CHANGE OF MASTERS
The interior of the shack was comparatively bare. On the floor, which
was of adobe, and therefore hard and smooth as cement, were five
three-legged stools and a table, all crude and evidently shaped out of
saplings from the grove. There was but a single window, high up, tiny
and square, containing neither glass nor frame, which looked out upon
the south. Built against the walls were some shelves, upon which lay a
scant supply of tinware, and in the opposite wall was a tier of bunks,
just now littered with soiled blankets. Evidently this place had
sheltered these men frequently, for each moved about it with easy
familiarity, and obviously it was a retreat, a rendezvous, a
hiding-place against the range police.
A game of cards was about to be started. The three men were seated round
the table, and before two of them--the younger man, Jim, and the
heavy-set man, the leader, Johnson--was an even distribution of chips.
The third man, Glover, was smoking a short-stemmed pipe, evidently
having been cut out of the play.
"Jim," said Johnson, showing his perfect teeth with an unpleasant grin,
"we'll hop right to this! I think my little proposition here is fair and
square. Thirty dollars in money against that black horse out there. I
told you where you could get a good horse, and you got one sure enough!
And he's yours! But I've taken a kind of shine to him myself, and why
ain't this a good way to push it over? My little gray and thirty dollars
in money. What's the matter with it?"
The other did not appear greatly pleased, nevertheless. Thoughtfully he
riffled the cards a long moment. Then he looked up into Johnson's black
eyes steadily.
"Poker?" he asked, quietly.
"Draw poker," replied the leader, giving his black mustache a satisfied
twist. He jerked his head in the direction of the chips. "Win all, take
all," he added.
Jim lowered his eyes again. He was not more than a boy, this outlaw, and
he had formed a strong attachment for the black horse. And because he
had come to understand Pat and to appreciate him, he hated to think of
the horse's serving under this bloodless man opposite. Pat's life under
this man would be a life of misery. It was so with all of Johnson's
horses. Either they died early, or else, as in the case of the little
gray, their spirits sank under his cruelty to an ebb so low that nothing
short of another horse, and one obviously capable of rendering
successful protection, roused them to an interest in their own welfare.
This was why the little gray, he recalled, had approached the black the
first night after reaching the shack. Evidently she had recognized in
him an able protector, should he care to protect her, against the
brutality of her master. And so to play a game of cards, or anything
else, with a view to losing possession--
"I don't hear you saying!" cut in the cold voice of the other upon his
thoughts. "Ain't the stakes right?"
Jim looked up. "I guess so," he said. "I'm tryin' to figure--percentages
and the like."
Again he relapsed into thought. He feared this man as he feared a snake.
For Johnson had a grip on him in many ways, and in ways unpleasant to
recall. So he knew that to refuse meant a volley of invectives that
would end in his losing the horse anyway, losing him by force, and a
later treatment of the animal, through sheer spite, the brutality of
which he did not like to contemplate. So he did not reply; he did not
dare to say yes or no. Either way, the horse was gone. For Johnson was
clever with the cards, fiendishly clever, and when playing recognized no
law save crookedness.
"Jim," burst out Johnson, controlling himself evidently with effort, "I
want to ask you something. I want you to tell me something. I want you
to tell me who it was grubstaked you that winter you needed grubstaking
mighty bad. I want you to tell me who it was got you out of that scrape
over in Lincoln County two years ago. I want you to tell me who it was
took care of you last winter--under mighty trying circumstances,
too--and put you in the way of easy money this spring! But you needn't
tell me," he suddenly concluded, picking up the cards savagely. "I know
who it was without your telling me, and you know who it was without my
telling you. And now what's the returns? When I give you a chance to
come back a little--in a dead-square, open game of cards--you crawl into
your shell and act like I'd asked you to step on the gallows."
Jim permitted himself a quiet smile. "I don't think I'm playing the hog,
exactly," he rejoined, evenly. "I guess maybe I'm thinking of the horse
as much as anything. And not so much of him, either, maybe, as of you,
the way you handle horses if they don't dance a two-step when you want a
two-step. In about a week, Johnson," he continued, mildly, "you'd have
that horse jabbed full of holes with them Mexican rowels of yours! He
wouldn't stand for that kind of affection, or I'm no judge of
horseflesh. He ain't used to it; he ain't that kind of a horse--your
kind! You ought to see that yourself. You don't want no spirited horse
like him, because either you'd kill him or he'd kill you. _I_ can
see it, if you can't!"
