THE PUSKY
A pusky is a half-breed dance. That is the literal meaning of the word.
The practical translation, however, is often different. In reality it is
a debauch--a frightful orgie, when all the lower animal instincts--and
they are many and strong in the half-breed--are given full sway. When
drunkenness and bestial passions rule the actions of these worse than
savages. When murder and crimes of all sorts are committed without
scruple, without even thought. Latterly things have changed, and these
orgies are less frequent among the Breeds, or, at least, conducted with
more regard for decorum. But we are talking of some years ago, at a time
when the Breeds had to learn the meaning of civilization--before good
order and government were thoroughly established in this great Western
country; in the days when Indian "Sun" dances, and other barbarous
functions were held. In the days of the Red River Jig, when a good
fiddler of the same was held to be a man of importance; when the method
of tuning the fiddle to the necessary pitch for the playing of that
curious dance was a secret known only to a privileged few. Some might
call them the "good" old days. "Bad" is the adjective which best
describes that period.
When Horrocks and his men set out for the Breed camp they had discarded
their police clothes and were clad in the uncouth garb of the
half-breeds. They had even gone to the length of staining their faces to
the coppery hue of the Indians. They were a ragged party, these hardy
riders of the plains, as they embarked on their meditated capture of the
desperate raider. All of the five were "tough" men, who regarded their
own lives lightly enough--men who had seen many stirring times, and
whose hairbreadth escapes from "tight" corners would have formed a
lengthy narrative in themselves. They were going to they knew not what
now, but they did not shrink from the undertaking. Their leader was a
man whose daring often outweighed his caution, but, as they well knew,
he was endowed with a reckless man's luck, and they would sooner follow
such as he--for they were sure of a busy time--than work with one of his
more prudent colleagues.
At the half-breed camp was considerable bustle and excitement. The
activity of the Breed is not proverbial; they are at best a lazy lot,
but now men and women came and went bristling with energy to their
finger tips. Preparations were nearing completion. The chief item of
importance was the whisky supply, and this the treasurer, Baptiste, had
made his personal care. A barrel of the vilest "rot-gut" that was ever
smuggled into prohibition territory had been procured and carefully
secreted. This formed the chief refreshment, and, doubtless, the
"bluestone" with which its fiery contents were strengthened, would work
the passionate natures, on which it was to play, up to the proper
crime-committing pitch.
The orgie was to be held in a barn of considerable dimensions. It was a
ramshackle affair, reeking of old age and horses. The roof was decidedly
porous in places, being so lame and disjointed that the starry
resplendence of the summer sky was plainly visible from beneath it.
This, however, was a trifling matter, and of much less consequence than
the question of space. What few horse stalls had once occupied the
building had been removed, and the mangers alone remained, with the odor
of horse, to remind the guests of the original purpose of their
ballroom. A careful manipulation of dingy Turkey red, and material which
had once been white, struggled vainly to hide these mangers from view,
while coarse, rough boards which had at one time floored some of the
stalls, served to cover in the tops and convert them into seats. The
result was a triumph of characteristic ingenuity. The barn was converted
into a place of the necessary requirements, but rendered hideous in the
process.
Next came the disguising of the rafters and "collar-ties" of the
building. This was a process which lent itself to the curiously warped
artistic sense of the benighted people. Print--I mean cotton rags--was
the chief idea of decoration. They understood these stuffs. They were
cheap--or, at least, as cheap as anything sold at Lablache's store.
Besides, print decorated the persons of the buxom Breed women, therefore
what more appropriate than such stuff to cover the nakedness of the
building. Festoons of print, flags of print, rosettes of print: these
did duty for the occasion. The staring patterns gleamed on every beam,
or hung in bald draping almost down to the height of an ordinary man's
head. The effect was strangely reminiscent of a second-hand clothes
shop, and helped to foster the nauseating scent of the place.
A row of reeking oil lamps, swinging in crazy wire swings, were
suspended down the center from the moldering beams, and in the diamond
window spaces were set a number of black bottles, the neck of each being
stuffed with a tallow candle.
One corner of the room was set apart for the fiddler, and here a daïs of
rough boarding, also draped in print stuff, was erected to meet the
requirements of that honored personage. Such was the uncouth place where
the Breeds proposed to hold their orgie. And of its class it was an
excellent example.
At ten o'clock the barn was lit up, and strangely bizarre was the
result. The draught through the broken windows set the candles
a-guttering, until rivers of yellow fat decorated the black bottles in
which they were set. The stench from these, and from the badly-trimmed
coal oil lamps down the center, blended disgustingly with the native
odor of the place, until the atmosphere became heavy, pungent, revolting
in the nostrils, and breathing became a labor after the sweet fresh air
of the prairie outside.
