By the time the coroner's inquest and the funeral in town were over it
was three o'clock of the afternoon. As I only occasionally managed Soda
Springs I felt no inclination to hurry on the return journey. My
intention was to watch the Overland through, to make some small
purchases at the Lone Star Emporium, to hoist one or two at McGrue's,
and to dine sumptuously at the best--and only--hotel. A programme simple
in theme but susceptible to variations.
The latter began early. After posing kiddishly as a rough, woolly,
romantic cowboy before the passengers of the Overland, I found myself
chaperoning a visitor to our midst. By sheer accident the visitor had
singled me out for an inquiry.
"Can you tell me how to get to Hooper's ranch?" he asked.
So I annexed him promptly in hope of developments.
He was certainly no prize package, for he was small, pale, nervous,
shifty, and rat-like; and neither his hands nor his eyes were still for
an instant. Further to set him apart he wore a hard-boiled hat, a
flaming tie, a checked vest, a coat cut too tight for even his emaciated
little figure, and long toothpick shoes of patent leather. A fairer mark
for cowboy humour would be difficult to find; but I had a personal
interest and a determined character so the gang took a look at me and
bided their time.
But immediately I discovered I was going to have my hands full. It
seemed that the little, shifty, rat-faced man had been possessed of a
small handbag which the negro porter had failed to put off the train;
and which was of tremendous importance. At the discovery it was lacking
my new friend went into hysterics. He ran a few feet after the
disappearing train; he called upon high heaven to destroy utterly the
race of negro porters; he threatened terrible reprisals against a
delinquent railroad company; he seized upon a bewildered station agent
over whom he poured his troubles in one gush; and he lifted up his voice
and wept--literally wept! This to the vast enjoyment of my friends.
"What ails the small party?" asked Windy Bill coming up.
"He's lost the family jewels!" "The papers are missing." "Sandy here
(meaning me) won't give him his bottle and it's past feeding time."
"Sandy's took away his stick of candy and won't give it back." "The
little son-of-a-gun's just remembered that he give the nigger porter two
bits," were some of the replies he got.
On the general principle of "never start anything you can't finish," I
managed to quell the disturbance; I got a description of the bag, and
arranged to have it wired for at the next station. On receiving the news
that it could not possibly be returned before the following morning, my
protégé showed signs of another outburst. To prevent it I took him
firmly by the arm and led him across to McGrue's. He was shivering as
though from a violent chill.
The multitude trailed interestedly after; but I took my man into one of
McGrue's private rooms and firmly closed the door.
"Put that under your belt," I invited, pouring him a half tumbler of
McGrue's best, "and pull yourself together."
He smelled it.
"It's only whiskey," he observed, mournfully. "That won't help much."
"You don't know this stuff," I encouraged.
He took off the half tumbler without a blink, shook his head, and poured
himself another. In spite of his scepticism I thought his nervousness
became less marked.
"Now," said I, "if you don't mind, why do you descend on a peaceful
community and stir it all up because of the derelictions of an absent
coon? And why do you set such store by your travelling bag? And why do
you weep in the face of high heaven and outraged manhood? And why do you
want to find Hooper's ranch? And why are you and your vaudeville make
up?"
But he proved singularly embarrassed and nervous and uncommunicative,
darting his glance here and there about him, twisting his hands, never
by any chance meeting my eye. I leaned back and surveyed him in
considerable disgust.
"Look here, brother," I pointed out to him. "You don't seem to realize.
A man like you can't get away with himself in this country except behind
footlights--and there ain't any footlights. All I got to do is to throw
open yonder door and withdraw my beneficent protection and you will be
set upon by a pack of ravening wolves with their own ideas of humour,
among whom I especially mention one Windy Bill. I'm about the only thing
that looks like a friend you've got."
He caught at the last sentence only.
"You my friend?" he said, breathlessly, "then tell me: is there a
doctor around here?"
