Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
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[Illustration: "I never saw a sheepman yet that would fight, but you've
got to"]
HIDDEN WATER
By DANE COOLIDGE
With Four Illustrations in Color
By MAYNARD DIXON
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers--New York
COPYRIGHT
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1910
Published October 29, 1910
Second Edition, December 3, 1910
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England
All rights reserved
ILLUSTRATIONS
"I never saw a sheepman yet that would fight, but
you've got to" _Frontispiece_
"Put up them guns, you gawky fools! This man ain't
going to eat ye!" 177
"No!" said Kitty, "you do not love me" 287
Threw the sand full in his face 462
HIDDEN WATER
CHAPTER I
THE MOUSE
After many long, brooding days of sunshine, when the clean-cut
mountains gleamed brilliantly against the sky and the grama grass
curled slowly on its stem, the rain wind rose up suddenly out of
Papagueria and swooped down upon the desolate town of Bender, whirling
a cloud of dust before it; and the inhabitants, man and horse, took to
cover. New-born clouds, rushing out of the ruck of flying dirt, cast a
cold, damp shadow upon the earth and hurried past; white-crested
thunder-caps, piling-up above the Four Peaks, swept resolutely down to
meet them; and the storm wind, laden with the smell of greasewood and
wetted alkali, lashed the gaunt desert bushes mercilessly as it howled
across the plain. Striking the town it jumped wickedly against the old
Hotel Bender, where most of the male population had taken shelter,
buffeting its false front until the glasses tinkled and the bar
mirrors swayed dizzily from their moorings. Then with a sudden
thunder on the tin roof the flood came down, and Black Tex set up the
drinks.
It was a tall cowman just down from the Peaks who ordered the round,
and so all-embracing was his good humor that he bid every one in the
room drink with him, even a sheepman. Broad-faced and huge, with four
months' growth of hair and a thirst of the same duration, he stood at
the end of the bar, smiling radiantly, one sun-blackened hand toying
with the empty glass.
"Come up, fellers," he said, waving the other in invitation, "and
drink to Arizona. With a little more rain and good society she'd be a
holy wonder, as the Texas land boomer says down in hell." They came up
willingly, cowpunchers and sheepmen, train hands, prospectors, and the
saloon bums that Black Tex kept about to blow such ready spenders as
he, whenever they came to town. With a practised jolt of the bottle
Tex passed down the line, filling each heavy tumbler to the brim; he
poured a thin one for himself and beckoned in his roustabout to swell
the count--but still there was an empty glass. There was one man over
in the corner who had declined to drink. He sat at a disused card
table studiously thumbing over an old magazine, and as he raised his
dram the barkeeper glowered at him intolerantly.
"Well," said the big cowboy, reaching for his liquor, "here's how--and
may she rain for a week!" He shoved back his high black sombrero as he
spoke, but before he signalled the toast his eye caught the sidelong
glance of Black Tex, and he too noticed the little man in the corner.
"What's the matter?" he inquired, leaning over toward Tex and jerking
his thumb dubiously at the corner, and as the barkeeper scowled and
shrugged his shoulders he set down his glass and stared.
The stranger was a small man, for Arizona, and his delicate hands were
almost as white as a woman's; but the lines in his face were graven
deep, without effeminacy, and his slender neck was muscled like a
wrestler's. In dress he was not unlike the men about him--Texas boots,
a broad sombrero, and a canvas coat to turn the rain,--but his manner
was that of another world, a sombre, scholarly repose such as you
would look for in the reference room of the Boston Public Library; and
he crouched back in his corner like a shy, retiring mouse. For a
moment the cowman regarded him intently, as if seeking for some
exculpating infirmity; then, leaving the long line of drinkers to
chafe at the delay, he paused to pry into the matter.
"Say, partner," he began, his big mountain voice tamed down to a
masterful calm, "won't you come over and have something with us?"
