THE Palace Hotel at
Fort Romper was painted a light blue, a shade that is on the legs of a kind of
heron, causing the bird to declare its position against any background. The
Palace Hotel, then, was always screaming and howling in a way that made the
dazzling winter landscape of Nebraska seem only a gray swampish hush. It stood
alone on the prairie, and when the snow was falling the town two hundred yards
away was not visible. But when the traveler alighted at the railway station he
was obliged to pass the Palace Hotel before he could come upon the company of
low clap- board houses which composed Fort Romper, and it was not to be thought
that any traveler could pass the Palace Hotel without looking at it. Pat
Scully, the proprietor, had proved himself a master of strategy when he chose
his paints. It is true that on clear days, when the great trans-continental
expresses, long lines of swaying Pullmans, swept through Fort Romper,
passengers were overcome at the sight, and the cult that knows the brown-reds
and the subdivisions of the dark greens of the East expressed shame, pity,
horror, in a laugh. But to the citizens of this prairie town, and to the people
who would naturally stop there, Pat Scully had performed a feat. With this
opulence and splendor, these creeds, classes, egotisms, that streamed through
Romper on the rails day after day, they had no color in common.
As if the displayed
delights of such a blue hotel were not sufficiently enticing, it was Scully's
habit to go every morning and evening to meet the leisurely trains that stopped
at Romper and work his seductions upon any man that he might see wavering,
gripsack in hand.
One morning, when a
snow-crusted engine dragged its long string of freight cars and its one
passenger coach to the station, Scully performed the marvel of catching three
men. One was a shaky and quick-eyed Swede, with a great shining cheap valise;
one was a tall bronzed cowboy, who was on his way to a ranch near the Dakota
line; one was a little silent man from the East, who didn't look it, and didn't
announce it. Scully practically made them prisoners. He was so nimble and merry
and kindly that each probably felt it would be the height of brutality to try
to escape. They trudged off over the creaking board sidewalks in the wake of
the eager little Irishman. He wore a heavy fur cap squeezed tightly down on his
head. It caused his two red ears to stick out stiffly, as if they were made of
tin.
At last Scully,
elaborately, with boisterous hospitality, conducted them through the portals of
the blue hotel. The room which they entered was small. It seemed to be merely a
proper temple for an enormous stove, which, in the center, was humming with
godlike violence. At various points on its surface the iron had become luminous
and glowed yellow from the heat. Beside the stove Scully's son Johnnie was
playing High-Five with an old farmer who had whiskers both gray and sandy. They
were quarreling. Frequently the old farmer turned his face toward a box of sawdust--
colored brown from tobacco juice--that was behind the stove, and spat with an
air of great impatience and irritation. With a loud flourish of words Scully
destroyed the game of cards, and bustled his son upstairs with part of the
baggage of the new guests. He himself conducted them to three basins of the
coldest water in the world. The cowboy and the Easterner burnished themselves
fiery red with this water, until it seemed to be some kind of a metal polish.
The Swede, however, merely dipped his fingers gingerly and with trepidation. It
was notable that throughout this series of small ceremonies the three travelers
were made to feel that Scully was very benevolent. He was conferring great
favors upon them. He handed the towel from one to the other with an air of
philanthropic impulse.
Afterward they went to
the first room, and, sitting about the stove, listened to Scully's officious
clamor at his daughters, who were preparing the midday meal. They reflected in
the silence of experienced men who tread carefully amid new people.
Nevertheless, the old farmer, stationary, invincible in his chair near the
warmest part of the stove, turned his face from the sawdust box frequently and
addressed a glowing commonplace to the strangers. Usually he was answered in
short but adequate sentences by either the cowboy or the Easterner. The Swede
said nothing. He seemed to be occupied in making furtive estimates of each man
in the room. One might have thought that he had the sense of silly suspicion
which comes to guilt. He resembled a badly frightened man.
Later, at dinner, he
spoke a little, addressing his conversation entirely to Scully. He volunteered
that he had come from New York, where for ten years he had worked as a tailor.
These facts seemed to strike Scully as fascinating, and afterward he
volunteered that he had lived at Romper for fourteen years. The Swede asked
about the crops and the price of labor. He seemed barely to listen to Scully's
extended replies. His eyes continued to rove from man to man.
Finally, with a laugh
and a wink, he said that some of these Western communities were very dangerous;
and after his statement he straightened his legs under the table, tilted his
head, and laughed again, loudly. It was plain that the demonstration had no meaning
to the others. They looked at him wondering and in silence.
As the men trooped
heavily back into the front room, the two little windows presented views of a
turmoiling sea of snow. The huge arms of the wind were making attempts--mighty,
circular, futile--to embrace the flakes as they sped. A gate-post like a still
man with a blanched face stood aghast amid this profligate fury. In a hearty
voice Scully announced the presence of a blizzard. The guests of the blue
hotel, lighting their pipes, assented with grunts of lazy masculine
contentment. No island of the sea could be exempt in the degree of this little
room with its humming stove. Johnnie, son of Scully, in a tone which defined
his opinion of his ability as a card-player, challenged the old farmer of both
gray and sandy whiskers to a game of High-Five. The farmer agreed with a
contemptuous and bitter scoff. They sat close to the stove, and squared their
knees under a wide board. The cowboy and the Easterner watched the game with
interest. The Swede remained near the window, aloof, but with a countenance
that showed signs of an inexplicable excitement.
The play of Johnnie and
the gray-beard was suddenly ended by another quarrel. The old man arose while
casting a look of heated scorn at his adversary. He slowly buttoned his coat,
and then stalked with fabulous dignity from the room. In the discreet silence
of all other men the Swede laughed. His laughter rang somehow childish. Men by
this time had begun to look at him askance, as if they wished to inquire what
ailed him.
A new game was formed
jocosely. The cowboy volunteered to become the partner of Johnnie, and they all
then turned to ask the Swede to throw in his lot with the little Easterner. He
asked some questions about the game, and learning that it wore many names, and
that he had played it when it was under an alias, he accepted the invitation.
He strode toward the men nervously, as if he expected to be assaulted. Finally,
seated, he gazed from face to face and laughed shrilly. This laugh was so
strange that the Easterner looked up quickly, the cowboy sat intent and with
his mouth open, and Johnnie paused, holding the cards with still fingers.
Afterward there was a
short silence. Then Johnnie said: "Well, let's get at it. Come on
now!" They pulled their chairs forward until their knees were bunched
under the board. They began to play, and their interest in the game caused the
others to forget the manner of the Swede.
The cowboy was a
board-whacker. Each time that he held superior cards he whanged them, one by
one, with exceeding force, down upon the improvised table, and took the tricks
with a glowing air of prowess and pride that sent thrills of indignation into
the hearts of his opponents. A game with a board-whacker in it is sure to become
intense. The countenances of the Easterner and the Swede were miserable
whenever the cowboy thundered down his aces and kings, while Johnnie, his eyes
gleaming with joy, chuckled and chuckled.
