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Title: What made the pinto jump
Author: Ray Humphreys
Release date: October 2, 2026 [eBook #79703]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Street & Smith Corporation, 1928
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79703
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHAT MADE THE PINTO JUMP ***
WHAT MADE THE PINTO JUMP
By Ray Humphreys
Author of “Shorty’s Squealers,” etc.
In the office of Marshal Pete Williams, in Gunsight City, sat Sheriff
Joe Cook and his deputy, “Shorty” McKay. The sheriff, jingling a pair of
handcuffs, wore a pleased expression, but Shorty’s face was downcast.
The marshal was speaking in a triumphant tone as he eyed his two
visitors.
“Yessir, soon as I got that circular from yuhr office in Monte Vista,
describin’ that fancy dude cowboy as yuh wanted fer swindlin’ the bank
over thar outta eight hundred dollars,” said Marshal Pete Williams, “I
remembered this here George DeNue has jus’ lit in our town with a roll
o’ dough; an’ by doin’ a little bit o’ mighty clever sleuthin’ I proved
to myself that George was the hombre yuh wanted, an’ I jailed him an’
sent fer yuh, sheriff!”
Sheriff Cook offered the marshal a fat, black cigar.
“Marshal, yuh has put over a good piece o’ work,” said the sheriff
warmly. “As soon as yuh sent us the picture o’ this DeNue yuh has in
jail here, we showed it down to the bank, an’ the cashier an’ the teller
both identified the mug as that o’ the smooth talker as had done ’em
outta the eight hundred dollars on a piece o’ worthless paper which they
thought was a draft. If we had more marshals like yuh in Colorado we’d
ketch more crooks.”
The sheriff struck a match and held it forward while the marshal lit his
gift cigar. The marshal was pleased at Sheriff Cook’s praise, but the
black look on the face of the deputy worried him. Shorty did not appear
overjoyed at the situation.
“Deputy,” said Marshal Williams, and he puffed thoughtfully on his big
cigar, “yuh look kinda glum, seems to me. I hopes that third piece o’
pie yuh had fer lunch ain’t disagreein’ with yuh?”
Shorty shook his head quickly.
“I—I’m jus’ kinda sorry yuh grabbed that DeNue bird, marshal,” said
Shorty frankly. “I was hopin’ I could land him myself. He seemed so
danged smart in puttin’ over that bum draft on them slick bankers an’
then makin’ such a clean get-away that I figgered it would be quite a
feather in my cap ef I could nab him. I was workin’ on several clues to
get him when yuh writes in that yuh has him, so——”
“Waal, o’ all ungrateful words,” cut in Sheriff Cook indignantly, “them
take the prize! ’Stead o’ complimentin’ the marshal here that he saved
us the trouble o’ ketchin’ that crook DeNue, yuh has the nerve to
complain about it! Yuh was plannin’ on a lot o’ excitement an’ gun play
an’ newspaper publicity, I reckon, an’ the marshal here jus’ beat yuh to
it! Sour grapes, Shorty, sour grapes!”
Marshal Williams was not angry. He chuckled softly.
“Yuh two birds may have plenty o’ excitement yet with this DeNue
hombre,” he suggested, sighing. “He’s a blamed slick article. He ain’t
nobody’s fool. An’ he as much as told me this mawnin’, when I informed
him that yuh was comin’ after him to fetch him back to Monte Vista jail,
that yuh might not succeed in gettin’ him thar at all, an’ ef yuh did
get him thar he might not stay long!”
Shorty’s sombre eyes glowed a bit at that, but Sheriff Joe Cook laughed
and pounded the desk with a clenched fist.
“Marshal, no crook ever outsmarted me, an’ none ain’t goin’ to do so at
this stage o’ the game,” said the sheriff, with pompous pride. “An’ now,
ef yuh don’t mind, trot out that prisoner an’ we’ll start fer Monte. We
brung a extra hoss along fer him. I’ll snap these bracelets on him, an’
we’ll go by-by.”
