At the time of Curly's visit I was breaking in a bunch of fool ponies, and along in August sold them to the Lawson Cattle Company. Their Flying W. Outfit was forming up just then for the fall round-up, so by way of swift delivery I took my ponies down by rail to Lordsburgh. Their camp was beside the stock-yard, and the little old cow town was surely alive with their cowboys, stamping new boots around to get them used, shooting off their guns to show how good they felt, filling up with chocolate creams and pickles to while the time between meals, sampling the whisky, the games, and the druggist's sure-thing medicines, or racing ponies for trial along the street.
Now I reckon that the sight and smell of a horse comes more natural to me than anything else on earth, while the very dust from a horse race gets into my blood, and I can't come near the course without my head getting rattled. But from the first whiff of that town I caught the scent of something going wrong, for most of the stock-yard was full of cattle branded with a cross, and the Holy Crossvaqueroswere loading them into a train. Moreover, by many a sign I gathered fact on fact, that this delivery of Balshannon's cattle was out of the way of business, not a shipment of beef to the market, but a sale of breeding-stock, which meant nothing short of ruin. I strayed through that town feeling sick, refusing to drink with the punchers, or talk cow with the cattlemen, or take any interest in life. At the post office I met up with Jim, face to face, and he tried to pass by short-sighted.
"Boy," said I, as I grabbed him, "why for air you shamed?"
"Leave me go," he snarled.
"For why, son?"
"'Cause I'm shamed."
"Of yo'self?"
"Shamed of my father. Our breeding-stock is gone to pay his gambling debts."
"All of it?"
"What's left is offal. Now you leave me go!"
"Whar to?"
"To follow Balshannon's trail—drink, gambling, shame, death, and a good riddance."
"You'll come with me first," says I, "for an oyster stew and some bear sign. I ain't ate since sun-up."
He came with me for a stew and the doughnuts, which made him feel some better in his heart, and after that I close-herded him until the cattle were shipped, through the evening, through the night, and on to daybreak. Then I rounded up his greaser cowboys from various gambling joints, and pointed him and them for Holy Cross.
"Boy," says I at parting, "you've been at work on the range for long months now, and yo' mother is surely sick for the sight of yo' fool face. Go home."
"You old Chalkeye fraud," says he, with a grin as wide as the sunrise, "you're getting rid of me because you want to have a howling time on your lonesome, with all that money you got for your rotten ponies."
It was surely fine sight to see my Jim hit the trail, the silver fixings of his saddle and cowboy harness bright as stars, his teeth aflash, his eyes a-shining, as he stooped down to give me cheek at parting, and lit out with his tail up for home. His riders saluted me as their old chief in passing, calling, "Buenas dias señor, adios!" Yes, they were good boys, with all their dark skin and their habit of missing the wash-time; light-built riders, with big, soft eyes always watchful, grave manners, gentle voices, gay laughter, and their beautiful Spanish talk like low thunder rolling. They were brave as lions, they were true as steel, and foolish only in the head, I reckon. So they passed by me one by one, saluting with a lift of the cigarette, a glance of the eye, dressed gorgeous in dull gold leather, bright gold straw sombreros, rainbow-coloured serapes, spur and gun aflash, reins taut, and horses dancing, and were gone in a cloud of dust and glitter away across the desert. I was never to see them again.
It made me feel quite a piece wistful to think of Holy Cross down yonder beyond the rim of the far grass, for that house had been more than home to me, and that range was my pasture where I had grazed for twelve good years. I could just judge, too, how Jim was wanting for home swift, while the segundo, good old Juan Terrazas, would pray the young lord to spare the little horses. "'Tis sixty leagues, and these our horses are but children, señor."
"Confound the horses!" says Jim, "let's burn the trail for home. Roll your trail, Pedro!Vamenos!"
"But the child horses, my lord, grass-fed only, in the hot desert."
"Roll your tail and roll it high,We'll all be angels by-and-by!"
"Roll your tail and roll it high,We'll all be angels by-and-by!"
And Jim would lope along with a glad heart, singing the round-up songs—
"Little black bull came down the hillside,Down the hillside, down the hillside,Little black bull came down the hillside,Long time ago."
"Little black bull came down the hillside,Down the hillside, down the hillside,Little black bull came down the hillside,Long time ago."
Then he would go on some more happy when he thought of the big tune to "Roll, Powder, Roll!"
As I heard afterwards, the outfit was rounding the shoulder of the hill about five miles out when, on the ridge beyond, Mr. Jim's bright eye took note of something alive.
"A vulture only, my lord," says the segundo, "eating a dead horse."
"A quart of kittens!" says my lord, some scornful. "Call that a vulture?" and off he sailed, clattering down a slope of loose rocks. "That bird is a man-bird flapping at us for help. Segundo, you've no more range of sight than a boiled owl."
The segundo came grumbling along behind, and they curved off across the level. "That man has lost his horse," says Jim; "thirsty, I guess, and signalling for help. Go back, Terrazas, and tell the men to wait."
"Si, señor," and Terrazas rolled back to the trail.
As Jim got nearer he saw that the man on the hill had signalled nothing, but his coat tails were a-flutter in the wind. Now he came all flapping from rock to rock down the hillside. "Hello!" Jim shouted.
The stranger squatted down on a rock to wait for him, and sat wiping his face on a red handkerchief. He was dressed all in black, a sky-scout of sorts, but dusty and making signs as though he couldn't shout for thirst. Jim took his half-gallon canteen, ranged up, and dismounted. "Curious," he was thinking; "lips not swollen, tongue not black, this man ain't thirsty much!"
"My deah young friend," says the preacher between drinks, "you're the means under Heaven of my deliverance"—gulp—"from a shocking end."
"Scared you'd have to go to heaven?" asked Jim.
"I was afraid"—gulp—"that I must give up my labours in this vale of"—gulp—"for which I was found unworthy."
"Is that so?"
"Seh, I have walked far, and am much exhausted."
Jim looked at the preacher's pants, and saw that a streak of the cloth from knee to ankle was dusty none—the same being the mark of the stirrup leathers. He could not have walked a hundred yards from his horse.
"Stranger," says Jim, "your horse is just on the other side of this hill."
"Yes, indeed—but it never lets me get any nearer, and I've chased it for miles!"
"I'll catch your horse." Jim swung to his seat, spurred off, circled the hilltop, and found the preacher's horse, rein to the ground, unable to trot without being tripped at once, dead easy to catch at one jump. This parson man was a liar, anyway.
Then something caught Jim's eye, a sort of winking star on a hill-crest far to the east. He watched that star winking steady to right and left. The thing was a heliograph making talk, as it supposed, to the preacher, and Jim watched harder than ever.
He couldn't read the signs, so wondering most plentiful, he spurred up to find out if anything more could be seen from the crest of the hill. Yes, there lay the railroad, and the town of Lordsburgh, plain as a map. This preacher had been sly, and heaps untruthful, so Jim rode back leading his horse, but kept the sights he had seen for his own consumption.
"I suah thank y'u, seh," says the preacher. "Alas! that I should be so po' a horseman. My sacred calling has given me no chances of learning to ride like you-all."