Because of the
absorbing play none considered the strange ways of the Swede. They paid strict
heed to the game. Finally, during a lull caused by a new deal, the Swede
suddenly addressed Johnnie: "I suppose there have been a good many men
killed in this room." The jaws of the others dropped and they looked at him.
"What in hell are
you talking about?" said Johnnie.
The Swede laughed again
his blatant laugh, full of a kind of false courage and defiance. "Oh, you
know what I mean all right," he answered.
"I'm a liar if I
do!" Johnnie protested. The card was halted, and the men stared at the
Swede. Johnnie evidently felt that as the son of the proprietor he should make
a direct inquiry. "Now, what might you be drivin' at, mister?" he asked.
The Swede winked at him. It was a wink full of cunning. His fingers shook on
the edge of the board. "Oh, maybe you think I have been to nowheres. Maybe
you think I'm a tenderfoot?"
"I don't know
nothin' about you," answered Johnnie, "and I don't give a damn where
you've been. All I got to say is that I don't know what you're driving at.
There hain't never been nobody killed in this room."
The cowboy, who had
been steadily gazing at the Swede, then spoke. "What's wrong with you,
mister?"
Apparently it seemed to
the Swede that he was formidably menaced. He shivered and turned white near the
corners of his mouth. He sent an appealing glance in the direction of the
little Easterner. During these moments he did not forget to wear his air of
advanced pot-valor. "They say they don't know what I mean," he
remarked mockingly to the Easterner.
The latter answered
after prolonged and cautious reflection. "I don't understand you," he
said, impassively.
The Swede made a
movement then which announced that he thought he had encountered treachery from
the only quarter where he had expected sympathy if not help. "Oh, I see
you are all against me. I see--"
The cowboy was in a
state of deep stupefaction. "Say," he cried, as he tumbled the deck
violently down upon the board. "Say, what are you gittin' at, hey?"
The Swede sprang up
with the celerity of a man escaping from a snake on the floor. "I don't
want to fight!" he shouted. "I don't want to fight!"
The cowboy stretched
his long legs indolently and deliberately. His hands were in his pockets. He
spat into the sawdust box. "Well, who the hell thought you did?" he
inquired.
The Swede backed
rapidly toward a corner of the room. His hands were out protectingly in front
of his chest, but he was making an obvious struggle to control his fright.
"Gentlemen," he quavered, "I suppose I am going to be killed
before I can leave this house! I suppose I am going to be killed before I can
leave this house." In his eyes was the dying swan look. Through the
windows could be seen the snow turning blue in the shadow of dusk. The wind
tore at the house and some loose thing beat regularly against the clap-boards
like a spirit tapping.
A door opened, and
Scully himself entered. He paused in surprise as he noted the tragic attitude
of the Swede. Then he said: "What's the matter here?"
The Swede answered him
swiftly and eagerly: "These men are going to kill me."
"Kill you!"
ejaculated Scully. "Kill you! What are you talkin'?"
The Swede made the
gesture of a martyr.
Scully wheeled sternly
upon his son. "What is this, Johnnie?"
The lad had grown
sullen. "Damned if I know," he answered. "I can't make no sense
to it." He began to shuffle the cards, fluttering them together with an
angry snap. "He says a good many men have been killed in this room, or
something like that. And he says he's goin' to be killed here too. I don't know
what ails him. He's crazy, I shouldn't wonder."
Scully then looked for
explanation to the cowboy, but the cowboy simply shrugged his shoulders.
"Kill you?"
said Scully again to the Swede. "Kill you? Man, you're off your nut."
"Oh, I know,"
burst out the Swede. "I know what will happen. Yes, I'm crazy--yes. Yes,
of course, I'm crazy--yes. But I know one thing--" There was a sort of
sweat of misery and terror upon his face. "I know I won't get out of here
alive."
The cowboy drew a deep
breath, as if his mind was passing into the last stages of dissolution.
"Well, I'm dog-goned," he whispered to himself.
Scully wheeled suddenly
and faced his son. "You've been troublin' this man!"
Johnnie's voice was
loud with its burden of grievance. "Why, good Gawd, I ain't done nothin'
to 'im."
The Swede broke in.
"Gentlemen, do not disturb yourselves. I will leave this house. I will go
'way because--" He accused them dramatically with his glance.
"Because I do not want to be killed."
Scully was furious with
his son. "Will you tell me what is the matter, you young divil? What's the
matter, anyhow? Speak out!"
"Blame it,"
cried Johnnie in despair, "don't I tell you I don't know. He--he says we
want to kill him, and that's all I know. I can't tell what ails him."
The Swede continued to
repeat: "Never mind, Mr. Scully, never mind. I will leave this house. I
will go away, because I do not wish to be killed. Yes, of course, I am
crazy--yes. But I know one thing! I will go away. I will leave this house.
Never mind, Mr. Scully, never mind. I will go away."
"You will not go
'way," said Scully. "You will not go 'way until I hear the reason of
this business. If anybody has troubled you I will take care of him. This is my
house. You are under my roof, and I will not allow any peaceable man to be
troubled here. He cast a terrible eye upon Johnnie, the cowboy, and the
Easterner.
"Never mind, Mr.
Scully; never mind. I will go 'way. I do not wish to be killed." The Swede
moved toward the door, which opened upon the stairs. It was evidently his
intention to go at once for his baggage.
"No, no,"
shouted Scully peremptorily; but the white-faced man slid by him and disappeared.
"Now," said Scully severely, "what does this mane?"
Johnnie and the cowboy
cried together: "Why, we didn't do nothin' to 'im!"
Scully's eyes were
cold. "No," he said, "you didn't?"
Johnnie swore a deep
oath. "Why, this is the wildest loon I ever see. We didn't do nothin' at
all. We were jest sittin' here playin' cards and he--"
The father suddenly
spoke to the Easterner. "Mr. Blanc," he asked, "what has these
boys been doin'?"
The Easterner reflected
again. "I didn't see anything wrong at all," he said at last slowly.
Scully began to howl.
"But what does it mane?" He stared ferociously at his son. "I
have a mind to lather you for this, me boy."
Johnnie was frantic.
"Well, what have I done?" he bawled at his father.
"I THINK you are
tongue-tied," said Scully finally to his son, the cowboy and the
Easterner, and at the end of this scornful sentence he left the room.
Upstairs the Swede was
swiftly fastening the straps of his great valise. Once his back happened to be
half-turned toward the door, and hearing a noise there, he wheeled and sprang
up, uttering a loud cry. Scully's wrinkled visage showed grimly in the light of
the small lamp he carried. This yellow effulgence, streaming upward, colored
only his prominent features, and left his eyes, for instance, in mysterious
shadow. He resembled a murderer.
