Trailin Page 15

  She studied the sullen, boyish visage which looked back at her. After all, she would be unmercifully joked if she were to appear with her hair grown suddenly fluffy and womanly—it would become impossible for her to run the eating-place without the assistance of a man, and a fighting man at that. So what was the use? She threw the mirror crashing on the floor; it splintered in a thousand pieces.

  "After all," she murmured aloud, "do I want to be a woman?"

  The sullen mouth undoubtedly answered "No"; the wistful eyes undoubtedly replied in another key. She shrugged the question away and stepped out of her room toward the kitchen, whistling a tune to raise her spirits.

  "Late, Sally," said the cook, tossing another hot cake on the growing pile which surmounted the warmer.

  "Sure; I busted my mirror," said Sally.

  The cook stared at her in such astonishment that he allowed a quantity of dough to fall from the dish cupped in the hollow of his arm; it overflowed the griddle-iron.

  "Blockhead!" shouted Sally. "Watch your step!"

  She resumed, when the dough had been rescued by somewhat questionable means: "D'you think a girl can dress in the dark?"

  But the cook had had too much experience with his employer to press what seemed a tender point. He confined his attention to the pancakes.

  "There ain't no fool worse than a he-fool," continued Sally bitterly.

  "Which maybe you think a girl can dress without a mirror?"

  Since this taunt brought no response from her victim, she went on into the eating-room. It was already filling, and the duties of her strenuous day began.

  They continued without interruption hour after hour, for the popularity of her restaurant had driven all competition out of Eldara, a result which filled the pocket-book and fattened the bank account of Sally Fortune, but loaded unnumbered burdens onto her strong shoulders. For she could not hire a waiter to take her place; every man who came into the eating-room expected to be served by the slim hands of Sally herself, and he expected also some trifling repartee which would make him pay his bill with a grin.

  The repartee dragged with Sally to-day, almost to sullenness, and when she began to grow weary in the early afternoon, there was no reserve strength on which she could fall back. She suddenly became aware that she wanted support, aid, comfort. Finally she spilled a great armful of "empties" down on the long drain-board of the sink, turned to the wall, and buried her face in her hands. The cook, Bert, though he cast a startled glance at her would not have dared to speak, after that encounter of the morning, but a rather explosive sniff was too eloquent an appeal to his manliness.

  His left sleeve having fallen, he rolled it back, tied the strings of the apron tighter about his plump middle, and advanced to the battle. His hand touched the shoulder of the girl.

  "Sally!"

  "Shut your face!" moaned a stifled voice.

  But he took his courage between his teeth and persisted.

  "Sally, somethin' is wrong."

  "Nothin' you can right, Fatty," said the same woe-stricken voice.

  "Sally, if somebody's been gettin' fresh with you—"

  Her arms jerked down; she whirled and faced him with clenched fists; her eyes shining more brightly for the mist which was in them.

  "Fresh with me? Why, you poor, one-horned yearling, d'you think there's anybody in Eldara man enough to get fresh with me?"

  Bert retreated a step; caution was a moving element in his nature. From a vantage point behind a table, however, he ventured: "Then what is wrong?"

  Her woe, apparently, was greater than her wrath.

  She said sadly: "I dunno, Bert. I ain't the man I used to be—I mean, the woman."

  He waited, his small eyes gentle. What woman can altogether resist sympathy, even from a fat man and a cook? Not even the redoubtable soul of a Sally.

  She confessed: "I feel sort of hollow and gone—around the stomach,

  Fatty."

  "Eat," suggested the cook. "I just took out a pie that would—"

  "But it ain't the stomach. It's like bein' hungry and wantin' no food.

  Fatty, d'you think I'm sick?"

  "You look kind of whitish."

  "Fatty, I feel—"

  She hesitated, as though too great a confession were at her lips, but she stumbled on: "I feel as if I was afraid of somethin', or someone."

  "That," said Bert confidently, "ain't possible. It's the stomach, Sally.

  Something ain't agreed with you."

  She turned from him with a vague gesture of despair.

