THE "BOYS" OF THE VILLAGE
The saloon was well filled, and it was evident from the atmosphere
pervading the place that something unusually welcome was afoot.
As a rule evenings spent in the saloon at Barnriff were not gatherings
one would readily describe as being "gay." At least it would require a
strong imagination to do so. A slight modification would be best. The
Barnriff men were rarely lightsome, and when they disported themselves
it was generally with a sombre sort of joy. That was their attitude
just now. There was a peculiar earnestness about them, even in the
fact of living. They seemed to be actuated by a deadly thoroughness
which had a tendency to kill, not so much levity as lightness, and
leave them mourning.
To-night such an atmosphere of sombre joy was prevailing. It was a
similar attitude to that which they adopted on election day,
Independence Day, at a funeral, or a wedding. It was the way anything
out of the ordinary always affected them.
The fact of the matter was Doc Crombie, who was doctor, veterinary
surgeon, horse dealer, and a sort of self-elected mayor of the place,
was going to hold a meeting in the saloon. He was going to make a
formal speech, and the speech was the point.
Now, if there was one thing Barnriff bowed the knee to it was the man
who could, and would, make a speech. It had all the masses' love for
oratory, and was as easily swayed by it as a crowd of ignorant
political voters. Besides, Doc Crombie was a tried orator in Barnriff.
He had addressed a meeting once before, and, speaking on behalf of a
church mission, and asking for support of the cause, he had created a
great impression by his stern denunciation of the ungodly life in
Barnriff, and his flowery laudation of those who allowed themselves to
respond to the call of "religion."
On that occasion he said with all the dignity and consequence of his
position at the moment--
"It ain't your dogone dollars we want. It's your souls. D'you git
that? An' when we've sure got 'em wot'll we do with 'em, you ast? Wal,
I don't guess we're doin' a cannibal line o' business. Nor ain't we
goin' to stuff 'em an' set 'em up as objec's o' ridicool to the ungodly
hogs wot wallers in the swill o' no adulteratin' son-of-a-moose of a
dealer in liver pizen. No, gents, that ain't us. We're goin' to save
'em. An' I personal guarantees that savin' racket goes. Did I hear any
mangy son-of-a-coyote guess he didn't believe no such guarantee? No,
an' I guess he best not. I'm a man of peace, as all knows in this yer
city, but I'd hate to try an' shut out a blizzard in winter by
stuffin' that gopher's perforated carkis under the doorjamb when I was
thro' with it. I say right here we're out to save carkises--I mean
souls. An', say, fellers, jest think. Gettin' your souls saved for a
few measly cents. Ain't that elegant? No argyment, no kickin'. Them
souls is jest goin' to be dipped, an' they'll come up white an' shinin'
out of the waters of righteousness a sight cleaner than you ever got
your faces at Christmas, washin' in Silas Rocket's hoss trough, even
when his hoss soap was plenty. Think of it, fellers, and I speak
speshul to you whiskey souses wot ain't breathed pure air sence you
was let loose on the same gent's bowel picklin' sperrit. You'll get
right to Meetin' on Sundays with your boots greased elegant, an' your
pants darned reg'lar by your wimmin-folk wot's proud of yer, an' don't
kick when you blow into a natty game o' 'draw.' You'll have your kids
lookin' up at your fancy iled locks, an' your bow-tie, an' in their
little minds they'll wonder an' wonder how it come your mouths ain't
drippin' t'baccer juice, an' how they ain't got cow-hided 'fore the
breakfast they mostly have to guess at, an' how it come you're leadin'
them, 'stead o' them leadin' you, an' how their little bellies is
blown out with grub like a litter o' prize hogs. Think of it, fellers,
an' pass up your measly cents. It ain't the coin, it's the sperrit we
want, an' when I think of all these yer blessin's I'm _personal_
guaranteein' to the flower o' Barnriff's manhood I almost feel as
though I wus goin' to turn on the hose pipe like a spanked kid."
He talked till he had half of Barnriff's "flower" blubbering, and he
had emptied the last cent out of their pockets, and the mission was
set on a sound financial basis. But as to his guarantee--well, the
doctor was well understood by his fellow citizens, and no one was ever
heard to question its fulfilment.
