right,” said the unhappy Hill, and departed.
“Great guns!” exploded Sheriff Cook, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. “How yuh do it, Shorty, beats me! How did yuh know it was Gregory pulled the bank job, an’ how did yuh make him confess so quick? I don’t git it.”
Shorty laughed again.
“He ain’t confessed yet,” he said, “but he will, as soon as he knows Max Hill has identified him. I had to let Max think he had confessed. An’ I never was sure it was Gregory did the robbery until Max Hill admitted it here a second ago. Fust off, boss, we had no clues to go on. The bank cashier, bein’ new in town, hadn’t recognized Gregory. We had guarded the roads an’ notified the other towns, however, so the robber couldn’t git outta the valley. Apparently, he never tried to do so. That meant the robber was a local feller.
“I got to thinkin’ it was mighty funny that Max Hill, bein’ so fortunately near at the time, an’ such a crack shot, hadn’t hit the bandit. Thar was some talk that he had hit him, but not in a vital spot. I examined the front o’ the bank buildin’ carefully, with a ladder, an’ found whar Hill’s bullet had struck, away up high, above the door. A good shot like Max couldn’t have missed like that, unless purposely. Max was so queerly silent, too. I knowed, o’ course, that Max was too honest to be in on the robbery, but I got to thinkin’ why Max would have purposely failed to hit the man. I decided that Max did miss purposely, an’ all because he recognized the man at the moment before he fired. He didn’t have time to figger out an alibi why he shouldn’t fire at all—so he shot—but shot high!
“Why should Max pertect a bank robber? It could be nuthin’ but a case of gratitude. Who had ever done anything fer Max? I looked up the old files, findin’ that ol’ story about the killin’ o’ Slats Langer, bad man, years ago, by an unknown hero jus’ as Slats was about to plug Max in a drunken fury. The newspaper accounts said that no one knew just who had fired from the hip to save Max, but the account did name the men in the place at the time—Jean Bosquet, Harry Tarvin, Horace Stewart, Ralph Brady, Pud Gregory. A little interviewin’ o’ ol’-timers developed the fact that Pud was thought to have been the man, although he had never bragged o’ it, an’ the indifferent investigation at the time hadn’t proved it.
“So I had to figure a way to git Pud in town; git him to admit bein’ the hero o’ the ol’ gun fight; see that Max recognized him; git Pud in jail, an’ pretend to Max that he had confessed the bank robbery. I decided on the congress o’ heroes. I had the mayor, who was in with me on the scheme, sound out Pud, an’ Pud admitted that he was the ol’-time hero o’ the gun fight that saved Max Hill years ago.
“I saw Max start as he recognized Gregory on the hero stand today. When I accused Gregory o’ bein’ a faker, I figured Max Hill would be right around to stand up fer the man who had saved his life. Then, springin’ the bank confession on Max, I thought Max would admit it. He did. Yuh see, boss, Max wasn’t intentionally shieldin’ Gregory, seein’ Max didn’t know Gregory by name; but Max did purposely miss the bandit because o’ gratitude—he couldn’t kill the man who had saved him. All I needed, therefore, was to parade the bandit afore Max ag’in, see Max recognize him, have Max come to his aid when I accused Gregory o’ fakin’, an’ then kid Max inter admittin’ it was Gregory he recognized comin’ out o’ the bank. Simple enough, wasn’t it?”
Sheriff Cook gulped before he replied.
“Simple enough,” he grunted, “ef yuh got a scrambled brain, Shorty, as kin work around in forty-eleven different directions all to once an’ wind up coherently, after all—like yuh has! I reckon we might as waal go an’ git a confession from Gregory, after which we kin return to the congress o’ heroes; an’ ef I don’t miss my guess, I’ll nominate yuh fer that vacant cheer once occupied by Pud Gregory. Any man as kin think backward, forward, sideways, and upside down, all to once, is a hero sure enough! An’ I reckon the crowd, hearin’ yuh jailed the bank robber, will give yuh more applause than it gave all the other six heroes put together—an’ I don’t mean mebbe!”