by B. M. Bower
“As I told you before, there’s more than one way to kill a cat,” he asserted tritely but never the less impressively. “Nobody can say we wasn’t mild; and nobody can say we hadn’t a right to get those chickencoops off our land. If you ask me, Florence Grace will have to go some now if she gets the best of the deal. She overlooked a bet. We haven’t been served with any contest notices yet, and so we ain’t obliged to take their say-so. Who’s going to stand guard tonight? We’ve got to stand our regular shifts, if we want to keep ahead of the game. I’m willing to be It. I’d like to make sure they don’t slip any stock across before daylight.”
“Say, it’s lucky we’ve got a bunch of boneheads like them to handle,” Pink observed thankfully. “Would a bunch of natives have stood around like that with their hands in their pockets and let us get away with the moving job? Not so you could notice!”
“What we’d better do,” cut in the Native Son without any misleading drawl, “is try and rustle enough money to build that fence.”
“That’s right,” assented Cal. “Maybe the Old Man—”
“We don’t go to the Old Man for so much as a bacon rind!” cried the Native Son impatiently. “Get it into your systems, boys, that we’ve got to ride away around the Flying U. We ought to be able to build that fence, all right, without help from anybody. Till we do we’ve got to hang and rattle, and keep that nester stock from getting past us. I’ll stand guard till midnight.”
A little more talk, and some bickering with Slim and Happy Jack, the two chronic kickers, served to knock together a fair working organization. Weary and Andy Green were informally chosen joint leaders, because Weary could be depended upon to furnish the mental ballast for Andy’s imagination. Patsy was told that he would have to cook for the outfit, since he was too fat to ride. They suggested that he begin at, once, by knocking together some sort of supper. Moving houses, they declared, was work. They frankly hoped that they would not have to move many more—and they were very positive that they would not be compelled to move the same shack twice, at any rate.
“Say, we’ll have quite a collection of shacks down in Antelope Coulee if we keep on,” Jack Bates reminded them. “Wonder where they’ll get water?”
“Where’s the rest of them going to get water?” Cal Emmett challenged the crowd. “There’s that spring the four women up here pack water from—but that goes dry in August. And there’s the creek—that goes dry too. On the dead, I feel sorry for the women—and so does Irish,” he added dryly.
Irish made an uncivil retort and swung suddenly away from the group. “I’m going to ride into town, boys,” he announced curtly. “I’ll be back in the morning and go on day-herd.”
“Maybe you will and maybe you won’t,” Weary amended somewhat impatiently. “This is certainly a poor time for Irish to break out,” he added, watching his double go galloping toward the town road.
“I betche he comes back full and tries to clean out all them nesters,” Happy Jack predicted. For once no one tried to combat his pessimism—for that was exactly what every one of them believed would happen.
“He’s stayed sober a long while—for him,” sighed Weary, who never could quite shake off a sense of responsibility for the moral defections of his kinsman. “Maybe I better go along and ride herd on him.” Still, he did not go, and Irish presently merged into the dusky distance.
As is often the case with a family’s black sheep, his intentions were the best, even though they might have been considered unorthodox. While the Happy Family took it for granted that he was gone because an old thirst awoke within him, Irish was thinking only of the welfare of the outfit. He did not tell them, because he was the sort who does not prattle of his intentions, one way or the other. If he did what he meant to do there would be time enough to explain; if he failed there was nothing to be said.
Irish had thought a good deal about the building of that fence, and about the problem of paying for enough wire and posts to run the fence straight through from Meeker’s south line to the north line of the Flying U. He had figured the price of posts and the price of wire and had come somewhere near the approximate cost of the undertaking. He was not at all sure that the Happy Family had faced the actual figures on that proposition. They had remarked vaguely that it was going to cost some money. They had made casual remarks about being broke personally and, so far as they knew, permanently.
