AN HONEST MAN AND A ROGUE
How to do it? That was the question that hammered incessantly at Dave's
brain until he actually dreamed of it. Dreaming of it was the only
satisfactory solution, for in his dreams matters arranged themselves
with the least possible effort on his part and with little or no
danger--though, to do him justice, danger was the consideration which
had the least weight. But the dreams presented lamentable gaps which
Dave, in his waking moments, found it impossible to bridge. Winter had
given way to Spring and Buck Peters, aided by the indefatigable Ned, was
rounding the ranch into a shape that already cut a figure in the county
and would do so in the Territory before long.
The Double Y owed nothing to Dave. His animosity was confined strictly
to Buck; but he knew that Karl was resolved to usurp ownership of the
range he had come to look upon as his own. And Dave had become imbued
with the idea that his own interests demanded the realization of Karl's
wishes.
Why the German had become interested in this handsome idler, so many
years younger than himself, Karl could not have explained. True, he was
alone in the world, he was a red fox where the other was a black one,
while Dave's present sinfulness and inclinations were such as the elder
man understood and sympathized with. Yet these were hardly reasons;
Karl himself never would have advanced them as such. Perhaps he had it
in mind to use him as a cat's-paw. Few of our likes or dislikes have
their origin in a single root.
If only they could "eat up" the Double Y! Dave cursed the obsession
which threatened his fortunes; he cursed the energetic Buck who was
rearing obstacles in his way with every week that passed; and he cursed
his own barren imagination which balked at the riddle.
No heat of the inward furnace showed in the cool gravity of his face.
Sitting at a table in the crowded bar-room of the Sweet-Echo, he seemed
intent on mastering the difficulties of a particularly intricate game of
solitaire. From time to time some of those at the same table would
become interested, only to turn away again, baffled by their lack of
knowledge.
The usual class of patrons was present, augmented in number, since the
spring round-up was at hand and strangers were dropping in every day.
Later in the evening, most of those present would gravitate to the lower
end of the town where forms of amusement which Sandy McQueen did not
countenance, were common. To none of these did Dave give any attention,
though he looked with interest at Tex Ewalt when he entered; the
increased hum of voices and several loud greetings had taken his mind
momentarily from his thoughts. Tex's reputation had lost nothing in
force since the excitement of his advent.
Suddenly and for the first time Dave hesitated in his play. He looked
fixedly at the Jack of Spades and removed it from the pile where it lay.
He paused with it in his hand. The Jack of Spades was in doubt--so was
Dave.
A querulous voice was damning Buck Peters. "_Donner und Blitzen_! Vas
it my fault _der verruchter_ bull break loose _und ist hinaus gegangen_?
'_Yah!_' says Buck, '_Yah!_' loud, like dat. Mad?--_mein gracious_! Vot
for is a bull, anyhow? 'Gimme my time,' I say; 'I go.' 'Gif you a goot
kick,' says Buck; 'here, dake dis und get drunk und come back _morgen_.'
I get drunk und go back und break his d--n neck--only for leetle Fritz."
"Leetle Fritz" sat swinging his legs, on the bar. He looked at his
father with plain disapproval. "Ah, cheese it, Pap!" was his advice.
"What's th' good o' gittin' drunk? Why can't you hol' y' likker like a
man?"
A roar of laughter greeted this appeal, at which even Gerken smiled
gleefully. He was glad that Fritz was smart, "_une seine Mutter_."
Dave pushed the Jack of Spades back into the pack. He arose and
sauntered over to the bar. "That's th' way to talk, Pickles," he
endorsed, tickling the boy playfully in the ribs. "Yo 're a-going to
hold yore likker like a man, ain't you?"
"No sirree! Ther' ain't goin' to be any likker in mine. I promised
mother."
"Bully for you!" Dave's admiration was genuine and the boy blushed at
the compliment. Like many other rascals, Dave was easily admitted into
the hearts of children and simple folk and women and dogs. Bruce, the
collie, was nuzzling his hand at that moment and the broad, foolish face
of Gottleib was beaming on him. "Hi, Slick! Pickles 'll have a
lemonade. I 'll have a lemonade, too; better put a stick in mine, I 'm
a-gettin' so 's I need one. An' Pap 'll have a lemonade, too--oh! with
a stick, Pap, with a stick--I would n't go for to insult your stomach."
