Under Handicap

by Jackson Gregory

  CHAPTER VI

  As the significance of his change of fortunes began slowly to dawn onhim, Conniston was at first merely amused. One of the men employed byJohn W. Crawford, a man whom Conniston came to know later as RawhideJones, conducted him at the Old Man's orders to the bunk-house. Theman was lean, tall, sunburned, and the _tout ensemble_ of hisattire--his flapping, soiled vest, his turned-up, dingy-blue overalls,his torn neck-handkerchief, and, above all, the two-weeks' growth uponhis spare face--gave him an unbelievable air of untidiness. He castone slow, measuring glance at the young fellow who Mr. Crawford hadsaid briefly was to go to work in the morning, and then without aword, without a further look or waiting to see if he was followed,slouched on ahead toward the gap in the encircling trees into whichLonesome Pete had disappeared earlier in the afternoon.

  Conniston saw that Argyl Crawford was standing at her father's sideand that she was smiling; he saw that Hapgood was laughing openly. Andthen he turned and strode on after his guide, conscious that the bloodwas creeping up into his face and at the same time that he could not"back down."

  The graveled road wound through the pines for an eighth of a mile,leaving the bench land and finding its way into a hollow cleared oftrees. Here was a long, low, rambling building--a stable, no doubt.At each end of the stable was a stock-corral. And at the edge of theclearing was another building, long and very low, with one single doorand several little square windows. A stove-pipe protruded from the farend of this house, and from it rose a thin spiral of smoke.

  "The Ol' Man said I was to show you your bunk," Rawhide Jones mutteredunder his breath. "You're to have the one as was Benny's. Benny gotkilt some time back."

  He flung the door open and entered. Conniston, at his heels, paused amoment, staring about him. A man in dingy-blue undershirt, the sleevesrolled back upon forearms remarkable for their knotting, swellingmuscles, was frying great thick steaks upon the top of the stove,enveloped in the smoke and odor of his own cooking. In the middle ofthe room was a long table, covered with worn oil-cloth, set out withplates and cups of heavy white ware and with black wooden-handledknives and forks. Running up and down each side of the oneunpartitioned room were narrow bunks, a row close to the floor,another row three feet higher, arranged roughly like berths on board asteamer.

  Sitting on chairs, or on the edges of the bunks with their legsa-dangle, their eyes interestedly upon the cook's operations, werehalf a dozen men, rough of garb, rough of hands, big, brawny, uncouth.As Conniston came into the room every pair of eyes left the cook toexamine him swiftly, frankly. He paused a moment for the introductionRawhide Jones would make. But Rawhide Jones had no idea of doinganything more than enough to fulfil his orders. He strode on throughthe men until he stopped at one of the upper bunks, about the middleof the room, from which a worn, soiled red quilt trailed half-way tothe floor.

  "This here was Benny's. It's yourn now."

  He had turned away, and, standing with his big hands resting upon hiships, was watching the cook. And Conniston saw that all of the othermen, seemingly forgetful of his entrance, were again doing the samething. He felt suddenly a deep lonesomeness, greater a thousand timesthan when he had been actually alone under the spell of the desert.For here there were men about him who, having seen him, turned away,shutting him out from them, with no one word of greeting, not so muchas a nod. He was not in the habit of being received this way. It was,his sensitive nature told him, as though he had been examined by them,had been recognized as an alien, and had had the doors of theirfraternity clicked in his face.

  He felt a sudden bitterness, a sudden anger. And with it he felt adeep contempt for them, for their petty, unenlightened lives, theircoarseness, their blackened hands and unshaved faces. He was agentleman and a Conniston! He was the son of William Conniston, ofWall Street! He told himself that when they came to know who he was,who his father was, their incivility would change fast enough intoservility.

  And still he had as much as he could do to keep the little hurt, thesting of his reception, from showing in his face. He glanced asdisgustedly as Hapgood could have done into the rude bunk with itstangled pile of coarse blankets, and turned away from it. For onefleeting second the temptation was strong upon him to turn his backupon the lot of them, to stalk proudly to the door, to go to Mr.Crawford and tell him that he was not used to this sort of thing anddid not intend to try to grow accustomed to it. One thing onlyrestrained him. He knew that even as he closed the door behind him hewould hear their voices in rude laughter, and Greek Conniston did notlike being laughed at. Instead he left the bunk and walked quietly toone of the farther chairs. The air of the bunk-house was already thickwith smoke from the stove and from cigarettes and pipes. Connistontook out his own pipe, filled it, and, sitting back, added his smoketo the rest.

