It was not done with malice aforethought, for Sliver had not quite
reached the point where "he couldn't stan' it any longer." It just
happened. Heavy drinkers may be divided into three classes--to wit, the
sporadic, who break out in occasional wild debauches; the "steadies,"
who sop, sop, sop all the time; and a third class which combines the
traits of the other two. Of the Three, Bull represented the first, Jake
the second, Sliver the last and worst.
If Sliver had not ridden his horse along the crest of a certain hog's
back on the chance that the cattle he was hunting might be in the ravine
below, it might never have come to pass. If Napoleon Bonaparte, for
matter of that, hadn't developed indigestion at Waterloo; if Christopher
Columbus had followed the Church instead of the sea; if Julius Cæsar had
been born a girl; if all the cats on all the famous fences of history
had happened to jump the other way--this world would be quite different.
So let it suffice that Sliver rode along the hog's back.
At its end the ridge ran out on a wide bench from which Sliver looked
over the foot-hills, rolling tumultuously under a black blanket of
chaparral out to the tawny valleys of the _hacienda_ pastures. Below, he
could see a path that ran with a silver stream at the bottom of the
ravine. Its deep rut, no wider than the swing of a mule, marked it for
one of those ancient highways whose place had been usurped by the Diaz
railways. In its heyday the cañon had rung with the tinklings of the
mule-trains that transported _aguardiente_, maize, tobacco, serapes, and
cloths between Mexico City and Santa Fé. But of that great traffic there
now remained barely enough to support the little _fonda_ that lay with
its mule _patio_ almost at Sliver's feet.
Though no one was in sight, he set down certain moving black dots as
chickens, goats, or pigs. Thus assured of tenancy, and thinking that he
might pick up some news of his strays, he rode on down a trail that
zigzagged through the chaparral.
Looking down from above, Sliver had noted the resemblance of the place
to the lair back on the miner's bench in Sonora. The _ramada_ of grass
and cornstalks might have been the same. Only that she was younger and
prettier, the Mexican girl who knelt before a _metate_ grinding
_tortilla_ paste could have passed for Rosa herself. Though Mexican
Indian, some vagrant Spanish strain had pushed up her brow, reduced her
cheek-bones, shortened her waist, and lengthened her limbs. Masses of
black hair framed her oval face. Her eyes were velvet pools; the nose
small and well shaped. Her bare arms tapered from fine shoulders to
small wrists, and if she followed Juno rather than Psyche in her
luxurious molding she was pliant as a willow, carried her shapely
poundage with an effect of slimness.
If Sliver noted these desirable personal assets, his interest therein
disappeared after he had spied the sign, "Fonda," over the door. True,
the month which had now elapsed since they entered Lee's service had
not, however, been entirely "dry." At the close of each day's work the
Three took their _copa_ with the _ancianos_ at the _hacienda_ store in
the Mexican fashion. But the application of liquor in such medicinal
doses to a thirst like Sliver's was equivalent to the squirting of
gasolene upon a fire. Now, as he gazed at the sign, spirituous desires
flamed within him. It was with difficulty that his dry lips formed his
question to the girl.
Was there a _copita_ of _aguardiente_ to be had?
Nodding, she rose, and as she let down a small wooden door in the wall
Sliver's glance licked the rows of bottles within.
_Tequila_, anisette, _aguardiente_, _mescal_, every variety of liquid
fire with which the Mexican _peon_ burns out his stomach, stood there in
deadly array. Beginning at one end, Sliver worked his way, during the
next two hours, along the row, and had just started back again when,
with some surprise, he noted a most curious phenomenon--to wit, the gray
hair and deep wrinkles the girl had suddenly acquired. Quite unaware
that she had resigned his thirst to her father, and was even then
vigorously rubbing _tortilla_ paste behind his back, he solemnly studied
this startling metamorphosis. Drunk as he was, his cowman's instinct had
kept him warned of the sun's declension. Sure, now, that he had had
enough, he paid his score, gravely addressing his host, meanwhile,
concerning his changed appearance.
