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Text originally published in 1930 under the same title.
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Publishers Note
Although in most cases we have retained the Authors original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern readers benefit.
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CHAFFEE OF ROARING HORSE
by
ERNEST HAYCOX
SHOWDOWN
Jim Chaffee rode into Roaring Horse slowly. It was growing dark and Woolfridges men were staked out everywherealong the streets, behind the stores and saloons, in the back alleys. Their orders were to kill Chaffee, to gun him down, shoot him in the back.
And the town of Roaring Horse waited quietly, helplessly, for the death of the only man who could save them.
A shot split the air and whistled past Chaffees head. He was out of the saddle, crouching and shooting as he ran. JIM CHAFFEE WAS FIGHTING BACK
1. Jim Chaffee Takes a Loss
When Jim Chaffee walked out of his homestead for the last time in three long years of struggle, it was with his senses sharpened to the pleasantness of the place he was losing. The cabin sat on the south bank of a small creek that crossed the desert diagonally from the white and hooded peaks of Roaring Horse range to the dark, dismally deep slash of Roaring Horse Canyon. Cottonwoods bunched about the log house, the lodgepole corrals, the pole-and-shake barn. The mornings sun, brilliant but without warmth, streamed through the apertures of the trees; the sparkle of frost was to be seen here and there in the shadowed crevices of the creek bank. Standing so, Jim Chaffee could look up along the course of the creek and through the lane of trees to see the distant bench fold and hoist itself some thousands of feet until it met the sheer and glittering glacial spires of the range. A solitary white cloud floated across the serene blue; the broad, yellowing cottonwood leaves bellied gently a own around him, and there was the definite threat of winter in the sharp air, reminding Jim of the nights he had spent beside a glowing stove, listening to the blizzard howl around the stout eaves, dreaming his dreams. He could never step inside the cabin again; those three years had gone for nothing.
Before closing the door he ranged the room with a last wistful glance, a last reluctant appraisal of those household gods with which he had lived for so long a time. Everything was neat and clean on this eventful morning; the dishes were washed and stacked in the cupboard, the floor swept, the fire drawn. Nothing was out of place, nothing removed excepting one small article, a bright blue-patterned mush bowl that he carried under an arm. Even the bed was made up. All this he studied, as well as the pictures tacked to the wallspictures cut from old magazinesand the odds and ends of furniture that he had so laboriously created. He looked at these things gravely, regretfully, and then closed the door, turned the lock, and dropped the key in his pocket. As. the lock clicked his lips pressed together and his face settled; from the moment of discovery Jim Chaffee had liked the location above all others. Within its area he felt contented, somehow controlled by the conviction that he had struck roots into the very soil. Nor had he ever gone away from it without turning restless and wishing soon to be back. Three years of himself was in the place; a part of his heart was there.
His horse stood saddled and waiting. Jim swung up and turned out along the trail. A hundred yards away he stopped to look for the last time. The cabin was half hidden in the creeks depression, a faint wisp of smoke spiraled from the chimney; he had seen this picture a thousand times, yet today it affected him strangely. For today at noon his notes fell due and he hadnt as much as a solid dollar to pay on them. Real property and chattels belonged after that hour to the bank, and he became what he had been in the beginning, an errant cow-puncher with a horse beneath him and the sky above. Nothing more. Three severe winters and a falling market had wiped him out.
He looked to the peaks and shook his head. They stood out too clearly, they seemed too close; and around the tips was a faint, contorted wisp of a cloud that inevitably augured the fourth successive hard winter. He lifted his gun from the holster, fired a single shot, and whirled about, galloping rapidly away.
By the Lord I hate to go!
For a moment rebellion and bitterness made a bleak battleground of his cheeks; then the expression was gone. It couldnt last long, for he had seen disaster coming many months before and had braced himself for this final scene. It wasnt hard to lose money or labor, but he knew he would never again find a piece of land lying watered and sheltered and snug like the piece he was leaving. Even if he did find it he wouldnt feel the same somehow.
A man, he murmured, nourishes a picture a long while and gets sort of attached to it. No other picture will do. Not even if its made identic. Well, were free. Now what?
He studied the question over the even miles of desert. Studied it with a somber leisure, sitting slack in the saddle and every now and anon sweeping the horizons with long, closed-lidded surveys. He made a splendid picture as he swayed to the dun beasts progressa tall man built in that mold so deceptive to the casual eye. He seemed to have no particular claim to physical strength. His shoulders were broad yet rather sharp at the points, and his chest was long and fairly flat; on this frame his clothes hung loosely and so concealed the springs of his power, which were muscles that lay banded along arm and shoulder like woven wire. A stiff-brimmed Stetson slanted the shadows over a face lean almost to the point of gauntness. It was bronzed by the sun and without furrows or wrinkles to mark the labor he had put behind him. His chin was cleft, his mouth was wide, but his lips were thin, and constantly under the guard of his will. Deep within protecting wells his eyes were apt to remain fixed on some distant point for long intervals of time; and from the expression in them it was evident they had the power to draw the rest of his face into a mask or to fill it with buoyancy and humor.
The answer, he said to himself after the homestead faded in the distance, is sort of plain. A man can win or he can lose. I lost. But a man can always try again. I guess Ill muster up some cash and buy me a set of traps. Theres a piece of country away up on the bench by Thirty-four Pass. By gosh, we aint had time to take in this sight for quite a spell.
