Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron by RALPH COMPTON Page B

person, Sheriff, no matter how justifiable the situation.”
    â€œI understand, Doc,” said Matheson. “I’d never ask you to. Just get me a shotgun and get me on my feet. Wearing this badge has always meant I’d be the one to take the bullet ... or give it, however way the chips fall.”
    The old doctor nodded as he backed away toward the door. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
    Sheriff Matheson watched the door open a crack then dose. Outside, Dr. Callaway slipped unnoticed along the backs of the buildings toward the New Royal Saloon, where he knew the owner kept a spare loaded shotgun stuck beneath a whiskey pallet in the stockroom. On his way to the back door of the saloon, the doctor saw the first steam of smoke rise atop the buildings from the direction of the telegraph office. “Sonsabitches,” he whispered to himself, hearing hoots of drunken laughter from the street.
    Finding the rear door to the saloon unlocked, the old doctor slipped inside and held his breath as he passed the open stockroom door and saw Sherman Fentress lying atop the billiard table, drunk and waving a cocked pistol back and forth aimlessly. Dr. Callaway kept an eye on the wounded gunman as he slipped over to a darkened corner where a wooden pallet lay supporting a half dozen whiskey crates. Before his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, the doctor reached a hand out to the crates. But instead of feeling the rough wood, he felt the familiar round hardness of a knee bone and jerked his hand back, startled, as a deep voice said, “Doc, what’re you looking for, slipping around back here?”
    â€œDamn it, Leonard! Scare the bejesus out of a man!” the doctor cursed in a whisper. “Sitting here in the dark like some lunatic!” He collected himself and took a deep breath, looking at the darkened face of Leonard Whirley, the saloon owner, sitting slumped atop a whiskey crate. Atop Whirley’s head, a ruffled-up toupee sat crooked and slanted too far to one side. “Fix your hair, Leonard. It looks like a rat’s got his head stuck in your ear.”
    The saloon owner reached up, adjusted the toupee, and smoothed it down. “Sorry, Doc. Had I expected company, I would’ve been better groomed.”
    The doctor shot a glance out to the billiard table, seeing the bartender carry a fresh bottle of rye from behind the bar and hold it out to Sherman Fentress’s grasping hands. Then he said, looking back at Whirley, “Sheriff Matheson is still alive and kicking. I reckon you know why I’m here?”
    Whirley nodded and moved his right foot to one side. The doctor stooped down, pulled out the shotgun, blew dust from it, and broke it open, taking pains to keep his actions quiet. “There’s a couple extra loads down there if you want them,” said Whirley.
    â€œWhy not?” said the doctor, reaching back under the pallet and bringing out two shotgun loads. He dropped them into his pocket.
    Watching the old doctor check the loaded shotgun, the despondent saloon owner said, “Believe it or not, I was just thinking about pulling that out myself. There’s only five of them, one already wounded all to hell. I figured I could walk out and blast that bloody buzzard off my pool table, then go to the street and take my chances with the rest of them.”
    â€œOnly five, huh?” The doctor stared at him for a second, then said, “Five is no small number when there’s guns pointed at you.”
    â€œI said I was just thinking about it, Doc,” said Whirley. “I never said for sure that I was going to do it.”
    â€œThat’s what I figured,” the doctor said. “While you’ve been thinking about it,” he said, clicking the shotgun shut, having seen that both barrels were loaded, “our sheriff is getting ready to do it.” He looked the saloon owner up and down. “Of course, I don’t suspect