  The cook had turned to say something to Rawhide Jones, and, carelesslyputting his hand behind him, blistered it against the red-hot top ofthe stove, whereupon he burst into such a volley of curses asConniston had never heard. The words which streamed from the big man'smouth actually made Conniston shiver. He turned questioning eyes tothe other men in the room. They were again talking to one another, noman of them seeming to have so much as heard. Rawhide Jones laughed atthe cook's discomfiture and went back to the door, where he washed hisface and hands at a little basin, plastered his wet hair down as hiscompanions had already done, and dropped into easy conversation withthe heavy, round-shouldered, yellow-haired man sitting across the roomfrom Conniston.

  "Looks like the Ol' Man means real business, huh, Spud?"

  Spud answered with a joyous oath that it certainly looked like it.

  "He's puttin' Brayley in on this en' an' takin' ol' Bat Truxton cleanoff'n it to throw him onto the Rattlesnake," Spud went on. "Bat 'llhave nigh on a hundred men down there workin' overtime before theweek's up, he says. I guess he'll have his paws full without tryin' torun the cow en', too."

  "An' I reckon," continued Jones, thoughtfully, "as how Brayley won'tsleep all the time up here. He's got to swing the whole Half Moon an'the Lone Dog an' the Five Hills an' the Sunk Hole outfit." He shookhis head and spat before he concluded. "What with the Ol' Man buyin'the Sunk Hole, an' figgerin' on marketin' in Injun Creek, an' crowdin'work down in the Rattlesnake, Brayley 'll be some busy if he don'ttake on another big bunch of punchers. Huh?"

  Spud made no answer, for at this juncture the cook put a big platterof steak, piled high, upon the table, and the men, dragging theirchairs after them, waited no other invitation "to set in." Connistonfor a moment held back. Then, as he saw that there were several vacantplaces, he took up his own chair and sat down at the end of the tablenearest him. The man at his left helped himself to meat by harpooningthe largest piece in sight and dragging it, dripping, over the edge ofthe platter and to his own plate. Then he shoved the platter towardConniston without looking to see whether or not it arrived at itsproper destination, and gave his undivided attention to the dish ofboiled potatoes which the man upon his left had shoved at him.Conniston, helping himself slowly, found soon that the potatoes, therice, and a tray of biscuits were all lodged at his elbow, waiting tobe ferried on around the end of the table.

  For a few moments all conversation died utterly. These men had done aday's work, a day's work calling upon straining muscles and unslackingenergy, and their hunger was an active thing. They plied their knivesand forks, took great draughts of their hot tea and coffee, withlittle attention to aught else. But presently, as their hunger beganto be appeased, they broke into conversation again, talking of ahundred range matters of which Conniston understood almost nothing. Hedrew from the fragments which reached him above the general clatterthe same thing that he had got from the few words which had passedbetween Rawhide Jones and Spud. Evidently, the cowboys were pressedwith work both on the Half Moon and on the other ranges, and the newforeman, Brayley, was putting on more men and sparing no one incarrying out the orders which came from headquarters. Equallyapparently, the man whom they called Bat Truxton was in
command of thereclamation work in Rattlesnake Valley, and now with a force of ahundred men was working with an activity even more feverish thanBrayley's.

  During the meal five more men came in, and with a word of roughgreeting to their fellows dropped into their chairs and helpedthemselves deftly. Conniston recognized one of the men as thehalf-breed, Joe, whom he had seen meet Miss Crawford in Indian Creek.Another was Lonesome Pete. Conniston was more gratified than he knewwhen the red-headed reader of "Macbeth" nodded to him and said a quiet"Howdy." The last man to come in was Brayley.

  He was a big man, a trifle shorter than Conniston, but heavier, withbroader shoulders, rounded from years in the saddle, with great, deepchest, and thick, powerful arms. He lurched lightly as he walked, hisleft shoulder thrust forward as though he were constantly about tofling open a door with its solid impact. He was a man of forty,perhaps, and as active of foot as a boy. His heavy, belligerent jaw,the sharp, beady blackness of his eyes, the whole alert, confident airof him bespoke the born foreman.

  Conniston was conscious of the piercing black eyes as they swept thetable and rested on him. He noticed that Brayley alone of the men whohad entered late had no word of greeting for the others, received nosingle word from them. And he saw further, wondering vaguely what itmeant, that as the big foreman came in the eyes of all the others wentfirst to him and then to Conniston.

  Brayley stopped a moment at the door, washing his face and handsswiftly, carelessly, satisfied in rubbing a good part of the evidenceof the day's toil upon the towel hanging upon a nail close at hand.Three strokes with the community comb, dangling from a bit of string,and jerking his neck-handkerchief into place, he lurched toward thetable. Five feet away he stopped suddenly, his eyes burning intoConniston's.

  "Who might you be, stranger?" he snapped, his words coming withunpleasant, almost metallic sharpness.

  There fell a sudden silence in the bunk-house. Knives and forks ceasedtheir clatter while the cowboys turned interested eyes upon theEasterner.

