THE BIG DRUNK
The sun rose clear for the hundredth time over the shoulder of the
Four Peaks; it mounted higher, glowing with a great light, and the
smooth round tops of the bowlders shone like half-buried skulls along
the creek-bed; it swung gloriously up to its zenith and the earth
palpitated with a panting heat. Summer had come, and the long days
when the lizards crawl deep into their crevices and the cattle follow
the scanty shade of the box canyons or gather in standing-places where
the wind draws over the ridges and mitigates the flies. In the pasture
at Hidden Water the horses stood head and tail together, side by side,
each thrashing the flies from the other's face and dozing until hunger
or thirst aroused them or perversity took them away. Against the cool
face of the cliff the buzzards moped and stretched their dirty wings
in squalid discomfort; the trim little sparrow-hawks gave over their
hunting; and all the world lay tense and still. Only at the ranch
house where Hardy kept a perfunctory watch was there any sign of
motion or life.
For two weeks now he had been alone, ever since Jeff went down to
Bender, and with the solitary's dread of surprise he stepped out into
the _ramada_ regularly, scanning the western trail with eyes grown
weary of the earth's emptiness.
At last as the sun sank low, throwing its fiery glare in his eyes, he
saw the familiar figure against the sky--Creede, broad and bulky and
topped by his enormous hat, and old Bat Wings, as raw-boned and ornery
as ever. Never until that moment had Hardy realized how much his life
was dependent upon this big, warm-hearted barbarian who clung to his
native range as instinctively as a beef and yet possessed human
attributes that would win him friends anywhere in the world. Often in
that long two weeks he had reproached himself for abandoning Jeff in
his love-making. What could be said for a love which made a man so
pitiless? Was it worthy of any return? Was it, after all, a thing to
be held so jealously to his heart, gnawing out his vitals and robbing
him of his humanity? These and many other questions Hardy had had time
to ask himself in his fortnight of introspection and as he stood by
the doorway waiting he resolved to make amends. From a petty creature
wrapped up in his own problems and prepossessions he would make
himself over into a man worthy of the name of friend. Yet the
consciousness of his fault lay heavy upon him and as Creede rode in he
stood silent, waiting for him to speak. But Jeff for his part came on
grimly, and there was a sombre glow in his eyes which told more than
words.
"Hello, sport," he said, smiling wantonly, "could you take a pore
feller in over night?"
"Sure thing, I can," responded Hardy gayly. "Where've you been all the
time?"
And Creede chanted:
"Down to Bender,
On a bender,
Oh, I'm a spender,
You bet yer life!
"And I'm broke, too," he added, _sotto voce_, dropping off his horse
and sinking into a chair.
"Well, you don't need to let that worry you," said Hardy. "I've got
plenty. Here!" He went down into his pocket and tossed a gold piece to
him, but Creede dodged it listlessly.
"Nope," he said, "money's nothin' to me."
"What's the matter?" asked Hardy anxiously. "Are you sick?"
"Yes," answered Creede, nodding his head wearily, "sick and tired of
it all." He paused and regarded his partner solemnly. "I'm a miserable
failure, Rufe," he said. "I ain't _got_ nothin' and I ain't _worth_
nothin'. I never _done_ nothin'--and I ain't got a friend in the
world."
He stopped and gazed at the barren land despondently, waiting to see
if his partner would offer any protests.
"Rufe," he said, at last, his voice tremulous with reproach, "if you'd
only helped me out a little on that letter--if you'd only told me a
few things--well, she might have let me down easy, and I could've took
it. As it was, she soaked me."
Then it was that Hardy realized the burden under which his partner was
laboring, the grief that clutched at his heart, the fire that burned
in his brain, and he could have wept, now that it was too late.
"Jeff," he said honestly, "it don't do any good now, but I'm sorry.
I'm more than sorry--I'm ashamed. But _that_ don't do you any good
either, does it?"
He stepped over and laid his hand affectionately upon his partner's
shoulder, but Creede hunched it off impatiently.
"No," he said, slowly and deliberately, "not a dam' bit." There was no
bitterness in his words, only an acknowledgment of the truth. "They
was only one thing for me to do after I received that letter," he
continued, "and I done it. I went on a hell-roarin' drunk. That's
right. I filled up on that forty-rod whiskey until I was crazy drunk,
an' then I picked out the biggest man in town and fought him to a
whisper."
