CHAPTER XVI
DEVIL DRIVEN
The saloon was full and Rocket was busy. His face glowed with funereal happiness. He was sombrely delighted at the rapidity with which the tide of dollars was flowing across his dingy counter. He was more than ordinarily interested, too, which was somewhat remarkable.
The fact was Barnriff’s scandal had received a fillip in a fresh and unprecedented direction. McLagan had been in, bringing two of his cow-punchers with him. The hot-headed Irishman had crashed into the midst of Barnriff with such a splash that it set the store of public comment hissing and spluttering, and raised a perfect roar of astonishment and outraged rectitude.
He had arrived late, after the usual evening game had started. His first inquiry was for Jim Thorpe, and he cursed liberally when told that nobody had seen him. Then he fired his angry story at the assembled company of villagers, and passed on to make camp at a rival ranch five miles to the northwest.
It was a rapidly told story full of lurid trimmings, and, judging by its force, came from his heart.
“It’s duffing, boys,” he cried, with an oath, and a thump on the bar which set the glasses, filled at his expense, rattling. “Dogone cattle-duffing! Can you beat it? The first in five year, since Curly Sanders got gay, and then spent a vacation treadin’ air. We got first wind of it nigh a week back, Jim an’ me. We missed a bunch o’ backward calves. We let ’em run this spring round-up, guessin’ we’d round ’em up come the fall. Well, say, Jim went to git a look at ’em–they was way back there by the foot-hills, in a low hollow–an’ not a blame trace or track of ’em could he locate. We just guessed they was ‘stray,’ and started in to round ’em up. Well, the boys has been busy nigh on a week, an’ here, this sundown, Nat Pauley an’ Jim Beason come riding in, till their bronchos was nigh foundered, sayin’ a bunch of twenty cows on the Bandy Creek station has gone too. D’you git that? Those blamed calves was on the Bandy Creek range, too. It’s darnation cattle-thievin’, an’ I’m hot on the trail.”
And Barnriff was stirred. It was more. It was up in arms. There was no stronger appeal to its sympathies than the cry of “cattle-thief!” As a village it lived on the support of the surrounding ranches, and their ills became the scourge of this hornet’s nest of sharp traders. McLagan had raised the cry here knowing full well the hatred he would stir, and the support that would be accorded him should he need it.
He had come and gone a veritable firebrand, and the hot trail he had left behind him was smouldering in a manner unhealthy for the cattle-thieves.
When Peter Blunt entered the saloon it was to receive McLagan’s tale from all sides. And while he listened to the story, now garbled out of all semblance of its original form by the whiskey-stimulated imaginations, he found himself wondering how it came that Jim Thorpe had given him no word of it. And he said so.
“Say, boys,” he observed, when he got a chance to speak, “I only left Jim Thorpe a while back. He rode in to see me. He didn’t give me word of this.”
It was Abe Horsley who explained.
“McLagan came in looking for him. Jim’s only got the week old stuff. The news hit the ranch at sundown to-day.”
Peter nodded.
“I see.”
“You’ll see more, Peter,” broke in Smallbones viciously. “You’ll see a vigilance committee right here, if this gambol don’t quit. Barnriff don’t stand for cattle-duffin’ worth a cent.”
“Upsets trade,” lumbered Jake Wilkes, with the tail of his eye on the busy Smallbones.
Gay laughed ponderously.
“Smallbones’ll show us how to form a corporation o’ vigilantes. Though it ain’t a finance job.”
“Ay, that I will. I’m live anyways. I’ve had to do with ’em before.”
“You didn’t get hanged,” protested Jake, after heavy thought. “Guess you ain’t got no kick coming.”
Smallbones purpled to the roots of his bristly hair. Jake irritated him to a degree, and the roar of laughter which greeted the slow-witted baker’s sally set him completely on edge.
“Guess I was on the other end of the rope,” he retorted, trying to turn the laugh, but the baker, with grave deliberation, added to his score.
“Which was a real mean trick o’ fortune on us folks o’ Barnriff,” he murmured.
In the midst of the laughter Peter moved away to the tables. He looked on here and there watching the varying fortunes with all the interest of his intensely human mind. The weaknesses of human nature appealed to his kindly sympathy as they can only to those of large heart. He begrudged no man moments when the cares of everyday life might be pushed into the background, however they might be obtained.
He argued that the judgment of Nature needed no human condemnation added to it. Human penalty must be reserved for the administration of social laws. To his mind the broad road of evil would automatically claim its own without the augmentation of the loads of human freight borne thither on the dump-carts of the self-righteous. Rather it was his delight to hold out a hand to a poor soul in distress, even if his own ground were none too secure.
