THE DAY AFTER
In a land where the desert is king the prolonged absence of even so
undesirable a citizen as Pecos Dalhart is sure, after a while, to
occasion comment. For Pecos had ridden out on the Carrizo trail without
water, and the barren mesa had already claimed its dead from thirst.
He was also hardly in his right mind, and though his horse knew the
way home he might easily have arrived there without his master. José
Garcia was the first to mention the matter to Old Crit, and received a
hearty cursing for his pains. Another week passed by, making three, and
still the cowboy did not come in for his mail. The bunch of dissipated
punchers who lingered around the bunk-house under pretence of riding
the range finally worked up quite a hectic interest in the affair, but
none of them volunteered to make a search. The chances were that Mr.
Dalhart, if still alive, was in an ugly mood—perhaps locoed by Crit's
well-known brand of whiskey—and it would be dangerous for an IC man to
ride in on him. As for Crit, his asperity wore down a little as the
days of absence lengthened away; he retracted several statements which
he had made to the effect that he hoped the blankety-blank was dead,
and when one of Boone Morgan's deputies finally rode in to investigate
the rumor he told him he was afraid the poor fellow had wandered out
across the desert and perished of hunger and thirst.
Bill Todhunter was Boone Morgan's regular mountain deputy—sent out to
look into all such affairs as this, and incidentally to get evidence
which would come handy in the big tax-collecting that was being planned
for the fall. He asked a few questions, whistled through his teeth
and pondered the matter for a while, meanwhile scrutinizing the hard
countenance of his informant with the speculative cynicism of his
profession. This was not the first sad case that he had looked into
where a man who was not really needed in the community had mysteriously
disappeared, and in one desert tragedy which he had in mind the corpse
had assayed more than a trace of lead.
"Did this man Dalhart ever fill out that assessor's blank I left for
'im?" he inquired, after a long pause, meanwhile squatting down and
drawing cattle brands in the dirt.
"Don't know," replied Crit, shortly.
"Let's see, his brand was a Wine-glass, wasn't it?"
"Nope—Monkey-wrench."
"Oh, yes! Sure! I knew they was two new irons in there, but I got 'em
mixed. The Wine-glass is yourn, ain't it?"
Crittenden nodded sullenly. It was the particular phase of his
relations with Pecos Dalhart which he would rather not discuss with an
officer. As for the deputy, he spun the wheel in his spur, whistled
"Paloma," and looked out toward the east.
"Has he got any mail here waitin' for 'im?" he asked, rising slowly
from his heels. "Well, you better give it to me, then—and a little
grub. I've always wanted to take a look at that Lost Dog country,
anyway."
It was a long trail and the tracks were a month old, but Pecos's had
been the last shod horse to travel it and what few cattle there were
in the country had not been able to obscure the shoe-marks. Following
those ancient signs Bill Todhunter worked his way gradually into what
had been up to that time, No Man's Land, not forgetting to count the
Wine-glass cattle as he passed the water holes. Not so many years
before the Apaches had held full sway over all the Tonto and Verde
country and when the first settlers came in they had naturally located
along the rivers, leaving the barren mountains to the last. It was
a long way from nowhere, that mysterious little Lost Dog Cañon, and
when the deputy rode into it looking for a man whose trail was a month
old he felt the sobering influence of its funereal cliffs. Black and
forbidding, they bent bodingly over the tiny valley with its grove
of cottonwoods and wild walnuts, and upon the western rim a squalid
group of buzzards dozed as if they had made a feast. At the edge of
the stream Todhunter reined in his horse, but though his flanks were
gaunted the animal would not drink. Instead he raised his head and
snuffed the air, curiously. It looked ominous, for they were at the
end of the trail and the tracks still pointed in. The deputy spurred
nervously across the stream, still with his eye out for signs, and
fetched up with a jerk. There, fresh and clean in the moist sand, were
the imprints of a man's boots, coming down to the water—and not once or
twice, but a dozen times.
"Ahem," coughed Todhunter, turning into the path, "stan' up hyar,
bronc—what's the matter with you!" He jerked his unoffending horse out
of the trail and clattered him over the rocks, for your true officer
does not crowd in with drawn pistol on a man he cannot see. The deputy
was strictly a man of peace—and he tried to look the part. His badge
was pinned carefully to the inside flap of his vest and if he had a gun
anywhere it did not show. He swung his quirt in one hand, idly slapping
it against his chaps, and then, having offered every sign that he came
openly and as a friend, he rode cautiously up to the camp.
There was a fire smouldering upon a stone-walled mound at the entrance
to the cave and beside it, reclining in a rustic chair, sat Pecos
Dalhart—watchful, silent, alert. In one hand he held a cigarette and
the other supported a grimy newspaper which he had been reading. Behind
him on tall poles were boxes filled with food, protected by tin cans,
mushroomed out around the posts to keep the rats from climbing. His
saddle was hung up carefully on a rack and his carbine leaned against
the chair where he was sitting, but though he had seen no one for a
month Pecos barely glanced up from his paper as the stranger drew near.
