WITH BATED BREATH

With Bated Breath THE RUMMY KID GOES HOME

I DIDN'T want any trouble. The girl didn't mean anything to either of us. I had only danced with her twice. Mason had been in the valley a year. I only knew him by sight. When Mason told me to lay off I thought the man was joking until I saw his face. The thing had happened so quick it was hard to get it all straight. There was only room in the school house for six couples to dance. There was a fire going outside the door. There was probably a dozen punchers around the fire when Mason jumped me out.

No one had ever rode me before. I didn't know what to do. When I tried to pass it off as a joke it only made things worse. I was nineteen years old an' husky but I'd never been in a fight. I could feel myself shaking all over.

I'd never felt so helpless in my life. When he cussed me I started to bawl. I was turning to walk away from the fire when he slapped me across the mouth. Some of the punchers were snickering. Mason was snickering too. All I could see was Mason's face. Everything else was a blur. I knew I was playing right into his hands when I swung at him but I couldn't stand it no longer.

It wasn't until I was halfway back to the ranch that things began to get clear. Mason had said he would kill me the next time we met up. It was funny how I could remember that when everything else was so hazy but the words seemed to burn in my head.

It was breaking light when I stopped at Oak Creek. I felt sick all over then. It was all I could do to get down from my horse but I knew the cold water would help. I didn't feel anything during the fight. Now I could hardly walk. We had evidently rolled into the fire. I could see that my clothes had been burned. Two .30-30 shells in my pocket were bent. Then I remembered he had give me the boots the last time I was down. A puncher had helped me onto my horse. I didn't know who he was. That was after Mason had said he would kill me the next time we met up.

ROSS SANTEE'S The Rummy Kid Goes Home

Before his death in late June of last year, our dear friend and long-time contributor to these pages, Ross Santee, compiled a book of short stories never before presented in book form, but previously printed in the early '20's in such magazines as Collier's, Red Book, Country Home, Farm and Fireside, and Cavalcade. We are grateful to Walter Frese and Hastings House, New York publishing firm, for making this volume of stories by a master storyteller available to the reading public. We think it is one of the best things Ross ever did. Illustrated with his own precious sketches, the book is written with the honesty and realism that made his storytelling so memorable. Stories include, besides the title piece, masterpieces of suspense, humor, irony, and others that reflect the poignancy, the vitality and drama in the lives of Southwestern ranch people. With Bated Breath, herein presented, is one of the gripping stories from Ross' last book. Our cherished friend is gone now, but he will live for a long time as long as people enjoy good writing, honest writing, faithful description of the people and the incidents that made the Southwestern range a vital, living thing and that will be a long, long time.

The Rummy Kid Goes Home is available wherever good books are sold. For those of our readers who do not have bookstore services available to them, this book can be ordered direct from ARIZONA HIGHWAYS, 2039 W. Lewis Ave., Phoenix, Arizona 85009. The price is $4.95. Please allow 25 cents for postage and handling. .. R.C.

I knew I couldn't go through with a gun fight. If I stayed that's what it meant. I'd seen Carter kill Johnson when I was a kid. The thought of it still made me sick. I didn't want any trouble. There was nothing to do but pull out.

I told the Ole Man what had happened when I got into the ranch. I told him I was leaving until the thing blowed over. He had taken me in when the folks died. I'd been with him since I was a kid but when the Ole Man finally spoke I wouldn't have known his voice.

"So you figure on leaving the valley until the thing blows over?" His voice cut like a knife. "Well, you might as well figger on leaving for good. If Mason don't run you off when you come back, somebody else will."

The Ole Man avoided me all that day. At supper he didn't speak. In the evenings we always set an' talked for a spell. For the first time since I had lived with him the Ole Man went to bed without a word to me. I couldn't sleep. It was the worst night I ever put in. I knew I'd let the Ole Man down. That was the thing that hurt. I didn't want to leave the valley. I couldn't go through with a gun fight. Nothing seemed to make sense.

I couldn't keep Carter and Johnson out of my head. No matter how hard I tried. I could see the thing all over as if it happened that day the way Johnson looked when Carter shot him down, the look in Carter's face as he stood over him an' pumped shell after shell into Johnson as he lay on the ground. But the thing that bothered me most of all was the way the Ole Man had looked at me. I'd let the Ole Man down.

The Ole Man had given me an ole "45" six-shooter years before that I always kept in my bed. I never had packed the thing. By the half-light from the window I cleaned an' oiled the gun. Then I cleaned my .30-30 an' tiptoed out of the house. When I wrangled the ponies that morning I saddled the best horse in my string. We were supposed to go to the U Bars that day an' get some of our cattle they'd gathered. It was the outfit where Mason worked. I figgered I might as well get it over with as long as it had to be.

The Ole Man had breakfast ready when I came into the house. We didn't speak all through the meal. It wasn't until he had caught up his horse that I said I was going with him. His face was always hard as flint. But when he spoke it was the voice I'd always known.

"I won't ask you to go today," he says, "you know Mason is working there. But I knew you wouldn't run away, Johnny Boy, you belong in the valley, son."

When I said I'd figgered on going along the Ole Man went into the house an' got his .30-30. Before he slung on the gun he pumped the shells out of the magazine into his hat. He worked the lever fast. He wiped each shell off carefully before he slipped it back into the gun. I took a last look at the ranch after we swung up. I didn't figger to see it again.

We were within a mile of the U Bar camp when the Ole Man pulled up his horse. "I wish I could take this off your hands I wish I could," he says. His voice was quite an' gentle. "It's up to Mason to make the first move. It's him that's made all the talk."

