“THEN I WAS NOT HONEST.”
Garrison eyed him coldly, and was about to pass when Crimmins barred his
way.
“I suppose when you gets up in the world, it ain't your way to know
folks you knew before, is it?” he asked gently. “But Dan Crimmins has a
heart, an' it ain't his way to shake friends, even if they has money. It
ain't Crimmins' way.”
“Take your hand off my shoulder,” said Garrison steadily.
The other's black brows met, but he smiled genially.
“It don't go, Bud. No, no.” He shook his head. “Try that on those who
don't know you. I know you. You're Billy Garrison; I'm Dan Crimmins.
Now, if you want me to blow in an' tell the major who you are, just say
so. I'm obligin'. It's Crimmins' way. But if you want to help an old
friend who's down an' out, just say so. I'm waitin'.”
Garrison eyed him. Crimmins? Crimmins? The name was part of his dream.
What had he been to this man? What did this man know?
“Take a walk down the pike,” suggested the other easily. “It ain't often
you have the pleasure of seein' an old friend, an' the excitement is a
little too much for you. I know how it is,” he added sympathetically. He
was closely watching Garrison's face.
Garrison mechanically agreed, wondering.
“It's this way,” began Crimmins, once the shelter of the pike was
gained. “I'm Billy Crimmins' brother--the chap who trains for Major
Calvert. Now, I was down an' out--I guess you know why--an' so I wrote
him askin' for a little help. An' he wouldn't give it. He's what you
might call a lovin', confidin', tender young brother. But he mentioned
in his letter that Bob Waterbury was here, and he asked why I had left
his service. Some things don't get into the papers down here, an' it's
just as well. You know why I left Waterbury. Waterbury----!”
Here Crimmins carefully selected a variety of adjectives with which to
decorate the turfman. He also spoke freely about the other's ancestors,
and concluded with voicing certain dark convictions regarding Mr.
Waterbury's future.
Garrison listened blankly. “What's all this to me?” he asked sharply. “I
don't know you nor Mr. Waterbury.”
“Hell you don't!” rapped out Crimmins. “Quit that game. I may have done
things against you, but I've paid for them. You can't touch me on that
count, but I can touch you, for I know you ain't the major's nephew--no
more than the Sheik of Umpooba. I'm ashamed of you. Tryin' on a game
like that with your old trainer, who knows you--”
Garrison caught him fiercely by the arm. His old trainer! Then he was
Billy Garrison. Memory was fighting furiously. He was on fire. “Billy
Garrison, Billy Garrison, Billy Garrison,” he repeated over and over,
shaking Crimmins like a reed. “Go on, go on, go on,” he panted. “Tell me
what you know about me. Go on, go on. Am I Garrison? Am I? Am I?”
Then, holding the other as in a vise, the thoughts that had been
writhing in his mind for so long came hurtling forth. At last here was
some one who knew him. His old trainer. What better friend could he
need?
He panted in his frenzy. The words came tripping over one another,
smothering, choking. And Crimmins with set face listened; listened as
Garrison went over past events; events since that memorable morning he
had awakened in the hospital with the world a blank and the past a blur.
He told all--all; like a little child babbling at his mother's knee.
“Why did I leave the track? Why? Why?” he finished in a whirlwind of
passion. “What happened? Tell me. Say I'm honest. Say it, Crimmins;
say it. Help me to get back. I can ride--ride like glory. I'll win for
you--anything. Anything to get me out of this hell of deceit, nonentity
namelessness. Help me to square myself. I'll make a name nobody'll be
ashamed of--” His words faded away. Passion left him weak and quivering.
Crimmins judicially cleared his throat. There was a queer light in his
eyes.