It was wonderful what a power of persuasion he had in Barnriff. But
then he was an awe-inspiring figure, with his large luminous eyes and
eagle cast of feature. And, too, words flowed from his lips like words
from the pen of a yellow journal reporter, and his phraseology was
almost as picturesque.
The boys were gathered waiting for him. There was anticipatory
pleasure in their hang-dog faces. One of them almost laughed at a
light sally from the cheery Gay, but luckily it was nipped in time by
the interposition of the mean-minded Smallbones.
"I sez it right here, boys," the latter observed, leaning with his
back against the bar, and speaking with the air of having just arrived
at a grave decision. "Old Sally Morby hadn't no right to burry her man
in oak. Now I ast you, Gay, as man to man, if you'd know'd we was
goin' to be ast to ante up fer her grub stake, wot could you ha' done
him handsome an' moderate fer?"
Gay squared his fat shoulders. For the moment he was important.
Moments of importance are always precious, even in places like
Barnriff.
"Wal, I can't rightly give it you down to cents without considerin'
Restless some," he replied unctuously. "But we did Toby Randall
slap-up in ash fer fifty odd dollars. Then ther' was Sadie O'Brien. We
did her elegant in soft pine for twenty-eight odd. It 'ud sure have
been twenty-five on'y fer her weight. Y'see the planks under her had
to be two inch or she'd ha' fell through."
He produced his note-book and rapidly glanced over the greasy pages.
"Y'see," he observed, pausing at the entry he had been looking for,
"Sally paid us a hundred an' forty-seven dollars an' seventy-five
cents. I 'lows that's handsome fer buryin' a hop-headed skite like
Charlie Morby was. But that wus her order, an' bein' a business man,
an' takin' pride in my work, I sez to Restless, I sez, 'It's oak, boy,
oak with silver plate trimmin's, an' a real elegant inscription to
Charlie on it, tellin' folks o' virtues he didn't never handle when
he was livin'.' He sure didn't deserve nothin' better than an apple
bar'l, leavin' the head open so he had a chance to dodge the devil
when he come along. An' I guess, knowin' Charlie, he'd 'a' given him
an elegant run fer it."
"That's it," exclaimed Smallbones, peevishly. "That's it. She goes an'
blows in her wad on a buzzock what ought to bin drownded in yaller
mud, an' we've got to ante her grub stake. Psha! I ain't givin' a
cent."
Lean Wilkes, the baker, was watching the trust schemer with baleful
eye, and now his slow tongue evolved a pretty retort.
"No one sed you was--nor thought it likely."
"The duff puncher wakin' up," sneered Smallbones, angrily.
"Guess it's your voice hurtin' my ear drums," replied Jake,
ponderously.
At that moment Abe Horsley joined the group. He called for drinks
before adding his bit to the talk. He had an axe to grind and wanted a
sympathetic audience. While Rocket, observing his customers with
shrewd unfriendly eyes, set out the glasses and the accompanying
bottles--he never needed to inquire what these men would take; he knew
the tipple of every soul in Barnriff by heart--Abe opened out. He was
unctuous and careful of his diction. He was Barnriff's lay-preacher,
and felt that this attitude was "up to him."
"I do sure agree with the generality of opinion in this yer city," he
said largely. "I consider that the largeness of heart for which our
brothers in this important town--it has a great future, gentlemen,
believe me; I mention this in parenthesis--are held in excellent
esteem----" He broke off to nod to Jim Thorpe who entered the saloon
at that moment--"should be--er fostered. I think, brethren--pardon me,
'gentlemen'--that we should give, and give liberally to Sally Morby,
but--but I do not see why Doc Crombie should make the occasion the
opportunity for a speech. Any of us could do it quite as well.
Perhaps, who knows, some of us even better----"
"Smallbones," murmured the dissatisfied Wilkes, drinking his gin at a
gulp.
"Yes, even Smallbones," shrugged Abe, sipping his whiskey.
Angel Gay bolted his whiskey and laid a gentle hand firmly on
Horsley's shoulder.
"No," he said, "not Smallbones; not even Doc Crombie, both deadgut
fellers sure. But you are the man, Abe. For elegance o' langwidge, an'
flow--mark you--you--you are a born speaker, sure. Say, I believe that
rye of Rocket's was in a gin bottle. It tasted like--like----"
"Have another?" suggested Abe, cordially.
"I won't say 'no,'" Gay promptly acquiesced.