They drank their lemonades, Gottleib's face expressive of splinters, and
a minute later Pickles sat alone while his father endeavored to win some
of Dave's money and Dave endeavored to let him. Tex tilted his chair
and with a fine disregard for alien fastidiousness, stuck his feet on
the edge of the table and smiled. He almost crashed over backward at
sight of a figure that entered the room from the hall. "God bless our
Queen!" murmured Tex, "he 's a long way from 'ome. Must be a remittance
man come over the line to call on Sandy."
H. Whitby Booth swept an appraising glance over the company and, without
a pause, chose a seat next to Tex. "Surprisin' fine weather, isn't it?"
he observed, taking a cigar-case from his pocket.
"_My word!_" agreed Tex, succinctly.
Whitby looked at him with suspicion. "Try a weed?" he invited.
"I don't mind if I do, old chap," and Tex selected one with a gravity he
was far from feeling.
Whitby looked hard at him while Tex lit the cigar. It was a good one.
Tex noted it with satisfaction.
"I say, are you chaffing me?" asked Whitby, smilingly.
It was a very good cigar. Tex had not enjoyed one as good in a
regrettably long time. He blew the smoke lingeringly through his
nostrils and laughed. "I 'm afraid I was," he admitted, "but you must
n't mind that. It's what you 're here for, the boys 'll think--that is,
if you don't stop long enough to get used to it."
"Oh, I don't mind in the least. And I expect to stop if the climate
agrees with me."
"What's the matter--lunger? You don't look it."
"Not likely. But they tell me it's rather cold out here in winter."
"Some cold. You get used to it. You feel it more in the East, where
the air 's damp."
"I 'm delighted to hear it. And the West is becoming quite civilized, I
believe, compared with what it was."
"Oh, my, yes!" Tex choked on a mouthful of cigar smoke in his haste to
assure Whitby of the engaging placidity of the population. "Why, no one
has been killed about here since--well, not since I came to Twin River."
Tex did not consider it necessary to state how short a time that had
been. "Civilized! Well, I should opinionate. Tame as sheep.
Nowadays, a man has to show a pretty plain case of self-defence if he
expects to avoid subsequent annoyance."
"Ah, so I was informed. They seem quiet enough here."
"Yes, Sandy won't stand any disturbance. He's away to-night but Slick's
got his orders. Know Sandy?"
"No. Is he the proprietor?"
"That's him: Sandy McQueen, proprietor, boss, head-bouncer, the only--"
"I say, what's the row?"
Tex's feet hit the floor with a bang. Gottleib Gerken was shaking his
fist in Dave's face, Dave sitting very still, intently watchful. "_Du
verdammter Schuft!_" shouted Gerken, "_Mein Meister verrathen, was!_"
He sent the table flying, with a violent thrust of his foot: "I show
you!"
Watchful as he was, Dave did not anticipate what was coming. As the
table toppled over he sprang to his feet, the forward thrust of his head
in this action moving in contrary direction to the hurtling fist of
Gottleib, which stopped very suddenly against his nose. Dave staggered
backward, stumbled over his chair and went crashing to the floor, where
he lay for an instant dazed.
"By Jove! that was a facer," cried the appreciative Whitby. The others
were ominously quiet.
The next moment Dave was on his feet, white with murderous rage. There
was more than fallen dignity to revenge: Gottleib knew too much.
Without the least hesitation his gun slanted and the roar of the
discharge was echoed by Gottleib's plunging fall. A frenzied scream,
feminine in shrillness, rang through the room. Dave's gun dropped from
his hand and he sank to the floor; a whiskey bottle, flying the length
of the room, had struck him on the head, and Boomerang, struggling with
maniacal fury in the arms of several men, strove to follow his missile.