At one table he saw the winnings almost entirely in one corner, and the expressive yet grim faces of the other players only too plainly showed their feelings. He noticed the greedy manner in which the losers clutched up their cards at each fresh deal. Their hope was invincible, and he loved them for it. It may have been the hope such as a drowning man is credited with. It may have been the sportsman’s instinct seeking a fresh turn in fortune’s wheel. It may have been inspired by the malicious hope of the winner’s downfall. But he felt it was healthy, in spite of the ethical pronouncements of those who repose on the pedestal of their own virtues. It was, to his mind, the spirit of the fighter in the game of life, a spirit, which, even though misdirected, must never be unreservedly deplored. To his mind it were better to fight a battle, however wrong be the prompting instinct, than to run for the shelter of supine ineptitude.
He moved slowly round the room till he came to the table where Will Henderson was playing. He had reached his goal, and his self-imposed task had begun. His eyes quickly scanned the table and the faces of the five players. The other four were men he knew, not actually of the village, but hard-faced, lean ranchmen, men who came from heaven alone knew where, and whose earthly career was scarcely likely to bring about the final completion of the circle.
For the moment they mattered little. It was Will he was concerned with; nor was it with his fortunes in the game. The hand had just finished, and he saw one of the men rake in a small pot of “ante’s” without a challenge. While the fresh dealer was shuffling the cards he caught Will’s eye. He read there the anxiety of a gambler whose luck is out. He glanced at his attenuated pile of chips, and took his opportunity.
“Feel like missing the deal, Will?” he asked casually.
But the set of the face lifted to him warned him of the negative which swiftly followed.
“Guess I’m not yearning.”
Peter followed it up while the cards were being cut.
“I’ve got to speak to you particular.”
A look of doubt suddenly leaped into Will’s eyes, and he hesitated.
“What d’you want?”
Peter eyed the tumbler of whiskey at the man’s elbow. He noted the heavy eyes in the good-looking young face. But the cards were dealt, and he waited for the finish of the hand. He saw Will bet, and lose on a “full-house.” His pile was reduced to four fifty-cent chips and the man’s language was full of venom at his opponent’s luck. The moment he ceased speaking Peter began again.
“Your wife’s hurt bad,” he said. “Doc Crombie’s only just left her.”
Will started. He had forgotten. A sudden fear held him silent, while he waited for more. But no more was forthcoming. Only the blue eyes of his informant searched his face, and, to the guilty man, they seemed to be reading to the very depths of his soul. Something urged him, and he suddenly stood up.
“You best deal four hands,” he said hastily to his companions. “I’ll be back directly.”
Then he moved away from the table unsteadily, and Peter made a guess at the quantity of bad whiskey he had consumed. He led the way from the tables, and, once clear of them, glanced over his shoulder.
“We best get outside,” he said.
But Will was already regretting his game. The feeling of guilt was passing. It had only been roused by the suddenness of Peter’s announcement. A look of resentment accompanied his reply.
“I ain’t going to miss more than a couple of hands,” he protested.
“Then we best hurry.”
Peter led the way through the crowd, and the two passed out. With the glare and reek of the bar behind them he dropped abreast of Will, and walked him steadily in the direction of his own hut. At first Henderson failed to notice the intention; he was waiting for Peter to speak. He was waiting for the “particular” he had spoken of. Then, as it did not seem to be forthcoming, he promptly rebelled.
“You can tell me right here,” he said, with distinct truculence, and coming to a dead standstill.
Peter reached out, and his powerful hand closed about the other’s upper arm.
“What I’ve got to tell you can be told in my shack. You best come right on.”
“Take your darned hand off me!” cried Will, angrily. “You’ll tell me here, or I get back to my game.” He tried to twist himself free. But Peter’s hand tightened its hold.
“You’re quitting that saloon for to-night, Will,” he said quietly.
The other laughed, but he had a curiously uncomfortable feeling under his anger. Suddenly he put more exertion into his efforts to release himself, and his fury rose in proportion.
“Darn your soul, let me go!” he cried.
But Peter suddenly seized his wrist with his other hand, and it closed on it like a vice.
“Don’t drive me to force,” he warned. “That saloon is closed to you to-night. Do you understand? I’ve got to say things that’ll likely change your way of thinking. Don’t be a fool; come on up to my shack.”
There was something so full of calm strength, so full of conviction in Peter’s tone that it was not without its effect. That guilty thought rose again in Will’s mind, and it weakened his power of resistance. His rage was no less, but now there was something else with it, an undermining fear, and in a moment he ceased to struggle.
