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[Illustration: Florence touched his arm. "Ben," she pleaded, "Ben,
forgive me. I've hurt you. I can't say I love you." Page 114.]
BEN BLAIR
THE STORY OF A PLAINSMAN
By WILL LILLIBRIDGE
Author of "Where the Trail Divides," etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
* * * * *
COPYRIGHT BY
A. C. MCCLURG & CO.
A. D. 1905
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
_All rights reserved_
Published October 21, 1905
Second Edition October 28, 1905
Third Edition November 29, 1905
Fourth Edition December 9, 1905
Fifth Edition December 14, 1905
Sixth Edition February 28, 1907
* * * * *
_To My Wife_
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IN RUDE BORDER-LAND 1
II. DESOLATION 9
III. THE BOX R RANCH 23
IV. BEN'S NEW HOME 37
V. THE EXOTICS 44
VI. THE SOIL AND THE SEED 53
VII. THE SANITY OF THE WILD 66
VIII. THE GLITTER OF THE UNKNOWN 74
IX. A RIFFLE OF PRAIRIE 83
X. THE DOMINANT ANIMAL 94
XI. LOVE'S AVOWAL 106
XII. A DEFERRED RECKONING 117
XIII. A SHOT IN THE DARK 134
XIV. THE INEXORABLE TRAIL 148
XV. IN THE GRIP OF THE LAW 164
XVI. THE QUICK AND THE DEAD 185
XVII. GLITTER AND TINSEL 193
XVIII. PAINTER AND PICTURE 204
XIX. A VISITOR FROM THE PLAINS 217
XX. CLUB CONFIDENCES 230
XXI. LOVE IN CONFLICT 242
XXII. TWO FRIENDS HAVE IT OUT 258
XXIII. THE BACK-FIRE 270
XXIV. THE UPPER AND THE NETHER MILLSTONES 287
XXV. OF WHAT AVAIL? 304
XXVI. LOVE'S SURRENDER 318
* * * * *
BEN BLAIR
CHAPTER I
IN RUDE BORDER-LAND
Even in a community where unsavory reputations were the rule, Mick
Kennedy's saloon was of evil repute. In a land new and wild, his
establishment was the wildest, partook most of the unsubdued, unevolved
character of its surroundings. There, as irresistibly as gravitation
calls the falling apple, came from afar and near--mainly from afar--the
malcontent, the restless, the reckless, seeking--instinctively
gregarious--the crowd, the excitement of the green-covered table, the
temporary oblivion following the gulping of fiery red liquor.
Great splendid animals were the men who gathered there; hairy, powerful,
strong-voiced from combat with prairie wind and frontier distance;
devoid of a superfluous ounce of flesh, their trousers, uniformly baggy
at the knees, bearing mute testimony to the many hours spent in the
saddle; the bare unprotected skin of their hands and faces speaking
likewise of constant contact with sun and storm.
By the broad glow of daylight the place was anything but inviting. The
heavy bar, made of cottonwood, had no more elegance than the rude sod
shanty of the pioneer. The worn round cloth-topped tables, imported at
extravagant cost from the East, were covered with splashes of grease and
liquor; and the few fly-marked pictures on the walls were coarsely
suggestive. Scattered among them haphazard, in one instance through a
lithographic print, were round holes as large as a spike-head, through
which, by closely applying the eye, one could view the world without.
When the place was new, similar openings had been carefully refilled
with a whittled stick of wood, but the practice had been discontinued;
it was too much trouble, and also useless from the frequency with which
new holes were made. Besides, although accepted with unconcern by
_habitués_ of the place, they were a source of never-ending interest to
the "tenderfeet" who occasionally appeared from nowhere and disappeared
whence they had come.
But at night all was different. Encircling the room with gleaming points
of light were a multitude of blazing candles, home-made from tallow of
prairie cattle. The irradiance, almost as strong as daylight, but
radically different, softened all surrounding objects. The prairie dust,
penetrating with the wind, spread itself everywhere. The reflection from
cheap glassware, carefully polished, made it appear of costly make; the
sawdust of the floor seemed a downy covering; the crude heavy chairs, an
imitation of the artistic furniture of our fathers. Even the face of
bartender Mick, with its stiff unshaven red beard and its single
eye,--merciless as an electric headlight,--its broad flaming scar
leading down from the blank socket of its mate, became less repulsive
under the softened light.
With the coming of Fall frosts, the premonition of Winter, the
frequenters of the place gathered earlier, remained later, emptied more
of the showily labelled bottles behind the bar, and augmented when
possible their well-established reputation for recklessness. About the
soiled tables the fringe of bleared faces and keen hawk-like eyes was
more closely drawn. The dull rattle of poker-chips lasted longer,
frequently far into the night, and even after the tardy light of morning
had come to the rescue of the sputtering stumps in the candlesticks.
On such a morning, early in November, daylight broadened upon a
characteristic scene. Only one table was in use, and around it sat four
men. One by one the other players had cashed out and left the game. One
of them was snoring in a corner, his head resting upon the sawdust.
Another leaned heavily upon the bar, a half-drained glass before him.
Even the four at the table were not as upon the night before. The hands
which held the greasy cards and toyed with the stacks of chips were
steady, but the heads controlling them wavered uncertainly; and the hawk
eyes were bloodshot.
A man with a full beard, roughly trimmed into the travesty of a Vandyke,
was dealing. He tossed out the cards, carefully inclining their faces
downward, and returned the remainder of the pack softly to the table.
"Pass, damn it!" growled the man at the left.
"Pass," came from the next man.
"Pass," echoed the last of the quartette.
Five blue chips dropped in a row upon the cloth.
"I open it."