There was a challenge in the words which did not escape the stranger;
he glanced up suddenly from his reading and a startled look came into
his eyes as he saw the long line of men watching him. They were large
clear eyes, almost piercing in their intentness, yet strangely
innocent and childlike. For a moment they rested upon the regal form
of the big cowboy, no less a man than Jefferson Creede, foreman of the
Dos S, and there was in them something of that silent awe and worship
which big men love to see, but when they encountered the black looks
of the multitude and the leering smile of Black Tex they lit up
suddenly with an answering glint of defiance.
"No, thank you," he said, nodding amiably to the cowman, "I don't
drink."
An incredulous murmur passed along the line, mingled with sarcastic
mutterings, but the cowman did not stir.
"Well, have a cigar, then," he suggested patiently; and the barkeeper,
eager to have it over, slapped one down on the bar and raised his
glass.
"Thank you just as much," returned the little man politely, "but I
don't smoke, either. I shall have to ask you to excuse me."
"Have a glass of milk, then," put in the barkeeper, going off into a
guffaw at the familiar jest, but the cowboy shut him up with a look.
"W'y, certainly," he said, nodding civilly to the stranger. "Come on,
fellers!" And with a flourish he raised his glass to his lips as if
tossing off the liquor at a gulp. Then with another downward flourish
he passed the whiskey into a convenient spittoon and drank his chaser
pensively, meanwhile shoving a double eagle across the bar. As Black
Tex rang it up and counted out the change Creede stuffed it into his
pocket, staring absently out the window at the downpour. Then with a
muttered word about his horse he strode out into the storm.
Deprived of their best spender, the crowd drifted back to the tables;
friendly games of coon-can sprang up; stud poker was resumed; and a
crew of railroad men, off duty, looked out at the sluicing waters and
idly wondered whether the track would go out--the usual thing in
Arizona. After the first delirium of joy at seeing it rain at all
there is an aftermath of misgiving, natural enough in a land where the
whole surface of the earth, mountain and desert, has been chopped into
ditches by the trailing feet of cattle and sheep, and most of the
grass pulled up by the roots. In such a country every gulch becomes a
watercourse almost before the dust is laid, the _arroyos_ turn to
rivers and the rivers to broad floods, drifting with trees and
wreckage. But the cattlemen and sheepmen who happened to be in Bender,
either to take on hands for the spring round-up or to ship supplies to
their shearing camps out on the desert, were not worrying about the
railroad. Whether the bridges went out or held, the grass and browse
would shoot up like beanstalks in to-morrow's magic sunshine; and even
if the Rio Salagua blocked their passage, or the shearers' tents were
beaten into the mud, there would still be feed, and feed was
everything.
But while the rain was worth a thousand dollars a minute to the
country at large, trade languished in the Hotel Bender. In a land
where a gentleman cannot take a drink without urging every one within
the sound of his voice to join in, the saloon business, while running
on an assured basis, is sure to have its dull and idle moments. Having
rung up the two dollars and a half which Jefferson Creede paid for his
last drink--the same being equivalent to one day's wages as foreman of
the Dos S outfit--Black Tex, as Mr. Brady of the Bender bar preferred
to be called, doused the glasses into a tub, turned them over to his
roustabout, and polished the cherrywood moodily. Then he drew his
eyebrows down and scowled at the little man in the corner.
In his professional career he had encountered a great many men who did
not drink, but most of them smoked, and the others would at least
take a cigar home to their friends. But here was a man who refused to
come in on a treat at all, and a poor, miserable excuse for a man he
was, too, without a word for any one. Mr. Brady's reflections on the
perversity of tenderfeet were cut short by a cold blast of air. The
door swung open, letting in a smell of wet greasewood, and an old man,
his hat dripping, stumbled in and stood swaying against the bar. His
aged sombrero, blacksmithed along the ridge with copper rivets, was
set far back on a head of long gray hair which hung in heavy strings
down his back, like an Indian's; his beard, equally long and tangled,
spread out like a chest protector across his greasy shirt, and his
fiery eyes roved furtively about the room as he motioned for a drink.
