THE JOY OF BEASLEY
An unusual number of horses were tethered at the posts outside
Beasley's saloon, and, a still more unusual thing, their owners, for
the most part, were not in their usual places within the building.
Most of them were lounging on the veranda in various attitudes best
calculated to rest them from the effects of the overpowering heat of
the day. Beasley was lounging with them. For once he seemed to have
weakened in his restless energy, or found something of greater
interest than that of netting questionable gains.
The latter seemed to be the more likely, for his restless eyes
displayed no lack of mental activity. At any rate, he displayed an
attitude that afternoon which startled even his bartender. Not once,
but several times that individual, of pessimistic mood, had been
called upon to dispense free rations of the worst possible liquor in
the place, until, driven from wonder to protest, he declared, with
emphatic conviction and an adequate flow of blasphemy, addressing
himself to the bottles under the counter, the smeary glasses he
breathed upon while wiping with a soiled and odoriferous cloth, that
the boss was "bug--plumb bug." Nevertheless, his own understanding of
"crookedness" warned him that the man had method, and he was anxious
to discover the direction in which it was moving. Therefore he
watched Beasley's doings with appreciative eyes, and his interest grew
as the afternoon waned.
"He's on a crook lay," he told himself after a while. And the thought
brightened his outlook upon life, and helped to banish some of his
pessimism.
The chief feature of interest for him lay in the fact that the men
foregathered were a collection of those who belonged to the
"something-for-nothing" class, as he graphically described them. And
he observed, too, that Beasley was carefully shepherding them. There
were a few of the older hands of the camp, but these seemed to have
less interest for his boss. At least he showed far less consideration
for them. And it quickly became evident that the whole afternoon's
object was the adequate ingratiation and stimulation of these dregs of
frontier life.
This the bartender saw quite clearly. For the rest he was content to
wait. He had spent most of his life in thus waiting and watching the
nefarious schemes of unscrupulous men.
The heat was overpowering. It was almost an effort to breathe, let
alone move about. The men lolled, propped against the baulks of timber
supporting the veranda roof, stretched out on benches, or crouching on
the raised edge of the wooden flooring. One and all were in a state of
wiltering in the stewing heat, from which only an intermittent flow of
fiery spirit could rouse them.
Beasley was the one exception to this general condition of things.
Mentally he was particularly alert. And, what is more, his temper,
usually so irritable and fiery, was reduced to a perfect level of good
humor.
For some moments talk had died out. Then in a sudden fit of
irritability Abe Allinson kicked a loose stone in the direction of the
tethered horses.
"Say," he observed, "this 'minds one o' the time we struck color at
the hill."
His eyes wandered toward the gathering shadows, slowly obscuring the
grim sides of Devil's Hill. His remark was addressed to no one in
particular.
Beasley took him up. It was his purpose to keep these men stirring.
"How?" he inquired.
"Why, the heat. Say, git a peek at that sky. Look yonder. The sun. Get
them durned banks o' cloud swallerin' it right up atop o' them hills.
Makes you think, don't it? That's storm. It's comin' big--an' before
many hours."
"For which we'll all be a heap thankful." Beasley laughed. "Another
day of this an' I'll be done that tender a gran'ma could eat me."
His remark drew a flicker of a smile.
"She'd need good ivories," observed the gambler, Diamond Jack, with
mild sarcasm.
Beasley took the remark as a compliment to his business capacity, and
grinned amiably.
"Jack's right. You'd sure give her an elegant pain, else," added
Curly, in a tired voice. He was steadily staring down the trail in a
manner that suggested indifference to any coming storm. Somebody
laughed half-heartedly. But Curly had no desire to enliven things, and
went on quite seriously.
"Say, when's this bum sheriff gettin' around?" he demanded.
Beasley took him up at once.
"Some time to-night," he said, in a well-calculated tone of
resentment. "That's why I got you boys around now," he added
significantly.
"You mean----?" Diamond Jack nodded in the direction of the farm.
Beasley nodded.
"That old crow bait got back early this mornin'," he went on. "I was
waitin' on her. She guessed she hadn't a thing to say, an' I surely
was up agin a proposition. So I jest made out I was feelin' good
seein' her git back, an' told her I wa'an't lookin' for information
she didn't guess she was givin', and ther' wasn't no need fer her to
say a thing. She guessed that was so. After that I passed things by,
sayin' how some o' the boys hated sheriffs wuss'n rattlesnakes--an'
she laffed. Yes, sir, she laffed, an' it must have hurt her some.
