Roger Hapgood lifted his pale, heavy-lidded eyes from the pages of his
magazine and regarded Conniston with a look from which not all
reproach had yet gone.
"I hope you've been enjoying yourself in this Eden of yours," he said,
sourly.
Conniston sent his hat spinning across the room, to lodge behind the
bed, and laughed.
"You've called the turn, Sobersides! I've been having the time of my
young life. And now all I have to do is sit tight to see--"
"See--what?" drawled Roger.
"I've laid a bet, and it's wedged so and hedged so that I win both
ways!" Greek chuckled gleefully at the memory of it.
"What sort of a bet?"
"Two hundred dollars!"
Hapgood put down his magazine and got to his feet, plainly concerned.
"You don't mean that, Greek?"
"I mean exactly that." Conniston tossed to the bed a small handful of
greenbacks and silver. "This is all that's left to the firm of
Conniston and Hapgood."
With quick, nervous fingers Hapgood swept up the money and counted it.
His eyes showing the uneasiness within him, he turned to the jubilant
Conniston.
"There are just twenty-seven dollars and sixty cents. Are you drunk?"
Conniston giggled, his amusement swelling in pace with Hapgood's
dawning discomfiture.
"I told you I had made a bet. I have laid a wager with the Fates. And
right now, my dear Roger, while we sit comfortably and smoke and wait,
the Fates are deciding things for us!"
Roger paused, regarding him. "Yes, you're drunk. If you are not, is it
asking too much to suggest that you explain?"
"No. I'll explain. At the sign of the local Whisky Barrel there is a
game of faro now in progress. Two very charming young gentlemen, named
Jimmie and Bart, punchers of cattle, whatever that may be, are
deciding things for Roger Hapgood and William Conniston, Junior, of
New York. Each of the amateur gamblers--and they actually do play very
badly, Roger!--has before him a hundred dollars of my money. If they
win to-night I get back two hundred dollars plus half their winnings,
and you and I take the train for San Francisco!"
"If they win. And if they lose?"
"We'll take it as a sign that the Fates have decreed that we're not to
go on to the city by the Golden Gate, but tarry here! Both Jimmie and
Bart are provided with saddle-horses, with chaps--chaps, my dear
Roger, are wide, baggy, shaggy, ill-fitting riding-breeches, made, I
believe, out of goat's hide with the hairy side out!--spurs and
quirts--in short, all the necessary paraphernalia and accoutrements of
a couple of knights of the cattle country. If they lose the two
hundred dollars we win the two outfits! And to-morrow, instead of
riding in a Pullman toward San Francisco, we straddle what they call
a hay-burner for the blue rim of mountains in the south!"
Hapgood stared incredulously, a sort of horror dawning in his pale
little eyes.
"I suppose this is another of your purposeless jokes," he said,
stiffly, after a moment.
"Nothing of the kind! Don't you see we win either way? Frankly, I am
persuaded that the two hundred dollars are now winging their way into
the pockets of an apparently awkward dealer with slow fingers, and
into the pockets of our friend the hotel man. But we will get the
horses, and think of the lark--"
"Lark!" shrilled Hapgood. "A lark--to go wandering off into the
desert--"
"Not wandering! _Pirutin'_ is the word you want, the real vernacular
of the West. Or _skallyhutin'_! I'm strong for the sound of the latter
myself--"
"Oh, rot!" broke in Hapgood. "I was a fool to come out here with a
fool like you."
He turned his back squarely upon Conniston and stood staring out the
little window, biting his thin lips. Conniston stood eying him, and
slowly the smile passed from his face, to be followed by a serious
frown.
"I thought you'd kick in for the sport of it," he said, after a
moment, his voice quiet and a trifle cold. "You don't have to if you
feel like that about it. You still have your ticket to San Francisco.
You can have half of that twenty-seven dollars. You can sell your
horse if we win the brutes."
