The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country Page 7

  CHAPTER V

  TO THE RED, DANCING DEVIL

  Jim Thorpe dashed the vicious rowels of his Mexican spurs into theflanks of his horse. Such unaccustomed treatment sent the willingbeast racing headlong across the market-place, while the guiding handmechanically directed toward the saloon.

  A storm of bitterness wrung the man's heart. A murky pall ofdepression hung over his brain, deadening his sense of proportion forall those things that matter. For the time, at least, it crushed downin his heart that spirit of striving, which was one of his bestcharacteristics, and utterly quenched the warm fires of his betternature. All thought was buried in a fog of wrath, which left him aprey to instincts utterly foreign to his normal condition. He had leftEve Marsham's presence in a furious state from which no effort seemedable to clear him. Nothing gripped his understanding--nothing save theknowledge of what he had lost, and the conviction of the low-downtrick that had been played upon him by one whom he regarded as a dear,younger brother.

  He drew rein at the saloon and flung out of the saddle. He mechanicallyhitched his horse to the tie-post. Then, with unconscious aggressiveness,he strode up to the building and pushed his way through the swing doors.

  The bar was empty, an unusual enough circumstance at that time of theday to draw comment from any one who knew the habits of the men ofBarnriff; but Thorpe did not notice it. His eyes were on the manbehind the counter standing ready to serve him. He strode over to himand flung down a ten-dollar bill, ordering a drink of whiskey, and abottle of the spirit to take away with him. He was promptly served,and Silas Rocket, the proprietor, civilly passed the time of day. Itelicited no responsive greeting, for Jim gulped down his drink, andhelped himself to another. The second glass of the fiery spirit heswallowed greedily, while Rocket looked on in amazement. As heproceeded to pour out another the man's astonishment found vent.

  "A third?" he said stupidly.

  Jim deigned no answer, but drank the liquor down, and set the glassforcefully upon the counter.

  The saloon-keeper quickly recovered himself. Nor was he slow tocomment.

  "Feelin' mean, some?" he observed, with a sympathetic wink. He caredlittle how his visitor took his remark. He was used to the vagaries ofhis customers, and cared not a snap of the fingers for them.

  Jim's reply came swiftly.

  "Yes, mean enough to need your hogwash," he said shortly.

  Silas Rocket's eyes snapped. He was never a man to take things sittingdown.

  "Hogwash it is when a feller o' your manners swills it. Mebbe it'llclear some o' the filth off'n your measly chest. Have one on me; I'dbe real glad to help in the cleanin' process."

  There was a subtle threat underlying his last words. But Jim carednothing for what he said.

  "I'll pay for all I need," he retorted, turning from the counter, andbearing his bottle away over to the window.

  Rocket shrugged and turned to his work of setting some sort of orderamong his bottles. But, as Jim stood at the window with his backturned, his narrow eyes frequently regarded him and his busy brainspeculated as to his humor. The ranchman was well liked in Barnriff,but his present attitude puzzled the worthy host.

  However, the object of all this attention was wholly unaware of it.Even if it had been otherwise, it is doubtful if Thorpe would havecared in the least. He was lost in a rushing train of thought. Hisbrain had cleared under the stimulating potions of raw whiskey, and,just as before his chaotic state had made him unable to grasp thingsfully, now it was equally chaotic in an opposite direction. His brainwas running riot with a clearness and rapidity that showed only tooplainly the nervous tension under which he was laboring. He waspiecing this latest trick of fortune with the ill-luck which seemed tobe ever pursuing him. Under the influence of the burning spirit heseemed to have lost the sting of the actual wrong to himself, and inits place a morbid train of thought had been set working.

  It was a persecution that was steadily dogging him. When his earlymisfortunes had come he had accepted them stoically, believing them tobe part of the balance of things, beginning on the wrong side, nodoubt, but which would be leveled up later on. Time and again he hadreceived these buffets, and he had merely smiled, a little grimlyperhaps, and started to "buck the game" afresh.

