Destry Rides Again (2 page)

If alcohol is a mental poison, at least it did not show in Harry Destry by thickness of speech, or uncertainty of hand and
foot. His eye grew brighter, wilder, his head was higher; his hand was more swift and restless before he ended the first fifty
that Bent had given to him.

A hundred dollars, in those days, could be spread thick over many slices of good time, and Destry was both spreading and eating,
and taking friends with him. No one knew how trouble started; they rarely did, when Harry Destry went on the warpath, but
already there was a commotion in Donovan’s Saloon when the sheriff rode up beside the whirling, flashing wheels of Chester
Bent’s buggy and raised his hand. Bent drew the horses back to a walk, and they went on, switching their tails, stretching
their necks out against the uneasy restraint of the bits, and eager to be off again at full trot.

The sheriff brushed some of the dust from his black moustache, of whose sheen and length and thickness he was inordinately
proud; then he said: “Chet, I wanta ask you a coupla questions. Where was you Wednesday night?”

“Wednesday night?” said Chester Bent, calmly thoughtful. “Let me see! I was doing accounts, most of the evening. Why d’you
ask?”

“Because the express was held up that night, and the mail was robbed,” said the sheriff.

He looked earnestly into the face of the younger man to see if there was not some change of expression.
In fact, Chester Bent grew pale, with purple spots faintly outlined on his sleek cheeks.

“And seventy-two thousand dollars was taken,” said the sheriff, “as maybe you know!”

“Great Lord!” murmured young Bent, aghast, and added in a rapid muttering: “And poor Harry Destry spending money like wildfire
all over town——”

He checked himself, and glanced guiltily at the sheriff.

“Whacha say?” asked the sheriff, his voice high and sharp.

“Nothing, nothing!” said Chester Bent. “I didn’t say anything at all. I wonder if you’re suspecting me of anything, sheriff?”

“I’m not suspectin’ nobody. I’m askin’ questions, as the law and my job tells me to do. That’s all!”

It was perfectly apparent, however, that he had heard the remark of Bent, as indeed that gentleman expected him to do, and
now, with a mere wave of his hand in farewell, he spurred his horse into a gallop up the road, and every clot of sand and
dust which the mustang’s hoofs flicked upwards, like little hanging birds in the air, spelled mischief for Destry.

Of course all things went wrong at once, for as the sheriff came swiftly down the main street of Wham, he heard loud shouts,
frightened yells, gunshots before him; and then he saw a hurried crowd pouring out from the mouth of the Donovan Saloon.

He stopped one frenzied fugitive, who ran at full speed, and made a spy-hop every few strides as though he expected that some
danger might fly harmlessly past him under his heels.

The sheriff reached from his horse and caught the shoulder of the other, spinning him around and staggering him.

“What’s wrong in there?”

“Destry’s wild again!” said the other, and shot ahead at full speed.

The sheriff did not rush at once into the saloon. He was as brave a man as one would find in a hundred mile ride, but still
he knew the place for valor and the place for discretion. He halted, therefore, at the swinging door, and called out “Destry!”

“Wow!” yelled Destry. “Come on in!”

And a forty-five calibre bullet split a panel of the door.

The sheriff stepped a little farther to the side.

“Who’s there?” asked the sheriff. “Who’s raisin’ hell and busting the laws
in this here community?”

“I’m the Big Muddy,” answered the whooping voice within. “I got snow on my head, and stones on my feet, and the snows are
meltin’, and I’m gunna overflow my banks. Come on in and take a ride!”

“Is that you, Destry?”

“I’m the Big Muddy,” Destry assured him. “Can’t you hear me roar? I’m beginnin’ to flow, and I ain’t gunna stop! I’m rarin’
to bust my banks, and I wanta know what kinda levees you got to hold me back. Wow!”

Another shot exploded, and there was a crash of breaking glass.

At this, the man of the law gripped both hands hard.

