_The Bearded Lion_
Zephyr was doing some meditation on his own account after the meeting
with Firmstone at the Devil's Elbow.
That not only Firmstone's reputation, but his life as well, hung in the
balance, Zephyr had visible proof. This material proof he was absently
tipping from hand to hand, during his broken and unsatisfactory
interview with Firmstone. It was nothing more nor less than a
nickel-jacketed bullet which, that very morning, had barely missed his
head, only to flatten itself against the rocks behind him.
The morning was always a dull time at the Blue Goose. Morrison slept
late. Elise was either with Madame or rambling among the hills. Only
Pierre, who seemed never to sleep, was to be counted upon with any
certainty.
By sunrise on the day that Firmstone and Miss Hartwell were riding to
the Falls Zephyr was up and on his way to the Blue Goose. He found
Pierre in the bar-room.
"_Bon jour, M'sieur._" Zephyr greeted him affably as he slowly sank into
a chair opposite the one in which Pierre was seated.
Pierre, with hardly a movement of his facial muscles, returned Zephyr's
salutation. From his manner no one would have suspected that, had
someone with sufficient reason inquired as to the whereabouts of Zephyr,
Pierre would have replied confidently that the sought-for person was
bobbing down the San Miguel with a little round hole through his head.
Zephyr's presence in the flesh simply told him that, for some unknown
reason, his plan had miscarried.
Zephyr lazily rolled a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He
raised his eyes languidly to Pierre's.
"M'sieu Pierre mek one slick plan. Ze Rainbow Company work ze mine, ze
mill. _Moi_, Pierre, mek ze gol' in mon cellaire." Zephyr blew forth the
words in a cloud of smoke.
Pierre started and looked around. His hand made a motion toward his hip
pocket. Zephyr dropped his bantering tone.
"Not yet, Frenchy. You'll tip over more soup kettles than you know of."
He dropped the flattened bullet on the table and pointed to it. "That
was a bad break on your part. It might have been worse for you as well
as for me, if your man hadn't been a bad shot."
Pierre reached for the bullet, but Zephyr gathered it in.
"Not yet, M'sieur. It was intended for me, and I'll keep it, as a token
of respect. I know M'sieur Pierre. Wen M'sieur Pierre bin mek up ze min'
for shoot, M'sieur Pierre bin say,'_Comment!_ Zat fellaire he bin too
damn smart _pour moi_.' Thanks! Me and Firmstone are much obliged."
Pierre shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Zephyr noted the gesture.
"Don't stop there, M'sieur. Get up to your head. You're in a mess, a bad
one. Shake your wits. Get up and walk around. Explode some _sacres_.
Pull out a few handfuls of hair and scatter around. No good looking
daggers. The real thing won't work on me, and you'd only get in a worse
mess if it did. That's Firmstone, too. We both are more valuable to you
alive than dead. Of what value is it to a man to do two others, if he
gets soaked in the neck himself?"
Pierre was angered. It was useless to try to conceal it. His swarthy
cheeks grew livid.
"_Sacre!_" he blurted. "What you mean in hell?"
"That's better. Now you're getting down to business. When I find a man
that's up against a thing too hard for him, I don't mind giving him a
lift."
"You lif' and bedam!" Pierre had concluded that pretensions were useless
with Zephyr, and he gave his passion full play. Even if he made breaks
with Zephyr, he would be no worse off.
"I'll' lif'' all right. 'Bedam' is as maybe. Now, Frenchy, if you'll
calm yourself a bit, I'll speak my little piece. You've slated Firmstone
and me for over the divide. _P'quoi, M'sieur?_ For this. Firmstone
understands his business and tends to it. This interferes with your
cellar. So Mr. Firmstone was to be fired by the company. You steered
that safe into the river to help things along. You thought that Jim
would be killed and Firmstone would be chump enough to charge it to a
hold-up, and go off on a wrong scent. Jim got off, and Firmstone was
going to get the safe. I know you are kind-hearted and don't like to do
folks; but Firmstone and me were taking unwarranted liberties with your
plans. Now put your ear close to the ground, Frenchy, and listen hard
and you'll hear something drop. If you do Firmstone you'll see
cross-barred sunlight the rest of your days. I'll see to that. If you do
us both it won't make much difference. I've been taking my pen in hand
for a few months back, and the result is a bundle of papers in a safe
place. It may not be much in a literary way; but it will make mighty
interesting reading for such as it may concern, and you are one of them.