“I’ll fetch him,” said the marshal.
George DeNue was a smart crook, no question about that. No sooner had
Sheriff Cook and Shorty laid eyes on him, when the marshal brought him
in from the jail, than they both realized that DeNue was clever—and
dangerous! Tall, square-shouldered, with a thin, hard face, DeNue looked
to be made of nerve. He swaggered a bit as he came in with the marshal.
He gave Sheriff Cook a contemptuous stare and he ignored Shorty
altogether. The sheriff spoke up rather crisply then.
“Here, yuh, hold out yuhr hands! That’s it.”
_Click!_ The handcuffs were in place. The prisoner’s head went a trifle
higher, that was all. The marshal, who had been taking no chances with
his tall charge, holstered his gun. DeNue was the sheriff’s prisoner
now, and the marshal’s worries were over. Sheriff Cook did not like the
look in DeNue’s cold, gray eyes.
“DeNue, ef that’s yuhr real name,” said the sheriff, “I jus’ want to say
this much to yuh afore we start outta here: Yuh ain’t tryin’ no nonsense
on the trip back to Monte. I’ll bore yuh at the fust sign o’
foolishness. Yuh might as waal make up yuhr mind now that yuh’re goin’
to swaller yuhr medicine!”
DeNue’s eyes glittered—that was all.
“Yuh understand, hombre?” asked the sheriff.
DeNue’s head went higher. He did not answer.
“Yuh ain’t dumb, are yuh?” cried the sheriff peevishly. “Yuh heard what
I said about any funny stuff, didn’t yuh?”
All DeNue did was to draw his thin lips into a tighter, straighter line.
And at that Marshal Williams remembered something.
“Aw—er—sheriff,” stammered the marshal awkwardly, “I—mebbe I’d better
explain that—that Mr. DeNue here—waal, he’s kinda sore that he was
caught, o’ course! He tol’ me this mawnin’, when I informed him that yuh
was comin’ fer him, that he’d have nuthin’ to do with—with yuh; said he
was goin’ to have no words with yuh at all, that he was innocent, an’
that he wasn’t goin’ to—waal—to—to lower hisself to talk to no sheriff
or deputy sheriff.”
Sheriff Cook’s face went purple with suppressed rage.
“Oh,” he exclaimed finally, “so that’s it, eh? Waal, I reckon I kin keep
my health even ef a crook won’t talk to me! I ain’t particularly anxious
to carry on no conversation with a blamed swindler, after all. Yuh,
DeNue, git out an’ git on that roan hoss out thar—an’ no foolin’,
either!”
They rode out of Gunsight after the sheriff had gone over the prisoner
and satisfied himself that DeNue had no concealed weapons. The sheriff
had taken that precaution after the marshal had remarked that a girl had
visited DeNue in the Gunsight City jail the day before. But DeNue had no
weapon on him. DeNue lifted his chin a bit higher after the search.
“All right, ‘Mister Highhat!’” grunted the sheriff, trying hard to
control himself. “Yuh jus’ be as far upstage as yuh wishes, an’ see ef I
cares a dang whoop about it! Let’s go, Shorty!”
They went. The sheriff rode out ahead, smarting with anger. It was the
first time in his long career as sheriff that any man had ever refused
to talk to him, and now a mere crook was doing just that. The nerve of
that fellow! Well, let him keep his mouth shut if he wanted to! A good
wallop on the chin, or a bit of third degree in the Monte Vista jail, or
a diet of bread and water, might bring the fellow down off his perch,
decided the sheriff.
“What do I keer ef he don’t talk?” thought the sheriff, as he rode.
“It’s nuthin’ to me!” But the sheriff did care. It _was_ something to
him. He would have liked to question DeNue about the
eight-hundred-dollar transaction, wring a confession from him, perhaps,
before reaching Monte. If the prisoner would not talk that could not be
done, of course! The sheriff fumed, and then, at the sound of a voice
behind him, he swung swiftly in the saddle—to catch Shorty trying to
make up to the sullen prisoner.