Black Tex set out the bottle negligently and stood waiting.
"Is that all?" he inquired pointedly, as the old man slopped out a
drink.
"Well, have one yourself," returned the old-timer grudgingly. Then,
realizing his breach of etiquette, he suddenly straightened up and
included the entire barroom in a comprehensive sweep of the hand.
"Come up hyar, all of yoush," he said drunkenly. "Hev a
drink--everybody--no, everybody--come up hyar, I say!" And the
graceless saloon bums dropped their cards and came trooping up
together. A few of the more self-respecting men slipped quietly out
into the card rooms; but the studious stranger, disdaining such puny
subterfuges, remained in his place, as impassive and detached as
ever.
"Hey, young man," exclaimed the old-timer jauntily, "step up hyar and
nominate yer pizen!"
He closed his invitation with an imperative gesture, but the young man
did not obey.
"No, thank you, Uncle," he replied soberly, "I don't drink."
"Well, hev a cigar, then," returned the old man, finishing out the
formula of Western hospitality, and once more Black Tex glowered down
upon this guest who was always "knocking a shingle off his sign."
"Aw, cut it out, Bill," he sneered, "that young feller don't drink ner
smoke, neither one--and he wouldn't have no truck with you, nohow!"
They drank, and the stranger dropped back into his reading unperturbed.
Once more Black Tex scrubbed the bar and scowled at him; then,
tapping peremptorily on the board with a whiskey glass, he gave way to
his just resentment.
"Hey, young feller," he said, jerking his hand arbitrarily, "come over
here. Come over here, I said--I want to talk with you!"
For a moment the man in the corner looked up in well-bred surprise;
then without attempting to argue the point he arose and made his way
to the bar.
"What's the matter with you, anyway?" demanded Brady roughly. "Are you
too good to drink with the likes of us?"
The stranger lowered his eyes before the domineering gaze of his
inquisitor and shifted his feet uneasily.
"I don't drink with anybody," he said at last. "And if you had any
other waiting-room in your hotel," he added, "I'd keep away from your
barroom altogether. As it is, maybe you wouldn't mind leaving me
alone."
At this retort, reflecting as it did upon the management, Black Tex
began to breathe heavily and sway upon his feet.
"I asked you," he roared, thumping his fist upon the bar and opening
up his eyes, "whether you are too good to drink with the likes of
us--me, f'r instance--and I want to git an answer!"
He leaned far out over the bar as if listening for the first word
before he hit him, but the stranger did not reply immediately.
Instead, with simple-minded directness he seemed to be studying on the
matter. The broad grin of the card players fell to a wondering stare
and every man leaned forward when, raising his sombre eyes from the
floor, the little man spoke.
"Why, yes," he said quietly, "I think I am."
"Yes, _what_?" yelled the barkeeper, astounded. "You think you're
what?"
"Now, say," protested the younger man. Then, apparently recognizing
the uselessness of any further evasion, he met the issue squarely.
"Well, since you crowd me to it," he cried, flaring up, "I _am_ too
good! I'm too good a man to drink when I don't want to drink--I'm too
good to accept treats when I don't stand treat! And more than that,"
he added slowly and impressively, "I'm too good to help blow that old
man, or any other man, for his money!"
He rose to his utmost height as he spoke, turning to meet the glance
of every man in the room, and as he faced them, panting, his deep eyes
glowed with a passion of conviction.
"If that is too good for this town," he said, "I'll get out of it, but
I won't drink on treats to please anybody."
The gaze of the entire assembly followed him curiously as he went back
to his corner, and Black Tex was so taken aback by this unexpected
effrontery on the part of his guest that he made no reply whatever.
Then, perceiving that his business methods had been questioned, he
drew himself up and frowned darkly.