Hapgood had been thinking about that before Conniston spoke. And his
thoughts had gone further. It would not be long, he told himself
shrewdly, before Conniston Senior softened. And then there would be
much money to help spend, many dinners to help eat, much wine to help
drink, a string of glittering functions to attend. And if he broke
with Greek now--
"See here, Greek," he said, affably, forcing a smile. "What's the use
of this nonsense? Why not slip your father a wire now. He'll come
across. And then we can go on as we had intended and--"
"Nothing doing." For once Conniston was stubborn. "I'm going on with
this thing. If those horses come to us I am going to start early in
the morning for the mountains to see what I can see. You can do as you
please."
Hapgood glanced at him quickly, and, despite the wrath boiling up
within him, the shrewder side of his nature prompted a peaceful
answer.
"Then I'll go with you. You didn't think that I was the sort of a
fellow to go back on you now, did you? We'll see this thing through
together."
Conniston put out his hand impulsively, ashamed of having misjudged
his friend.
Long before midnight Jimmie left the saloon and crept away to the
stable to stroke the soft nose of a restive cow-pony, and to swear
soft, endearing curses of eternal farewell. Not long afterward he had
the satisfaction of seeing his fellow-cowboy steal through the
darkness to whisper good-by to his own horse. And in the early dawn
both Jimmie and Bart stood peering out from behind the corner of the
barn at two figures riding rapidly southward into the morning mists.
That day's ride was a matter never to be forgotten by the two men.
Their muscles were soft from dissipation and long years of idleness.
In particular did Hapgood suffer. He was a slight man to whom nature
had given none of the bigness of body which she had bestowed upon
Conniston. His luxury-loving disposition had made him abjure the
sports which the other at one time and another had enjoyed. He was,
besides, a very poor horseman, while Conniston had ridden a great
deal. To-day his horse--a spirited colt newly broken--was not content
to go straight ahead as Hapgood would have had him, but danced back
and forth across the road, shied at every conceivable opportunity,
threatening constantly to unseat his rider, and jerked at the
restraining, tight-gathered reins until Hapgood's arms ached.
The sun soon drove away the early mists and beat down upon the two men
mercilessly from a blazingly hot sky. Nowhere was there any shade
except the tiny pools of shadow at the roots of the scrub brush. The
heat, the dry air shimmering over the glowing sands, abetted by the
many high-balls of yesterday, soon engendered a scorching thirst, and
as mile after mile of the treeless desert slipped behind they found no
water. Over and over Hapgood was tempted to turn back. He felt that
his shoulders, from which he had removed his coat, were blistering
under the sharp rays of the sun. At every swinging stride his horse
made he felt the skin being rubbed off of his legs where they rubbed
against the saddle leather. His soft hands were cut by the reins, he
was sore from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. But as
each fresh temptation assailed him a glance at Conniston, riding a few
paces ahead, made him pull himself together. For some day the old man
would relent, and then Roger Hapgood would see that for every agonized
mile now he would be amply repaid.
And no water would they find until Indian Creek was thirty miles
behind them unless they turned from their way and rode a couple of
miles to the westward where the straggling stream crawled through the
sand. It was as well that they did not know, for the stream, like many
of its kind in the dry parts of the West, ran for the greater part of
its course underground, showing only here and there in a pool, where,
beneath the sand, there was the hard-pan through which the water could
not seep.
They had left the town behind them at a lope. Now they rode at a walk,
curbing their horses' impatience with tight-drawn reins. They had
thought to have reached the brown hills and shade before the day's
heat was upon them. But now it was already intense, stifling, awaking
from its light doze almost as the sun rolled upward across the low
horizon.
And now the temptation upon Roger Hapgood, urging him to turn
back--back toward the little town, hateful yesterday, but spelling now
at least the courtyard to comfort--was so strong that he would not
have had strength to resist had he not realized that the ride back
would be longer than the ride on to water. He made no answer to
Conniston's sallies, but, sullenly silent, clung to his reins with one
hand, to the horn of his saddle with the other, lifting his head now
and again to gaze with red-rimmed eyes ahead along the dusty, flat
stretch of the desert, for the most part head down, the picture of
misery.