Soon after this the dancers began to arrive. They came in their strange
deckings of glaring colors, and many and varied were the types which
soon filled the room. There were old men and there were young men. There
were girls in their early teens, and toothless hags, decrepit and
faltering. Faces which, in wild loveliness, might have vied with the
white beauty of the daughters of the East. Faces seared and crumpled
with weight of years and nights of debauchery. Men were there of superb
physique, whilst others crouched huddled, with shuffling gait towards
the manger seats, to seek rest for their rotting bones, and ease for
their cramping muscles.
Many of the faces were marred by disease; small-pox was a prevalent
scourge amongst these people. The effect of the pure air of the prairie
was lost upon the germ-laden atmosphere which surrounded these dreadful
camps. Crime, too, was stamped on many of the faces of those gathering
in the reeking ballroom. The small bullet head with low, receding
forehead; the square set jaws and sagging lips; the shifty, twinkling
little eyes, narrow-set and of jetty hue; such faces were plentiful. Nor
were these features confined to the male sex alone. Truly it was a
motley gathering, and not pleasant to look upon.
All, as they came, were merry with anticipation; even the hags and the
rheumatism-ridden male fossils croaked out their quips and coarse
pleasantries to each other with gleeful unctuousness, inspired by
thoughts of the generous contents of the secreted barrel. Their watery
eyes watered the more, as, on entering the room, they glanced round
seeking to discover the fiery store of liquor, which they hoped to help
to dispose of. It was a loathsome sight to behold these miserable
wretches gathering together with no thought in their beast-like brains
but of the ample food and drink which they intended should fall to their
share. Crabbed old age seeking rejuvenation in gut-burning spirit.
The room quickly filled, and the chattering of many and strange tongues
lent an apish tone to the function. The French half-breed predominated,
and these spoke their bastard lingo with that rapidity and bristling
elevation of tone which characterizes their Gallic relatives. It seemed
as though each were trying to talk his neighbor down, and the process
entailed excited shriekings which made the old barn ring again.
Baptiste, with a perfect understanding of the people, served out the
spirit in pannikins with a lavish hand. It was as well to inspire these
folk with the potent liquor from the start, that their energies might be
fully aroused for the dance.
When all, men and women alike, had partaken of an "eye-opener," Baptiste
gave the signal, and the fiddler struck up his plaintive wail. The reedy
strings of his instrument shrieked out the long-drawn measure of a
miserable waltz, the company paired off, and the dance began.
Whatever else may be the failings of the Breeds they can dance. Dancing
is as much a part of their nature as is the turning of a dog twice
before he lies down, a feature of the canine race. Those who were
physically incapable of dancing lined the walls and adorned the manger
seats. For the rest, they occupied the sanded floor, and danced until
the dust clouded the air and added to the choking foulness of the
atmosphere.
The shrieking fiddle lured this savage people, and its dreadful tone was
music of the sweetest to their listening ears. This was a people who
would dance. They would dance so long as they could stand.
More drink followed the first dance. Baptiste had not yet recognized the
pitch of enthusiasm which must promise a successful evening. The
quantities of liquor thus devoured were appalling. The zest increased.
The faces wearing an habitual frown displayed a budding smile. The
natural smiler grinned broadly. All warmed to the evening's amusement.
Now came the festive barn dance. The moccasined feet pounded the filthy
floor, and the dust gathered thick round the gums of the hard-breathing
dancers. The noise of coarse laughter and ribald shoutings increased.
All were pleased with themselves, but more pleased still with the fiery
liquid served out by Baptiste. The scene grew more wild as time crept
on, and the effect of the liquor made itself apparent. The fiddler
labored cruelly at his wretched instrument. His task was no light one,
but he spared himself no pains. His measure must be even, his tone
almost unending to satisfy his countrymen. He understood them, as did
Baptiste. To fail in his work would mean angry protests from those he
served, and angry protests amongst the Breeds generally took the form of
a shower of leaden bullets. So he scraped away with aching limbs, and
with heavy foot pounding out the time upon the crazy daïs. He must play
until long after daylight, until his fingers cramped, and his old eyes
would remain open no longer.
Peter Retief had not as yet put in an appearance. Horrocks was at his
post viewing the scene from outside one of the broken windows. His men
were hard by, concealed at certain points in the shelter of some
straggling bush which surrounded the stable. Horrocks, with
characteristic energy and disregard for danger, had set himself the task
of spying out the land. He had a waiting game to play, but the result he
hoped would justify his action.