"Man, man!"
he exclaimed, "have you gone daffy?"
"Oh, no! Oh,
no!" rejoined the other. "There are people in this world who know
pretty nearly as much as you do--understand?"
For a moment they stood
gazing at each other. Upon the Swede's deathly pale cheeks were two spots
brightly crimson and sharply edged, as if they had been carefully painted.
Scully placed the light on the table and sat himself on the edge of the bed. He
spoke ruminatively. "By cracky, I never heard of such a thing in my life.
It's a complete muddle. I can't for the soul of me think how you ever got this
idea into your head." Presently he lifted his eyes and asked: "And
did you sure think they were going to kill you?"
The Swede scanned the
old man as if he wished to see into his mind. "I did," he said at
last. He obviously suspected that this answer might precipitate an outbreak. As
he pulled on a strap his whole arm shook, the elbow wavering like a bit of paper.
Scully banged his hand
impressively on the foot-board of the bed. "Why, man, we're goin' to have
a line of ilictric street-cars in this town next spring."
"'A line of
electric street-cars,'" repeated the Swede stupidly.
"And," said
Scully, "there's a new railroad goin' to be built down from Broken Arm to
here. Not to mintion the four churches and the smashin' big brick school-house.
Then there's the big factory, too. Why, in two years Romper'll be a
met-tro-pol-is."
Having finished the
preparation of his baggage, the Swede straightened himself. "Mr.
Scully," he said with sudden hardihood, "how much do I owe you?"
"You don't owe me
anythin'," said the old man angrily.
"Yes, I do,"
retorted the Swede. He took seventy-five cents from his pocket and tendered it
to Scully; but the latter snapped his fingers in disdainful refusal. However,
it happened that they both stood gazing in a strange fashion at three silver
pieces on the Swede's open palm.
"I'll not take
your money," said Scully at last. "Not after what's been goin' on
here." Then a plan seemed to strike him. "Here," he cried,
picking up his lamp and moving toward the door. "Here! Come with me a
minute."
"No," said
the Swede in overwhelming alarm.
"Yes," urged
the old man. "Come on! I want you to come and see a picter--just across
the hall--in my room."
The Swede must have
concluded that his hour was come. His jaw dropped and his teeth showed like a
dead man's. He ultimately followed Scully across the corridor, but he had the
step of one hung in chains.
Scully flashed the
light high on the wall of his own chamber. There was revealed a ridiculous
photograph of a little girl. She was leaning against a balustrade of gorgeous
decoration, and the formidable bang to her hair was prominent. The figure was
as graceful as an upright sled-stake, and, withal, it was of the hue of lead.
"There," said Scully tenderly. "That's the picter of my little
girl that died. Her name was Carrie. She had the purtiest hair you ever saw! I
was that fond of her, she--"
Turning then he saw
that the Swede was not contemplating the picture at all, but, instead, was
keeping keen watch on the gloom in the rear.
"Look, man!"
shouted Scully heartily. "That's the picter of my little gal that died.
Her name was Carrie. And then here's the picter of my oldest boy, Michael. He's
a lawyer in Lincoln an' doin' well. I gave that boy a grand eddycation, and I'm
glad for it now. He's a fine boy. Look at 'im now. Ain't he bold as blazes, him
there in Lincoln, an honored an' respicted gintleman. An honored an' respicted
gintleman," concluded Scully with a flourish. And so saying, he smote the
Swede jovially on the back.
The Swede faintly
smiled.
"Now," said
the old man, "there's only one more thing." He dropped suddenly to
the floor and thrust his head beneath the bed. The Swede could hear his muffled
voice. "I'd keep it under me piller if it wasn't for that boy Johnnie. Then
there's the old woman-- Where is it now? I never put it twice in the same
place. Ah, now come out with you!"
Presently he backed
clumsily from under the bed, dragging with him an old coat rolled into a
bundle. "I've fetched him," he muttered. Kneeling on the floor he
unrolled the coat and extracted from its heart a large yellow-brown whisky
bottle.
His first maneuver was
to hold the bottle up to the light. Reassured, apparently, that nobody had been
tampering with it, he thrust it with a generous movement toward the Swede.
The weak-kneed Swede
was about to eagerly clutch this element of strength, but he suddenly jerked
his hand away and cast a look of horror upon Scully.
"Drink," said
the old man affectionately. He had arisen to his feet, and now stood facing the
Swede.
There was a silence.
Then again Scully said: "Drink!"
The Swede laughed
wildly. He grabbed the bottle, put it to his mouth, and as his lips curled
absurdly around the opening and his throat worked, he kept his glance burning
with hatred upon the old man's face.
AFTER the departure of
Scully the three men, with the card- board still upon their knees, preserved
for a long time an astounded silence. Then Johnnie said: "That's the
dod-dangest Swede I ever see."
"He ain't no Swede,"
said the cowboy scornfully.
"Well, what is he
then?" cried Johnnie. "What is he then?"
"It's my
opinion," replied the cowboy deliberately, "he's some kind of a
Dutchman." It was a venerable custom of the country to entitle as Swedes
all light-haired men who spoke with a heavy tongue. In consequence the idea of
the cowboy was not without its daring. "Yes, sir," he repeated.
"It's my opinion this feller is some kind of a Dutchman."
"Well, he says
he's a Swede, anyhow," muttered Johnnie sulkily. He turned to the
Easterner. "What do you think, Mr. Blanc?"
"Oh, I don't
know," replied the Easterner.
"Well, what do you
think makes him act that way?" asked the cowboy.
"Why, he's
frightened!" The Easterner knocked his pipe against a rim of the stove.
"He's clear frightened out of his boots."
"What at?"
cried Johnnie and cowboy together.
The Easterner reflected
over his answer.
"What at?"
cried the others again.
"Oh, I don't know,
but it seems to me this man has been reading dime-novels, and he thinks he's
right out in the middle of it--the shootin' and stabbin' and all."
"But," said
the cowboy, deeply scandalized, "this ain't Wyoming, ner none of them
places. This is Nebrasker."
"Yes," added
Johnnie, "an' why don't he wait till he gits out West?"
The traveled Easterner
laughed. "It isn't different there even--not in these days. But he thinks
he's right in the middle of hell."
Johnnie and the cowboy
mused long.
"It's awful
funny," remarked Johnnie at last.
"Yes," said
the cowboy. "This is a queer game. I hope we don't git snowed in, because
then we'd have to stand this here man bein' around with us all the time. That
wouldn't be no good."
"I wish pop would
throw him out," said Johnnie.