Jim watched him swing to the saddle as only a stockman can. You may dress a puncher in his last coffin, but no disguise short of that will spoil his riding.
"Mebbe," says the preacher, "you can favour me with a few hints on the art of settin' a—whoa! hawss! And if you please, we will go more gradual 'cause the motion is pitching my po' kidneys up through my neck. Whoa! Yow!"
Jim broke away at a trot, sitting side-saddle to enjoy the preacher, who jolted beside him like a sack of dogs.
"Stranger," says he, "the trail is where my men are waiting yonder. To the left it goes to Lordsburgh, to the right it runs straight to Bryant's and on to Holy Cross. Good morning, sir," and he left on the dead run.
"My deah young friend," the preacher wailed at him. "Whoa! Whoa, now! I've got mislaid! I place myself in yo' hands."
Jim reined.
"Well, where do you want to go?"
"I want to find a wild, a sinful young man by the name of du Chesnay. He's the Honourable James du Chesnay. Perhaps you know him?"
"Partly. Well, what's your business with him?"
"I suffer," says the preacher, "from clergyman's sore throat—ahic! Permit me, seh, to ride with you while I explain my business."
"As you please." They had gained the trail, and Jim swung into it with the preacher, calling back to his riders to keep within range astern.
"Besides," says the preacher, coughing behind his hand, "I am somewhat timid—there are so many robbers that I yearn for yo' company for protection."
Jim yelled back to his men in Spanish, "Boys, just watch this stranger—he's no good. Keep your guns handy, and if he tries to act crooked, shoot prompt!"
"Thank you, seh!" says the preacher.
"And now, your business, quick!"
"It appears," the preacher groaned, "that some wicked men have been behaving deceitfully in the purchase of a flock of cows from this young gentleman."
"Eh?"
"Yes, they paid for his flock with a draft made in favour of Lord Balshannon, on the National Bank at Grave City. What a dreadful name for a city!—suggestive of——"
"Rats! Go on, man!"
"This draft on the bank from Jabez Y. Stone, who bought yo' cattle, seh, you forwarded from Lordsburgh yesterday. It will be presented to-day by Lord Balshannon at the bank in Grave City."
"How do you know?"
"Unhappily, my sacred calling has left me quite unfamiliah with the carnal affairs of this most wicked country."
"Well, what's wrong? The bank wired yesterday morning that they held money to meet this draft. Stone showed me the telegram."
"Up to noon," said the preacher, "there was money in the bank; some forty thousand dollars in the name of Jabez Y. Stone, ready to meet yo' draft, and pay for the cattle."
"I know that!"
"At noon yesterday that money was withdrawn from the bank."
"Impossible!"
"Jabez Y. Stone had given a previous draft to another man for the money. The other man got the plunder—the—ahic!—dross, I mean. Oh that we poh mortals should so crave after the dross which perisheth!"
"Don't preach!"
"Oh, my young brother, the little word in season——"
"I wish it would choke you. Now who drew that money?"
"A carnal man—yo' fatheh's mortal enemy—Misteh Ryan."
"Ryan! Ryan!"
"Misteh George Ryan, yessir. To-day yo' father presents a worthless paper at the bank in exchange for his breeding cattle. Oh, how grievous a thing it is that deceitful men should so deceive themselves, preparing for a sultry hereafter. Think of these poh dumb driven cattle, exchanged for a bogus draft upon a miserable, miserable bank—how——"
"Luis!" Jim yelled, and his segundo, old Luis Terrazas, came a-flying. "Luis, take the men home—I've got to go back to Lordsburgh."
"Stay!" The preacher lifted his hand, brushed back the hat from his face, and stared into Jim's eyes. "Chalkeye Davies is yondeh at Lordsburgh thar—you can trust him, eh? Send a letter to Chalkeye; ask him to wire the sheriff at Albuquerque to hold that thar train of cattle pending inquiries."
"I'm going back myself. You stand aside!"
"Seh, if you don't ride straight for Holy Cross, you ain't goin' to see yo' mother alive—she's sinking rapid."
"How do you know what's happening at Holy Cross, at Grave City, and at Lordsburgh, and all these places a hundred miles apart?"
"Have I said anything, boy, that you cayn't believe?"
"You lied when you said you were thirsty, when you claimed to have walked, when you made out you couldn't catch your horse, and couldn't ride—you lied, and you're a liar!"
The preacher reached for his hip, and a dozen revolvers covered him instant.
"Seh," he said, quite gentle, "my handkerchief is in my hip-pocket; observe me blow my nose at yo' remarks."
He trumpeted into his big red handkerchief.
"Why do you make this bluff," says Jim, "at being a preacher, when you've been all your life in the saddle?"
"Yo' questions, seh, are personal for a stranger, and the character you gave me to yo' greasers was some hasty, and the salute of guns you offer makes me feel unworthy. As to your thanks for an honest warning to save yo' lost cattle and haste to yo' dying mother——"
Jim flushed with shame.
"I beg your pardon, sir."
"And you accept my warning?"
"If you'll prove you forgive me by shaking hands, Mr.——"
"Misteh? Just call me friend—no more. And Jim, when you've been to Holy Crawss, yo' natural feelings will call you swift to Grave City, where you'll find your father in mortal danger, I feah."
"In mortal danger?"
"Unless," said the stranger, "a mere friend can save him."
Jim looked into this stranger's face, at the tanned hide, seamed and furrowed with trouble, the strong hard lips, twisty with a sort of queer smile, at the eyes, which seemed to behaunted.
"Sir," he said, "I'll do what you tell me."
So he took paper and pencil from his wallet, leaned over the horn of his saddle, and made it desk enough for what he had to write.
"Will this do?" says he, passing his letter to the stranger.
"Yes, I reckon. Add, sonny, that Misteh Michael Ryan's private cyar is due from the east to-morrow, with the Pacific Express. It's timed to reach Grave City at 10:05 p.m. Chalkeye will be thar."
Jim wrote all that down, then looked up, fearful, surprised at this preacher knowing so much, then glanced all round to see which man had the best horse for his message.
"Onate!" he called.
"Si señor."
"Take this letter, Onate, to Mr. Chalkeye Davies in Lordsburgh. Then you'll follow me home."
Onate uncovered, took the letter, and bowed his thanks. "Gracias señor, adios!" and curved off swift for Lordsburgh.
Then Jim saw the preacher's eyes boring him through.
"You will shake hands?" he asked.
"With a glad hand," said Captain McCalmont. "Put her thar, boy! I hope when we meet up again you'll remember me as a friend."
So the great robber swung his horse, and spurred up back to his hilltop, while Jim and thevaquerosburned the trail for home.
It used to be a great sight down at Holy Cross when thevaqueroscame back from the round-up, serapes flapping in the wind, hats waving, guns popping, ponies tearing around, and eating up the ground. And then the house folk came swarming out to meet them, the little boys and dogs in a shouting heap, the girls bunched together and squealing, the young wives laughing, the old mothers, the tottering granddads, all plumb joyful to welcome the riders home. So they would mix up, crowd through the gates, and on the stable court to see a beef shot for the feast. Presently the little boys would come out in the dusk of the evening, bareback to herd the ponies through the pasture gate, and scamper back barefoot to the house in time for supper. All night long the lamps were alight in the great hall, the guitars a-strumming, and young feet dancing, and last, at the break of dawn, the chapel bell would call for early mass.
