The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  Ford laughed a little at the covert challenge, made ridiculous by Sandy’s diminutive stature, pulled the blankets up to his eyes, and dozed off luxuriously; and although it is extremely tiresome to be told in detail just what a man dreams upon certain occasions, he did dream, and it was something about being married. At any rate, when the sizzling of bacon frying invaded even his slumber and woke him, he felt a distinct pang of disappointment that it was Sandy’s carroty head bent over the frying-pan, instead of a wife with blond hair which waved becomingly upon her temples.

  “Wonder what color her hair is, anyway,” he observed inadvertently, before he was wide enough awake to put the seal of silence on his musings.

  “Hunh?”

  “I asked when those banana fritters are coming up,” lied Ford, getting out of bed and yawning so that his swollen jaw hurt him, and relapsed into his usual taciturnity, which was his wall of defense against Sandy’s inquisitiveness.

  He ate his breakfast almost in silence, astonishing Sandy somewhat by not complaining of the excess of soda in the biscuits. Ford was inclined toward fastidiousness when he was sober—a trait which caused men to suspect him of descending from an upper stratum of society; though just when, or just where, or how great that descent had been, they had no means of finding out. Ford, so far as his speech upon the subject was concerned, had no existence previous to his appearance in Montana, five or six years before; but he bore certain earmarks of a higher civilization which, in Sandy’s mind, rather concentrated upon a pronounced distaste for soda-yellowed bread, warmed-over coffee, and scorched bacon. That he swallowed all these things and seemed not to notice them, struck Sandy as being almost as remarkable as his matrimonial adventure.

  When he had eaten, Ford buttoned himself into his overcoat, pulled his moleskin cap well down, and went out into the storm without a word to Sandy, which was also unusual; it was Ford’s custom to wash the dishes, because he objected to Sandy’s economy of clean, hot water. Sandy flattened his nose against the window, saw that Ford, leaning well forward against the drive of the wind, was battling his way toward the hotel, and guessed shrewdly that he would see him no more that day.

  “He better keep sober till his knuckles git well, anyway,” he mumbled disapprovingly. “If he goes to fighting, the shape he’s in now—”

  Ford had no intention of fighting. He went straight up to the bar, it is true, but that was because he saw that Sam was at that moment unoccupied, save with a large lump of gum. Being at the bar, he drank a glass of whisky; not of deliberate intent, but merely from force of habit. Once down, however, the familiar glow of it through his being was exceedingly grateful, and he took another for good measure.

  “H’lo, Ford,” Sam bethought him to say, after he had gravely taken mental note of each separate scar of battle, and had shifted his cud to the other side of his mouth, and had squeezed it meditatively between his teeth. “Feel as rocky as you look?”

  “Possibly.” Ford’s eyes forbade further personalities. “I’m out after information, Sam, and if you’ve got any you aren’t using, I’d advise you to pass it over; I can use a lot, this morning. Were you sober, night before last?”

  Sam chewed solemnly while he considered. “Tolerable sober, yes,” he decided at last. “Sober enough to tend to business; why?”

  With his empty glass Ford wrote invisible scrolls upon the bar. “I—did you happen to see—my—the lady I married?” He had been embarrassed at first, but when he finished he was glaring a challenge which shifted the disquiet to Sam’s manner.

  “No. I was tendin’ bar all evenin’—and she didn’t come in here.”

  Ford glanced behind him at the sound of the door opening, saw that it was only Bill, and leaned over the bar for greater secrecy, lowering his voice as well.

  “Did you happen to hear who she was?”

  Sam stared and shook his head.

  “Don’t you know anything about her at all—where she came from—and why, and where she went?”

  Sam backed involuntarily. Ford’s tone made it a crime either to know these things or to be guilty of ignorance; which, Sam could not determine. Sam was of the sleek, oily-haired type of young men, with pimples and pale eyes and a predilection for gum and gossip. He was afraid of Ford and he showed it.

  “That’s just what (no offense, Ford—I ain’t responsible) that’s what everybody’s wondering. Nobody seems to know. They kinda hoped you’d explain—”

  “Sure!” Ford’s tone was growing extremely ominous. “I’ll explain a lot of things—if I hear any gabbling going on about my affairs.” He was seized then with an uncomfortable feeling that the words were mere puerile blustering and turned away from the bar in disgust.