Presently they heard a
loud stamping on the stairs, accompanied by ringing jokes in the voice of old
Scully, and laughter, evidently from the Swede. The men around the stove stared
vacantly at each other. "Gosh," said the cowboy. The door flew open,
and old Scully, flushed and anecdotal, came into the room. He was jabbering at
the Swede, who followed him, laughing bravely. It was the entry of two
roysterers from a banquet hall.
"Come now,"
said Scully sharply to the three seated men, "move up and give us a chance
at the stove." The cowboy and the Easterner obediently sidled their chairs
to make room for the newcomers. Johnnie, however, simply arranged himself in a
more indolent attitude, and then remained motionless.
"Come! Git over,
there," said Scully.
"Plenty of room on
the other side of the stove," said Johnnie.
"Do you think we
want to sit in the draught?" roared the father.
But the Swede here
interposed with a grandeur of confidence. "No, no. Let the boy sit where
he likes," he cried in a bullying voice to the father.
"All right! All
right!" said Scully deferentially. The cowboy and the Easterner exchanged
glances of wonder.
The five chairs were
formed in a crescent about one side of the stove. The Swede began to talk; he
talked arrogantly, profanely, angrily. Johnnie, the cowboy and the Easterner
maintained a morose silence, while old Scully appeared to be receptive and
eager, breaking in constantly with sympathetic ejaculations.
Finally the Swede
announced that he was thirsty. He moved in his chair, and said that he would go
for a drink of water.
"I'll git it for
you," cried Scully at once.
"No," said
the Swede contemptuously. "I'll get it for myself." He arose and
stalked with the air of an owner off into the executive parts of the hotel.
As soon as the Swede
was out of hearing Scully sprang to his feet and whispered intensely to the
others. "Upstairs he thought I was tryin' to poison 'im."
"Say," said
Johnnie, "this makes me sick. Why don't you throw 'im out in the
snow?"
"Why, he's all
right now," declared Scully. "It was only that he was from the East
and he thought this was a tough place. That's all. He's all right now."
The cowboy looked with
admiration upon the Easterner. "You were straight," he said.
"You were on to that there Dutchman."
"Well," said
Johnnie to his father, "he may be all right now, but I don't see it. Other
time he was scared, and now he's too fresh."
Scully's speech was
always a combination of Irish brogue and idiom, Western twang and idiom, and
scraps of curiously formal diction taken from the story-books and newspapers.
He now hurled a strange mass of language at the head of his son. "What do
I keep? What do I keep? What do I keep?" he demanded in a voice of
thunder. He slapped his knee impressively, to indicate that he himself was
going to make reply, and that all should heed. "I keep a hotel," he
shouted. "A hotel, do you mind? A guest under my roof has sacred
privileges. He is to be intimidated by none. Not one word shall he hear that
would prijudice him in favor of goin' away. I'll not have it. There's no place
in this here town where they can say they iver took in a guest of mine because
he was afraid to stay here." He wheeled suddenly upon the cowboy and the
Easterner. "Am I right?"
"Yes, Mr.
Scully," said the cowboy, "I think you're right."
"Yes, Mr.
Scully," said the Easterner, "I think you're right."
AT six-o'clock supper,
the Swede fizzed like a fire-wheel. He sometimes seemed on the point of
bursting into riotous song, and in all his madness he was encouraged by old
Scully. The Easterner was incased in reserve; the cowboy sat in wide-mouthed
amazement, forgetting to eat, while Johnnie wrathily demolished great plates of
food. The daughters of the house when they were obliged to replenish the
biscuits approached as warily as Indians, and, having succeeded in their
purposes, fled with ill-concealed trepidation. The Swede domineered the whole
feast, and he gave it the appearance of a cruel bacchanal. He seemed to have
grown suddenly taller; he gazed, brutally disdainful, into every face. His
voice rang through the room. Once when he jabbed out harpoon-fashion with his
fork to pinion a biscuit the weapon nearly impaled the hand of the Easterner
which had been stretched quietly out for the same biscuit.
After supper, as the
men filed toward the other room, the Swede smote Scully ruthlessly on the
shoulder. "Well, old boy, that was a good square meal." Johnnie
looked hopefully at his father; he knew that shoulder was tender from an old
fall; and indeed it appeared for a moment as if Scully was going to flame out
over the matter, but in the end he smiled a sickly smile and remained silent.
The others understood from his manner that he was admitting his responsibility
for the Swede's new viewpoint.
Johnnie, however,
addressed his parent in an aside. "Why don't you license somebody to kick
you downstairs?" Scully scowled darkly by way of reply.
When they were gathered
about the stove, the Swede insisted on another game of High-Five. Scully gently
deprecated the plan at first, but the Swede turned a wolfish glare upon him.
The old man subsided, and the Swede canvassed the others. In his tone there was
always a great threat. The cowboy and the Easterner both remarked indifferently
that they would play. Scully said that he would presently have to go to meet
the 6.58 train, and so the Swede turned menacingly upon Johnnie. For a moment
their glances crossed like blades, and then Johnnie smiled and said: "Yes,
I'll play."
They formed a square
with the little board on their knees. The Easterner and the Swede were again
partners. As the play went on, it was noticeable that the cowboy was not
board-whacking as usual. Meanwhile, Scully, near the lamp, had put on his
spectacles and, with an appearance curiously like an old priest, was reading a
newspaper. In time he went out to meet the 6.58 train, and, despite his
precautions, a gust of polar wind whirled into the room as he opened the door.
Besides scattering the cards, it chilled the players to the marrow. The Swede
cursed frightfully. When Scully returned, his entrance disturbed a cozy and
friendly scene. The Swede again cursed. But presently they were once more
intent, their heads bent forward and their hands moving swiftly. The Swede had
adopted the fashion of board-whacking.
Scully took up his
paper and for a long time remained immersed in matters which were
extraordinarily remote from him. The lamp burned badly, and once he stopped to
adjust the wick. The newspaper as he turned from page to page rustled with a
slow and comfortable sound. Then suddenly he heard three terrible words:
"You are cheatin'!"
Such scenes often prove
that there can be little of dramatic import in environment. Any room can
present a tragic front; any room can be comic. This little den was now hideous
as a torture- chamber. The new faces of the men themselves had changed it upon
the instant. The Swede held a huge fist in front of Johnnie's face, while the
latter looked steadily over it into the blazing orbs of his accuser. The
Easterner had grown pallid; the cowboy's jaw had dropped in that expression of
bovine amazement which was one of his important mannerisms. After the three
words, the first sound in the room was made by Scully's paper as it floated
forgotten to his feet. His spectacles had also fallen from his nose, but by a
clutch he had saved them in air. His hand, grasping the spectacles, now
remained poised awkwardly and near his shoulder. He stared at the card-players.
