AT THE RED FRONT
When Ike Stork had disappeared through the door of the Red Front
dragging the unconscious form of the bartender with him, the Texan
poured himself a drink, set a quart bottle before him upon the bar,
rummaged in a drawer and produced a box of cartridges which he placed
conveniently to hand, reloaded his guns, and took another drink.
A report sounded in the street and a bullet crashed through the window
and buried itself in a beer keg. The Texan laughed: "Fog 'er up, ol'
hand, an' here's yer change!" Reaching over the top of a keg, he sent a
bullet through the window. The shot drew a volley from the street, and
the big mirror behind the bar became a jangle of crashing glass.
"Barras'll have to get him a new lookin' glass," he opined, as he shook
the slivers from his hat brim. "The war's on--an' she's a beaut! If ol'
Santa Anna was here, him an' I could lick the world! This red licker
sure is gettin' to my head--stayed off of it too long--but I'm makin' up
for lost time. Whoopee!"
"Oh, I'm a Texas cowboy,
Far away from home,
If I ever get back to Texas
I never more will roam."
"Hey, in there!" The song ceased abruptly, and, gun in hand the Texan
answered.
"There ain't no hay in here! What do you think this is, a cow's hotel?
The livery barn's next door!"
"They ain't no outlaw goin' to run Timber City while I'm marshal!"
"Put 'er here, pardner!" answered the Texan. "You run Timber City an'
I'll run the Red Front! Come on in an' buy a drink, so I can get my
change!"
"You're arrested fer disturbin' the peace!"
"Come an' get me, then. But come a-shootin'!"
"You can't git away with it. I got twenty men here, an' everyone packin'
a gun!"
"You've got me, then," mocked the Texan. "I've only got two guns. Run
'em in in a bunch. I can only take care of a dozen, an' the rest can get
me before I can reload."
"Yer kickin' up an awful stink fer a dollar an' four bits."
"'Tain't the money, it's the principle of the thing. An' besides, I
aimed to pull a hell-winder of a jamboree--an' I'm doin' it."
"You ain't helpin' yer case none by raisin' a rookus like this. Come out
an' give yerself up. All there is agin you is a fine an' a little
damages."
"How much?"
"We'll make it fifty dollars' fine, an' you'll have to talk to Pete
Barras about the damages."
The Texan laughed derisively: "Guess again, you short horn! I've got
more money than that!"
"You comin' out, or I got to go in there an' git you?"
"I ain't comin' out, an' you ain't comin' in here an' get me," defied
the cowboy; "you ain't got the guts to--you an' your twenty gun-fighters
to boot! Just you stick your classic profile around the corner of that
wall an' I'll shoot patterns in it!"
"You can't git away. We've got yer horse!"
"If I was a posse I'd surround you an' string you up for a bunch of
horse-thieves!"
"What you goin' to do about it?"
"I'm standin' pat--me. What you goin' to do?"
"Come on out, hands up, an' submit to arrest before you git in too
deep."
"There ain't a marshal in Montana can arrest me!"
"What's yer name?"
"Hydrophobia B. Tarantula! I'm a curly wolf! I can't be handled 'cause
I'm full of quills! I've got seventeen rattles an' a button, an' I'm
right now coiled!"
"Yer drunk as hell," growled the marshal, "wait till you git sober an'
you won't feel so damn hard."
"You're goin' to miss some sleep waitin', 'cause there's seventeen
quarts in sight, without countin' the barrel goods an' beer."
For answer the exasperated marshal sent a bullet crashing into the wall
high above the Texan's head, and the shot was immediately followed by a
volley from the crowd outside, the bullets slivering the woodwork, or
burying themselves harmlessly in the barricade of beer-kegs.
"This saloon's gettin' all scratched up, the way you ruffians are
carryin' on," called the Texan, when the noise had subsided, "but if
it's shootin' you want, divide these here up amongst you!" Reaching
around a keg, he emptied a gun through the window, then reloaded, and
poured himself another drink.
"The main question is," he announced judicially to himself, as he
contemplated the liquor in the glass, "I've drunk one quart already, now
shall I get seventeen times drunker'n I am, or shall I stay drunk
seventeen times as long?" He drank the liquor and returned the glass to
the bar, "guess I'll just let Nature take her course," he opined, and
glanced about him quizzically. "I mistrusted this wasn't goin' to be no
prosaic jubilee, but what I'm wonderin' is, how's it goin' to come out?
'Tain't likely anyone'll get hurt, 'cause they can't hit me, an' I don't
want to hit them. But, this is goin' to get monotonous sometime an' I'll
want to leave here. They've got my horse, an' it's a cinch I ain't goin'
away afoot. Guess I'll have to borrow one like Ol' Bat did down to Las
Vegas an' get plumb out of the country. An' there's another reason I
can't linger to get venerable amongst my present peaceful surroundin's.
