The Max Brand Megapack (46 page)

There was no semblance of a decoration on the walls; the boards were not even painted. It was strictly a place for use, not pleasure. The food itself which Shorty Kilrain and Calamity Ben now brought on was distinctly utilitarian rather than appetizing. The pièce de resistance was a monstrous platter heaped high with beefsteak, not the inviting meat of a restaurant in a civilized city, but thin, brown slabs, fried dry throughout. The real nourishment was in the gravy in which the steak swam. In a dish of even more amazing proportions was a vast heap of potatoes boiled with their jackets on. Lawlor commenced loading the stack of plates before him, each with a slab and a potato or two.

Meantime from a number of big coffee pots a stream of a liquid, bitter as lye and black as night, was poured into the tin cups. Yet the cattlemen about the table settled themselves for the meal with a pleasant expectation fully equal to that of the most seasoned gourmand in a Manhattan restaurant.

The peculiar cowboy’s squint—a frowning of the brow and a compression of the thin lips—relaxed. That frown came from the steady effort to shade the eyes from the white-hot sunlight; the compression of the lips was due to a determination to admit none of the air, laden with alkali dust, except through the nostrils. It grew in time into a perpetual grimace, so that the expression of an old range rider is that of a man steeling himself to pass through some grim ordeal.

Now as they relaxed, Anthony perceived first of all that most of the grimness passed away from the narrowed eyes and they lighted instead with good-humoured banter, though of a weary nature. One by one, they cast off ten years of age; the lines rubbed out; the jaws which had thrust out grew normal; the leaning heads straightened and went back.

They paid not the slightest attention to the newcomer, talking easily among themselves, but Anthony was certain that at least some of them were thinking of him. If they said nothing, their thoughts were the more.

In fact, in the meantime little Duffy had passed on to the next man, in a side mutter, the significant phrase: “He knows!” It went from lip to lip like a watchword passing along a line of sentinels. Each man heard it imperturbably, completed the sentence he was speaking before, or maintained his original silence through a pause, and then repeated it to his right-hand neighbour. Their demeanour did not alter perceptibly, except that the laughter, perhaps, became a little more uproarious, and they were sitting straighter in their chairs, their eyes brighter.

All they knew was that Drew had impressed on them that Bard must not leave that room in command of his six-shooter or even of his hands. He must be bound securely. The working out of the details of execution he had left to their own ingenuity. It might have seemed a little thing to do to greener fellows, but every one of these men was an experienced cowpuncher, and like all old hands on the range they were perfectly familiar with the amount of damage which a single armed man can do.

The thing could be done, of course, but the point was to do it with the minimum of danger. So they waited, and talked, and ate and always from the corners of their eyes were conscious of the slightly built, inoffensive man who sat beside Lawlor near the head of the table. In appearance he was surely most innocuous, but Nash had spoken, and in such matters they were all willing to take his word with a childlike faith.

So the meal went on, and the only sign, to the most experienced eye, was that the chairs were placed a little far back from the edge of the table, a most necessary condition when men may have to rise rapidly or get at their holsters for a quick draw.

Calamity Ben bearing a mighty dish of bread pudding, passed directly behind the chair of the stranger. The whole table watched with a sudden keenness, and they saw Bard turn, ever so slightly, just as Calamity passed behind the chair.

“I say,” he said, “may I have a bit of hot water to put in this coffee?”

“Sure,” said Calamity, and went on, but the whole table knew that the stranger was on his guard.

The mutual suspicion gave a tenseness to the atmosphere, as if it were charged with the electricity of a coming storm, a tingling waiting which made the men prone to become silent and then talk again in fitful outbursts. Or it might be said that it was like a glass full of precipitate which only waits for the injection of a single unusual substance before it settles to the bottom and leaves the remaining liquid clear. It was for the unusual, then, that the entire assembly waited, feeling momentarily that it must be coming, for the strain could not endure.

As for Bard, he stuck by his original apparent indifference. For he still felt sure that the real William Drew was behind this elaborate deception and the thing for which he waited was some revelation of the hand of the master. The trumps which he felt he held was in being forewarned; he could not see that the others knew his hand.