Now let me tell you one thing more. If this little damned thing had gone
through my head on the way to something harder, in just four days you'd
be taking your exercise in a corked jug. My game is worth two of yours.
Mine will play itself when I'm dead; yours won't."
Pierre's lips parted enough to show his set teeth.
"_Bien!_ You tink you bin damn smart, heh? I show you. You bin catch one
rattlesnake by ze tail. _Comment?_ I show you." Pierre rose.
"Better wait a bit, Frenchy. I've been giving you some information. Now
I'll give you some instructions. You've been planning to have Elise
married. Don't do it. You've made up your mind not to keep your promise
to her dead father and mother. You just go back to your original
intentions. It will be good for your body, and for your soul, too, if
you've got any. You're smooth stuff, Pierre, too smooth to think that
I'm talking four of a kind on a bob-tail flush. Comprenny?"
Pierre's eyes lost their fierceness, but his face none of its
determination.
"I ain't going to give hup my li'l Elise. _Sacre, non!_"
"That's for Elise to say. You've got to give her the chance."
There was a moment's pause. "How you bin mek me, heh?" Pierre turned
like a cat. There was a challenge in his words; but there were thoughts
he did not voice.
Zephyr was not to be surprised into saying more than he intended.
"That's a slick game, Pierre; but it won't work. If you want to draw my
fire, you'll have to hang more than an empty hat on a stick. In plain,
flat English, I've got you cinched. If you want to feel the straps draw,
just start in to buck."
Pierre rose from the table. His eyes were all but invisible. There was
no ursine clumsiness in his movements, as he walked to and fro in the
bar-room. As became a feline, he walked in silence and on his toes. He
was thinking of many a shady incident in his past career, and he knew
that with the greater number of his shaded spots Zephyr was more or less
familiar. With which of them was Zephyr most familiar, and was there any
one by means of which Zephyr could thwart him by threatening exposure?
Pierre's tread became yet more silent. He was half crouching, as if
ready for a spring. Zephyr had referred to the cellar. There was his
weakest spot. Luna, the mill foreman, dozens of men, he could name them
every one--all had brought their plunder to the Blue Goose.
Every man who brought him uncoined gold was a thief, and they all felt
safe because in the eyes of the law he, Pierre, was one of them. He
alone was not safe. Not one of the thieves was certainly known to the
others; he was known to them all. It could not be helped. He had taken
big chances; but his reward had been great as well. That would not help
him, if--Unconsciously he crouched still lower. "If there's any
procession heading for Canon City you'll be in it, too." Someone had got
frightened. Luna, probably. Firmstone was working him, and Zephyr was
helping Firmstone. Pierre knew well the fickle favour of the common man.
A word could destroy his loyalty, excite his fears, or arouse him to
vengeance. Burning, bitter hatred raged in the breast of the little
Frenchman. Exposure, ruin, the penitentiary! His hand rested on the butt
of his revolver as he slowly turned.
Zephyr was leaning on the table. There was a look of languid assurance,
of insolent contempt in the eye that was squinting along a polished
barrel held easily, but perfectly balanced for instant action.
"Go it, Frenchy." Zephyr's voice was patronising.
Pierre gave way to the passion that raged within him.
"_Sacre nom du diable! Mille tonnerres!_ You bin tink you mek me scare,
_moi_, Pierre! Come on, Meestaire Zephyr, come on! Fourtin more just
like it! Strew de piece hall roun' ze dooryard!"
Zephyr's boots thumped applause.
"A-a-ah! Ze gran' _spectacle_! _Magnifique!_ By gar! She bin comedown
firsrate. Frenchy, you have missed your cue. Take the advice of a
friend. Don't stay here, putting addled eggs under a painted goose. Just
do that act on the stage, and you'll have to wear seven-league boots to
get out of the way of rolling dollars."