ON THE ART OF GOING TO RUIN
The sound reached the summit of the hill, and then we heard it
clearly,--the ringing of horseshoes on the hard road. They came in a
long trot, clattering into the little hollow at the foot of the abutment
to the bridge. We heard men dismounting, horses being tied to the fence,
and a humming of low talk. We listened, lying flat beside El Mahdi and
the Cardinal.
It was difficult to determine how many were in the hollow, but all were
now afoot but one. We could hear his horse tramping, and hear him
speaking to the others from the saddle above them.
A man with his back toward us lighted a lantern. When he turned to lead
the way up the abutment into the bridge, we caught a flickering picture
of the group. I could make out Lem Marks as the man with the lantern,
and Malan behind him, and I could see the brown shoulder of the horse
and the legs of the rider, but the man's face was above the reach of the
light. It was perhaps Parson Peppers.
They stopped at the sill of the bridge, and the man with the lantern
began to examine the flooring and the ends of the logs set into the
stone of the abutment.
He moved about slowly, holding the lantern close to the ground. Malan
stopped by the horse. I could see the dingy light now moving in the
bridge, now held over the edge of the abutment, now creeping along the
borders of the sill.
Once it passed close to the horse, and I saw his hoofs clearly and his
brown legs, and the club feet of Malan, and the gleam of an axe. They
were on the far side of the river, and the howling of the water tumbled
their voices into a sort of jumble. The man on the horse seemed to give
some directions which were carried out by the one with the lantern. Then
they gathered in a little group and put the thing under discussion.
Lem Marks talked for some minutes, and once Malan pointed with the axe.
I could see the light slip along its edge. Then they all went into the
bridge together.
The tallow candle struggling through the dingy windows of the lantern
lighted the bridge as a dying fire lights a forest, in a little space,
half-heartedly, with all the world blacker beyond that space. They
stopped at the bridge-mouth on our side of the river, and Marks carried
the lantern over the lower end of the abutment. Then he called Malan.
The clubfoot got down on his knees and held the light over by the log
sleeper of the bridge.
I could see where the bark had been burned along the log. I heard Marks
say that this was the place to cut. Then the man on the horse rode out
close to Malan and bent over to look. The clubfoot raised his lantern,
and the rider's face came into the play of the light. My heart lifted
trembling into my throat. It was Woodford!
I grabbed for Jud, and my fingers caught the knee of his breeches. He
was squatted down in the road with a stone in his hand.
Woodford nodded his head, gave some order which I could not hear, and
moved his horse back from the edge of the abutment. Malan arose and
picked up his axe. Marks took the lantern, trying to find some place
where the light could be thrown on the face of the log. He shifted to
several positions and finally took a place at the corner of the bridge,
holding the light over the side.
Malan stood with his club feet planted wide on the log, leaned over, and
began to hack the bark off where he wished to take out his great chip.
I could hear the little pieces of charred bark go rattling down into the
river. Malan notched the borders of his chip, then shifted his weight a
little to his right leg and swung the axe back over his shoulder. It
came down gleaming true, it seemed to me, but the blade, turning as it
descended, dealt the log a glancing blow and wrenched the handle out of
the man's hand. I saw the axe glitter as it passed the smoked glass of
the lantern. Then it struck the side of the bridge with a great ripping
bang, and dropped into the river.
I jumped up with a cry of "the Dwarfs!"
The swing of the axe carried Malan forward. He lost his balance, threw
up his hands and began to topple. I saw the shadow of the horse fall
swiftly across the light. Malan was seized by the collar and flung
violently backward. Then Woodford caught the lantern from Marks and came
on down the abutment toward us.
He rode slowly with the lantern against his knee. The horse, blinded by
the light, did not see us until he was almost upon us. Then he jumped
back with a snort. Woodford raised the lantern above his head and looked
down.
Bareheaded, in Roy's roundabout, I was a queer looking youngster. Jud,
with old Christian's leather cap pulled on his head and a stone in his
fist, might have been brother to any cutthroat. Stumbled upon in the
dark we must have looked pretty wild.
Woodford regarded us with very apparent unconcern. "Quiller," he said,
as one might have announced a guest of indifferent welcome. Then he set
the lantern down on his saddle horn. "Well," he said, "this is a piece
of luck."
