THE GREEK GETS HIS
It was long after midnight when the Ramblin' Kid and Skinny rode into
Eagle Butte and the heels of Captain Jack and Old Pie Face echoed
noisily on the board floor of the livery stable as the bronchos turned
into the wide, open doorway of the barn. A drowsy voice from the
cubby-hole of an office called:
"In just a minute--I'll be out!"
"Aw, thunder," Skinny answered, "go on back to sleep, we'll find stalls
and put 'em up!"
Captain Jack and Old Pie Face cared for, Skinny and the Ramblin' Kid
stepped out into the deserted street.
Eagle Butte was sleeping.
Here and there a blaze of light from a store window invited belated
passers to covet the bargains offered within; a half-dozen incandescent
bulbs, swung on cross-wires at intervals along the street, glowed feebly
as if weary with the effort to beat back the darkness clutching at the
throat of the town; over the sidewalk in front of the Elite Amusement
Parlor an illuminated red and green sign told that Mike Sabota's place
was still open; across the porch of the Occidental Hotel and spilling
itself on the ground out in the street a stream of light guided weary
travelers to the portals of that ancient, though hospitable,
institution; from the sides of the Butte beyond the railroad tracks a
coyote yelped shrilly a jerky, wailing challenge--a dozen dogs, suddenly
aroused in different parts of the town, answered.
"Pretty dead-lookin'," the Ramblin' Kid remarked. "Let's go down to
Sabota's."
"All right," Skinny replied, and they moved down the street.
The pool-room offered nothing of interest. A couple of traveling men,
waiting for the early morning train, were playing a listless game of
billiards at one of the tables; a pair of Jap sugar-beet workers and a
negro section hand sat half-asleep and leaned against the wall; "Red"
Jackson, Sabota's chief lieutenant, with an air of utter boredom,
lounged behind the soft-drink bar. Sabota was not there.
"What's happened to everybody?" Skinny asked; "where's Mike?"
"Everybody's got religion, I guess," Red yawned, "and gone to bed. What
do you want with Sabota?" looking suspiciously at the Ramblin' Kid;
"he's over at Vegas; won't be back till to-morrow--or to-day it is now,
I reckon--evening sometime!"
"Th' Ramblin' Kid and me have been out in the rain," Skinny said
suggestively, "and thought we might take cold--"
"Nothing doing!" Red laughed, "ain't a drop around! When Mike gets back
he'll fix you up, maybe--that's what he's gone after!"
"We'd just as well go to bed!" Skinny grumbled disgustedly to the
Ramblin' Kid.
"I reckon," was the laconic answer.
They returned to the hotel, roused the clerk from his doze, secured a
room and retired.
It was eight o'clock when they got up.
Both went directly to the livery stable and saw that Captain Jack and
Old Pie Face were properly attended to. While at the barn Skinny took
the bundle he had wrapped in the bunk-house at the ranch from the saddle
where he had tied it.
"What's that?" the Ramblin' Kid queried.
"It's that darned shirt!" Skinny retorted. "I'm going to make Old Leon
eat it--it wasn't the size Parker asked for!"
The Ramblin' Kid laughed, but said nothing.
They returned to the hotel and had breakfast. Manilla Endora waited on
them. Before Carolyn June and Ophelia came to the Quarter Circle KT
Manilla's yellow hair and blue eyes were the flames that fanned the
affections of Skinny. He felt guilty as, sweetly as ever and without a
hint of reproach, Manilla took their orders and served them with their
ham and eggs and coffee.
After breakfast Skinny and the Ramblin' Kid explored the town.
Eagle Butte had come to life. The stores were open. Business was brisk.
The "dray" was delivering the express accumulated the night before at
the depot. Here and there a morning shopper was passing along the
street. At the post-office there was quite a crowd.
Skinny carried the shirt, wrapped in the soggy, rain-soaked newspaper.
As he and the Ramblin' Kid came near the dingy, general merchandise
establishment kept by the squint-eyed Jew from whom Parker had bought
the unfortunate garment a sudden look of cunning gleamed in the eyes of
Skinny. He laughed aloud. A box of eggs, ten or twelve dozen it
contained, was set, with other farm produce, in a display on the
sidewalk at the side of the door of the store.