  In disgust he pulled open the door, flinched before the blast of wind and snow which smote him full in the face and blinded him, and went out again into the storm. The hotel porch was a bleak place, with snow six inches deep and icy boards upon which a man might easily slip and break a bone or two, and with a whine overhead as the wind sucked under the roof. Ford stood there so long that his feet began to tingle. He was not thinking; he was merely feeling the feeble struggles of a newborn desire to be something and do something worth while—a desire which manifested itself chiefly in bitterness against himself as he was, and in a mental nausea against the life he had been content to live.

  The mystery of his marriage was growing from a mere untoward incident of a night’s carouse into a baffling thing which hung over him like an impending doom. He was not the sort of man who marries easily. It seemed incredible that he could really have done it; more incredible that he could have done it and then have wiped the slate of his memory clean; with the crowning impossibility that a strange young woman could come into town, marry him, and afterward depart and no man know who she was, whence she had come, or where she had gone. Ford stepped suddenly off the porch and bored his way through the blizzard toward the depot. The station agent would be able to answer the last question, at any rate.

  The agent, however, proved disappointingly ignorant of the matter. He reminded Ford that there had not been time to buy a ticket, and that the girl had been compelled to run down the platform to reach the train before it started, and that the wheels began to turn before she was up the steps of the day coach.

  “And don’t you remember turning around and saying to me: ‘I’m a poor married man, but you can’t notice the scar,’ or something like that?” The agent was plainly interested and desirous of rendering any assistance possible, and also rather diffident about discussing so delicate a matter with a man like Ford.

  Ford drummed his fingers impatiently upon the shelf outside the ticket window. “I don’t remember a darned thing about it,” he confessed glumly. “I can’t say I enjoy running all around town trying to find out who it was I married, and why I married her, and where she went afterwards, but that’s just the kinda fix I’m in, Lew. I don’t suppose she came here and did it just for fun—and I can’t figure out any other reason, unless she was plumb loco. From all I can gather, she was a nice girl, and it seems she thought I was Frank Ford Cameron—which I am not!” He laughed, as a man will laugh sometimes when he is neither pleased nor amused.

  “I might ask McCreery—he’s conductor on Fourteen. He might remember where she wanted to go,” the agent suggested hesitatingly. “And say! What’s the matter with going up to Garbin and looking up the record? She had to get the license there, and they’d have her name, age, place of residence, and—and whether she’s white or black.” The agent smiled uncertainly over his feeble attempt at a joke. “I got a license for a friend once,” he explained hastily, when he saw that Ford’s face did not relax a muscle. “There’s a train up in forty minutes—”

  “Sure, I’ll do that.” Ford brightened. “That must be what I’ve been trying to think of and couldn’t. I knew there was some way of finding out. Throw me a round-trip ticket, Lew. Lordy me! I can’t afford to let a real, live wife slip the halter like this and leave
me stranded and not knowing a thing about her. How much is it?”

  The agent slid a dark red card into the mouth of his office stamp, jerked down the lever, and swung his head quickly toward the sounder chattering hysterically behind him. His jaw slackened as he listened, and he turned his eyes vacantly upon Ford for a moment before he looked back at the instrument.

  “Well, what do you know about that?” he queried, under his breath, released the ticket from the grip of the stamp, and flipped it into the drawer beneath the shelf as if it were so much waste paper.

  “That’s my ticket,” Ford reminded him levelly.

  “You don’t want it now, do you?” The agent grinned at him. “Oh, I forgot you couldn’t read that.” He tilted his head back toward the instrument. “A wire just went through—the court-house at Garbin caught fire in the basement—something about the furnace, they think—and she’s going up in smoke. Hydrants are froze up so they can’t get water on it. That fixes your looking up the record, Ford.”

  Ford stared hard at him. “Well, I might hunt up the preacher and ask him,” he said, his tone dropping again to dull discouragement.

  The agent chuckled. “From all I hear,” he observed rashly, “you’ve made that same preacher mighty hard to catch!”

  Ford drummed upon the shelf and scowled at the smoke-blackened window, beyond which the snow was sweeping aslant. Upon his own side of the ticket window, the agent pared his nails with his pocket-knife and watched him furtively.