But this was the last home-coming for the folks at Holy Cross, and far away across the desert Jim's riders heard the bell—the minute bell tolling soft for the dead. The people met them at the gates, but all the boys uncovered, riding slow. No beef would be killed that night, no lights would shine, no guitars would strum for the dance.
Inside the main gate Jim's servant took his horse, and the lad walked on with clashing spurs to meet the old padre at the door of the dining-hall.
"Take off your spurs," said the priest, "come softly."
So he followed the padre across the bare, whitewashed dining-hall, and on along the cloister of the palm tree court. He heard the death-cry keening out of the shadows, the bell tolled, and he went on through the dark rooms, until he came to the señora, with women kneeling about the bed, and candles lighted at her head and feet.
The daybreak was bitter cold when Jim came out into the palm tree court, shivering while he watched the little, far-up clouds flushed with the dawn.
He felt that something was all wrong in the house, with the hollow echoes, every time he moved, crashing back from out of the dark. Then in the black darkness of the rooms he saw a lighted candle moving, slow through the air.
"Who's there!" he shouted, and at that the light came straight at him with something grey behind. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" Then he saw it was Sheriff Bryant.
"Easy, boy, easy!" says Dick in his slow Texan drawl; "I cal'late, Jim, we may as well have coffee, eh, boy?"
So he led Jim into the dining-hall, where he had cooked some coffee on the brazier. He set his candle down on the long table, and beside it a stick of sealing-wax and a bundle of tape.
"Why, sheriff," says Jim, "what do you want with these?"
"Take yo' coffee, son. It's cold this mawnin'."
Jim fell to sipping his coffee, while old Dick sat crouched down over the brazier.
"My old woman's been here this fortnight past," he said, "and I collected a doctor of sorts."
"You never sent for father, or for me."
"I had reasons, boy, good reasons. Jim, thar's trouble a-comin', and you've got to face it manful."
"Oh, speak out!"
"As I says to my ole woman only yesterday, I'd have loaned the money myself to yo' poh mother, only I don't have enough to lend to a dawg."
"What do you mean?"
"I couldn't turn the po' lady out of her home, so I got a stay of execution from the Court, to give her time to escape. She's done escaped now, and I got to act."
"Sheriff!"
"Yes, I'm sheriff, and I'd rather break a laig. But I'm the People's servant, Jim, and my awdehs is to seize this hull estate, in the name o' the People."
"To seize this house!"
"To turn you and all yo' servants out of Holy Crawss, and put the People's seal on the front gate."
"Sheriff, you can't!"
"Boy, take this writ."
Jim took the paper, spread it out, and read—
"Jim," said the sheriff, "we must bury this lady first. Then you want to take the best hawss you've got, while I'm not looking, and ride to my home. Yo're mo' than welcome thar."
"Who's done this thing?"
"Yo' father's debts."
"Don't beat about the bush—who's done this thing?"
"George Ryan."
On Tuesday morning, after I headed Jim for Holy Cross, I had to stay over in Lordsburgh, finish my horse deal with the Lawson Cattle Company, then get my men back to Grave City by the evening train. I had only three cowboys, Monte, Custer, and Ute; nice children, too, when they were all asleep, but fresh that morning, full of dumb yearnings for trouble, and showing plentiful symptoms of being young. At breakfast-time I pointed out some items in the local scenery, a doctor's shambles, a hospital, a mortuary, and an adjacent graveyard.
"Now, you kids," says I, "you may be heap big tigers; but don't you get wild-catting around too numerous, because I ain't aiming to waste good money on yo' funerals."
They said they'd be fearful good, and might they have ten dollars apiece for the church offertory? They set off with three pure hearts, and thirty dollars.
Now I reckon there were twenty-five Flying W. riders owning the town that day, and they began politely by asking my boys if Chalkeye's squint was contagious, and whether that accounted for symptoms of mange in his ponies.
My boys were dead gentle, and softly answered that Lawson was the worst horse-thief in Arizona; that Lawson's foreman was three-parts negro and the rest polecat, and that Lawson's riders had red streaks around their poor throats because the hang-rope had failed to do them justice.
The Flying W. inquired if my three riders was a case of triplets, or only an unfortunate mistake. Then my boys produced their six-guns and allowed they'd been whelped savage, raised dangerous, and turned loose hostile—and I only arrived just in time to save them from being spoiled for further use on earth. I challenged the Flying W. to race their best pets against my "mangy" ponies, and both sides agreed to have a drink with me, instead of wasting mounted funeral pageants on such a one-horse town as little Lordsburgh.
So while I was playing nursemaid, herding all those kids, who should roll up the street but young Onate, of Holy Cross, on the dead run with a letter from Jim. The more kids, the worse trouble. Well, when I had swallowed Jim's letter, I fired off a batch of telegrams and soon had a wire back from the Albuquerque sheriff. "Will impound them cattle," says he, "pending advices from Bryant." So I sent Onate streaking after Bryant, and went on playing at nursemaid until I was plumb scared that I'd be sprouting a cap of ribbons. Anyway, I didn't have time to think until the evening train pulled into Grave City. By that time my three babies were dancing a fandango upon the roof of the car. When the train stopped I hauled them down by the legs, petted them some with my boot, and told them to go away home. They went, with a bet between them, which would be first at my ranch.
Just for the sake of peace and quietness I stayed that night in Grave City, and sat around next morning smoking long cigars while I made my poor brain think. There were points in Jim's letter, and facts I had picked up casual at Lordsburgh, and words of gossip dropped in the hotel; but to put them all together would have puzzled a large-sized judge. Still, by all the tracks, the signs, the signals, and the little smells, I reckoned that Mr. Ryan was mighty near reaching a crisis, and apt to break out sudden as dynamite. First, here was Sheriff Bryant with two deputies, his wife, and a medicine-man, camped down at Holy Cross. Now Bryant would scarcely take deputy-sheriffs down there to nurse a sick lady. Had Holy Cross been seized at last for Balshannon's debts? That smelt of Ryan.
Secondly, Jim had gone to heaps of trouble gathering all the breeding-stock of Holy Cross, for a party named Jabez Y. Stone to steal them convenient. Jabez Y. had once been a bar-tender in Ryan's hotel—so that smelt of Ryan, too.
Thirdly, here was poor Balshannon being held with a string round his leg at the Sepulchre saloon, by the two crookedest gamblers in Arizona, the same being Low-Lived Joe and Louisiana Pete. Once, Joe, being gaoled for killing a Mexican, Ryan had put up money for a lawyer to get him released. So if these two thugs were instructed to hold and skin the Dook, that likewise smelt strong of Ryan.
Fourthly, here was young Michael Ryan in his private car from New York, burning the rails to reach Grave City by ten o'clock this night. The smell of Ryan surely tainted the whole landscape. Now just throw back to the words of Ryan's letter which fourteen long years before he had nailed upon the door of Holy Cross:—
"The time will come when, driven from this your new home, without a roof to cover you or a crust to eat, your wife and son turned out to die in the desert, you will beg for even so much as a drink of water, and it will be thrown in your face. I shall not die until I have seen the end of your accursed house."