"Hoity-toity!" he sniffed with exaggerated concern. "Who th' hell is
this, now? One of them little white-ribbon boys, fresh from the East,
I bet ye, travellin' for the W. P. S. Q. T. H'm-m--tech me not--oh
deah!" He hiked up his shoulders, twisted his head to a pose, and
shrilled his final sarcasms in the tones of a finicky old lady; but
the stranger stuck resolutely to his reading, whereupon the black
barkeeper went sullen and took a drink by himself.
Like many a good mixer, Mr. Brady of the Hotel Bender was often too
good a patron of his own bar, and at such times he developed a mean
streak, with symptoms of homicidal mania, which so far had kept the
town marshal guessing. Under these circumstances, and with the rumor
of a killing at Fort Worth to his credit, Black Tex was accustomed to
being humored in his moods, and it went hard with him to be called
down in the middle of a spectacular play, and by a rank stranger, at
that. The chair-warmers of the Hotel Bender bar therefore discreetly
ignored the unexpected rebuke of their chief and proceeded noisily
with their games, but the old man who had paid for the drinks was no
such time-server. After tucking what was left of his money back into
his overalls he balanced against the bar railing for a while and then
steered straight for the dark corner.
"Young feller," he said, leaning heavily upon the table where the
stranger was reading, "I'm old Bill Johnson, of Hell's Hip Pocket, and
I wan'er shake hands with you!"
The young man looked up quickly and the card players stopped as
suddenly in their play, for Old Man Johnson was a fighter in his cups.
But at last the stranger showed signs of friendliness. As the old man
finished speaking he rose with the decorum of the drawing-room and
extended his white hand cordially.
"I'm very glad to meet you, Mr. Johnson," he said. "Won't you sit
down?"
"No," protested the old man, "I do' wanner sit down--I wanner ask you
a question." He reeled, and balanced himself against a chair. "I
wanner ask you," he continued, with drunken gravity, "on the squar',
now, did you ever drink?"
"Why, yes, Uncle," replied the younger man, smiling at the question,
"I used to take a friendly glass, once in a while--but I don't drink
now." He added the last with a finality not to be mistaken, but Mr.
Johnson of Hell's Hip Pocket was not there to urge him on.
"No, no," he protested. "You're mistaken, Mister--er--Mister--"
"Hardy," put in the little man.
"Ah yes--Hardy, eh? And a dam' good name, too. I served under a
captain by that name at old Fort Grant, thirty years ago. Waal, Hardy,
I like y'r face--you look honest--but I wanner ask you 'nuther
question--why don't you drink now, then?"
Hardy laughed indulgently, and his eyes lighted up with good humor, as
if entertaining drunken men was his ordinary diversion.
"Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Johnson," he said. "If I should drink
whiskey the way you folks down here do, I'd get drunk."
"W'y sure," admitted Old Man Johnson, sinking shamelessly into a
chair. "I'm drunk now. But what's the difference?"
Noting the black glances of the barkeeper, Hardy sat down beside him
and pitched the conversation in a lower key.
"It may be all right for you, Mr. Johnson," he continued confidentially,
"and of course that's none of my business; but if I should get drunk
in this town, I'd either get into a fight and get licked, or I'd
wake up the next morning broke, and nothing to show for it but a sore
head."
"That's me!" exclaimed Old Man Johnson, slamming his battered hat on
the table, "that's me, Boy, down to the ground! I came down hyar to
buy grub f'r my ranch up in Hell's Hip Pocket, but look at me now,
drunk as a sheep-herder, and only six dollars to my name." He shook
his shaggy head and fell to muttering gloomily, while Hardy reverted
peacefully to his magazine.
After a long pause the old man raised his face from his arms and
regarded the young man searchingly.
"Say," he said, "you never told me why you refused to drink with me a
while ago."