  Then, when things eventually turned slightly in his favor, veryslightly, out here on the prairie amongst the derelicts, the flotsamof the grassy ocean, he had found a brief breathing space. He hadbegun to think the balance had really turned. Hope dawned, and lifeoffered fresh possibilities. And now--now he had been let down afresh.Before, the attack had been directed against the worldly hopes of aman, such as all see crushed at some time in life, but now it was hisspirit that was aimed at. It was that strong, living soul which wasthe mainspring of his moral existence.

  He had lost the woman he loved; that was something he could face,something he could live down. But it was the manner of it. It was thefact of Will's treachery that had opened the vital wound.

  The thought chilled his heart, it crushed him. Yet his anger was notall for the man who had so rankly betrayed his trust, his bitternesswas not all for the fact itself. It was the evidence it afforded ofthe merciless hand of an invisible foe at work against him, and withwhich he was powerless to contend. The subtlety of it--to hisexaggerated thought--was stupendous.

  Slowly his bitterness resolved itself to an unutterable pessimism; theacuteness of the stimulant was wearing off. There was an unhealthystreak in his mind somewhere, a streak that was growing under theseblows which had been so liberally dealt him. Where was the use instruggling? he began to ask himself. And the poison of the thoughtacted like a sedative. He grew strangely calm; he almost experiencedpleasure and comfort under its influence. Why struggle? Nothing couldgo right with him. Nothing. He was cursed--cursed with an ill-starredfortune. This sort of thing was his fate. Fate. That was it. Whystruggle against it?

  He had but this one short life to live. He would live it. He wouldlive it in the way he chose, without regard to the ethics ofcivilization. What mattered if he shortened it by years, or if helived to what might be looked upon as an honored old age? And whatwas there afterward? He even began to doubt if there was anythingbefore--if there was any just---- He paused and shivered as thethought came to him. And he was glad he paused. To question the Deitywas to rank himself at once with a sect he had always despised asself-centred fools, and pitied them as purblind creatures who werein some degree mentally deficient.

  He pulled himself together and returned to the bar.

  "Give me another whiskey," he demanded.

  But Silas Rocket had not forgotten; he rarely ever did forget thingsin the nature of rudeness.

  "I'd hate to," he said quickly; "but I guess I'll sell you 'mostanything."

  Jim accepted the snub silently, drank his whiskey, paid for it, andwent out.

  Rocket looked after him. His eyes were unfriendly, but then they weregenerally unfriendly. As the doors swung to behind his customer heturned and looked in through the doorway behind him.

  "Ma!" he cried, "Jim Thorpe's been in. He's had four drinks o'whiskey, and took a bottle with him. He's been thinkin' a whole heap,too. Guess he's goin' on a sky-high drunk."

  And a shrewish voice called back to him in a tone of feminine spleen.

  "Guess it's that Marsham gal," it said conclusively.

  A woman's instinct is a wonderful thing.

  Meanwhile Jim was riding across the market-place. Half-way across hesaw Smallbones. He hailed him, and the little man promptly hurried upto his horse's side.

  Jim knew that Smallbones disliked him. But just now he was onlyseeking ordinary information.

  "Where'll I find Restless?" he inquired. "Where's he working?"

  "Guess I see him over by Peter Blunt's shack. Him an' Peter wusgassin' together, while you wus up ther' seein' Eve Marsham,"Smallbones replied meaningly. "I 'lows Peter's mostly nosin' aroundwhen----"

  "Thanks, I'll ride over."

  Jim made as though to ride off. He
understood the spiteful nature ofthis little busybody, and was in no mood to listen to him now. ButSmallbones was something of a leech when he chose. He had seen thewhiskey bottle sticking out of Jim's coat pocket, and his Barnriffthirst and curiosity were agog, for Jim was at no time a man to wastemoney in drink.

  "Say, givin' a party?" he sneered, pointing at the bottle.

  "Yes, a party to a dead friend," replied Jim, with a wintry smile."It's inexpensive, less trouble, and there's more for myself. Solong."

