Trailin Page 13

  Bard?"

  "Even if he were, it wouldn't make your position dangerous. The man he wants is I. He knows my face—not my name. Until he sees me he'll be perfectly reasonable, unless he's crossed. You must seem frank and above board. If you tell more lies than are necessary he may get suspicious, and if he grows suspicious the game is up and will have to be finished with a gun play. Remember that. He'll want to know about Nash. Tell him that Nash is a bad one and that you've fixed him; he mustn't expect to find Nash here."

  Lawlor rubbed his hands, like one coming from the cold outdoors to a warm fire.

  "I'm beginning to see light. Lemme at this Bard. I'm going to get enough fun out of this to keep me laughin' the rest of my life."

  "Good; but keep that laugh up your sleeve. If he asks questions you'll have some solemn things to say."

  "Chief, when the time comes, there's going to be about a gallon of tears in my eyes."

  So Drew left him to complete the other arrangements. If Bard reached the house he must be requested to stay, and if he stayed he must be fed and entertained. The difficulty in the way of this was that the servants in the big ranchhouse were two Chinese boys. They could never be trusted to help in the deception, so Drew summoned two of his men, "Shorty" Kilrain and "Calamity" Ben.

  Calamity had no other name than Ben, as far as any one on the range had ever been able to learn. His nickname was derived from the most dolorous face between Eldara and Twin Rivers. Two pale-blue eyes, set close together, stared out with an endless and wistful pathos; a long nose dropped below them, and his mouth curled down at the sides. He was hopelessly round-shouldered from much and careless riding, and in attempting to straighten he only succeeded in throwing back his head, so that his lean neck generally was in a V-shape with the Adam's apple as the apex of the wedge.

  Shorty Kilrain received his early education at sea and learned there a general handiness which stood him in stead when he came to the mountain-desert. There was nothing which Shorty could not do with his hands, from making a knot to throwing a knife, and he was equally ready to oblige with either accomplishment. Drew proposed that he take charge of the kitchen with Calamity Ben as an assistant. Shorty glowered on the rancher.

  "Me!" he said. "Me go into the galley to wait on a blasted tenderfoot?"

  "After he leaves you'll have a month off with full pay and some over,

  Shorty."

  "Don't want the month off."

  Drew considered him thoughtfully, following the precept of Walpole that every man has his price.

  "What do you want, Shorty?"

  The ex-sailor scratched his head and then rolled his eyes up with a dawning smile, as one who sees a vision of ultimate bliss.

  "Let one of the other boys catch my hoss out of the corral every morning and saddle him for me for a month."

  "It's a bargain. What'll you do with that time?"

  "Sit on the fence and roll a cigarette like a blasted gentleman and damn the eyes of the feller that's catchin' my hoss."

  "And me," said Calamity Ben, "what do I get?"

  "You get orders," answered Kilrain, "from me."

  Calamity regarded him, uncertain whether or not to fight out the point, but apparently decided that the effort was not worth while.

  "There ain't going to be no luck come out of this," he said darkly. "Before this tenderfoot gets out of the house, we're all going to wish he was in hell."

  CHAPTER XXIV

  "SAM'L HALL"

  But with the stage set and the curtain ready to rise on the farce, the audience did not arrive until the shadow of the evening blotted the windows of the office where big Lawlor waited impatiently, rehearsing his part; but when the lamp had been lighted, as though that were a signal for which the tenderfoot had waited, came a knock at the door of the room, and then it was jerked open and the head of one of the cowpunchers was inserted.

  "He's coming!"

  The head disappeared; the door slammed. Lawlor stretched both arms wide, shifted his belt, loosened his gun in the holster for the fiftieth time, and exhaled a long breath. Once more the door jerked open, and this time it was the head and sullen face of Nash, enlivened now by a peculiarly unpleasant smile.

  "He's here!"

  As the door closed the grim realization came to Lawlor that he could not face the tenderfoot—his staring eyes and his pallor would betray him even if the jerking of his hands did not. He swung about in the comfortable chair, seized a book and whisking it open bowed his head to read. All that he saw was a dance of irregular black lines: voices sounded through the hall outside.

