THE FORERUNNER OF THE TRUST
Bill passed straight through the store and set out across the town
dumps. And it would have been impossible to guess how far he was
affected by Minky's plaint. His face might have been a stone wall for
all expression it had of what was passing behind it. His cold eyes
were fixed upon the hut ahead of him without apparent interest or
meaning. His thoughts were his own at all times.
As he drew near he heard Sunny's voice raised in song, and he listened
intently, wondering the while if the loafer had any idea of its
quality. It was harsh, nasal and possessed as much tune as a freshly
sharpened "buzz-saw." But his words were distinct. Far too distinct
Bill thought with some irritation.
"A farmer ast the other day if we wanted work.
Sez we, 'Ol' man, the labour?' Sez he, 'It's binding wheat.'
Sez we, 'Ol' man, the figger?' 'A dollar an' a ha'f the sum.'
Sez we, 'Ol' man, go an' tickle yerself, we'd a durned sight sooner
bum!'
'Anythin' at all, marm, we're nearly starvin',
Anything to hel-l-lp the bummers on their wa-ay,
We are three bums an' jolly good chums,
An' we live like Royal Turks,
An' with good luck we bum our chuck,
An' it's a fool of a man wot works.'"
Just as Sunny was about to begin the next verse Bill appeared in the
doorway, and the vocalist was reduced to a pained silence by his harsh
criticism.
"You'd orter be rootin' kebbeges on a hog ranch wi' that voice," he
said icily. "You're sure the worst singer in America."
Then he glanced round for the children. They were nowhere to be seen.
Sunny was at the cookstove boiling milk in a tin "billy." His face was
greasy with perspiration, and, even to Bill's accustomed eyes, he
looked dirtier than ever. He stood now with a spoon poised, just as he
had lifted it out of the pot at the moment of the other's entrance.
"Where's the kids?" the latter demanded sharply.
Sunny shifted his feet a little uneasily and glanced round the dirty
room. The place looked as though it hadn't been cleaned for a month.
There was a hideous accumulation of unwashed utensils scattered
everywhere. The floor was unswept, let alone unwashed. And the smell
of stale food and general mustiness helped to add to the keenness of
the visitor's nervous edge as he waited for the man's reply.
"Guess they're out on the dumps playin' at findin' gold," Sunny said,
with a slightly forced laugh. "Y'see, little Vada's staked out a claim
on a patch of elegant garbage, an' is digging fer worms. Them's the
gold. An' Jamie's playin' 'bad man' an' swoopin' down on her and
sneakin' her worms. It's a new game. Y'see, I thought it out and
taught 'em how to play it. They're a heap struck on it, too. I--"
But words somehow failed him under the baleful stare of the other's
eyes. And turning back to the milk he fell into a stupid silence.
"You'll get right out an' huyk them kiddies off'n those dumps," cried
Bill sharply. "You got no more sense in your idjot head than to slep
when your eyes shut. Diggin' worms on the dumps! Gee! Say, if it ain't
enough to give 'em bile and measles, an'--an' spots, then I don't know
a 'deuce-spot' from a hay-rake. Git right out, you loafin' bum, an'
fetch 'em in, an' then get the muck off'n your face, an' clean this
doggone shack up. I'd sure say you was a travelin' hospital o' disease
by the look of you. I'm payin' you a wage and a heap good one, so git
out--an' I'll see to that darn milk."
Argument was out of the question, so Sunny adopted the easier course
of obedience to his employer's orders. He dropped the spoon into the
milk with a suddenness that suggested resentment, and shuffled out,
muttering. But Bill followed him to the door.
"How?" he inquired threateningly.
"I didn't say nothin'," lied Sunny.
"I didn't jest guess you did," retorted Bill sarcastically. And he
watched his man hurry out into the sunlight with eyes that had somehow
become less severe.
He waited where he was for some moments. Then he turned back into the
room and stared disgustedly about him.
"If a feller can't fix two kiddies right an' cook 'em pap without
mussin' things till you feel like dying o' colic at the sight, he
ain't fit to rob hogs of rootin' space," he muttered. "I'd--Gee-whiz!
