by B. M. Bower
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*"HERE LIES THE ROAD TO ROME!"*
A few nights later Tex awakened to feel his little lean-to shaking untilhe feared it would collapse. A deafening roar on the roof made aninferno of noise, the great hailstones crashing and rolling. Flashafter flash of vivid lightning seemed wrapped in the volleying crashesof the thunder. A sudden shift in the hurricane-like wind drove a whitebroadside against his front windows, both panes of glass seemingspontaneously to disintegrate. Another gust overturned a freight wagonin the road before the office and tore its tarpaulin cover from it asthough it were tied on with strings, whisking it out of sight throughthe incessant lightning flashes like the instant passing of some hugeghost. The teamster, who saw no reason to pay for hotel beds while hehad the wagon to sleep in, went rolling up the slatted framework anddown again, bounced to his knees, and crawled frantically free, beatenby the streaking hail and buffeted by the shrieking wind. He was blownsolidly against the lean-to, almost constantly in the marshal's sightbecause of the continuous illumination. Groping along the wall, hereached the shattered window and, desperate for shelter, promptly divedthrough it and rolled across the room.
Tex laughed, the sound of it lost to his own ears. "Yo're welcome,stranger!" he yelled. "But I'm sayin' yo're some precipitate! Bettergimme a hand to stop up that window, or she'll blow out th' walls andlift off th' roof. Grab this table an' we'll up-end it ag'in th'openin'. I'll prop it with th' benches from th' jail. That's right.Ready? Up she goes."
After no mean struggle the window was closed enough to give protectionagainst the raging wind, the two benches holding it securely. Then Texstruck a match and lit both of his lamps.
"We don't hardly need any light, but this is a lot steadier," heshouted, turning to look at his guest. His eyes opened wide and hestared unbelievingly. "Good Lord, man! You look like a slaughter-house!Here, lemme look you over!"
The teamster, cut, bruised, and streaked with blood, held up his hand inquick protest, shouting his reply. "'Taint nothin' but th' wallerin' Idid when th' wagon turned over, an' th' beatin' from th' hail. I've seenit worse than this, friend. These stones are only big as hens' aigs,but I've seen 'em large as goose aigs, an' lost three yoke of oxen from'em. I was freightin' in a load of supplies for a surveyin' party, downon th' old Dry Route, southwest of th' Caches. One ox was killed, hisyokemate pounded' senseless, an' th' others couldn't stand th' strainan' lit out. I never saw 'em again. I was under th' wagon when theyleft, which didn't turn over till th' hail changed into rain, an' Iwouldn't 'a' poked out my head for all th' oxen in th' country. Thishere's a little better than a fair prairie hail storm. Gosh," he said,grinning, as he glanced at the badge on his companion's vest. "I gotplenty of nerve, all right, bustin' into th' marshal's office! Ain'tgot any likker, have you?"
Tex handed him a full bottle and packed his pipe. The deafening crashingof the hailstones grew less and less, a softer roar taking its place asthe rain poured down in seemingly solid sheets. The great violence ofthe wind was gone and the lightning flashed farther and farther away.
"Feel better now," said the teamster, passing the bottle to his host andtaking out his pipe. He accepted the marshal's sack of tobacco andleaned back, puffing contentedly. "Sounds a lot better, now. I'd rutherdrowned than be beat to death, any time. There won't be a trail lefttomorrow an' not a crick, ravine, or ditch fordable. Some of 'em withsand bottoms will be dangerous for three or four days. I once saw th'Pawnee rise so quick that it was fetlock deep when I started in, an'wagon-box deep before I could get across--an' a hull lot wider, too, I'mtellin' you. An' yet some fools still camp in dried crick beds!"
"That's just what I been thinkin' about," said the marshal, a look ofworry on his face. "Out on Buffalo Crick there's near two dozen minerswith claims staked out on th' dried bed. It shore would be terrible ifthis caught 'em asleep!"
"Don't you worry, Marshal," reassured his guest, laughingly. "Themfellers may have claims in a crick bed, but they don't sleep on 'em.They know too much!"
Tex related what a hail storm had done to a trail herd one night yearsbefore, and so they talked, reminiscence following reminiscence, untildawn broke, dull and watery, and they started for the hotel, to rout outthe cook for hot coffee and an early breakfast.
All day it rained, but with none of the fury of the darker hours, andfor the next ten days it continued intermittently. There was no specialnews from Buffalo Creek except that it had changed its bed in severalplaces, and that two miners had been forced to swim for their lives. Itwas noteworthy, however, that the prospectors of the country roundaboutbegan to spend dust with reckless carelessness. The hotel was wellpatronized during the day, and the nights were times of great hilarity.Drink flowed like water and old quarrels, fed by fresh fuel, added theirshare of turbulence to the new ones.
