THE BACK-FIRE
When Ben Blair left the Baker home he went back to his room at the
hotel, closed and locked the door, and, throwing off coat and hat,
stretched himself full-length upon the floor, gazing up at the ceiling
but seeing nothing. It had been a hard fight for self-control there on
the prairie the day Florence rejected him, but it was as nothing to the
tumult that now raged in his brain. Then, despite his pain, hope had
remained. Now hope was lost, and in its place stood a maddening
might-have-been. Under the compulsion of his will, the white flood of
anger had passed, but it only made more difficult the solution of the
problem confronting him. Under the influence of passion the situation
would have been a mere physical proposition; but with opportunity to
think, another's wishes and another's rights--those of the woman he
loved--challenged him at every turn.
At first it seemed that a removal of his physical presence, a going away
never to return, was adequate solution of the difficulty; but he soon
realized that it was not. Deeper than his own love was his desire for
the happiness of the girl he had known from childhood. Had he been
certain that she would be happy with the man who had fascinated her, he
could have conquered self, could have returned to his prairies, his
cattle, his work, and have concealed his hurt. But it was impossible for
him to believe she would be happy. Without volition on his part he had
become an actor in this drama, this comedy, this tragedy,--whatever it
might prove to be; and he felt that it would be an act of cowardice upon
his part to leave before the play was ended. He was not in the least
religious in the sense of creed and dogma. In all his life he had
scarcely given a thought to religion. His knowledge of the Almighty by
name had been largely confined to that of a word to conjure with in
mastering an obstreperous bronco; but, in the broad sense of personal
cleanliness and individual duty, he was religious to the core. He would
not shirk a responsibility, and a responsibility faced him now.
Hour after hour he lay prone while his active brain suggested one course
after another, all, upon consideration, proving inadequate. Gradually
out of the chaos one fundamental fact became distinct in his mind. He
must know more of this man Clarence Sidwell before he could leave the
city, and this decision brought him to his feet. Under the
circumstances, a strategist might have employed others to gather
surreptitiously the information desired; but such was not the nature of
Benjamin Blair. One thing he had learned in dealing with his fellows,
which was that the most effective way to secure the thing one wished was
to go direct to the man who had it to give. In this case Sidwell was the
man. With a grim smile Ben remembered the invitation and the address he
had received the first night he was in town. He would avail himself of
both.
Night had fallen long ere this; when Ben arose the room was in darkness,
save for the reflected light which came through the heavily curtained
windows from the street lamps. He turned on an electric bulb and made a
hasty toilet. In doing so his eye fell upon the two big revolvers within
the drawer of the dresser; and the same impulse that had caused him to
bring them into this land of civilization made him thrust them into his
hip pockets. It was more habit than anything else, just as a man with a
dog friend feels vaguely uncomfortable unless his pet is with him. Blair
had the vigorously recurring appetite of a healthy animal, and it
suddenly occurred to him that he had not yet dined. Descending to the
street, he sought a _café_ and ate a hearty meal.
A half-hour later, the elevator boy of the Metropolitan Block, where
Sidwell had his quarters, was surprised, on answering the indicator, to
find a young man in an abnormally broad hat and flannel shirt awaiting
him. The youth was of vivid imagination, and knowing that a Wild West
troupe was performing in town, one glance at Ben's hat, his suspicions
became certainty.
"Eleventh floor," he announced, when the passenger had told his
destination; then as the car moved upward he gathered courage and looked
the rancher fair in the eye.
"Say, Mister," he ventured, "give me a pass to the show, will you?"
For an instant Ben looked blank; then he understood, and his hand
sought his trousers' pocket. "Sorry," he explained, "but I don't happen
to have any with me. Will this do instead?" and he produced a
half-dollar.
The boy brought the car deftly to a stop within a half-inch of the level
of the desired floor. "Thank you. Mr. Sidwell--straight ahead, and turn
to the left down the short hall," he said obligingly.
Blair stepped out, saying, "Don't fail to be around to-morrow when I do
my stunt."