"Hold on a minute," Skinny said to the Ramblin' Kid, stopping in front
of the Jew's place of business, "I got an idea--By golly," he continued
argumentatively and with apparent irrelevancy, in a loud voice, "I tell
you I'm the lightest man on my feet in Texas!" and he winked knowingly
at the Ramblin' Kid. "I can walk on eggs and never bu'st a one! I've
done it and"--as Leon came to the door--"I'll bet four-bits I can jump
in that box of eggs right there and never crack a shell!" The Ramblin'
Kid understood.
"Aw, you're crazy," he laughed. "I don't want to win your money!"
"What's the matter?" Leon asked curiously, having heard only part of
Skinny's boast.
"This locoed darn' fool thinks he can walk on them eggs an' not mash
'em!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed again. "He wants to bet me four-bits he
can--"
"Walk on them eggs and not preak them?" Leon exclaimed disdainfully.
"You ought to lock him up! He iss crazy!"
"By gosh," Skinny argued, "you don't realize how light-footed I am--I
can jump on them, I tell you, and I got money to back it up!" And he
pulled a half-dollar from his pocket.
"Put away your money, you blamed idiot--" the Ramblin' Kid began.
"I'll bet him four-bits he can't!" Leon cried, jerking a coin from his
own pocket.
Skinny and Leon each handed the Ramblin' Kid fifty cents.
"By thunder, I can," Skinny said, pausing, "that is, I'm willing to bet
my money on it--"
"Vhy don't you go ahead and do it, then?" Leon exclaimed. "Vat you
standing there for? Vhy don't you do it if you're so light on your
feet?"
"Well, I can!" Skinny argued, still hesitating.
"Den go ahead and chump--chump I told you--into the box!" Leon shouted
excitedly.
Skinny jumped. The eggs crushed under the heels of his riding boots. In
an instant the box was filled with a squashy mass of whites, yolks and
broken shells. Skinny pawed around until there wasn't a whole egg left
in the box.
At the first crunch Leon laughed hilariously.
"I knowed you'd lose!" he cackled. "Giff me the money!"
"You win, Leon!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed, handing over the wager.
"Skinny wasn't as delicate on his feet as he thought he was!"
"Thunderation, that's funny!" Skinny said soberly as he stepped out of
the box; "it wouldn't work that time! Something must have slipped!"
With a grin he calmly unwrapped the one-time white shirt and with it
began to wipe the slimy mess from his boots.
"The next time you won't be so smart!" Leon cried, then paused in
consternation, his eyes riveted on the scrambled mixture in the box.
"But mine eggs!" he exclaimed, suddenly suspicious. "Who pays for the
eggs? There vas twelve dozen--they are worth seventy cents a dozen--that
is more as eight dollars. Pay me for the eggs!"
"Pay, hell!" Skinny said. "I didn't agree to furnish no eggs! You won my
fifty cents and th' Ramblin' Kid gave it to you--"
"That's right, Leon," the Ramblin' Kid chuckled, "you got th'
four-bits--that's all you won!"
"But pay me--" Leon whined.
"I'll pay you, you dirty crook!" Skinny snapped as he slapped the
soppy, egg-splattered shirt in Leon's face. "I'll pay you with that! The
next time," he added as he and the Ramblin' Kid started down the
street--"anybody asks for a size fifteen shirt don't give them a sixteen
and a half!"
The day was spent idling about town waiting for Sabota to return so
Skinny could get some whisky and drown his disappointment in love in
intoxicated forgetfulness.
After supper Skinny and the Ramblin' Kid went to the picture
show--Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays were "movie nights" in Eagle
Butte--and saw a thrilling "wild-west" drama in which a band of Holstein
milk cows raced madly through an alfalfa field in a frenzied,
hair-raising stampede! When the show was over the Ramblin' Kid started
toward the livery barn.
"What you going to do?" Skinny queried.
"I was just goin' to get Captain Jack," the Ramblin' Kid replied.
"What for?" Skinny asked as they moved toward the barn. "There ain't no
hurry about getting back to the ranch. We won't be going out till
to-morrow or next day--there ain't no use getting the horses out
to-night."
"I don't know," the Ramblin' Kid answered, without stopping, "I just got
a hunch to get him in case I need him. Anyhow, it won't hurt him to
stand out a while--they've been eatin' all day."
"Then I'll get Old Pie Face, too," Skinny replied.
They saddled the bronchos and rode out of the barn.
"Where'll we go?" Skinny asked.
"Reckon we'd better go back down to Sabota's," the Ramblin' Kid said as
they turned their horses in the direction of the pool-room, "if you
still insist on makin' a blamed fool of yourself an' gettin' drunk.