Sleeping late in the mornings, the marshal was on his feet until nearlyevery dawn, stopping brawls, deciding dangerous contentions, and once ortwice resorting to stern measures. The little jail at one time was toofull for further prisoners and had forced him to resort to fines, whichbrought his impartiality and honesty into question. He had been forcedto wound two men and had been shot at from cover, all on one night. Hegrew more taciturn, grimmer, colder, wishing to avoid a killing, butfearing that it must come or the town would turn into a drunken riot.Then came the climax to the constantly growing lawlessness.
Busy in repairing washouts along the railroad and strengthening thethree little bridges across the creeks of his section of track, Murphyand Costigan, reinforced by half a dozen other section-hands from pointseast, who had rolled into town on their own hand car, had scarcely seenthe town for more than a week when they came in, late one Saturdayafternoon. The extra hands were bedded at the toolshed and at Murphy'sbox car, and took their meals at Costigan's, whose thrifty wife was gladof the extra work for the little money it would bring her. Well knowingthe feeling of the Middle West of that time against his race, thesection-boss cautioned his crew to avoid the town as much as they could;but rough men are rough men, and wild blades are wild. Knowing thewisdom in the warning did not make it sit any easier on them, added towhich was the chafing under the restraint and the galling sense ofinjustice.
Sunday morning found them quiet; but Sunday noon found them restless andresentful. The lively noise of the town called invitingly across theright-of-way and one of them, despite orders, departed to get a bottleof liquor. He drew hostile glances as he made his way to the bar in thesaloon facing the station, but bought what he wanted and went out withit entirely unmolested. The news he brought back was pleasing andreassuring and discounted the weight of the section-boss' admonitions,and later, when the bottle had been tipped in vain and thirsts had onlybeen encouraged by the sops given them, some wilder soul among the crowdarose and announced that he was going to paint the town. There was noargument, no holding back, and the half-dozen, laughing and singing,sallied forth to frolic or fight as Fate decreed.
The first saloon they entered served them and let them depart unharmedand without insult, raising their spirits and edging their determinationto enjoy what pleasures the town might have for them. They were as goodas any men in town, and they knew it, which was right and proper; butsoon it did not satisfy them to know it: they must tell everyone theymet. This, also, was right and proper, although hardly wise; but in thetelling there swiftly crept a fighting tone, a fighting mood, a fightinglook, and fighting words; yet they were behaving not one whit differentfrom the way gangs of miners had behaved since the town was built. Thedifference was sharp and sufficient: The miners had been in the town oftheir friends; the section-gang was in the town of its enemies.
The half-dozen entered the hotel barroom, jostled and elbowed, jostlingand elbowing in return, their tempers smoldering and ready to burst intoflames. Calling for whiskey at the bar they drank it avidly and turnedto look over the room, where all sorts and conditions of rough men an
dready fighters were frowningly watching them. The frowns grew deeper,and here and there a gibe or veiled insult arose above the generalnoise. The gibes became more bitter, the insults less veiled, andfinally a huge miner, belted and armed, stood up and shouted forsilence. Sensing trouble the crowd obeyed him, waiting with savageeagerness to hear what he would say, to see what he would do.
"I'm goin' to tell you a story," he cried, and forthwith made good hispromise. It was not a parlor story by any stretch of imagination, andit ended with St. Peter slamming shut the gates of heaven as he repeatedone of the then popular slogans of the country along the roadbeds, "NoIrish need apply." It was not couched in language that St. Peter woulduse, and suitable epithets of the teller's own gave added weight to theinsult of the tale. Still swearing the miner sat down, an ugly leer onhis face, while shouts, laughter, catcalls, and curses answered fromevery part of the room.
"Run 'em out of town!" came a shout, which swiftly became a universaldemand.
The track-layer nearest the door, a burly, red-haired, red-facedfighting man, leaped swiftly to the miner's table, kicked the half-drawngun from his hand, and went to the floor with him. "St. Peter will openno doors to th' like av ye!" he shouted. "I'm sendin' ye to h--l,instead!"
The bartender, fearing pistol work, whipped his own over the counter andyelled his warning and his demand for fair play. "I'll drop th' manthat draws! Let 'em have it out, man to man!"