The dealer took up the pack lovingly.
"Cards?"
The man at the left, tall, gaunt, ill-kempt, flicked the pasteboards in
his hand to the floor and ground them beneath his heavy boots.
"Give me five."
The point of the Vandyke beard was aimed straight past the speaker.
"Cards?" repeated the dealer.
"Five! Can't you hear?"
The man braced against the bar looked around with interest. In the mask
of Mick Kennedy the single eye closed almost imperceptibly. Slowly the
face of the dealer turned.
"I can hear you pretty well when you cash into the game. You already owe
me forty blues, Blair."
The long figure stiffened, the face went pale.
"You--mean--you--" the tongue was very thick. "You cut me out?"
For a moment there was silence; then once more the beard pointed to the
player next beyond.
"Cards?" for the third time.
Five chips ranged in a row beside their predecessors.
"Three."
A hand, almost the hand of a gentleman, went instinctively to the gaunt
throat of the ignored gambler and jerked at the close flannel shirt;
then without a word the owner got unsteadily to his feet and followed
an irregular trail toward the interested spectator at the bar.
"Have a drink with me, pard," said the gambler, as he regarded the
immovable Mick. "Two whiskeys, there!"
Kennedy did not stir, and for five seconds Blair blinked his dulled eyes
in wordless surprise; then his fist came down upon the cottonwood board
with a mighty crash.
"Wake up there, Mick!" he roared. "I'm speaking to you! A couple of
'ryes' for the gentleman here and myself."
Another pause, momentary but effective.
"I heard you." The barkeeper spoke quietly but without the slightest
change of expression, even of the eye. "I heard you, but I'm not dealing
out drinks to deadbeats. Pay up, and I'll be glad to serve you."
Swift as thought Blair's hand went to his hip, and the rattle of
poker-chips sympathetically ceased. A second, and a big revolver was
trained fair at the dispenser of liquors.
"Curse you, Mick Kennedy!" muttered a choking voice, "when I order
drinks I want drinks. Dig up there, and be lively!"
The man by the speaker's side, surprised out of his intoxication, edged
away to a discreet distance; but even yet the Irishman made no move.
Only the single headlight shifted in its socket until it looked
unblinkingly into the blazing eyes of the gambler.
"Tom Blair," commanded an even voice, "Tom Blair, you white livered
bully, put up that gun!"
Slowly, very slowly, the speaker turned,--all but the terrible
Cyclopean eye,--and moved forward until his body leaned upon the bar,
his face protruding over it.
"Put up that gun, I tell you!" A smile almost fiendish broke over the
furrows of the rugged face. "You wouldn't dast shoot, unless perhaps it
was a woman, you coward!"
For a fraction of a minute there was silence, while over the visage of
the challenged there flashed, faded, recurred the expression we pay good
dollars to watch playing upon the features of an accomplished actor;
then the yellow streak beneath the bravado showed, and the menacing hand
dropped to the holster at the hip. Once again Kennedy, who seldom made a
mistake, had sized his man correctly.
"What do I owe you altogether, Mick?" asked a changed and subdued voice.
"Make it as easy as you can."
Kennedy relaxed into his lounging position.
"Thirty-five dollars. We'll call it thirty. You've been setting them up
to everybody here for a week on your face."
"Can't you give me just a little more credit, Mick?" An expression meant
to be a smile formed upon the haggard face. "Just for old time's sake?
You know I've always been a good customer of yours, Kennedy."
"Not a cent."
"But I've got to have liquor!" One hand, ill-kept, but long of fingers
and refined of shape, steadied the speaker. "I can't get along without
it!"
"Sell something, then, and pay up."
The man thought a moment and shook his head.
"I haven't anything to sell; you know that. It's the wrong time of the
year." He paused, and the travesty of a smile reappeared. "Next
Winter--"
"You've got a horse outside."
For an instant Blair's gaunt face darkened at the insult; he grew almost
dignified; but the drink curse had too strong a grip upon him and the
odor of whiskey was in the air.
"Yes, I've a good horse," he said slowly. "What'll you give for him?"
"Seventy dollars."
"He's a good horse, worth a hundred."
"I'm glad of that, but I'm not dealing in horses. I make the offer just
to oblige you. Besides, as you said, it's an off season."
"You won't give me more?"
"No."
Blair looked impotently about the room, but his former companions had
returned to their game. Filling in the silence, the dull clatter of
chips mingled with the drunken snores of the man on the floor.
"Very well, give me forty," he said at last.
"You accept, do you?"
"Yes."
"All right."
Blair waited a moment. "Aren't you going to give me what's coming?" he
asked.
Slowly the single eye fixed him as before.
"I didn't know you had anything coming."
"Why, you just said forty dollars!"
There was no relenting in Kennedy's face.
"You owe that gentleman over there at the table for forty blues. I'll
settle with him."
Instinctively, as before, Blair's thin hand went to his throat,
clutching at the coarse flannel. He saw he was beaten.
"Well, give me a drink, anyway!"
Silently Mick took a big flask from the shelf and set it with a decanter
upon the bar. Filling the glass, Blair drained it at a gulp, refilled
and drained it--and then again.
"A little drop to take along with me," he whined.
Kennedy selected a pint bottle, filled it from the big flask, and
silently proffered it over the board.
Blair took the extended favor, glanced once more about the room, and
stumbled toward the exit. Mick busied himself wiping the soiled bar with
a towel, if possible, even more filthy. At the threshold, his hand upon
the knob, Blair paused, stiffened, grew livid in the face.
"May Satan blister your scoundrel souls, all of you!" he cursed.
Not a man within sound of his voice gave sign that he had heard, as the
opened door returned to its casing with a crash.