Maybe Mike's back by now. Anyhow, there might be a little poker game
goin' on--I saw a couple of the fellers from over on th' Purgatory come
in a while ago!"
They left Captain Jack and Pie Face standing, with bridle reins dropped,
across the street and in the broad shaft of light streaming from the
open door of the pool-room, and went into the resort.
The place was well filled. Sabota had returned, evidently with an ample
supply of the fiery stuff he called "whisky." Like vultures that
unerringly seek and find the spot where a carcass has fallen the thirsty
of Eagle Butte had gathered at the Elite Amusement Parlor.
Inside the door of the pool-room and at the left, as one entered, was a
hardwood bar eighteen or twenty feet long and over which at one time, in
the days before Eagle Butte "reformed," had been dispensed real
"tarantula juice." The back bar, with its big mirrors and other
fixtures, was as it had been when the place was a regular saloon. At the
right of the room, opposite the bar, were several round, green-topped
card tables. In the rear was the billiard and pool equipment, which
entitled the place to the name "pool-room." Just across from the farther
end of the bar and near the last card table a half-dozen hard-looking,
small-town "toughs"--creatures who loafed about Sabota's and aided him,
as occasion required, in his boot-legging operations or other
questionable enterprises--were lounging, some standing, some sitting,
watching a slow poker game going on at the last table. Cards, under the
laws of Texas, are taboo, but for some reason Sabota managed to get by
and games were allowed in his place.
The two cowboys the Ramblin' Kid had mentioned, a rancher from the
irrigated section near Eagle Butte and "Jeff" Henderson, one of Sabota's
henchmen, who was playing for the house, were sitting in at the game.
Half-way down the room at one side against the wall a mechanical player
piano was grinding out garish, hurdy-gurdy music.
"Red" Jackson was dispensing soft drinks from behind the bar.
Sabota himself, with one heel caught on the brass foot-rail, was leaning
indolently but with a lordly air against the front of the polished,
imitation mahogany counter.
He had been drinking and was in his shirt-sleeves.
As Skinny and the Ramblin' Kid stepped into the pool-room Sabota glanced
around. For an instant he eyed the Ramblin' Kid keenly while a nasty
sneer curled his lips. As they approached he turned the grin into a
hypocritical smile of welcome. The Ramblin' Kid barely noticed the Greek
and passed on to where the card game was in progress. Skinny paused and
said something in a low tone to Sabota. The two walked to the rear end
of the bar where the proprietor of the place in turn spoke to Red and
the latter furtively handed a pint bottle to the cowboy and which he
dropped into the bosom of his flannel shirt.
The Ramblin' Kid was recognized by the cowboys from the Purgatory.
"Come on and get into the game!" one of them invited, moving over.
"Yes," Henderson added, hitching his own chair to one side to make room
for another, "the cards are running like"--he paused--"like the Gold
Dust maverick for everybody but the house!" There was a laugh at the
subtle reference to the outlaw filly that had cost Sabota so much in
losses on the sweepstakes at the Rodeo.
The Greek scowled.
"In that case," the Ramblin' Kid drawled, "I reckon I'll ride 'em a few
rounds!" dropping into the chair he had dragged forward and which placed
him with his back toward the bar.
"What they costin' a stack?" he questioned, reaching to the left breast
pocket of his shirt for a roll of bills.
In the same pocket was the pink satin garter Carolyn June had lost the
morning of his first meeting with her at the circular corral.
"Five bones!" Jeff answered languidly.
"Well, give me a couple of piles," the Ramblin' Kid replied, glancing
around at the cowboy sitting at his right, who had invited him into the
game. "How's the Purgatory?"
As the bills came from the Ramblin' Kid's pocket the silver butterfly
clasp of the garter caught in the paper currency and the elastic band
was drawn out and dropped, at the side of his chair, on the floor next
to Sabota.
The Greek and Skinny saw, at the same time, the dainty satin ribbon.
Sabota stepped quickly forward and with the toe of his shoe kicked the
garter toward the bar, where all could see it.
"Look what th' Ramblin' Kid's been carrying!" he exclaimed with a coarse
laugh. "Some size garter, that!" And guessing at random that it had
belonged to Carolyn June, he added: "Old Heck's niece must be--damned
convenient and accommodating!"
