In Which the Demon Opens an Eye and Yawns
A storm held the Double Cross wagons in a sheltered place in the hills,
ten miles from the little town where Ford had spent a night on his way
to the ranch a month before. Mason, taking the inaction as an excuse,
rode home to his family and left Ford to his own devices with no
compunctions whatever. He should, perhaps, have known better; but he was
acting upon his belief that nothing so braces a man as the absolute
confidence of his friends, and to have stayed in camp on Ford's account
would, according to Mason's code, have been an affront to Ford's
manifest determination to "make good."
It is true that neither had mentioned the matter since the day of Ford's
arrival at the ranch; men do not, as a rule, harp upon the deeper issues
within their lives. For that month, it had been as though the subject
of intemperance concerned them as little as the political unrest of a
hot-tempered people beyond the equator. They had argued the matter to a
more or less satisfactory conclusion, and had let it rest there.
Ford had ridden with him a part of the way, and when they came to a
certain fork in the trail, he had sent a whimsically solemn message to
Buddy, had pulled the collar of his coat closer together under his chin,
and had faced the wind with a clean conscience, and with bowed head and
hat pulled low over his brows. There were at least three perfectly valid
reasons why Ford should ride into town that day. He wanted heavier socks
and a new pair of gloves; he was almost out of tobacco, and wanted to
see if he could "pick up" another man so that the hours of
night-guarding might not fall so heavily upon the crew. Ford had been
standing the last guard himself, for the last week, to relieve the
burden a little, and Mason had been urgent on the subject of another
man--or two, he suggested, would be better. Ford did his simple
shopping, therefore, and then rode up to the first saloon on the one
little street, and dismounted with a mind at ease. If idle men were to
be found in that town, he would have to look for them in a saloon; a
fact which every one took for granted, like the shortening of the days
as winter approached.
Perhaps he over-estimated his powers of endurance, or under-estimated
the strength of his enemy. Certain it is that he had no intention of
drinking whisky when he closed the door upon the chill wind; and yet, he
involuntarily walked straight up to the bar. There he stuck. The
bartender waited expectantly. When Ford, with a sudden lift of his head,
turned away to the stove, the man looked after him curiously.
At the stove Ford debated with himself while he drew off his gloves and
held his fingers to the welcome heat which emanated from a red glow
where the fire burned hottest within. He had not made any promise to
himself or any one else, he remembered. He had simply resolved that he
would make good, if it were humanly possible to do so. That, he told
himself, did not necessarily mean that he should turn a teetotaler out
and out. Taking a drink, when a man was cold and felt the need of it,
was not--
At that point in the argument two of his own men entered, stamping
noisily upon the threshold. They were laughing, from pure animal
satisfaction over the comforts within, rather than at any tangible cause
for mirth, and they called to Ford with easy comradeship. Dick
Thomas--the Dick whom Buddy had mentioned in connection with
Josephine--waved his hand hospitably toward the bar.
"Come on, Campbell," he invited. He may have seen the hesitancy in
Ford's face, for he laughed. "I believe in starting on the inside and
driving the frost out," he said.
The two poured generously from the bottle which the bartender pushed
within easy reach, and Ford watched them. There was a peculiar lift to
Dick's upper lip--the lift which comes when scorn is the lever. Ford's
eyes hardened a little; he walked over and stood beside Dick, and he
took a drink as unemotionally as if it had been water. He ordered
another round, threw a coin upon the bar, and walked out. He had rather
liked Dick, in an impersonal sort of way, but that half-sneer clung
disagreeably to his memory. A man likes to be held the master--be the
slave circumstance, danger, an opposing human, or his own appetite; and
although Ford was not the type of man who troubles himself much about
the opinions of his fellows, it irked him much that Dick or any other
man should sneer at him for a weakling.
He went to another saloon, found and hired a cow-puncher strayed up from
Valley County, and when Dick came in, a half-hour later, Ford went to
the bar and deliberately "called up the house." He had been minded to
choose a mineral water then, but he caught Dick's mocking eye upon him,
and instead took whisky straight, and stared challengingly at the other
over the glass tilted against his lips.