But Rocket was serving drink to Jim Thorpe at one of the little poker
tables on the far side of the room, and the butcher had to wait.
"How much are you givin'?" Smallbones inquired cautiously of Gay.
He was still worrying over the forthcoming demand on his charity. Gay
Promptly puffed himself up.
"Wal," he said, with some dignity. "Y'see she's got six kiddies, each
smaller nor the other. They mustn't starve for sure. Guess I'm givin'
twenty-fi' dollars."
"Wot?" almost shrieked the disgusted Smallbones.
"Yes," said the butcher-undertaker coldly. "An' _I_ ain't no trust
magnate."
"That's right up to you, Smallbones," remarked Abe, passing his friend
Gay his drink. "You'll natcherly give fifty."
But Abe's ponderous levity was too much for Smallbones.
"An' if I did it wouldn't be in answer to the hogwash preachin' you
ladle out. Anyways I'll give as it pleases me."
"Then I guess them kiddies'll starve, sure," remarked Wilkes heavily.
How much further the ruffled tempers of these men might have been
tried it is impossible to say, but at that moment a diversion was
created by the advent of the redoubtable doctor. And it was easy to
see at a glance how it was this man was able to sway the Barnriff
crowd. He was an aggressive specimen of unyielding force, lean, but
powerful of frame, with the light of overwhelming determination in a
pair of swift, bright eyes.
He glanced round the vast dingy bar-room. There were two tables of
poker going in opposite corners of the room, and a joyous collection
of variegated uncleanness "bucking" a bank in another corner. Then
there was the flower of Barnriff propping up the bar like a row of
daisies in a window box--only they lacked the purity of that simple
flower. He stepped at once to the centre of the room.
"Boys," he said in a hoarse, rasping voice, "I'm in a hurry. Guess
natur' don't wait fer nuthin' when she gits busy on matters wot
interest her; an' seein' Barnriff needs all the population that's
comin' to it with so energetic a funeral maker as our friend, Angel
Gay, around, I'll git goin'. I'm right here fer dollars fer pore Sally
Morby. She's broke, dead broke, an' she's got six kiddies, all with
their pore little bellies flappin' in the wind for want of a squar'
feed. Say, I ain't hyar to git gassin', I ain't hyar to make flowery
talk fer the sake o' them pore kiddies. I'm here to git dollars, an'
I'm goin' to git 'em. Cents won't do. Come on. Ther's six pore
kiddles, six pore lone little kiddies with their faces gapin' fer food
like a nest o' unfledged chicks in the early frosts o' spring. Now
every mother's son o' you 'ante' right here. Natur' busy or no natur'
busy, I don't quit till you've dipped into your wads. Now you,
Smallbones," he cried, fixing the little man with his desperate eyes.
"How much?"
Every eye was on the trust manipulator. He hated it. He hated them
all, but Doc Crombie most of all. But the tall, lean man was
impatient. He knew it was a race between him and a baby in a distant
quarter of the village.
"How much?" he threatened the hesitating man.
"A dollar," Smallbones muttered in the midst of profound silence. Even
the chips of the poker players had ceased to rattle.
A faint light of amusement crept into every eye, every eye except the
doctor's.
Suddenly his lean figure pounced forward and stood before the
beflustered speaker.
"I said 'how much?'" he rasped, "'cause Barnriff knows its manners.
Wal, the social etiquette o' Barnriff is satisfied, so I ken talk
straight. Say, you an' me have piled a tidy heap in this yer city, so
I guess you're goin' to match my hundred dollars right here. An' I tel
you squar', an' I'm a man o' my word, if you don't you'll get a bath
in Rocket's hoss-trough which'll do you till the next Presidential
Election--if it pizens every hoss for miles around Barnriff. Guess
I'll take that hundred dollars."
And he did. The furious Smallbones "weighed out" amid a circle of
smiles, which suddenly seemed to light up the entire bar-room. Nor had
he a single spoken word of protest. But he yielded himself up to the
demands of the masterful doctor only to save himself the ducking he
was certain awaited his refusal.
The rest was play to Doc Crombie. As he had pointed out, Barnriff's
social demands had been satisfied by his giving Smallbones the
option of stating the amount of his contribution, and, as the
result had not come up to requirements, he dispensed with further
delicacy, and assessed each man present with the cool arbitrariness
of a Socialist Chancellor. But in this case the process was not
without justification. He knew just how much each man could afford,
and he took not one cent more--or less.
