"COMIN' THIRTY" HAS NOTIONS
Up from the south, keeping Spring with him all the way, rode Tex. The
stain of the smoke-grimed cities was washed out of him in the pure air;
day by day his muscles toughened and limbered, his lightning nerves
regained their old spontaneity of action, each special sense vied with
the others in the perfection of service rendered, and gradually but
surely his pulse slowed until, in another man, its infrequency of beat
would have been abnormal. When he rode into Twin River, toward the end
of a glorious day, he had become as tireless as the wiry pony beneath
him, whose daily toll of miles since leaving the far-off Bar-20 was well
nigh unbelievable.
Tex crossed the ford of the Black Jack behind the Sweet-Echo Hotel.
Dirt had bespattered him from every angle; it was caked to mud on his
boots, lay in broad patches along his thighs, displayed itself lavishly
upon his blue flannel shirt, and had taken frequent and successful aim
at his face; but two slits of sun-lit sky seemed peering out from
beneath his lowered lids, the pine-tree sap bore less vitality than
surged in his pulsing arteries, his lounging seat was the deceptive
sloth of the panther, ready on the instant to spring; and over all, cool
as the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies, ruled the calculating
intelligence, unscrupulous in the determination to win, now that it was
on the side of the right, as when formerly it fought against it.
One glance at the imposing Sweet-Echo and Tex turned his pony's head
toward the trail. "No, no, Son John, you 'll not sleep there with your
stockings on--though I shan't ask you to go much farther," Tex assured
him. "I 've seen prettier, and ridden cleverer, but none more willing
than you, Son John. Ah, this begins to look more like our style.
'I-Call'--sweet gamester, I prithee call some other day; I would feed,
not play. 'Ike's'--thy name savors overly much of the Alkali, brother.
Ha! 'By the prickling of my thumbs, something wicked that way bums.'"
He had turned to cross the Jill and saw Pop Snow basking in the failing
sunlight. "'Why-Not'--well, why not? I will."
"Come a long way, stranger?" asked Dirty, his gaze wandering over the
tell-tale mud. He had come the wrong way for profit, but Dirty always
asked, on principle: he hated to get out of practice.
Tex swung his right leg over his pony's neck and sat sideways, looking
indolently at the pickled specimen who sat as indolently regarding him.
"Plucked from a branch of the Mussel Shell," murmured Tex, "when Time
was young"; and then drawled: "Tolerable, tolerable; been a-comin'
thirty year, just about."
Dirty looked at him with frank disgust, spat carefully, and turning on
his seat no more than was absolutely necessary, stuck his head in at the
open door and yelled: "Hey, boys! Come on out an' meet Mr. Comin'
Thirty. Comin' is some bashful 'bout drinkin' with strangers, so get
acquaint."
Scenting a tenderfoot half a dozen of the inmates strolled outside.
When they saw the sun-tanned Tex they expressed their opinion of Dirty
in concise and vitriolic language, not forgetting his parents; after
which they invited Tex to "sluice his gills." One of them, a
delicate-featured, smooth-faced boy, added facetiously: "Don't be
afraid; we won't eat you."
Tex released his left foot from the stirrup and slid to earth. "I was
n't afraid o' bein' et, exactly," was his slow response; "I was just
a-wonderin' if it would bite. I notice it 's slipped its collar."
"Go to h--l! Th' lot o' you!" screeched Pop, bouncing to his feet with
surprising alacrity. "Wait till I buy th' nex' one o' you a
drink--wait! That's all."
"Lord, Dirty, we _has_ been a-waitin'. Since Fall round-up, ain't it?"
appealing to the others who gave instant, vigorous, and profane
endorsement.
"Pah!" exploded Pop. He faced about and executed a singular and
superlatively indecent gesture with a nimbleness unexpected and
disgracefully grotesque in so old a man; and then without a backward
glance, he stamped off across the bridge to the I-Call. The others
watched him in fascinated silence until he plumped down on his
inevitable box, when the smooth-faced first speaker turned to his
nearest neighbor and asked in hushed tones: "What do you think of him,
Mike?"
"Fanny, me boy, if I thought I 'd ever conthract Dirty's partic'lar
brand o' sinfulness, I 'd punch a hole in th' river--with me head," and
he solemnly led the way in to the bar.