“All right,” he said, and moved forward at the other’s side.
Peter released his wrist, but kept his hold on his arm.
And they walked in silence to the “shack.” Will had long known the gold prospector, and had become so accustomed to the mildness of his manner, as had all the village, that this sudden display of physical and moral force brought with it an awakening that had an unpleasant flavor. Then, too, his own thoughts were none too easy, and the picture of Eve as he had last seen her would obtrude itself, and created, if no gentler feeling, at least a guilty nervousness that sickened his stomach.
Peter said that Doc Crombie had only just left her. What did that mean? Only just left her, and–it had occurred nearly two hours ago. He was troubled. But his trouble was in no way touched with either remorse or pity. He was thinking purely of himself.
Of course she had recovered, he told himself. He had watched her breathing before he left her. Yes, he had ascertained that. She had been merely stunned. Ah, a sudden thought! Perhaps she had told them what had happened. A black rage against her suddenly took hold of him. If she had–but no. Even though he was–as he was, he realized, as bad natures often will realize in others better than themselves, Eve’s loyalty and high-mindedness. It could not be that. He wondered. And wondering they reached their destination.
Peter let him pass into the hut, and, following quickly, lit the lamp. Then he pointed at the only comfortable seat, and propped himself against the table, with the light shining full on Will’s face.
“Will,” he began, without any preamble, “you’ve got to take a fall–quick. You’ve got to get such a big fall that maybe it’ll hurt some–at first. But you’ll get better–later.”
“I don’t get you.”
The man assumed indifference. He felt that he must steady himself. He wanted to get the measure of the other before giving vent to those feelings which were natural to him since drink had undermined all that was best in him.
“You’ve nearly killed your wife to-night,” Peter went on, with a new note of harshness in his voice. “Look you, I’m not going to preach. It’s not our way here, and none of us are such a heap good that preaching comes right from us. I’m warning you, and it’s a warning you’ll take right here, or worse’ll come. Now I don’t know the rights of what has happened between you and Eve, but I’ll sort of reconstruct it to you in my own way, and it matters nothing if I am right or wrong. Eve and you had words. What about I can only guess at. Maybe it was money, maybe the saloon, maybe poker. You two must have got to words, which ended by you brutally pitching her on to the edge of the coal box, and nearly killing her. After that you went out, leaving her to die–by your act–if it took her that way. Mark you, she didn’t fall. She couldn’t have–and smashed her forehead as she did. She told us she did, but that, I guess, was to shield you.”
“Then she didn’t give you this pretty yarn?” inquired Will, sarcastically. He was feeling better. He gathered that Eve was not going to die. “You kind of made it up on your own?”
“Just so,” replied Peter, quite unmoved. “I–we–Doc Crombie, Jim Thorpe, and I. We made it up, as you choose to call it, because we’ve eyes and ears and common sense. And Doc Crombie knows just about how much force it would take to smash her head as it was smashed.”
“And what were you fellows doing in my house?” Will demanded, his anger gaining ground in proportion to the abatement of his fears.
“We were in Eve’s house,” answered Peter, drily, “for the reason that we wished to have a chat with her. That is, Jim and I. Doc Crombie came because we’d a notion we were sorry for Eve, and didn’t want her to die on our hands. That’s why we were there.”
Will laughed.
“Jim Thorpe was there, eh? And who’s to say that you and he didn’t do the mischief? Guess Jim hates things enough, seeing I married Eve. She’d got no broken head when I left her.”
“You needn’t to lie about it, Will,” Peter said calmly. “Least of all to me. But that makes no odds. As I said, you’ve got to take a fall. Barnriff’s got ears and eyes that puts it wise to a lot. It’s wise to how things have been going with you and Eve. It’s wise to the fact you’re bumming your living out of her, that you’re a drunken, poker-playing loafer, and that you’re doing it on her earnings. And Barnriff, headed by a few of us, and Doc Crombie, aren’t going to stand for it. If you don’t get busy you’ll find there’s trouble for you, and if, from this out, Barnriff gets wise to your ill-treatment of Eve, in any way–God help you. You’ll get less mercy shown you than you showed that poor girl to-night. That’s what I brought you here to say. And I’d like to add a piece of friendly advice. Don’t you show your face in Rocket’s saloon to get a drink or deal a hand at poker for a month or–well, I needn’t warn you further of what’s going to happen. If you’ve got savvee you’ll read through the lines. Maybe you’ll take this hard–I can see it in your face. But you’re a man, and you’ve got some grit–well, get right out and do things. That’s your chance here in Barnriff.”