With open-mouthed admiration the boy watched the frontiersman's long
free stride--a movement that struck the floor with the springiness of a
cat, very different from the flat-footed jar of pedestrians on paved
streets.
"I won't!" he called after him. "I'd rather see't than a dozen
ball-games! I'll look for you, Mister!"
At the interrupting tap upon the door, Sidwell voiced a languid "Come
in," and merely shifted in his seat; but his big companion, with the
hospitality of inebriation, had returned his glass unsteadily to the
table and arisen. He had taken a couple of uncertain steps, as if to
open the door, when, in answer to the summons, Ben Blair stepped inside.
Hough halted with a suddenness which all but cost him his equilibrium.
The expansive smile upon his face vanished, and he stared as though the
bottomless pit had opened at his feet. For a fraction of a minute not
one of the three men spoke or stirred, but in that time the steady blue
eyes of the countryman took in the details of the scene--the luxurious
furnishings, the condition of the two men--with the rapidity and
minuteness of a sensitized plate. Ironic chance had chosen an
unpropitious night for his call. Intoxication surrounding a bar, under
the stimulus of numbers, and preceding or following some exciting event,
he could understand, could, perhaps, condone; but this solitary
dissipation, drunkenness for its own sake, was something new to him. The
observing eyes fastened themselves upon the host's face.
"In response to your invitation," he said evenly, "I've called."
Sidwell roused himself. His face flushed. Despite the liquor in his
brain, he felt the inauspicious chance of the meeting.
"Glad you did," he said, with an attempt at ease. "Deucedly glad. I
don't know of anyone in the world I'd rather see. Just speaking of you,
weren't we?" he said, appealing to Hough. "By the way, Mr.--er--Blair,
shake hands with Mr. Hough, Mr. Winston Hough. Mighty good fellow,
Hough, but a bit melancholy. Needs cheering up a bit now and then.
Needed it badly to-night--almost cried for it, in fact"; and the speaker
smiled convivially.
Hough extended his hand with elaborate formality. "Delighted to meet
you," he managed to articulate.
"Thank you," returned the other shortly.
Sidwell meanwhile was bringing a third chair and glass. "Come over,
gentlemen," he invited, "and we'll celebrate this, the proudest moment
of my life. You drink, of course, Mr. Blair?"
Ben did not stir. "Thank you, but I never drink," he said.
"What!" Sidwell smiled sceptically. "A cattle-man, and not refresh
yourself with good liquor? You refute all the precedents! Come over and
take something!"
Ben only looked at him steadily. "I repeat, I never drink," he said
conclusively.
Sidwell sat down, and Hough followed his lead.
"All right, all right! Have a cigar, then. At least you smoke?"
"Yes," assented Blair, "I smoke--sometimes."
The host extended the box hospitably. "Help yourself. They're good ones,
I'll answer for that. I import them myself."
Ben took a step forward, but his hands were still in his pockets. "Mr.
Sidwell," he said, "we may as well save time and try to understand each
other. In some ways I am a bit like an Indian. I never smoke except with
a friend, and I am not sure you are a friend of mine. To be candid with
you, I believe you are not."
Hough stirred in his chair, but Sidwell remained impassive save that the
convivial smile vanished.
A quarter of a minute passed. Once the host took up his glass as if to
drink, but put it down untasted. At last he indicated the vacant chair.
"Won't you be seated?" he invited.
Ben sat down.
"You say," continued Sidwell, "that I am not your friend. The statement
and your actions carry the implication that of necessity, then, we must
be enemies."
The speaker was sparring for time. His brain was not yet normal, but it
was clearing rapidly. He saw this was no ordinary man he had to deal
with, no ordinary circumstance; and his plan of campaign was unevolved.
"I fail to see why," he continued.
"Do you?" said Ben, quietly.
Sidwell lit a cigar nonchalantly and smoked for a moment in silence.
"Yes," he reiterated. "I fail to see why. To have made you an enemy
implies that I have done you an injury, and I recall no way in which I
could have offended you."
Ben indicated Hough with a nod of his head. "Do you wish a third party
to hear what we have to say?" he inquired.
