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Title: The slang brander
Author: Ray Humphreys
Illustrator: Sidney H. Riesenberg
Release date: October 2, 2026 [eBook #79702]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Street & Smith Corporation, 1927
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79702
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SLANG BRANDER ***
The Slang Brander
By Ray Humphreys
Author of “Injin Trick,” etc.
“Dog-gone!” exclaimed Sheriff Joe Cook of Monte Vista pushing his
spectacles along his sunburned nose, and adjusting his gaze on an
unsigned letter he held in one hand, “here’s another one o’ them
unanimous letters with no signature a-tellin’ me to wake up, that
devilment is goin’ on right under my nose an’ I don’t know nuthin’ about
it——”
Deputy Sheriff “Shorty” McKay sighed and looked out the window, catching
sight of a passing pedestrian.
“Gee,” said Shorty, wistfully, “ef I only had a pair o’ trained pups
like Horace Stewart out thar, I’d be happy!”
Sheriff Cook was interested in dogs. He raised his eyes and looked over
the top of his glasses and scrutinized the passing pedestrian with
marked attention for a moment.
“Shucks!” he said, “_that dance hall_ sheik got two trained pups. What
are they—Gordon setters er——?”
Shorty laughed. “Now, I meant he was a swell dancer, boss!”
“A swell dancer?” questioned the mystified sheriff. “But yuh mentioned
he had two trained pups——”
“Sure, I did,” said Shorty, “but what I meant by that was that he was a
jim-dandy hoofer; that is, he has a pair o’ syncopatin’ dawgs—dawgs
meanin’ feet—an’ lately, popular slang has changed ‘dawgs,’ meanin’
feet, to ‘pups,’ meanin’ the same thing—so a feller with a pair o’
trained pups is a guy with nimble gunboats—er jazz hounds as some say.”
The sheriff thumped on the desk with a closed fist.
“Syncopatin’ dawgs—trained pups—gunboats!” he exploded, angrily.
“Popular slang! Slang! How I hate slang! Nuthin’ but slang, slang,
slang, an’ a feller has to be two-thirds crazy to get the drift o’ most
o’ it. Goodness knows I been a-studyin’ up on it—to the pool room, to
the depot, an’ to the livery stable—but I’ll be blamed ef I kin
figger——”
“Tingle-ling-a-ling!” went the telephone.
“Yes,” said the sheriff, picking up the receiver, “yes, this is me! This
is me, I said!”
There was a moment’s pause.
“This is the sheriff hisself talkin’,” yelled Cook louder, “what is it
yuh want—eh—talk up, talk up!”
Another pause.
“Yuh say does I know about them four hosses gettin’ struck by lightnin’
over in Larry Spect’s pasture?” repeated the sheriff. “Why, yes, I
does—what about it?”
The sheriff frowned darkly.
“Yes, I read in the paper about them five mules over to Brookview farm
gittin’ kilt by lightnin’, too, but what——”
Another pause while the voice at the other end buzzed.
“Yes, I know the lightnin’ has been killin’ off a lot o’ stock in the
Monte Vista district this year, sure—but what about it?” persisted the
worried sheriff. “Yes, mostly hosses an’ mules, I admits, but what——”
The voice on the other end grew more confidential.
“_What?_” boomed the sheriff.
The voice repeated its whispers.
“Yuh say fer me to investigate the lightnin’?” cried the sheriff, his
eyes widening. “_Investigate the lightnin’?_ Why, man, what do yuh mean?
Lightnin’ always kills hosses an’ mules this time o’ year! Should be
stopped, yuh say? Up to me to stop it, yuh say? I kin ef I want to, say?
Why, lissen, brother, are yuh drunk or are yuh plumb nuts? Stop the
lightnin’—say, _who is this talkin’, anyhow?_”
The sheriff gasped at the answer to his question.
“Who?” he repeated, in unbelief.
He got the name again.
“_Mr. All Wet?_” cried the sheriff, while a hot red flush spread over
his leathery face. “_Mr. All Wet?_ Say, brother, fer two thin dimes I’d
slap yuh in the jail house!”
Bang went the receiver.
The sheriff glared at Shorty.
“Some fresh bird, callin’ hisself Mr. All Wet, wantin’ me to check up on
all this lightnin’ killin’ stock!” boomed the peeved sheriff. “Tryin’ to
kid me, the crazy galoot! Thar’s some more slang fer yuh! I may not be
up on a lot o’ it, but I knows what all wet means, an’ I’d be good an’
all wet ef I went investigatin’ lightnin’ an’ snoopin’ on the rain an’
probin’ thunderstorms an’ checkin’ up on wind clouds—I should oughter
have told that smart Aleck to call the weather bureau in Denver!”
