Trailin'!

by Max Brand

  CHAPTER XIV

  LEMONADE

  In fact, so thoughtful had Nash become, that he slept with extraordinarylightness that night and was up at the first hint of day. Sue appearedon the scene just in time to witness the last act of the usual drama ofbucking on the part of the roan, before it settled down to themechanical dog-trot with which it would wear out the ceaseless miles ofthe mountain-desert all day and far into the night, if need be.

  Nash now swung more to the right, cutting across the hills, for hepresumed that by this time the tenderfoot must have gotten his bearingsand would head straight for Eldara. It was a stiff two day journey, now,the whole first day's riding having been a worse than useless detour; sothe bulldog jaw set harder and harder, and the keen eyes squinted as ifto look into the dim future.

  Once each day, about noon, when the heat made even the desert and themen of the desert drowsy, he allowed his imagination to roam freely,counting the thousand dollars over and over again, and tasting again thejoys of a double salary. Yet even his hardy imagination rarely rose tothe height of Sally Fortune. That hour of dreaming, however, made theday of labour almost pleasant.

  This time, in the very middle of his dream, he reached the cross-roadssaloon and general merchandise store of Flanders; so he banished hisvisions with a compelling shrug of the shoulders and rode for it at agallop, a hot dryness growing in his throat at every stride. Quickservice he was sure to get, for there were not more than half a dozencattle-ponies standing in front of the little building with its ricketywalls guiltless of paint save for the one great sign inscribed withuncertain letters.

  He swung from the saddle, tossed the reins over the head of the mustang,made a stride forward--and then checked himself with a soft curse andreached for his gun.

  For the door of the bar dashed open and down the steps rushed a tall manwith light yellow moustache, so long that it literally blew on eitherside over his shoulders as he ran; in either hand he carried arevolver---a two-gun man, fleeing, perhaps, from another murder.

  For Nash recognized in him a character notorious through a thousandmiles of the range, Sandy Ferguson, nicknamed by the colour of thatfamous moustache, which was envied and dreaded so far and so wide. Itwas not fear that made Nash halt, for otherwise he would have finishedthe motion and whipped out his gun; but at least it was somethingclosely akin to fear.

  For that matter, there were unmistakable signs in Sandy himself of whatwould have been called arrant terror in any other man. His face was sobloodless that the pallor showed even through the leathery tan; one eyestared wildly, the other being sheltered under a clumsy patch whichcould not quite conceal the ugly bruise beneath. Under his greatmoustache his lips were as puffed and swollen as the lips of a negro.

  Staggering in his haste, he whirled a few paces from the house andturned, his guns levelled. At the same moment the door opened and theperspiring figure of little fat Flanders appeared. Scorn and angerrather than hate or any bloodlust appeared in his face. His right arm,hanging loosely at his side, held a revolver, and he seemed to have thegreatest unconcern for the levelled weapons of the gunman.

  He made a gesture with that armed hand, and Sandy winced as though awhiplash had flicked him.

  "Steady up, damn your eyes!" bellowed Flanders, "and put them guns away.Put 'em up; hear me?"

  To the mortal astonishment of Nash, Sandy obeyed, keeping the while afascinated eye upon the little Dutchman.

  "Now climb your hoss and beat it, and if I ever find you in reach again,I'll send my kid out to rope you and give you a hoss-whippin'."

  The gun fighter lost no time. A single leap carried him into his saddleand he was off over the sand with a sharp rattle of the beating hoofs.

  "Well," breathed Nash, "I'll be hanged."

  "Sure you will," suggested Flanders, at once changing his frown for asmile of somewhat professional good nature, as one who greeted an oldcustomer, "sure you will unless you come in an' have a drink on thehouse. I want something myself to forget what I been doin'. I feel likethe dog-catcher."

  Steve, deeply meditative, strode into the room.

  "Partner," he said gravely to Flanders, "I've always prided myself onhaving eyes a little better than the next one, but just now I guess Imust of been seein' double. Seemed to me that that was Sandy Fergusonthat you hot-footed out of that door--or has Sandy got a double?"

  "Nope," said the bartender, wiping the last of the perspiration from hisforehead, "that's Sandy, all right."

  "Then gimme a big drink. I need it."