Anyways she opened out at that, an' said, if any boys hated the sight
of sheriffs they'd better hunt their holes before sun-up. Guess she
didn't just use them words, but she give 'em that time limit. Say, if
I was the Padre I'd sooner have the devil on my trail than that
old--bunch o' marrow bones."
Slaney looked up from the bench on which he was spread out.
"Guess he'll have wuss'n her when Bob Richards gets around," he said
gloomily.
"D'you reckon they'll git him--with Buck around?" inquired Curly
anxiously.
"Buck! Tcha!" Beasley's dislike for the moment got the better of his
discretion. But he quickly realized his mistake, and proceeded to
twist his meaning. "It makes me mad. It makes me plumb crazed when I
think o' that bully feller, the Padre, bein' give dead away by the
folks at the farm. Buck? Psha'! Who's Buck agin a feller like Bob
Richards? Bob's the greatest sheriff ever stepped in Montana. He'll
twist Buck so he won't know rye whisky from sow-belly. Buck's grit,
elegant grit, but Bob--wal, I'd say he's the wisest guy west of
Chicago, when it comes to stringin' up a crook."
"I'm with you, boss," cried Diamond Jack, in a quick rage. "This farm
needs lookin' to to-night sure. We got to git in 'fore sheriffs git
around. They're playin' a low-down racket. Jonahs don't cut no ice
with me, but they're chasin' up glory agin the camp. That's how I read
it. Guess none of us is saints, anyways I don't seem to hear no wings
flappin'; but givin' folks up to the law is--low."
Abe Allinson grunted, and a general atmosphere of silent approval
prevailed. Beasley, whose eyes were watching every expression, pushed
the ball further along.
"Low?" he cried. "You, Jack, don't know the guy we're so dead keen to
help out. If you did you'd git right up on to your hind legs an' cuss
terrible--an' you've cussed some in your time. But for him this camp
wouldn't be the bonanza it is. You wouldn't be nettin' a pile of
dollars every night in my bar. I wouldn't be runnin' a big proposition
in dollar makin'. These boys wouldn't be chasin' gold on full bellies.
Gee, it makes me mad--an' thirsty. Let's get around inside an' see
what that glass rustler of mine can do."
The response was immediate and complete. No man had ever been known to
refuse Beasley's hospitality. Everybody drank. And they drank again at
Diamond Jack's expense. Then later they drank at their own. And all
the while Beasley, with consummate skill, shepherded them to his own
ends.
It was truly wonderful to see the manner in which he handled them. He
adopted the simplest tactics, once he had set the ball rolling,
contenting himself with dropping in a word here and there every time
the subject of the sheriff drifted toward his ears. He knew these men.
He possessed that keenness of insight into his customers which no
successful saloon-keeper fails to acquire. He understood their
weaknesses in a manner which left it a simple enough task to play upon
them. In this case the basis of his procedure was drink--strong, harsh
whisky, of a violent type.
The banking clouds rose ponderously upon the hilltops, blacking out
the twilight with an abruptness which must have held deep significance
for men less occupied. But the dominant overcast of their minds was
the coming of the sheriff. For many of them it was far more ominous
than any storm of nature.
The bar filled to overflowing. No one cared to gamble. There would
have been no room for them, anyway. Even Diamond Jack showed no
inclination to pursue his trade. Perhaps this was the most significant
feature of all.
His was a weighty word thrown in the balance of public opinion.
Perhaps this was the result of his well-understood shrewdness. At any
rate he never failed to find a ready audience for his opinions, and
to-night his opinions were strongly and forcefully declared. Beasley
listened to him with interest, and smiled as he observed him moving
about amongst the crowd drinking with one, treating another, his
tongue never idle in his denunciation of sheriffs, and all those who
called in their aid. It almost seemed as if the man was acting under
orders, orders, perhaps inspired by a subtler mind, to disguise the
real source whence they sprang.
The gambler was truly a firebrand, and so well did he handle his
people, so well did he stir them by his disgust and righteous horror
at the employment of a sheriff in their midst, that by nine o'clock
the camp was loud in its clamor for retribution to be visited upon
those who had brought such a terror into their midst.