“Mebbe—” began Shorty, slowly.
“This letter,” said the sheriff, getting back to the subject he had
started some minutes before, “is the third we has got here this month
tellin’ us about somethin’ goin’ on illegal an’ us not knowin’ it,” said
Sheriff Cook, “an’ it’s got me worried, but I’m beginnin’ to see
daylight.”
“Yeh?”
“Yep, I’m beginnin’ to smell a rat,” said the sheriff, “an’ I did it all
by myself, ef I do say so. We know thar ain’t no rustlin’, an’ no
robbin’, an’ no murderin’, an’ no bootleggin’ goin’ on, but _what do we
know about that strange hombre down to the Lone Spruce Hotel, eh?_”
Shorty gulped.
“Why, he’s from Denver—” he began.
“_That_ don’t make him no angel,” barked Cook. “I figger he’s the nigger
in the woodpile we gotta watch.”
“Fer what?” asked Shorty.
“Fer anything,” said the sheriff, waving the letter. “This hombre what
is sendin’ us these letters o’ warnin’ may know this stranger is a
crook, an’ up to some slickerin’ biz here in Monte; I figgered that out
myself, an’ I’m goin’——”
Shorty was apparently troubled.
“But this Mr. All Wet has telephoned—” he began.
The sheriff gave Shorty a withering look. Was it possible that the
practical joker, All Wet, had impressed his dumb deputy, the sheriff
wondered, and he wondered out loud, so that Shorty flushed with
humiliation. Then the sheriff devoted ten minutes to branding slang with
its proper brand. Then he scolded Shorty for falling for such gags as
Mr. All Wet had attempted to put over, and then he issued an order to
his deputy.
“Go over to the Lone Spruce Hotel!” he commanded, “an’ keep an eye on
that stranger, Bruce Rustin, as he calls hisself, until I comes an’
relieves yuh; from now on, seein’ we got this third warnin’, we shadders
that Rustin until we finds out just what he’s up to in this town! He
ain’t cracked nuthin’ to nobody an’ that looks bad! Yuh git me, Shorty?”
Shorty nodded his head.
“I got yuh, boss!” he declared.
So Shorty strolled over to the Lone Spruce Hotel. His mind, however, was
far from his business. He kept thinking of lightning and the man who had
called Sheriff Cook up and given his name as Mr. All Wet. That was
funny! It was more than funny, it was peculiar. The more Shorty thought
about it the more he scowled. He was deep in thought when he entered the
hotel and he planted himself in an easy-chair to think some more after
he entered the lobby. Finally he went to the telephone booth, entered,
and then emerged without making a call. His eyes were brighter now. His
scowl had vanished. He sought out Max Hines, the proprietor of the
hotel, and asked where he could locate Bruce Rustin, the mysterious
guest.
“Is he a bad aigg?” asked Max, anxiously.
“I—waal—I dunno,” said Shorty vaguely.
“Huh!” grunted Max. “I suppose he’ll be skippin’ out without payin’ his
bill ef I don’t watch close; waal, thar he is over thar under that
palm—in the chair—an’ by the way, that palm——”
“Yes?”
“That palm cost me four dollars and eighteen cents, freight an’ all,
from Denver, only las’ March,” said Max. “Yuh don’t suppose that feller
is a sneak thief, do yuh? I gotta watch that palm——”
Shorty sat down where he could keep his eyes on Rustin, and while he did
keep his eyes on the man he didn’t keep his mind on him. He kept
thinking of that lightning and Mr. All Wet, and his scowl came back.
Eventually—after ten or fifteen minutes of fidgeting—Shorty got up and
approached the stranger, Rustin, and asked him for a match. Then he sat
down beside him, on the arm of the chair, and remained there for all of
three minutes. After that Shorty got up hastily and left the hotel lobby
with rapid strides.
Two minutes later the stranger, Rustin, jumped to his feet with an
exclamation and made for the desk where Max Hines was sitting, watching
him sourly. The stranger was excited, it seemed.
“Who was that bird I was jus’ talkin’ to?” he asked Max.
“Why—who—what bird?” countered Max, clumsily.
“That feller was jus’ in here!” cried Rustin.
“Why, I didn’t see no feller,” lied Max, smoothly, but the stranger
suddenly reached over and grabbed him by the coat lapels.