Conniston, feeling the heat riotous in his own veins, feeling the ache
of fatigued muscles, felt a sudden pity for Hapgood. And still, even
through his own discomfort, there laughed always a certain something
in his buoyant nature which saw the humorous in the adventure.
It was late in the forenoon when they saw a clump of green willows,
and ten minutes later came to a roadside spring and watering-trough.
Hapgood threw an aching leg over the horn of his saddle and slipped
stiffly to the ground. Conniston dismounted after him, holding the two
horses' reins as they thrust their dry muzzles deep into the clear
water. Hapgood, applying his mouth to the pipe from which the water
ran into the trough, drank long and thirstily, and then, dragging his
feet heavily, went to the clump of willows and dropped to the ground
in their shade.
"We've done thirty miles, anyway," said Conniston, cheerily, when he,
too, had drunk. "Twenty miles farther to the hills, and--"
Hapgood, his head between his hands, groaned.
"Twenty miles farther and I'll be dead. I couldn't eat any of that
infernal mess last night, and I couldn't eat beefsteak and mashed
potatoes this morning. And I've got pains through me now in a dozen
places. I wish--"
He broke off suddenly. There was little use to tell what he wished: a
cool club-room on Broadway; a deep, soft leather chair; a waiter to
bring him delicate dishes and cool drinks.
For an hour they sat in the shade resting. Then Conniston got to his
feet and threw his reins over his horse's head.
"Come on, Roger," he said, quietly, the unusual gentleness of his tone
showing the pity he felt. "We can't stay here all day."
Hapgood rose wordlessly and walked stiffly to his horse. He cursed it
roundly when it jerked back from him, and for five minutes he strove
to mount. The animal, high strung and restless, was frightened, first
at his lunging gait, then at his loud, angry voice, and jerked away
from him each time that he tried to get his foot into the stirrup. But
at last, with the aid of Conniston, who rode his own horse close to
the other, preventing its turning, Hapgood climbed into the saddle.
And again in silence they pushed on toward the hills.
It took them five hours to do the twenty miles lying between the
watering-trough and the edge of the hills. A large part of the last
ten miles Hapgood did on foot, leading his astonished horse. And often
he stopped to rest, squatting or lying full length on the ground. It
was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon when at last they came to the
second spring by the roadside. And here Hapgood sank down wearily,
muttering colorlessly that he could not and would not go a step
farther. And they were still forty miles to the nearest cabin and bed.
Conniston unsaddled the two horses, watered them, and staked them out
to crop the short, dry grass. And then he stood by the spring, smoking
and frowning at the barren brown hills. They had had nothing to eat
since early morning; they had not thought to bring any lunch with
them. And now if they spent the night here it would be close upon noon
on the next day before they could hope to find food. He looked
covertly at his friend, only to see him sprawled on the ground, his
head laid across his arm.
"Poor old Roger," he muttered to himself. "This is pretty hard lines.
And a night out here on the ground--"
He determined to wait until the cool of the evening and then to
persuade Hapgood to ride with him across the hills. It would be hard,
but it seemed not only best, but almost the only way. So Conniston
filled his pipe, thought longingly of the cigarettes he had left in
his suit-case at the hotel, and, lying down near Hapgood, smoked and
dozed in the warm stillness.
An hour passed. The shadow of the scrub-oak under which they had
thrown themselves was a long blot across the sand. About them
everything was drowsy and sleepy and still. Conniston, turning upon
his side, his pipe dropping dead from between his teeth, saw that
Hapgood was asleep. He lay back, looking upward through the still
branches of the oak, his spirit heavy with the heaviness of nature
about him. And musing idly upon the new scenes his exile had already
brought him, musing on a pair of gray eyes, Conniston himself went to
sleep.
The sun was low down in the western sky, dropping swiftly to the
clear-cut line of the horizon, the air growing misty with the coming
night, the sunset sky glowing gold and flaming crimson, when Conniston
awoke. He sat up rubbing his eyes, at first at a loss to account for
his surroundings. Then he saw Hapgood sprawled at his side and
remembered. And then, too, he saw what it was that had awakened him.