“Shorty, what yuh doin’?”
“Nuthin’,” said Shorty. “I was jus’ suggestin’ to the gent here that he
shouldn’t be so clamlike—that he had better talk.”
“Who wants to hear him talk?” demanded the sheriff hotly. “I’ll knock
him outta that saddle ef he tries it! Ef he’s so uppity-uppity, let him
stay uppity-uppity—that’s all! Let him play oyster!”
“Yessir,” said Shorty gloomily.
But a few minutes later the sheriff heard an outburst of laughter. He
looked back over his shoulder to see Shorty convulsed with mirth. The
sheriff slowed up immediately and waited for the other two to pull
abreast. When Shorty and DeNue arrived, the sheriff glared.
“What’s the joke, Shorty?”
“Nuthin’—exceptin’ I was tellin’ DeNue here a funny story I heard in
Cheyenne,” said Shorty, “about the steers as had to drink muddy water to
cast any shadders at all, an’—an’—”
Sheriff Cook scowled.
“I told yuh to leave the prisoner be,” said the sheriff angrily, “an’
yuh insist on tryin’ to entertain him! Yuh’re a fool, that’s all! He’s
tryin’ to make fools outta both o’ us, an’ he is makin’ a fool outta
yuh! He don’t want to talk, so let him alone—it shouldn’t make us mad ef
he won’t be sociable, yuh galoot!”
And then the sheriff rode on, madder than ever.
But it was a long way to Monte Vista and Shorty was not inclined to ride
all that distance in silence. The sheriff, riding out ahead, was sore as
a hornet, Shorty knew. And all because this smooth DeNue hombre was
remaining aloof. The sheriff was easily angered, and DeNue’s superior
antics had turned the trick. But Shorty was not angry. He was just
talkative. He spoke in a whisper now—spoke out of the side of his
mouth—and with an eye on the sheriff ahead.
“Ef that ol’ bird ahead had to rely on hisself to hold the job o’
sheriff, he wouldn’t last a minnit,” muttered Shorty sociably to his
silent prisoner. “He’s a bluffer, that ol’ bird is! Ain’t got the nerve
o’ a chicken! I remember once when we was out after a rustler an’
surprised an’ sneaked up on him, an’ the rustler was startled an’ yelled
‘Hello!’—the fust word as came to his tongue—the sheriff put up his
hands in a jiffy, thinkin’ the hombre had told him to reach fer the
sky!”
Shorty looked expectantly at DeNue, but the prisoner never batted an
eyelash. He was staring straight ahead, lips tightly clamped.
“Ef it wasn’t fer me ridin’ here alongside o’ yuh, brother,” went on
Shorty, “yuh could prove to yuhrself jus’ what I told yuh that Cook is a
ol’ bluffer. To hear him talk or to look at him yuh’d think that he was
full o’ fire, but he ain’t. Ef I wasn’t here, all yuh’d have to do would
be to ride up a little closer on him an’ shout ‘Hands up!’ an’ he’d
elevate them so quick it would take yuhr breath away. Then yuh could
ride up an’ snatch a gun out of his holster an’ yuh’d be master o’
ceremonies afore he had time to figger what was comin’ off. That’s all
thar would be to it. It’s a mighty good thing fer him that I’m his
deputy—they say I’m the smartest deputy west o’ the Missouri River,
hombre, an’ danged ef I don’t believe it!”
DeNue gave Shorty a queer look. Sheriff Cook swung in his saddle again.
His sharp ears had caught a sound.
“Shorty, yuh talkin’ ag’in?” he asked angrily.
