The Fugitive (22 page)

It missed the mark. The crystal-gazer had slipped back a trifle, shifting his ground with the speed of a stepping cat, and his blank eyes were blank no longer, but filled with a curious light of pleasant contemplation as he looked at Ben Thomas.

“Uncle Ben!” cried the girl.

“Mister Thomas . . . ,” began John Wilson, hurrying forward.

But the rage of Thomas had mastered him, at length, and now he lunged straight at the throat of the stripling. “I'm gonna show him!” he roared. “I'm gonna break . . .” He jumped back suddenly, crying out: “He's broken my wrist!” He was holding his right wrist with his other hand, and holding it hard, as he glared at the Ethiopian.

The girl had seen—but barely, because the movement had been almost too fast for the eye to follow. It was an upward stroke of the hand of the crystal-gazer, so that the edge of the palm had struck straight under the wrist of her companion.

“I'm sorry,” said the crystal-gazer. “But I had to do something. I couldn't let him keep his gun hand intact until after I've left. But the wrist isn't broken. The tendons and the nerves are a bit numb. That's all.”

Ben Thomas, panting with helpless rage, turned suddenly and rushed out into the open air to let his passion dissolve. The distant rumble of an approaching train was growing louder.

The crystal-gazer calmly slid out of his silken robe, his turban-like headgear, his striped slippers, and appeared before the others in ordinary clothes, with a deep-visored cap on his head. He folded the clothes he had taken off. Being the sheerest silk, it was easy to make them disappear under his coat. But what seemed the chief miracle to the girl was the change in his appearance. In the conventional clothes he now wore, his skin seemed three shades lighter.

“You are no more an Ethiopian than I am,” she said suddenly.

“Oh, certainly not,” he said, “when I'm not in those clothes.”

She sighed, and the smile came back to her face. “If it was all a sham, it was a very good sham,” she said. “I was believing, for a moment, that there was some occult power . . . oh, I was having a pretty bad moment.”

“And I was having a fairly good one,” said John Wilson, shaking his head and sighing in turn.

“Why, you see,” said the stranger, “everything that the Ethiopian told you had been told to him by the crystal, and, of course, it was perfectly true. I wouldn't discredit fortune-telling, if I were either of you.” He shook his head, and, at the same time, he was smiling cheerfully at them. “Here's my train, now,” he said.

“It's a freight,” said John Wilson as he and the girl followed him onto the platform.

“That's it,” said the stranger. “I often use them. Lots more room on 'em than the passenger outfits. Good-bye, and thank you both.”

“Hold on,” said Wilson. “I wish you'd tell me your name.”

“My Ethiopian name?”

“No, your American name.”

With that flashing smile that had newly appeared to take the place of his former Oriental solemnity, the boy answered: “Why, people don't bother a great deal about my name. Nicknames are what they generally use for me. A great many call me Speedy.”

“Speedy?” murmured the girl.

“Well,” murmured Speedy, “the fact is that sometimes I've been accused of taking people for a ride, and that the riding generally is quite expensive. But don't believe a word of it. You'll find out that it isn't true.”

As he spoke, the second freight was thundering past the station, and into the dust cloud, into the uproar, he walked, turned, raced with the speed of a panther beside the hurtling train, swerved, and, panther-like, jumped with feet and hands extended. The next ladder down the side of a boxcar streaked under him; he grasped it, and, as he swung back, holding by one hand, he took off his cap and waved to them.

The dust cloud swallowed him and the train, and the girl walked back into the station with John Wilson. Something led them toward the spot where the crystal-gazer had stood, and she, with a cry, ran forward and picked from the bench a shining silver dollar. “Look,” she said, turning.

“He wouldn't take the fee from one of us,” exclaimed Wilson. “He wouldn't . . .” He was stopped by his own thoughts as he stood staring at her.

She, doubling her hand about the coin with a tight grip, managed a wan smile and nodded her head. “He said that I was to die,” she murmured. “And that's why he left my money behind him.”

 

Thomas was quite over his temper and full of apologies, before the train arrived. He apologized to the girl; he went to John Wilson, and, as though shame and pain were fighting in him, he confessed the bad part that he had played, and laid it to the credit of an evil temper.

