lightning sweep of the hands Frenchy drew his guns and banged them down
violently on the table before him. “Stay where you are, gentlemen!” he
said; “I’m going to talk and I want an audience. When I’m done talking,
I’m off on the long trail and the first man that moves goes with me!”
There had always been a winsome something in the voice of the man. It
was now commanding, irresistible. The loungers stood still and stared
dumbfounded upon this terrible new version of an old legend.
Frenchy picked up four cards from his hand and held them up fanwise
before his enforced listeners. “Look at ’em!” he shouted hoarsely.
“Look at ’em! Let ’em burn through your hides into your souls! Oh, you
don’t see anything, eh? Don’t one of you dare to grin!”
One hand fumbled nervously with the guns.
“What do you see? I say, what do you see? Four deuces? That all? I’ll
tell you what _I_ see. I see the red, warm hearts of two friends! I
see diamonds that are cheap beside such hearts! I see a club—a black,
brutal, treacherous club—that struck down a friend! And I see the
devil’s spades that dug his grave! That’s what I see! Look hard!”
Frenchy seemed to exercise an uncanny influence over his hearers. Not
one moved—all stared upon the four upheld deuces.
“It’s the devil’s story, gentlemen,” he continued in a low, husky
voice. “It’s hung by me for three bloody years—it haunts me! I’ve got
to tell it.”
He passed his free hand over his forehead beaded with sweat. Then he
whispered a question to the spellbound audience:
“Did any of you know the Kid—Kid Smith?”
A momentary expression of infinite kindness softened the face of
Frenchy, only to give way immediately to deep quivering lines of
anguish. He continued tremulously.
“I knew him—the Kid. Had the biggest, bravest heart that ever beat in
the God-forsaken white spaces of a map. One of that breed of fellows
that the world nails to its crosses—the Kid was. And we were friends;
that is, he was a friend. He gave and I took, and he was happier in the
giving than I in the taking. That’s the way it always goes: one gives
and one takes—and God pity the man that only takes!
“Why did I bet on the deuces? Oh, the damned, dirty deuces! Don’t I
know the game? By God, I know every card like a kid knows his mother’s
face! Didn’t I know it was the last ditch for me and no hope? I tell
you, gentlemen, I didn’t play ’em. The Devil played ’em for me—the
black Devil of the dirty deuces with the fiery feet that have been
kicking me hellward for three aching years!
“Look at the cards! Look at ’em! There’s blood on every one of ’em, and
they stink with the writhing flesh of a friend in the flames!”
Frenchy took another drink and his manner changed. The violence of
his delirious outburst gave way to quietness. He spoke in a low,
penetrating voice, and the black flame of his eyes held his hearers.
“The Kid and I had been riding across a big stretch of brown grass for
two days, and our tongues were thick with thirst. I remember how he
gave me the last drops of water we had with us, cussing and damning a
man who got thirsty. ‘I can go without water with the biggest camel
that ever stuck a hoof into the sand,’ said he. And I took the water; I
always took and the Kid was always giving.
“And along in the evening we struck a little water hole and camped. How
the Kid did drink when he thought I wasn’t looking! Oh, he wasn’t such
a camel for carrying water with him! It was his big heart that carried
the water—the sweet, pure, sparkling waters of friendship.
“Along about sundown a dull grey cloud grew up in the west—smoke! But
the wind was against it, blowing soft and dry from the east where the
river lay thirty miles away. ‘Think we’d better ride on?’ says the Kid.
But I was tired and wanted sleep, and the Kid gave in. Says he, ‘Horses
need a rest, I guess’; didn’t lay it onto me, you know. Giving again,
and I taking.
“So we lariated the horses and rolled in. Do you know how a man sleeps
after he’s been burning dry for days and fills up at last? I plunged
into ten thousand fathoms of soft, soft sleep—deep, deep down, where
the cool sweet dreams bloom in worlds of crystal. And everywhere in my
sleep there were bubbling springs and I drank and drank and drank, and
every gulp was sweeter than the last.
“Then the dreams changed and the many bubbling water holes of sleep
went dry, and fine hot dust sprayed up out of the chinks where the
water had flowed. Then the wind of sleep grew hot and hotter. It
scorched my face and sent thin needles of fire into my brain. And then
I was standing up coughing and rubbing my eyes and the Kid was beside
me. What did we see?
“The wind had veered about while we slept. All hell was climbing up
the west and a booming wind swept howling devils through the smoky
twilight. Above the unnatural dawn, long black ragged arms reached out
into the zenith and cloaked the stars. I heard a horse snorting and
tugging at his lariat.
