Elder Conklin and Other Stories

	
farmer class who did not frequent the expensive bar of the Carvell House
were to be seen in front. It dawned upon me that the matter was serious,
and was being taken seriously.

The silence was broken from time to time by some casual remark of no
interest, drawled out in a monotone; every now and then a man invited
the "crowd" to drink with him, and that was all. Yet the moral
atmosphere was oppressive, and a vague feeling of discomfort grew upon
me. These men "meant business."

Presently the door on my left opened--Sheriff Johnson came into the
room.

"Good evenin'," he said; and a dozen voices, one after another, answered
with "Good evenin'! good evenin', Sheriff!" A big frontiersman, however,
a horse-dealer called Martin, who, I knew, had been on the old vigilance
committee, walked from the centre of the group in front of the bar to
the Sheriff, and held out his hand with:

"Shake, old man, and name the drink." The

Sheriff took the proffered hand as if mechanically, and turned to the
bar with "Whisky--straight." Sheriff Johnson was a man of medium height,
sturdily built. A broad forehead, and clear, grey-blue eyes that met
everything fairly, testified in his favour. The nose, however, was
fleshy and snub. The mouth was not to be seen, nor its shape guessed at,
so thickly did the brown moustache and beard grow; but the short beard
seemed rather to exaggerate than conceal an extravagant outjutting of
the lower jaw, that gave a peculiar expression of energy and
determination to the face. His manner was unobtrusively quiet and
deliberate.

It was an unusual occurrence for Johnson to come at night to the bar-
lounge, which was beginning to fall into disrepute among the puritanical
or middle-class section of the community. No one, however, seemed to pay
any further attention to him or to remark the unusual cordiality of
Martin's greeting. A quarter of an hour elapsed before anything of note
occurred. Then, an elderly man whom I did not know, a farmer, by his
dress, drew a copy of the "Kiota Tribune" from his pocket, and,	
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