Sidwell looked at the questioner narrowly. Deep in his heart he was
thankful that they two were not alone. He did not like the look in the
countryman's blue eyes.
"Mr. Hough," he said with dignity, "is a friend of mine. If either of
you must leave the room, most assuredly it will not be he." His eyes
returned to those of the visitor, held there with an effort. "By the
bye," he challenged, "what is it we have to say, anyway? So far as I can
see, there's no point where we touch."
Ben returned the gaze steadily. "Absolutely none?" he asked.
"Absolutely none." Sidwell spoke with an air of finality.
The countryman leaned a bit forward and rested his elbow upon his knee,
his chin upon his hand.
"Suppose I suggest a point then: Miss Florence Baker."
Sidwell stiffened with exaggerated dignity. "I never discuss my
relations with a lady, even with a friend. I should be less apt to do so
in speaking with a stranger."
The lids of Ben's eyes tightened just a shade. "Then I'll have to ask
you to make an exception to the rule," he said slowly.
"In that case," Sidwell responded quickly, "I'll refuse."
For a moment silence fell. Through the open window came the ceaseless
drone of the shifting multitude on the street below.
"Nevertheless, I insist," said Ben, calmly.
Sidwell's face flushed, although he was quite sober now. "And I must
still refuse," he said, rising. "Moreover, I must request that you leave
the room. You forget that you are in my home!"
Ben arose calmly and walked to the door through which he had entered.
The key was in the lock, and turning it he put it in his pocket. Still
without haste he returned to his seat.
"That this is your home, and that you were its dictator before I came
and will be after I leave, I do not contest," he said; "but temporarily
the place has changed hands. I do not think you were quite in earnest
when you refused to talk with me."
For answer, Sidwell jerked a cord beside the table. A bell rang
vigorously in the rear of the apartments, and the big negro hurried into
the room.
"Alec," directed the master, "call a policeman at once! At once--do you
hear?"
"Yes, sah," and the servant started to obey; but the visitor's eye
caught his.
"Alec," said Ben, steadily, "don't do that! I'll be the first person to
leave this room!"
Instantly Sidwell was on his feet, his face convulsed with passion.
"Curse you!" he cried. "You'll pay for this! I'll teach you what it
means to hold up a man in his own house!" He turned to his servant with
a look that made the latter recoil. "I want you to understand that when
I give an order I mean it. Go!"
Blair was likewise on his feet, his long body stretched to its full
height, his blue eyes fastened upon the face of the panic-stricken
darky.
"Alec," he repeated evenly, "you heard what I said." Without a motion
save of his head he indicated a seat in the corner of the room. "Sit
down!"
Sidwell took a step forward, his clenched fists raised menacingly.
"Blair! you--you--"
"Yes."
"You--"
"Certainly, I--"
That was all. It was not a lengthy conversation, or a brilliant one, but
it was adequate. Face to face, the two men stood looking in each other's
eyes, each taking his opponent's measure. Hough had also risen; he
expected bloodshed; but not once did Blair stir as much as an eyelid,
and after that first step Sidwell also halted. Beneath his supercilious
caste dominance he was a physical coward, and at the supreme test he
weakened. The flood of anger passed as swiftly as it had come, leaving
him impotent. He stood for a moment, and then the clenched fist dropped
to his side.
For the first time, Ben Blair moved. Unemotionally as before, his nod
indicated the chair in the corner.
"Sit over there as long as I stay, Alec," he directed; and the negro
responded with the alacrity of a well-trained dog.
Ben turned to the big man. "And you, too, Hough. My business has nothing
to do with you, but it may be well to have a witness. Be seated,
please."
Hough obeyed in silence. Sober as Sidwell now, his mind grasped the
situation, and in spite of himself he felt his sympathy going out to
this masterful plainsman.
Ben Blair now turned to the host, and as he did so his wiry figure
underwent a transformation that lived long in the spectators' minds.
With his old characteristic motion, his hands went into his trousers'
pockets, his chest expanded, his great chin lifted until, looking down,
his eyes were half closed.