“I'll tell you what, Wilson,” he said, “a wicked temper's a curse. I'm sorry that my poor father didn't beat it out of me when I was a youngster, but I was only a child, and I was spoiled. The result is that I'll be kicked in the face many and many a time again before I come to the end of the trail. There was that youngster, a bright lad, too, and I've sent him away thinking that I'm a skunk.”

John Wilson was full of sympathy. “It was too bad,” he said. “But when a man's temper goes wrong, what's to be done? Praying is about the only thing that could do any good, after that. Oh, I know all about that. My father was a fellow with a temper, and he took the heart out of us children while we were still little.” His voice trailed away, and his eye hunted the distance. He shook his head, finally concluding: “It's too bad, that's all. And particularly because that fellow Speedy must be a man in a million.”

“I think he is,” said Ben Thomas. “He's a clever rogue, at least, and he's got magic in those hands of his, real magic, I can tell you.” He made a wry face at this, and rubbed his sore wrist.

This seemed to restore good nature to everyone except the girl, who was still dreaming into the future with a pale face, the silver coin clasped in her hand.

“Did you see what he did?” asked Ben Thomas.

“No.”

“Hit me under the tendons of the wrist with the edge of his hand, damn him. That's what he did. Jujitsu, that's what he's a master of.”

“The Japanese wrestling?”

“Yeah, you can call it wrestling, if you want to. But I'd sooner call it murder. You take one of those Jap experts, and they turn their bare hand into knives and cleavers and clubs, like they wasn't made of flesh and blood, but of iron.”

“I've heard something about their tricks,” said John Wilson. “They work on the nerve centers. Isn't that the idea? They paralyze the other fellow by hitting at just the right places.”

“Yeah, that's it,” said Thomas, sighing. “And that fellow Speedy, he hit at the nerve center, all right, when he hit me. My hand still tingles. Only, he made me mad, Wilson. Talking about blood and murder!”

“Why, I can guess how it was,” said Wilson, “if you don't mind.”

“I'd like to hear!” exclaimed the older man eagerly. “Why d'you think that he talked like that?”

“Because you were just a little rough with him, at the beginning,” said Wilson. “Just a little rough, and I suppose he got angry and decided . . .”

He paused, and Ben Thomas muttered: “Decided that if I wanted trouble, he'd give me plenty of it. Was that it? Well, maybe you're right. I was thinking . . .”

His own voice trailed away, and there was still much distant thought in his eye when their train arrived at last. It was loaded with men and excitement, all bound for Trout Lake. In the coach they entered—the least filled of all the line—they were only able to get separate places. But that hardly mattered, for the girl was soon in conversation with a cheerful young cowpuncher who had a sack full of tools between his feet and nothing in his mind except hope to make a quick million in the new diggings.

Ben Thomas, on the other hand, had beside him a leathery old veteran, quite without teeth, so that the point of his brown chin came very close to the point of his red nose. He, like the younger men in the car, was full of good cheer and high expectations. That was a perfect opening for the conversation that Ben Thomas wished to introduce. In five minutes, he had turned the conversation on the subject that was now nearest to his heart.

He said: “Somewhere or other out here, I've been hearin' about a fellow by name of Speedy, a queer fellow and a queer name. Ever heard it?”

“Speedy?” repeated the other. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Hey, wait a minute,” he said. “What kind of a looking gent do you mean?”

“Well,” said Ben Thomas, “I'll tell you. The gent that I seen was not so big, not more'n middle height. Not more'n a hundred and fifty or sixty pounds. Dark hair and eyes, and pretty well tanned up. Might've been a Mexican, or something, by the look of him, except that the eyes were different. Handsome, too, almost like a woman, he was so damned goodlooking.”

“Yeah, that's Speedy, and he ain't no woman, neither,” said the veteran. He paused to chuckle a moment.

“You know him?” asked Thomas.

“Me? I dunno that I can say that I know him. Nobody knows Speedy. I know some things about him,that's all. What was he doing?”