This suited the crowd as an appetizer for what was to follow, and chairsand tables crashed as it surged forward to better see the fight, thefive section-hands, their broad backs against the bar, forming one sideof the pushing, heaving ring, their faces set, their huge fistsclenched, in spirit taking and giving the flailing blows of the rollingcombatants, so intent, so lost in the struggle that consciousness oftheir own danger gradually faded from their minds. They had faith intheir champion and were with him, heart and soul.
The miner could fight like the graduate he was of the merciless,ultra-brutal rough-and-tumble of the long frontier, biting, kneeing,gouging, throttling as opportunity offered, and he was rapidly gainingthe advantage over his cleaner-fighting opponent until, breaking athroat hold, barely escaping the fingers thrust at his eyes and awolflike snap of murderous jaws, the Irishman broke free, and staggeredto his feet to make a fight which best suited him. Great gasps ofrelief broke from his tense friends, their low words of advice andencouragement coming from between set teeth.
"Steady, Mac, an' time 'em!" whispered his nearest friend. "He fightslike a beast--lick him like th' man ye are. He's as open as a book!"
Panting, his breath whistling through his teeth, the miner scrambled tohis feet, needlessly fearing a kick as he arose, and rushed, his greatarms flaying before him as he tore in. Met by a straight left thatcaught him on the jaw a little wide of the point aimed at, he rockedback on his heels, his knees buckling, and his arms wildly waving tokeep his balance. Before he could recover and set himself, a rightflashed in against his chest and drove him back against the ring of menbehind him. Gasping, he bent over and threw himself at his enemy'sthighs, missing the hold by a hair. The Irishman retreated two swiftsteps and waited until his opponent had leaped up and then, feintingwith his left at the swelling jaw, he swung his right shoulder behind astiffening right arm and landed clean and squarely above the brassbuckle of the cartridge belt. The crash shook the building, for theminer's feet came up as he was hurled backward and he struck the floorin a bunched heap.
The bruised and bleeding victor, filling his lungs with great gulps offoul air, started backing toward the bar to regain his breath among hisfriends, but he staggered sidewise on his course, coming too close tothe first line of the aroused crowd and one of them leaped on him, theimpact toppling him over, just as the five friends charged. Chaosreigned. Shouts, curses, the stamping of feet, bellows of rage and painfilled the dusty air with clamor as the crowd surged backward andforward, the storm center ever nearing the door. The valianthalf-dozen, profiting by experience, resisted all efforts to separatethem, keeping in a compact group, shoulder to shoulder, with theirrapidly recovering champion in their middle. They had passed the end ofthe bar, which had been a sturdy bulwark against their completeencircling, and the crowd was pouring in to attack from thatonce-protected side when a hatless figure leaped through the desertedrear door, bounded onto the long bar without changing his stride, dashedalong it and jumped, feet first straight at the heads bobbing nearest tothe stout-hearted six. It was Costigan who, not finding Murphy, wasacting on his own initiative and according to his lights. In his handwas a broken mattock handle and under its raining blows an openingrapidly grew in the crowd. Had he been given arm room, where his fullstrength could have been used, Boot Hill would have reaped a harvest.Audacity, that Audacity which is the fairest child of Courage, the totalunexpectedness of his hurtling, spectacular attack won more for him andhis friends than the deadly effectiveness of the hickory handle. Theastonished crowd drew back in momentary confusion and Costigan, cursingat the top of his panting lungs, shoved the nearly exhausted handfulthrough the door and into the street. As the last man staggered throughand pitched to the ground, the club wielder leaped to the door, barringit with his body. He was about to tell the crowd what he thought of itwhen the situation changed again.
A hand clutched his shirt collar and yanked him back and he wentstriking with the club as he sprawled beside a battered friend. Thechange had been so sudden and the crowd just recovering from itssurprise at Costigan's flaying attack that it looked like magic. Oneinstant a red-shirted Irishman, his clothing torn into shreds, lovinglybalancing his favorite weapon; the next, a calm, cold-faced,blue-shirted, leather-chapped gunman, bending eagerly forward behind thepair of out-thrust Colts, his thumbs holding back swift death in eachhand.
"The devil!" growled a miner.
"Aye!" snapped Tex. "An' I'll find work for idle hands to do! _Why doyou stop and turn away? Here lies th' road to Rome!_" he laughed,exultantly, sneeringly, insultingly; and never had they heard a laugh sodeadly. It chilled where words might have inflamed. There was not aman who did not shrink instinctively, for before him stood a killer ifever he had seen one.
"I only got twelve handy--which dozen of you want to open th' way forth' rest?" asked the marshal. His quick eye caught a furtive movement inthe crowd and the roar of his flaming Colt jarred the room. Theoffender-pitched forward before the paralyzed front line, rocking to andfro in his pain. "Th' next man dies!" snapped the marshal, his deadlyintent fully revealed by his face.