“Kinda hummin’ to myself—that’s all, boss,” said Shorty. “I was hummin’
‘Dixie’ an’——”
The sheriff turned his back on the deputy and the prisoner, apparently
satisfied with the explanation. DeNue now cast appraising eyes on
Shorty, but he said nothing. Shorty spoke again—cautiously—eagerly.
“I reckon thar’s been more prisoners got away from Sheriff Cook than
from any other sheriff in Colorado,” said Shorty, “that is, afore I
joined him as deputy. No prisoner ever got away from me. I’m good,
that’s all! I’m a real deputy. I kin shoot an’ ride a hoss better’n any
one in Monte Vista. I reckon I should ought to be sheriff myself ’stead
o’ Cook, but he’s got ’em all bluffed. Nobody knows what a coward an’
four-flusher he is but me. I tell yuh——”
The sheriff glanced back again, and Shorty paused.
“Yuh still hummin’?” called back Sheriff Cook.
“Some,” admitted Shorty.
“Huh!” snorted the sheriff wearily, turning away again.
“Yessir, it sure would be a good joke ef yuh got away from him,” went on
Shorty, slapping the prisoner affectionately on the back so that the
latter coughed and then flushed angrily. “An’ yuh could do it, boy, jus’
like I said, ef it wasn’t that I was along. I’m a dangerous guy to
monkey with, but I hands it to yuh, hombre—I hands it to yuh! Yuh got
the sheriff sore by not talkin’ to him. He thinks yuh’re uppity-uppity,
as he says. Yessir, yuh’re some smart hombre, ol’-timer, some smart
hombre!”
And Shorty pinched DeNue’s arm playfully, but DeNue only jerked away and
bestowed another glare on the talkative deputy.
“Speakin’ o’ hosses,” said Shorty, changing the subject abruptly. “Yuh
got a mighty good roan thar. He kin travel all day an’ all night without
quittin’. We use him in a lot o’ bandit chases. This pinto I’m ridin’ is
a good hoss, too, but kinda unreliable. He’s liable to jump out from
under yuh any minit. The sheriff kain’t ride him. The sheriff has to
have a big ol’ plow hoss to ride because he ain’t a good rider. Now me,
I’m a real rider, I am. I kin ride anything. I——”
The pinto gave a sudden lunge to the left and Shorty, taken off his
balance, made a grab for the saddle horn. He missed. He lost a stirrup,
and the next second he thudded to the ground. He landed on his head and
one shoulder, apparently, and he sprawled there motionless. DeNue stared
in surprise for half a second—he noticed that Shorty had fallen on top
of his holstered gun. Then DeNue stole a quick look at the sheriff. That
dignitary was riding on ahead, quite unaware of the mishap that had just
befallen his bragging deputy. DeNue lifted his handcuffed arms. He
brought his hands close to his face for a second as he kicked the roan
in the ribs. The next instant he was flying after the sheriff, riding on
the sod, out of the road, so that the hoofs would not thud so loud.
“Hands up—yuh!” he roared at the sheriff’s back.
Sheriff Cook looked around in dismay at the sudden shout. It had taken
him by surprise. He saw the wild-eyed DeNue riding down upon him, but
before he could see whether the outlaw had a gun in his hands to back up
his order or not there was another whoop.
“Hands up, DeNue!”
DeNue did not hesitate this time. He lifted his manacled hands above his
head. He knew that voice—the voice of the bragging deputy! Shorty must
not have been so badly hurt as he had figured. Without a gun, DeNue knew
his bluff was called.
Shorty came galloping up.
“Waal, this is a purty game!” burst forth Sheriff Cook wildly. “Yuh’re
supposed to be guardin’ a prisoner, an’ fust thing I know he’s right on
me, whoopin’ fer me to put up my hands! I didn’t know whether he had a
gat or not. A nice mess! Yuh went to asleep in the saddle, I reckon——”
But Shorty’s eyes were aglow with excitement.
“Yuh heard DeNue yell, boss?” cried Shorty. “Yuh heard him holler to yuh
to put yuhr hands up, didn’t yuh?”