"We'll now cut for deal," interposed Johnson, grimly.
"Take myself," went on the other, half smiling "why I like the idea of
keeping him. I used to kill cats and rob nests and stone dogs when I was
a kid; but later I learned different. I didn't kill cats and rob nests
after that; dogs I got to petting whenever I'd meet one. I got
acquainted with animals that way. Made the acquaintance from both
angles--seeing how they acted under torture, then learning how they
acted under kindness. I know animals, Johnson," he added, quietly. "And
an animal to me is an animal and something more. A horse, for instance.
I see more in a horse than just an easy way of getting around. But that
ain't you. You're like a man I once knowed that kept a dog just because
the dog was a good hunter. If I couldn't see more in a dog than just
what he's fit for, I'd quit the sport."
"Now we'll cut for deal."
Jim had been rocking back and forth easily on two legs of his stool. He
now dropped forward squarely on the floor and nodded assent.
"Cut for deal," he said, quietly. "You!"
The game began. Glover, who evidently found interest in discussions, but
none whatever in a game of cards, tilted back against the wall and began
to talk, now that the argument was over.
"Zeke tells me," he began in a nasal voice, tamping the tobacco into the
bowl of his pipe reflectively, "as how they's a bunch o' Injun renegades
movin' south'ards off the reservation on a hell-toot. I meant to speak
of it afore, but forgot, as usual. Jim's talk here o' animals lovin'
each other that away reminds me." He lifted gray eyes to Johnson.
"Didn't Zeke say nothin' to you about that, neither?" he asked,
evidently mindful of some other grave oversight on the part of "Zeke."
Johnson did not reply until after three or four rounds of the cards.
"Zeke told you a lot of things that hour you sat with him alone," he
rejoined, with broad sarcasm. "Zeke must like you!"
"Mebbe," agreed Glover, accepting the remark with all seriousness. "He
says as how Fort Wingate is out, and I remarks that sich a move about
terminates the performance. He agrees with me--says fust squint them
renegades gits at regular troops they'll hunt gopher-holes as places o'
ginerous salvation."
The others remained silent. The game was going decidedly against Jim. It
had gone against him from the first--as he had known it would. Yet he
continued to play, watchful of his opponent, keen to note any
irregularities. Yet he had discovered nothing that might be interpreted
as cheating. Still he was losing, and still, despite all beliefs to the
contrary, he entertained hope, hope that he might win. If he did win, he
told himself, Johnson was enough of a white man to accept the defeat and
leave the horse where he was. Yet his chips were steadily dwindling; the
cards persistently refused to come his way; only once thus far had he
held a winning hand. But he played on, becoming ever more discouraged,
until, suddenly awaking to an unexpectedly good hand, he opened the pot.
The raises followed back and forth swiftly, but he lost again. And now
Johnson, as he mechanically drew the chips toward him, broke the
silence.
"Zeke got you all worked up, didn't he?" he declared, turning his eyes
upon Glover. "As for renegades," he went on, beginning to deal the cards
again, "I've knowed 'em--hull droves of 'em--to stampede on the whistle
of a rattler." Evidently he was returning to good humor.
Glover took his pipe from his mouth. "Renegades gits stirred up every
jest so often," he observed. "I s'pose it's because of the way they feel
about things. Being run offen the reservations thataway ain't nowise
pleasant, to begin with, and then havin' to hang around the aidges for
what grub their folks sees fit for to sneak out to 'em ought to make it
jest that much more monotonous--kind of. Reckon I'd break out
myself--like a man that eats pancakes a lot--under sich circumstances.
Zeke says this band--the latest gang to git sore--is a-headin' dead
south. Talks like we might run agin trouble down there. More'n one
brand, too--the police and the reg'lars all bein' out thataway. They're
all out--Zeke says."
The others were absorbed in play, and so made no retort. Whereat Glover,
with a reflective light in his eyes, continued:
"I've seen something myself," he went on, evidently mindful of Johnson's
observation. "I've seen better men than Injuns stampede on less than
rattlesnakes--and cover a heap more ground in a lot less shorter time.