  "Sure, he'll see you," Calamity Ben was saying. "And if you want to put up for the night there ain't nobody more hospital than the Chief. Right in here, son."

  The door yawned. He could not see, for his back was resolutely toward it and he was gripping the cover of the book hard to steady his hands; but he felt a breath of colder air from the outer hall; he felt above all a new presence peering in upon him, like a winter-starved lynx that might flatten its round face against the window and peer in at the lazy warmth and comfort of the humans around the hearth inside. Some such feeling sent a chill through Lawlor's blood.

  "Hello!" called Calamity Ben.

  "Humph!" grunted Lawlor.

  "Got a visitor, Mr. Drew."

  "Bring him in."

  And Lawlor cleared his throat.

  "All right, here he is."

  The door closed, and Lawlor snapped the book shut.

  "Drew!" said a low voice.

  The cowpuncher turned in his chair. He had intended to rise, but at the sound of that controlled menace he knew that his legs were too weak to answer that purpose. What he saw was a slender fellow, who stood with his head somewhat lowered while his eyes peered down from under contracted brows, as though the light were hurting them. His feet were braced apart and his hands dropped lightly on his hips—the very picture of a man ready to spring into action.

  Under the great brush of his moustache, Lawlor set his teeth, but he was instantly at ease; for if the sight of the stranger shook him to the very centre, the other was even more obviously shocked by what he saw. The hands dropped limp from his hips and dangled idly at his sides; his body straightened almost with a jerk, as though he had been struck violently, and now, instead of that searching look, he was blinking down at his host. Lawlor rose and extended a broad hand and an even broader smile; he was proud of the strength which had suddenly returned to his legs.

  "H'ware ye, stranger? Sure glad to see you."

  The other accepted the proffered hand automatically, like one moving in a dream.

  "Are you Drew?"

  "Sure am."

  "William Drew?"

  He still held the hand as if he were fearful of the vision escaping without that sensible bondage.

  "William Drew is right. Sit down. Make yourself to home."

  "Thanks!" breathed the other and as if that breath expelled with it all his strength he slumped into a chair and sat with a fascinated eye glued to his host.

  Lawlor had time to mark now the signs of long and severe travelling which the other bore, streaks of mud that disfigured him from heel to shoulder; and his face was somewhat drawn like a man who has gone to work fasting.

  "William Drew!" he repeated, more to himself than to Lawlor, and the latter formed a silent prayer of gratitude that he was not William Drew.

  "I'm forgetting myself," went on the tenderfoot, with a ghost of a smile. "My name is Bard—Anthony Bard."

  His glance narrowed again, and this time Lawlor, remembering his part, pretended to start with surprise.

  "Bard?"

  "Yes. Anthony Bard."

  "Glad to know you. You ain't by any chance related to a John Bard?"

  "Why?"

  "Had a partner once by that name. Good old John Bard!"

  He shook his head, as though overcome by recollections.

  "I've heard something about you and your partner, Mr. Drew."

 
"Yes?"

  "In fact, it seems to be a rather unusual story."

  "Well, it ain't common. John Bard! I'll tell the world there was a man."

  "Yes, he was."

  "What's that?"

  "He must have been," answered Anthony, "from all that I've heard of him. I'm interested in what I scrape together about him. You see, he carries the same name."

  "That's nacheral. How long since you ate?"

  "Last night."

  "The hell! Starved?"

  "Rather."

  "It's near chow-time. Will you eat now or wait for the reg'lar spread?"

  "I think I can wait, thank you."

  "A little drink right now to help you along, eh?" He strode over and opened the door. "Hey! Shorty!"

  For answer there came only the wail of an old pirate song.

  "Oh, my name's Sam'l Hall—Sam'l Hall;

  My name's Sam'l Hall—Sam'l Hall.

  My name is Sam'l Hall,

  And I hate you one an' all,

  You're a gang of muckers all—

  Damn your eyes!"