“Harry Destry,” said he, “come out in the name of the law!”

“The only law I know,” said Destry, “is to run down hill. Look out, because I’m fast on the corners.
I’m the Big Muddy River, and I’m runnin’ all the way to the sea!”

The sheriff deliberately turned on his heel and departed. He merely explained in a casual way to bystanders that there was
nothing to be done with fools of this calibre except to let them run down and go to sleep. And Wham, though it was a reasonably
tough town, agreed. It had experienced the flow of the “Big Muddy” many a time before this and knew what to expect from Destry.

So, when Destry wakened in the raw of the chilly morning, with an alkaline thirst eating at his soul, he found that he was
resting peacefully in jail, with the sheriff drowsing comfortably in the chair beside him. A guard was near by, with a grim
look and a riot gun. Said the sheriff, while the eyes of Destry were still hardly half open:

“Destry, you robbed the Express!”

“Sure,” said Destry, “but gimme a drink, will you?”

“You robbed the Express?”

“I did if I get that drink. If I don’t get that drink, I never seen the damn Express.”

“Give him a drink,” said the sheriff.

The drink was given and disappeared.

At this, Destry sat up and shrugged his shoulders.

“You know you’re under arrest,” warned the sheriff, who was an honest man,
“and whatever you say may be used against you. But you’ve confessed to robbing the Express!”

“Did I?” said Destry. “I’ll rob another for another drink. Who’s got the makings?”

He was furnished with Bull Durham and brown wheat-straw papers.

“Now then,” said the sheriff, “you better tell me just what you did! How’d you go about it?”

“How do I know?” replied Destry, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs. “If I robbed the Express, all right, I done it. But I
don’t remember nothin’ about it!”

“Look here,” said the sheriff. “You recognize this?”

He presented that small packet which he had taken from the inside pocket
of Destry’s coat.

“How can I recognize it when I ain’t seen what’s inside of it?”

“You know mighty well,” declared the sheriff, “what’s in this here! Confess up, young man. It’s gunna make everything easier
for you in front of the judge and the jury. And even if you don’t confess, they’ll snag you, anyway!”

“Let ’em snag,” said Destry. “I been workin’ too hard, and I need a good rest, anyways! Was the Express robbed last night?”

“You know mighty well that the night was Wednesday!”

“Do I? All right. I just wanted to be sure what night it was that I done that robbin’. So long, sheriff. I’m gunna sleep agin.”

He dropped the cigarette butt to the floor and allowed it to fume there, while he impolitely turned his back upon the sheriff
and instantly was snoring again.

“…that Harrison Destry, residing in, near, or in the region about Wham, in the state of Texas, did on the night of Wednesday,
May the eleventh, at or about fifteen minutes past ten o’clock, wilfully, feloniously, and injuriously delay, deter, and cause
to stop the train entitled…”

Harrison Destry raised his head again and became lost in the labors of the big spider which was at work in the corner above
the desk of the judge. The sun struck a mirror so placed against the wall that a bright beam was deflected into this very
corner, and there the spider, unseasonable as the time was, busily pursued the work of constructing his net for flying insects.
So distinct did the work appear in the bright light, and so keen was the eye of Destry, that he saw every glistening cable
as it was laid, all threaded with globules of glue. He lost the voice that was reading.

Presently he was recalled to himself by the voice of the judge asking if he had selected a lawyer to represent him. When he
answered no, he was briefly informed that it was well to have the advice of counsel from the first; that already he had been
informed of this several times, and that it was specially valuable before the selection of a jury.

“I’m broke,” said Destry. “What’s your honor got on hand in the way of a good second-rate, up-and comin’ lawyer for me?”

His Honor was none other than Judge Alexander Pearson, whom perhaps six people in the world were permitted to address as Alec.
The rest were kept at
arm’s length, and through all that range he was respected and dreaded for his justice, which he doled out with an equal hand,
and for his knowledge of every individual, and of every individual’s eccentricities and history almost from birth. It was
possible to make promises about future conduct to some judges, but Alexander Pearson was too well able to tell of the future
by the past.