Irish was hot-headed and impulsive to a degree. He was given to occasional tumultuous sprees, during which he was to be handled with extreme care—or, better still, left entirely alone until the spell was over. He looked almost exactly like Weary, and yet he was almost his opposite in disposition. Weary was optimistic, peace-loving, steady as the sun above him except for a little surface-bubbling of fun that kept him sunny through storm and calm. You could walk all over Weary—figuratively speaking—before he would show resentment. You could not step very close to Irish without running the risk of consequences. That he should, under all that, have a streak of calculating, hard-headed business sense, did not occur to them.
They rode on, discussing the present situation and how best to meet it; the contingencies of the future, and how best to circumvent the active antagonism of Florence Grace Hallman and the colony for which she stood sponsor. They did not dream that Irish was giving his whole mind to solving the problem of raising money to build that fence, but that is exactly what he was doing.
Some of you at least are going to object to his method. Some of you—those of you who live west of the big river—are going to understand his point of view, and you will recognize his method as being perfectly logical, simple, and altogether natural to a man of his temperament and manner of life. It is for you that I am going to relate his experiences. Sheltered readers, readers who have never faced life in the raw, readers who sit down on Sunday mornings with a mind purged of worldly thoughts and commit to memory a “golden text” which they forget before another Sunday morning, should skip the rest of this chapter for the good of their morals. The rest is for you men who have kicked up alkali dust and afterwards washed out the memory in town; who have gone broke between starlight and sun; who know the ways of punchers the West over, and can at least sympathize with Irish in what he meant to do that night.
Irish had been easing down a corner of the last shack, with his back turned toward three men who stood looking on with the detached interest which proved they did not own this particular shack. One was H. J. Owens—I don’t think you have met the others. Irish had not. He had overheard this scrap of conversation while he worked:
“Going to town tonight?”
“Guess so—I sure ain’t going to hang out on this prairie any more than I have to. You going?”
“Ye-es—I think I will. I hear there’s been some pretty swift games going, the last night or two. A fellow in that last bunch Florence rounded up made quite a clean up last night.”
“That so, let’s go on in. This claim-holding gets my goat anyway. I don’t see where—”
That was all Irish heard, but that was enough.
Had he turned in time to catch the wink that one speaker gave to the other, and the sardonic grin that answered the lowered eyelid, he would have had the scrap of conversation properly focused in his mind, and would not have swallowed the bait as greedily as he did. But we all make mistakes. Irish made the mistake of underestimating the cunning of his enemies.
So here he was, kicking up the dust on the town trail just as those three intended that he should do. But that he rode alone instead of in the midst of his fellows was not what the three had intended; and that he rode with the interest of his friends foremost in his mind was also an unforeseen element in the scheme.
Irish did not see H. J. Owens anywhere in town—nor did he see either of the two men who had stood behind him. But there was a poker game running in Rusty Brown’s back room, and Irish immediately sat in without further investigation. Bert Rogers was standing behind one of the players, and gave Irish a nod and a
wink which may have had many meanings. Irish interpreted it as encouragement to sail in and clean up the bunch.
There was money enough in sight to build that fence when he sat down. Irish pulled his hat farther over his eyebrows, rolled and lighted a cigarette while he waited for that particular jackpot to be taken, and covertly sized up the players.
Every one of them was strange to him. But then, the town was full of strangers since Florence Grace and her Syndicate began to reap a harvest off the open country, so Irish merely studied the faces casually, as a matter of habit They were nesters, of course—real or prospective. They seemed to have plenty of money—and it was eminently fitting that the Happy Family’s fence should be built with nester money.
Irish had in his pockets exactly eighteen dollars and fifty-cents. He bought eighteen dollars’ worth of chips and began to play. Privately he preferred stud poker to draw, but he was not going to propose a change; he felt perfectly qualified to beat any three pilgrims that ever came West.
Four hands he played and lost four dollars. He drank a glass of beer then, made himself another cigarette and settled down to business, feeling that he had but just begun. After the fifth hand he looked up and caught again the eye of Bert Rogers. Bert pulled his eyebrows together in a warning look, and Irish thought better of staying that hand. He did not look at Bert after that, but he did watch the other players more closely.