  "Listen!" said Lawlor, turning to his guest with a deprecating wave of the hand. "A cook what sings! Which in the old days I wouldn't have had a bum like that around my place, but there ain't no choosin' now."

  The voice from the kitchen rolled out louder:

  "I killed a man, they said, so they said;

  I killed a man, they said, so they said.

  I killed a man they said,

  For I hit 'im on the head,

  And I left him there for dead—

  Damn your eyes!"

  "Hey! Shorty Kilrain!" bellowed the aggravated host.

  He turned to Bard.

  "What'd you do with a bum like that for a cook?"

  "Pay him wages and keep him around to sing songs. I like this one.

  Listen!"

  "They put me in the quad—in the quad;

  They put me in the quad—in the quad.

  They put me in the quad,

  They chained me to a rod,

  And they left me there, by God—

  Damn your eyes!"

  "Kilrain, come here and make it fast or I'll damn your eyes!"

  He explained to Bard: "Got to be hard with these fellers or you never get nowhere with 'em."

  "Yo ho!" answered the voice of the singer, and approached booming:

  "The parson he did come, he did come;

  The parson he did come—did come.

  The parson he did come,

  He looked almighty glum,

  He talked of kingdom come—.

  Damn your eyes!"

  Shorty loomed in the doorway and caught his hand to his forehead in a nautical salute. He had one bad eye, and now it squinted as villainously as if he were the real Sam'l Hall.

  "Righto sir. What'll you have, mate?"

  "Don't mate me, you igner'nt sweepin' of the South Sea, but trot up some red-eye—and gallop."

  The ex-sailor shifted his quid so that it stuck far out in the opposite cheek with such violence of pressure that a little spot of white appeared through the tan of the skin. He regarded Lawlor for a silent moment with bodeful eyes.

  "What the hell are you lookin' at?" roared the other. "On your way!"

  The features of Kilrain twitched spasmodically.

  "Righto, sir."

  Another salute, and he was off, his voice coming back less and less distinctly.

  "So up the rope I'll go, I will go;

  So up the rope I'll go—I'll go.

  So up the rope I'll go

  With the crowd all down below

  Yelling, 'Sam, I told you so!'

  Damn their eyes!"

  CHAPTER XXV

  HAIR LIKE THE SUNSHINE

  "Well," grumbled Lawlor, settling back comfortably into his chair, "one of these days I'm goin' to clean out my whole gang and put in a new one. They maybe won't be any better but they can't be any wuss."

  Nevertheless, he did not seem in the least downhearted, but apparently had some difficulty in restraining his broad grin.

  The voice of the grim cook returned:

  "I'll see Nelly in the crowd, in the crowd;

  I'll see Nelly in the crowd, in the crowd;

  I'll see Nelly in the crowd,

  And I'll holler to her loud:

  'Hey, Nelly, ain't you proud—

  Damn your eyes?'"

  "I ask you," cried Lawlor, with freshly risen wrath, "is that any way to go around talkin' about women?"

  "Not talking. He's singing," answered Bard. "Let him alone."

  The thunder of their burly Ganymede's singing rose and echoed about them.

  "And this shall be my knell, be my knell;

  And this shall be my knell—my knell.

  And this shall be my knell:

  'Sam, I hope you go to hell,

  Sam, I hope you sizzle well—

  Damn your eyes!'"

  Shorty Kilrain appeared in the doorway, his mouth wide on the last, long, wailing note.

  "Shorty," said Lawlor, with a sort of hopeless sadness, "ain't you never been educated to sing no better songs than that?"

  "Why, you old, grey-headed—" began Shorty, and then stopped short and hitched his trousers violently.

  Lawlor pushed the bottle of whisky and glass toward Bard.

  "Help yourself." And to Kilrain, who was leaving the room: "Come back here."

  "Well?" snarled the sailor, half turning at the door.

  "While I'm runnin' this here ranch you're goin' to have manners, see?"

  "If manners was like your whiskers," said the unabashed Shorty, "it'd take me nigh onto thirty years to get 'em."

  And he winked at Bard for sympathy.