A man in a buckboard drawn by two sweating horses was looking
curiously at him while his horses drank noisily at the trough. He was
an unmistakable son of the West, bronzed and lean and quick-eyed. The
long hair escaping from under his battered gray hat vied with his long
drooping mustache in color, and they both challenged the flaming
crimson of the sunset. Conniston told himself that he had never seen
hair one-half so fiery or eyes approaching the brilliant blueness of
this man's. And he told himself, too, that he had never been gladder
to see a fellow human being. For the horses were headed toward the
hills in the south.
"How are you?" Conniston cried, scrambling to his feet and striding
with heavy feet to the buckboard.
"Howdy, stranger?" answered the red-headed man, his voice strangely
low-toned and gentle.
"My name's Conniston," went on the young man, putting out a hand which
the other took after eying him keenly.
"Real nice name," replied the red-headed man. And dropping Conniston's
hand and turning to his horses, "Hey there, Lady! Quit that blowin'
bubbles an' drink, or I'll pull your ol' head off'n you!"
Lady seemed to have understood, and thrust her nose deeper into the
water. And the new-comer, catching his reins between his knees, took
papers and tobacco from the pocket of a sagging, unbuttoned vest and
made a cigarette. Licking the paper as a final touch, his eyes went to
Hapgood.
"Pardner sick or something?"
"No. Just fagged out. We came all the way from Indian Creek since
morning."
"That's real far, ain't it?" remarked the man in the buckboard, with a
little twitch to the corner of his mouth, but much deep gravity in his
eye. "Which way you goin', stranger?"
"We're going across the hills into the Half Moon country. It's forty
miles farther, they tell me."
"Uh-uh. That's what they call it. An' a darn long forty mile, or I'll
put in with you."
"And," Conniston hurried on, "if you are going--You are going the same
way, aren't you?"
"Sure. I'm goin' right straight to the Half Moon corrals."
"Then would you mind if my friend rode with you? I'll pay whatever is
right."
The other eyed him strangely. "I reckon you're from the East, maybe?
Huh?"
"Yes. From New York."
"Uh-uh. I thought so. Well, stranger, we won't quarrel none over the
payin', an' your frien' can pile in with me."
Conniston turned, murmuring his thanks, to where Hapgood now was
sitting up. And the red-headed man climbed down from his seat and
began to unhitch his horses.
"You needn't git your frien' up jest now in case he ain't finished his
siesta. We won't move on until mornin'."
"Where are you going to sleep?" Hapgood wanted to know.
"I had sorta planned some on sleepin' right here."
"Right here! You don't sleep on the ground?"
The red-headed man, drawing serenely at his cigarette, went about
unharnessing his horses.
"Bein' as how I ain't et for some right smart time," he was saying as
he came back from staking out his horses, "I'm goin' to chaw real
soon. Has you gents et yet?"
They assured him that they had not.
"Then if you've got any chuck you want to warm up you can sling it in
my fryin'-pan." He dragged a soap-box to the tail end of the buckboard
and began taking out several packages.
"We didn't bring anything with us," Conniston told him. "We didn't
think--"
The new-comer dropped his frying-pan, put his two hands on his hips,
and stared at them. "You ain't sayin' you started out for the Half
Moon, which is close on a hundred mile, an' never took nothin' along
to chaw!"
Conniston nodded. The red-headed man stared at them a minute,
scratched his head, removing his hat to do so, and then burst out:
"Which I go on record sayin' folks all the way from Noo York has got
some funny ways of doin' business. Bein' as you've slipped me your
name, frien'ly like, stranger, I don't min' swappin' with you. It's
Pete, an' folks calls me Lonesome Pete, mos'ly. An' you can tell
anybody you see that Lonesome Pete, cow-puncher from the Half Moon,
has made up his min' at las' as how he ain't never goin' any nearer
Noo York than the devil drives him."
He scratched his head again, put on his hat, and reached once more for
his frying-pan.