The scene he beheld was not new to him, his duties so often carried him
within the precincts of a half-breed camp. No one knew the Breeds better
than did this police officer.
Time passed. Again and again the fiddle ceased its ear-maddening screams
as refreshment was partaken of by the dancers. Wilder and wilder grew
the scene as the potent liquor took hold of its victims. They danced
with more and more reckless abandon as each time they returned to step
it to the fiddler's patient measure. Midnight approached and still no
sign of Retief. Horrocks grew restless and impatient.
Once the fiddle ceased, and the officer watching saw all eyes turn to
the principal entrance to the barn. His heart leapt in anticipation as
he gazed in the direction. Surely this sudden cessation could only
herald the coming of Retief.
He saw the door open as he craned forward to look. For the moment he
could not see who entered; a crowd obscured his view. He heard a cheer
and a clapping of hands, and he rejoiced. Then the crowd parted and he
saw the slim figure of a girl pass down the center of the reeking den.
She was clad in buckskin shirt and dungaree skirt. At the sight he
muttered a curse. The newcomer was Jacky Allandale.
He watched her closely as she moved amongst her uncouth surroundings.
Her beautiful face and graceful figure was like to an oasis of stately
flora in a desert of trailing, vicious brambles, and he marveled at the
familiarity with which she came among these people. Moreover, he became
beset with misgivings as he remembered the old stories which linked this
girl's name with that of Retief. He struggled to fathom the meaning of
what he saw, but the real significance of her coming escaped him.
The Breeds once more returned to their dancing, and all went on as
before. Horrocks followed Jacky's movements with his eyes. He saw her
standing beside a toothless old woman, who wagged her cunning, aged head
as she talked in answer to the girl's questions. Jacky seemed to be
looking and inquiring for some one, and the officer wondered if the
object of her solicitude was Retief. He would have been surprised had he
known that she was inquiring and looking for himself. Presently she
seated herself and appeared to be absorbed in the dance.
The drink was flowing freely now, and a constant demand was being made
upon Baptiste. Whilst the fiery spirit scorched down the hardened
throats, strange, weird groans came from the fiddler's woeful
instrument. The old man was tuning it down for the plaintive
requirements of the Red River Jig.
The dance of the evening was about to begin. Men and women primed
themselves for the effort. Each was eager to outdo his or her neighbor
in variety of steps and power of endurance. All were prepared to do or
die. The mad jig was a national contest, and the one who lasted the
longest would be held the champion dancer of the district--a coveted
distinction amongst this strange people.
At last the music began again, and now the familiar "Ragtime" beat
fascinatingly upon the air. Those who lined the walls took up the
measure, and, with foot and clapping hands, marked the time for the
dancers. Those who competed leapt to the fray, and soon the reeking room
became stifling with dust.
The fiddler's time, slow at the commencement, soon grew faster, and the
dancers shook their limbs in delighted anticipation. Faster and faster
they shuffled and jigged, now opposite to partners, now round each
other, now passing from one partner to another, now alone, for the
admiration of the onlookers. Nor was there pause or hesitation. An
instant's pause meant dropping out of that mad and old time "hoe-down,"
and each coveted the distinction of champion. Faster and more wildly
they footed it, and soon the speed caused some of the less agile to drop
out. It was a giddy sight to watch, and the strange clapping of the
spectators was not the least curious feature of the scene.
The crowd of dancers grew thinner as the fiddler, with a marvelous
display of latent energy, kept ever-increasing his speed.
In spite of himself Horrocks became fascinated. There was something so
barbarous--heathenish--in what he beheld. The minutes flew by, and the
dance was rapidly nearing its height. More couples fell out, dead beat
and gasping, but still there remained a number who would fight it out to
the bitter end. The streaming faces and gaping lips of those yet
remaining told of the dreadful strain. Another couple dropped out, the
woman actually falling with exhaustion. She was dragged aside and left
unnoticed in the wild excitement. Now were only three pairs left in the
center of the floor.
The police-officer found himself speculating as to which would be the
winner of the contest.
"That brown-faced wench, with the flaming red dress, 'll do 'em all," he
said to himself. The woman he was watching had a young Breed of great
agility for her _vis-à-vis_. "She or her partner 'll do it," he went on,
almost audibly. "Good," he was becoming enthusiastic, "there's another
couple done," as two more suddenly departed, and flung themselves on the
ground exhausted. "Yes, they'll do it--crums, but there goes her
partner! Keep it up, girl--keep it up. The others won't be long. Stay
with--"
He broke off in alarm as he felt his arm suddenly clutched from behind.
Simultaneously he felt heavy breathing blowing upon his cheek. Quick as
a flash his revolver was whipped out and he swung round.
