MUSIC FOR OLD NICK
A thought is like a spur. It lifts the head of a man as the spur makes
the horse toss his; and it quickens the pace with a subtle addition of
strength. Such a thought came to Buck Daniels as he stepped again on the
veranda of the hotel. It could not have been an altogether pleasant
inspiration, for it drained the colour from his face and made him clench
his broad hands; and next he loosened his revolver in its holster. A
thought of fighting--of some desperate chance he had once taken,
perhaps.
But also it was a thought which needed considerable thought. He slumped
into a wicker chair at one end of the porch and sat with his chin
resting on his chest while he smoked cigarette after cigarette and
tossed the butts idly over the rail. More than once he pressed his hand
against his lips as though there were sudden pains there. The colour did
not come back to his face; it continued as bloodless as ever, but there
was a ponderable light in his eyes, and his jaws became more and more
firmly set. It was not a pleasant face to watch at that moment, for he
seemed to sit with a growing resolve.
Long moments passed before he moved a muscle, but then he heard, far
away, thin, and clear, whistling from behind the hotel. It was no
recognisable tune. It was rather a strange improvisation, with singable
fragments here and there, and then wild, free runs and trills. It was as
if some bird of exquisite singing powers should be taken in a rapture of
song, so that it whistled snatches here and there of its usual melody,
but all between were great, whole-throated rhapsodies. As the sound of
this whistling came to him, Buck raised his head suddenly. And finally,
still listening, he rose to his feet and turned into the dining-room.
There he found the waitress he had met before, and he asked her for the
name of the doctor who took care of the wounded Jerry Strann.
"There ain't no doc," said the waitress. "It's Fatty Matthews, the
deputy marshal, who takes care of that Strann--bad luck to him! Fatty's
in the barroom now. But what's the matter? You seem like you was hearin'
something?"
"I am," replied Daniels enigmatically. "I'm hearin' something that would
be music for the ears of Old Nick."
And he turned on his heel and strode for the barroom. There he found
Fatty in the very act of disposing of a stiff three-fingers of red-eye.
Daniels stepped to the bar, poured his own drink, and then stood toying
with the glass. For though the effect of red-eye may be pleasant enough,
it has an essence which appalls the stoutest heart and singes the most
leathery throat; it is to full-grown men what castor oil is to a child.
Why men drink it is a mystery whose secret is known only to the
profound soul of the mountain-desert. But while Daniels fingered his
glass he kept an eye upon the other man at the bar.
It was unquestionably the one he sought. The excess flesh of the deputy
marshal would have brought his nickname to the mind of an imbecile.
However, Fatty was humming softly to himself, and it is not the habit of
men who treat very sick patients to sing.
"I'll hit it agin," said Fatty. "I need it."
"Have a bad time of it to-day?" asked O'Brien sympathetically.
"Bad time to-day? Yep, an' every day is the same. I tell you, O'Brien,
it takes a pile of nerve to stand around that room expectin' Jerry to
pass out any minute, and the eyes of that devil Mac Strann followin' you
every step you make. D'you know, if Jerry dies I figure Mac to go at my
throat like a bulldog."
"You're wrong, Fatty," replied O'Brien. "That ain't his way about it. He
takes his time killin' a man. Waits till he can get him in a public
place and make him start the picture. That's Mac Strann! Remember
Fitzpatrick? Mac Strann followed Fitz nigh onto two months, but Fitz
knew what was up and he never would make a move. He knowed that if he
made a wrong pass it would be his last. So he took everything and let it
pass by. But finally it got on his nerves. One time--it was right here
in my barroom, Fatty----"
"The hell you say!"
"Yep, that was before your time around these parts. But Fitz had a
couple of jolts of red-eye under his vest and felt pretty strong. Mac
Strann happened in and first thing you know they was at it. Well, Fitz
was a big man. I ain't small, but I had to look up when I talked to
Fitz. Scotch-Irish, and they got fightin' bred into their bone. Mac
Strann passed him a look and Fitz come back with a word. Soon as he got
started he couldn't stop. Wasn't a pretty thing to watch, either. You
could see in Fitz's face that he knew he was done for before he started,
but he wouldn't, let up. The booze had him going and he was too proud to
back down. Pretty soon he started cussing Mac Strann.