  The bottle spun expertly across the bar, and the glasses tinkled after.

  "Funny about him, all right," nodded Flanders, "but then it's happenedthe same way with others I could tell about. As long as he was winnin'Sandy was the king of any roost. The minute he lost a fight he wasn'tworth so many pounds of salt pork. Take a hoss; a fine hoss is oftenjest the same. Long as it wins nothin' can touch some of them bloodedboys. But let 'em go under the wire second, maybe jest because they'spacking twenty pounds too much weight, and they're never any good anymore. Any second-rater can lick 'em. I lost five hundred iron boys on ahoss that laid down like that."

  "All of which means," suggested Nash, "that Sandy has been licked?"

  "Licked? No, he ain't been licked, but he's been plumb annihilated,washed off the map, cleaned out, faded, rubbed into the dirt; if therewas some stronger way of puttin' it, I would. Only last night, at that,but now look at him. A girl that never seen a man before could tell thathe wasn't any more dangerous now than if he was made of putty; but ifthe fool keeps packin' them guns he's sure to get into trouble."

  He raised his glass.

  "So here's to the man that Sandy was and ain't no more."

  They drank solemnly.

  "Maybe you took the fall out of him yourself, Flanders?"

  "Nope. I ain't no fighter, Steve. You know that. The feller that downedSandy was--a tenderfoot. Yep, a greenhorn."

  "Ah-h-h," drawled Nash softly, "I thought so."

  "You did?"

  "Anyway, let's hear the story. Another drink--on me, Flanders."

  "It was like this. Along about evening of yesterday Sandy was in herewith a couple of other boys. He was pretty well lighted--the glow wascirculatin' promiscuous, in fact--when in comes a feller about yourheight, Steve, but lighter. Goodlookin', thin face, big dark eyes like agirl. He carried the signs of a long ride on him. Well, sir, he walks upto the bar and says: 'Can you make me a very sour lemonade, Mr.Bartender?'

  "I grabbed the edge of the bar and hung tight.

  "'A which?' says I.

  "'Lemonade, if you please.'

  "I rolled an eye at Sandy, who was standin' there with his jaw falling,and then I got busy with lemons and the squeezer, but pretty soonFerguson walks up to the stranger.

  "'Are you English?' he asks.

  "I knew by his tone what was comin', so I slid the gun I keep behind thebar closer and got prepared for a lot of damaged crockery.

  "'I?' says the tenderfoot. 'Why, no. What makes you ask?'

  "'Your damned funny way of talkin',' says Sandy.

  "'Oh,' says the greenhorn, nodding as if he was thinkin' this over anddiscovering a little truth in it. 'I suppose the way I talk is a littleunusual.'

  "'A little rotten,' says Sandy. 'Did I hear you askin' for a lemonade?'

  "'You did.'

  "'Would I seem to be askin' too many questions,' says Sandy, terriblepolite, 'if I inquires if bar whisky ain't good enough for you?'

  "The tenderfoot, he stands there jest as easy as you an' me stand herenow, and he laughed.

  "He says: 'The bar whisky I've tasted around this country is not verygood for any one, unless, perhaps, after a snake has bitten you. Then itworks on the principle of poison fight poison, eh?'

  "Sandy says after a minute: 'I'm the most quietest, gentle, innercentcowpuncher that ever rode the range, but I'd tell a man that it riles meto hear good bar whisky insulted like this. Look at me! Do I look as ifwhisky ain't good for
a man?'

  "'Why,' says the tenderfoot, 'you look sort of funny to me.'

  "He said it as easy as if he was passin' the morning with Ferguson, butI seen that it was the last straw with Sandy. He hefted out both gunsand trained 'em on the greenhorn.

  "I yelled: 'Sandy, for God's sake, don't be killin' a tenderfoot!'

  "'If whisky will kill him he's goin' to die,' says Sandy. 'Flanders,pour out a drink of rye for this gent.'

  "I did it, though my hand was shaking a lot, and the chap takes theglass and raises it polite, and looks at the colour of it. I thought hewas goin' to drink, and starts wipin' the sweat off'n my forehead.

  "But this chap, he sets down the glass and smiles over to Sandy.

