by Ralph Connor
CHAPTER VII
THE LAST OF THE PERMIT SUNDAYS
The spring "round-ups" were all over and Bruce had nothing to do butto loaf about the Stopping Place, drinking old Latour's bad whisky andmaking himself a nuisance. In vain The Pilot tried to win him with loansof books and magazines and other kindly courtesies. He would be decentfor a day and then would break forth in violent argumentation againstreligion and all who held to it. He sorely missed The Duke, who was awaysouth on one of his periodic journeys, of which no one knew anythingor cared to ask. The Duke's presence always steadied Bruce and tookthe rasp out of his manners. It was rather a relief to all that he wasabsent from the next fortnightly service, though Moore declared he wasashamed to confess this relief.
"I can't touch him," he said to me, after the service; "he is far tooclever, but," and his voice was full of pain, "I'd give something tohelp him."
"If he doesn't quit his nonsense," I replied, "he'll soon be pasthelping. He doesn't go out on his range, his few cattle wandereverywhere, his shack is in a beastly state, and he himself is goingto pieces, miserable fool that he is." For it did seem a shame that afellow should so throw himself away for nothing.
"You are hard," said Moore, with his eyes upon me.
"Hard? Isn't it true?" I answered, hotly. "Then, there's his mother athome."
"Yes, but can he help it? Is it all his fault?" he replied, with hissteady eyes still looking into me.
"His fault? Whose fault, then?"
"What of the Noble Seven? Have they anything to do with this?" His voicewas quiet, but there was an arresting intensity in it.
"Well," I said, rather weakly, "a man ought to look after himself."
"Yes!--and his brother a little." Then, he added: "What have any of youdone to help him? The Duke could have pulled him up a year ago if he hadbeen willing to deny himself a little, and so with all of you. You alldo just what pleases you regardless of any other, and so you help oneanother down."
I could not find anything just then to say, though afterwards manythings came to me; for, though his voice was quiet and low, his eyeswere glowing and his face was alight with the fire that burned within,and I felt like one convicted of a crime. This was certainly anew doctrine for the West; an uncomfortable doctrine to practice,interfering seriously with personal liberty, but in The Pilot's wayof viewing things difficult to escape. There would be no end to one'sresponsibility. I refused to think it out.
Within a fortnight we were thinking it out with some intentness. TheNoble Seven were to have a great "blow-out" at the Hill brothers' ranch.The Duke had got home from his southern trip a little more weary-lookingand a little more cynical in his smile. The "blow-out" was to be heldon Permit Sunday, the alternate to the Preaching Sunday, which was aconcession to The Pilot, secured chiefly through the influence of Hiand his baseball nine. It was something to have created the situationinvolved in the distinction between Preaching and Permit Sundays. Hi putit rather graphically. "The devil takes his innin's one Sunday and ThePilot the next," adding emphatically, "He hain't done much scorin'yit, but my money's on The Pilot, you bet!" Bill was more cautious andpreferred to wait developments. And developments were rapid.
The Hill brothers' meet was unusually successful from a social pointof view. Several Permits had been requisitioned, and whisky and beerabounded. Races all day and poker all night and drinks of various brewsboth day and night, with varying impromptu diversions--such as shootingthe horns off wandering steers--were the social amenities indulged in bythe noble company. On Monday evening I rode out to the ranch, urged byMoore, who was anxious that someone should look after Bruce.
"I don't belong to them," he said, "you do. They won't resent yourcoming."
Nor did they. They were sitting at tea, and welcomed me with a shout.
"Hello, old domine!" yelled Bruce, "where's your preacher friend?"
"Where you ought to be, if you could get there--at home," I replied,nettled at his insolent tone.
"Strike one!" called out Hi, enthusiastically, not approving Bruce'sattitude toward his friend, The Pilot.
"Don't be so acute," said Bruce, after the laugh had passed, "but have adrink."
He was flushed and very shaky and very noisy. The Duke, at the headof the table, looked a little harder than usual, but, though pale, wasquite steady. The others were all more or less nerve-broken, and aboutthe room were the signs of a wild night. A bench was upset, while brokenbottles and crockery lay strewn about over a floor reeking with filth.The disgust on my face called forth an apology from the younger Hill,who was serving up ham and eggs as best he could to the men loungingabout the table.