“Counsellor Steven Eastwick,” said the judge, “is here at hand, and I am sure is capable of giving your case a scholarly and
careful handling. Counsellor Eastwick is newly a member of the bar, but I am sure——”

“Hello, Steve,” said the prisoner. “Poker, sure, but not courtroom cards, if you play my hand! Thanks, your honor. I’ll handle
this deal better than Steve, to suit myself.”

The judge went on in his even voiced way: “Counsellor Rodman Wayne is also newly one of us. Mr. Wayne, I am sure, would also
be adequate and if——”

“Roddie never learned how to swim, till he was chucked into the water off of the dam by Clacky Fisher and me,” said the prisoner.
“And this here water is a pile too deep and fast for Roddie to look good in it, your honor. Got anybody else?”

“I think that in the hall there is——”

“Gimme the gent in the hall,” said the prisoner. “He looks good to me!”

The judge overlooked this sanguine carelessness and gravely asked that Counsellor Christian McDermott be asked to step into
the court if he was in the adjoining hall.

“Good old Chris!” said young Mr. Destry. “He’ll help me a lot!”

He turned toward Chester Bent, who sat on the
first bench among the spectators, and said aloud: “Chris is so nearsighted that he never seen a joke till he got double lenses,
and then the first thing he laughed at was himself in a mirror!”

“Mr. Destry,” said the judge quietly, “there are certain rules of decorum which must be observed in a courtroom. Here is Mr.
McDermott. Counsellor, are you willing to undertake this case?”

Mr. McDermott was. He had really almost given up the practice of law, and spent his time pottering around forty acres of apple
trees up the valley toward the mountains. His one real labor of the week was to scrub the food spots from his large expanse
of vest on Sunday mornings so that he could go spotless to church at noon. But for the sake of dignity, he occasionally appeared
at the court and picked up a small case here and there.

He now came in, looked over his glasses at the judge, under them at the prisoner, and through them at the faces in the crowd,
to several individuals among which he nodded greetings. So the selection of the jury began.

It proceeded with amazing swiftness. The only objections were those made by the assistant district attorney, Terence Anson,
who was usually called Doc, for no good reason at all. His peremptory challenges did not need to be used often. He objected
to Clarence Olsen, because the latter was known to have been pulled out of the creek by Destry years ago, and therefore he
might be presumed to have some prejudice in favor of the prisoner, and three other men, one of whom had taken shooting lessons
from Destry, and two others had been partners in the cattle business and were helped by Destry in trailing down a band of
rustlers who had run off a
number of cows. Aside from these four, he also used several peremptory challenges, but none were made by McDermott. He turned
in each instance, anxiously, toward his client, but every time Destry merely shrugged his shoulders.

“It ain’t much use to try for anybody better,” said Destry.

And in a brief half hour, twelve men were sitting in the jury box. There was this remarkable feature which they possessed
in common—they were all old inhabitants of Wham, and had known the prisoner for years, and all of them looked toward him with
a singular directness.

Mr. McDermott regarded them with anxiety.

“D’you know,” he said to his client, “that just from a glance at their expressions,
I’d say that not a one of them is particularly a friend of yours?”

“There ain’t one of ’em,” said Destry, “that wouldn’t skin half his hide off if he could put me in jail for life. But that
don’t matter. In this here town, Chris, I got nothin’ but enemies and friends. Less friends than enemies, though. And I wouldn’t
have it no other way. What good is a hoss to ride that don’t have kinks to be took out of its back of a morning? I got the
chance, Chris, of a grit stone in a mill race. But what’s the difference? I been needin’ a rest for a long time, and a chance
to think! But let’s see what they got agin me?”