“It ain't Dan Crimmins' way to go back on a friend,” he began, laying a
hand on Garrison's shoulder. “You don't remember nothing, all on account
of that bingle you got on the head. But it was Crimmins that made you,
Bud. Sweated over you like a father. It was Crimmins who got you out
of many a tight place, when you wouldn't listen to his advice. I ain't
saying it wasn't right to skip out after you'd thrown every race and the
Carter; after poisoning Sis--”
“Then--I--was--not--honest?” asked Garrison. He was horribly quiet.
“Emphatic'ly no,” said Crimmins sadly. He shook his head. “And you don't
remember how you came to Dan Crimmins the night you skipped out and you
says: 'Dan, Dan, my only friend, tried and true, I'm broke.' Just like
that you says it. And Dan says, without waitin' for you to ask; he says:
'Billy, you and me have been pals for fifteen years; pals man and boy. A
friend is a friend, and a man who's broke don't want sympathy--he needs
money. Here's three thousand dollars--all I've got. I was going to buy
a home for the old mother, but friendship in need comes before all. It's
yours. Take it. Don't say a word. Crimmins has a heart, and it's Dan
Crimmins' way. He may suffer for it, but it's his way.' That's what he
says.”
“Go on,” whispered Garrison. His eyes were very wide and vacant.
Crimmins spat carefully, as if to stimulate his imagination.
“No, no, you don't remember,” he mused sadly. “Now you're tooting along
with the high rollers. But I ain't kickin'. It's Crimmins' way never to
give his hand in the dark, but when he does give it--for life, my boy,
for life. But I was thinkin' of the wife and kids you left up in Long
Island; left to face the music. Of course I stood their friend as best I
could--”
“Then--I'm married?” asked Garrison slowly. He laughed--a laugh that
caused the righteous Crimmins to wince. The latter carefully wiped his
eyes with a handkerchief that had once been white.
“Boy, boy!” he said, in great agony of mind. “To think you've gone and
forgot the sacred bond of matrimony! I thought at least you would have
remembered that. But I says to your wife, I says: 'Billy will come back.
He ain't the kind to leave you an' the kids go to the poorhouse, all for
the want of a little gumption. He'll come back and face the charges--”
“What charges?” Garrison did not recognize his own voice.
“Why, poisoning Sis. It's a jail offense,” exclaimed Crimmins.
“Indeed,” commented Garrison.
Again he laughed and again the righteous Crimmins winced. Garrison's
gray eyes had the glint of sun shining on ice. His mouth looked as it
had many a time when he fought neck-and-neck down the stretch, snatching
victory by sheer, condensed, bulldog grit. Crimmins knew of old what
that mouth portended, and he spoke hurriedly.
“Don't do anything rash, Bud. Bygones is bygones, and, as the Bible
says: 'Circumstances alters cases,' and--”
“Then this is how I stand,” cut in Garrison steadily, unheeding the
advice. He counted the dishonorable tally on his fingers. “I'm a
horse-poisoner, a thief, a welcher. I've deserted my wife and family. I
owe you--how much?”
“Five thousand,” said Crimmins deprecatingly, adding on the two just to
show he had no hard feelings.
“Good,” said Garrison. He bit his knuckles; bit until the blood came.
“Good,” he said again. He was silent.
“I ain't in a hurry,” put in Crimmins magnanimously. “But you can pay it
easy. The major--”
“Is a gentleman,” finished Garrison, eyes narrowed. “A gentleman whom
I've wronged--treated like--” He clenched his hands. Words were of no
avail.
“That's all right,” argued the other persuasively. “What's the use of
gettin' flossy over it now? Ain't you known all along, when you put
the game up on him, that you wasn't his nephew; that you were doin' him
dirt?”