A laugh started from the lips of the crowd. It was instantly checked and
a dead silence followed as the Ramblin' Kid looked around, saw Sabota
leering down at the trinket and heard his vulgar insinuation. He slowly
pushed his chair back from the table and with eyes half-closed--the lids
tightening until there were but narrow slits through which the black
pupils burned like drops of jet--he began slowly to straighten up. Not a
sound came from his lips save the deep, regular breathing those sitting
near could hear and which was like a bellows fanning embers into a white
heat. His mouth was drawn back in a smile, almost caressing in its
softness, but a thousand times more menacing than the black scowl on the
face of the Greek.
The Ramblin' Kid's gun was at his hip, but he made no move to draw it.
Sabota watched the slender young cowboy. A look of contempt and derision
was in his eyes. The Greek was no taller, but full eighty pounds heavier
than the other. But he forgot that the other's lithe body moving with
the calm, undulating grace of a panther preparing to spring was all
clean youth, muscle and courage, unbroken by any debauchery!
"That's a hell of a thing for a _man_ to pack," the giant bully cried
nastily, "and it's a hell of a _lady_ that gives it to a man to pack!"
With a sneering laugh he raised his foot and brought it down on the
garter, grinding the silver clasp and the satin ribbon under the sole of
his shoe.
"You damned black cur!" The Rambling' Kid spoke scarcely louder than a
whisper, yet his voice echoed throughout the tense silence of the room.
"_I'll put my heel in your face for that_!"
Sabota threw back his head to laugh.
For a second of time the Ramblin' Kid crouched, then shot through the
air like a wire spring drawn far back and suddenly released, and with
an his hundred and forty pounds of nerve and sinew behind it his right
fist smashed the big Greek squarely on the half-open mouth, splitting
the thick lip wide and causing a red stream to spurt from the gash.
Sabota staggered back and, would have fallen had he not crashed against
the hardwood bar.
As the Greek reeled away from the garter the Ramblin' Kid stooped
quickly forward, picked up the elastic and dropped it again into his
pocket.
With a roar like a mad bull Sabota rushed his slight antagonist. Lunging
forward, blind with rage, he aimed a murderous blow at the head of the
Ramblin' Kid. The cowboy ducked, but not in time to escape the wide
swing of the massive, hairy fist. The Greek's knuckles raked the side of
the Kid's face and the blood rained down his cheek from a cruel cut
under the eye. The Ramblin' Kid spun around like a top and for the
fraction of a second stood swaying uncertainly.
For a moment they faced each other, crouching, watching for an opening.
Sabota's great hands worked convulsively, eager to grasp and crush his
wiry opponent; the Ramblin' Kid, with lips curled back from white teeth,
like a pure-bred terrier circling a mastiff, bent forward, every muscle
tense as drawn copper, his eyes cold as a rattler's as he searched for a
place to strike!
The crowd in the pool-room instinctively kept far back and gave the
unequal combatants ample room.
From Sabota's lips poured a steady torrent of blasphemy. The Ramblin'
Kid made no sound as, with body swaying slowly from side to side, his
shoulders heaved with the full, heavy breaths that reached to the bottom
of his lungs.
Suddenly, like some wild beast, Sabota sprang forward. The Ramblin' Kid
met him--in mid-air--right and left jolting, almost at the same
instant, into the beefy jaws of the Greek. At the impact a claw-like
hand shot out and the gorilla fingers of the left hand of the brute-man
the Ramblin' Kid fought, closed over the throat of the cowboy. Sabota
threw his right arm around the back of his antagonist, gripping the
shoulder on the far side of his body and drew the slender form toward
him--pinning the Ramblin' Kid's left arm and hand to his side.
Skinny's hand dropped to the butt of his gun and rested there.
The Ramblin' Kid struggled desperately in the strangling grasp of the
crazed Greek. The two reeled back and forth, crashing chairs and tables
to the floor, and lunged against the bar. The Ramblin' Kid's gun fell
from its scabbard at the side of the brass foot-rail. Sabota's eyes
glared down into the face of the man he was choking to death--gleaming
with the ferocity of an animal gone mad--Awhile bloody foam spewed from
his bleeding lips. The cowboy's face was beginning to flush a terrible
purple as the breath was gradually crushed from his body.
As the Greek forced him back, bending him down and over, the Ramblin'
Kid, his eyes burning like fire while a million flashes of light seemed
to stab the darkness before them and needles darted through every fiber
of his flesh, wrenched his right arm free and gripping the back of
Sabota's shirt with his left hand to give purchase to the blow, with all
the strength left in his body, drove the knuckles of his right fist into
the left temple of the Greek.