"You she'dn't do it. It's--hard on the nerves. Keep it up an'--you'll
drive your custom away."
Having climbed into the saddle, he remained there because of that
merciful provision of nature by which a man may ride long after he has
lost the power to walk. Realizing his condition, he left the business of
going home to his horse. While it carried him down the cañon and out
across the plains he concentrated his remaining energies on "The
Cowboy's Lament," howling its one hundred and one verses at the top of
his voice, sending warning of his coming a full mile ahead.
In the mean time Bull with Lee, Jake "on his lonely," had pursued the
search for the strays in other directions. It chanced that luck rode
with the former. Returning home at sundown, Jake saw them driving the
cattle along a shallow valley.
During the month which had elapsed since her father's death Lee had
taken the only real panacea for grief--hard work. In addition to the
management of the house _criadas_, she exercised a feudal overlordship
over the _hacienda peones_. Besides hiring and letting, leasing of lands
on charges, she acted as judge in their squabbles, adviser in their
small affairs, comforter in trouble. In addition, her womanhood brought
extra duties. She had to godmother the babes, attend christenings,
doctor the sick, lend her patronage to the _bailes_ and _fiestas_.
Most of these duties she discharged in the mornings. Afternoons she
donned her man's riding-togs and rode out with the Three, rounding up
strays, new-born calves, and foals. At nights her fair head might be
seen under a golden aureole lent by the lamp, while she mended or made
for them and herself. If it lacked the stimulation and color of city
life, it was, at least, a healthy and honest existence. Already it had
restored her shocked nerves, given back her roses. She had never been
prettier than when, reining in, she looked back at Jake as he came up!
"We found them! _we_ found them!" Her pride in the fact provoked Jake's
smile. "They were up in the Cañon del Norte. Whatever in the world is
that?"
It might have been anything from the last puff of a worn-out calliope to
the yelp of a sick coyote, for at its best Sliver's voice rarely came
within a quarter of a mile of a specified tune, and an hour's steady
tearing into "The Cowboy's Lament" had not improved its tone. As the
raucous strains came floating down the wind Lee burst into a bubbling
little laugh.
"Mr. Sliver isn't hardly what you could call a singer. Is he--often
taken like that?"
They could have answered quite easily, Sliver's vocal efforts being ever
timed by his potations. Instead, they looked at each other in blank
disgust. Nor was answer necessary, for just then Lee dug in her spurs
and shot after a wild steer that had taken a sudden notion to go back to
the Cañon del Norte.
"Piously drunk!" Jake swore loudly, as soon as she passed beyond
earshot. "Wonder where he got it!"
"Search me," Bull shrugged. "The question is how to stop him. You know
what to expect if he's loose an' drunk among all them _peonas_. You ride
on an' head him off. Don't stan' any nonsense. Bat him over the can if
nec'ssary."
The admonition was not required, for Jake was always thorough. Neither
was it his habit to waste time on argument or persuasion. Having roped
Sliver, ten minutes thereafter, from behind a convenient bush, he gagged
and cinched him in his saddle, hustled him in by the back gate of the
compound, had him lashed to his _catre_ in their adobe before Lee and
Bull arrived.
So far, all was well. Their real troubles began when at supper Bull
replied to Lee's inquiry concerning Sliver's absence that he "wasn't
feeling well."
She jumped up at once. "Oh, the poor fellow! I must go and see what he
can eat!"
A vivid mental picture of the "poor fellow," gagged and lashed to his
_catre_, filled them with consternation. Bull inwardly cursed himself
for not having reported Sliver absent. But while he floundered, beating
his brains for a second excuse, the crafty Jake supplied it.
"I wouldn't--really, Miss."
She stopped, half-way along the _portales_. He had spoken so earnestly.
"Why not? Is it--catching?"
Bull would have replied in the affirmative, regardless of further
complications. Jake shook his head. "No, it's just chills an' fever, a
sorter constitutional ague he's taken with at this time o' the year.
But--well, Miss, it's this way, Sliver's that bashful, though you
mightn't think it to look at him, he'd die of shame if a young lady was
to see him in his bunk."