"The time will come when, driven from this your new home, without a roof to cover you or a crust to eat, your wife and son turned out to die in the desert, you will beg for even so much as a drink of water, and it will be thrown in your face. I shall not die until I have seen the end of your accursed house."
So this was Ryan's plan—the work of fourteen years; industrious a whole lot, and plenty treacherous, but coming surely true. He had waited until he knew the lady was mostly dead, then turned her out of Holy Cross to die in the desert. The cattle were stolen, Balshannon was tied down for slaughter, and Michael would come to see the finish at ten o'clock to-night.
I began to reckon up Balshannon's friends, cowboys and robbers mostly, scattered anyway across the big range of the desert. They would not hear me if I howled for help.
But Ryan was respectable. He was Chairman of the Committee of Public Safety which lynched bad men when they became too prevalent with their guns. Ryan was our leading citizen, heaps rich, and virtuous no end. The Law would side with him, and as to the officers of the law, judges, and City Marshal, and the police—they'd got elected because he spoke for them. He owned the city, could bring out hundreds of men to take his side. What could I do against this Ryan's friends?
I knew that young Curly was hid in Grave City somewheres, and after a search I found him. The boy was so disguised he hardly knew himself.
"Chalkeye," says he, "you want a talk?" He looked sort of scared and anxious.
"I do."
"If Ryan's folk see you making talk with me, they'll think there's some new plot against the white men. Just you watch where I go, and follow casual."
He led me to a little room he rented over a barber's shop, and looking from the window I noticed that Ryan's hotel was just across the street. Curly left the room door open, because he didn't want any spy to use the keyhole.
"Now," says he, "make yo' voice tame, or we'll be overheard. Don't show yo'self off at that window, but keep your eyes skinned thar, while I watch the stairs. What is yo' trouble?"
"Whar are yo' range wolves?"
"They're a whole lot absent," says Curly.
"Cayn't you trust me?"
"I ain't trusting even myself." He looked fearful worried.
"You know that Ryan has seized Holy Cross?"
"This mawning, yes."
"And that Ryan has stolen all their breeding-stock?"
"Yesterday that was."
"And that yo' father dressed himself up as a preacher, and warned Jim?"
"They met up five mile south of Lordsburgh. Yessir."
"And that Balshannon is tied up here?"
"To be butchered this evening. Well?"
"Curly, I want the range wolves to save Balshannon."
"The range wolves has another engagement, seh."
"You know all about this, Curly! Cayn't you trust me to help?"
"We want no help, I reckon."
I turned my tongue loose then, and surely burned young Curly.
"Don't talk so loud, ole Chalkeye, but say some more!" he laughed. "I could set around to listen to you all day. Turn yo' wolf loose, for it's shorely yo' time to howl."
That dried me up cold and sudden, for I had been acting youthful, and Curly had got responsible, maybe elderly with me, the same being ridiculous seeing how small the boy was.
"Yo're through with yo' prayers, Chalkeye? Some comforted, eh? You ole ring-tailed snorter, cayn't you understand? We ain't going to have you mixed up with us range wolves, and branded for an outlaw. We want you to keep good, and be a whole lot respectable right along. Then you can stay around in this man's town, walk in the open with a proud tail, and show the Ryan outfit that Balshannon has one friend who ain't no robber."
Then I understood.
"Now," says Curly, "hear my lil' voice, for I'm goin' to prophesy. You know that Ryan reckons to have young Michael here for Balshannon's funeral? Suppose this Michael don't transpire to-night? Suppose the train comes in with news of a horrible shocking outrage? Suppose them mean, or'nary robbers has stole a millionaire? Suppose—well, just you wait for Ryan's yell when he hears what's done happened to his petted offspring. He'll surely forget there's any Balshannon to kill. Just you wait peaceful, and when the town turns out to rescue that poor stolen maverick you want to ride in and collect Balshannon."
Opposite in the hotel piazza I watched old Ryan and the City Marshal having a mint julep together at one of the tables.
"You hear that hawss?" says Curly, and far off I heard a horse come thundering. Soon the rider swung into sight, pitching the dust high, until he came abreast of my window, and saw the City Marshal in the piazza.
"Marshal," I heard him calling, "the wire to Bisley has been cut."
"Is that so?"
"The City Marshal at Bisley wants your help."
"What's the trouble?"
"You Ryan, your partner Jim Fiskin has been held up on the Mule Pass by robbers. Marshal, the message is for you to bring a posse swift to the nigh end of the pass, so as the Bisley people can drive the robbers under your guns."
"Good," says the Marshal, belting up his gun, "I'll be thar."
"It would be an awful pity," says Curly behind my shoulder, "if our City Marshal and his posse of men got called away on a false scent, while the wicked robbers up north were stealing a millionaire."
That youngster was wiser than me.
It's a whole lot interesting to see how different sorts of people put up a fight. Cat, she spits, and proceeds with claws; dog, he says no remarks, but opens up with teeth; horse, he's mighty swift to paw; bull, he hooks; bear, he hugs affectionate while he eats your face; Frenchman, he pokes with a sword; German, he slashes; Spaniard, he throws his knife; nigger, he barbers around with a razor: and all of us have the same feelings to express in some heartfelt sudden way. If you're looking for trouble with Mr. Cowboy, you want to tame yourself and get pretty near absent before he shoots. But at present my mind is set on Britishers, which is a complicated tribe, and they sure fight most various.
When Mr. Britisher is merely feeling good and wants to loose out his joy with a little wholesome scrap, he naturally hates to kill his man first lick—that would spoil future sport. So if he's Irish he turns himself loose with a club, or if he's Scotch or English he feels for the other man with a hard paw. That relieves him, and does no harm. But sometimes he feels real warlike. There's nobody special he wants to kill, his small home tribe has nothing to spare for burial, and yet he must have war. That's why his government keeps proper hunting preserves, well stocked with assorted barbarians over seas. Some of these savages are sure to be wanting a fight, so Mr. Britisher obliges, and comes along hot with rifles and Maxim guns. Savages are plenty, so that if a few get spoilt they'll never be missed. "It's good for them," says Mr. Britisher, "and it saves the crockery from being smashed at home."
So you see how Mr. Britisher may have his peaceful scrapping with another boy, or go play with his savages when they want a licking; but he's serious none—just laughs and shakes hands afterwards. But what does he do when he feels real awful and dangerous? Civilised folk like us Americans, feeling as bad as that, turn loose the guns, and wipe each other out to a finish. Other people may prefer swords or battering-rams, or a tilt with locomotive engines, or cannon loaded with buffalo horns, or dynamite at ten paces; but all that would feel too tame for Mr. Britisher. No, he puts on his war paint—black suit and top hat most hideous—calls on his lawyer in a frantic passion, and goes to law!