"Well, I'll tell you," answered Hardy, honestly, "and I'm sure you'll
understand how it is with me. I never expect to take another drink as
long as I live in this country--not unless I get snake-bit. One drink
of this Arizona whiskey will make me foolish, and two will make me
drunk, I'm that light-headed. Now, if I had taken a drink with you a
minute ago I'd be considered a cheap sport if I didn't treat back,
wouldn't I? And then I'd be drunk. Yes, that's a fact. So I have to
cut it out altogether. I like you just as well, you understand, and
all these other gentlemen, but I just naturally can't do it."
"Oh, hell," protested the old man, "that's all right. Don't apologize,
Boy, whatever you do. D'yer know what I came over hyar fer?" he asked
suddenly reaching out a crabbed hand. "Well, I'll tell ye. I've be'n
lookin' f'r years f'r a white man that I c'd swear off to. Not one of
these pink-gilled preachers but a man that would shake hands with me
on the squar' and hold me to it. Now, Boy, I like you--will you shake
hands on that?"
"Sure," responded the young man soberly. "But I tell you, Uncle," he
added deprecatingly, "I just came into town to-day and I'm likely to
go out again to-morrow. Don't you think you could kind of look after
yourself while I'm gone? I've seen a lot of this swearing-off business
already, and it don't seem to amount to much anyhow unless the fellow
that swears off is willing to do all the hard work himself."
There was still a suggestion of banter in his words, but the old man
was too serious to notice it.
"Never mind, boy," he said solemnly, "I can do all the work, but I
jist had to have an honest man to swear off to."
He rose heavily to his feet, adjusted his copper-riveted hat
laboriously, and drifted slowly out the door. And with another spender
gone the Hotel Bender lapsed into a sleepy quietude. The rain hammered
fitfully on the roof; the card players droned out their bids and bets;
and Black Tex, mechanically polishing his bar, alternated successive
jolts of whiskey with ill-favored glances into the retired corner
where Mr. Hardy, supposedly of the W. P. S. Q. T., was studiously
perusing a straw-colored Eastern magazine. Then, as if to lighten the
gloom, the sun flashed out suddenly, and before the shadow of the
scudding clouds had dimmed its glory a shrill whistle from down the
track announced the belated approach of the west-bound train.
Immediately the chairs began to scrape; the stud-poker players cut for
the stakes and quit; coon-can was called off, and by the time Number
Nine slowed down for the station the entire floating population of
Bender was lined up to see her come in.
Rising head and shoulders above the crowd and well in front stood
Jefferson Creede, the foreman of the Dos S; and as a portly gentleman
in an unseasonable linen duster dropped off the Pullman he advanced,
waving his hand largely.
"Hullo, Judge!" he exclaimed, grinning jovially. "I was afraid you'd
bogged down into a washout somewhere!"
"Not at all, Jeff, not at all," responded the old gentleman, shaking
hands warmly. "Say, this is great, isn't it?" He turned his genial
smile upon the clouds and the flooded streets for a moment and then
hurried over toward the hotel.
"Well, how are things going up on the range?" he inquired, plunging
headlong into business and talking without a stop. "Nicely, nicely, I
don't doubt. I tell you, Mr. Creede, that ranch has marvellous
possibilities--marvellous! All it needs is a little patience, a little
diplomacy, you understand--_and holding on_, until we can pass this
forestry legislation. Yes, sir, while the present situation may seem a
little strained--and I don't doubt you are having a hard time--at the
same time, if we can only get along with these sheepmen--appeal to
their better nature, you understand--until we get some protection at
law, I am convinced that we can succeed yet. I want to have a long
talk with you on this subject, Jeff--man to man, you understand, and
between friends--but I hope you will reconsider your resolution to
resign, because that would just about finish us off. It isn't a matter
of money, is it, Jefferson? For while, of course, we are not making a
fortune--"
He paused and glanced up at his foreman's face, which was growing more
sullen every minute with restrained impatience.
"Well, speak out, Jeff," he said resignedly. "What is it?"
"You know dam' well what it is," burst out the tall cowboy petulantly.