  A minute or two later Smallbones was serving Angel Gay in his store.He had just sold him a butcher's knife of inferior quality at doubleNew York prices.

  "Say," he observed, in the intimate manner of fellow villagers. "Who'sdead? I ain't heard nuthin'. Mebbe you'll know, your bizness kind o'runnin' in that line."

  "Ain't heerd tell," the butcher replied, with a solemn shake of hislarge head. "An' most o' them come my way, too," he added, withthoughtful pride. "Here, wait." He drew out a greasy note-book. "Y'seeI kind o' keep re-cords o' likely folks. Mebbe some o' the names'llprompt you. Now ther's M. Wilkes, she's got a swellin', I don'trightly know wher'--ther's folk talks of it bein' toomer--deadlytoomer. You ain't heerd if she's gone?" he inquired hopefully, whilehe thumbed the pages of his book over.

  "Nope. I ain't heerd," said Smallbones. "But I don't guess it's awoman. Friend o' Jim Thorpe's."

  "Ah," murmured the happy butcher, lifting his eyes to the ceiling forinspiration. "That kind o' simplifies things. Jim Thorpe," hepondered. "He ain't got a heap o' friends, as you might say. Ther'sWill Henderson," he turned over the pages of his book. "Um, healthy,drinks a bit. Hasty temper, but good for fifty year 'less he gits intoa shootin' racket. 'Tain't him now?" he inquired looking up.

  "No, 'tain't him. I see him this mornin'. He was soused some. Kind o'had a heavy night. Wot about McLagan of the 'AZ's'?"

  Again the butcher turned over the pages of his note-book. But finishedby shaking his head mournfully.

  "No luck," he said. "McLagan's 'bout forty, never sick. Only chance'accident on ranch.'"

  The two men looked blankly at each other.

  "Wot set you thinkin'?" inquired the butcher at last.

  "Jest nuthin' o' consequence. Thorpe sed as he was givin' a party to adead friend. He'd got a bottle o' whiskey."

  "Ah!" murmured Gay, with an air of relief, returning his note-book tohis pocket. "That clears things. He's speakin' metaphoric. I'll gitgoin', kind o' busy. I ain't sent out the day's meat yet, an' I got todesign a grave fixin' fer Restless's last kid. Y'see it's a gratisjob, I guess, Restless bein' my pardner, as you might say. So long."

  Jim reached Peter Blunt's hut as the carpenter was leaving it. Peterwas at the door, and smiled a genial welcome. He and Jim wereexcellent friends. They were both men who thought. They both possesseda wide knowledge of things which were beyond the focus of the Barnriffpeople, and consequently they interested each other.

  "Howdy, Jim," the giant called to him, as he drew up beside thecarpenter.

  Jim returned his greeting.

  "I'll come along, Peter," he said. "Guess I need a word with Restlessfirst."

  "Right-ho."

  Jim turned to the man at his side.

  "I won't need those buildings," he said briefly.

  "But I ordered----"

  Jim cut him short.

  "I'll pay you anything I owe you. You can let me know how much."

  He passed on to the hut without waiting for a reply. He had nointention of arguing anything concerning his future plans with Restless.If the carpenter stood to lose he would see him right--well, therewas nothing more about it that concerned him.

  Peter was inside his hut examining a litter of auriferous soil on histable when Jim entered. This man's home possessed an unique interior.It was such as one would hardly have expected in a bachelor inBarnriff. There were none of the usual impedimenta of a prairie man'sabode, there was no untidiness, no dirt, no makeshift. Yet like theman himself the place was simple and unpretentious.

  There were other signs of the man in it, too. There was a large plainwooden bookcase filled to overflowing with a choice collection ofreading matter. There were rows of classics in several languages,there was modern fiction of the better kind, there were many volumesof classical verse. In short it was the collection of a student, andmight well have been a worthy addition to many a more elaboratelibrary.

  There were, besides this, several excellent pictures in water-color onthe walls, and the absence of all tawdry decoration was conspicuous.Even the bed, the chair, and the table, plain enough, goodness knows,had an air of belonging to a man of unusual personality.