Beasley's amiability grew. His bartender watched it in amazement. But
it oppressed him. His pessimism resented it. He hated joy, and the
evidences of joy in others. There was real pleasure for him in Diamond
Jack's hectoring denunciations. It was something which appealed to
him. Besides, he could see the gambler was harassed, perhaps afraid of
the sheriff himself. He even envied him his fear. But Beasley's
satisfaction was depressing, and, as a protest, he neglected to
overcharge the more drunken of their customers. Beasley must not have
all the satisfaction.
But, as far as Beasley was concerned, the bartender was little better
than a piece of furniture that night. His employer had almost
forgotten his existence. Truth to tell, Beasley had lost his head in
his disease of venom. One thought, and one thought only urged him.
To-night, before the advent of the sheriff to seize upon the person of
the hated Padre, he hoped, by one stroke, to crush the heart of Buck,
and bow the proud head of the girl who had so plainly showed her
dislike and contempt for him, in the dust of shame and despair.
It was a moment worth waiting for. It was a moment of joy he would not
lightly forego. Nor did he care what time, patience, or money it cost
him. To strike at those whom he hated was as the breath of life to
him. And he meant to drink deeply of his cup of joy.
His moment came. It came swiftly, suddenly, like most matters of great
import. His opportunity came at the psychological moment, when the
last shred of temperance had been torn from wild, lawless hearts,
which, in such moments, were little better than those of savage
beasts. It came when the poison of complaint and bitterness had at
last searched out the inmost recesses of stunted, brutalized minds.
And Beasley snatched at it hungrily, like a worm-ridden dog will
snatch at the filthiest offal.
The drunken voice of Abe Allinson lifted above the general din. He was
lolling against one end of the counter, isolated from his fellows by
reason of his utterly stupefied condition. He was in a state when he
no longer had interest for his companions. He rolled about blear-eyed
and hopelessly mumbling, with a half-emptied glass in his hand, which
he waved about uncertainly. Suddenly an impotent spasm of rage seemed
to take hold of him. With a hoarse curse he raised his glass and
hurled it crashing against the wall. Then, with a wild, prolonged
whoop he shouted the result of his drunken cogitations.
"We'll burn 'em! Drown 'em! Shoot 'em! Hang 'em! Come on, fellers,
foller me!"
He made a staggering effort to leave his support. He straightened up.
For a moment he poised, swaying. Then he pitched forward on his face
and lay stretched full length upon the floor.
But all had heard. And Beasley snatched at his opportunity. He sprang
upon the counter in the moment of astonished quiet, and, before
tongues broke loose again, he had the whole attention of the crowd.
"Here, boys," he cried. "Abe's right. Drunk as he is, he's right. Only
he sure wants to do too much--more than his legs'll let him." He
grinned. "We're goin' to do this thing right now. But we're goin' to
do it like good citizens of a dandy city. We ain't goin' to act like a
gang of lynchers. We're dealin' with a gal, with gold ha'r an' blue
eyes, an' we're goin' to deal accordin'. We ain't lookin' fer her
life. That's too easy, an', wal--she's a woman. No, we're goin' to rid
this place of her an' all her tribe. We're goin' to make it so she
can't stop to do no more harm, bringin' sheriffs around. We're goin'
to burn her home right out, an' we're goin' to set her in her wagon
an' team, an' let her drive to hell out of here. We're goin' to do it
right now, before the sheriff gets busy along here. After that we'll
be too late. Are you game? Who's comin'? We're goin' to burn that
Jonah farm till ther' ain't a stick left above ground to say it ever
stood there. That's what we're goin' to do, an' I'm the man who'll
start the bonfire. Say, we'll make it like a fourth o' July. We'll
have one royal time--an' we'll be quit of all Jonahs."
As he finished speaking he leapt to the ground amidst the crowd. Nor
did he need to wait to hear the response to his appeal. It came in one
of those unanimous, drunken roars, only to be heard in such a place,
at such a time, or on a battle-field, when insensate fury demands a
raucous outlet. Every man in the place, lost, for the moment, to all
the dictates of honest manhood, was ready to follow the leadership of
one whom, in sober moments, they all disliked. It was an extraordinary
exhibition of the old savage which ever lies so near the surface in
men upon the fringe of civilization.
Nor did Beasley give them time to think. His orders came rapidly. The
bartender, for once his eyes sparkling at the thought of trouble about
to visit an unsuspecting fellow-creature, hurled himself to the task
of dealing out one large final drink to everybody. Then when a
sufficient supply of materials of an inflammatory nature had been
gathered together, the saloon-keeper placed himself at the head of his
men, supported by the only too willing Diamond Jack, and the
procession started out.