“Out with it, yuh snake!” whooped the stranger, who was plainly annoyed.
“Spit it out! Yuh saw him! Yuh know him! Now who was he? Answer me that
before I get real mad.”
Max shivered in the man’s grasp.
“That was Shorty,” he said, chokingly.
“Shorty who?”
“Shorty McKay!”
“An’ who is Shorty McKay?”
“He’s—he’s the deputy sheriff!” gasped Max.
The stranger released the grip on the hotel man’s coat. His eyes went
wide as saucers. His face twitched strangely.
“A deputy sheriff, eh?”
“Yep,” said Max, regaining his composure.
“Sure o’ that?” asked the stranger.
Max was angry now. It was seldom a guest tried such rough tactics on him
and got away with it. This man had been rough. Further, Max had just had
his coat pressed, price fifty cents, and this hombre had jerked it all
out of shape.
“Yes, I’m sure that he’s a deputy sheriff,” said Max, with a glinty look
at the stranger, “an’ I’m also sure, too, brother, that he’ll nab yuh ef
yuh so much as look twice at that palm—it cost me four dollars and
eighteen cents, freight an’ all, from Denver, las’ March, to say nuthin’
o’ the value o’ my time in waterin’ it since, day in an’ day out, week
in an’ week out.”
The stranger grunted and turned away disgustedly.
Meanwhile, Shorty McKay had not lost any time in getting to the Elite
Livery barn, where he kept his saddle pony. He was mounted and off in a
hurry, thereby utterly disregarding the sheriff’s late orders that he
hang around the Lone Spruce Hotel and keep his eye on the suspicious
stranger. Shorty spurred out of town and took the West Alameda road,
riding hard for Larry Spect’s pasture southwest of town. It was there,
Shorty recollected, that Mr. All Wet had mentioned the lightning
striking four horses, in his conversation over the telephone with the
sheriff. Somehow, Shorty was more interested in that lightning business
than he was in watching strangers in hotel lobbies. He made Larry
Spect’s place in no time at all, and found Larry himself at the ranch
house.
“Heard yuh lost some stock by lightnin’?” said Shorty.
Larry nodded, with a long, woebegone face.
“Four hosses—heavy work stock!” he grunted.
“Whar was they?” asked Shorty.
“Down thar,” said Larry, pointing, “wanta see ’em?”
Larry led Shorty down a willow-lined lane, over a bubbling creek, and
into a far pasture. There, at the far end, near a knot of stately
cottonwoods, were the bodies of four dead horses. Shorty shook his head
and approached closer to look them over. The hides were burned in spots
and there were traces where flames had licked out through the tall dry
grass to all sides. Shorty shook his head again.
“Lightnin’ bad this year?” he asked.
“Sure is,” said Larry, miserably; “them hosses was worth two hundred
dollars apiece to me jus’ now, too.”
“Insured?” asked Shorty.
“Yea, fer half their value—four hundred dollars,” said Larry.
Shorty departed from Spect’s place soon afterwards. He rode over to Jim
Doyle’s place, next door, and asked Jim if he had suffered any lightning
losses. Jim said he had. Two brood mares had perished in the
thunderstorm the day before, at the same time, approximately, that Spect
had lost his four work horses. Shorty rode on. He visited place after
place, astounded at the great loss of horses by lightning. His eyes grew
narrower and narrower, as he went on. At last he turned down a shady
lane that led to a deserted farmhouse. He was grinning broadly now as if
at some huge joke, then he happened to think of Sheriff Joe Cook, and
his face sobered instantly. What would the sheriff say if——
There wasn’t much doubt what the sheriff would say when he found out
that Shorty had disobeyed orders. As a matter of fact, the sheriff was
saying it right at that precise moment back in the Lone Spruce Hotel
lobby at Monte Vista. He was leaning over the hotel counter, muttering
deep grumblings on the shortcomings of his deputy, while Max Hines, the
hotel man, was rapidly giving him an earful of news.
“Ya, Shorty watched him fer about six minutes,” Hines was panting, “an’
then he goes over an’ seems to git chummy with him an’ then he beats it,
fast, an’ purty quick the stranger jumps up an’ comes over, demandin’
who in heck that feller was that just went out? I pretends to play dumb,
tryin’ to avoid exposin’ Shorty as a officer, but this Rustin hombre he
ain’t easy to handle. Fust thing I knows he’s leaned over an’ got both
paws on me, threatenin’ to shake me to tatters ef I don’t answer, so I
answers—I tells him——”
“Huh!” said the sheriff, “an’ Shorty never come back?”