Ther's that doggone milk raising blue murder wi'--"
He rushed to the stove where the boiling milk was pouring over the
sides of the pot in a hissing, bubbling stream. He clutched at the
"billy," scalding his fingers badly, jerked it off the stove, upset
the contents on the floor and flung the pot itself across the room,
where it fell with a clatter upon a pile of dirty tin plates and
pannikins. He swore violently and sucked his injured fingers,
while, in angry dismay, he contemplated the additional mess his
carelessness had caused. And at that moment Sunny returned, leading
two grubby-faced infants by the hand.
"I got 'em back," he cried cheerfully. Then his shrewd eyes took in
the situation at a glance, and they sparkled with malicious glee.
"Gee," he cried, releasing the youngsters and pointing at the mess on
the stove and floor. "Now ain't that a real pity? Say, how d'you come
to do that? It sure ain't a heap of trouble heatin' a drop o' milk.
Most any fule ken do that. I tho't you savvied that, I sure did, or
I'd ha' put you wise. Y'see, you should jest let it ha' come to the
bile, an' then whip it off quick. My, but it's real foolish! Ten cents
o' milk wasted for want of a little sense."
"Our dinner milk," cried Vada in consternation. "All gone."
"All dorn," echoed Jamie, flinging himself on the floor and dipping
his fingers into the mess and licking them with grave appreciation.
In a moment he was joined by the inevitable yellow pup, which burnt
its tongue and set up a howl. Vada ran to the animal's assistance,
fell over Jamie's sprawling legs and rolled heavily in the mess.
For some seconds confusion reigned. Sunny darted to Vada's rescue,
sent the pup flying with a well-directed kick, picked the weeping girl
up, and tried to shake some of the milk from her dirty clothing. While
Bill grabbed Jamie out of the way of any further mischief. The boy
struggled furiously to free himself.
"Me want dinner milk," he shouted, and beat the gambler's chest with
both his little fists.
"You kicked Dougal!" wailed Vada, from under Sunny's arm.
And at that moment a mild voice reached them from the open doorway--
"Why, what's happenin'?"
Bill and Sunny turned at once. And the next instant the children were
shrieking in quite a different tone.
"Pop-pa," they shouted, with all the power of their childish lungs.
The men released them, and, with a rush, they hurled themselves upon
the small person of their father.
Scipio set a bundle he was carrying upon the floor and scrambled Jamie
into his arms and kissed him. Then he kissed Vada. After that he stood
up, and, in a peculiarly dazed fashion gazed about him, out of a pair
of blackened and bloodshot eyes, while the children continued to cling
to him.
The two onlookers never took their eyes off him. Sunny Oak gazed with
unfeigned astonishment and alarm, but Bill merely stared. The little
man was a pitiable object. His clothes were tattered. His face was
bruised and cut, and dry blood was smeared all round his mouth. Both
eyes were black, and in one of them the white was changed to a bright
scarlet.
James' men had done their work all too well. They had handled their
victim with the brutality of the savages they were.
Scipio let his eyes rest on Bill, and, after a moment's hesitation, as
though gathering together his still scattered wits, spoke his
gratitude.
"It was real kind of you lendin' me Gipsy. I set her back in the barn.
She's come to no harm. She ain't got saddle-sore, nor--nor nothin'.
Maybe she's a bit tuckered, but she's none the worse, sure."
Bill clicked his tongue, but made no other response. At that moment it
would have been impossible for him to have expressed the thoughts
passing through his fierce mind. Sunny, however, was more superficial.
Words were bursting from his lips. And when he spoke his first remark
was a hopeless inanity.
"You got back?" he questioned.
Scipio's poor face worked into the ghost of a smile.
"Yes," he said. And the awkwardness of the meeting drove him to
silently caressing his children.
Presently Sunny, who was not delicate-minded, pointed at his face.
"You--you had a fall?"
Scipio shook his head.
"You see, I found him and--his boys got rough," he explained simply.
"Gee!"
There was no mistaking Sunny's anger. He forgot his usual lazy
indifference. For once he was stirred to a rage that was as active and
volcanic as one of Wild Bill's sudden passions.
But the gambler at last found his tongue, and Sunny was given no
further opportunity.