The blow went home.
A film, like a veil drawn across the fiendish glare in them, spread over
the eyes of Sabota, his grip on the throat of the cowboy relaxed and as
a bull, struck by the hammer of the butcher, he dropped to the floor.
The Ramblin' Kid crouched, panting, over the massive bulk.
Sabota slowly opened his eyes and started to raise his battered head.
With a laugh the cowboy swung terrible right and left blows into the
Greek's face. The head dropped back.
Again the Ramblin' Kid stooped low, waiting for another sign of life
from the prostrate form.
Red Jackson slipped from behind the bar, half bent forward, moved
stealthily up behind the Ramblin' Kid; one hand drawn partly back held,
by the neck, a heavy beer bottle. Skinny saw his intention. Instantly
the Quarter Circle KT cowboy's forty-four was jerked from its holster
and the blue-steel barrel swung against the side of the bartender's
head. He pitched over in a limp heap and the bottle crushed against the
brass foot-rail, breaking into a thousand fragments. A half-dozen of
Sabota's crowd started forward. Skinny's gun whipped around in front of
him.
"Keep back, y' sons-of-hell!" he snarled, "Sabota's gettin' what's
coming to him!"
The Greek's eyes opened. His fingers touched the butt of the Ramblin'
Kid's revolver and began to close slowly over the handle of the weapon.
"Make him quit," one of the pool-room loafers whined; "he's killed him!"
The Ramblin' Kid saw Sabota reach for the gun. He answered the speaker
and the Greek's effort to get the forty-four at the same time:
"Not yet--_but now_!" he cried with a low laugh and leaped with both
heels squarely on the bloody face of Sabota! There was a horrible
crunching sound as of bones and flesh being ground into pulp. The
fingers about to close on the handle of the revolver grew limp, the
Greek's head, a hideous, scarcely recognizable mass, slumped to one side
and lay perfectly still.
An instant longer the Ramblin' Kid looked at him, then reached over,
picked up his gun and slipped it into the holster at his hip.
As he straightened up, Tom Poole, the marshal, rushed into the
pool-room. He covered the Ramblin' Kid with his revolver and placed him
under arrest.
"You don't need to get excited, Tom!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed. "I
didn't do nothin' but kill that damned black cur layin' there! Come
on--I want to get out in th' air--I never like to stay around where dead
skunks are!"
They moved toward the door.
Poole dropped his gun back in its scabbard and walked at the side of the
now apparently peaceful young cowboy.
At the door the marshal looked around:
"Some of you fellers get the doctor or undertaker--whichever he
needs--and take care of Sabota!" he called to the group around the body
of the Greek.
Like a flash the muzzle of the Ramblin' Kid's gun was pressed against
the side of Poole.
"Put 'em up, Tom!" he snapped, "_I_ don't want to kill you, but I will
if I have to--I ain't goin' to rot in no jail just for stampin' a dirty
snake-to death!"
The marshal's hands shot into the air as if operated by springs.
The Ramblin' Kid, with his left hand, jerked Poole's revolver from its
holster. He backed into the street toward where Captain Jack and Old Pie
Face were standing, still with his own gun covering the officer.
"Jack!" he cried sharply, "meet me!"
The little stallion moved toward him.
With the thumb of the hand in which he held the marshal's gun the
Ramblin' Kid threw open the breech and flipped the shells on the ground.
He tossed the empty forty-four to one side, threw the reins over
Captain Jack's head and the next instant was in the saddle. The broncho
wheeled and was gone, in a dead run, toward the west.
The marshal rushed into the street and picked up his gun, jerked some
cartridges from his belt, slipped them into the cylinder and fired
quickly at the fleeing horse and rider.
The bullets whistled past the ear of the Ramblin' Kid.
He raised his own weapon, half-turned in the saddle, dropped the muzzle
of the gun forward until it pointed at the flashes spitting from the
officer's revolver. His finger started to tighten on the trigger.
"Hell," he muttered, "what's the use? Tom's just doin' what he thinks he
has to do!" and the Ramblin' Kid slipped the gun, unfired, back into its
holster.
A moment later Captain Jack whirled to the right across the Santa Fe
tracks and bearing a little to the east, in the direction of Capaline,
the dead volcano that rises out of the lavas northwest of the Quarter
Circle KT, between the Purgatory and the Cimarron, disappeared in the
black starlit night.