"Gentlemen, it's on me," declared Tex, "--for good and special reasons,"
he explained, when they began to expostulate. "Give me a large and
generous glass," he requested of the barkeeper, "and fill it with 'Water
for me, water for me, and whiskey for them which find it agree.' You
see, gentlemen, liquor an' I don't team no better 'n a lamb an' a
coyote. I must either love it or leave it alone an' I 'm dead set agin'
spiritual marriage. Here 's how."
"If I 'd begun like that I 'd be a rich man this day," observed Mike,
when his head resumed the perpendicular.
"If I 'd begun like that I would n't be here at all," responded Tex.
"Well, ye 'll have a cigar with me, anyhow. Putt a name to it, boys,
an', Fred, whisper: Pass up that wee little box ye keep, in th' locker.
Me friend, Comin', will take a good one, while he 's at it."
A blue-shirted miner next him interposed: "'T is my trate. He 'll hev a
cigar with me, he well. Das' thee thenk I be goin' to drenk with thee
arl the time, and thee never taake a drenk 'long o' me? Set un up,
Fred, my son, and doan't forget the lettle box."
Tex gazed curiously at the speaker. It was his first meeting with a
Cornishman and Bill Tregloan was a character in more than speech.
Wherever gold, or a rumor of gold, drew the feet of miner, there sooner
or later would be Bill Tregloan. He had crossed the continent to
California on foot and alone at a time when such an attempt was more
than dangerous. That he escaped the natural perils of the trip was
sufficiently wonderful; as for the Indians, there is no doubt they
thought him mad.
Bill had his way in paying for the order and turned to lounge against
the bar when his eye caught sight of that which drew from him a torrent
of sputtering oaths and a harsh command. The only one who had failed to
join the others at the bar was Charley, the Cheyenne Indian. He lay
sprawled on the floor against the opposite wall, very drunk and asleep,
and about to be subjected to one of the pleasing jokes of the railroad
towns, in this instance very crudely prepared. The oil with which he
was soaked, had been furnished far too plentifully, and he stood an
excellent chance of being well roasted when the match, then burning,
should be applied.
The man holding the match looked up at the Cornishman's shout. He did
not understand the words but the meaning of the action that followed was
plain; and when the miner, growling like a bear, started to rush at him,
his hand dropped to his gun with the speed of a hawk. Fanny promptly
stuck out his foot. Tregloan went down with Fanny on top of him but it
takes more than one slight boy, whatever his strength, to hold down a
wrestling Cornishman. The flurry that followed, even with the added
weight of numbers, would have been funny but for the scowling face of
the olive-skinned man who stood with ready gun until assured the
struggle had gone against his opponent. Then he slipped gun in holster
and felt for another match. "Take him away," he said, with a sneering
smile, "he make me sick."
"What did they do that for?" asked Tex of Mike. Neither had moved during
the excitement. The rest were pushing and pulling Tregloan out of the
saloon.
"That's Guinea Mike," was the explanation. "He 'd murder his mother if
she crossed him. First fair chanst I mane to break his d--d back--an'
if ye tell him so he 'll kill me on sight."
"Interestin' specimen," observed Tex. Guinea Mike found another match
and calmly lit it. Those not engaged in soothing Bill were looking in
at the door and windows. Dutch Fred, behind the bar, was swearing good
American oaths regarding the unjustified waste of his kerosene. Tex
stepped away from the bar. "Blow that out," he said, dispassionately.
Guinea Mike looked up with a snarl. The two stares met and grappled.
Guinea slowly raised the match to his lips and puffed it out, flipping
it from him with a snap of one finger so that it fell almost at the feet
of Tex. They watched each other steadily. A solitary snore from the
Indian sounded like the rumble of overhead thunder. Slowly the hand of
Guinea descended from before his lips and in unison with it descended
the head of Fred until his eyes just cleared the top of the bar.
Guinea's hand rested in the sagging waist of his trousers, a second,
two--
The roar of the explosion was deafening. Guinea Mike's right shoulder
went into retirement and his gun dropped from his nerveless fingers.
Screaming with rage he stooped to grasp it with his left hand and
pitched forward at full length, both knee-caps shattered, at the mercy
of this stranger who shot as if at a mark.
The noise awakened Cheyenne Charley who opened his eyes and smiled
foolishly at the distorted face which had so unexpectedly reached his
level. "D--n drunk," he observed, and immediately went to sleep again.