Sheriff Cook flushed a deep crimson.
“I ain’t exactly deef, Shorty,” he snarled. “I heard him plain enough.
But what I’m interested in hearin’ now is how come yuh let him pull a
trick like that. He might have very easily got away——”
“No chance, boss!” yelled Shorty, riding up to DeNue and jerking
something from one of the latter’s hands. “I jus’ made up my mind I was
goin’ to make this hombre talk, that’s all! In spite o’ yuh an’ him
both! I got suspicious that he wasn’t talkin’ to us jus’ to be
uppity-uppity. I figgered he had a deeper reason than that. I decided to
make him talk——”
DeNue spoke again now—suddenly, and profanely!
“Yuh blankety-blank——” he snapped at Shorty.
“I slapped him on the back, an’ I pinched him,” said Shorty, “but he
wouldn’t talk. Then I told him lies, boss, a pack o’ lies. I told him
yuh was a coward. I told him I was the best deputy in Colorado. I let
him think yuh was a fool. I told him he was on a fast hoss—one he could
git away on easy. I kinda told him how to sneak up on yuh. I told him I
had a mean hoss, an’ yuh had a slow hoss—an’ then I fell offen my hoss!”
Sheriff Cook stared in unbelief.
“Yuh went to sleep, then, as I figgered?”
“Naw,” said Shorty, “I jabbed the pinto an’ made him jump, an’ I
pretended to be unseated an’ I fell off. I made believe I was bad hurt.
Knocked unconscious, in fact. But I saw to it that I lit on my gun so he
wouldn’t git off an’ help hisself to it. He had believed all I told him
about yuh bein’ a coward, and when he saw me down—an’ out, as he
thought—he jus’ made up his mind to try the plan I had suggested to him;
so he rode down on yuh, shoutin’ ‘Hands up!’ just as I hoped he would——”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Waal, why let him try a trick like that?” he asked.
“Because,” said Shorty, “I wanted to see ef I couldn’t make him talk. I
did. He talked when he shouted ‘Hands up!’ at yuh, didn’t he? Waal, that
was all I wanted. After he looked at me an’ thought I was unconscious
an’ then started fer yuh I lifted my head an’ watched him. Fust I saw
him bring his hands up to his face kinda funny; next minute he
shouted——”
“What of it?” asked Sheriff Cook. “Ef he was so uppity-uppity he
wouldn’t talk, thar was no use goin’ to such trouble to make him talk,
was thar? Ef he wanted to be high-hat——”
“He wasn’t high-hat, an’ he wasn’t uppity-uppity,” said Shorty blandly.
“He wasn’t talkin’, because he had something in his mouth all the time!
Something we didn’t find when we searched him in Gunsight City.
Something that gal that visited him in jail over thar yesterday must
have slipped him, and he worked out the plan o’ keepin’ it in his mouth
an’ pretendin’ to be too proud to speak to us. He couldn’t talk with
that in his mouth—he had to git rid o’ it afore he could shout at yuh. I
saw him drop it into his hands as he started for yuh. An’ I jus’ now
took it away from him. I got it here.”
“What is it?” asked Sheriff Cook curiously.
“A set of little lock picks which might be used to pick open them
handcuffs we got on him, or to pick open the locks on our jail doors,”
said Shorty proudly. “That’s all—but I guess he ain’t near as smart as
he thought he was, after all!”
The sheriff grinned broadly.
“Yuh may have told him a awful pack o’ lies about me an’ the hosses an’
things,” said Sheriff Cook, “but yuh never told him no lie when yuh said
that yuh was the best deputy sheriff in Colorado, Shorty. That ain’t no
lie—that’s a miracle! Yuh look dumb, an’ yuh act dumb, Shorty, but yuh
can make the other feller speak, all right!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
This etext was produced from Western Story Magazine, November 17, 1928.
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 WHAT MADE THE PINTO JUMP ***
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