CHAPTER IX
AT THE BAR
The arrival of a baby at the home of Harry Tenison in Sleepy Cat had animmediate effect on Kate Doubleday's fortune in the mountains--and,indeed, on the fortunes of a number of other people in Sleepy Cat--whollyout of proportion to its importance as a family event. It was not, it istrue, for the Tenisons a mere family event. Married fifteen years, theyhad been without children until the advent of this baby. And the birthof a boy to Harry Tenison excited not alone the parents, but the town,the railroad division and the hundred miles of range and desert, northand south, tributary to the town.
For a number of years Tenison had run his place in Sleepy Cat undisturbedby the swiftly changing fortunes of frontiersmen and railroad men.Tragedies, in their sudden sweep across the horizon of his activities,the poised gambler and hotel man had met unmoved. Men went to theheights of mining or range affluence and to the depths of crude passion,inevitable despair and tragic death, with Harry Tenison coldly unruffled.He was a man in so far detached from his surroundings, yet with hisfinger on the pulse of happenings in his unstable world. But the birthof one baby--and that a small one--upset him completely and veryunexpectedly shocked others of his motley circle of acquaintance.
The complications followed on the announcement--on a Monday when the babywas three days old and the mother and boy were reported by the nurse tobe coming along like kittens--that the following Saturday would be "openday" at the Mountain House--Tenison's new and almost palatial hotel; withthe proprietor standing host for the town and the countryside.
Before the week was out this word had swept through the mountains, fromthe stretches of the Thief River on the South to the recesses of theLodge Poles on the North. It was the one topic of interest for the weekon the range. Few were the remote corners where the news did notpenetrate and the unfortunates who missed the celebration long didpenance in listening to long-winded accounts of Sleepy Cat's memorableday.
It dawned in a splendor of blue sky and golden sun, with the mountainreaches, snow-swept and still, brought incredibly near and clear throughthe sparkling air of the high plateau. The Sleepy Cat band wereTenison's very first guests for breakfast.
"'N' you want to eat hearty, boys," declared Ben Simeral, who had reachedtown the night before in order that no round crossing the Tenison barshould escape him: "Harry expec's you to blow like hell all day."
Few men are more conscientious in the discharge of duty than the membersof a small-town brass band. The Sleepy Cat musicians held back onlyuntil the arrival of the early local freight, Second Seventy-Seven, fortheir bass horn player, the fireman. When the train pulled up toward thestation on a yard track, the band members in uniform on the platformawaited their melodic back-stop, and the fireman, in greeting, pulled thewhistle cord for a blast. The switch engine promptly responded and onewhistle after another joined in until every engine in the yard wasblowing as Ben had declared Tenison expected the band itself to blow.
In this wholly impromptu and happy way the day was opened. The band,laboriously trained for years by the local jeweler--said to be able toblow a candle through an inch board with his South Bend B flatcornet--now formed in marching order, the grimed fireman gamely in placeeven after a night run, with his silver contrabass. At an energeticsignal from their leader they struck up a march and started down streetwith the offering as a pledge of what they might be expected to do. Theywere not called on, however, to do all, for at noon the Bear Dance Bandarrived from the West and an hour later came the crack thirty-two-piecemilitary band from Medicine Bend, carrying more gold on their lacings andtheir horns than the local musicians carried in the savings bank.
By the time the noon whistle blew at the roundhouse every trail and roadinto Sleepy Cat showed dust--some of them an abundance. The hotel wasnaturally the center of attraction, and Main Street looked like aFrontier Day crowd. The Reservation, too, sent a delegation for theoccasion and mingling in the jostling but good-natured crowd were chiefs,bucks and squaws, who, in a riot of war bonnets, porcupine waistcoats,gay trappings and formal blankets, lent yellows and reds and blues to thescene. All entrances to the Mountain House were decorated and a streamof visitors poured in and out, with congratulations for Tenison, whoreceived them at the bar in the big billiard hall opening on Main Street.
By evening the hall presented an extraordinary scene. Every element thatwent to make up the shifting life of the frontier could be picked fromthe crowd that filled the room. Most numerous and most aggressive in thespectacle, cattlemen and range riders in broad hats, leathern jackets andmottled waistcoats, booted and spurred and rolling in their choppy stepson pointed heels, moved everywhere--to and from the bar, around the pooltables and up and down the broad flight of stairs leading to the secondfloor gambling rooms. At the upper end of the long bar there was lesscrowding than nearer the street door and at this upper end three men,somewhat apart from others, while nominally drinking, stood in confab.First among them, Harry Van Horn was noticeable. His strong face, withits hunting nose, reflected his active mind, and as he spoke or listenedto one or the other of his companions--standing between them--his livelyeyes flashed in the overhead light. On his left stood Tom Stone, foremanof the Doubleday ranch. His head, carried habitually forward, gave himthe appearance of always looking out from under his eyebrows; and thenatural expression of his face, bordering on the morose, was neverlighted by more than a strained smile--a smile that suggested a grin,that puckered the corners of his eyes and drew hard furrows down hischeeks, but evidenced nothing akin to even the skim-milk of humankindness.