  "If this here feelin' is goin' to keep up—why, I wisht I was dead—I wisht I was dead!"

  She went on to the swinging door, paused there to dab her eyes swiftly, started to whistle a tune, and in this fashion marched back to the eating-room. Fatty, turning back to the stove, shook his head; he was more than ever convinced in his secret theory that all women are crazy.

  Sally found that a new man had entered, one whom she could not remember having seen before. She went to him at once, for it seemed to her that she would die, indeed, if she had to look much longer on the familiar, unshaven faces of the other men in the room.

  "Anything you got," said the stranger, who was broad of hands and thick of neck and he cast an anxious eye on her. "I hear you seen something of a thinnish, dark feller named Bard."

  "What d'you want with him?" asked Sally with dangerous calm.

  "I was aimin' to meet up with him. That's all."

  "Partner, if you want to stand in solid around here, don't let out that you're a friend of his. He ain't none too popular; that's straight and puttin' it nice and easy."

  "Which who said I was his friend?" said the other with heat.

  She turned away to the kitchen and reappeared shortly, bearing his meal. The frown with which she departed had disappeared, and she was smiling as brightly as ever while she arranged the dishes in front of him. He paid no attention to the food.

  "Now," she said, resting both hands on the table and leaning so that she could look him directly in the eye: "What's Bard done now? Horse—gun-fighter—woman; which?"

  The other loosened the bandanna which circled his bull neck.

  "Woman," he said hoarsely, and the blood swelled his throat and face with veins of purple.

  "Ah-h-h," drawled the girl, and straightening, she dropped both hands on her hips. It was a struggle, but she managed to summon another smile.

  "Wife—sister—sweetheart?"

  The man stared dubiously on her, and Sally, mother to five hundred wild rangers, knew the symptoms of a man eager for a confidant. She slipped into the opposite chair.

  "It might be any of the three," she went on gently, "and I know because

  I've seen him work."

  "Damn his soul!" growled the other by way of a prefix to his story. "It ain't any of the three with me. This Bard—maybe he tried his hand with you?"

  Whether it was rage or scorn that made her start and redden he could not tell.

  "Me?" she repeated. "A tenderfoot get fresh with me? Stranger, you ain't been long in Eldara or you wouldn't pull a bonehead like that."

  "'Scuse me. I was hopin' that maybe you took a fall out of him, that's all."

  He studied the blue eyes. They had been tinted with ugly green a moment before, but now they were clear, deep, dark, guileless blue. He could not resist. The very nearness of the woman was like a gentle, cool hand caressing his forehead and rubbing away the troubles.

  "It was like this," he began. "Me and Lizzie had been thick for a couple of years and was jest waitin' till I'd corralled enough cash for a start. Then the other day along comes this feller Bard with a queer way of talkin' school language. Made you feel like you was readin' a bit out of a dictionary jest to listen to him for a minute. Liz, she never heard nothin' like it, I figure. She got all eyes and sat still and listened. Bein' like that he plumb made a fool out of Liz. Kidded her along and wound up by kissing her good-bye. I didn't see none of this; I jest heard about
it later. When I come up and started talkin' jest friendly with Liz she got sore and passed me the frosty stare. I didn't think she could be doin' more than kiddin' me a bit, so I kept right on and it ended up with Liz sayin' that all was over between us."

  He paused on his tragedy, set his teeth over a sigh, and went on: "The feller ain't no good. I know that from a chap that come to the house a few hours after Bard left. Nash was his name—"

  "What!"

  "Nash. Feller built husky around the shoulders—looks like a fighter.

  Know him?"

  "Pretty well. D'you say he come to your house right after Bard left it?"

  "Yep. Why?"

  "How long ago was this?"

  "About three days."

  "Three days?"

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothin'."

  "You look like you was goin' to murder some one, lady."

  Her laughter ended with a jerk and jar.

  "Maybe I am. G'wan! Tell me some more about what Nash said."

  "Why, he didn't say much. Hinted around that maybe Bard had walked off with the piebald hoss he was ridin'."

  "That's a lie."