"Well, by that time everybody had cleared out of the saloon, because
they knowed that them sort of words meant bullets comin'. But Mac Strann
jest stood there watchin', and grinnin' in his ugly way--damn his soul
black!--and never sayin' a word back. By God, Fatty, he looked sort of
hungry. When he grinned, his upper lip went up kind of slow and you
could see his big teeth. I expected to see him make a move to sink 'em
in the throat of Fitz. But he didn't. Nope, he didn't make a move, and
all the time Fitz ravin' and gettin' worse and worse. Finally Fitz made
the move. Yep, he pulled his gun and had it damned near clean on Mac
Strann before that devil would stir. But when he _did_, it was jest a
flash of light. Both them guns went off, but Mac's bullet hit Fitz's
hand and knocked the gun out of it--so of course his shot went wild.
But Fitz could see his own blood, and you know what that does to the
Scotch-Irish? Makes _some_ people quit cold to see their own blood. I
remember a kid at school that was a whale at fightin' till his nose got
to bleedin', or something, and then he'd quit cold. But you take a
Scotch-Irishman and it works just the other way. Show him his own colour
and he goes plumb crazy.
"That's what happened to Fitz. When he saw the blood on his hand he made
a dive at Mac Strann. After that it wasn't the sort of thing that makes
a good story. Mac Strann got him around the ribs and I heard the bones
crack. God! And him still squeezin', and Fitz beatin' away at Mac's face
with his bleedin' hand.
"Will you b'lieve that I stood here and was sort of froze? Yes, Fatty, I
couldn't make a move. And I was sort of sick and hollow inside the same
way I went one time when I was a kid and seen a big bull horn a
yearlin'.
"Then I heard the breath of Fitz comin' hoarse, with a rattle in it--and
I heard Mac Strann whining like a dog that's tasted blood and is
starvin' for more. A thing to make your hair go up on end, like they say
in the story-books.
"Then Fitz--he was plumb mad--tried to bite Mac Strann. And then Mac let
go of him and set his hands on the throat of Fitz. It happened like a
flash--I'm here to swear that I could hear the bones crunch. And then
Fitz's mouth sagged open and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and Mac
Strann threw him down on the floor. Just like that! Damn him! And then
he stood over poor dead Fitz and kicked him in those busted ribs and
turned over to the bar and says to me: 'Gimme!'
"Like a damned beast! He wanted to drink right there with his dead man
beside him. And what was worse, I had to give him the bottle. There was
a sort of haze in front of my eyes. I wanted to pump that devil full of
lead, but I knowed it was plain suicide to try it.
"So there he stood and ups with a glass that was brimmin' full, and
downs it at a swallow--gurglin'--like a hog! Fatty, how long will it be
before there's an end to Mac Strann?"
But Fatty Matthews shrugged his thick shoulders and poured himself
another drink.
"There ain't a hope for Jerry Strann?" cut in Buck Daniels.
"Not one in a million," coughed Fatty, disposing of another formidable
potion.
"And when Jerry dies, Mac starts for this Barry?"
"Who's been tellin' you?" queried O'Brien dryly. "Maybe you been readin'
minds, stranger?"
Buck Daniels regarded the bartender with a mild and steadfast interest.
He was smiling with the utmost good-humour, but there was that about him
which made big O'Brien flush and look down to his array of glasses
behind the bar.
"I been wondering," went on Daniels, "if Mac Strann mightn't come out
with Barry about the way Jerry did. Ain't it possible?"
"No," replied Fatty Matthews with calm decision. "It ain't possible.
Well, I'm due back in my bear cage. Y'ought to look in on me, O'Brien,
and see the mountain-lion dyin' and the grizzly lookin' on."
"Will it last long?" queried O'Brien.
"Somewhere's about this evening."
Here Daniels started violently and closed his hand hard around his
whiskey glass which he had not yet raised towards his lips.
"Are you sure of that, marshal?" he asked. "If Jerry's held on this long
ain't there a chance that he'll hold on longer? Can you date him up for
to-night as sure as that?"
"I can," said the deputy marshal. "It ain't hard when you seen as many
go west as I've seen. It ain't harder than it is to tell when the sand
will be out of an hour glass. When they begin going down the last hill
it ain't hard to tell when they'll reach the bottom."
"Ain't you had anybody to spell you, Fatty?" broke in O'Brien.
"Yep. I got Haw-Haw Langley up there. But he ain't much help. Just sits
around with his hands folded. Kind of looks like Haw-Haw _wanted_ Jerry
to pass out."
And Matthews went humming through the swinging door.