“He never come back,” affirmed the hotel man, “an’ that was plenty long
time ago, too. I’ve been scared stiff all the time since because that
stranger, Rustin, has been settin’ over thar mumblin’ to hisself, bitin’
his finger nails, tuggin’ at his collar, an’ actin’ dog-gone
suspicious——”
“Yeh?”
“Yeh! But I got him figgered out,” said the hotel man, “he’s a dang
sneak thief, that’s what! I know what he’s here fer, too. He’s here to
steal that palm plant I got in Denver las’ March, sheriff, at a hull
cost o’ four dollars and eighteen cents, what with freight an’ all, not
to mention my time every day since waterin’ an’ lookin’ after it
generally——”
“Yuhr palm?” demanded the sheriff.
“Sure, that’s it!” said the hotel keeper, stoutly. “After Shorty left so
fast I accused that hombre o’ aimin’ to steal my palm, an’ it just
knocked him speechless, that’s all. His face went white and then went
red! Ef I ever saw a guilty pusson it’s him; yuh better take him inter
custody, sheriff.”
Sheriff Cook nodded his head thoughtfully.
“Ain’t nuthin’ goin’ on in Monte Vista but _this_ bird,” he said,
looking at the stranger seated in the chair beneath the palm, “an’ these
here unanimous letters with no names signed to ’em that I’ve been
gittin’ says _thar is somethin’ goin’ on_ right under my nose—it must be
him—ef yuh’re dead sure, Max, that he was aimin’ to get yuhr property.”
Max straightened his shoulders.
“I saw him lookin’ hard at that palm yesterday!” he said.
The sheriff unbuttoned his coat, so that he could go for his gun with
greater ease and speed if the occasion demanded. He stalked toward the
fidgeting stranger in the chair beneath the
four-dollars-and-eighteen-cents palm. The hotel man followed.
“Howdy, stranger!” said the sheriff.
The man who had registered as Bruce Rustin looked up.
“An’ who in heck are _yuh?_” he asked peevishly.
The sheriff flashed his star from his vest.
“I’m sheriff here,” he said, gruffly, “an’ I’ve come to talk to yuh,
brother, on a little matter o’ importance. Who are yuh, sir, an’ what’s
yuhr idear in castin’ covetous eyes on this here hotel palm?”
“_Palm?_” roared the stranger, “yuh talk about palms when—when——”
The sheriff’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
“Brother, yuh come along with me,” began Sheriff Cook, but at that
moment there was a commotion at the entrance. Shorty and two men entered
hurriedly. One man was Larry Spect. The other man was a stranger. At
sight of Shorty, Rustin, the man that Sheriff Cook had just arrested,
let out a wild whoop.
“Yuh—yuh—yuh thief!”
Shorty grinned at the charge, reached into his pocket and drew out a
black bill fold, which he tossed to Rustin.
“Yuh’ll have to pardon me, Mr. Rustin,” said Shorty, “I had to do it.
Yuh see, I’m deputy sheriff here, an’ yuh was under suspicion, an’ I had
to get the dope on yuh. I asked yuh fer a match, an’ then came close an’
pretended I was tryin’ to sell yuh a bottle o’ booze while I plucked
yuhr wallet outa yuhr pocket. I had other business up the road in a
hurry, so I examined that wallet on the way out—found yuhr papers an’
credentials—I apologize.”
“Well!” said Rustin.
“What in——” began the sheriff.
“Mr. Rustin is all right, boss,” said Shorty, easily, “he’s an insurance
man from Denver up here on a little business matter, that’s all. I read
his private papers an’ know it’s the truth. Yuhr suspicions on him was
all wrong, boss, but I got the goods on somebody else—this Larry Spect
here.”
The sheriff looked at Larry and started when he saw that Larry’s wrists
were braceleted with Shorty’s handcuffs.
“Larry here,” said Shorty, proudly, “is the man Mr. Rustin is lookin’
for, I reckon! Larry has lost a lot o’ hosses by lightnin’ lately, an’
they was all insured, an’ Larry has been collectin’ on ’em. Larry went
around the country buyin’ hosses cheap an’ leavin’ ’em whar he bought
’em, to get ’em later, but before he could return fer ’em, lightnin’ got
’em. However, he had already insured ’em, so——”
The sheriff choked.