The crowd gazed at impersonal Death, balanced in the two firm hands.They saw no hesitancy reflected between the narrowed lids of thosecalculating eyes, no qualifying expression on that granite face; andthey were standing where Bud Haines had stood, facing the man he hadfaced. A restless surge set the mass milling, those behind pushingthose in front, those in front frantically pushing back those behind.Tense and dangerous as the situation was, a verse of an immortalfighting poem leaped to the marshal's mind and a sneering smile flashedover his face. _Was none who would be foremost to lead such direattack; but those behind cried "Forward!" And those before cried"Back!_" He seemed to tense even more, like some huge, deadly spiderabout to spring, and his clearly enunciated warning, low as it wasspoken, reached the ears of every man in the room. "Go back to yoretables, like you was before."
The surge grew and spread, split following split, until the draggingrearguard sullenly followed its companions. The dynamic figure in thedoor slowly forsook its crouch, arising to full height. The left-handgun grudgingly slid into its sheath, reluctantly followed by its moredeadly mate. Casting a final, contemptuous look at the embarrassedcrowd, each unit of it singled out in turn and silently challenged, themarshal shoved his hands into his pockets, turned his back on them withinsolent deliberation and stepped to the street, where a bloody,battered group of seven had waited to back him up if it should beneeded.
"Yer a man after me own--" began Costigan thickly betwe
en swollen lips,but he was cut short.
"That'll keep. Take these fellers back where they belong, an' _keep_'em there," snapped Tex, the fighting fire still blazing in his soul.He watched them depart, proud of every one of them; and when they hadreached the station he wheeled and went back into the hotel, had aslowly sipped drink, nodded to his acquaintances as though nothing outof the ordinary had occurred, and then sauntered out again without abackward glance, turning to go to the station.
When he reached the building he stopped and looked toward the toolshedwhere Murphy, just back from a run of inspection up the line, andCostigan, had turned the corner of the shed and stopped to renew theirargument, which must have been warm and personal, judging from theirmotions. Finally Costigan, looking for all the world like a scarecrow,hitched up what remained of his trousers, squared his shoulders, andlimped determinedly toward his little cottage, glancing neither to theright nor to the left. Murphy, hands on hips, gazed after him, noddedhis head sharply, and was about to enter the shed when he caught sightof the motionless two-gun man. Snapping his fingers in sudden decision,he started toward his capable friend, his frame of mind plainly shown bythe way his stride easily took two ties at once.
"God loves th' Irish, or 'twould be diggin' graves we'd now be doin',"he said. "An' me away! But they'll be mindin' their P's an' Q's afterthis. I was goin' to skin Costigan, but how could I after I learnedwhat he did? It ain't th' first time he's tied my hands by th' qualityav his fightin'. But 'twas well ye took cards, an' 'twas well ye played'em, Tex."
"I have due respect for Costigan, but if he leaves th' railroad propertyhe'll lose it quick," replied the marshal. "I turned that mob into amop, but there's no tellin' what might happen one of these nights. Tim,I wish his family was out of town. It's no place for wimmin an'children these days, not with ten marshals. I can't be everywhere atonce, an' I'm watchin' one house now more than I ought to."
"They're leavin' on tomorry's train east," said Murphy, breathing a sighof relief. "I've Mike's word for it, an' if he can't get 'em to gowithout him, then he's goin' with 'em, superintendent or nosuperintendent! I'm sorry that it's my fault that ye had th' trouble,Tex; I should 'a' stayed close to them d--d fools."
"There's no harm done, Tim, as it turned out. It was comin' to ashow-down, gettin' nearer an' nearer every day. Now that it's over th'town will be quiet for a day or two. I know of marshals who were paidfrom eight hundred to a thousand dollars a month--I'm admittin' thatI've earned my hundred in just about five minutes today. For aboutfifteen seconds th' job was worth a hundred dollars a second--it was aclose call."
"But look at th' honor av it," chuckled Murphy. "It's marshal av Windsorye are, Tex--an' ye have yer Tower, as well!"
Tex laughed, glanced over the straggling town from Costigan's cottage toanother at the other end of the street. "I'm not complainin'. I'm onlycontrastin' and showin' that Williams didn't pull any wool over my eyeswhen he offered me my princely salary. I agreed to it, and I'm paidenough, under th' circumstances."
"Aye," said Murphy, following his friend's glance, a sudden smilebanishing his anxious frown. "Money ain't everythin'. Perhaps yo'renot paid much now, Tex--but later, who can tell?"