After that, the liquor itself waged relentless war against his good
resolutions, so that it did not need the urge of Dick's fancied
derision to send him down the trail which the past had made familiar. He
sat in to a poker game that was creating a small zone of subdued
excitement at the far end of the room, and while he was arranging his
stacks of red, white, and blue chips neatly before him, he was
unpleasantly conscious of Dick's supercilious smile. Never mind--he was
not the first foreman who ever played poker; they all did, when the mood
seized them. Ford straightened his shoulders instinctively, in defiance
of certain inner misgivings, and pushed forward his ante of two white
chips.
Jim Felton came up and stood at his shoulder, watching the game in
silence; and although he did not once open his lips except to let an
occasional thin ribbon of cigarette smoke drift out and away to mingle
with the blue cloud which hung under the ceiling, Ford sensed a certain
good-will in his nearness, just as intangibly and yet as surely as he
sensed Dick's sardonic amusement at his apparent lapse.
With every bet he made and won he felt that silent approbation behind
him; insensibly it steadied Ford and sharpened his instinct for reading
the faces of the other players, so that the miniature towers of red
chips and blue grew higher until they threatened to topple--whereupon
other little towers began to grow up around them. And the men in the
saloon began to feel the fascination of his success, so that they
grouped themselves about his chair and peered down over his shoulder at
the game.
Ford gave them no thought, except a vague satisfaction, now and then,
that Jim Felton stuck to his post. Later, when he caught the dealer, a
slit-eyed, sallow-skinned fellow with fingers all too nimble, slipping a
card from the bottom of the deck, and gave him a resounding slap which
sent him and his cards sprawling all over that locality, he should have
been more than ever glad that Jim was present.
Jim kept back the gambler's partner and the crowd and gave Ford
elbow-room and some moral support, which did its part, in that it
prevented any interference with the chastisement Ford was administering.
It was not a fight, properly speaking. The gambler, once Ford had
finished cuffing him and stating his opinion of cheating the while,
backed away and muttered vague threats and maledictions. Ford gathered
together what chips he felt certain were his, and cashed them in with a
certain grim insistence of manner which brooked no argument. After that
he left the saloon, with Jim close behind him.
"If you're going back to camp now, I reckon I'll ride along," said Jim,
at his elbow. "There's just nice time to get there for supper--and I
sure don't want to miss flopping my lip over Mose's beefsteak; that
yearling we beefed this morning is going to make some fine eating, if
you ask me." His tone was absolutely devoid of anything approaching
persuasion; it simply took a certain improbable thing as a commonplace
fact, and it tilted the balance of Ford's intentions.
He did not go on to the next saloon, as he had started to do, but
instead he followed Jim to the livery stable and got his horse, without
realizing that Jim had anything to do with the change of impulse. So
Ford went to camp, instead of spending the night riotously in town as he
would otherwise have done, and contented himself with cursing the game,
the gambler who would have given a "crooked deal," the town, and all it
contained. A mile out, he would have returned for a bottle of whisky;
but Jim said he had enough for two, and put his horse into a lope. Ford,
swayed by a blind instinct to stay with the man who seemed friendly,
followed the pace he set and so was unconsciously led out of the way of
further temptation. And so artfully was he led, that he never once
suspected that he did not go of his own accord.
Neither did he suspect that Jim's stumbling and immediate spasm of
regretful profanity at the bed-wagon where they unsaddled, was the
result of two miles of deep cogitation, and calculated to account
plausibly for not being able to produce a full flask upon demand. Jim
swore volubly and said he had "busted the bottle" by falling against the
wagon wheel; and Ford, for a wonder, believed and did not ask for proof.
He muddled around camp for a few indecisive minutes, then rolled
himself up like a giant cocoon in his blankets, and slept heavily
through the night.
He awoke at daylight, found himself fully clothed and with a craving for
whisky which he knew of old, and tried to remember just what had
occurred the night before; when he could not recall anything very
distinctly, he felt the first twinge of fear that he had known for
years.
"Lordy me! I wonder what kinda fool I made of myself, anyway!" he
thought distressfully. Later, when he discovered more money in his
pockets than his salary would account for, and remembered playing poker,
and having an argument of some sort with some one, his distress grew
upon him. In reality he had not done anything disgraceful, according to
the easy judgment of his fellows; but Ford did not know that, and he
flayed himself unmercifully for a spineless, drunken idiot whom no man
could respect or trust. It seemed to him that the men eyed him askance;
though they were merely envious over his winnings and inclined to admire
the manner in which he had shown his disapproval of the dealer's
attempt at cheating.