When Ol' Bat finds I've quit the outfit he'll trail me down, just as
sure as I'm goin' to take another drink, an' when he does, he'll----"
Once more the voice of the marshal sounded from without: "Hey, young
feller, I'm willin' to go half way with you----"
"Half of nothin's nothin'!" replied the Texan, "I ain't goin' nowhere!"
"You better listen to reason an' give yerself up. If you do we let you
off with a hundred dollar fine, an' damages--if you don't, I'm goin' to
charge you with shootin' to kill, an' send you up to Deer Lodge fer a
year. You got just one minute to think it over. It's gettin' dark an' I
ain't had no supper."
"Me neither. You go on ahead an' get yours first, an' then hurry back
an' let me go."
"I ain't foolin'! What you goin' to do?"
"Shoot to kill--if that's what I'm charged with," and the marshal leaped
back as a bullet sung past his head.
As darkness gathered the crowd poured volley after volley into the
saloon and the Texan replied sparingly, and between shots he drank
whisky. It was dark inside the building and the cowboy could see the
flash of the guns in the street. Suddenly the bombardment ceased.
"Wonder what they're up to now," he muttered, peering between the kegs.
He was finding it hard to concentrate his thoughts, and passed a hand
across his forehead as if to brush away the cobwebs that were clogging
his brain. "I've got to out-guess 'em!" He shook himself fiercely: "Le's
see, if they rush me in the dark, some of 'em's due to fall down cellar
where Ike left the trap open, an' some of 'em's goin' to get mixed up
with bottles an' beer-kegs--if I don't shoot they won't know where I am,
an' while they're ontanglin' themselves maybe I can slip away in the
dark."
A light flared suddenly beyond the wooden partition, flickered a moment,
and burned steadily. The Texan's eyes widened as his hands closed about
the butts of his guns: "Goin' to burn me out, eh?" he sneered, and then,
with a smile, laid the two guns on the bar, and watched the glow that
softened the blackness about the edges of the screen. "They can't burn
me without burnin' up their whole damn little wooden town," he
speculated, "but what in the devil do they want with a light?" With the
words on his lips, the light moved, and once more he reached for his
guns. A candle appeared around the end of the partition that formed the
doorway. The Texan fired and the room was plunged into darkness. And
then--through the inky blackness, thick with the pungent powder smoke,
sounded a cry--a jerky, stabbing cry--a cry of mortal fear--a woman's
cry--_that_ woman's cry: "_Tex--Tex! Strike a light!_"
The Texan reeled as from a blow, the gun dropped from his nerveless
fingers and thudded upon the floor. He leaned weakly against the back
bar. He was conscious that his eyes were staring--straining to pierce
the blackness in the direction of the sound--and yet, he knew there was
nothing there! His mouth went dry and he could distinctly hear his own
breathing. He pulled himself jerkily erect and clawed the edge of the
bar. His groping hand closed about an object hard and cylindrical. It
was the quart bottle of whisky from which he had filled his glass.
Suddenly, he shuddered. "It's the booze," he thought, "it's got me--at
last--I'm--I'm _bugs_!" The bottle slipped through his fingers and
rolled along the bar and the air became heavy with the fumes of the
liquor that splashed unheeded from its mouth. He passed his hand across
his brow and withdrew it slippery and wet with sweat.
"_Christ!_" Thickly the word struggled from between the dry lips. He
stooped, his hand groping for the gun, his fingers closed uncertainly
upon the butt, and as he straightened up, the muzzle swung slowly into
line with his own forehead. And in that instant a light puff of cool air
fanned his dripping forehead. The gun stopped in its slow arc. The lids
closed for an instant over the horribly staring eyes. The shoulders
stiffened, and the gun was laid gently upon the bar--for, upon that
single puff of night air, delicate, subtile--yet unmistakably
distinguishable from the heavy powder smoke and the reeking fumes of
the whisky, was borne a breath of the wide open places. The man's
nostrils quivered. Yes, it was there--the scent of the little blue and
white prairie flowers--her flowers. Instantly his brain cleared. A
moment before he had been hopelessly drunk: now, he was sober. It was as
though the delicate scent had entered his nostrils and cleansed his
brain, clearing it of the befuddling fog, and leaving it, wholesome,
alert, capable. Poignantly, with the scent of those flowers, the scene
of a year ago leaped into memory, when he had stooped to restore them to
her hands--there in the tiny glade beside the big boulder.
"Alice!" he cried, sharply.
"Tex!" The name was a sob, and then; "Oh, please--please strike a light!
I'm--I'm--afraid!"
For just an instant the Texan hesitated, a match between his fingers,
and his voice sounded strangely hard: "A light, now, will mean they'll
get me! But--if you're real, girl, I'll trust you--If you ain't--the
quicker they shoot, the better!" There was a scratching sound, a light
flared out, and candle outstretched, the girl came swiftly to the bar,
and as he held the match to the wick, the Texan's eyes gazed wonderingly
into the eyes of blue.