Now look, see how these two families, the du Chesnays and the Ryans, went to law. They came of the best fighting-stock on earth; they were whole-blooded Irish, but they went to law. The du Chesnays turned the Ryans out of their home and country, which was bad. Then the Ryans did worse: lay low and waited bitter years, gathered their strength, and struck from behind—the cowards! Old Ryan got his enemy corrupted with drink and gambling, stole all his cattle, left him helpless to fight, then seized the home to try and turn a dying lady into the desert. He kept within the law, but there was not an honest card in his whole game. It was foul play, and I for one don't blame poor Jim for wanting no more law in the fight with Ryan.
And yet I reckon that after the first fifty miles of his trail that day Jim's main thoughts were about the dinner he didn't have, and by sundown he quit caring who was dead and who was ruined, as he racked on, with aching bones and a played horse. It was nigh dark when he raised the Toughnut Mine at Grave City against the red of dusk. Around him lay the rolling yellow swell of the hot grass, clumps of scorched cactus, blistered hills of rock; before him the mine-heads and the roofs with sparkling streaks of blue electric lamps. He jockeyed his worn horse past the Jim Crow Mine, and the house where my cousins lived, the Misses Jameson, then on through scattered suburbs, till swinging round the corner into the main street he rolled at a canter for the stable-yard.
Abreast of the Sepulchre saloon he heard his name called, and reined up sharp to speak with the small stable-boy from Ryan's "livery," who came limping out to meet him through the dust.
"Say, kid"—he leaned over in the saddle, well-nigh falling—"where shall I find the Duke?"
The little one-eyed cripple jerked his thumb back at the Sepulchre saloon. "The Dook's in thar," he answered.
Jim rolled from the saddle, dropped his rein to the ground, quit his horse, brushed past the cripple, and went on without a word. He was so stiff he could hardly walk, so dead weary that he reeled against the swing-doors trying to get them open. The cripple helped him, and he staggered in. The place was crowded, but the clash of his spurs along the floor made several punchers turn round lazy, asking him to drink, because he belonged to their tribe. Two of the cowboys grabbed him, but he broke away, and went on.
Beyond the bar on the right were the gambling-tables, each with its crowd of players, and at the third Jim saw Louisiana on a high seat watching for Low-Lived Joe, his partner, who dealt the game. Opposite them he found his father, then pushed his way through the crowd to Balshannon's side. The ivory chips were piled breast high in front of him, for play had been high, and the Dook had had a run of luck.
The boy watched his father's face flushed high with excitement, his feverish eyes, his twitching lips, and restless fingers at play with the round ivory counters which stood for five thousand dollars won since supper-time. Opposite he looked up at Louisiana on the high seat, all bald-faced shirt and diamonds, guarding his stacks of gold coin with a revolver. Low-Lived Joe faced up a card on the deck, and passed some chips to Balshannon. The rest of the players had quit to watch the big game through.
"Father, I want you," says he.
"Well, Jim," says Balshannon, "what's the trouble?" He never looked up.
But the boy was shaking all over. "Father, come, I want you."
The Dook staked, then rolled a cigarette. "Don't bother me, Jim," says he, "you'll spoil the run. We can't do anything, boy, for we've lost those cattle."
"Ryan has seized the ranche, the sheriff's there! Come out!"
Balshannon quivered, but Joe shoved him a pile of blue chips.
"So Santa Cruz is gone?" Balshannon drawled, and doubled his stake. "Well, how's your mother?"
"Dead!"
Balshannon went grey, the cigarette dropped from his fingers. "Dead," he muttered, "dead." Then he looked up with a sort of queer smile. "Anything else?" he asked quite cheerfully.
"Say, Dook," said Louisiana, "I'd hate to see you struck from not watching yo' game."
"Thanks, Pete." Balshannon staked out the whole of his winnings, then picked up the cigarette, struck a match, and lighted it slowly.
"Come home!" the boy was whispering. "Come home!"
Jim saw the tears rolling down his father's face, and splashing on the chips. "What's the use, my boy?" he said very softly. "Would that bring your mother back?"
"Come home! Come home!"
"I'm winning back our home!"
Then Low-Lived Joe drew a card, and as the boy went staggering away a great yell went up. Balshannon was winning back his home.
Jim says he felt sick when he quit his father, cold down the back, and the floor was all aslant and spinning round. Then everything went black, and he dropped.
When he woke up he felt much better, lying flat on the floor with iced water trickling over his face. That little one-eyed cripple was feeding brandy to him.
"Here's luck!" he gulped, "that's all right—where's my hat?"
"Come out," says little Crook, "you need fresh air."
Jim got up, and wriggled loose, because he hated being pawed, then led the way out past the three fiddlers and the wheezing old harmonium to the door. Outside there was clear blue moonlight. "Where's my horse?" says he.
Crook was lighting a cigarette. "Yo' hawss," says he, "is in the stable. He's unsaddled, rubbed down, watered and fed, befo' now. I reckon you want to be watered and fed yo'self."
"No, kid, I'm not feeling proud enough for that."
"Come on, then," says Crook, "and watch me eat. I'm just a lil' wolf inside, and if I cayn't feed I'll howl."
They went to the pie foundry round the corner, and when Jim saw Crook eat he surely got ravenous. They both fed tree and severe, then strayed back heavy to the street in front of the Sepulchre saloon.
"Sit on yo' tail," says Crook, "and I'll feed you a cigarette." So they sat down on the sidewalk, and Jim yawned two yards and a quarter at one stretch.
"I cal'late," says Crook, "that yo' goin' to be riding to-night, so I had yo' saddle thrown on my buckskin mare."
"I'll be riding my bed on the sleep-trail."
"Riding a hawss, I reckon"—Crook bent forward, pulling up his boot legs by the tags—"and me too and the Dook. Our hawsses are waiting for us at the back door of this saloon. You understand?"
"I don't," says Jim. "Do you know, youngster, that only this morning I buried my mother, then I rode a hundred miles, and if Arizona freezes over to-night we'll go skating for all I care."
"Say, if the Dook gets shot up to-night will you be a lord?"
Jim laughed sort of patronising because he liked the youngster's cheek. "My father isn't pining for any such thing to-night."
"But suppose he went daid, would you be a lord?"
"I'd be Jim du Chesnay, riding for whatever wages I'm worth. A lord! what's the use of that?"
"But it must be fine!"
"It may be good enough for my father, but he's Irish, and he doesn't know any better. I'm an American."
"But still you'd be a lord."
"Would my lordship keep my pony from stumbling in front of a stampede of cattle? Would it save my scalp from Apaches, or help my little calves when the mountain lions want meat? Does my blood protect me from rattlesnakes, or Ryans, or skunks?"
"But there's the big land grant yo' people owns over in Ireland."
"It's tied up with entail, whatever that means, and there's no money in it, anyway. My tail in the old country doesn't save me from being galled in the saddle here, and I'm awfully tired."
"Same here, seh. I'm weary some myself. Yo' gun is loaded?"
Jim pawed his revolver. "Yes."
"Take some more," said Crook, and passed over a handful of cartridges to fill Jim's belt. Jim saw that the cripple was armed.
"Why do you talk," says he, "about horses waiting for us, and the need of guns, and father getting killed? What's the trouble, my lad?"