This fact was exampled when he came to Jim's table. Jim looked up from
his cards. He understood Crombie.
"Well, Doc," he said, "how much?"
Crombie eyed him with shrewd amusement.
"Wal, Jim, I'll take on'y ten dollars from you, seein's your contrac's
out for buildin', an' you need ev'rything that's comin' your way."
Jim laughed. It was a boisterous laugh that had little mirth in it.
"Guess I'll treble that," he said. "I've cut the contract."
But the laugh had irritated the doctor.
"I'll take ten from you;" he said, with an incisive clipping of his
teeth. "Not a cent more, nor a cent less."
And Jim yielded to him promptly. The doctor passed on. Neither he nor
those around him had understood the bitter humor underlying Jim's
laugh. Only, perhaps, Peter Blunt, who had entered the room with Will
Henderson a moment or two before, and whose sympathetic ears had
caught the sound, could possibly have interpreted it aright.
The "whip round" was completed, and the doctor read out the total.
Five hundred and forty dollars was to be handed over to the widow, to
ease the burden Fate had inflicted upon her. And it said something for
the big hearts of this prairie folk, that, in the large majority at
least, the memory of their charity left them with the departure of the
doctor to complete his race with Nature at the far extremity of the
village.
The saloon settled down to its evening's entertainment as though
nothing unusual had happened. The majority gathered into various games
of "draw," for which the great room was half filled with small tables.
The few that resisted the seductive charms of the national card game
continued to support the bar. Of these, Smallbones only remained long
enough to air his spleen at the doctor's expense. But even he found it
incumbent upon him to modify his tone. For one thing he received an
unmerciful baiting from his companions, and besides, he knew, if he
allowed his tongue to riot too far, how easy it would be for his
denunciation to reach the strenuous doctor's ears. Gay and Wilkes
left shortly after the trust magnate, and soon Abe Horsley was forced
to seek a fresh gossip. He found one in Will Henderson, as soon as
Peter Blunt had moved away to watch the games at the tables. Will's
mood at the moment suited the lay-preacher. He wanted to drink, and
Abe was possessed of a chronic thirst.
So, with the exception of these two, Silas Rocket, ever rapacious for
custom, was left free to see that the games did not detract from the
men's drinking powers. He had an eye like a hawk for possible custom.
Wherever there was a big pot just won his rasping voice was always at
the elbow of the winner, with his monotonous "Any drinks, gents?" If a
table was slow to require his services he never left it alone. He
drove the men at it to drink in self-defense. It was a skilful
display--though not as uncommon as one might think, even in the best
restaurants in a big metropolis.
So the night wore on. Every man drank. They drank when they won. They
drank when they lost. In the former case it was out of the buoyancy of
their spirits, in the latter because they wished to elevate them.
Whatever excuse they required they found, and when difficulty in that
direction arose, there was always Silas Rocket on hand to coax them.
Jim, huddled away in a corner behind the great stove used for heating
the place in winter, was busy with his game. He had shown no
recognition of Will Henderson's coming. He had probably seen him,
because, though hidden from it himself, he had a full view of the bar,
and any time he looked up, his eyes must have encountered the two
figures now left alone beside it.
He was drinking, and drinking hard. He was also losing. The cards were
running consistently against him. But then, he was always an unlucky
player. He rarely protested against it, for in reality he had little
interest in the play, and to-night less than usual. He played because
it saved him thinking or talking, and he wanted to sit there and drink
until Silas turned them out. Then he intended returning to the ranch.
He meant to have one night's forgetfulness, at least, even if he had
to stupefy his senses in bad whiskey.
Abe and Will had reached the confidential stage. They were full of
friendliness for each other, and ready to fall on each other's necks.
For some time Will had desired an opportunity to open his heart to
this man. He would have opened it to anybody. His Celtic temperament
was a fire of enthusiasm. He felt that all the world was his, and he
wanted to open his arms and embrace it. But so far Abe had given him
little opportunity. His own voice pleased the lay-preacher, and he had
orated on every subject from politics to street-paving, giving his
companion little chance for anything but monosyllabic comments. But
finally Will's chance came. Abe had abruptly questioned the propriety
of permitting marriage in their village, where the burden of keeping
the offspring of the union was likely to fall upon the public
shoulders. Will plunged into the midst of the man's oratory, and would
not be denied.