“Oh, spinnin' a little crystal ball on the end of his finger, and telling lies about what he seen in it.”

“That's him,” said the other. “Juggling things around is what he's always doing. I seen him, once, keep seven knives in the air, and sink 'em all in the same crack in the wall, when he finished.”

“Humph!”
said Ben Thomas. “If he's a knife thrower, he's likely a greaser, then, the same as he looks?”

“He ain't any more greaser than you nor me,” said the other. “But juggling is his game. He don't throw knives into flesh, neither, unless he gets real pressed. And only a damn' fool would press Speedy. No, sir, he don't need no weapons, and he don't carry none . . . he's got his bare hands, and that's enough for him, no matter where he is.”

“I could think of places where a gun would be a pretty big comfort for anybody to have along with him,” said Ben Thomas.

“A lot of other folks've thought that,” declared his companion. “But when they put the pressure on, they find that they don't make no impression on Speedy. His hands is enough for him.”

Ben Thomas was silent, remembering a certain moment with increasing vividness. “What sort of a gent is he?” asked Thomas. “Kind of a loafer?”

“You said something that time,” said the older man. “He never was knowed to do a lick of work.”

“Oh, just a thievin' tramp, eh?” asked Ben Thomas, rather relieved.

“Him? He tramps around, but he don't steal nothing, except from them that steals from others,” declared the prospector.

“Now, whacha mean by that?”

“I mean what I say. If you was around Speedy, your money would be safe in your pocket, and so would mine. And if I was busted, I'd get a new stake from him, maybe, whether he knew me or not. He gives away, like water, to gents that he knows.”

“Humph,”
muttered Ben Thomas. “Where would he be getting his coin, then?”

“Suppose,” said the prospector, leaning forward and marking off his points with a gnarled forefinger against a callous palm, “suppose that you was a crook at cards, say, and stacked the deck, or worked the brakes on a roulette wheel, or something like that, and that you trimmed a lot of poor suckers for a thousand or so every day of your life.”

“Go on,” said Ben Thomas, greatly interested.

“Well,” said the prospector, “if you was that kind, you wouldn't like to see Speedy come to play your game, because he'd be sure to beat you and the roulette wheel, too. He'd find ways if you stacked the pack, he'd stack it better. If you tried tricks, he's got about a thousand tricks up his sleeve, and he's always ready to use 'em, too.”

“Humph,”
muttered Ben Thomas again, and he frowned, as though this were a matter of the most serious importance to him.

“I'll tell you what I heard a gent say about Speedy,” declared the prospector.

“Go on and say it, then.”

“The gent says that Speedy is a frigate bird.”

“Whacha mean by that?” asked Ben Thomas.

“I mean,” said his companion, “that I didn't know, neither, till I got it explained, and this is the way of it . . . out there at sea there is fish hawks, eh?”

“Yes, I guess there are fish hawks at sea, too.” Ben Thomas nodded.

“Well, after the fish hawk catches a good fat fish,” said the prospector, “and has got him placed right, with the head pointin' forward, he starts risin' out of the water, and he steers for the land where his nest is. As he rises, and works along to a good height, out of the sky on top of him comes a bird with long wings, big talons, and a big beak. There ain't much to it except speed and teeth, you might say, but it makes a flying swoop at the hawk and scares it. The hawk, if it don't want the talons sunk into his side, changes its mind and drops its fish, and the frigate bird, it turns over in the air and drops faster than a stone, catches up with the fish, and carries it off for dinner.”

“Yeah?” muttered Ben Thomas thoughtfully.

“The same way with Speedy,” said the prospector. “Them that don't make trouble for other folks don't have no trouble with Speedy, but them that live on their guns and their wits, they're the meat for him. They're what he lives off of. The fish hawks, they do their work, and Speedy, he takes their fish away from 'em.” The idea pleased the prospector so greatly that he began to stir from side to side and laugh heartily.

But Ben Thomas was not so pleased, and he remained for a long time lost in thought, with a puckered brow and a darkened eye. He plucked at his mustache in the extremity of his absorption, but no pleasant solution seemed to come to him for the problem that was occupying his mind.