On Van Horn's left stood an older man of massive features, the owner ofthe largest ranch in the north country, Barb Doubleday.
Miners from Thief River, with frank, fearless faces, broad-throated,belted and shifted, and with brawny arms for pick and sledge anddoublejack, moved to and from the bar like desert travelers breathing inan oasis. Men from the short spillway valleys of the SuperstitionRange--the coyotes and wolves of the Spanish Sinks--were easily to beidentified by their shifty eyes and loud laughter and handy six-shooters.Moving in a little group rather apart from these than mingling with them,talking and drinking more among themselves, were men from the FallingWall--men professedly "ranching" on the upper waters of the Horse, theTurkey and Crazy Woman creeks, tributaries of the Falling Wall river--inpoint of fact, rustlers between whom and the big cattlemen of the rangethere always existed a deadly enmity and at times open warfare.
At two card tables placed together in the upper inner corner of the roomsat a little party of these Falling Wall men smoking and drinking inleisurely, or, more correctly, in preliminary fashion, for the eveningwas still young; and inspecting the moving crowd at the bar. At the headof the table sat the ex-cowboy and ex-pugilist, Stormy German, his faceusually, and now, reddened with liquor--square-shouldered, square-facedand squat; a man harsh-voiced and terse, of iron endurance and with thestubbornness of a mule; next him sat Yankee Robinson, thin-faced andwearing a weatherbeaten yellow beard. And Dutch Henry was there--bony,nervous, eager-eyed, with broken English stories of drought and hardshipon the upper Turkey. These three men--brains and resource of severalless able but not less unscrupulous companions who preyed on the cattlerange north of Sleepy Cat--led the talk and were the most carefullylistened to by the men that surrounded them.
It was later that two men entered the room from the hotel officetogether. The contained, defiant walk of the slightly heavier and tallerof the two was characteristic, and without the black beard, deep eyes andthe pallor of his face, would almost have identified him as Abe Hawk;while in the emotionless, sandy features of his companion and in his morefrank, careless make-up, the widely known ranchman of the Falling Wall,Jim Laramie, was easily recognized.
Hawk, separating from his companion, walked to the right. German hailedhim and Hawk paused before the table at which the former prize fightersat with his friends. Each of these in turn had something effusive tosay to Hawk. Hawk listened to
everything without a change ofcountenance--neither smile nor word moved him in the competition toarouse his interest. When all had had their fling of invitation andcomment he refused an oft-repeated invitation to sit down: "I mightinjure your reputations," he said grimly, and moved unconcernedly on.
Van Horn's eyes had not missed the inconspicuous entrance of the twoFalling Wall men: "There's the man himself, right now," he exclaimed,looking toward Laramie.
"No better time to talk to him, either, than right now," added BarbDoubleday hoarsely. "Take him back into the office, Harry. When you'rethrough come up to the room."
Van Horn, leaving the bar, intercepted Laramie. Doubleday and Stone,pretending not to observe, saw Van Horn, on the plea of important talk,succeed, after some demur, in inducing Laramie to return with him to thehotel office. Once there and in a quiet corner with two chairs, Van Hornlost no time in opening his subject: "You know as well as I do, Jim, whatshape things are in on the North range. It can't go on. Everybody islosing cattle right and left to these rustlers. They've been runningDoubleday's steers right down to the railroad camp on the SpiderWater--we traced the brands on 'em. You know as well as I do who took'em."
Laramie listened perfunctorily, his eyes moving part of the time over theroom. "Speak for yourself. Harry," he intervened at this juncture. "Iknow exactly nothing about who took anybody's steers, nor that any weretaken."
Van Horn uttered a quick exclamation: "Well, you sure heard about it!"
"In this country a man can hear anything," observed Laramie, not greatlymoved. "I've heard there isn't a crooked cattleman north of Sleepy Cat."
Van Horn stared.
"Go on," continued Laramie, looking at the passers-by, "I'm listening."
"Doubleday has sold the eating house and disposed of his property at theJunction----"
"You mean his creditors took it, don't you?"