After awhile Bert wandered away, his interest dulling when he saw that Irish was holding his own and a little better. Irish played on, conservative to such a degree that in two hours he had not won more than fifteen dollars. The Happy Family would have been surprised to see him lay down kings and refuse to draw to them which he did once, with a gesture of disgust that flipped them face up so that all could see. He turned them over immediately, but the three had seen that this tall stranger, who had all the earmarks of a cowpuncher, would not draw to kings but must have something better before he would stay.
So they played until the crowd thinned; until Irish, by betting safely and sticking to a caution that must have cost him a good deal in the way of self-restraint, had sixty dollars’ worth of chips piled in front of him.
Some men, playing for a definite purpose, would have quit at that. Irish did not quit, however. He wanted a certain sum from these nesters. He had come to town expecting to win a certain sum from them. He intended to play until he got it or went broke. He was not using any trickery—and he had stopped one man in the middle of a deal, with a certain look in his eye remarking that he’d rather have the top card than the bottom one, so that he was satisfied they were not trying to cheat.
There came a deal when Irish looked at his cards, sent a slanting look at the others and laid down his five cards with a long breath. He raised the ante four blue ones and rolled and lit a cigarette while the three had drawn what cards they thought they needed. The man at Irish’s left had drawn only one card. Now he hesitated and then bet with some assurance. Irish smoked imperturbably while the other two came in, and then he raised the bet three stacks of blues. His neighbor raised him one stack, and the next man hesitated and then laid down his cards. The third man meditated for a minute and raised the bet ten dollars. Irish blew forth a leisurely smoke wreath and with a sweep of his hand sent in all his chips.
There was a silent minute, wherein Irish smoked and drummed absently upon the table with his fingers that were free. His neighbor frowned, grunted and threw down his hand. The third man did the same. Irish made another sweep of his hand and raked the table clean of chips.
“That’ll do for tonight,” he remarked dryly. “I don’t like to be a hog.”
Had that ended the incident, sensitive readers might still read and think well of Irish. But one of the players was not quite sober, and he was a poor loser and a pugnacious individual anyway, with a square face and a thick neck that went straight up to the top of his head. His underlip pushed out, and when Irish turned away, to cash in his chips, this pugnacious one reached over and took a look at the cards Irish had held.
It certainly was as rotten a hand as a man could hold. Suits all mixed, and not a face card or a pair in the lot. The pugnacious player had held a king high straight, and he had stayed until Irish sent in all his chips. He gave a bellow and jumped up and hit Irish a glancing blow back of the ear. Let us not go into details. You know Irish—or you should know him by this time. A man who will get away with a bluff like that should be left alone or brained in the beginning of the fight—especially when he can look down on the hair of a six-foot man, and has muscles hardened by outdoor living. When the dust settled, two chairs were broken and some glasses swept off the bar by heaving bodies, and two of the three players had forgotten their troubles. The third was trying to find the knob on the back door, and could not because of the buzzing in his head and the blood in his eyes. Irish had welts and two broken knuckles and a clear conscience, and he was so mad he almost wound up by thrashing Rusty, who had stayed behind the bar and taken no hand in the fight. Rusty complained because of the damage to his property, and Irish, being the only one present in a condition to listen, took the complaint as a personal insult.
He counted his money to make sure he had it all, evened the edges of the package of bank notes and thrust the package into his pocket. If Rusty had kept his face closed about those few glasses and those chairs, he would have left a “bill” on the bar to pay for them, even though he did need every cent of that money. He told Rusty this, and he accused him of standing in with the nesters and turning down the men who had helped him make money’ all these years.
“Why, darn your soul, I’ve spent money enough over this bar to buy out the whole damn joint, and you know it!” he cried indignantly. “If you think you’ve got to collect damages, take it outa these blinkety-blink pilgrims you think so much of. Speak to ’em pleasant, though, or you’re liable to lose the price of a beer, maybe! They’ll never bring you the money we’ve brought you, you—”
“They won’t because you’ve likely killed ’em both,” Rusty retorted angrily. “You want to remember you can’t come into town and rip things up the back the way you used to, and nobody say a word. You better drift, before that feller that went out comes back with an officer. You can’t—”
“Officer be damned!” retorted Irish, unawed.