"You, Mr. Sidwell," he said, "can stand or sit, as you please; but one
thing I warn you not to do--don't lie to me. We're in the home of lies
just now, but it can't help you. Your face says you are used to having
your own way, right or wrong. Now you'll know the reverse. So long as
you speak the truth, I won't hurt you, no matter what you say. If you
don't, and believe in God, you'd best make your peace with Him. Do you
doubt that?"
One glance only Sidwell raised to the towering face, and his eyes fell.
Every trace of fight, of effrontery, had left him, and he dropped weakly
into his chair.
"No, I don't doubt you," he said.
Ben likewise sat down, but his eyes were inexorable.
"First of all, then," he went on, "you will admit you were mistaken when
you said there was no point where we touched?"
"Yes, I was mistaken."
"And you were not serious when you refused to talk with me?"
A spasm of repugnance shot over the host's dark face. He heard the
labored breathing of the negro in the corner, and felt the eyes of his
big friend upon him.
"Yes, I was not serious," he admitted slowly.
Ben's long legs crossed, his hands closed on the chair-arms.
"Very well, then," he said. "Tell me what there is between you and Miss
Baker."
Sidwell lit a cigar, though the hand that held the match trembled.
"Everything, I hope," he said. "I intend marrying her."
The ranchman's face gave no sign at the confession.
"You have asked her, have you?"
"No. Your coming prevented. I should otherwise have done so to-day."
The long fingers on the chair-arms tightened until they grew white.
"You knew why I came to town, did you not?"
Sidwell hesitated.
"I had an intuition," he admitted reluctantly.
Again silence fell, and the subdued roar of the city came to their ears.
"You have not called at the Baker home to-day," continued Blair. "Was it
consideration for me that kept you away?" The thin, weather-browned face
grew, if possible, more clean-cut. "Remember to talk straight."
Sidwell took the cigar from his lips. An exultation he could not quite
repress flooded him. His eyes met the other's fair.
"No," he said, "it was anything but consideration for you. I knew she
was going to refuse you."
In the corner the negro's eyes widened. Even Hough held his breath; but
not a muscle of Ben Blair's body stirred.
"You say you knew," he said evenly. "How did you know?"
Sidwell flicked the ash from his cigar steadily. He was regaining, if
not his courage, at least some of his presence of mind. This seeming
desperado from the West was a being upon whom reason was not altogether
wasted.
"I knew because her mother told me--about all there was to tell, I
guess--of your relations before Florence came here. I knew if she
refused you then she would be more apt to do so now."
Still the figure in brown was that of a statue.
"She told you--what--you say?"
Sidwell shifted uncomfortably. He saw breakers ahead.
"The--main reason at least," he modified.
"Which was--" insistently.
Sidwell hesitated, his new-found confidence vanishing like the smoke
from his cigar. But there was no escape.
"The reason, she said, was because you were--minus a pedigree."
The last words dropped like a bomb in the midst of the room. Ben Blair
swiftly rose from his seat. The negro's eyes rolled around in search of
some place of concealment. With a protesting movement Hough was on his
feet.
"Gentlemen!" he implored. "Gentlemen!"
But the intervention was unnecessary. Ben Blair had settled back in his
seat. Once more his hands were on the chair-arms.
"Do you," he insinuated gently, "consider the reason she gave an
adequate one? Do you consider that it had any rightful place in the
discussion?"
The question, seemingly simple, was hard to answer. An affirmative
trembled on the city man's tongue. He realized it was his opportunity
for a crushing rejoinder. But cold blue eyes were upon him and the
meaning of their light was only too clear.
"I can understand the lady's point of view," he said evasively.
Ben Blair leaned forward, the great muscles of his jaw and temples
tightening beneath the skin.
"I did not ask for the lady's point of view," he admonished, "I asked
for your own."
Again Sidwell felt his opportunity, but physical cowardice intervened.
No power on earth could have made him say "yes" when the other looked at
him like that.
"No," he lied, "I do not see that it should make the slightest
difference."