"The trouble is that Ryan has hired that gambling outfit to skin the Dook to-night. There's men standing round to see he don't leave that house alive. Now, look along the street here to the left, across at the Mortuary Hotel. You see old Ryan settin' there?"
"I do."
"He's waiting for his son, the millionaire, young Michael. He's due with his private cyar at ten o'clock. If Michael comes—if he comes, I say—his father reckons to bring him over to call on yo' father here at the 'Sepulchre.' That's why the Dook is bein' skinned, and that's why Ryan's men are watching to see he don't escape alive."
"But what does Ryan want? He's got our breeding cattle, he's taken Holy Cross, my mother's gone—we've nothing left to take."
"You have yo' lives, you and the Dook. Ryan and his outfit allow they'll wipe you out when Michael comes."
"Is that all?" Jim laughed. "They're thoughtful and painstaking, anyway. By the way, I don't know that my father and I have been shrieking for help as yet."
"If you were the kind of people to make a big song when yo're hurt, I reckon that we-all would jest leave you squeal."
"And who is we-all? You've acted like a white man to-night, looking after my poor roan and me like a little brother. But why should you care, young chap? I've never seen you before in my life; I don't even know your name."
"My name is Crook; I works at the stable."
"But why should you interfere? You may get hurt. I wouldn't like that, youngster."
"Wall, partner"—Crook shuffled a whole lot nervous—"I got a message for you from the boys. The Dook's had nothing but greasers working for him, and that's rough on us white men, but still he's surely good. He's dead straight, he don't wear no frills, and many a po' puncher, broke, hungry, half daid of thirst, has been treated like a son at Holy Crawss. We don't amount to much—'cept when you want an enemy or a friend—but our tribe is right into this fight a whole heap, for them Ryans is dirt; and if they comes up agin you to-night I expaict there'll be gun-play first."
"Well, kid," said Jim, yawning with a big mouth, "I wish they'd put it off until to-morrow."
"Yo' eyes is like boiled aigs. Try a cigarette to keep you awake."
"Can't we get my father away from this house?"
"Not till the train comes in."
"What's that got to do with me?"
"Ask no more questions—wait."
"You say that Michael Ryan's due at ten?"
"If they lets him come."
"Suppose he comes?"
"Then nothing can save yo' father, nothing on airth."
As he spoke the sharp screech of the engine rang out from behind the curve, and with all its lights aflash the train rolled in.
Before supper that evening a passing traveller carried a letter to my ranche, and when my boys found out that there was going to be trouble in town they surely flirted gravel for fear of arriving too late. I placed them at a convenient saloon, explained my plans, made them swear that they would not stray. Then I went to Curly's room, and lay low, showing no light, but watching the Mortuary Hotel just across the street.
Ryan sat there in his piazza, ruddy and full, broad and bald as a barn, a ripe man with a grey chin beard. Yes, he was a cheery old soul, popular with the crowd, a power in local politics, well qualified on the outside of him for paradise, and in the innards of him for the other place. I covered him with my gun, and wondered where he would go to when he died. I expect he would be craving then for some of that lager beer he sipped so peaceful, and for the palm-leaf fan which he used to brush off the heat.
Away off to the right I could see Jim sitting on the sidewalk in front of the "Sepulchre." Little Crook was feeding brandy to him, and cigarettes to keep him away from sleep. Then the train came rumbling in, let out a screech, and stopped. It made me laugh to think what a big hurroar there would be presently when the news got wind of that train being held up by robbers, and Mr. Michael Ryan led away captive.
Yet there seemed to be no excitement. The usual buses and buggies came up from the station, the ordinary crowd of loafers, and then our only cab, which crawled to the "Mortuary" to drop one passenger. He was a fat young man, dressed most surprising in a stove-pipe hat, a Jew fur coat, gloves, and a smart valise. If any of our cowboys had happened around, they would have fired a shot for luck to see if he wasn't some new kind of bird, but old Ryan came down the steps with a roar of welcome.
"Michael!" he shouted, "where's your palace car? Have you sunk so low as to come in a mere cab? Oh, Mike!"
I could hear Mr. Michael explaining that something was wrong with the car, so he'd had to leave her at Lordsburgh for repairs. Of course, the robbers, not seeing the private car, had concluded that their prey had failed to arrive and the train was not worth attacking.
Now Michael had arrived, and after a talk and a drink with his father, these two would stroll over to finish the family vengeance on poor Balshannon. As far as we had missed getting help from the range wolves, so matters were getting mighty serious.
I slipped away to my men.
"Boys," says I, "we got to play at robbers to-night, I reckon, but I don't want you-all to get recognised. We may be bucking up against the law, and get ourselves disliked if we ain't cautious." So I took a big black silk handkerchief and cut it up into strips. "When the shooting begins," says I, "just you tie these round your heads to hide yo' homely faces. Now get yo' horses and come swift."
I posted the three in the small alley which ran between the "Sepulchre" saloon and the post office beyond it. Then I went out to guard Balshannon. Being naturally a timid and cautious man, I had a brace of revolvers belted on ready for trouble.
Meanwhile young Crook in the front of the house was sitting all doubled up with grief at the sight of Michael Ryan.
"Boy," says Jim, "what's the matter?"
"Nothin'."
"How is it, young un, that you know all about my father's affairs and mine?"
"I expaict," says that one-eyed cripple, "that working my job at the livery I'd oughter know what comes and goes around heah."
"Is that why you're there—to watch?"
Crook went white at that. "You're dreaming," says he, very faint.
"And you're lending me the buckskin running mare for to-night. I've heard of that mare. Is that the sort of thing to lend to a stranger?"
"Well, seh, even a hired man may have his private feelings."
"Look here, youngster, I've seen you before, and I remember you now. When I saw you once at Holy Cross you had two eyes in your head, and you weren't a cripple."
Suddenly Jim snatched away the black pad which was slung over Crook's disabled eye. Two good eyes shone out, and over one of them the scar of an old wound. Jim laughed at that, but Crook forgot to be lame, starting back lithe as a panther and his face dead white.
"Be careful!" he whispered, "there's men passing us! My life ain't worth a cent if I'm seen heah in town." He had the sling across his eye again and broke out laughing. "I mean the doctor says I got to keep it covered, or I'll go blind—and a blind man's life ain't worth one cent in the dollar."
"Quit lying! You're posted at the stable to see who comes and goes, one eye in a sling and one game leg for disguise. Come here!"
Jim dragged him by the scruff of the neck to the post office, which stood next door to the saloon, with only the alley between, and there was an old poster notice on the wall:—
"NOTICE."The Northern Pacific and Wells Fargo Express Companies offer ($2,000) two thousand dollars,DEAD OR ALIVE,for the four robbers who held up the Northern Pacific Express train at Gold Creek, Deer Lodge County, Montana, on the morning of April 3rd, 1899. Descriptions:—"Peter,aliasBobby Stark,aliasCurly McCalmont, supposed to be son of Captain McCalmont, is five feet six inches in height, slim, fair hair, blue eyes, clean-shaven, soft girlish manner, with a scar over left eye, the result of a knife wound. He is about twenty years of age, but looks not more than fifteen, and was formerly a cowboy, riding for the Holy Cross Outfit in Arizona. He was last seen on or about May 5th, at Clay Flat, in the Painted Desert, with a flea-bitten grey gelding branded x on the near stifle, and two led burros, one of them packed."
