False Face By Ernest Haycox Author of “A Good Man to Lie For,” etc. “Now listen, you gol-durned, slab-footed curmudgeon,” exclaimed Sheriff Bart McKenzie, “you’re goin’ to take the deppity star I give you! Don’t want to hear no more objections. It’s my duty an’ privilege to draft an’ swear in whomsoever I choose. You ain’t got no right to stand there an’ tell me you feel disinclined to serve yore country; it’s a downright perversion of public sperrit, and I’m not a-goin’ to stand fer it.” “Don’t want nuthin’ to do with it,” repeated old Dave Budd with a still greater vehemence. “Ain’t goin’ to go around with that hunk o’ tin on my shirt lookin’ like a dumb fool.” “Fool?” roared Bart McKenzie. “I take it I look like a fool fer carryin’ my star, then?’ “You’re a duly ’lected sheriff,” explained Budd. “People wanted you to serve, or they wouldn’t have voted you in. As fer me, I’m a fat, old man, and my fightin’ days are plumb past. Git yoreself some young and spry feller that likes to ride saddle all night long, or live on a slice o’ bacon four days runnin’. Me, I got to have more comfort in my old age, Bart.” The sheriff neatly strung together a series of strong words. “Why, you idiot, you’re no older’n me! Call forty-eight old? Howsomever, I ain’t askin’ you to track no criminals across the desert. You don’t have to. Yore word is pretty much law in these parts, anyhow.” “Well, that bein’ so,” replied Budd, “why should I have to wear a gol-durned piece o’ soldered tin on my shirt? Now you listen to me, old-timer. I got my own way o’ dispensin’ sech justice as these parts need. It don’t have anything to do with totin’ a badge around, either. Why, that’d set all my folks agin’ me, Bart. No, sir, you let me be. We’re real peaceful at this end o’ the country and don’t need no deppities. When suthin’ outrageous happens, you git here soon enough, anyhow.” McKenzie opened the clasp of the deputy’s badge and got hold of Budd’s dusty vest. “Ain’t listenin’ to no more palaver,” he said, snorting. “I’m a-goin’ to brand you right now, critter. There, Deppity Budd, you’re a handsome-lookin’ peace officer.” The storekeeper’s huge face was wreathed in a scowl as he stared at the trinket of authority on his vest. “It’s all turrible foolish,” said he. “What’m I to look after? Jack rabbits and coyotes?” “You old maverick,” said the sheriff in placating tones, “I been lettin’ you alone fer a good while, but now’s time fer some serious work. Jest take a look out in yore front pasture, and I reckon you’ll know what I’m deppitizin’ you for.”