  "Lady," said the other a little coldly, "you say that like you was a friend of Bard's."

  "Me? There ain't nobody around these parts man enough to say to my face that I'm a friend of that tenderfoot."

  "I'm glad of that. My name's Ralph Boardman."

  "I'm Sally Fortune."

  "Sure; I've heard of you—a lot. Say, you couldn't tip me off where I could hit the trail of Bard?"

  "Dunno. Wait; lemme see."

  She studied, with closed eyes. What she was thinking was that if Nash had been so close to Bard three days before he was surely on the trail of the tenderfoot and certainly that meeting in her place had not been a casual one. She set her teeth, thinking of the promise Nash had given to her. Undoubtedly he had laughed at it afterward. And now Bard probably lay stretched on his back somewhere among the silent hills looking up to the pitiless brightness of the sky with eyes which could never shut.

  The hollow feeling of which Sally had complained to Bert grew to a positive ache, and the tears stood up closer to her eyes.

  "Wait around town," she said in a changed voice. "I think I heard him say something of riding out, but he'll be back before long. That's the only tip I can give you, partner."

  So she rose and hurried back to the kitchen.

  "Bert," she said, "I'm off for the rest of the day. You got to handle the place."

  He panted: "But the heavy rush—it ain't started yet."

  "It's started for me."

  "What d'you mean?"

  "Nothin'. I'm on my way. S'long, Bert. Back in the mornin' bright and early."

  If she could not find Bard at least she could find Nash at the ranch of

  Drew, and in that direction she headed her racing horse.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THE SHOW

  Jansen, the big Swede, was the first to finish his meal in Drew's dining-room. For that matter, he was always first. He ate with astonishing expedition, lowering his head till that tremendous, shapeless mouth was close to the plate and then working knife and fork alternately with an unfaltering industry. To-night, spurred on by a desire to pass through this mechanical effort and be prepared for the coming action, his speed was something truly marvellous. He did not appear to eat; the food simply vanished from the plate; it was absorbed like a mist before the wind. While the others were barely growing settled in their places, Jansen was already through.

  He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, produced Durham and papers, and proceeded to light up. Lawlor, struggling still to re-establish himself in the eyes of Bard as the real William Drew, seized the opportunity to exert a show of authority. He smashed his big fist on the table.

  "Jansen!" he roared.

  "Eh?" grunted the Swede.

  "Where was you raised?"

  "Me?"

  "You, square-head."

  "Elvaruheimarstadhaven."

  "Are you sneezin' or talkin' English?"

  Jansen, irritated, bellowed: "Elvaruheimarstadhaven! That's where I was born."

  "That's where you was born? Elvaru—damn such a language! No wonder you

  Swedes don't know nothin'. It takes all your time learnin' how to talk

  your lingo. But if you ain't never had no special trainin' in manners,

  I'm goin' to make a late start with you now. Put out that cigarette!"

  The pale eyes of Jansen stared, fascinated; the vast mouth fell agape.

  "Maybe," he began, and then finished weakly: "I be damned!"

  "There ain't no reasonable way of doubtin' that unless you put out that smoke. Hear me?"

  Shorty Kilrain, coming from the kitchen, grinned broadly. Having felt the lash of discipline himself, he was glad to see it fall in another place. He continued his gleeful course around that side of the table.

  And big Jansen slowly, imperturbably, raised the cigarette and inhaled a mighty cloud of smoke which issued at once in a rushing, fine blue mist, impelled by a snort.

  "Maybe," he rumbled, completing his thought, "maybe you're one damn fool!"

  "I'm going to learn you who's boss in these parts," boomed Lawlor. "Put out that cigarette! Don't you know no better than to smoke at the table?"

  Jansen pushed back his chair and started to rise. There was no doubt as to his intentions; they were advertised in the dull and growing red which flamed in his face. But Kilrain, as though he had known such a moment would come, caught the Swede by the shoulders and forced him back into the chair. As he did so he whispered something in the ear of Jansen.

  "Let him go!" bellowed Lawlor. "Let him come on. Don't hold him. I ain't had work for my hands for five years. I need exercise, I do."