"NOTICE.
"The Northern Pacific and Wells Fargo Express Companies offer ($2,000) two thousand dollars,
DEAD OR ALIVE,
for the four robbers who held up the Northern Pacific Express train at Gold Creek, Deer Lodge County, Montana, on the morning of April 3rd, 1899. Descriptions:—
"Peter,aliasBobby Stark,aliasCurly McCalmont, supposed to be son of Captain McCalmont, is five feet six inches in height, slim, fair hair, blue eyes, clean-shaven, soft girlish manner, with a scar over left eye, the result of a knife wound. He is about twenty years of age, but looks not more than fifteen, and was formerly a cowboy, riding for the Holy Cross Outfit in Arizona. He was last seen on or about May 5th, at Clay Flat, in the Painted Desert, with a flea-bitten grey gelding branded x on the near stifle, and two led burros, one of them packed."
Jim turned round sharp on Crook. "You're Curly McCalmont!" says he.
"Come away—yo' risking my neck."
"Do you think I'd sell you for that dirty money?"
"What you seen, others may, and they'd act haidstrong."
"All right, Curly. Don't you forget to walk lame."
"Hist! Heah come the Ryans!"
The two youngsters came hurrying into the saloon, where I stood watching Balshannon while he lost the last of his money. Jim clutched me by the arm, whispering something, but I did not catch what he said, for Curly was making a last play to get Balshannon from the tables.
"You quit," said he, "befo' yo're too late, patrone."
"It's too late now," says Balshannon; "what's the good?"
"It's not too late to save yo' life. Come quick!"
"So," says Balshannon, looking up sort of surprised, "you think you can er—frightenme?"
Louisiana was leaning forward across the table. "Look a-here, Crook," says he, "you can play, or you can get right out, but you don't interrupt this game." And Curly was hustled aside by Ryan's watchers.
"Now, Joe," the patrone was saying, "let's finish this."
He staked his last chips and lost, then got up with a little sigh, thinking, I reckon, of his wife, his ranche, his cattle.
"I'm kind of sorry, Dook," says Louisiana.
"So am I, a little," Balshannon chuckled.
"I think," says the gambler, stacking away his great big heaps of gold and silver coin—"I think that——"
"You are fortunate, Pete," Balshannon answered lightly, "I dare not think."
"I'm closing the game for to-night," says Louisiana.
"I'm closing the game to-night," says Lord Balshannon.
He took a cigarette-case from his pocket, but found it empty, felt in his shabby old clothes for money, then turned away with a queer little laugh of his which made me ache.
Outside in the street I heard a hand-bell clang, and took notice through the tail of my eye that the room was filling with all the worst men in that bad town of ours. There was the Alabama Kid, and beside him Shorty Broach, stage robber and thug, Beef Jones, the horse-thief, Gas, a tin-horn crook, Thimble-Rig Phipps, and two or three other sure-thing gamblers, rollers, and thugs. I went over to the front end of the house, where the orchestra were packing up to quit, and there at the far corner of the bar were old Ryan and Michael standing drinks to the crowd. Yes, the game was being set sure enough. I saw Low-Lived Joe hurry past me and speak in a whisper to Ryan, and at that Balshannon's enemy stood out to the front of his gang. All the scrubs and skin-game men were drifting into that corner behind him, until there must have been perhaps thirty gathered, loosing their guns to be ready.
By the faro tables were Jim and Curly trying to get Balshannon out of the house, but he broke away, and they followed until he came to the inner end of the bar. Then they stood back a little, while he waited to be served.
"Here, Bill!" he called out cheerfully.
A bar-keep quit the Ryans and went to serve him. "Well," says he, heaps insolent, "what do you want?"
The patrone looked at him smiling. "You seem out of sorts, Bill; have a drink with me. I'll take a whisky."
The bar-keep glared at him.
"Oh, by the way," says Balshannon, "I'll have to square up for this to-morrow morning."
"Terms cash," says the bar-keep.
"Really?" Balshannon smiled at his ugly face. "Oh, of course—your orders, eh? Well, never mind. You're so polite, Bill, that—er—that just by way of thanks I'll ask you to accept this little token." He chucked him the silver cigarette-case and turned away from the bar.
But I was bull-roaring mad. "Patrone," says I, "patrone, I owe you heaps of money. Here, take this!"
But Balshannon laid both his hands upon my shoulders, smiling right into my eyes. "Dear friend," he said, "you know I could not take money, even from you."
A thick voice was calling from the other end of the bar: "Here, bar-keep, you give this man a drink!"
Then the patrone looked round. "Ah, Ryan, eh?" He walked straight up to his enemy. "I'll drink with you gladly, Ryan. Suppose we forget the past, and try to be good—er—friends, eh?" He held out his hand, but Ryan took no notice. "Hello, I see your son is with you, Ryan. Good evening, Michael."
Michael just stared at him.
The people who had no interest in the trouble must have seen drawn guns before now, because I heard them breaking rapid for cover. The scrub which belonged to Ryan was formed up behind him for war, while back of Balshannon stood only Jim and Curly with the whole rear part of the room behind them empty. The two youngsters seemed to be having baby troubles, for Curly was struggling powerful to break away from Jim.
"I got to," he shouted, "I cayn't see to shoot!" Then he jumped clear. He had disremembered about being a cripple, he had torn the bandage away from his eye, and over the left brow, clear for all men to see, was his brand, the knife wound! At that a yell went up from Ryan's crowd, and some of his men surged forward, Louisiana and Low-Lived Joe in the lead.
I jumped straight at them with my brace of guns.
"Back!" shouted Ryan, holding them back with both arms. "Back! What's your hurry? Wait!"
"Come on!" came Curly's clear high yell. "Two thousand dollars daid or alive if you take me! I'm a sure wolf, and it's my night to howl, you cowards! I'm Curly McCalmont of the Robbers' Roost! Take me who can!"
Curly had gone plumb crazy, throwing his life away to get Balshannon one more chance of escape, but the crooks only saw that the small boy's team of guns were quick in his hands to shoot, and felt real glad of Ryan's outstretched arms. So came the lull, and I heard the bar-keep clashing down bottle and glass beside Balshannon.
"Whisky," says he in a shaky voice, "and yours, Mr. Ryan?"
"Irish," said Ryan, then whispered to his son, who hauled clumsy, getting out his silver-plated pop-shooter, a thing more fit for a girl than a grown man.
I like to think of my old patrone in those last moments of his life, as he stood at the end of the bar, quiet peaceful, facing Ryan. He was a tall, straight man, gaunt some, dead weary, but the only clean thing in sight. The grey moustache raked up against the red tan of his face, his hair was curling silver, his eyes cool blue. He seemed to be amused with the Ryans, and as to weapons, he just despised a gun. Then he heard the clash of his son's spurs just behind him. "Good-bye," I heard him whisper. "God bless you, Jim."
I reckon Jim was crying.