"Put it any way you like. He's going in for more cattle and we're goingto put this range on the map. But--we've got to clean out this FallingWall bunch first. The big men can't stand it any longer and won't standit."
"What then?"
"I want you to get in right, on the move, with us, Jim--this is yourchance. You're in a tough neighborhood over there. Now I know you'renot a rustler."
"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do," averred Van Horn. "But everybody doesn't know you as wellas I do. And your name suffers because you don't get along with thecattlemen--Doubleday, Pettigrew and the rest."
"What then?"
"What then?" echoed Van Horn, feeling the up-hill pull. "Why, line upwith us against these rustlers. We're going to have a big get-togetherbarbecue this summer and when it's pulled we want you there. You'll havea friend in every man on the range--however some of 'em feel now. Theyknow the stuff you're made of, Jim; they know if you put your hand toyour gun with them, you'll stay; and if you do it, they know it's good-byto the rustlers."
Closely as Van Horn, while speaking, watched the effect of his words, itwas impossible to gather from Laramie's face the slightest clue as to theimpression they were making. Laramie sat quite relaxed, his back to thecorner, his legs crossed, listening. He looked straight ahead without somuch as blinking. Van Horn, nervous and impatient, scrutinized him:"That's my hand, Jim," he said flatly. "What have you got?"
Laramie paused. After a moment he turned his eyes on his questioner: "Nohand. This is not my game."
"Make it your game and your game in this country is made. Doubleday andDan Pettigrew want you. They're the men that run this country--what doyou say?"
"The men that run this country can't run me."
Van Horn, in spite of his assurance, felt the blow. But he put on afront. "What makes you talk that way?" he flared.
"This is the same bunch," continued Laramie evenly, "that sent twodifferent men to get me two years ago--and when I defended myself--had meindicted. That indictment is still hanging for all I know. This is thebunch that owns the district court."
Van Horn made a violent gesture. "What's the use raking up old sores?That's past and gone. That indictment's been quashed long ago."
"This is the bunch," and Laramie spoke even more deliberately; he lookeddirectly, almost disconcertingly at Van Horn himself, "that sent the mento rip off my wire just a while ago. I tracked 'em to Doubleday's and ifI'd found Doubleday or you or Stone there that day--if I'd got my eyes onBarb Doubleday that day--you'd 've turned the men that pulled that wireover to me or I'd known the reason why.
"Now these same critters and you have the gall to talk to me aboutjoining hands. Hell, I'd quicker join hands with a bunch ofrattlesnakes. When that crowd want me let them come and get me. I'm notchiding. They talk about cattle thieves! Why, your outfit would stealthe spurs off a rustler's heels. And when men like Hawk and YankeeRobinson and German set up a little ranch with a few head of cows forthemselves your bunch blacklists them, refuses 'em work anywhere on therange. Where did Dutch Henry learn to steal? Working for BarbDoubleday; he branded mavericks for him, played dummy for his landentries, swore to false affidavits for him. Now when he turns around andsteals the steers he stole for Barb, Barb has the nerve to ask me toround him up at my proper risk and run him out of the country!"
Van Horn rose: "That's the answer, is it?"
Laramie sat still. He looked dead ahead: "What did it sound like?" heasked, as Van Horn stood looking at him.
"Just the same, Jim," muttered Van Horn, "the rustlers have got to go."
Laramie looked across the office: "That all may be," he observed, rising.And he repeated as Van Horn started away: "That all may be. And the menthat ripped off my wire have got to put it back. Tell 'em I said so."
Van Horn whirled in a flash of anger: "You talk as if you think I'dripped it off myself."
"I do think so."
For one instant the two men, confronting, eyed each other, Van Horn'sface aflame. Both carried Colt's revolvers in hip holsters; Van Horn'sgun slung at his right hip, Laramie's slung at his left. Both were knowncapable of extremes. Then the critical moment passed. Van Horn brokeinto a laugh; without a yellow drop in his veins, as far as personalcourage went, he had thought twice before attempting to draw where no manhad yet drawn successfully. He put out his hand in frank fashion: "Jim,you wrong yourself as much as me when you talk that way."
He made his peace as well as it could be made in words. But when hisprotestations were ended Laramie only said: "That all may be, Harry. Butwhoever pulled my wire--and left it in the creek--will put it back--ifit's ten years from now."
The two men, Van Horn still talking, made their way back to the billiardhall--Laramie refusing to drink, and halting for brief greetings whenassailed by acquaintances. After they parted, Van Horn, as soon as hecould escape notice, passed again through the door leading to the hoteloffice. He walked up the main stairway to the second floor, thence tothe third floor and following a corridor stopped in front of the lastroom, slipped a pass key into the lock and, opening the door, entered andclosed it behind him.