"No," said I, looking at him closely, "not this side of Tucson. Are you
sick?"
"Is there a drug store in town, then?"
"Nary drug store."
He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair as he did so.
"My God!" he cried in uncontrollable excitement, "I've got to get my
bag! How far is it to the next station where they're going to put it
off? Ain't there some way of getting there? I got to get to my bag."
"It's near to forty miles," I replied, leaning back.
"And there's no drug store here? What kind of a bum tank town is this,
anyhow?"
"They keep a few patent medicines and such over at the Lone Star
Emporium----" I started to tell him. I never had a chance to finish my
sentence. He darted around the table, grabbed me by the arm, and urged
me to my feet.
"Show me!" he panted.
We sailed through the bar room under full head of steam, leaving the
gang staring after us open-mouthed. I could feel we were exciting
considerable public interest. At the Lone Star Emporium the little freak
looked wildly about him until his eyes fell on the bottle shelves. Then
he rushed right in behind the counter and began to paw them over. I
headed off Sol Levi, who was coming front making war medicine.
"_Loco_," says I to him. "If there's any damage, I'll settle."
It looked like there was going to be damage all right, the way he
snatched up one bottle after the other, read the labels, and thrust
them one side. At last he uttered a crow of delight, just like a kid.
"How many you got of these?" he demanded, holding up a bottle of
soothing syrup.
"You only take a tablespoon of that stuff----" began Sol.
"How many you got--how much are they?" interrupted the stranger.
"Six--three dollars a bottle," says Sol, boosting the price.
The little man peeled a twenty off a roll of bills and threw it down.
"Keep the other five bottles for me!" he cried in a shaky voice, and ran
out, with me after him, forgetting his change and to shut the door
behind us.
Back through McGrue's bar we trailed like one of these moving-picture
chases and into the back room.
"Well, here we are home again," said I.
The stranger grabbed a glass and filled it half full of soothing syrup.
"Here, you aren't going to drink that!" I yelled at him. "Didn't you
hear Sol tell you the dose is a spoonful?"
But he didn't pay me any attention. His hand was shaking so he could
hardly connect with his own mouth, and he was panting as though he'd run
a race.
"Well, no accounting for tastes," I said. "Where do you want me to ship
your remains?"
He drank her down, shut his eyes a few minutes, and held still. He had
quit his shaking, and he looked me square in the face.
"What's it _to_ you?" he demanded. "Huh? Ain't you never seen a guy hit
the hop before?"
He stared at me so truculently that I was moved to righteous wrath; and
I answered him back. I told him what I thought of him and his clothes
and his conduct at quite some length. When I had finished he seemed to
have gained a new attitude of aggravating wise superiority.
"That's all right, kid; that's all right," he assured me; "keep your
hair on. I ain't such a bad scout; but you gotta get used to me. Give me
my hop and I'm all right. Now about this Hooper; you say you know him?"
"None better," I rejoined. "But what's that to you? That's a fair
question."
He bored me with his beady rat eyes for several seconds.
"Friend of yours?" he asked, briefly.
Something in the intonations of his voice induced me to frankness.
"I have good cause to think he's trying to kill me," I replied.
He produced a pocketbook, fumbled in it for a moment, and laid before me
a clipping. It was from the Want column of a newspaper, and read as
follows:
A.A.B.--Will deal with you on your terms. H.H.
"A.A.B. that's me--Artie Brower. And H.H.--that's him--Henry Hooper," he
explained. "And that lil' piece of paper means that's he's caved, come
off, war's over. Means I'm rich, that I can have my own ponies if I want
to, 'stead of touting somebody else's old dogs. It means that I got old
H.H.--Henry Hooper--where the hair is short, and he's got to come my
way!"
His eyes were glittering restlessly, and the pupils seemed to be unduly
dilated. The whiskey and opium together--probably an unaccustomed
combination--were too much for his ill-balanced control. Every
indication of his face and his narrow eyes was for secrecy and craft;
yet for the moment he was opening up to me, a stranger, like an oyster.