“‘Good God, Kid!’ I wheezed; ‘let’s be off!’
“The Kid turned his face upon me and smiled—that slow, brave smile
haunts me night and day.
“‘Your horse is gone——’ He waved his hand toward the miles of dark that
stretched toward the river. ‘Pulled his stake just before you woke up;
heard him go.’ The Kid’s voice didn’t even tremble.
“‘Quick!’ I yelled; ‘the matches! Start a back fire!’
“Then a big, cold hand gripped my heart; the Kid had given me the last
match that day; I had wanted to smoke.
“All hell behind us and a horse for two! A thirty-mile heat with
the mustangs of the Devil, and double weight to carry! It made me
sick—dizzy sick. I forgot everything. Oh, gentlemen, when you face hell
fire you’ll know if your mother bore a coward.
“For a minute we stared into the west—a minute years long. Big pink
waves of smoke rolled into gulfs of purple and disappeared into holes
of murk. Above, the blood-red surf frothed and sparkled and fell in
yellow showers! Great blankets of dense gloom dropped from the sky and
smothered out the hellish morning, hurling momentary night down the
howling wind! Then keen zigzag blades of fire ripped through the belly
of the night!
“I felt the Kid’s hand grasp mine. O God! the feel of his hand! ‘One
horse for two, Frenchy,’ he said, quiet as a man who proposes another
drink at the bar. ‘One of us makes a run for his life; and the other——’
He motioned carelessly toward Hell. ‘One more deal of the cards,
Frenchy, and the last for one of us. High hand takes the horse; low
hand—produce the deck.’
“I produced the deck—greasy and dog-eared; for many’s the social game
the Kid and I had played with ’em together. We squatted on the prairie
in the red twilight, and the Kid dealt. Not a tremor of his perfect
gambler’s hands! Cool as though it was a game of penny ante.
“I drew three deuces! _Deuces!_ Oh, the damned, dirty deuces!
“‘How many?’ says the Kid pleasantly. For the first time in my life I
forgot to guard my hand. A deep rolling thunder had grown up out of the
burning west. It seemed I could feel the prairies tremble like a bridge
under a drove of sheep. ‘Listen!’ I gasped. ‘It’s the critters coming,’
said the Kid; ‘cattle and buffalo and elk and deer and wolves—the whole
posse. How many cards did you call for?—_two_, wasn’t it?’
“He thrust two cards into my hand. One of ’em was the deuce of hearts!
O God! It wasn’t only the printed heart he gave me; it was the warm,
red, beating heart of a friend.”
Frenchy dropped his head into his arms on the table and groaned. When
he lifted his face again his eyes were wet.
“Four deuces—and they burn holes in the dark whenever I shut my eyes!
And all day I see four pairs of devils dancing in the sunlight till my
head swims!”
Frenchy dropped his head upon his chest and breathed deep, uneven
breaths for a space.
“The Kid had only a pair of face-cards,” he continued; “a dinky little
pair of face-cards. And for a second the man in me came to the surface,
and I threw the four hand down and stamped on it and said I wouldn’t
leave him. And what did the Kid do? Began with all the blackguard
adjectives of the language and ended with ‘coward’ and threw the bunch
in my teeth. ‘You’re the first man that ever called me a quitter,
Frenchy,’ he said. ‘I played my hand, didn’t I? What would you do to a
man who’d ask you to take your money back when you’d lost? If I’d won,
do you think I wouldn’t leave your carcass here to stew, you cussed
fool?’
“And then something in the back of my head woke up and howled:
‘You won—it’s yours—a chance for life—fair play—he’d go if you
lost—he’d go!’ And there was a roaring in my head and the flaming
night whirled ’round, and the bitter words stung me, and my heart
hardened—and—I—went.
“I found the Kid’s horse saddled and bridled. I cut the lariat and
leaped astride. I jabbed the spike spurs into the frightened brute
till he roared with pain. I had forgotten everything. I was a Fear
without a body flying through a darkness that coughed smoke and spit
light. And then at last things quit whirling, and I felt the steady
_lift, lift, lift_ of the good brute racing with all the devils down a
heart-breaking stretch for the river.