  It would be impossible to describe adequately the manner in which thecharacter of Peter Blunt peeped out at one from every corner of hishome, nevertheless it did impress itself upon his every visitor. Andits peculiar quality affected all alike. There was a strangely gentlestrength about the man that had a way of silencing the mostboisterously inclined. He had a quiet humor, too, that was often fartoo subtle for the cruder minds of Barnriff. But most of all hissympathy was a thing that left no room for self in his thoughts. Noone attempted undue familiarity with him; not that he would have beenlikely to actively resent it, but simply, in his presence nobody hadany inclination that way. Nobody could have been more a part of theBarnriff community than Peter Blunt, and yet nobody could have beenmore apart from it.

  Peter did not even look up from his labors when his visitor flunghimself into the vacant chair. He silently went on with hisexamination of first one fragment of quartz and then another. And theman in the chair watched him with moody, introspective eyes. It was along time before either spoke, and when, at last, the silence wasbroken, it was by Peter's deep mellow voice.

  "I'm looking for gold in a heap of dirt, Jim," he said, withoutlifting his eyes. "It's hard to find, there's such a pile ofthe--dirt."

  "Why don't you wash it?"

  "Yes, I s'pose I ought to," Peter allowed.

  Then he glanced over, and his mild eyes focused themselves on thebottle protruding from Jim's pocket. For some moments he contemplatedit, and then he looked up into his friend's face.

  "How's the 'AZ's'?" he inquired casually.

  "Oh, all right."

  "In for a--vacation?"

  Jim stirred uneasily. There was a directness about the other's mannerthat was disconcerting. He laughed mirthlessly, and shifted hisposition so that his bottle of whiskey was concealed.

  "No," he said. "I'm getting back--sometime to-night."

  "Ah." Then Peter went on after a pause: "I'm glad things are goingwell for you. Restless told me he'd got an order from you for somebuildings on your _own_ land."

  Jim turned his eyes in the direction of the doorway and found themgazing upon Eve Marsham's little home beyond it. As Peter offered nofurther comment he was finally forced to reply.

  "I've--I've just canceled that order."

  "Eh?"

  Jim turned on him irritably.

  "Confound it, Peter, you heard what I said. I've canceled that order.Do you get it now?"

  The large man nodded. The brains behind his mild eyes were workingswiftly, shrewdly.

  "Will's in town. Been in since yesterday morning," he said after awhile. "Seen him?"

  Jim suddenly sprang from his seat, the moody fire of his dark eyesblazing furiously.

  "Seen him! Seen him!" he cried, with a sudden letting loose of all thebitterness and smouldering passion which had been so long pent up."Seen him? I should say I have. I've seen him as he really is. I'veseen----"

  He broke off and began to pace the room. Peter was still at the table.His hands were still raking at the pile of dirt. His face was quiteunmoved at the other's evident passion; only his eyes displayed hisinterest.

  "God! but the thought of him sets me crazy," Jim went on furiously.Then he paused, and stood confronting the other. "Peter, I came inhere without knowing why on earth I came. I came because somethingforced me, I s'pose. Now I know what made me come.
I've got to get itoff my chest, and you've got to listen to it."

  Peter's smile was the gentlest thing imaginable.

  "Guess that's easy," he said. "I knew there was something you'd gotthat wasn't good for you to hold. Sort of fancied you'd like to getrid of it--here."

  The calm sincerity of the man was convincing. Jim felt its effectwithout appreciation, for the hot blood of bitterness still drove him.His wrongs were still heavy upon him, water-logging his better sense,and leaving it rudderless.

  He hesitated. It was not that he did not know how to begin. It was notthat he had any doubts in his mind. Just for a second he wondered atthe strange influence which was forcing his story from him. It puzzledhim--it almost angered him. And something of this anger appeared inhis manner and tone when he spoke.

  "Will Henderson's a damned traitor," he finally burst out.

  Peter nodded.

  "We're all that," he said gently: "if it's only to ourselves."