PROBABLY the silence
was while a second elapsed. Then, if the floor had been suddenly twitched out
from under the men they could not have moved quicker. The five had projected
themselves headlong toward a common point. It happened that Johnnie in rising
to hurl himself upon the Swede had stumbled slightly because of his curiously
instinctive care for the cards and the board. The loss of the moment allowed
time for the arrival of Scully, and also allowed the cowboy time to give the
Swede a great push which sent him staggering back. The men found tongue
together, and hoarse shouts of rage, appeal or fear burst from every throat.
The cowboy pushed and jostled feverishly at the Swede, and the Easterner and
Scully clung wildly to Johnnie; but, through the smoky air, above the swaying
bodies of the peace-compellers, the eyes of the two warriors ever sought each
other in glances of challenge that were at once hot and steely.
Of course the board had
been overturned, and now the whole company of cards was scattered over the
floor, where the boots of the men trampled the fat and painted kings and queens
as they gazed with their silly eyes at the war that was waging above them.
Scully's voice was
dominating the yells. "Stop now! Stop, I say! Stop, now--"
Johnnie, as he
struggled to burst through the rank formed by Scully and the Easterner, was
crying: "Well, he says I cheated! He says I cheated! I won't allow no man
to say I cheated! If he says I cheated, he's a ---- -----!"
The cowboy was telling
the Swede: "Quit, now! Quit, d'ye hear--"
The screams of the
Swede never ceased. "He did cheat! I saw him! I saw him--"
As for the Easterner,
he was importuning in a voice that was not heeded. "Wait a moment, can't
you? Oh, wait a moment. What's the good of a fight over a game of cards? Wait a
moment--"
In this tumult no
complete sentences were clear. "Cheat"-- "Quit"--"He
says"-- These fragments pierced the uproar and rang out sharply. It was
remarkable that whereas Scully undoubtedly made the most noise, he was the
least heard of any of the riotous band.
Then suddenly there was
a great cessation. It was as if each man had paused for breath, and although
the room was still lighted with the anger of men, it could be seen that there
was no danger of immediate conflict, and at once Johnnie, shouldering his way
forward, almost succeeded in confronting the Swede. "What did you say I
cheated for? What did you say I cheated for? I don't cheat and I won't let no
man say I do!"
The Swede said: "I
saw you! I saw you!"
"Well," cried
Johnnie, "I'll fight any man what says I cheat!"
"No, you
won't," said the cowboy. "Not here."
"Ah, be still,
can't you?" said Scully, coming between them.
The quiet was
sufficient to allow the Easterner's voice to be heard. He was repeating:
"Oh, wait a moment, can't you? What's the good of a fight over a game of
cards? Wait a moment."
Johnnie, his red face
appearing above his father's shoulder, hailed the Swede again. "Did you
say I cheated?"
The Swede showed his
teeth. "Yes."
"Then," said
Johnnie, "we must fight."
"Yes, fight,"
roared the Swede. He was like a demoniac. "Yes, fight! I'll show you what
kind of a man I am! I'll show you who you want to fight! Maybe you think I
can't fight! Maybe you think I can't! I'll show you, you skin, you card-sharp!
Yes, you cheated! You cheated! You cheated!"
"Well, let's git
at it, then, mister," said Johnnie coolly.
The cowboy's brow was
beaded with sweat from his efforts in intercepting all sorts of raids. He
turned in despair to Scully. "What are you goin' to do now?"
A change had come over
the Celtic visage of the old man. He now seemed all eagerness; his eyes glowed.
"We'll let them
fight," he answered stalwartly. "I can't put up with it any longer.
I've stood this damned Swede till I'm sick. We'll let them fight."
THE men prepared to go
out of doors. The Easterner was so nervous that he had great difficulty in getting
his arms into the sleeves of his new leather-coat. As the cowboy drew his
fur-cap down over his ears his hands trembled. In fact, Johnnie and old Scully
were the only ones who displayed no agitation. These preliminaries were
conducted without words.
Scully threw open the
door. "Well, come on," he said. Instantly a terrific wind caused the
flame of the lamp to struggle at its wick, while a puff of black smoke sprang
from the chimney- top. The stove was in mid-current of the blast, and its voice
swelled to equal the roar of the storm. Some of the scarred and bedabbled cards
were caught up from the floor and dashed helplessly against the further wall.
The men lowered their heads and plunged into the tempest as into a sea.
No snow was falling,
but great whirls and clouds of flakes, swept up from the ground by the frantic
winds, were streaming southward with the speed of bullets. The covered land was
blue with the sheen of an unearthly satin, and there was no other hue save
where at the low black railway station--which seemed incredibly distant--one
light gleamed like a tiny jewel. As the men floundered into a thigh-deep drift,
it was known that the Swede was bawling out something. Scully went to him, put
a hand on his shoulder and projected an ear. "What's that you say?"
he shouted.
"I say,"
bawled the Swede again, "I won't stand much show against this gang. I know
you'll all pitch on me."
Scully smote him
reproachfully on the arm. "Tut, man," he yelled. The wind tore the
words from Scully's lips and scattered them far a-lee.
"You are all a
gang of--" boomed the Swede, but the storm also seized the remainder of
this sentence.
Immediately turning
their backs upon the wind, the men had swung around a corner to the sheltered
side of the hotel. It was the function of the little house to preserve here,
amid this great devastation of snow, an irregular V-shape of heavily-incrusted
grass, which crackled beneath the feet. One could imagine the great drifts
piled against the windward side. When the party reached the comparative peace
of this spot it was found that the Swede was still bellowing.
"Oh, I know what
kind of a thing this is! I know you'll all pitch on me. I can't lick you
all!"
Scully turned upon him
panther-fashion. "You'll not have to whip all of us. You'll have to whip
my son Johnnie. An' the man what troubles you durin' that time will have me to
dale with."
The arrangements were
swiftly made. The two men faced each other, obedient to the harsh commands of
Scully, whose face, in the subtly luminous gloom, could be seen set in the
austere impersonal lines that are pictured on the countenances of the Roman
veterans. The Easterner's teeth were chattering, and he was hopping up and down
like a mechanical toy. The cowboy stood rock-like.
The contestants had not
stripped off any clothing. Each was in his ordinary attire. Their fists were
up, and they eyed each other in a calm that had the elements of leonine cruelty
in it.
During this pause, the
Easterner's mind, like a film, took lasting impressions of three men--the
iron-nerved master of the ceremony; the Swede, pale, motionless, terrible; and
Johnnie, serene yet ferocious, brutish yet heroic. The entire prelude had in it
a tragedy greater than the tragedy of action, and this aspect was accentuated
by the long mellow cry of the blizzard, as it sped the tumbling and wailing
flakes into the black abyss of the south.
"Now!" said
Scully.
The two combatants
leaped forward and crashed together like bullocks. There was heard the
cushioned sound of blows, and of a curse squeezing out from between the tight
teeth of one.