"It's them sheepmen. And I want to tell you right now that no money
can hire me to run that ranch another year, not if I've got to smile
and be nice to those sons of--well, you know what kind of sons I
mean--that dog-faced Jasper Swope, for instance."
He spat vehemently at the mention of the name and led the way to a
card room in the rear of the barroom.
"Of course I'll work your cattle for you," he conceded, as he entered
the booth, "but if you want them sheepmen handled diplomatically you'd
better send up a diplomat. I'm that wore out I can't talk to 'em
except over the top of a six-shooter."
The deprecating protestations of the judge were drowned by the scuffle
of feet as the hangers-on and guests of the hotel tramped in, and in
the round of drinks that followed his presence was half forgotten. Not
being a drinking man himself, and therefore not given to the generous
practice of treating, the arrival of Judge Ware, lately retired from
the bench and now absentee owner of the Dos S Ranch, did not create
much of a furore in Bender. All Black Tex and the bunch knew was that
he was holding a conference with Jefferson Creede, and that if Jeff
was pleased with the outcome of the interview he would treat, but if
not he would probably retire to the corral and watch his horse eat
hay, openly declaring that Bender was the most God-forsaken hell-hole
north of the Mexican line--for Creede was a man of moods.
In the lull which followed the first treat, the ingratiating drummer
who had set up the drinks, charging the same to his expense account,
leaned against the bar and attempted to engage the barkeeper in
conversation, asking leading questions about business in general and
Mr. Einstein of the New York Store in particular; but Black Tex, in
spite of his position, was uncommunicative. Immediately after the
arrival of the train the little man who had called him down had
returned to the barroom and immersed himself in those wearisome
magazines which a lunger had left about the place, and, far from being
impressed with his sinister expression, had ignored his unfriendly
glances entirely. More than that, he had deserted his dark corner and
seated himself on a bench by the window from which he now looked out
upon the storm with a brooding preoccupation as sincere as it was
maddening. His large deer eyes were fixed upon the distance, and his
manner was that of a man who studies deeply upon some abstruse
problem; of a man with a past, perhaps, such as often came to those
parts, crossed in love, or hiding out from his folks.
Black Tex dismissed the drummer with an impatient gesture and was
pondering solemnly upon his grievances when a big, square-jowled cat
rushed out from behind the bar and set up a hoarse, raucous mewing.
"Ah, shet up!" growled Brady, throwing him away with his foot; but as
the cat's demands became more and more insistent the barkeeper was at
last constrained to take some notice.
"What's bitin' you?" he demanded, peering into the semi-darkness
behind the bar; and as the cat, thus encouraged, plunged recklessly in
among a lot of empty bottles, he promptly threw him out and fished up
a mouse trap, from the cage of which a slender tail was wriggling
frantically.
"Aha!" he exclaimed, advancing triumphantly into the middle of the
floor. "Look, boys, here's where we have some fun with Tom!" And as
the card players turned down their hands to watch the sport, the old
cat, scenting his prey, rose up on his hind legs and clutched at the
cage, yelling.
Grabbing him roughly by the scruff of the neck Black Tex suddenly
threw him away and opened the trap, but the frightened mouse, unaware
of his opportunity, remained huddled up in the corner.
"Come out of that," grunted the barkeeper, shaking the cage while with
his free hand he grappled the cat, and before he could let go his hold
the mouse was halfway across the room, heading for the bench where
Hardy sat.
"Ketch 'im!" roared Brady, hurling the eager cat after it, and just as
the mouse was darting down a hole Tom pinned it to the floor with his
claws.
"What'd I tell ye?" cried the barkeeper, swaggering. "That cat will
ketch 'em every time. Look at that now, will you?"
With dainty paws arched playfully, the cat pitched the mouse into the
air and sprang upon it like lightning as it darted away. Then mumbling
it with a nicely calculated bite, he bore it to the middle of the
floor and laid it down, uninjured.