I was struck dumb by the man's friendly voice and my resolution went to
pieces. I began to stammer like a novice taken in a wrong. Then Woodford
did a cunning thing.
He assumed that I was not embarrassed, but that I was amused at his
queer words.
"Upon my life, Quiller," he said, "I don't wonder that you laugh. It was
a queer thing to go blurting out, you moving the very devil to get your
cattle over the Valley, and I using every influence I may have with that
gentleman to prevent it. Now, that was a funny speech."
I got my voice then. "I don't see the luck of it," I said.
"And that," said he, "is just what I am about to explain. In the
meantime Jud might toss that rock into the river." There was a smile
playing on the man's face.
"If it's the same to you," said Jud, "I'll just hold on to the rock."
"As you please," replied Woodford, still smiling down at me. "I'd like a
word with you, Quiller. Shall we go out on the road a little?"
"Not a foot," said I.
On my life, the man sighed deeply and passed his hand over his face. "If
I had such men," he said, "I wouldn't be here pulling down a bridge.
Your brother, Quiller, is in great luck. With such men, I could twist
the cattle business around my finger. But when one has to depend upon a
lot of numbskulls, he can expect to come out at the little end of the
horn."
I began to see that this Woodford, under some lights, might be a very
sensible and a very pleasant man. He got down from his saddle, held up
the lantern and looked me over. Then he set the light on the ground and
put his hands behind his back. "Quiller," he began, as one speaks into a
sympathetic ear, "there is no cement that will hold a man to you unless
it is blood wetted. You can buy men by the acre, but they are eye
servants to the last one. A brother sticks, right or wrong, and perhaps
a son sticks, but the devil take the others. I never had a brother, and,
therefore, Providence put me into the fight one arm short."
He began to walk up and down behind the lantern, taking a few long
strides and then turning sharply. "Doing things for one's self," he went
on, "comes to be tiresome business. A man must have someone to work for,
or he gets to the place where he doesn't care." He stopped before me
with his face full in the light. "Quiller," he said, and the voice
seemed to ring true, "I meant to prevent your getting north with these
cattle. I hoped to stop you without being compelled to destroy this
bridge, but you force me to make this move, and I shall make it. Still,
on my life, I care so little that I would let the whole thing go on the
spin of a coin."
His face brightened as though the idea offered some easy escape from an
unpleasant duty. "Upon my word," he laughed, "I was not intending to be
so fair. But the offer is out, and I will stand by it."
He put his hand in his pocket and took out a silver dollar. "You may
toss, Quiller, heads or tails as you choose."
I refused, and the man pitched the coin into the air, caught it in his
hand and returned it to his pocket.
"Perhaps you think you will be able to stop me," he said in a voice that
came ringing over something in his throat. "We're three, and Malan is a
better man than Jud."
"He is not a better man," said I.
"There is a way to tell," said he.
"And it can't begin too quick," said I.
"Done," said he. "At it they go, right here in the road, and the devil
take me if Malan does not dust your man's back for you."
He spun around, caught up the lantern, and we all went up to the level
floor of the abutment at the bridge sill. Lem Marks and the clubfoot
were waiting. Woodford turned to them.
"Malan," he said, "I've heard a great deal of talk out of you about a
wrestle with Jud at Roy's tavern. Now I'm going to see if there's any
stomach behind that talk."
I thrust in. "It must be fair," I said.
"Fair it shall be," said he; "catch-as-catch-can or back-holds?" And he
turned to Malan.
"Back-holds," said the clubfoot, "if that suits Jud."
"Anything suits me," answered Jud.
The two men stripped. Jud asked for the lantern and examined the ground.
It was the width of the abutment, perhaps thirty feet, practically
level, and covered with a loose sand dust. There was no railing to this
abutment, not even a coping along its borders.
I followed Jud as he went over every foot of the place. I wanted to ask
him what he thought, but I was afraid. Presently he came back to the
bridge, set down the lantern, and announced that he was ready.
There was not a breath of air moving. The door of the lantern stood
open, and the smoke from the half-burned tallow candle streamed straight
up and squeezed out at the peaked top.
The two men took their places, leaned over, and each put his big arms
around the other. Malan had torn the sleeves out of his shirt, and Jud
had rolled his above the elbow.