“I turned about in the saddle. Half the sky had turned into an open
furnace! Above me a great stormy ocean of blood rolled on into the
twilight of the east! Blood!—a seething, billowy sea of red blood,
with great, red, purring cat-tongues lapping it greedily! Gaudy giant
flowers—purple, yellow, red, green—bloomed for a moment in a strange
garden of dreams, and nodded in the wind and fell and bloomed again and
fell! The infernal beauty of the thing fascinated me for a moment. Then
I heard the rumbling—the unceasing thunder. It was louder than before.
I thought of the ten thousand sharp hoofs gaining, gaining, with whips
of fire lashing them in the rear. And then I thought of the Kid back
there.
“My heart sickened. The hot wind that scorched my face accused me; the
choking air accused me. I could see him lying on his face even then
with the mad hoofs beating him into a pulp; I could see the writhing
of his body as the heat increased; I could smell the stench of his
sizzling flesh!
“I reeled in the saddle, yet the mad wish to live lashed my hands to
the pommel. But this was only for a moment. The meanest worm that ever
wriggled in a dunghill holds fast to his life. I forgot the Kid again;
I remembered only myself and that I must ride to win. I pulled the
horse down and held him steady. Never did I throw a leg across a better
horse than the Kid’s—honest, rangy, clean-limbed and deep in the chest!
My heart leaped with joy when I heard his long even breathing. I had
a great delirious love for the big-hearted brute as I felt his long,
even reach, the tireless rhythmic stride that throws the miles behind.
The drifting red sea of smoke above cast the wild glare down upon the
prairie and made the footing sure. I threw my guns away; I stripped off
my coat and gave it to the wind. I knew what an extra pound might mean.
“An elk forged slowly past, his wide antlers tipped with light. An
antelope sprang up and bounded away into the twilight ahead. A coyote
leaped from a shoe-string clump; he cowered and whined like a whipped
dog with his tail between his legs, then raced away down the wind.
Snorting shadows began to move to right and left in the further gloom
and disappear in the smoke-drift. I was now a part of the ragged edge
of the flotsam tossed up by the approaching lip of the flood. I gave my
horse another inch of rein and held him steady. The thunder in the rear
grew louder; I could hear dimly the wild confusion of animal cries. I
was the fox hearing the yelp of the hounds and racing for cover.
“Years and years of flight with the breath of an oven to breathe! Years
and years of rising and falling, rising and falling, and my throat was
tight with the driving smoke. The good brute began to wheeze and cough.
I felt the tremor of his wearying muscles, the slight unsteadiness of
the knees. I prayed for the river—prayed like a kid at his mother’s
knee. I begged the brute to keep his legs; I cursed him when he
tottered; I called him baby names and damned him in a breath.
“And after years the day began—a sneaking shadow of a day, shamed out
by the howling western dawn that met it on the run. A storm of sound
was all about me. Neck and neck I raced with a buffalo bull that led
the herd; his swollen tongue hung from his foaming mouth; his breath
rumbled in his throat. Wheezing steers toiled up about me. Deer and elk
raced side by side, slowly forging into the van. Grey wolves bounded
past, whining and yelping. And my good brute beat away bravely at the
few remaining miles. I felt the dry rasp of his lungs and the breaking
of his big, strong heart. He stumbled—I gave him the spur to the heel;
he gave no sign of pain. He was dying on his feet.
“And the cheap, dirty day crept in through the smoke—and I thought of
the Kid, and lost heart and cared no more about the race. But by and by
I saw the river ahead, and we plunged in—a howling, panting flood of
beasts, struggling for the farther shore.
“The sky and the river whirled about me. I felt my horse totter up a
sandbank and fall. Then the day went out, and I forgot.
“O God! I wish I’d never waked up! Why didn’t the buffalo and the
steers beat me into the sand? Why did I wake up?”
Frenchy covered his face with his hands and the tears trickled through
his fingers.
“But the dead horse parted the herd, and I woke up and the fire was
dead and the sun looked like a moon through the smoke. Three aching
years ago, it was; and I’ve dragged my carcass about and tried to look
like a man. But night and day the deuces have followed me and tortured
me. They burn holes in the dark whenever I shut my eyes; four pairs of
devils dance before me all day in the sunlight till my head whirls.”
Frenchy picked up the four deuces and held them tremblingly before the
staring crowd.
“Look at ’em! Let ’em burn through your hides into your souls! There’s
the blood of the Kid on ’em. The damned dirty deuces! They’ve got me in
the last ditch! I’m done!”
Frenchy crushed the cards and dashed them to the floor. He arose
unsteadily to his feet, took his guns and staggered out of the barroom
of the “Big 6.”
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
—Obvious errors were corrected.