He said to Lawlor: “I think a man named Nash works on this ranch. I expected to see him at supper here.”

“Nash?” answered Lawlor. “Sure, he used to be foreman here. Ain’t no more. Nope—I couldn’t stand for his lip. Didn’t mind him getting fresh till he tried to ride me. Then I turned him loose. Where did you meet him?”

“While I was riding in this direction.”

“Want to see him bad?”

The other moistened his lips.

“Rather! He killed my horse.”

A silence fell on these who were within hearing. They would not have given equal attention to the story of the killing of a man.

“How’d he get away with it?”

“The Saverack was between us. Before I could get my gun out he was riding out of range. I’ll meet him and have another talk some day.”

“Well, the range ain’t very small.”

“But my dear fellow, it’s not nearly as big as my certainty of meeting this—cur.”

There is something in a low, slow voice more thrilling than the thunder of actual rage. Those who heard glanced to one another with thoughtful eyes. They were thinking of Nash, and thinking of him with sympathy.

Little Duffy, squat and thick-set, felt inspiration descend on him. He turned to Bard on his left.

“That ain’t a full-size forty-five, is it—that one you’re packin’?”

“Doesn’t it look it?” answered Bard.

“Nope. Holster seems pretty small to me.”

“It’s the usual gun, I’m sure,” said Bard, and pulled the weapon from the leather.

Holding the butt loosely, his trigger finger hooked clear around the far side of the guard, he showed the gun.

“I was wrong,” nodded Duffy unabashed, “that’s the regular kind. Let’s have a look at it.”

And he stretched out his hand. No one would ever have guessed how closely the table followed what now happened, for each man began talking in a voice even louder than before. It was as if they sought to cover the stratagem of Duffy with their noise.

“There’s nothing unusual about the gun,” said Bard, “but I’d be glad to let you have it except that I’ve formed a habit of never letting a six-shooter get away from me. It’s a foolish habit, I know, but I can’t lose it. If there’s any part you’d like to see, just name it.”

“Thanks,” answered Duffy. “I guess I’ve seen all I want of it.”

Calamity had failed; Duffy had failed. It began to look as if force of downright numbers must settle the affair.

CHAPTER XXVIII

SALLY BREAKS A MIRROR

As Sally had remarked the night before, one does not pay much attention to a toilet when one rises at 5 a.m. At least that is the rule, but Sally, turning out with a groan in the chill, dark room, shut off the alarm, lighted her lamp, and set about the serious task of dressing. A woman, after all, is much like a diplomatic statesman; a hint along certain lines is more to her than a sworn statement.

She had secured a large mirror, and in front of this she laboured patiently for a full ten minutes, twisting her hair this way and that, and using the comb and brush vigorously. Now and then, as she worked, she became aware that a fluff of hair rolling down low over her forehead did amazing things to her face and brought her from Sally Fortune into the strange dignity of a “lady.” But she could not complete any of the manoeuvres, no matter how promisingly they started. In the end she dashed a handful of hairpins on the floor and wound the hair about her head with a few swift turns.

She studied the sullen, boyish visage which looked back at her. After all, she would be unmercifully joked if she were to appear with her hair grown suddenly fluffy and womanly—it would become impossible for her to run the eating-place without the assistance of a man, and a fighting man at that. So what was the use? She threw the mirror crashing on the floor; it splintered in a thousand pieces.

“After all,” she murmured aloud, “do I want to be a woman?”

The sullen mouth undoubtedly answered “No”; the wistful eyes undoubtedly replied in another key. She shrugged the question away and stepped out of her room toward the kitchen, whistling a tune to raise her spirits.

“Late, Sally,” said the cook, tossing another hot cake on the growing pile which surmounted the warmer.

“Sure; I busted my mirror,” said Sally.

The cook stared at her in such astonishment that he allowed a quantity of dough to fall from the dish cupped in the hollow of his arm; it overflowed the griddle-iron.

“Blockhead!” shouted Sally. “Watch your step!”

She resumed, when the dough had been rescued by somewhat questionable means: “D’you think a girl can dress in the dark?”