As for the spectators,
the Easterner's pent-up breath exploded from him with a pop of relief, absolute
relief from the tension of the preliminaries. The cowboy bounded into the air
with a yowl. Scully was immovable as from supreme amazement and fear at the
fury of the fight which he himself had permitted and arranged.
For a time the
encounter in the darkness was such a perplexity of flying arms that it
presented no more detail than would a swiftly-revolving wheel. Occasionally a
face, as if illumined by a flash of light, would shine out, ghastly and marked
with pink spots. A moment later, the men might have been known as shadows, if
it were not for the involuntary utterance of oaths that came from them in
whispers.
Suddenly a holocaust of
warlike desire caught the cowboy, and he bolted forward with the speed of a
broncho. "Go it, Johnnie; go it! Kill him! Kill him!"
Scully confronted him.
"Kape back," he said; and by his glance the cowboy could tell that
this man was Johnnie's father.
To the Easterner there
was a monotony of unchangeable fighting that was an abomination. This confused
mingling was eternal to his sense, which was concentrated in a longing for the
end, the priceless end. Once the fighters lurched near him, and as he scrambled
hastily backward, he heard them breathe like men on the rack.
"Kill him,
Johnnie! Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!" The cowboy's face was contorted
like one of those agony masks in museums.
"Keep still,"
said Scully icily.
Then there was a sudden
loud grunt, incomplete, cut short, and Johnnie's body swung away from the Swede
and fell with sickening heaviness to the grass. The cowboy was barely in time
to prevent the mad Swede from flinging himself upon his prone adversary.
"No, you don't," said the cowboy, interposing an arm. "Wait a
second."
Scully was at his son's
side. "Johnnie! Johnnie, me boy?" His voice had a quality of
melancholy tenderness. "Johnnie? Can you go on with it?" He looked
anxiously down into the bloody pulpy face of his son.
There was a moment of
silence, and then Johnnie answered in his ordinary voice: "Yes,
I--it--yes."
Assisted by his father
he struggled to his feet. "Wait a bit now till you git your wind,"
said the old man.
A few paces away the
cowboy was lecturing the Swede. "No, you don't! Wait a second!"
The Easterner was
plucking at Scully's sleeve. "Oh, this is enough," he pleaded.
"This is enough! Let it go as it stands. This is enough!"
"Bill," said
Scully, "git out of the road." The cowboy stepped aside.
"Now." The combatants were actuated by a new caution as they advanced
toward collision. They glared at each other, and then the Swede aimed a
lightning blow that carried with it his entire weight. Johnnie was evidently
half-stupid from weakness, but he miraculously dodged, and his fist sent the
over- balanced Swede sprawling.
The cowboy, Scully and
the Easterner burst into a cheer that was like a chorus of triumphant soldiery,
but before its conclusion the Swede had scuffled agilely to his feet and come
in berserk abandon at his foe. There was another perplexity of flying arms, and
Johnnie's body again swung away and fell, even as a bundle might fall from a
roof. The Swede instantly staggered to a little wind-waved tree and leaned upon
it, breathing like an engine, while his savage and flame-lit eyes roamed from
face to face as the men bent over Johnnie. There was a splendor of isolation in
his situation at this time which the Easterner felt once when, lifting his eyes
from the man on the ground, he beheld that mysterious and lonely figure,
waiting.
"Are you any good
yet, Johnnie?" asked Scully in a broken voice.
The son gasped and
opened his eyes languidly. After a moment he answered: "No--I ain't--any
good--any--more." Then, from shame and bodily ill, he began to weep, the
tears furrowing down through the bloodstains on his face. "He was
too--too--too heavy for me."
Scully straightened and
addressed the waiting figure. "Stranger," he said, evenly, "it's
all up with our side." Then his voice changed into that vibrant huskiness
which is commonly the tone of the most simple and deadly announcements.
"Johnnie is whipped."
Without replying, the
victor moved off on the route to the front door of the hotel.
The cowboy was
formulating new and unspellable blasphemies. The Easterner was startled to find
that they were out in a wind that seemed to come direct from the shadowed
arctic floes. He heard again the wail of the snow as it was flung to its grave
in the south. He knew now that all this time the cold had been sinking into him
deeper and deeper, and he wondered that he had not perished. He felt
indifferent to the condition of the vanquished man.
"Johnnie, can you
walk?" asked Scully.
"Did I hurt--hurt
him any?" asked the son.
"Can you walk,
boy? Can you walk?"
Johnnie's voice was
suddenly strong. There was a robust impatience in it. "I asked you whether
I hurt him any!"
"Yes, yes,
Johnnie," answered the cowboy consolingly; "he's hurt a good
deal."
They raised him from
the ground, and as soon as he was on his feet he went tottering off, rebuffing
all attempts at assistance. When the party rounded the corner they were fairly
blinded by the pelting of the snow. It burned their faces like fire. The cowboy
carried Johnnie through the drift to the door. As they entered some cards again
rose from the floor and beat against the wall.
The Easterner rushed to
the stove. He was so profoundly chilled that he almost dared to embrace the
glowing iron. The Swede was not in the room. Johnnie sank into a chair, and
folding his arms on his knees, buried his face in them. Scully, warming one
foot and then the other at a rim of the stove, muttered to himself with Celtic
mournfulness. The cowboy had removed his fur- cap, and with a dazed and rueful
air he was now running one hand through his tousled locks. From overhead they
could hear the creaking of boards, as the Swede tramped here and there in his
room.
The sad quiet was
broken by the sudden flinging open of a door that led toward the kitchen. It
was instantly followed by an inrush of women. They precipitated themselves upon
Johnnie amid a chorus of lamentation. Before they carried their prey off to the
kitchen, there to be bathed and harangued with that mixture of sympathy and
abuse which is a feat of their sex, the mother straightened herself and fixed
old Scully with an eye of stern reproach. "Shame be upon you, Patrick
Scully!" she cried. "Your own son, too. Shame be upon you!"
"There, now! Be
quiet, now!" said the old man weakly.
"Shame be upon
you, Patrick Scully!" The girls rallying to this slogan, sniffed
disdainfully in the direction of those trembling accomplices, the cowboy and
the Easterner. Presently they bore Johnnie away, and left the three men to
dismal reflection.
"I'D like to fight
this here Dutchman myself," said the cowboy, breaking a long silence.
Scully wagged his head
sadly. "No, that wouldn't do. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be
right."
"Well, why wouldn't
it?" argued the cowboy. "I don't see no harm in it."
"No,"
answered Scully with mournful heroism. "It wouldn't be right. It was
Johnnie's fight, and now we mustn't whip the man just because he whipped
Johnnie."
"Yes, that's true
enough," said the cowboy; "but--he better not get fresh with me,
because I couldn't stand no more of it."