  "'Listen,' he says, still grinnin', 'in the old days I suppose thiswould have been a pretty bluff, but it won't work with me now. You wantme to drink this glass of very bad whisky, but I'm sure that you don'twant it badly enough to shoot me.

  "'There are many reasons. In the old days a man shot down another andthen rode off on his horse and was forgotten, but in these days thetelegraph is faster than any horse that was ever foaled. They'd be sureto get you, sir, though you might dodge them for a while. And I believethat for a crime such as you threaten, they have recently installed alittle electric chair which is a perfectly good inducer of sleep--infact, it is better than a cradle. Taking these things all intoconsideration, I take it for granted that you are bluffing, my friend,and one of my favourite occupations is calling a bluff. You lookdangerous, but I've an idea that you are as yellow as your moustache.'

  "Sandy, he sort of swelled up all over like a poisoned dog.

  "He says: 'I begin to see your style. You want a clean man-handlin',which suits me uncommon well.'

  "With that, he lays down his guns, soft and careful, and puts up hisfists, and goes for the other gent.

  "He makes his pass, which should have sent the other gent into kingdomcome. But it didn't. No, sir, the tenderfoot, he seemed to evaporate. Hewasn't there when the fist of Ferguson come along. Ferguson, he checkedup short and wheeled around and charged again like a bull. And he missedagain. And so they kept on playin' a sort of a game of tag over theplace, the stranger jest side-steppin' like a prize-fighter, theprettiest you ever seen, and not developin' when Sandy started on one ofhis swings.

  "At last one of Sandy's fists grazed him on the shoulder and sort ofpeeved him, it looked like. He ducks under Sandy's next punch, steps in,and wallops Sandy over the eye--that punch didn't travel more'n sixinches. But it slammed Sandy down in a corner like he's been shot.

  "He was too surprised to be much hurt, though, and drags himself up tohis feet, makin' a pass at his pocket at the same time. Then he cameagain, silent and thinkin' of blood, I s'pose, with a knife in his hand.

  "This time the tenderfoot didn't wait. He went in with a sort of hitchstep, like a dancer. Ferguson's knife carved the air beside thetenderfoot's head, and then the skinny boy jerked up his right and hisleft--one, two--into Sandy's mouth. Down he goes again--slumps down asif all the bones in his body was busted--right down on his face. Theother feller grabs his shoulder and jerks him over on his back.

  "He stands lookin' down at him for a moment, and then he says, sort ofthoughtful: 'He isn't badly hurt, but I suppose I shouldn't have hit himtwice.'

  "Can you beat that, Steve? You can't!

  "When Sandy come to he got up to his feet, wobbling--seen his guns--wentover and scooped 'em up, with the eye of the tenderfoot on him all thetime--scooped 'em up--stood with 'em all poised--and so he backed outthrough the door. It wasn't any pretty thing to see. The tenderfoot, heturned to the bar again.

  "'If you don't mind,' he says, 'I think I'll switch my order and takethat whisky instead. I seem to need it.'

  "'Son!' says I, 'there ain't nothin' in the house you can't have for theaskin'. Try some of this!'

  "And I pulled out a bottle of my private stock--you know the stuff; I'vehad it twenty-five years, and it was ten years old when I got it. Thatain't as much of a lie as it sounds.

  "He takes a glass of it and sips it, sort of suspicious, like a wolfscentin' the wind for an elk in winter. Then his face lighted up like alantern had been flashed on it. You'd of thought that he was lookin' hislong-lost brother in the eye from the way he smiled at me. He holds theglass up and lets the light come through it, showin' the little tracesand bubbles of oil.

  "'May I know your name?' he says.

  "It made me feel like Rockerbilt, hearin' him say that, in _that_special voice.

  "'Me,' says I, 'I'm Flanders.'

  "'It's an honour to know you, Mr. Flanders,' he says. 'My name isAnthony Bard.'

  "We shook hands, and his grip was three fourths man, I'll tell theworld.

  "'Good liquor,' says he, 'is like a fine lady. Only a gentleman canappreciate it. I drink to you, sir.'

  "So that's how Sandy Ferguson went under the sod. To-day? Well, Icouldn't let Ferguson stand in a barroom where a gentleman had been,could I?"