"Marriage," he said, "is not for regulation by law. No one has the
right," he declared, with an emphatic thump on the bar, "to dictate to
the individual on the subject." He went on at high pressure in a
heated crescendo for some moments, denouncing any interference by
public bodies. Then of a sudden he laid a hand on Abe's shoulder and
abruptly dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. His eyes were
smiling and shining with the feelings which stirred him. Everything
was forgotten except the fact of his engagement to Eve. Jim was
obscured from his mental vision by the uplifting spirit vapors which
supported his thoughts. Eve, and Eve alone, was in his mind, that--and
the fact that she was to be--his.
"Listen to me, Abe," he said, a little thickly. "All this talk of
yours don't hold water--no, nor spirit either," he laughed. "Say, I'm
goin' to get married, and so I know."
Quite how he knew didn't seem clear; but he paused for the impression.
Abe whistled interestedly and edged nearer, turning his ear so as not
to miss what the youngster had to say.
"Who?" he demanded.
"A-ah!" Will prolonged the exclamation knowingly, and waited for the
man to guess.
"You wus allus sweet on Eve Marsham--you and Jim Thorpe."
Will suddenly ceased to smile. He drank his whiskey at a gulp and
banged his glass on the counter.
"By G----!" he exclaimed harshly, while Abe wondered at his changed
tone. "Yes, it's Eve--Eve Marsham; and I'm going to marry her--not
Jim. D'you git that? By heaven!--yes. Here, Rocket----!" He lurched
round on the bar. "Here, you old Sky-Rocket, get drinks, quick! For
everybody! I'll pay! See, here's the wad," and he slammed a thick roll
of bills on the counter. "I've got money, sure, and I'm--hic--goin'
to burn it. Boys," he cried, swinging about and facing the tables,
supporting himself against the bar, "you'll drink with me. Si--Silas
here'll take your orders, an' serve you. You, too, Abe, ole pal."
Jim looked up from his cards the moment Will addressed the room, and
now he watched him swaying against the bar. The light in his dark eyes
was peculiar. He seemed to be speculating, and his thoughts were
uneasy. Will yawned drunkenly. Peter Blunt, from across the room, was
watching Jim, and moved abruptly clear of the tables, but not
ostentatiously so.
Will's eyes watched Silas passing round the drinks. He was smiling in
the futile manner of a drunken man, and his fingers were clutching
nervously at the moulded edge of the bar. Rocket came back and handed
him and Abe their whiskey. The former promptly clutched his glass and
raised it aloft, spilling the neat spirit as he did so. Then, with
drunken solemnity, he called for order.
"Boys," he cried, "you'll--you'll drink a to--toast. Sure you will.
Every one of you'll drink it. My fu--sher wife, Eve--Eve Marsham. Jim
Th--Thorpe thought he'd best--me, but----"
A table was suddenly sent flying in the crowd. A man's figure leaped
out from behind the stove and rushed up to the speaker. It was Jim
Thorpe. His eyes were blazing, and a demon of fury glared out upon the
drunken man.
"Another word, and I'll shoot you like a dog! You liar! You
thieving----!"
But his sentence was never completed. Peter Blunt stood between them,
one of his great hands gripping Jim's arm like a vice.
"Shut up!" he cried, in a hoarse whisper. "You'll have the whole story
all over the village."
But the mischief was done. Everybody present was on their feet agog
with excitement, and came gathering round to see the only possible
finish to the scene, as they understood it. But, quick as lightning,
Peter took in the situation. Flinging Jim aside as though he were a
baby, he hugged the drunken Will Henderson in his two great arms, and
carried him bodily out of the saloon.
The men looked after him wondering. Then some one laughed. It was an
odd, dissatisfied laugh, but it had the effect of relieving the
tension. And one by one they turned back to Jim, who was standing
moodily leaning on the bar; his right hand was still resting on the
gun on his hip.
There was a moment of suspense. Then Jim's hand left the gun, and he
straightened himself up. He tried to smile, but the attempt was a
failure.
"I'm sorry for upsetting your game, boys," he said stupidly.
Then Rocket came effectively to the rescue.
"Gents," he cried, "you'll all honor me by drinkin' with the house."