Will Henderson’s face was a study while he listened to his arraignment and final sentence by the mild Peter Blunt. At first rage was his dominant emotion, but it gave way before the mild but resolute fashion in which the large man poured out the inexorable flow of the sentence. And somehow for a moment those calm words got hold of all that was vital in him, and he shrank before them. But neither did this feeling last. A bitter hatred rose up in his heart, a black, overmastering, passionate desire for vengeance fired him, and proportionate with its strength a cunning stirred which held it in check. He put an abrupt question, nor could he keep his angry feelings out of his voice.
“So Jim Thorpe’s helped in this?” he said savagely. “No need to ask his reason. Gee, it’s a mean man that can’t take his med’cine.”
“You needn’t bark up that tree, Will,” said Peter, patiently. “We’re all responsible for this–the whole of Barnriff.” Then he smiled. “You see, Doc Crombie has approved.”
Then it was that Henderson saw fit to change his manner. It seemed almost as if the enormity of his offense had been suddenly brought home to him, and contrition had begun to stir.
“Seems to me, Peter, as if the ways of things were queer,” he said, after a long pause. “I’ve got something that’ll keep me out of Barnriff a good deal in future. I’ve had it a week an’ more back. I’ve struck a good thing up in the hills.” He laughed. “A real good thing–and it’s easy, too.”
“I’m glad,” the other said genuinely.
“It’s gold. Something in your line, eh? Placer. Gee, I’ll make things hum when I’ve taken the stuff out of it. S’truth, I’ll buy some of ’em! And sell ’em, too, for that matter.”
Peter was interested.
“Gold, eh? Well, good luck to you. I’m glad–if it’s to make a man of you.”
For a second Will’s eyes flashed.
“Yes, you’re right; it’ll make a man of me. And, being a man, there are some things I’m not likely to forget. Say, you’ve passed sentence–you and your friends, which include Jim Thorpe. You won’t have to carry it out. I’ll knuckle down, because I know you all. But, by gee! I’ve struck what you’re looking for, and when I’ve gathered the dust I’ll make some folks jump to my own tune! Get that, Peter Blunt.”
Peter smiled at the sudden outburst of malicious rage. Then his face grew cold, and his even tone checked the tide of the other’s impotent rage.
“I get it,” he said. “But meanwhile Barnriff is top dog, an’ you best write that down in big letters, and set it where you can read it easily. Now you can go home and look after your poor wife. And remember, as sure as there’s a God in heaven, if you make that girl’s life a misery, or in any way hurt her, you’ll sicken at the thought of Barnriff. Now you can go.”
Peter’s quiet manner carried unpleasant conviction to the departing man. The conviction was so strong that he obeyed him to the letter. He walked without hesitation, without any desire to do otherwise, in the direction of his home. But this was an almost mechanical result. His mind was occupied in a way that would have astonished the men of Barnriff.
His fury had gone. His brain was filled with cold, hard thoughts, the more cruel for their lack of heat. His thoughts were of that which he had struck in the hills, and of a revenge which he felt he could play off on these people who demanded that he should guide his life as they dictated. He saw subtle possibilities which gave him enjoyment. He would work, and work hard. And then the manner of the revenge he would take! He laughed.
Then his laugh died out, for Jim Thorpe wholly occupied his thoughts, and there was no room for laughter where Jim was concerned. He remembered Jim was making money–and how. Suddenly he paused in his walk, and a delighted exclamation broke from him.
“Gee! The very thing I’ve been looking for. He’s got that land from McLagan. He’s going to run a ranch. He’s going to play big dog. Gee! That’s the game! Say, master Jim,” he went on, apostrophizing the absent man he had so easily learned to hate, “I’ll make you a sick man before the snow falls. Gee! You’d butt in in my affairs. You’re standing Eve’s friend.” He laughed. “Go ahead, boy. I’ll play up to you. Eve shall tell you I’m a reformed man, and you’ll feel better. And then–”
And by the time he reached his home there was apparently a complete transformation in him. The old moody selfishness and brutality toward his wife seemed to have fallen from him like a hideous cloak. He played the game he intended with such an appearance of good faith that the sick woman suddenly experienced the first relief and comfort she had known for months.
He waited on her, repentant and solicitous, till she could hardly believe her senses, and she even forgot to ask the result of his gamble. And the next morning, when necessity forced her to ask him for money, she was content that he returned to her something under ten dollars of that which he had stolen from her.
Later in the day he left for the hills, and from that moment an entire change came over Eve’s whole life.