But the cook had had too much experience with his employer to press what seemed a tender point. He confined his attention to the pancakes.

“There ain’t no fool worse than a he-fool,” continued Sally bitterly. “Which maybe you think a girl can dress without a mirror?”

Since this taunt brought no response from her victim, she went on into the eating-room. It was already filling, and the duties of her strenuous day began.

They continued without interruption hour after hour, for the popularity of her restaurant had driven all competition out of Eldara, a result which filled the pocket-book and fattened the bank account of Sally Fortune, but loaded unnumbered burdens onto her strong shoulders. For she could not hire a waiter to take her place; every man who came into the eating-room expected to be served by the slim hands of Sally herself, and he expected also some trifling repartee which would make him pay his bill with a grin.

The repartee dragged with Sally to-day, almost to sullenness, and when she began to grow weary in the early afternoon, there was no reserve strength on which she could fall back. She suddenly became aware that she wanted support, aid, comfort. Finally she spilled a great armful of “empties” down on the long drain-board of the sink, turned to the wall, and buried her face in her hands. The cook, Bert, though he cast a startled glance at her would not have dared to speak, after that encounter of the morning, but a rather explosive sniff was too eloquent an appeal to his manliness.

His left sleeve having fallen, he rolled it back, tied the strings of the apron tighter about his plump middle, and advanced to the battle. His hand touched the shoulder of the girl.

“Sally!”

“Shut your face!” moaned a stifled voice.

But he took his courage between his teeth and persisted.

“Sally, somethin’ is wrong.”

“Nothin’ you can right, Fatty,” said the same woe-stricken voice.

“Sally, if somebody’s been gettin’ fresh with you—”

Her arms jerked down; she whirled and faced him with clenched fists; her eyes shining more brightly for the mist which was in them.

“Fresh with me? Why, you poor, one-horned yearling, d’you think there’s anybody in Eldara man enough to get fresh with me?”

Bert retreated a step; caution was a moving element in his nature. From a vantage point behind a table, however, he ventured: “Then what is wrong?”

Her woe, apparently, was greater than her wrath.

She said sadly: “I dunno, Bert. I ain’t the man I used to be—I mean, the woman.”

He waited, his small eyes gentle. What woman can altogether resist sympathy, even from a fat man and a cook? Not even the redoubtable soul of a Sally.

She confessed: “I feel sort of hollow and gone—around the stomach, Fatty.”

“Eat,” suggested the cook. “I just took out a pie that would—”

“But it ain’t the stomach. It’s like bein’ hungry and wantin’ no food. Fatty, d’you think I’m sick?”

“You look kind of whitish.”

“Fatty, I feel—”

She hesitated, as though too great a confession were at her lips, but she stumbled on: “I feel as if I was afraid of somethin’, or someone.”

“That,” said Bert confidently, “ain’t possible. It’s the stomach, Sally. Something ain’t agreed with you.”

She turned from him with a vague gesture of despair.

“If this here feelin’ is goin’ to keep up—why, I wisht I was dead—I wisht I was dead!”

She went on to the swinging door, paused there to dab her eyes swiftly, started to whistle a tune, and in this fashion marched back to the eating-room. Fatty, turning back to the stove, shook his head; he was more than ever convinced in his secret theory that all women are crazy.

Sally found that a new man had entered, one whom she could not remember having seen before. She went to him at once, for it seemed to her that she would die, indeed, if she had to look much longer on the familiar, unshaven faces of the other men in the room.

“Anything you got,” said the stranger, who was broad of hands and thick of neck and he cast an anxious eye on her. “I hear you seen something of a thinnish, dark feller named Bard.”

“What d’_you_ want with him?” asked Sally with dangerous calm.

“I was aimin’ to meet up with him. That’s all.”

“Partner, if you want to stand in solid around here, don’t let out that you’re a friend of his. He ain’t none too popular; that’s straight and puttin’ it nice and easy.”

“Which who said I was his friend?” said the other with heat.

She turned away to the kitchen and reappeared shortly, bearing his meal. The frown with which she departed had disappeared, and she was smiling as brightly as ever while she arranged the dishes in front of him. He paid no attention to the food.