He soon learned. The trial proceeded headlong, for the ways of the judge did not admit of great delays. First Terence Anson
in a dry, barking voice—he was a man who was continually talking himself out of breath—and having coughing fits while he recovered
it—touched not too lightly on the past of Destry, and announced that he was going to prove
that Mr. Destry was a man likely to have committed this offense, capable of having committed it, and in need of the money
which it would bring in to him. After probabilities, he was going to prove that Harrison Destry did in person stop the Express,
hold up the messengers, take their weapons from them, and, passing on through the train, remove the valuables from the entire
list of the passengers, escaping with their personal property and the contents of the mail!

Mr. McDermott, when he made his own opening address, was somewhat handicapped for lack of material. He could not very well
disprove the known fact that Harrison Destry was a trouble maker and a fighter by taste, cultivation, and habit. But he launched
into certain vague generalities which had obscure references to the rights of the individual and the uncertainty of circumstantial
evidence, and sat down with his case as well ruined as it could have been by any given number of spoken words. So, puffing
and snorting, he waited in his chair and observed the opening examinations of the witnesses.

They were very few.

The engineer of the train was called, and stated that the person who had held up the train had been about the size of the
prisoner—or perhaps a little larger. And the voice of the robber had been very much like that of the prisoner, except that
it was perhaps a little higher. The two guards who had protected the mail delivered similar testimony.

Then there was the evidence of the owner and bartender of the First Chance saloon to the effect that Mr. Destry had come into
his place equipped with very little cash, had lost that, lost even his gun and spurs, and had gone on down the street stripped
of available cash. Yet when he had been loaned more
money by Mr. Bent, instead of spending it with some caution, he had thrown away the fresh supply with more recklessness than
ever! What did this prove, if not that he was confident of a reserve supply of negotiable securities which he could realize
upon so soon as he left the town? In fact, a package of those securities had been found in his pocket, and what else could
be desired as proof that he was the man?

There was no testimony which the defense could offer against this damning array, except when young Charlotte testified that
as a matter of fact, she had seen Bent give the prisoner a hundred dollars. And the inference to be drawn by a very imaginative
jury might be that the package of securities had been placed in the pocket of the accused man by someone with malicious intent
to shift the burden of the blame upon the shoulders of Destry and so draw a herring across his own trail.

The jury, however, did not appear to be particularly imaginative. It looked upon the prisoner with a cold eye, and retired
with an ominous lack of gravity, talking to one another before they were out of the courtroom.

As for Destry himself, he had no doubt at all of what would happen.

“What’ll he do, McDermott?” said he. “Will he run me up for ninety days, or will he string me a whole year, d’you think?”

McDermott shrugged his shoulders.

“First offenders usually receive mercy, in some form or another,” he declared.

“A year would be the limit, wouldn’t you say?”

McDermott grew red and scratched his head.

“Otherwise,” said Destry, “I would have bashed
my way out of their fool jail and never have stood for the trial at all!”

He gripped the arm of his impromptu lawyer.

“They wouldn’t soak me for any more than that?” he asked.

Said McDermott: “The verdict’s in charge of the jury, and the penalty must be assessed by the judge. I can’t alter the law
in your behalf, young man. But,” he went on, “if you’ll tell me where you’ve put away the rest of the stolen money and other
properties, and make a clean breast of the whole affair, no doubt the judge would reduce the sentence that he now has in contemplation.”

“You fat-faced, long-eared jackass,” said Destry mildly. “D’you think that I’ve done this job? Or, if I’d done it, d’you dream
that I’d come back here to Wham to spend what I’d made? Wouldn’t I barge away for Manhattan, where I could get rid of such
stuff for a commission? Of course I would! McDermott, go out and ask for a new set of brains. You make me tired.”

He turned his back on McDermott as the jury entered. It had been out for two and a half minutes. He rose at the order of the
judge. He stood guarded on both sides, and he heard Philip Barker, the foreman of the twelve good men and true say the fatal
word: “Guilty!”