"It's my housemaid's afternoon out," he explained gravely.
"Gone for a walk in the park," added an other.
"Hope MISTER Connor will pardon the absence," sneered Bruce, in his mostoffensive manner.
"Don't mind him," said Hi, under his breath, "the blue devils arerunnin' him down."
This became more evident as the evening went on. From hilarity Brucepassed to sullen ferocity, with spasms of nervous terror. Hi's attemptsto soothe him finally drove him mad, and he drew his revolver, declaringhe could look after himself, in proof of which he began to shoot out thelights.
The men scrambled into safe corners, all but The Duke, who stood quietlyby watching Bruce shoot. Then saying:
"Let me have a try, Bruce," he reached across and caught his hand.
"No! you don't," said Bruce, struggling. "No man gets my gun."
He tore madly at the gripping hand with both of his, but in vain,calling out with frightful oaths:
"Let go! let go! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"
With a furious effort he hurled himself back from the table, draggingThe Duke partly across. There was a flash and a report and Brucecollapsed, The Duke still gripping him. When they lifted him up he wasfound to have an ugly wound in his arm, the bullet having passed throughthe fleshy part. I bound it up as best I could and tried to persuade himto go to bed. But he would go home. Nothing could stop him. Finally TheDuke agreed to go with him, and off they set, Bruce loudly protestingthat he could get home alone and did not want anyone.
It was a dismal break-up to the meet, and we all went home feelingrather sick, so that it gave me no pleasure to find Moore waiting in myshack for my report of Bruce. It was quite vain for me to make light ofthe accident to him. His eyes were wide open with anxious fear when Ihad done.
"You needn't tell me not to be anxious," he said, "you are anxiousyourself. I see it, I feel it."
"Well, there's no use trying to keep things from you," I replied, "butI am only a little anxious. Don't you go beyond me and work yourself upinto a fever over it."
"No," he answered quietly, "but I wish his mother were nearer."
"Oh, bosh, it isn't coming to that; but I wish he were in better shape.He is broken up badly without this hole in him."
He would not leave till I had promised to take him up the next day,though I was doubtful enough of his reception. But next day The Dukecame down, his black bronco, Jingo, wet with hard riding.
"Better come up, Connor," he said, gravely, "and bring your bromidesalong. He has had a bad night and morning and fell asleep only beforeI came away. I expect he'll wake in delirium. It's the whisky more thanthe bullet. Snakes, you know."
In ten minutes we three were on the trail, for Moore, though notinvited, quietly announced his intention to go with us.
"Oh, all right," said The Duke, indifferently, "he probably won'trecognize you any way."
We rode hard for half an hour till we came within sight of Bruce'sshack, which was set back into a little poplar bluff.
"Hold up!" said The Duke. "Was that a shot?" We stood listening. Arifle-shot rang out, and we rode hard. Again The Duke halted us, andthere came from the shack the sound of singing. It was an old Scotchtune.
"The twenty-third Psalm," said Moore, in a low voice.
We rode into the bluff, tied up our horses and crept to the back of
theshack. Looking through a crack between the logs, I saw a gruesome thing.Bruce was sitting up in bed with a Winchester rifle across his knees anda belt of cartridges hanging over the post. His bandages were torn off,the blood from his wound was smeared over his bare arms and his pale,ghastly face; his eyes were wild with mad terror, and he was shouting atthe top of his voice the words:
"The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want, He makes me down to lie In pastures green, He leadeth me The quiet waters by."
Now and then he would stop to say in an awesome whisper, "Come out here,you little devils!" and bang would go his rifle at the stovepipe, whichwas riddled with holes. Then once more in a loud voice he would hurry tobegin the Psalm,
"The Lord's my Shepherd."
Nothing that my memory brings to me makes me chill like thatpicture--the low log shack, now in cheerless disorder; the ghastlyobject upon the bed in the corner, with blood-smeared face and arms andmad terror in the eyes; the awful cursings and more awful psalm-singing,punctuated by the quick report of the deadly rifle.
For some moments we stood gazing at one another; then The Duke said, ina low, fierce tone, more to himself than to us:
"This is the last. There'll be no more of this cursed folly among theboys."
And I thought it a wise thing in The Pilot that he answered not a word.