Two men sat in the room, Doubleday and Stone. Stone was just out of thebarber's chair, his hair parted and faultlessly plastered on both sidesacross his forehead, and his face shaven and powdered. His foreheaddrawn in horizontal wrinkles rather than vertical ones, looked lower andflatter because of them. To add to the truculence of his naturalexpression, he was now somewhat under the influence of liquor and lookedperplexed.
Van Horn did not wait to be questioned; he walked directly to the tablebetween the two men and took a cigar from the open box: "Can't do a thingwith that fellow," he reported brusquely.
Doubleday, by means of questions, got the story of the fruitlessinterview. Stone listened. The slow movement of his eyes showed aneffort but none of the story escaped him.
Van Horn, answering with some impatience, had lighted one cigar, andbunching half a dozen more in his hand stowed them in an upper waistcoatpocket. Doubleday, between heavy jaws and large teeth, shi
fted slowly orchewed savagely at a half-burned cigar and bored into Van Horn. Van Hornwas in no mood for speculative comment: "You might as well talk to awildcat," he said. "Pulling that wire has left him sore all over."
Doubleday looked at Stone vindictively: "That was your scheme."
"No more than it was Van Horn's," retorted Stone.
"What's the use squabbling over that now?" demanded Van Horn impatiently."I'm done, Barb. You've got to go ahead without him."
Doubleday chewed his cigar in silence. Van Horn, restless andhumiliated, spoke angrily and thought fast. From time to time he lookedquickly at Stone--the foreman was in condition to do anything.
"Look here, Tom," exclaimed Van Horn in low tones, "suppose you godownstairs and give him a talk yourself. What do you say, Barb?" Heshot the words at Doubleday like bullets. Doubleday understood and histeeth clicked sharply. He said nothing---only stared at the foreman withhis stony gray eyes. Stone drew his revolver from his hip and, breakingthe gun, slipped out the cartridges and slipped the five mechanicallyback into place.
Laramie in the meantime had joined a group of men at the upper end of thebar in the billiard hall--McAlpin, Joe Kitchen's barn boss; Henry Sawdy,the big sporty stock buyer of the town, and the profane but alwaysdependable druggist and railroad surgeon, Doctor Carpy. With one ofthese, Sawdy, Harry Tenison from behind the bar was talking. Heinterrupted himself to hold his hand over toward Laramie: "Been lookingfor you, scout," he said, in balanced tones. "Been looking for you," herepeated, releasing Laramie's hand and holding up his own. "If you'dfailed me today, Jim----"
"I wouldn't fail you, Harry."
"It's well you didn't--champagne, Luke," he added, calling to asolemn-faced bartender who wore a forehead shade.
"No champagne for me, Harry," protested Laramie.
"What are you going to have?" asked the mild-voiced bartender,perfunctorily.
Laramie tilted his hat brim: "Why," he answered, after everybody hadcontributed advice, "if I've got to take something on this little boy, alittle whisky, I suppose, Luke."
"No poison served here tonight, Jim," growled Sawdy, throwing hisbloodshot eyes on Laramie.
"I don't want any, anyway, Henry," was the unmoved retort.
Luke, wrapping the cork of the champagne bottle under his long fingers,hesitated. Tenison, looking with his heavily-lidded eyes, did not waver:"You'll drink what I tell you tonight," he maintained coldly. "Open it,Luke."
Laramie stood sidewise while talking, one foot on the rail, his elbowresting on the bar, and with his head turned he was looking back atTenison, who stood directly opposite him behind the bar. Laramiesubmitted to the dictation without further protest: "A man will tryanything once," was his only comment.
As he uttered the words he felt a point pressed tightly against his rightside and what was of greater import, heard the familiar click of a gunhammer.
It was too late to look around; too late to make the slightest move. Allthat Laramie could get out of the situation, without moving, he read,motionless, in Tenison's eyes, for Tenison was now looking straight atthe assailant and with a frozen expression that told Laramie of hisperil. The next instant Laramie heard rough words:
"Turn around here, Jim."
They told him all he needed to know, for in them he recognized the voice.In the instant between hearing the words and obeying, a singular changetook place in the Falling Wall ranchman's eyes. Looking over at Tenisonhis eyes had been keen and clear. Slowly and with a faint smile heturned his head. When his eyes met those of Tom Stone, who confrontedhim pressing the muzzle of a cocked Colt's forty-five gun against hisstomach, they were soft and glazed. Laramie had changed in an instantfrom a man that had not tasted liquor to a man half tipsy.
It was a feint, but a feint made with an accurate understanding of adangerous enemy.
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