"You'll not say a
word to him," commanded Scully, and even then they heard the tread of the
Swede on the stairs. His entrance was made theatric. He swept the door back
with a bang and swaggered to the middle of the room. No one looked at him.
"Well," he cried, insolently, at Scully, "I s'pose you'll tell
me now how much I owe you?"
The old man remained
stolid. "You don't owe me nothin'."
"Huh!" said
the Swede, "huh! Don't owe 'im nothin'."
The cowboy addressed
the Swede. "Stranger, I don't see how you come to be so gay around
here."
Old Scully was
instantly alert. "Stop!" he shouted, holding his hand forth, fingers
upward. "Bill, you shut up!"
The cowboy spat
carelessly into the sawdust box. "I didn't say a word, did I?" he
asked.
"Mr. Scully,"
called the Swede, "how much do I owe you?" It was seen that he was
attired for departure, and that he had his valise in his hand.
"You don't owe me
nothin'," repeated Scully in his same imperturbable way.
"Huh!" said
the Swede. "I guess you're right. I guess if it was any way at all, you'd
owe me somethin'. That's what I guess." He turned to the cowboy.
"'Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!'" he mimicked, and then guffawed
victoriously. "Kill him!" He was convulsed with ironical humor.
But he might have been
jeering the dead. The three men were immovable and silent, staring with glassy
eyes at the stove.
The Swede opened the
door and passed into the storm, giving one derisive glance backward at the
still group.
As soon as the door was
closed, Scully and the cowboy leaped to their feet and began to curse. They
trampled to and fro, waving their arms and smashing into the air with their
fists. "Oh, but that was a hard minute!" wailed Scully. "That
was a hard minute! Him there leerin' and scoffin'! One bang at his nose was
worth forty dollars to me that minute! How did you stand it, Bill?"
"How did I stand
it?" cried the cowboy in a quivering voice. "How did I stand it?
Oh!"
The old man burst into
sudden brogue. "I'd loike to take that Swade," he wailed, "and
hould 'im down on a shtone flure and bate 'im to a jelly wid a shtick!"
The cowboy groaned in
sympathy. "I'd like to git him by the neck and ha-ammer him"--he
brought his hand down on a chair with a noise like a pistol-shot--"hammer
that there Dutchman until he couldn't tell himself from a dead coyote!"
"I'd bate 'im
until he--"
"I'd show him some
things--"
And then together they
raised a yearning fanatic cry. "Oh-o- oh! if we only could--"
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
"And then
I'd--"
"O-o-oh!"
THE Swede, tightly
gripping his valise, tacked across the face of the storm as if he carried
sails. He was following a line of little naked gasping trees, which he knew
must mark the way of the road. His face, fresh from the pounding of Johnnie's
fists, felt more pleasure than pain in the wind and the driving snow. A number
of square shapes loomed upon him finally, and he knew them as the houses of the
main body of the town. He found a street and made travel along it, leaning
heavily upon the wind whenever, at a corner, a terrific blast caught him.
He might have been in a
deserted village. We picture the world as thick with conquering and elate
humanity, but here, with the bugles of the tempest pealing, it was hard to
imagine a peopled earth. One viewed the existence of man then as a marvel, and
conceded a glamour of wonder to these lice which were caused to cling to a
whirling, fire-smote, ice-locked, disease-stricken, space-lost bulb. The
conceit of man was explained by this storm to be the very engine of life. One
was a coxcomb not to die in it. However, the Swede found a saloon.
In front of it an
indomitable red light was burning, and the snow-flakes were made blood-color as
they flew through the circumscribed territory of the lamp's shining. The Swede
pushed open the door of the saloon and entered. A sanded expanse was before
him, and at the end of it four men sat about a table drinking. Down one side of
the room extended a radiant bar, and its guardian was leaning upon his elbows
listening to the talk of the men at the table. The Swede dropped his valise
upon the floor, and, smiling fraternally upon the barkeeper, said: "Gimme
some whisky, will you?" The man placed a bottle, a whisky-glass, and glass
of ice-thick water upon the bar. The Swede poured himself an abnormal portion
of whisky and drank it in three gulps. "Pretty bad night," remarked
the bartender indifferently. He was making the pretension of blindness, which
is usually a distinction of his class; but it could have been seen that he was
furtively studying the half-erased blood-stains on the face of the Swede.
"Bad night," he said again.
"Oh, it's good
enough for me," replied the Swede, hardily, as he poured himself some more
whisky. The barkeeper took his coin and maneuvered it through its reception by
the highly-nickeled cash-machine. A bell rang; a card labeled "20
cts." had appeared.
"No,"
continued the Swede, "this isn't too bad weather. It's good enough for
me."
"So?"
murmured the barkeeper languidly.
The copious drams made the
Swede's eyes swim, and he breathed a trifle heavier. "Yes, I like this
weather. I like it. It suits me." It was apparently his design to impart a
deep significance to these words.
"So?"
murmured the bartender again. He turned to gaze dreamily at the scroll-like
birds and bird-like scrolls which had been drawn with soap upon the mirrors
back of the bar.
"Well, I guess
I'll take another drink," said the Swede presently. "Have
something?"
"No, thanks; I'm
not drinkin'," answered the bartender. Afterward he asked: "How did
you hurt your face?"
The Swede immediately
began to boast loudly. "Why, in a fight. I thumped the soul out of a man
down here at Scully's hotel."
The interest of the
four men at the table was at last aroused.
"Who was it?"
said one.
"Johnnie
Scully," blustered the Swede. "Son of the man what runs it. He will
be pretty near dead for some weeks, I can tell you. I made a nice thing of him,
I did. He couldn't get up. They carried him in the house. Have a drink?"
Instantly the men in
some subtle way incased themselves in reserve. "No, thanks," said
one. The group was of curious formation. Two were prominent local business men;
one was the district-attorney; and one was a professional gambler of the kind
known as "square." But a scrutiny of the group would not have enabled
an observer to pick the gambler from the men of more reputable pursuits. He
was, in fact, a man so delicate in manner, when among people of fair class, and
so judicious in his choice of victims, that in the strictly masculine part of
the town's life he had come to be explicitly trusted and admired. People called
him a thoroughbred. The fear and contempt with which his craft was regarded was
undoubtedly the reason that his quiet dignity shone conspicuous above the quiet
dignity of men who might be merely hatters, billiard markers or grocery clerks.
Beyond an occasional unwary traveler, who came by rail, this gambler was
supposed to prey solely upon reckless and senile farmers, who, when flush with
good crops, drove into town in all the pride and confidence of an absolutely
invulnerable stupidity. Hearing at times in circuitous fashion of the
despoilment of such a farmer, the important men of Romper invariably laughed in
contempt of the victim, and if they thought of the wolf at all, it was with a
kind of pride at the knowledge that he would never dare think of attacking
their wisdom and courage. Besides, it was popular that this gambler had a real
wife, and two real children in a neat cottage in a suburb, where he led an
exemplary home life, and when any one even suggested a discrepancy in his
character, the crowd immediately vociferated descriptions of this virtuous
family circle. Then men who led exemplary home lives, and men who did not lead
exemplary home lives, all subsided in a bunch, remarking that there was nothing
more to be said.