He went out while Rusty was deciding to order him out, and started for the stable. Halfway there he ducked into the shadow of the blacksmith shop and watched two men go up the street to Rusty’s place, walking quickly. He went on then, got his horse hurriedly without waiting to cinch the saddle, led him behind the blacksmith shop where he would not be likely to be found, and tied him there to the wreck of a freight wagon.
Then he went across lots to where Fred Wilson, manager of the general store, slept in a two-room shack belonging to the hotel. The door was locked—Fred being a small man with little trust in Providence or in his overt physical prowess—and so he rapped cautiously upon the window until Fred awoke and wanted to know who in thunder was there.
Irish told his name, and presently went inside. “I’m pulling outa town, Fred,” he explained, “and I don’t know when I’ll be in again. So I want you to take an order for some posts and bob wire and steeples. I—”
“Why didn’t you come to the store?” Fred very naturally demanded, peevish at being wakened at three o’clock in the morning. “I saw you in town when I closed up.”
“I was busy. Crawl back into bed and cover up, while I give you the order. I’ll want a receipt for the money, too—I’m paying in advance, so you won’t have any excuse for holding up the order. Got any thing to write on?”
Fred found part of an order pad and a pencil, and crept shivering into his bed. The offer to pay in advance had silenced his grumbling, as Irish expected it would. So Irish gave the order—thirteen hundred cedar posts, I remember—I don’t know just how much wire, but all he would need.
“Holy Macintosh! Is this for you?” Fred wanted to know as he wrote i
t down.
“Some of it. We’re fencing our claims. If I don’t come after the stuff myself, let any of the boys have it that shows up. And get it here as quick as you can—what you ain’t got on hand—”
Fred was scratching his jaw meditatively with the pencil, and staring at the order. “I can just about fill that order outa stock on hand,” he told Irish. “When all this land rush started I laid in a big supply of posts and wire. First thing they’d want, after they got their shacks up. How you making it, out there?”
“Fine,” said Irish cheerfully, feeling his broken knuckles. “How much is all that going to cost? You oughta make us a rate on it, seeing it’s a cash sale, and big.”
“I will.” Fred tore out a sheet and did some mysterious figuring, afterwards crumpling the paper into a little wad and hipping it behind the bed. “This has got to be on the quiet, Irish. I can’t sell wire and posts to those eastern marks at this rate, you know. This is just for you boys—and the profit for us is trimmed right down to a whisper.” He named the sum total with the air of one who confers a great favor.
Irish grinned and reached into his pocket. “You musta knocked your profit down to fifty percent.,” he fleered. “But it’s a go with me.” He peeled off the whole roll, just about. He had two twenties left in his hand when he stopped. He was very methodical that night. He took a receipt for the money before he left and he looked at it with glistening eyes before he folded it with the money. “Don’t sell any posts and wire till our order’s filled, Fred,” he warned. “We’ll begin hauling right away, and we’ll want it all.”
He let himself out into the cool starlight, walked in the shadows to where he had left his horse, mounted and rode whistling away down the lane which ended where the hills began.
THE FLYING-U’S LAST STAND (Part 2)
CHAPTER 14
JUST ONE THING AFTER ANOTHER
A gray clarity of the air told that daylight was near. The skyline retreated, the hills came out of the duskiness like a photograph in the developer tray. Irish dipped down the steep slope into Antelope Coulee, cursing the sprinkle of new shacks that stood stark in the dawn on every ridge and every hilltop, look where one might. He loped along the winding trail through the coulee’s bottom and climbed the hill beyond. At the top he glanced across the more level upland to the east and his eyes lightened. Far away stood a shack—Patsy’s, that was. Beyond that another, and yet another. Most of the boys had built in the coulees where was water. They did not care so much about the view—over which Miss Allen had grown enthusiastic.