He sighed and glanced at his swollen knuckles, which still showed the
marks of combat.
"That feller was a jim-dandy scrapper," he said, smiling magnanimously,
"but I downed 'im, all right. I couldn't quite lick the whole town, but
I tried; and I certainly gave 'em a run for their money, while it
lasted. If Bender don't date time from Jeff Creede's big drunk I
miss my guess a mile. And you know, after I got over bein' fightin'
drunk, I got cryin' drunk--but I never did get drunk enough to tell
my troubles, thank God! The fellers think I'm sore over bein' sheeped
out. Well, after I'd punished enough booze to start an Injun uprisin',
and played the faro bank for my wad, I went to sleep; and when I woke
up it seemed a lo-ong time ago and I could look back and see jest how
foolish I'd been. I could see how she'd jollied me up and got me
comin', playin' me off against Bill Lightfoot; and then I could see how
she'd tantalized me, like that mouse the cat had when you was down in
Bender; and then I could see where I had got the big-head bad, thinkin'
I was the only one--and all the time she was _laughin'_ at me! Oh,
it's nothin' now--I kin laugh at it myself in a month; but I'm so dam'
_'shamed_ I could cry." He lopped down in his chair, a great hulk of
a man, and shook his head gloomily.
"They ain't but one girl I ever knowed," he said solemnly, "that
wasn't stringin' me, and that was Sallie Winship. Sal liked me, dam'd
if she didn't. She cried when she went away, but the old lady wouldn't
stand for no bow-legged cowpuncher--and so I git euchred, every
time."
For lack of some higher consolation Hardy cooked up a big supper for
his low-spirited partner, and after he had done the honors at the
feast the irrepressible good health of the cowboy rose up and
conquered his grief in spite of him. He began by telling the story of
his orgy, which apparently had left Bender a wreck. The futile rage of
Black Tex, the despair of the town marshal, the fight with the Big
Man, the arrest by the entire _posse comitatus_, the good offices of
Mr. Einstein in furnishing bail, the crying and sleeping jags--all
were set forth with a vividness which left nothing to the imagination,
and at the end the big man was comforted. When it was all over and his
memory came down to date he suddenly recalled a package of letters
that were tied up in his coat, which was still on the back of his
saddle. He produced them forthwith and, like a hungry boy who sees
others eat, sat down to watch Rufe read. No letters ever came for
him--and when one did come it was bad. The first in the pack was from
Lucy Ware and as Hardy read it his face softened, even while he knew
that Creede was watching.
"Say, she's all right, ain't she?" observed Jeff, when his partner
looked up.
"That's right," said Hardy, "and she says to take you on again as
foreman and pay you for every day you didn't carry your gun."
"No!" cried Creede, and then he laughed quietly to himself. "Does that
include them days I was prizin' up hell down in Bender? Oh, it does,
eh? Well, you can tell your boss that I'll make that up to her before
the Summer's over."
He leaned back and stretched his powerful arms as if preparing for
some mighty labor. "We're goin' to have a drought this Summer," he
said impressively, "that will have the fish packin' water in canteens.
Yes, sir, the chaser is goin' to cost more than the whiskey before
long; and they's goin' to be some dead cows along the river. Do you
know what Pablo Moreno is doin'? He's cuttin' brush already to feed
his cattle. That old man is a wise _hombre_, all right, when it comes
to weather. He's been hollerin' '_Ano seco, ano seco_,' for the last
year, and now, by Joe, we've got it! They ain't hardly enough water in
the river to make a splash, and here it's the first of June. We've
been kinder wropt up in fightin' sheep and sech and hain't noticed how
dry it's gittin'; but that old feller has been sittin' on top of his
hill watchin' the clouds, and smellin' of the wind, and measurin' the
river, and countin' his cows until he's a weather sharp. I was
a-ridin' up the river this afternoon when I see the old man cuttin'
down a _palo verde_ tree, and about forty head of cattle lingerin'
around to eat the top off as soon as she hit the ground; and he says
to me, kinder solemn and fatherly:
"'Jeff,' he says, 'cut trees for your cattle--this is an _ano seco_."
"'Yes, I've heard that before,' says I. 'But my cows is learnin' to
climb.'"