"Easy, sergeant," said the voice of one of his troopers. "For Gawd's
sake don't shoot. Say, Retief's down at the settlement. A messenger's
jest come up to say he's 'hustled' all our horses from Lablache's
stable, and the old man himself's in trouble. Come over to that bluff
yonder, the messenger's there. He's one of Lablache's clerks."
The police-officer was dumbfounded, and permitted himself to be
conducted to the bluff without a word. He was wondering if he were
dreaming, so sudden and unexpected was the announcement of the disaster.
When he halted at the bluff, the clerk was still discussing the affair
with one of the troopers. As yet the other two were in their places of
concealment, and were in ignorance of what had happened.
"It's dead right," the clerk said, in answer to Horrocks's sharply-put
inquiry. "I'd been in bed sometime when I was awakened by a terrible
racket going on in the office. It's just under the room I sleep in.
Well, I hopped out of bed and slipped on some clothes, and went
downstairs, thinking the governor had been taken with a fit or
something. When I got down the office was in darkness, and quiet as
death. I went cautiously to work, for I was a bit scared. Striking a
light I made my way in, expecting to find the governor laid out, but,
instead, I found the furniture all chucked about and the room empty. It
wasn't two shakes before I lit upon this sheet of paper. It was lying on
the desk. The governor's writing is unmistakable. You can see for
yourself; here it is--"
Horrocks took the sheet, and, by the light of a match read the scrawl
upon it. The writing had evidently been done in haste, but its meaning
was clear.
"Retief is here," it ran. "I am a prisoner. Follow up with all speed.
LABLACHE."
After reading, Horrocks turned to the clerk, who immediately went on
with his story.
"Well, I just bolted out to the stables intending to take a horse and go
over to 'Poker' John's. But when I got there I found the doors open, an'
every blessed horse gone. Yes, your horses as well--and the governor's
buckboard too. I jest had a look round, saw that the team harness had
gone with the rest, then I ran as hard as I could pelt to the Foss River
Ranch. I found old John up, but he'd been drinking, so, after a bit of
talk, I learned from him where you were and came right along. That's
all, sergeant, and bad enough it is too. I'm afraid they'll string the
governor up. He ain't too popular, you know."
The clerk finished up his breathless narrative in a way that left no
doubt in the mind of his hearers as to his sincerity. He was trembling
with nervous excitement still. And even in the starlight the look upon
his face spoke of real concern for his master.
For some seconds the officer did not reply. He was thinking rapidly. To
say that he was chagrined would hardly convey his feelings. He had been
done--outwitted--and he knew it. Done--like the veriest tenderfoot. He,
an officer of wide experience and of considerable reputation. And worst
of all he remembered Lablache's warning. He, the money-lender, had been
more far-seeing--had understood something of the trap which he,
Horrocks, had plunged headlong into. The thought was as worm-wood to the
prairie man, and helped to cloud his judgment as he now sought for the
best course to adopt. He saw now with bitter, mental self-reviling, how
the story that Gautier had told him--and for which he had paid--and
which had been corroborated by the conversation he had heard in the
camp, had been carefully prepared by the wily Retief; and how he, like a
hungry, simple fish, had deliberately risen and devoured the bait. He
was maddened by the thought, too, that the money-lender had been right
and he wrong, and took but slight solace from the fact that the chief
disaster had overtaken that great man.
However, it was plain that something must be done at once to assist
Lablache, and he cast about in his mind for the best means to secure the
money-lender's release. In his dilemma a recollection came to him of the
presence of Jacky Allandale in the barn, and a feeling nearly akin to
revenge came to him. He felt that in some way this girl was connected
with, and knew of, the doings of Retief.
With a hurried order to remain where they were to his men he returned to
his station at the window of the barn. He looked in, searching for the
familiar figure of the girl. Dancing had ceased, and the howling Breeds
were drinking heavily. Jacky was no longer to be seen, and, with bitter
disappointment, he turned again to rejoin his companions. There was
nothing left to do but to hasten to the settlement and procure fresh
horses.
He had hardly turned from the window when several shots rang out on the
night air. They came from the direction in which he was moving.
Instantly he comprehended that an attack was being made upon his
troopers. He drew his pistol and dashed forward at a run. Three paces
sufficed to terminate his race. Silence had followed the firing of the
shots he had heard. Suddenly his quick ears detected the hiss of a
lariat whistling through the air. He spread out his arms to ward it off.
He felt something fall upon them. He tried to throw it off, and, the
next instant the rope jerked tight round his throat, and he was hurled,
choking, backwards upon the ground.