He dreaded Mason's return, and yet he was anxious to see him and tell
him, once for all, that he was not to be trusted. He held aloof from Jim
and he was scantily civil to Dick Thomas, whose friendship rang false.
He pushed the work ahead while the air was still alive with swirls of
mote-like snowflakes, and himself bore the brunt of it just to dull that
gnawing self-disgust which made his waking hours a mental torment.
Before, when disgust had seized upon him in Sunset, it had been an
abstract rebellion against the futility of life as he was living it.
This was different: This was a definite, concrete sense of failure to
keep faith with himself and with Mason; the sickening consciousness of a
swinish return to the wallow; a distrust of himself that was beyond any
emotion he had ever felt in his life.
So, for a week of hard work and harder thinking. Mason sent word by a
migratory cowboy, who had stopped all night at the ranch and whom he had
hired and sent on to camp, that he would not return to the round-up,
and that Ford was to go ahead as they had planned. That balked Ford's
determination to turn the work over to Mason and leave the country, and,
after the first day of inner rebellion, he settled down insensibly to
the task before him and let his own peculiar moral problem wait upon his
leisure. He did not dream that the cowboy had witnessed his chastisement
of the gambler and had gleefully, and in perfect innocence, recounted
the incident at the Double Cross ranch, and that Mason had deliberately
thrown Ford upon his own resources in obedience to his theory that
nothing so braces a man as responsibility.
Ford went about his business with grim industry and a sureness of
judgment born of his thorough knowledge of range work. There was the
winnowing process which left the bigger, stronger calves in charge of
two men, at a line camp known locally as Ten Mile, and took the younger
ones on to the home ranch, where hay and shelter were more plentiful and
the loss would be correspondingly less.
Not until the last cow of the herd was safe inside the big corral
beyond the stables, did Ford relax his vigilance and ride over to where
Ches Mason and Buddy were standing in the shelter of the stable, waiting
to greet him.
"Good boy!" cried Mason, when Ford dismounted and flung the stirrup up
over the saddle, that he might loosen the latigo and free his steaming
horse of its burden. "I didn't look for you before to-morrow night, at
the earliest. But I'm mighty glad you're here, let me tell you. That
leaves me free to hit the trail to-morrow. I've got to make a trip home;
the old man's down with inflammatory rheumatism, and they want me to
go--haven't been home for six years, so I guess they've got a license to
put in a bid for a month or two of my time, huh? I didn't want to pull
out, though, till you showed up. I'm kinda leery about leaving the women
alone, with just a couple of sow-egians on the ranch. Bud, you go get a
pan of oats for old Schley. Supper's about ready, Ford. Have the boys
shovel some hay into the corral, and we'll leave the bunch there till
morning. Say, the wagons didn't beat you much; they never pulled in
till after three. Mose says the going's bad, on them dobe patches."
Not much of an opening, that, for saying what Ford felt he was in duty
bound to say. He was constrained to wait until a better opportunity
presented itself--and, as is the way with opportunity, it did not seem
as if it would ever come of its own accord. There was Buddy, full of
exciting anecdotes about Rambler, and how he had rubbed the liniment on,
all alone, and Rambler never kicked or did a thing; and how he and
Josephine rode clear over to Jenson's and got caught in the storm and
almost got lost--only Buddy's horse knew the way home. And, later, there
was Mrs. Kate's excellent supper and gracious welcome, and an evening
devoted to four-handed cribbage--with Josephine and Mason as implacable
adversaries--and a steady undercurrent of latent hostility between him
and the girl, which prevented his thinking much about himself and his
duty to Mason. There was everything, in fact, to thwart a man's
resolution to discharge honorably a disagreeable duty, and to distract
his attention.
Ford went to bed with the baffled sense of being placed in a false
position against his will; and, man-like, he speedily gave over thinking
of that, and permitted his thoughts to dwell upon a certain face which
owned a perfectly amazing pair of lashes, and upon a manner
tantalizingly aloof, with glimpses now and then of fascinating
possibilities in the way of comradeship, when the girl inadvertently
lowered her guard in the excitement of close playing.