"What you got there?" he asked, pointing at the parcel Scipio had
deposited on the floor.
The little man glanced down at it.
"That?" he said hazily. "Oh, that's bacon an' things. I got 'em from
Minky on my way up. He told me you'd sure got grub up here, an' I
didn't need to get things. But I guessed I couldn't let you do all
this now I'm back. Say," he added, becoming more alert. "I want to
thank you both, you bin real good helping me out."
Bill swallowed some tobacco juice, and coughed violently. Sunny was
eaten up with a rage he could scarcely restrain. But Scipio turned to
the children, who were now clinging silently to his moleskin
trousers.
"Guess we'll get busy an' fix things up," he said, laying caressing
hands upon them. "You'll need your dinners, sure. Poppa's got nice
bacon. How's that?"
"Bully," cried Vada promptly. Now that she had her father again
everything was "bully." But Jamie was silently staring up at the man's
distorted features. He didn't understand.
Wild Bill recovered from his coughing, suddenly bestirred himself.
"Guess we'd best git goin', Sunny," he said quietly. "Zip'll likely
need to fix things up some. Y'see, Zip," he went on, turning to the
father, "Sunny's done his best to kep things goin' right. He's fed the
kiddies, which was the most ne'ssary thing. As for keppin' the place
clean,"--he pointed at the small sea of milk which still stood in
pools on the floor--"I don't guess he's much when it comes to cleanin'
anything--not even hisself. I 'low he's wrecked things some. Ther's a
heap of milk wasted. Howsum--"
"Say!" cried the outraged Sunny. But Bill would allow no interruption.
"We'll git goin'," he said, with biting coldness. "Come right along.
So long, Zip," he added, with an unusual touch of gentleness. "I'll be
along to see you later. We need to talk some."
He moved over to Sunny's side, and his hand closed upon his arm. And
somehow his grip kept the loafer silent until they passed out of the
hut. Once outside the gambler threw his shoulders back and breathed
freely. But he offered no word. Only Sunny was inclined to talk.
"Say, he's had a desprit bad time," he said, with eyes ablaze.
But Bill still remained silent. Nor did another word pass between them
until they reached Minky's store.
* * * * *
The moment they had departed Scipio glanced forlornly round his home.
It was a terrible home-coming. Three days ago in spite of all
set-backs and shortcomings, hope had run high in his heart. Now--He
left the twins standing and walked to the bedroom door. He looked in.
But the curtains dropped from his nerveless fingers and he turned back
to the living room, sick in mind and heart. For one moment his eyes
stared unmeaningly at the children. Then he sat down on the chair
nearest the table and beckoned them over to him. They came, thrilled
with awe in their small wondering minds. Their father's distorted
features fascinated yet horrified them.
Jamie scrambled to one knee and Vada hugged one of the little man's
arms.
"We'll have to have dinner, kiddies," he said, with attempted
lightness.
"Ess," said Jamie absently. Then he reached up to the wound on his
father's right cheek, and touched it gently with one small finger. It
was so sore that the man flinched, and the child's hand was withdrawn
instantly.
"Oose's hurted," he exclaimed.
"Pore poppa's all hurt up," added Vada tearfully.
"Not hurt proper," said Scipio, with a wan smile. "Y'see, it was jest
a game, an'--an' the boys were rough. Now we'll git dinner."
But Vada's mind was running on with swift childish curiosity, and she
put a sudden question.
"When's momma comin' back?" she demanded.
The man's eyes shifted to the open doorway. The golden sunlight beyond
was shining with all the splendor of a summer noon. But for all his
blackened eyes saw there might have been a gray fog of winter
outside.
"Momma?" he echoed blankly.
"Ess, momma," cried Jamie. "When she comin'?"
Scipio shook his head and sighed.
"When she comin'?" insisted Vada.
The man lowered his eyes till they focused themselves upon the yellow
pup, now hungrily licking up the cold milk.
"She won't come back," he said at last, in a low voice. Then with a
despairing gesture, he added: "Never! never!" And his head dropped
upon Jamie's little shoulder while he hugged Vada more closely to his
side as though he feared to lose her too.