  "Oh, I don't want your moralizing," the other cried roughly. "Listen,this is the low, mean story of it. You'll have little enoughmoralizing to do when you've heard it."

  Then he told Peter of their meeting the day before, and of thefriendly honesty of his purpose in the shooting match. How Will hadaccepted, shot, and lost. This part he told with a grim setting of histeeth, and it was not until he came to the story of the man'streachery that his manner became intemperate. Then he spoke with allthe color of a strongly passionate temperament, when the heart isstirred beyond all reason. And the giant listened to it, silent andattentive. What thoughts the story inspired in the listener it wouldhave been impossible to say. His face was calm. There was no sign ofany enthralled attention. There was no light in his eyes beyond thekindliness that ever seemed to shine there. And at its conclusionJim's underlying feeling, that almost subconscious thought whichhitherto had found expression only in bitter feeling and the uncertainactivities of his mind, broke out into raving.

  "It's a curse that's on me, Peter!" he cried. "I tell you it's acurse! I've never had a chance. Everything from the start has beenbroken just when its completion was almost achieved. When I lookback I can see it written all along the path I've trodden, in theruins I've left behind me. Why, why, I ask, am I chosen for suchpersecution? What have I done to deserve it? I've played the game.I've worked. God knows how I've worked. And everything I've done hascome to nothing, and not because I've always made mistakes, orcommitted foolishnesses. Every smash has been brought about byinfluences that could not have been humanly foreseen. I'm cursed.Cursed by an evil fate it is beyond my power to fight. God? Italmost makes one question. Is there a God? A good God who permitssuch a fate to pursue a man? Is there an all-powerful God, ruling andguiding every human action? Is there? Is there a God, a merciful,loving God watching over us, such as kiddies are taught to believein? Is there?"

  "Yes."

  Peter's answer so readily, so firmly spoken was arresting.

  "Yes, Jim. There's a God," he went on, without any display. "There's agreat big God--just such a God as you and I have knelt to when we werebits of kiddies. Maybe He's so big that our poor, weak brains can'tunderstand Him. But He's there, right up above us, and for every poormean atom we call 'man' He's set out a trail to walk on. It's calledthe One-way Trail. And the One-way Trail is just the trail of Life.It's chock full of pitfalls and stumbling-blocks, that make us cusslike mad. But it's good for us to walk over it. There are no turningsor by-paths, and no turning back. And, maybe, when we get to the endsomething will have been achieved in His scheme of things that oursilly brains can't grasp. Yes, there is a God, Jim, and you're justhitting the trail He's set for you."

  But Jim was in no reasonable mood.

  "Then where's the cursed justice----" he began heatedly. But broke offas the other shrugged his great shoulders.

  He waited for Peter to speak. He waited, stirred to a mad contentiousness,to tear his friend's arguments to ribbons, and fling their brokenremains back in his face. But no arguments were forthcoming. Peterunderstood his temper, and saw the uselessness of argument. Besides,he could smell the reek of whiskey.

  He thought swiftly with all the wisdom of a great understanding andexperience. And finally his manner changed utterly. He suddenly becamecordially sympathetic with the other's angry mood. He even agreed withhim.

  "Maybe you're right, though, Jim," he said. "Things have been mightyhard for you. You've had a heap of trouble. I can't say I wonder atyou taking it bad, and thinking things. But--but what are you going todo now? Buck the game afresh?"

  Jim did not pause to think. He jumped speedily at the bait held out tohim so subtly.

  "Yes," he cried, with a bitter laugh. "But it'll be a different game.A game most folks out here sure know how to play. We're most of uslife's derelicts. I'll buck it, Peter, and set the devil dancing."

  The other nodded.

  "I know. I know. He's always ready to dance if we pay for the tune."

  But Jim was lost in his own wild thoughts.

  "Yes, and he's good company, too, Peter," he cried. "Devilish good."He laughed at his own humor. "The harder you play the harder and moremerrily he'll dance. We've got one life. The trail's marked out forus. And, by gum, we'll live while we can. Why should we sweat andtoil, and have it squeezed out of us whenever--they think fit? I'llspend every dollar I make. I'll have all that life can give me. I'llpick the fruit within my reach. I'll do as the devil, or my stomach,guides me. I'll have my time----"

  "And then?"