The Ole Man was speaking again "Keep cool an' don't get excited no matter what the man says. Don't pull your gun until you're ready to shoot when you pull it, come shootin', son. Get a slug into Mason's belly, don't think of anything else. If Mason pulls any kind of crooked move I'll kill the bastard myself."

I couldn't trust myself to speak. I could only nod my head.

The U Bar cook was in camp alone. Dinner was almost ready. He said the outfit was branding out at a corral just up the canyon. We didn't ride two hundred yards till we meet them comin' in. The outfit was making a beanpot race. The punchers were running their horses. We pulled our horses out of the trail. Most of the punchers spoke as they passed us. When several of them looked behind we knew that Mason was coming.

Mason was riding a big black horse. He was coming at a gallop. At sight of us he tried to pull the big black up but the big horse fought for his head. He was still fighting his head when he passed us an' Mason yelled "Hello." Me an' the Ole Man nodded, then Mason yelled "Hello" again as if we hadn't heard him.

When he finally pulled the big horse down we followed him into camp. I could see the butt of his sixshooter underneath the batwinged chaps. The scabbard was built into the leggins where it was protected by the flap. It was a common way of packing a gun when a man was on a horse. A man could reach it quick. The flap protected it from the heavy brush. An' there was another advantage, it couldn't be seen from the front. WhenMason dismounted from his horse he took his leggins off an' pitched the leggins, gun an' all, on the ground just out of camp. The gesture was obviously peaceful, He knew we'd seen the gun.

We rode to the other side of camp. When the Ole Man got down from his horse he pulled his .30-30 from the scabbard an' leaned it against a tree. The Ole Man parked himself on his heels right beside the gun. He got out his pipe an' filled it, then he told me to go an eat. I sat beside the Ole Man after I filled my plate. When I finished I put put my things in the roundup pan. Then I parked beside the rifle while the Ole Man got his bait.

There was the usual roundup talk that goes with a meal in camp. Tom Nash, the foreman, told the Ole Man they had gathered thirty head of our stuff. The Ole Man spoke of a U Bar saddle horse that he had seen not over a week before that was running with the wild bunch.

One of the men attempted a joke. It was a pretty feeble effort. Bill Jones, who was just my age, laughed so loud that several of the punchers turned an' looked at him. Bill's face turned scarlet then. Nothing about the meal seemed real to me. I could feel the Ole Man's presence above everything else in camp. Never in all the years I'd lived with him had the Ole Man seemed so close.

I was conscious of trifling things I wouldn't have noticed before. The cook had shaved that morning. I counted three little cuts on his cheek. There was a little mole on Dick Smith's hand. Dick had often stayed all night at the ranch. I'd never seen it before.

Mason avoided me with his eyes. His face was the color of ashes. He didn't speak all through the meal. I tried to keep Carter an' Johnson out of my head. I kept looking at his belt buckle, thinking of what the Ole Man had said. "Get a slug into his belly, don't think of anything else." I wondered if I could go through with it when the blow-off finally come.

I watched Mason pull on his batwinged chaps an' swing onto his big black horse. He rode just behind the foreman. As soon as the men were mounted we followed them into the corral. The Ole Man told me to hold the "cut." It put me off by myself. Occasionally I'd get a flash of Mason through the dust. But he didn't come anywhere close. I'll never forget the relief I felt when I saw the Ole Man coming an' we started the cattle for home.

The valley had never looked so good before. I didn't have to leave! The Ole Man an' I sat late that night. He spoke about my folks. He said my dad had never took things laying down. He always seen it through. I told the Ole Man I couldn't have faced it out if it hadn't been for him. But the Ole Man shook his head.

have to leave! The Ole Man an' I sat late that night. He spoke about my folks. He said my dad had never took things laying down. He always seen it through. I told the Ole Man I couldn't have faced it out if it hadn't been for him. But the Ole Man shook his head.

"You belong in the valley, Johnny Boy," he says, "you belong in the valley, son."

I thought it was all over. But it wasn't over. The blow-off came a month later. I'd gone into town alone. I'd gone in to another dance. I got a room in the hotel to change clothes. My room was just off the bar. I was shav-ing when I heard voices at the bar. Something went all over me. I put down my razor an' listened. It was Mason's voice. He was talking to the bartender.

"With that old musk-hog sitting by his rifle I didn't have a chance the other day in camp. Jackson's alone tonight."

The bartender said something. I couldn't make it out. I tried to finish shaving. I cut myself twice on the cheek. I finally got so nervous I put the razor down. Mason was speaking again: "I suppose I'll have to get the Ole Man later but I aim to kill Jackson tonight."

I couldn't stand it no longer. The six-shooter the Ole Man had given me was laying on the bed. I cocked the gun an' held it in the waistband of my pants. I didn't even wipe the lather off my face. Mason was still talking as I came through the door.

Mason's back was toward me. He could see me in the mirror that stood behind the bar. In the mirror I could see his gun. It was in his waistband where he could get it quick.

Mason made no move to turn. His hand slid toward his gun. I couldn't shoot him in the back -- I was thinking of Ole Johnson. I watched him pull the gun. He pulled it slow. An' still he made no move to turn. Then he slid the gun across the bar. He put his head down on his arm an' cried like a little kid.

I couldn't speak. When Mason finally raised his head I pointed to the door. I never saw him again.

The bartender stood beside me. He shook my hand. He said I needed a drink. But I didn't want a drink. I wanted to be alone.

I walked into my room and laid down on the bed. It was all I could do to make it. I felt weak and sick all over. I didn't want any trouble.