Tex walked over and kicked the gun across the floor. Irish Mike picked
it up and handed it to Fred. "I could a' killed you just as easy as I
didn't, Guinea," said Tex. "I don't like you an' yore ways. It's just
a notion. So don't you stop. An' don't send any o' yore friends. 'No
Guineas need apply.' That goes, if I has to Garibaldi yore whole d--n
country."
The spectators had filed back to the room and were engaged in audible
comments on the justification and accuracy of the shooting, while they
busied themselves in the rough surgery which had to serve. To the
suggestion that he ought to be taken to the doctor at Wayback, Fred
interposed the objection: "No, dake him to Nell's. Mike is a friend mit
her."
Pop Snow, attracted by the excitement, stood peering in a window. Twin
River crowded the room but Pop's resentment was still warm. A man rode
up and stooped from the saddle to look over his shoulder. "Who 's that?
What's up?" he asked.
"'T aint nothin'; _only_ Guinea Mike. See th' feller Fanny 's hangin'
onto? Well, that's him: Comin' Thirty has notions--an' I ain't never
seen better shootin'."
Dave swung down, tied his pony to the rail and went inside to see the
new bad-man of Twin River. It had been growing steadily colder during
the past few hours; the wind, sweeping in from the west, held a sinister
threat, the air a definite chill, and Dave felt he would be none the
worse for a little fire-water. Dirty felt it also, but his senile
annoyance had merely simmered down, not subsided, and he scurried back
to the I-Call for cover until such time as he thought it fitting to go
home.
* * * * *
It was very late when Dave turned a tired pony to pasture and entered
the three-room cabin of Karl Schatz. The rough exterior gave no
indication of the comfort with which the German had surrounded himself.
Fur rugs covered the floor of the living-room; the chairs and table had
travelled many miles before landing here; a fine sideboard showed
several pieces of fair china; mounted horns of various kinds were on the
walls, one group being utilized as a gun rack, and between them hung
several good paintings. A stove had been removed but in its place
smouldered a wood fire, the fireplace jutting out from the wall. When
Dave came in Karl sat smoking; on the table beside him lay an open
volume of poems. "Vell?" he asked, as Dave dropped into a chair and
stretched his legs wearily before him.
"Double Y has got a new bunch o' cattle. Hummers. Bought 'em out of a
drove come up last Fall on Government contract; the Government went back
on th' deal an' they was wintered up here. Got th' pick o' th' lot, I
hear." Dave fell into silence and stared at the fire. Karl puffed
thoughtfully while he looked at the black head whose schemes seemed
coming to nought.
"Cameron 's got back," continued Dave; "he 's brought his money with
him; took up his note at the bank; paid full interest." Another pause,
with no comment from Karl. Dave continued to display his items of
information in sections. "I met One-eye Harris at Eccles'.
"Th' Cyclone ranch has got some with th' itch. It 'll mean a lot o'
work--an' then some.
"LaFrance wants to bleed you for two hundred. Don't you. He 'll get too
rich to have me for a son-in-law."
Karl nodded his head. "Farming iss goot," he murmured, "--mit vasser."
Dave glanced at him.
"Them new steers o' th' Double Y oughta fetch forty in th' Fall. Will,
too."
"Farming iss goot," repeated Karl, "--mit vasser. Also, to lend money.
But Camerons, dey pay und der money lies idle. Ven do ve eat up der
Double Y, Dave?"
Dave glanced at him sullenly. "Why don't you let me kill that d--n
Peters? Are you afraid I 'll get hurt?"
"Alvays I fear. I haf no one bud you, _du Spitzbub_. But kill him?
Ach! Soon anoder manager come. Killing iss not goot, Dave. You must
plan besser, _aber_ I do id. Dat make you feel sheep, _du Schwarzer
Spitzbub, vas?_"
"I 'll get 'em. Guinea Mike 's shot up."
"Vell, he iss anoder von likes killing. Who vas id?"
"Stranger. Reminded me of a feller, somehow--an' then, again, he did
n't. Deals a slick hand at cards."
"Ach, cards! Alvays der cards! Who know dem besser as me? Who pay for
dem so much? Cards und killing, dey are no goot."
"Well, let's roost," suggested Dave, and led the way to the inner room.
Karl fastened doors and windows, put out the light, and followed him.