Even my inexperience could see that much, and I eagerly took advantage
of my chance.
"You are a horseman, then?" I suggested.
"Me a horseman? Say, kid, you didn't get my name. Brower--Artie Brower.
Why, I've ridden more winning races than any other man on the Pacific
Coast. That's how I got onto old H.H. I rode for him. He knows a good
horse all right--the old skunk. Used to have a pretty string."
"He's got at least one good Morgan stallion now," said I. "I've seen him
at Hooper's ranch."
"I know the old crock--trotter," scorned the true riding jockey.
"Probably old Tim Westmore is hanging around, too. He's in love with
that horse."
"Is he in love with Hooper, too?" I asked.
"Just like I am," said the jockey with a leer.
"So you're going to be rich," said I. "How's that?"
He leered at me again, going foxy.
"Don't you wish you knew! But I'll tell you this: old H.H. is going to
give me all I want--just because I ask him to."
I took another tack, affecting incredulity.
"The hell he is! He'll hand you over to Ramon and that will be the last
of a certain jockey."
"No, he won't do no such trick. I've fixed that; and he knows it. If he
kills me, he'll lose _all_ he's got 'stead of only part."
"You're drunk or dreaming," said I. "If you bother him, he'll just plain
have you killed. That's a little way of his."
"And if he does a friend of mine will just go to a certain place and get
certain papers and give 'em to a certain lawyer--and then where's old
H.H.? And he knows it, damn well. And he's going to be good to Artie and
give him what he wants. We'll get along fine. Took him a long time to
come to it; but I didn't take no chances while he was making up his
mind; you can bet on that."
"Blackmail, eh?" I said, with just enough of a sneer to fire him.
"Blackmail nothing!" he shouted. "It ain't blackmail to take away what
don't belong to a man at all!"
"What don't belong to him?"
"Nothing. Not a damn thing except his money. This ranch. The oil wells
in California. The cattle. Not a damn thing. That was the agreement with
his pardner when they split. And I've got the agreement! Now what you
got to say?"
"Say? Why its _loco_! Why doesn't the pardner raise a row?"
"He's dead."
"His heirs then?"
"He hasn't got but one heir--his daughter." My heart skipped a beat in
the amazement of a half idea. "And she knew nothing about the agreement.
Nobody knows but old H.H.--and me." He sat back, visibly gloating over
me. But his mood was passing. His earlier exhilaration had died, and
with it was dying the expansiveness of his confidence. The triumph of
his last speech savoured he slipped again into his normal self. He
looked at me suspiciously, and raised his whiskey to cover his
confusion.
"What's it to yuh, anyway?" he muttered into his glass darkly. His eyes
were again shifting here and there; and his lips were snarled back
malevolently to show his teeth.
At this precise moment the lords of chance willed Windy Bill and others
to intrude on our privacy by opening the door and hurling several
whiskey-flavoured sarcasms at the pair of us. The jockey seemed to
explode after the fashion of an over-inflated ball. He squeaked like a
rat, leaped to his feet, hurled the chair on which he had been sitting
crash against the door from which Windy Bill _et al_ had withdrawn
hastily, and ended by producing a small wicked-looking automatic--then a
new and strange weapon--and rushing out into the main saloon. There he
announced that he was known to the cognoscenti as Art the Blood and was
a city gunman in comparison with which these plain, so-called bad men
were as sucking doves to the untamed eagle. Thence he glanced briefly at
their ancestry as far as known; and ended by rushing forth in the
general direction of McCloud's hotel.
"Suffering giraffes!" gasped Windy Bill after the whirlwind had passed.
"Was that the scared little rabbit that wept all them salt tears over at
the depot? What brand of licker did you feed him, Sandy?"
I silently handed him the bottle.
"Soothing syrup--my God!" said Windy in hushed tones.