However, when a
restriction was placed upon him--as, for instance, when a strong clique of
members of the new Pollywog Club refused to permit him, even as a spectator, to
appear in the rooms of the organization--the candor and gentleness with which
he accepted the judgment disarmed many of his foes and made his friends more
desperately partisan. He invariably distinguished between himself and a
respectable Romper man so quickly and frankly that his manner actually appeared
to be a continual broadcast compliment.
And one must not forget
to declare the fundamental fact of his entire position in Romper. It is
irrefutable that in all affairs outside of his business, in all matters that occur
eternally and commonly between man and man, this thieving card-player was so
generous, so just, so moral, that, in a contest, he could have put to flight
the consciences of nine-tenths of the citizens of Romper.
And so it happened that
he was seated in this saloon with the two prominent local merchants and the
district-attorney.
The Swede continued to
drink raw whisky, meanwhile babbling at the barkeeper and trying to induce him
to indulge in potations. "Come on. Have a drink. Come on. What--no? Well,
have a little one then. By gawd, I've whipped a man to-night, and I want to
celebrate. I whipped him good, too. Gentlemen," the Swede cried to the men
at the table, "have a drink?"
"Ssh!" said
the barkeeper.
The group at the table,
although furtively attentive, had been pretending to be deep in talk, but now a
man lifted his eyes toward the Swede and said shortly: "Thanks. We don't
want any more."
At this reply the Swede
ruffled out his chest like a rooster. "Well," he exploded, "it
seems I can't get anybody to drink with me in this town. Seems so, don't it?
Well!"
"Ssh!" said
the barkeeper.
"Say,"
snarled the Swede, "don't you try to shut me up. I won't have it. I'm a
gentleman, and I want people to drink with me. And I want 'em to drink with me
now. Now--do you understand?" He rapped the bar with his knuckles.
Years of experience had
calloused the bartender. He merely grew sulky. "I hear you," he
answered.
"Well," cried
the Swede, "listen hard then. See those men over there? Well, they're going
to drink with me, and don't you forget it. Now you watch."
"Hi!" yelled
the barkeeper, "this won't do!"
"Why won't
it?" demanded the Swede. He stalked over to the table, and by chance laid
his hand upon the shoulder of the gambler. "How about this?" he
asked, wrathfully. "I asked you to drink with me."
The gambler simply
twisted his head and spoke over his shoulder. "My friend, I don't know
you."
"Oh, hell!"
answered the Swede, "come and have a drink."
"Now, my
boy," advised the gambler kindly, "take your hand off my shoulder and
go 'way and mind your own business." He was a little slim man, and it
seemed strange to hear him use this tone of heroic patronage to the burly
Swede. The other men at the table said nothing.
"What? You won't
drink with me, you little dude! I'll make you then! I'll make you!" The
Swede had grasped the gambler frenziedly at the throat, and was dragging him
from his chair. The other men sprang up. The barkeeper dashed around the corner
of his bar. There was a great tumult, and then was seen a long blade in the
hand of the gambler. It shot forward, and a human body, this citadel of virtue,
wisdom, power, was pierced as easily as if it had been a melon. The Swede fell
with a cry of supreme astonishment.
The prominent merchants
and the district-attorney must have at once tumbled out of the place backward.
The bartender found himself hanging limply to the arm of a chair and gazing
into the eyes of a murderer.
"Henry," said
the latter, as he wiped his knife on one of the towels that hung beneath the
bar-rail, "you tell 'em where to find me. I'll be home, waiting for
'em." Then he vanished. A moment afterward the barkeeper was in the street
dinning through the storm for help, and, moreover, companionship.
The corpse of the
Swede, alone in the saloon, had its eyes fixed upon a dreadful legend that
dwelt a-top of the cash-machine. "This registers the amount of your
purchase."
MONTHS later, the
cowboy was frying pork over the stove of a little ranch near the Dakota line,
when there was a quick thud of hoofs outside, and, presently, the Easterner
entered with the letters and the papers.
"Well," said
the Easterner at once, "the chap that killed the Swede has got three
years. Wasn't much, was it?"
"He has? Three
years?" The cowboy poised his pan of pork, while he ruminated upon the
news. "Three years. That ain't much."
"No. It was a
light sentence," replied the Easterner as he unbuckled his spurs.
"Seems there was a good deal of sympathy for him in Romper."
"If the bartender
had been any good," observed the cowboy thoughtfully, "he would have
gone in and cracked that there Dutchman on the head with a bottle in the
beginnin' of it and stopped all this here murderin'."
"Yes, a thousand
things might have happened," said the Easterner tartly.
The cowboy returned his
pan of pork to the fire, but his philosophy continued. "It's funny, ain't
it? If he hadn't said Johnnie was cheatin' he'd be alive this minute. He was an
awful fool. Game played for fun, too. Not for money. I believe he was
crazy."
"I feel sorry for
that gambler," said the Easterner.
"Oh, so do
I," said the cowboy. "He don't deserve none of it for killin' who he
did."
"The Swede might
not have been killed if everything had been square."
"Might not have
been killed?" exclaimed the cowboy. "Everythin' square? Why, when he
said that Johnnie was cheatin' and acted like such a jackass? And then in the
saloon he fairly walked up to git hurt?" With these arguments the cowboy
browbeat the Easterner and reduced him to rage.
"You're a
fool!" cried the Easterner viciously. "You're a bigger jackass than
the Swede by a million majority. Now let me tell you one thing. Let me tell you
something. Listen! Johnnie was cheating!"
"'Johnnie,'"
said the cowboy blankly. There was a minute of silence, and then he said
robustly: "Why, no. The game was only for fun."
"Fun or not,"
said the Easterner, "Johnnie was cheating. I saw him. I know it. I saw
him. And I refused to stand up and be a man. I let the Swede fight it out
alone. And you--you were simply puffing around the place and wanting to fight.
And then old Scully himself! We are all in it! This poor gambler isn't even a
noun. He is kind of an adverb. Every sin is the result of a collaboration. We,
five of us, have collaborated in the murder of this Swede. Usually there are
from a dozen to forty women really involved in every murder, but in this case
it seems to be only five men--you, I, Johnnie, old Scully, and that fool of an
unfortunate gambler came merely as a culmination, the apex of a human movement,
and gets all the punishment."
The cowboy, injured and
rebellious, cried out blindly into this fog of mysterious theory. "Well, I
didn't do anythin', did I?"
THE END.