"'_Stawano_,' he says, throwin' out his hands like I was a hopeless
proposition. But all the same I think I'll go out to-morrow and cut
down one of them _palo verdes_ like he show'd me--one of these kind
with little leaves and short thorns--jest for an expeeriment. If
the cattle eat it, w'y maybe I'll cut another, but I don't want to
be goin' round stuffin' my cows full of twigs for nothin'. Let 'em
rustle for their feed, same as I do. But honest to God, Rufe, some of
them little runty cows that hang around the river can't hardly
cast a shadder, they're that ganted, and calves seems to be
gittin' kinder scarce, too. But here--git busy, now--here's a letter
you overlooked."
He pawed over the pile purposefully and thrust a pale blue envelope
before Hardy--a letter from Kitty Bonnair. And his eyes took on a
cold, fighting glint as he observed the fatal handwriting.
"By God," he cried, "I hain't figured out yet what struck me! I never
spoke a rough word to that girl in my life, and she certainly gimme a
nice kiss when she went away. But jest as soon as I write her a love
letter, w'y she--she--W'y hell, Rufe, I wouldn't talk that way to a
sheep-herder if he didn't _know_ no better. Now you jest read
that"--he fumbled in his pocket and slammed a crumpled letter down
before his partner--"and tell me if I'm wrong! No, I want you to do
it. Well, I'll read it to you, then!"
He ripped open the worn envelope, squared his elbows across the table,
and opened the scented inclosure defiantly, but before he could read
it Hardy reached out suddenly and covered it with his hand.
"Please don't, Jeff," he said, his face pale and drawn. "It was all my
fault--I should have told you--but please don't read it to me. I--I
can't stand it."
"Oh, I don't know," retorted Creede coldly. "I reckon you can stand it
if I can. Now suppose you wrote a real nice letter--the best you
knowed how--to your girl, and she handed you somethin' like this: 'My
dear Mr. Creede, yore amazin' letter--' Here, what ye doin'?"
"I won't listen to it!" cried Hardy, snatching the letter away,
"it's--"
"Now lookee here, Rufe Hardy," began Creede, rising up angrily from
his chair, "I want to tell you right now that you've got to read that
letter or lick me--and I doubt if you can do that, the way I happen to
be feelin'. You got me into this in the first place and now, by God,
you'll see it out! Now you _read_ that letter and tell me if I'm
wrong!"
He reared up his head as he spoke and Hardy saw the same fierce gleam
in his eyes that came when he harried the sheep; but there was
something beside that moved his heart to pity. It was the lurking
sadness of a man deep hurt, who fights the whole world in his anguish;
the protest of a soul in torment, demanding, like Job, that some one
shall justify his torture.
"All right, Jeff," he said, "I will read it--only--only don't crowd me
for an answer."
He spread the letter before him on the table and saw in a kind of haze
the angry zigzag characters that galloped across the page, the words
whose meaning he did not as yet catch, so swiftly did his thoughts
rise up at sight of them. Years ago Kitty had written him a letter and
he had read it at that same table. It had been a cruel letter, but
unconsidered, like the tantrum of a child. Yes, he had almost
forgotten it, but now like a sudden nightmare the old horror clutched
at his heart. He steadied himself, and the words began to take form
before him. Surely she would be gentle with Jeff, he was so big and
kind. Then he read on, slowly, grasping at the meaning, and once more
his eyes grew big with horror at her words. He finished, and bowed his
head upon the table, while the barren room whirled before him.
From his place across the table the big cowboy looked down upon him,
grim and masterful, yet wondering at his silence.
"Well, am I wrong?" he demanded, but the little man made no answer.
Upon the table before Hardy there lay another letter, written in that
same woman's hand, a letter to him, and the writing was smooth and
fair. Jeff had brought it to him, tied behind his saddle, and he stood
before him now, waiting.
"Am I wrong?" he said again, but Hardy did not answer in words.
Holding the crumpled letter behind him he took up his own fair
missive--such a one as he would have died for in years gone by--and
laid it on the fire, and when the tiny flame leaped up he dropped the
other on it and watched them burn together.
"Well, how about it?" inquired Creede, awed by the long silence, but
the little man only bowed his head.
"Who am I, to judge?" he said.