  The mouth of Jansen stirred, but no words came. A hopeless yearning was in his eyes. But he dropped the cigarette and ground it under his heel.

  "I thought," growled Lawlor, "that you knew your master, but don't make no mistake again. Speakin' personal, I don't think no more of knockin' down a Swede than I do of flickin' the ashes off'n a cigar."

  He indulged in a side glance at Bard to see if the latter were properly impressed, but Anthony was staring blankly straight before him, unable, to all appearances, to see anything of what was happening.

  "Kilrain," went on Lawlor, "trot out some cigars. You know where they're kept."

  Kilrain falling to the temptation, asked: "Where's the key to the cabinet?"

  For Drew kept his tobacco in a small cabinet, locked because of long experience with tobacco-loving employees. Lawlor started to speak, checked himself, fumbled through his pockets, and then roared: "Smash the door open. I misplaced the key."

  No semblance of a smile altered the faces of the cowpunchers around the table, but glances of vague meaning were interchanged. Kilrain reappeared almost at once, bearing a large box of cigars under each arm.

  "The eats bein' over," announced Lawlor, "we can now light up. Open them boxes, Shorty. Am I goin' to work on you the rest of my life teachin' you how to serve cigars?"

  Kilrain sighed deeply, but obeyed, presenting the open boxes in turn to Bard, who thanked him, and to Lawlor, who bit off the end of his smoke continued: "A match, Kilrain."

  And he waited, swelling with pleasure, his eyes fixed upon space. Kilrain lighted a match and held it for the two in turn. Two rows of waiting, expectant eyes were turned from the whole length, of the table, toward the cigars.

  "Shall I pass on the cigars?" suggested Bard.

  "These smokes?" breathed Lawlor. "Waste 'em on common hands? Partner, you ain't serious, are you?"

  A breath like the faint sighing of wind reached them; the cowpunchers were resigned, and started now to roll their Durham. But it seemed as if a chuckle came from above; it was only some sound in the gasoline lamp, a big fixture which hung suspended by a slender chain from the centre of the ceiling and immediately above the table.

  "Civili
zin' cowpunchers," went on Lawlor, tilting back in his chair and bracing his feet against the edge of the table, "civilizin' cowpunchers is worse'n breakin' mustangs. They's some that say it can't be done. But look at this crew. Do they look like rough uns?"

  A stir had passed among the cowpunchers and solemn stares of hate transfixed Lawlor, but he went on: "I'm askin' you, do these look rough?"

  "I should say," answered Bard courteously, "that you have a pretty experienced lot of cattle-men."

  "Experienced? Well, they'll pass. They've had experience with bar whisky and talkin' to their cards at poker, but aside from bein' pretty much drunks and crookin' the cards, they ain't anything uncommon. But when I got 'em they was wild, they was. Why, if I'd talked like this in front of 'em they'd of been guns pulled. But look at 'em now. I ask you: Look at 'em now! Ain't they tame? They hear me call 'em what they are, but they don't even bat an eye. Yes, sir, I've tamed 'em. They took a lot of lickin', but now they're tamed. Hello!"

  For through the door stalked a newcomer. He paused and cast a curious eye up the table to Lawlor.

  "What the hell!" he remarked naively. "Where's the chief?"

  "Fired!" bellowed Lawlor without a moment of hesitation.

  "Who fired him?" asked the new man, with an expectant smile, like one who waits for the point of a joke, but he caught a series of strange signals from men at the table and many a broad wink.

  "I fired him, Gregory," answered Lawlor. "I fired Nash!"

  He turned to Bard.

  "You see," he said rather weakly, "the boys is used to callin' Nash 'the chief.'"

  "Ah, yes," said Bard, "I understand."

  And Lawlor felt that he did understand, and too well.

  Gregory, in the meantime, silenced by the mysterious signs from his fellow cowpunchers, took his place and began eating without another word. No one spoke to him, but as if he caught the tenseness of the situation, his eyes finally turned and glanced up the table to Bard.