Ryan had swung forward along the bar, and reached for Balshannon's empty glass. "Here, take your drink," he shouted, "the drink you begged for!"
Balshannon stepped aside while Ryan filled the glass for him to drink. "Thank you," he said. But Ryan snatched the full glass, jumped back, swung out his arm—"Take that!" he yelled, and threw the glass straight at Balshannon's face.
The patrone took a handkerchief and wiped his face, slow and dainty, but the blood was starting where the glass had struck. "I'm sorry," he said, "that it should come to this, but as you are not in condition, Mr. Ryan, to fight, I must ask you, Mr. Michael Ryan, to oblige me."
"Fight?" yelled Ryan. "Fight a thing like you? Not much! Back, Michael! My Lord Balshannon," he sneered, "do you think my son would demean himself to fight you?"
"I observe," said Balshannon kindly, "that he seems to be rather warm in that fur overcoat."
The crowd broke out laughing, half ready, I felt then to take the weaker side against a coward. The patrone was so surely great, so much a man, so helpless—death in his eyes, peace on his smiling lips; and the Ryans in furs and jewellery looked such curs.
I had stepped back against the wall, facing the middle of the bar. On the right was the Ryan gang, on the left Balshannon, behind me the row of windows which looked on the alley-way where my men lay hid. I rapped soft with my knuckles on the window just at my right hand.
"Say, Chalkeye!" Louisiana was hailing me. "Why don't you stand by the Dook? Have you gone back on the Dook?"
"I stand here, Pete," said I, "to see fair play."
Then Ryan broke in on me.
"Boys," he said, "we don't need Chalkeye Davies to judge our play. You know me, all of you; you know my record, and what I've done for our city. I've not asked you here, citizens, to see murder, or fighting of any sort, but to witness an act of justice done by this Lord Balshannon on himself."
The crowd kept still, remembering that our leading citizen had acted straight for our city, and had a right to be heard.
"Now you shall judge as citizens," said Ryan, "between this man and me. For a thousand years my people, the Ryans, had land and homes in Oireland, until the Balshannons came over with bloody Cromwell to steal our little holdings by force of ar-r-ms. We were overpowered, we were forced to pay rent to the tyrants, but we were free men, not slaves; we are free men to-day, and we have fought for liberty.
"Look at this last Balshannon, this man who once tried to get me hung on a false charge, this cowardly, brutal ruffian, who drove me and all my people out of our homes to die in the bitter cold. Think of our women starving to death in the snow-drifts—and, if you doubt me, go and ask me wife. We were driven, she and I, and all our people, out of the land we loved, out of Erin, beggared, hopeless, despairing exiles. Out on the black Atlantic we had to bury one of my little children in the sea—there stands the murderer! Do you blame me, citizens, for wanting vengeance?"
"Dook," says the Alabama Kid, "suppose we hear your side?"
"You'll hear my side," says Lord Balshannon, "from Ryan. This is his court—of—er—justice." Then he wiped the running blood from his cheek, and yawned behind his hand. Even Ryan's men began to look ashamed of such a court.
"Vengeance!" Ryan was howling; "vengeance with the Apaches first—I turned them loose on your camp! Vengeance with McCalmont's robbers—I turned them loose on your ranche!"
Balshannon swung half round and grasped Curly McCalmont's hand. We saw his back shaking with laughter, but when he faced Ryan again he straightened his lips. "Excuse me," he said, "go on."
But the crowd remembered how McCalmont's wolves had breakfasted with Ryan after that little dinner at Holy Cross. They howled with laughter.
"You may laugh!" yelled Ryan; "laugh, you hounds!" but Balshannon lifted his hand, and the crowd were silent.
"Yes, I failed," said Ryan. "I had to wait—I waited—but what I couldn't do you did for yourself; yes, you, Balshannon, drinking and gambling here while your forsaken wife lay dying yonder! I had only to find a few friends to lend you me money, and sharpers to be after rooking you of all you borrowed. Yes, that was me vengeance; can you say that failed? Where is your big estate? Where are your cattle? Where is your wife?"
Balshannon's face had gone dead with pain, but he never flinched.
"And now," Ryan shouted at him, "you beggared gambler, you broken, shaking drunkard, you shall finish this vengeance on yourself, which you began, which needs no hand of mine! Here!" He ran forward, and jammed a long knife into Balshannon's hand. "Finish! Kill yourself, and have done, for shure an' you're not fit to live, ye filthy beast!"
Balshannon was reeling, faint, sick, clinging to the bar for support.
"Boys," I shouted, "if Ryan's a man, let him fight. Stand aside, give him room, give him a gun. Patrone, take this gun!" I jumped to his side, jammed one of my revolvers into his hand, then leapt back to my place by the wall. Ryan's tin-horn pets had deserted him; even his son, scared to death, had slunk away.
"Help!" Ryan was screaming. "Murther!" But a gun was thrust into his hand, and his own hired thugs shoved him forward to fight Balshannon.
"When I call 'Three!'" I shouted, and saw Balshannon stand like a man, cool, steady.
"One, two, three!"
Ryan fired and missed before my second call, but at the "Three" Balshannon's gun blazed out. I saw a little black hole between Ryan's eyes, and he fell forward all in a heap, stone dead.
I reckon that for years I'd been heaps virtuous keeping my quick gun off Balshannon's meat, so now I was full of joy because the patrone had finished up all the unpleasantness and made peace without loss or damage. No grown responsible man had any quarrel left.
But then my youngsters weren't grown up a bit, nor responsible, nor anything else, but rattled with a gun-fight too rich for their blood. Curly was scared all to pieces, Jim was right off his head, and as to my three kids outside the window, they had no sense anyways at their best. I ought to have thought of that before; it was too late now.
What matter if young Michael eased his feelings by empting off his toy at the patrone? His pellets chipped the ceiling, and did him credit for a pious son, but only got a laugh from Balshannon. Michael just went on popping ostentatious, so Balshannon showed he bore no malice by throwing his own gun on the bar. Then somebody called out for drinks as a sign of peace.
But Jim only saw his father being attacked, and he surely never had a sense of humour. He turned his wolf-howl loose, and broke his gun-arm free from Curly's hold, then started splashing lead at Michael Ryan. I saw some fur fly off from the Jew coat, and the next shot dispersed young Michael's hat, but the third struck Low-Lived Joe on the shoulder.
Then there was surely war, for Louisiana loved that Joe more than anything else on earth, and all his friends lashed out their guns. Curly knelt quick below the blast of lead, and Jim leapt sudden behind the end of the bar, but in a blaze of flame and rolling smoke I saw Balshannon clutch both hands to his heart, then swing half round and fall.
It must have been then that poor Curly fired the two shots which killed Louisiana and Beef Jones, the horse thief. It must have been then that the window close beside me fell with a crash of glass upon the floor, and my three men, all masked, with guns and rifles poured red-hot slaughter into the Ryan crowd. That was bad, but I felt grateful then, while one by one I shot out the swinging lamps which lit the smoke. There were five, making so many shades of deeper gloom, and then dead blackness pierced by flaming guns, and at the end of that silence, with a patter of running feet, the groan of a dying man.