Woodford picked up the lantern, nodded to me to follow him, and we went
around the men to see if the positions they had taken were fair. Each
was entitled to one underhold, that is, the right arm around the body
and under the left arm of his opponent, the left arm over the opponent's
right, and the hands gripped. It is the position of the grizzly,
hopeless for the weaker man.
The two had taken practically the same hold, except that Malan locked
his fingers, while Jud gripped his left wrist with his right hand. Jud
was perhaps four inches taller, but Malan was heavier by at least twenty
pounds.
We came back and stood by the floor of the bridge, Woodford holding the
lantern with Lem Marks and I beside him. Malan said that the light was
in his eyes, and Woodford shifted the lantern until the men's faces were
in the dark. Then he gave the word.
For fully a minute, it seemed to me, the two men stood, like a big
bronze. Then I could see the muscles of their shoulders contracting
under a powerful tension as though each were striving to lift some heavy
thing up out of the earth. It seemed, too, that Malan squeezed as he
lifted, and that Jud's shoulder turned a little, as though he wished to
brace it against the clubfoot's breast, or was troubled by the
squeezing.
Malan bent slowly backward, and Jud's heels began to rise out of the
dust. Then, as though a crushing weight descended suddenly through his
shoulder, Jud threw himself heavily against Malan, and the two fell. I
ran forward, the men were down sidewise in the road.
"Dog fall," said Woodford; "get up."
But the blood of the two was now heated. They hugged, panted, and rolled
over. Woodford thrust the lantern into their faces and began to kick
Malan. "Get up, you dog," he said.
They finally unlocked their arms and got slowly on their legs. Both were
breathing deeply and the sweat was trickling over their faces.
Woodford looked at the infuriated men and seemed to reflect. Presently
he turned to me, as the host turns to the honourable guest. "Quiller,"
he said, "these savages want to kill each other. We shall have to close
the Olympic games. Let us say that you have won, and no tales told. Is
it fair?"
I stammered that it was fair. Then he came over and linked his arm
through mine. He asked me if I would walk to the horses with him. I
could not get away, and so I walked with him.
He pointed to the daylight breaking along the edges of the hills, and to
the frost glistening on the bridge roof. He said it reminded him how,
when he was little, he would stand before the frosted window panes
trying to understand what the etched pictures meant, and how sure he was
that he had once known about this business, but had somehow forgotten.
And how he tried and tried to recall the lost secret. How sometimes he
seemed about to get it, and then it slipped away, and how one day he
realised that he should never remember, and what a blow it was.
Then he said a lot of things that I did not understand. He said that
when one grew out of childhood, he lost his sympathy with events, and
when that sympathy was lost, it was possible to live in the world only
as an adventurer with everything in one's hand.
He said a sentinel watched to see if a man set his heart on a thing, and
if he did the sentinel gave some sign, whereupon the devil's imps
swarmed up to break that thing in pieces. He said that sometimes a man
beat off the devils and saved the thing, but it was rare, and meant a
life of tireless watching. From every point of view, indifference was
better.
Still, he said, it was a mistake for a man to allow events to browbeat
him. He ought to fight back, hitting where he could. An event, once in a
while, was strangely a coward. Besides that, if Destiny found a man
always ready to strip, she came after a while to accord to him the
courtesies of a duellist, and if he were a stout fellow, she sometimes
hesitated before she provoked a fight. Of course the man could not
finally beat her off, but she would set him to one side, as a person
with whom she was going to have trouble, and give him all the time she
could.
He said a man ought to have the courage to strike out for what he
wanted; that the ship-wrecked who got desperately ashore was a better
man than the hanger-back; that a great misfortune was a great
compliment. It measured the resistance of the man. Destiny would not
send artillery against a weakling. It was sometimes finer to fight when
the lights were all out; I would not understand that, men never did
until they were about through with life. But, above everything else, he
said, a man ought to go to his ruin with a sort of princely
indifference. God Almighty could not hurt the man who did not care.
Then he gave me a friendly direction about the cattle, to put them in
his boundary on our road home, bade me remember our contract of no tales
told, and got into his saddle.
I watched him cross the bridge, and ride away through the Hills with his
men, humming some song about the devil and a dainty maid, and I wished
that I might grow up to have such splendid courage. His big galleon had
gone down on the high seas with a treasure in her hold that I could not
reckon, and he went singing like one who finds a kingdom.
Then Jud called to me to get out of the road, and a muley steer went by
at my elbow.