  Jim sat down. He was smiling, but the smile was unreal.

  "Then? Why, I'll go right down and out, and they can kick my carcaseout to the town 'dumps.'"

  Peter nodded again.

  "Let's begin now," he said, with staggering abruptness. And he pointedat the bottle in Jim's pocket.

  "Eh?" the other was startled.

  "Let's begin now," Peter said, with his calm smile. "You're goodcompany, Jim. Where you go, I'll travel, too--if it's to hell."

  The smile had vanished from Jim's eyes. For a moment he wonderedstupidly, and during that moment, as Peter's hand was outstretched forthe bottle, he passed it across to him.

  The other took it, and looked at the label. It was a well-knownbrand of rye whiskey. And as he looked he seemed to gather warmthand enthusiasm. It was as though the sight of the whiskey wereirresistible to him.

  "Rye," he cried. "The juice for oiling the devil's joints." And hislips seemed to smack over the words.

  Jim was watching. He didn't understand. Peter's offer to go with himto hell was staggering, and---- But the other went on in his own mildlyenthusiastic way.

  "We'll start right here. I'll get two glasses. We'll drink this up,and then we'll get some more at the saloon, and--we'll paint the townred." He rose and fetched two glasses from a cupboard and set them onthe table. Then he took his sheath knife from his belt, and, with askilful tap, knocked the neck off the bottle.

  "No water," he said. "The stuff'll act quicker. We want it to getright up into our heads quick. We want the mad whirl of the devil'sdance; we----"

  "But why should you----!"

  "Tut, man! Your gait's good enough for me. There's room for more foolsthan one in hell. Here! Here's your medicine."

  He rose and passed a glass across to Jim, while the other he heldaloft.

  "Here, boy," he cried, smiling down into Jim's face "Here, I'll giveyou a toast." The stormy light in the ranchman's eyes had died out,and in them there lurked a question that had something like fear init. But his glass was not raised, and Peter urged him. "A toast, ladhuyk your glass right up, and we'll drink it standing."

  Jim rose obediently but slowly to his feet, and his glass was liftedhalf-heartedly. There was no responsive enthusiasm in him now; it hadgone utterly. Peter's voice suddenly filled the room with a mockinglaugh, and his toast rang out in tones of sarcasm the more biting fortheir very mildness.

  "The devil's abroad. Here's to the devil, because there's no God andthe devil reigns. Nothing we see in the
world is the work of anybodybut the devil. The soil that yields us the good grain, the grass thatfeeds our stock, the warm, beneficent sun that ripens all the world,the beautiful flowers, the magnificent forests, the great hills, theseas, the rivers, the rain; everything in life. All the beautifulworld, that thrills with a perfect life, that rolls its way throughaeons of time held in space by a power that nothing can shake. All themyriads of worlds and universes we see shining in the limitlessbillions of miles of space at night, everything, everything. It is thearch-fiend's work, for there is no God. Here's to the mad, red,dancing devil, to whom we go!"

  Jim's glass crashed to the floor. He seized the bottle of whiskey andserved that in the same way.

  "Stop it, you mad fool!" he cried in horror. And Peter slowly put hiswhiskey down untasted.

  Then the dark, horror-stricken eyes looked into the smiling blue ones,and in a flash to Jim's troubled mind came inspiration. There was along, long pause, during which eye met eye unflinchingly. Then Jimreached out a hand.

  "Thanks, Peter," he said.

  Peter shook his grizzled head as he gripped the outstretched hand.

  "I'm glad," he said with a quaint smile, "real glad you camealong--and stopped me drinking that toast. Going?"

  Jim nodded. He, too, was smiling now, as he moved to the door.

  "Well, I suppose you must," Peter went on. "I've got work, too." Hepointed at his pile of dirt on the table. "You see, there's gold inall that muck, and--I've got to find it."