"How'd do," observed the deputy, sitting at ease in his saddle.
"Howdy," Pecos grunted, and languidly touching his dead cigarette to
a coal he proceeded with his reading. Todhunter looked his camp over
critically, took note of the amount of food stored in the rat-proof
boxes and of the ingenious workmanship on the rustic chair; then his
eyes wandered back and fixed themselves on Pecos. Instead of the
roistering boy he had expected he beheld a full-grown man with a
month's growth of curly beard and his jaw set like a steel-trap, as
if, after all, he was not unprepared for trouble. His hat, however,
was shoved back carelessly on his bushy head, his legs crossed, and
his pose was that of elegant and luxurious ease. To the left arm of
his chair he had attached a horse's hoof, bottom up, in the frog of
which he laid his cigarettes; to the right was fastened a little box
filled with tobacco and brown papers, and the fire, smouldering upon
its altar, was just close enough to provide a light. Evidently the
lone inhabitant of the cañon had made every endeavor to be comfortable
and was not above doing a little play-acting to convey the idea of
unconcern, but the deputy sheriff did not fail to notice the carbine,
close at hand, and the pistol by his side. It seemed to him also that
while his man was apparently deeply immersed in his month-old paper,
his eyes, staring and intent, looked past it and watched his every
move. The conversation having ceased, then, and his curiosity having
been satisfied, Bill Todhunter leaned slowly back to his saddle bags
and began to untie a package.
"Are you Mr. Dalhart?" he inquired, as the cowboy met his eye.
"That's my name," replied Pecos, stiffly.
"Well, I've got s'm' papers for you," observed the deputy,
enigmatically, and if he had been in two minds as to the way Pecos
would take this statement his doubts were instantly set at rest. At the
word "papers"—the same being used for "warrants" by most officers of
the law—the cowboy rose up in his chair and laid one hand on the butt
of his revolver.
"Not for me!" he said, a cold, steely-blue look comin' into his eyes.
"It'll take a better man than you to serve 'em!"
"These are newspapers," corrected the deputy, quietly. "Yore friends
down on the Verde, not havin' seen you for some time, asked me to take
out yore mail and see if you was all right."
"Oh!" grunted Pecos, suspiciously.
"And, bein' as you seem to be all O. K.," continued Todhunter,
pacifically, "I'll jest turn 'em over to you and be on my way." He
threw the bundle at his feet, wheeled his horse and without another
word rode soberly down the trail.
"Hey!" shouted Pecos, as the stranger plunged through the creek, but if
Todhunter heard him he made no sign. There are some people who never
know when to go, but Bill Todhunter was not that kind.
"No, you bet that feller ain't dead," he observed, when Crittenden and
the chance residents of Verde Crossing gathered about him to hear the
news. "He's sure up an' comin', and on the prod bigger 'n a wolf. I
wouldn't like to say whether he's quite right in the head or not but I
reckon it'll pay to humor 'im a little. He'll be down here for grub in
about another week, too."
The week passed, but not without its happenings to Verde Crossing. The
first event was the return of Angevine Thorne from Geronimo, after a
prolonged stay in the city Bastile. Crit sent the bail money down by
Todhunter immediately upon hearing the news that Pecos Dalhart was
alive and on the prod. The only man on the Verde who had any influence
with Pecos was his old "cumrad," Babe, and Crittenden was anxious to
get that genial soul back before Pecos came in for supplies. But the
same buckboard that brought the Champion of Arizona back to his old
haunts took his little friend Marcelina away, and the only reason the
Señora would give was that her daughter was going to school. In vain
Babe palavered her in Spanish and cross-questioned the stolid José. The
fear of her lawless wooer was upon them—for were they not in debt to
Crit—and not even by indirection would the fiery Señora give vent to
the rage which burned in her heart.
"This is not a good place for my daughter," she said, her eyes
carefully fixed upon the ground. "It is better that she should go to
the Sisters' school and learn her catechism." So Marcelina was sent
away from the evil men of Verde, for she was already a woman; but in
the haste of packing she managed to snatch just one of the forbidden
blue handkerchiefs, branded M.
It was a sombre welcome which awaited the lone rustler of Lost Dog
Cañon when, driven perforce to town, he led his pack-horse up to the
store. For a minute he sat in his saddle, silent and watchful; then,
throwing his bridle-reins on the ground, he stalked defiantly through
the door. A couple of IC cowboys were sitting at the card-table in the
corner, playing a three-handed game of poker with Angy, and at sight of
him they measured the distance to the door with their eyes.
"W'y, hello there, Pecos!" cried Angy, kicking over the table in his
haste to grasp him by the hand. "Where you been all the time—we thought
for a time here you was dead!"