“Lightnin’, yuh say?” asked the sheriff. “Shorty, yuh been investigatin’
lightnin’, like that bird All Wet said?”
“Yes,” said Shorty, “an’ I arrested Larry fer fraud. I found out from
Mr. Rustin’s papers that the insurance company was suspicious o’ all
Larry’s losses. But I was wise to the lightnin’ biz before
I—borrowed—Mr. Rustin’s wallet. I had looked in the telephone book in
the hotel booth here, see? So I started fer Larry’s, after stealin’
Rustin’s wallet. Larry thought he was pretty cute. He had a good game.
He bought hosses cheap, insured ’em fer more than their value, an’ then,
blooey, lightnin’ struck! But this is the way it struck! Larry got an
ol’ inner tube out of a big truck tire an’ vulcanized one end o’ it
air-tight, makin’ a sort o’ rubber bag which he slipped over the hosses’
heads. They smothered to death, o’ course, leavin’ no mark o’ violence.
Then he took a blow torch an’ burned little spots in their hides, like
whar lightnin’ had struck; then he burned little patches o’ grass around
the bodies, to make it look all the more like lightnin’.”
The sheriff took one look at Larry’s guilty expression and he realized
that Shorty surely had the goods on Larry.
“But—but yuh say yuh got all _that_ dope outa the telephone book?” cried
the sheriff.
“Indirectly,” said Shorty, grimly. “Yuh see Larry _did_ have a purty
good game, seein’ we have had a lot o’ thunderstorms lately. Mr. Rustin
here was down investigatin’ Larry an’ Larry’s losses, but he didn’t get
no place, seein’ that Larry had really fixed things so it looked like
lightnin’ was to blame.”
“Correct!” spoke up Rustin, crisply.
“But Larry wasn’t so bright after all,” said Shorty, “fer a couple o’
times while he was killin’ his stock to make it look like lightnin’ had
done the job, he was seen workin’ with a blow torch an’ the inner tube.
The man who seen him got suspicious, o’ course, but didn’t like to make
no charges. He was a stranger in these parts, an’ didn’t know yuh,
sheriff, nor me, so he wrote yuh some letters, tryin’ to tip yuh off in
a vague sort o’ way without actually spillin’ the beans.”
“So?” said Sheriff Cook.
“Yes,” said Shorty, “but the letters didn’t do no good. So this mornin’
he got his nerve up—this feller I’m speakin’ o’ did—an’ he called yuh
up, mentionin’ that lightnin’ business right out. Yuh got mad an’
thought he was kiddin’ yuh. Yuh asked him who he was an’ when yuh
thought he said ‘Mr. All Wet’ yuh figgered it was some more o’ this
slang biz an’ hung up, but——”
The sheriff took off his hat.
“But the telephone book, Shorty,” he said, “what had that to do with all
this exposure?”
“Easy,” said Shorty, “I got to thinkin’ about this Mr. All Wet business.
I looks in the telephone directory an’ I finds a name ‘Mr. Earl Watt’,
listed for the old Two B rancho. I went over thar to-day an’ sure
enough, he’s ther feller that telephoned yuh. He admitted it quick
enough, told me about what he had seen Larry doin’, an’ so I arrested
Larry an’ brung him in——”
The sheriff looked at the stranger who had come with Shorty and Larry.
The stranger was smiling broadly.
“An’ who is this man?” asked the sheriff.
“Why,” said Shorty, “that’s Mr. Watt, Earl Watt, boss, the man yuh
thought said he was ‘Mr. All Wet.’”
The sheriff ingratiatingly stuck out a huge hand.
“Shake, brother,” he said, “I’m glad to know yuh. I guess ef thar’s
anybody all wet around here, as the old slang phrase goes, it must be
me.”
“It’s _me_,” wailed Max Hines, the hotel man, breaking in, “it’s _me_
that’s all wet! Here I was worryin’ about that
four-dollars-and-eighteen-cents palm o’ mine gettin’ stole an’ I plumb
fergot that I had it insured fer ten whole bucks—shucks, I would o’ made
money ef it had been stole!”
Rustin, the insurance investigator, scowled at Max, and made a mental
note of Max’s statement. Just let Max ever try to _collect_ insurance
for that miserable palm.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
This etext was produced from Western Story Magazine, December 24, 1927.
Obvious typographical and printing errors have been corrected without
note. Period spellings, inconsistent hyphenation, and the author’s
punctuation and dialect have otherwise been left as printed.
Italic text is shown _like this_.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SLANG BRANDER ***
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