At the other end of the bar the numbed Pickles suddenly came to life and
leaped to the floor. Caught and stopped in his frantic rush across the
room he kicked and struck at his captor. "Lemme go!" he shrieked,
"lemme go! I 'll kill the ---- ----" The men holding Boomerang ran him
to the open hall door and gave him forcible exit and the stern command
to "Git! an' keep a-goin'."
A sullen murmur swelling to low growls of anger formed an undertone to
the boy's hysterical cries, as the men looked on at Tex's efforts to
revive the stunned culprit. "Lynch him!" growled a voice. "Lynch him!"
echoed over the room. "Lynch him!" shouted a dozen men, and Tex ceased
his efforts and came on guard barely in time to stop a concerted rush.
Straddling the recumbent figure, his blazing eyes shocked the crowd to a
stand-still. With a motion quicker than a striking rattler a gun in
either hand threatened the waverers. "Dutchy 's got a gun," he rebuked
them; "he was a-reachin' for it when he dropped."
"That's correct," agreed a backward member. "Sure. I seen him a-goin'
for it," affirmed another. They gathered about Gottleib to look for the
proof.
Suddenly the door was flung open and Rose LaFrance stood in the opening.
"What are you doing?" she questioned. "What is the matter with Fritz?
Come here, Fritz."
The boy, released and subsiding into gasping sobs, staggered weakly
toward her. She drew him close and folded him in her arms. The men,
silent and abashed, in moving to allow the boy to pass, had disclosed to
her the figure of the prone Gottleib and she understood. "Oh-h!" she
breathed and looked slowly from one to another, her gaze resting last on
Tex, the fallen table hiding from her the man he was protecting. Utter
loathing was in her look and the innocent Tex was stung to defiance by
it, throwing back his head and returning stare for stare.
"You wolf!" she accused, in low, passionately vibrant tones. "Kill,
kill, kill! You and your kind. Is it then so great a pleasure to you?
Shame to you for mad beasts! And greater shame to the cur dogs who let
you do it." Her glance swept the averted faces with blasting scorn.
"Come, Fritz." She led the boy out and the door was closed carefully
after her by a sheepish-looking individual whose position behind it and
out of sight of those scornful eyes had been envied by every man in the
room.
"Well--I 'm--d--d!" said Tex, recovering his voice.
"'They that touch pitch will be defiled,'" observed Whitby,
sententiously. Tex looked his resentment. He felt a touch on his leg
and glanced down. Dave had recovered consciousness. "Get off me,
Comin'," he requested. "Who hit me?"
"Boomerang flung a bottle at you," informed Tex. "How you feeling?"
"All serene. Head 's dizzy," he added, swaying on his feet. He walked
to the nearest chair and sat down. "Must 'a' poured a pint o' whiskey
into me."
"Boom passed you a quart bottle," replied Tex.
Dave glanced at the inert form of Gerken as it was carried out into the
hall. "Sorry I had to do it," he said, "but I had to get him first or
go under. He oughtn't to said I cheated him."
"I say, that's a bally lie, you know." Whitby's drawling voice
electrified the company. Those behind him hastily changed their
positions. Dave, with a curse, reached again for his gun--it lay on the
floor against the wall, where it had fallen.
"Drop it, Dave," came Slick's grating command. "Think I got nothin' to
do but clean up after you? Which yo 're too hot to stay indoors. Go
outside and cool off."
"You tell me to git out?" exclaimed Dave, incredulously.
"That's what," was Slick's dogged reply. "The Britisher wants to speak
his piece an' all interruptions is barred entirely. An' don't let Sandy
see you for a month."
Dave walked over and picked up his gun. "To h--l with Sandy," he
cursed. The door slammed open and he was gone.
Slick slid his weapon back onto the shelf and proceeded to admonish
Whitby. "See here, Brit, don't you never call a man a liar 'less yo 're
sure you can shoot first."
"But dash it all! the man is a liar, you know. The German chap said
'you d--n scoundrel! Traitor to my master, eh!' There 's nothing in
that about cheating, is there?"
"Well, mebbe not," agreed Slick, "but comparisons is odorous, you don't
want to forget that. Which we 'll drink to the memory of th' dead
departed. What 'll it be, boys?"