"Might as well 'a been," said Pecos, gruffly, "for all anybody _give_ a
dam'!"
"Why? What was the matter? Did you git lost?"
"I lay out on the mesa for two days," answered the cowboy, briefly,
"and about a month afterwards a feller come out to my camp to see
if I was dead. This is a hell of an outfit," he observed, glancing
malevolently at the IC cowboys, "and by the way," he added, "where was
_you_ all the time, Angy?"
Angevine Thorne's lips trembled at this veiled accusation and he
stretched out his hands pleadingly. "I swear, Pardner," he protested,
"I never heard a word about it until last Saturday! I was in the
Geronimo jail."
"Oh!" said Pecos, and without more words he gave him his own right
hand. The cowboys, who had been uneasy witnesses of the scene, seized
upon this as a favorable opportunity to make their escape, leaving the
two of them to talk it out together.
"What in the world happened to us, Angy?" demanded Pecos in a hushed
voice, when the effusion of reconciliation had passed, "did Crit put
gun-powder in our whiskey or was it a case of stuffed club? I was plumb
paralyzed, locoed, and cross-eyed for a week—and my head ain't been
right since!" He brushed his hand past his face and made a motion as of
catching little devils out of the air, but Angy stayed his arm.
"Nothin' like that, Pecos," he pleaded, hoarsely, "I'm on the ragged
edge of the jim-jams myself, and if I get to thinkin' of crawly things
I'll sure get 'em! No, it was jest that accursed liquor! I don't know
what happened—I remember Crit takin' me down to Geronimo and givin'
me five dollars and then it was all a dream until I found myself in
the jag-cell. But it's the liquor that does it, Pecos—that and the
capitalistic classes and the officers of the law. They's no hope for
the common people as long as they keep on drinkin'—there's always some
feller like Crit to skin 'em, and the constables to run 'em in. It's a
conspiracy, I tell you; they're banded together to drug and rob us—but,
Pardner, there is one man who is going to balk the cowardly curs.
Never, never, never, will I let another drop of liquor pass my lips!"
He raised his hand to heaven as he swore the familiar oath, hoping and
yet not hoping that some power would come down to him to help him fight
his fate. "Will you join me, Cumrad?" he asked, laying hold of Pecos's
shoulder. "You will? Well, let's shake on it—here's to the revolution!"
They shook, and turned instinctively toward the bar, but such a pledge
cannot be cemented in the usual manner, so Angy led the way outside and
sought a seat in the shade.
"Where's my little friend Marcelina?" inquired Pecos, after a long look
at the white adobe with the brush _ramada_ which housed the Garcia
family, "hidin' behind a straw somewhere?"
"Gone!" said Angy, solemnly. "Gone, I know not where."
"What—you don't mean to say—" cried Pecos, starting up.
"Her mother sent her down to Geronimo the day that I came up,"
continued Babe, winking fast. "It looks as if she fears my influence,
but she will not say. Poor little Marcelina—how I miss her!" He wiped
his eyes with the back of his hand and shook his head sadly. "Verde
ain't been the same to me since then," he said, "an' life ain't worth
livin'. W'y, Pecos, if I thought we done something we oughten to when
we was drunk that time I'd go out and cut my throat—but the Señora is
powerful mad. Kin you recollect what went on?"
A vision of himself trying to barter his mail-order package for a kiss
flashed up before Pecos in lines of fire, but he shut his lips and
sat silent. The exaltation and shame of that moment came back to him
in a mighty pang of sorrow and he bowed his head on his arms. What
if, in the fury of drink and passion, he had offered some insult to
his Señorita—the girl who had crept unbeknown into his rough life and
filled it with her smile! No further memory of that black night was
seared into his clouded brain—the vision ended with the presentation
of the package. What followed was confined only to the limitations of
man's brutal whims. For a minute Pecos contemplated this wreck of all
his hopes—then, from the abyss of his despair there rose a voice that
cried for revenge. Revenge for his muddled brain, for the passion
which came with drink: revenge for his girl, whom he had lost by some
foolish drunken freak! He leapt to his feet in a fury.
"It's that dastard, Crit!" he cried, shaking his fists in the air. "He
sold us his cussed whiskey—he sent us on our way! And now I'm goin' to
git him!"
Angy gazed up at him questioningly and then raised a restraining hand.
"It's more than him, Cumrad," he said solemnly. "More than him! If
Crit should die to-morrow the system would raise up another robber to
take his place. It's the System, Pecos, the System—this here awful
conspiracy of the capitalistic classes and the servile officers of the
law—that keeps the poor man down. Worse, aye, worse than the Demon
Rum, is the machinations which puts the power of government into the
monopolistic hands of capital and bids the workingman earn his bread
by the sweat of his brow. There is only one answer to the crime of
government—the revolution!"
"Well, let 'er go then," cried Pecos, impulsively. "The revolution she
is until the last card falls—but all the same I got my eye on Crit!"