  Conniston caught the unveiled threat in the foreman's tones, saw thathe had come in in the mood of a man ready to find fault, and took aninstinctive disliking for the man he was being paid a dollar a day totake orders from. He returned Brayley's glance steadily, angered moreat knowing that the blood was again creeping up into his cheeks thanbecause of the curt question. And, staring at him steadily, he madeno further answer.

  "Can't you talk?" cried Brayley, angrily. "Are you deef an' dumb? Isaid, who might you be?"

  "I heard you," replied Conniston, quietly. And to the man upon hisleft, "Will you kindly pass me the bread?"

  The man grinned in rare enjoyment, and, since he kept his eyes uponBrayley's glowering face, it was hardly strange that he handedConniston a plate of stewed prunes instead.

  "Thank you," Conniston said to him, still ignoring Brayley. "But itwas bread I said."

  "An' I said something!" cut in Brayley, his voice crisp and incisive."Did you get me?"

  "I got you, friend." Conniston put out his hand for the bread andcaught a gleam of sparkling amusement in Lonesome Pete's eyes fromacross the table. "And maybe after you tell me who you are I mightanswer you."

  "Me!" thundered the big man, lurching one step nearer, his under jawthrust still farther out. "Me! I'm Brayley, that's who I am! An' I'mthe foreman of this here outfit."

  "Thank you, Brayley." Conniston's anger was pounding in his temples,but he strove to keep it back. "I'm Conniston. I was told to reporthere by Mr. Crawford to go to work in the morning. I suppose I reportto you?"

  "Conniston are you, huh? All right, Conniston. Now who happened totell you to slap yourself down in that there chair, huh?"

  "Nobody," returned Conniston, calmly. "I didn't suppose that I was tostand up and eat."

  Lonesome Pete's grin overran his eyes, and the ends of his fierymustache curved upward. Two or three men laughed outright. Brayley'sbrows twitched into a scowling frown.

  "Nobody's askin' you to git funny, little rooster! You git out 'n thatchair an' git out 'n it fas'. _Sabe?_"

  Calm-blooded by nature and by long habit, Conniston had mastered theflood of blood to his brain and grown perfectly cool. Brayley, on theother hand, had come in in a seething rage from a tussle with a coltin which his stirrup leather had broken and he had rolled in the dustof the corral, to the boundless glee of two or three of his men whohad seen it, and now there was nothing to restrain his anger.Conniston was laughing into his face.

  "I hear you," he said, lightly. "My ears are good, and your voice isnot bad by any means. Only I'd really like to know why you want me toget up. Is it custom here for a new man to remain standing until theforeman is seated? If I am violating any customs--"

  Again Brayley took one lurching step forward. Conniston pushed hischair back so that his feet were clear of the table leg.

  "I say, Brayley"--Lonesome Pete had half risen from his chair and wasspeaking softly--"Conniston here didn't know. Nobody put him wise ashow you sat in that particular chair. An'," even more softly, "he's afrien' of Mr. Crawford."

  "Who's askin' you to chip in?" challenged Brayley, his eyes flashingfor the moment from Conniston to Lonesome Pete. "An' if he's a frien'of Crawford's, why ain't he up to the house instead of down here?Huh?"

  Lonesome Pete shrugged his shoulders and settled back into his chair.

  "Slip me a sinker, Rawhide," he said, quietly, to the man next to himas though he had lost all interest in the conversation.

  "Frien' of the Ol' Man's or no frien'," blustered Brayley, his eyesagain on Conniston's, "if you're goin' to work I guess you're goin' totake orders from me like the rest of the boys. An' the first order is,_git out'n that there chair!_"

  "Look here," Conniston replied, quietly, "I didn't know that I wastaking a seat reserved for you, and I didn't mean any offense. You cantake that as a sort of an apology if you like. But at the same time,even if I am to take orders from you, I am not going to be bulldozedby you or anybody like you. If you will ask me decently--"

  "Ask you!" bellowed Brayley. "Ask you! By the Lord, I don't _ask_ mymen! I _make_ 'em!"

  He had leaped forward with his last word, his two big handsoutstretched with clawing fingers. Before Conniston could spring fromhis chair to meet the attack the iron hands were upon his shoulders.He felt himself being lifted bodily from his seat. His weight wasscarcely less than the irate foreman's, and he employed every pound ofit as he staggered to his feet and flung himself against his burlyantagonist. The men about the table sat still, watching, saying noword.

  Conniston's strength was less than the other's, and he knew it, knewthat his endurance would be nothing against the muscles seasoned bydaily physical work until they were like steel. He knew that in twominutes of battling struggle he would be like a kitten in the big,powerful hands. And he was of no mind to have Brayley manhandle himbefore such an audience as was now sitting quietly watching,listening to his panting breaths. In one straining effort he jerkedhis right shoulder free, swung his clenched fist back, and drove itsmashing into Brayley's face.