"Ain't he hell, though?" inquired Tex, rolling his eyes upon the
spectators. The cat reached out cautiously and stirred it up with his
paw; and once more, as his victim dashed for its hole, he caught it
in full flight. But now the little mouse, its hair all wet and
rumpled, crouched dumbly between the feet of its captor and would not
run. Again and again the cat stirred it up, sniffing suspiciously to
make sure it was not dead; then in a last effort to tempt it he
deliberately lay over on his back and rolled, purring and closing
his eyes luxuriously, until, despite its hurts, the mouse once more
took to flight. Apparently unheeding, the cat lay inert, following
its wobbly course with half-shut eyes--then, lithe as a panther,
he leaped up and took after it. There was a rush and a scramble
against the wall, but just as he struck out his barbed claw a hand
closed over the mouse and the little man on the bench whisked it
dexterously away.
Instantly the black cat leaped into the air, clamoring for his prey,
and with a roar like a mountain bull Black Tex rushed out to
intercede.
"Put down that mouse, you freak!" he bellowed, charging across the
room. "Put 'im down, I say, or I'll break you in two!" He launched his
heavy fist as he spoke, but the little man ducked it neatly and,
stepping behind a table, stood at bay, still holding the mouse.
"Put 'im _down_, I tell you!" shouted the barkeeper, panting with
vexation. "What--you won't, eh? Well, I'll learn you!" And with a
wicked oath he drew his revolver and levelled it across the table.
"Put--down--that--mouse!" he said slowly and distinctly, but Hardy
only shook his head. Every man in the room held his breath for the
report; the poker players behind fell over tables and chairs to get
out of range; and still they stood there, the barkeeper purple, the
little man very pale, glaring at one another along the top of the
barrel. In the hollow of his hand Hardy held the mouse, which tottered
drunkenly; while the cat, still clamoring for his prize, raced about
under the table, bewildered.
"Hurry up, now," said the barkeeper warningly, "I'll give you five.
One--come on, now--two--"
At the first count the old defiance leaped back into Hardy's eyes and
he held the mouse to his bosom as a mother might shield her child; at
the second he glanced down at it, a poor crushed thing trembling as
with an ague from its wounds; then, smoothing it gently with his hand,
he pinched its life out suddenly and dropped it on the floor.
Instantly the cat pounced upon it, nosing the body eagerly, and Black
Tex burst into a storm of oaths.
"Well, dam' your heart," he yelled, raising his pistol in the air
as if about to throw the muzzle against his breast and fire.
"What--in--hell--do you mean?"
Baffled and evaded in every play the evil-eyed barkeeper suddenly
sensed a conspiracy to show him up, and instantly the realization of
his humiliation made him dangerous.
"Perhaps you figure on makin' a monkey out of me!" he suggested,
hissing snakelike through his teeth; but Hardy made no answer
whatever.
"Well, _say_ something, can't you?" snapped the badman, his
overwrought nerves jangled by the delay. "What d'ye mean by
interferin' with my cat?"
For a minute the stranger regarded him intently, his sad, far-seeing
eyes absolutely devoid of evil intent, yet baffling in their
inscrutable reserve--then he closed his lips again resolutely, as if
denying expression to some secret that lay close to his heart, turning
it with undue vehemence to the cause of those who suffer and cannot
escape.
"Well, f'r Gawd's sake," exclaimed Black Tex at last, lowering his gun
in a pet, "don't I git _no_ satisfaction--what's your _i_-dee?"
"There's too much of this cat-and-mouse business going on," answered
the little man quietly, "and I don't like it."
"Oh, you don't, eh?" echoed the barkeeper sarcastically; "well, excuse
_me_! I didn't know that." And with a bow of exaggerated politeness he
retired to his place.
"The drinks are on the house," he announced, jauntily strewing the
glasses along the bar. "Won't drink, eh? All right. But lemme tell
you, pardner," he added, wagging his head impressively, "you're goin'
to git hurt some day."