  Lawlor smashed his fist on the table.

  "What I say is, are you running this ranch or am I?"

  "Well?" growled Kilrain.

  "If you was a kid you'd have your mouth washed out with soap."

  The eyes of Shorty bulged.

  "It ought to be done now, but there ain't no one I'd give such dirty work to. What you're going to do is stand right here and show us you know how to sing a decent song in a decent way. That there song of yours didn't leave nothin' sacred untouched, from parsons and jails to women and the gallows. Stand over there and sing."

  The eyes of the sailor filmed over with cold hate.

  "Was I hired to punch cattle," he said, "or make a blasted, roarin' fool out of myself?"

  "You was hired," answered Lawlor softly, as he filled his glass to the brim with the old rye whisky, "to be a cook, and you're the rottenest hash-slinger that ever served cold dough for biscuits; a blasted, roarin' fool you've already made out of yourself by singin' that song. I want another one to get the sound of that out of my ears. Tune up!"

  Thoughts of murder, ill-concealed, whitened the face of the sailor.

  "Some day—" he began hoarsely, and then stopped. For a vision came to him of blithe mornings when he should sit on the top of the corral fence rolling a cigarette, while some other puncher went into the herd and roped and saddled his horse.

  "D'you mean this—Drew?" he asked, with an odd emphasis.

  "D'you think I'm talking for fun?"

  "What'll I sing?" he asked in a voice which was reduced to a faint whisper by rage.

  "I dunno," mused Lawlor, "but maybe it ought to lie between 'Alice, Ben

  Bolt,' and 'Annie Laurie.' What d'you choose, partner?"

  He turned to Bard.

  "'Alice, Ben Bolt,' by all means. I don't think he could manage the

  Scotch."

  "Start!" commanded Lawlor.

  The sailor closed his eyes, tilted back his head, twisted his face to a hideous grimace, and then opening his shapeless mouth emitted a tremendous wail which took shape in the following words:

  "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,

  Sweet Alice, with hair like the sunshine—"

  "Shut up!" roared Lawlor.

  It requir
ed a moment for Shorty to unkink the congested muscles of his face.

  "What the hell's the matter now?" he inquired.

  "Whoever heard of 'hair like the sunshine'? There ain't no such thing possible. 'Hair so brown,' that's what the song says. Shorty, we got more feelin' for our ears than to let you go on singin' an' showin' your ignerance. G'wan back to the kitchen!"

  Kilrain drew a long breath, regarded Lawlor again with that considerate, expectant eye, and then turned on his heel and strode from the room. Back to Bard came fragments of tremendous cursing of an epic breadth and a world-wide inclusiveness.

  "Got to do things like this once in a while to keep 'em under my thumb,"

  Lawlor explained genially.

  With all his might Bard was struggling to reconcile this big-handed vulgarian with his mental picture of the man who could write for an epitaph: "Here sleeps Joan, the wife of William Drew. She chose this place for rest." But the two ideas were not inclusive.

  He said aloud: "Aren't you afraid that that black-eyed fellow will run a knife between your ribs one of these dark nights?"

  "Who? My ribs?" exclaimed Lawlor, nevertheless stirring somewhat uneasily in his chair. "Nope, they know that I'm William Drew. They may be hard, but they know I'm harder."

  "Oh," drawled the other, and his eyes held with uncomfortable steadiness on the rosy face of Lawlor. "I understand."

  To cover his confusion Lawlor seized his glass.

  "Here's to you—drinkin' deep."

  And he tossed off the mighty potion. Bard had poured only a few drops into his glass; he had too much sympathy for his empty stomach to do more. His host leaned back, coughing, with tears of pleasure in his eyes.

  "Damn me!" he breathed reverently. "I ain't touched stuff like this in ten years."

  "Is this a new stock?" inquired Bard, apparently puzzled.

  "This?" said Lawlor, recalling his position with a start. "Sure it is; brand new. Yep, stuff ain't been in more'n five days. Smooth, ain't it? Medicine, that's what I call it; a gentleman's drink—goes down like water."