  Brayley's head snapped back, and the blood from his cut mouth ranacross his white, bared teeth. Conniston sprang forward to follow upthe blow. But Brayley had caught his balance and was leaping to meethim, snarling. His hard, toil-blackened fist drove through Conniston'sguard, striking him full upon the jaw. Conniston reeled, and before hecould catch himself a second blow caught him under the ear, and withoutflung arms he pitched backward and fell, striking the back of hishead upon the rough boards of the floor.

  For one dizzy moment the world went black for him. And then it wentred, flaming, flaring red, as he heard a man's laugh. An anger thelike of which he had never known in the placid days of his easy lifewas upon him, an anger which made him forget all things under the archof heaven excepting the one man with bloody fists glaring into hiseyes, an anger blind and hot and primitive. Again he knew that he wason his feet; again he was rushing at the man who stood waiting forhim.

  "Stan' back!" roared Br
ayley. "I ain't goin' to play with you allday."

  Conniston laughed and did not know that he had done so. He only sawthat Brayley had stepped back a pace, and that he had something, blackbut glistening in the pale light, tight clenched in his hand. Cryingout hoarsely, inarticulately, he threw himself forward.

  Again Brayley met him, this time the revolver in his hand thrustbefore him. It was almost in Conniston's face now. Somebody cried outsharply. Several of the men jumped from their seats and leaped outfrom behind Conniston. Two or three of them slipped under the table tocrawl out on the other side. Then Conniston saw what the something wasin Brayley's hand.

  "Shoot, you dirty coward!" he yelled, as he swung his arm out towardthe big six-shooter.

  For one moment Brayley seemed to hesitate. And then as the two mencame together the barrel of the gun rose and fell swiftly, strikingConniston full upon the forehead. His arms dropped like lead; thedizzy blackness came back upon him, growing blacker, blacker; and hefell silently, unconsciously.

  It was very quiet in the bunk-house when he opened his eyes. A suddenpain through the temples, a rising nausea, blackness and dizzinessagain, made him close them, frowning. He knew that he was lying in hisbunk and that he was very weak. There was a cold, wet towel tied tightabout his forehead.

  The table had been cleared away, and the cook was finishing hisdish-washing by the stove. A lantern swinging from the beam which ranacross the middle of the room showed him that all the men were intheir bunks with the exception of two who were playing cribbage at thetable. They were Lonesome Pete and Rawhide Jones. When they saw himleaning out from his bunk Lonesome Pete put down his cards and came tohim.

  "How're they comin', stranger?" he asked, with no great expression ineither eyes or voice.

  "Where's Brayley?" demanded Conniston, quickly.

  "He ain't here none jest now. No, he ain't exac'ly ran away, nuther.Brayley ain't the kind as runs away. He was sent for to come to theLone Dog, where there's some kind of trouble on. Seein' as that'sthirty mile or worse, the chances is he'll ride mos' all night an'won't be back for a day or two."

  Conniston sank back upon his straw pillow. "What I have to say to himwill keep," he said, quietly.

  The red-headed man looked at him curiously. "Brayley's the boss onthis outfit, pardner. What he says goes as she lays. It's sure badbusiness buckin' your foreman. If you can't hit it up agreeable like,you better quit."

  For a moment Conniston lay silent, plucking with nervous fingers atthe worn red quilt.

  "What did he do to me?" he asked, presently. "Hit me over the headwith a revolver?"

  Lonesome Pete nodded.

  "That's what you call fair play out in the West?"

  "What fooled me, Conniston, is that he didn't drill a couple er holesthrough you! He ain't used to bein' so careful an' tender-hearted-like,Brayley ain't."

  "Just because I'm to work under him, does that mean that in the eye ofyou men he had a right--"

  An uplifted hand stopped him. "When two men has onpleasant words itain't up to anybody else to say who's right. Us fellers has jest gotto creep lively out'n the line of bullets an' let the two men mostinterested settle that theirselves. Only I don't mind sayin', jestfrien'ly like, as it is considered powerful foolish for a man toprance skallyhutin' into a mixup as is apt to smash thingsconsiderable onless he's heeled."

  "Heeled? You mean--"

  Lonesome Pete whipped one of the guns from his sagging belt and laidit close to Conniston's pillow.

  "That when a man's got one of them where he can find it easy he ain'tgot to take nothin' off'n nobody! An' one man's jest as good asanother, whether he's foreman or a thirty-dollar puncher! An' bein' aswe got to go to work early in the mornin', I reckon you better rollover an' hit the hay!"

  He turned abruptly and went back to his discarded hand. And GreekConniston, the son of William Conniston, of Wall Street, lay back uponhis bunk and thought deeply of many things.