What I'm talkin' about is skunks," he explained, to nobody in
particular--"hydrophoby skunks--their bite. Why," he continued, warming
to his subject and seemingly ignorant of its myths, "I once seen a man
ride into San Mercial with his face that white it wouldn't 'a' showed a
chalk mark! And he was holdin' up his thumb like it was pizen--which it
was! And he was cuttin' for old Doc Struthers that fast his cayuse was
sparkin' out of his ears. Bit by a hydrophoby skunk--yes, sirree. Got to
the Doc's just in time, too! But he allus was lucky--the Doc! Money jest
rolled into that party all the time. But some folks don't jest quite
make it--horses gives out, or something. And if they ain't got the sand
to shoot the finger off--"
A sudden shadow across the window checked him. He quietly reached for
his gun. Also, Johnson lifted quick eyes to the window. And now Jim
turned his head. Directly Glover rose to his feet; Johnson got up off
his stool; Jim flung to the door. A moment they stood tense. Then Jim
moved cautiously to the window. He gazed outside. As he did so his
features relaxed. Presently he returned to the table.
"That horse," he explained, eyes twinkling.
The others returned to their places. All were visibly relieved. But
Glover did not go on with his yarn. Lighting his pipe again, he fell to
smoking in thoughtful silence.
Jim picked up his cards. He saw four kings. But he felt no elation.
Before him was a mere dribble of chips, and he knew that he could not
hold out much longer. Johnson was coldly surveying his own cards, and
after a studied moment opened the pot. Jim thrust forward half his small
stack, followed by Johnson with a raise, whereupon Jim placed all he had
upon the board. That closed the game. The other spread out his cards
generously, and Jim, glancing listlessly at four aces, rose from the
table. Turning to the window, he saw Pat still lingering near the shack.
He gazed at him a long moment in silence.
"He's yours," he said, finally, facing Johnson. "Reckon I'll go outside
for a little air."
Outside, he made straight for Pat, removed the hobbles, led him into the
grove. As the horse quenched his thirst, Jim sat down with his back
against a tree and removed his hat.
"Sorry, old-timer," he began, quietly, "but it can't be helped. We--" He
interrupted himself; shoved Pat away a step. "That's better," he went
on, smiling. Then, as Pat looked puzzled, "On my foot--yes," he
explained. "All of your own, too, of course!" he added. "But one of
mine, too!" He was silent. "As I was remarking," he continued, after a
moment, "we've got to beat him some other way. You're a likely horse."
He lowered his eyes thoughtfully. He did know of a way to beat Johnson.
That way was to mount Pat, ride hard for the open, and race it out
against the little gray mounted by Johnson. But already he could see the
vindictive and cursing Johnson in pursuit, discharging guns before him.
So the idea was hopeless, for he knew that Johnson even now was alert
for some such move. But even if it were feasible, he realized that he
never could rid himself of the man. Others had tried, as he well
recalled--tried to break away from him for all time, with a result in no
way to Johnson's credit. Two had never been seen again, which pointed
grimly to the fact that Johnson lived up to his favorite maxim, which
was that dead men tell no tales. Another was the case of that poor
luckless devil who, through some mysterious workings of the law, having
broken with Johnson, had been arrested and convicted of a crime long
forgotten. But Jim knew, as others closely associated with Johnson knew,
that it was Johnson who indirectly had sent the unfortunate one to the
penitentiary. So it required courage, a kind of unreasoning desperation,
to quit the man and the life he led.
Suddenly Jim took a new hold upon himself. What, he began to ask
himself, was getting into him? Why was he suddenly thinking of quitting
Johnson? What would he do if he did quit him? To his kind all decent
channels were closed for any but the exceptional man. But that wasn't
it! Why was he arguing with himself along these lines? What was getting
into him? He felt as if some good and powerful influence was come into
his life! He had felt like this in Denver when a Salvation Army lassie
had approached him. But this wasn't Denver! Nor was there a woman! What
was it, anyway? He could not decide.
He arose and laid his hand upon Pat's forelock.
"It's a regular case," he said, leading the horse out of the grove, "for
something to turn up. It generally does, anyway," he concluded. "Don't
it, Old Gravity?"