And then in a tone which I dare say savoured very much as though I
thought myself quite a little ruler of men, I said: "I have told you
twice now not to say more to me. I only tell you once more."
"Good Lord!" he cried. "Do you think you can scare me?"
"That's the third time," said I, mastering the quaver of excitement in
my voice, lest he should take it for a quaver of fear. "Next time I
don't speak at all."
"Maybe neither do I," said he, and he lifted the water carafe as though
to throw the contents on me, but he never did so; for I leant quickly
across the table and with the flat of my hand slapped him soundly on the
cheek, as I might have slapped a side of bacon, and, "That," said I, "is
for insulting the lady."
It was "clear decks for action" then, for he flung back his chair and,
spinning around the end of the table, aimed a blow at me; but I had
scarce time to guard, so quick was he for all his size. I took the
simplest guard of all--held my left arm out rigidly, the fist clenched,
and when he lunged forward to deliver the blow I ducked my shoulder but
kept my fist still firm.
It was a fierce blow that he aimed, but it slipped over my shoulder and
then there was an unpleasant sound--a soft, sloppy sound--for his nose
and my rigid fist had met. Then the blood came, quite a fountain. But
this only heated him and he dealt another blow which I received with the
"cross-guard," one of the best guards in the "straight on" system of
boxing, a system generally belittled, but very useful to know.
I think he had never seen the guard in his life, there was so astonished
a look on his face; but before he recovered I had him down with a jar on
the floor so that the floor and windows rattled,--and his brains, too, I
should imagine.
He sat up glaring but something dazed and shaken. God forgive me that I
have so feeble a control of my passions once they are roused and such a
horrible spirit of exultation! These have their punishment, of course,
for a man who exults over such a deed, instead of leaving it to the
onlookers to congratulate, falls in their estimation.
However, to give over moralising, I cried out, as he sat up there on the
floor with the blood on his face and chin and trickling on his thick
neck: "Come on! Sit up! If you lie malingering, I 'll kick you to your
feet! I 'm only beginning on you."
I think the onlookers must have smiled to hear me, for, though so far I
had got the better, the match was an absurd one. But my foe was a man
of a bad spirit; without rising he flung his hand round to his hip.
I had a quick glimpse of the girl clasping her hands and heard the gasp
of her breath and her voice: "Stop that now--none of that!"
But another voice, very complacent and with a mocking, boyish ring,
broke in:
"Throw up your hands, you son of a dog!" And then I ceased to be the
centre of interest and my brain cleared, for Apache Kid was sitting at
his table, his chair pushed back a little way, his legs wide apart as he
leant forward, his left hand on the left knee, his right forearm lying
negligently on the right leg--and loosely in his hand was a revolver
pointed at the gentleman on the floor.
The other two were looking on from under their brows, the stage-driver
sitting beaming on the scene. The girl swung round on Apache with an
infinite relief discernible in her face and gesture. The cook who had
come from the rear of the room, having seen the business through the
wicket window from his pantry, I suppose, cried out: "Make him take out
his gun and hand it over, sir."
Apache did not turn at the voice, but, "You hear that piece of advice?"
said he. "Well, I 'm not going to take it. You can keep your little
toy in your hip-pocket. Do you know why? Because you can do no harm
here with it. Before you could get your hand an inch to it my Colt's
bullet would have let all the wind sighing out of your contemptible
carcass."
Then he gave a laugh, a chuckling, quiet, hearty laugh in his throat,
hardly opening his lips and added: "In the language of the country, sir,
I would advise you to shake a leg--to get up and get--hike--before I
plug you."
And up rose the man, a commercial traveller (as the girl told me
afterwards when trying to thank me--for what I cannot say, as I told her
at the time), or a "drummer," as the name is, who had been there since
yesterday's Baker-bound stage arrived, drinking at the bar and making
himself disagreeable in the dining-room.
He looked a sorry figure as he shuffled from the chamber.
I turned to Apache Kid and began: "You saved my life, A----" but his
frown reminded me that we were strangers;--"sir," I ended, "and I have
to thank you."
"That's all right, sir; that's all right, sir. Don't mention it," said
Apache Kid, throwing his revolver back into its holster.
That was the end of the drummer; we saw him no more that night, and when
we came down in the morning we were told he had gone on to Baker City
with the stage which went west earlier by an hour than the one toward
the railway, the one we were to continue in--part of its journey.
But when we came to settle our bill the proprietor drew his hand under
his long beard and put his head on the side--reminding me of a portrait
of Morris I had seen--and remarked, looking from Apache to me and back
again: "Well, gentlemen, I 'd consider it a kind of honour to be allowed
to remember that I did n't ask nothing for putting you up. I should n't
like to remember about you, any time, and to think to myself that I had
charged you up. I 'd be kind of honoured if you 'd let me remember I
did n't take nothing from you."
We did not speak, but Apache's bow was something to see, and with a
hearty shake of the hand we mounted the stage.
"Look up tew the window, my lad," said the driver, gathering up his
reins. "Look up tew the window and get what's comin' to you; a smile to
warm the cockles of your heart for the rest o' the trip."
And sure enough we had a smile and a wave of a strong and graceful hand
from the upper window and raised our hats and bowed and were granted
another wave and another also from the proprietor--and a wave from the
cook at the gable of the house. And looking round again, as we rolled
off, there was the fresh white girl standing at the door now.
She raised her hand to her lips and I felt a little sorry in my heart.
I did not like to think she was going to "blow a kiss:" it would be a
cheapening of herself methought. Then I felt a little regretful, for
she did not blow a kiss, but kept her hand to her mouth as long as she
remained there.
We went on in silence and then I heard Apache Kid murmur: "Did she mean
it or did she not?"
"Mean what?" I asked.
"What do you mean?" said he, alert suddenly. "Oh! I was talking to
myself:" and then he said in a louder tone: "Excuse me, sir, for asking,
but do you not carry a gun?"
"No," said I, with a smile part at this revival of his old caution and
part at something else.
"Can you shoot?"