"On your honor, you swear you do not?"
Sidwell repeated the statement, and sealed it with his honor.
Ben Blair relaxed, and Hough mopped his brow with a sigh of relief. Even
Sidwell felt the respite, but it was short-lived.
"I think," Ben resumed, "that what you've just said and sworn to gives
the lie to your original statement that you have given me no cause for
enmity. According to your own showing you are the one existing obstacle
between Florence Baker and myself. Is it not so?"
Like a condemned criminal, Sidwell felt the noose tightening.
"I can't deny it," he admitted.
For some seconds Ben Blair looked at him with an expression almost
menacing. When he again spoke the first trace of passion was in his
voice.
"Such being the case, Clarence Sidwell," he went on, "caring for
Florence Baker as I do, and knowing you as I do, why in God's name
should I leave you, coward, in possession of the dearest thing to me in
the world?" For an instant the voice paused, the protruding lower jaw
advanced until it became a positive disfigurement. "Tell me why I should
sacrifice my own happiness for yours. I have had enough of this
word-play. Speak!"
In every human life there is at some time a supreme moment, a tragic
climax of events; and Sidwell realized that for him this moment had
arrived. Moreover, it had found him helpless and unprepared. Artificial
to the bone, he was fundamentally disqualified to meet such an
emergency; for artifice or subterfuge would not serve him now. One hasty
glance into that relentless face caused him to turn his own away. Long
ago, in the West, he had once seen a rustler hung by a posse of
ranchers. The inexorable expression he remembered on the surrounding
faces was mirrored in Ben Blair's. His brain whirled; he could not
think. His hand passed aimlessly over his face; he started to speak, but
his voice failed him.
Ben Blair shifted forward in his seat. The long sinewy fingers gripped
the chair like a panther ready to spring.
"I am listening," he admonished.
Sidwell felt the air of the room grow stifling. A big clock was ticking
on the wall, and it seemed to him the second-beats were minutes apart.
His downcast eyes just caught the shape of the hands opposite him, and
in fancy he felt them already tightening upon his throat. Like a
drowning man, scenes in his past life swarmed through his brain. He saw
his mother, his sisters, at home in the old family mansion; his friends
at the club, chatting, laughing, drinking, smoking. In an impersonal
sort of way he wondered how they would feel, what they would say, when
they heard. On the vision swept. It was Florence Baker he saw
now--Florence, all in fleecy white; the girl and himself were on the
broad veranda of the Baker home. They were not alone. Another
figure--yes, this same menacing figure now so near--was on the walk
below them, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, but leaving. Florence
was speaking; a smile was upon her lips.
Like a flash of lightning the images of fancy passed, the present
returned. At last came the solution once before suggested,--the
back-fire! Sidwell straightened, every nerve in his body tense. He
spoke--and scarcely recognized his own voice.
"There is a reason," he said, "a very adequate reason, one which
concerns another more than it does us." With a supreme effort of will
the man met the blue eyes of his opponent squarely. "It is because
Florence Baker loves me and doesn't love you. Because she would never
forgive you, never, if you did--what you think of doing now."
For an instant the listening figure remained tense, and it seemed to
Sidwell that his own pulse ceased beating; then the long sinewy body
collapsed as under a physical blow.
"God!" said a low voice. "I forgot!"
Not one of the three spectators stirred or spoke. Like sheep, they
awaited the lead of their master.
And it came full soon. Stiffly, clumsily, still in silence, Ben Blair
arose. His face was drawn and old, his step was slow and halting. Like
one walking in his sleep, he made his way to the door, took the key from
his pocket, and turned the lock. Not once did he speak or glance back.
The door closed softly, and he was gone.
Behind him for a second there was silence, inactive incredulity as at a
miracle performed; then, in a blaze of long repressed fury, Sidwell
stood beside the table. Not pausing for a glass, he raised the red
decanter to his lips and drank, drank, as though the liquor were water.
"Curse him! I'll marry that girl now if for no other reason than to get
even with him. If it's the last act of my life, I swear I'll marry
her!"