“Shut up,” blazed Garrison savagely. “I know--what I've done. Fouled
those I'm not fit to grovel to. I thought I was honest--in a way. Now I
know I'm the scum I am--”
“You don't mean to say you're goin' to welch again?” asked the horrified
Crimmins. “Goin' to tell the major--”
“Just that, Crimmins. Tell them what I am. Tell Waterbury, and face that
charge for poisoning his horse. I may have been what you say, but
I'm not that now. I'm not,” he reiterated passionately, daring
contradiction. “I've sneaked long enough. Now I'm done with it--”
“See here,” inserted Crimmins, dangerously reasonable, “your little
white-washing game may be all right to you, but where does Dan Crimmins
come in and sit down? It ain't his way to be left standing. You
splittin' to the major and Waterbury? They'll mash your face off! And
where's my five thousand, eh? Where is it if you throw over the bank?”
“Damn your five thousand!” shrilled Garrison, passion throwing him.
“What's your debt to what I owe? What's money? You say you're my friend.
You say you have been. Yet you come here to blackmail me--yes, that's
the word I used, and the one I mean. Blackmail. You want me to continue
living a lie so that I may stop your mouth with money. You say I'm
married. But do you wish me to go back to my wife and children, to try
to square myself before God and them? Do you wish me to face Waterbury,
and take what's coming to me? No, you don't, you don't. You lie if you
say you do. It's yourself--yourself you're thinking of. I'm to be
your jackal. That's your friendship, but I say if that's friendship,
Crimmins, then to the devil with it, and may God send me hatred
instead!” He choked with the sheer smother of his passion.
Crimmins was breathing heavily. Then passion marked him for the thing
he was. Garrison saw confronting him not the unctuous, plausible friend,
but a hunted animal, with fear and venom showing in his narrowed eyes.
And, curiously enough, he noticed for the first time that the prison
pallor was strong on Crimmins' face, and that the hair above his
outstanding ears was clipped to the roots.
Then Crimmins spoke; through his teeth, and very slowly: “So you'll
go to Waterbury, eh?” And he nodded the words home. “You--little cur,
you--you little misbegotten bottle of bile! What are you and your
hypocrisies to me? You don't know me, you don't know me.” He laughed,
and Garrison felt repulsion fingering his heart. Then the former trainer
shot out a clawing, ravenous hand. “I want that money--want it quick!”
he spat, taking a step forward. “You want hatred, eh? Well, hatred
you'll have, boy. Hatred that I've always given you, you miserable,
puling, lily-livered spawn of a--”
Garrison blotted out the insult to his mother's memory with his
knuckles. “And that's for your friendship,” he said, smashing home a
right cross.
Crimmins arose very slowly from the white road, and even thought of
flicking some of the fine dust from his coat. He was smiling. The moon
was very bright. Crimmins glanced up and down the deserted pike. From
the distant town a bell chimed the hour of eight. He had twenty pounds
the better of the weights, but he was taking no chances. For Garrison,
all his wealth of hard-earned fistic education roused, was waiting;
waiting with the infinite patience of the wounded cougar.
Crimmins looked up and down the road again. Then he came in, a
black-jack clenched until the veins in his hand ridged out purple and
taut as did those in his neck. A muscle was beating in his wooden cheek.
He struck savagely. Garrison side-stepped, and his fist clacked under
Crimmins' chin. Neither spoke. Again Crimmins came in.
A great splatter of hoof-beats came from down the pike, sounding like
the vomitings of a Gatling gun. A horse streaked its way toward them.
Crimmins darted into the underbrush bordering the pike. The horse came
fast. It flashed past Garrison. Its rider was swaying in the saddle;
swaying with white, tense face and sawing hands. The eyes were fixed
straight ahead, vacant. A broken saddle-girth flapped raggedly. Garrison
recognized the fact that it was a runaway, with Sue Desha up.
Another horse followed, throwing space furiously. It was a big bay
gelding. As it drew abreast of Garrison, standing motionless in the
white road, it shied. Its rider rocketed over its head, thudded on the
ground, heaved once or twice, and then lay very still. The horse swept
on. As it passed, Garrison swung beside it, caught its pace for an
instant, and then eased himself into the saddle. Then he bent over and
rode as only he could ride. It was a runaway handicap. Sue's life was
the stake, and the odds were against him.