SCOT OFFERS HEALTH HINTS
A Washoe zephyr was playing impish tricks in Virginia City. It screamed
down the side of Mt. Davidson in a gale of laughter, filling the air
with the white powder of alkali dust. It snatched hats from unwary heads
and sent them flying into the cleft cañon below which led through the
hills to the sage desert. It swooped up a dog on A Street and dropped
the yelping cur down the chimney of a shack on B Street. Boards were
ripped from fences and sucked straight into the air for fifty feet. A
basket of duck eggs took premature flight from a farmer’s wagon, sailed
through the window of a barber shop, and gave a customer in the chair a
free egg shampoo. The wind came in ribald gusts, tremendous, filled with
jeering howls.
About Virginia City there have been many disputes, but nobody who lived
there in the ’sixties ever denied that it was the windiest spot on
earth. The town slanted like a steep roof, each street a terrace. During
the zephyrs all sorts of possessions came rolling downhill like
tumbleweeds. They ranged in size from a spool of thread to the roof of a
house.
Scot McClintock, working his way along B Street, took refuge in a
hurdy-gurdy[7] near Union. The noise of a piano, of fiddles, of stamping
feet, filled the hall. The place was flooded with light from kerosene
lamps set in candelabras with crystal pendants. At one side of the room
was the inevitable bar.
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[7] An unusual feature of Virginia City was the hurdy-gurdy house. In
the early days it was quite respectable, at least from the Western point
of view. The girls were generally Germans. Their business was to dance
with the miners and to lead them afterwards to the bar for a drink. Most
of the girls saved their money to send home to their parents overseas.
Serious-minded young women, they often married well and happily. Later,
these houses degenerated.—W. M. R.
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A blonde young woman of Teutonic descent joined Scot. “Would you like to
dance, Mr. McClintock?” she asked deferentially.
“Not to-night, thank you,” he answered with the grave respect he gave
all women.
His glance swept the hall, was arrested at a small group near the
farther end of the bar. The central figure of it was a huge
rough-bearded man with long hair flowing to his shoulders. He wore an
army overcoat, dusty boots, and Mexican spurs.
The girl’s eyes gave a signal of alarm. She had forgotten for the moment
about the affair between the McClintocks and Sam Dutch.
“First time he’s been down,” she whispered. “He has not yet seen you
already. If you like—the door——”
Scot smiled grimly. He had a picture of himself slipping out of the door
to avoid Sam Dutch.
It was his temperament always to take the bull by the horns. He stepped
across the dance floor to the bar, and stood at the elbow of the
desperado.
Dutch, clinking glasses with a girl, looked round to see his enemy
before him. He was taken at a disadvantage. Was this a trap set for him?
If he made a move would the younger McClintock or some other ally of the
gambler fill him full of slugs? Nervously his eyes stole round the big
room. They came back to the clean, straight figure standing in front of
him.
“No place for you, Dutch,” the faro dealer said curtly. “Not good for
your health. You’ve got a weak heart, you know. It’s likely to stop
working altogether if you’re not careful of yourself. Go
home—now—right away—and stay there till the stage leaves. This is an
unhealthy altitude for you. Try Aurora or Dayton.”
The bad man moistened his dry lips with his tongue. Tiny beads of
moisture stood out on his forehead. He had come to the parting of the
ways and knew it. If he let this man drive him from the house he could
never hold up his head in Virginia again. His reign as chief would be
ended here. Should he take a chance and draw? He had killed many men.
This gambler, so far as he knew, had never got one. Why not now? This
very instant. It would all be over in a flash.
And yet—he could not do it. With McClintock’s cold and steely stare in
his he could not drop the glass from his hand and reach for a revolver.
The wills of the two clashed, fought out the battle, and the stronger
won.
The gaze of the killer fell away and slid round the hall in a furtive
search for help. It found none. He was playing a lone hand. The way out
must be one of his own choosing. Of all these men and women who watched
this crisis so tensely not one but would be glad to see him blotted out
of existence. His hand was against every man’s. That was the penalty he
paid for his reputation.
Again his tongue went out to moisten dry lips.
“I—I reckon you’re right,” he heard himself say huskily. “I ain’t
feelin’ good yet. Fact is, I’m still a sick man. Mebbe I better go home.
I was thinkin’ thataway myself before you came in.”
“Keep right on thinking it. Think yourself out of Virginia inside of
twenty-four hours,” ordered Scot implacably.
Dutch drained the glass and put it down shakily on the bar. He laughed
with attempted bravado and swaggered to the door. There he turned.
“Meet up with you again one o’ these days, Mr. McClintock,” he said, his
voice and manner a threat.
Scot said nothing. Not for an instant did his unwavering eyes release
the man till the door had shut behind him. Then, quickly, disregarding
the hands of congratulation thrust at him, he pushed through the crowd
and passed from the rear of the building. He had no intention of letting
himself be a target for a shot through the window.
The discredited killer did not leave by stage. He went out in a private
buckboard to Carson, from whence he drifted to the new camp Aurora,
already the largest town in that section of Nevada. His self-esteem and
public repute, shaken by the showdown in the hurdy-gurdy house, were
shortly restored by a rencontre with another bad man. He shot his victim
in the stomach while they were drinking together, after which he was
cock of the walk at Aurora.