  “Oh, hell! What do I care, anyway?” Revulsion seized Ford harshly. “I guess I can stand it if she can. She came here and married me—it isn’t my funeral any more than it is hers. If she wants to be so darned mysterious about it, she can go plumb—to—New York!” There were a few decent traits in Ford Campbell; one was his respect for women, a respect which would not permit him to swear about this wife of his, however exasperating her behavior.

  “That’s the sensible way to look at it, of course,” assented the agent, who made it a point to agree always with a man of Ford’s size and caliber, on the theory that amiability means popularity, and that placation is better than plasters. “You sure ought to let her do the hunting—and the worrying, too. You aren’t to blame if she married you unawares. She did it all on her own hook—and she must have known what she was up against.”

  “No, she didn’t,” flared Ford unexpectedly. “She made a mistake, and I wanted to point it out to her and help her out of it if I could. She took me for some one else, and I was just drunk enough to think it was a joke, I suppose, and let it go that way. I don’t believe she found out she tied up to the wrong man. It’s entirely my fault, for being drunk.”

  “Well, putting it that way, you’re right about it,” agreed the adaptable Lew. “Of course, if you hadn’t been—”

  “If whisky’s going to let a fellow in for things like this, it’s time to cut it out altogether.” Ford was looking at the agent attentively.

  “That’s right,” assented the other unsuspectingly. “Whisky is sure giving you the worst of it all around. You ought to climb on the water-wagon, Ford, and that’s a fact. Whisky’s the worst enemy you’ve got.”

  “Sure. And I’m going to punish all of it I can get my hands on!” He turned toward the door. “And when I’m good and full of it,” he added as an afterthought, “I’m liable to come over here and lick you, Lew, just for being such an agreeable cuss. You better leave your mother’s address handy.” He laughed a little to himself as he pulled the door shut behind him. “I bet he’ll keep the frost thawed off the window today, just to see who comes up the platform,” he chuckled.

  He would have been more amused if he had seen how the agent ducked anxiously forward to peer through the ticket window whenever the door of the waiting room opened, and how he started whenever the snow outside creaked under the tread of a heavy step; and he would have been convulsed with mirth if he had caught sight of the formidable billet of wood which Lew kept beside his chair all that day, and had guessed its purpose, and that it was a mute witness to the reputation which one Ford Campbell bore among his fellows. Lew was too wise to consider for a moment the revolver meant to protect the contents of the safe. Even the unintelligent know better than to throw a lighted match into a keg of gunpowder.

  Ford leaned backward against the push of the storm and was swept up to the hotel. He could not remember when he had felt so completely baffled; the incident of the girl and the ceremony was growing to something very like a calamity, and the mystery which surrounded it began to fret him intolerably; and the very unusualness of a trouble he could not settle with his fists whipped his temper to the point of explosion. He caught himself wavering, nevertheless, before the wind-swept porch of the hotel “office.” That, too, was strange. Ford was not wont to hesitate before entering a saloon; more often he hesitated about leaving.

  “What’s the matter with me, anyway?” he questioned himself impatiently. “I’m acting like I hadn’t a right to go in and take a drink when I feel like it! If just a slight touch of matrimony acts like that with a man, what can the real thing be like? I always heard it made a fool of a fellow.” To prove to himself that he was still untrammeled and at liberty to follow his own desire, he stamped across the porch, threw open the door, and entered with a certain defiance of manner.

  Behind the bar, Sam was laughing with his mouth wide open so that his gum showed shamelessly. Bill and Aleck and Big Jim were leaning heavily upon the bar, laughing also.

  “I’ll bet she’s a Heart-and-Hander, tryin’ a new scheme to git a man. Think uh nabbing a man when he’s drunk. That’s a new one,” Sam brought his lips close enough together to declare, and chewed vigorously upon the idea,—until he glanced up and saw Ford standing by the door. He turned abruptly, caught up a towel, and began polishing the bar with the frenzy of industry which never imposes upon one in the slightest degree.

  Bill glanced behind him and nudged Aleck into caution, and in the silence which followed, the popping of a piece of slate-veined coal in the stove sounded like a volley of small-caliber pistol shots.

  CHAPTER III

  One Way to Drown Sorrow

  Ford walked up to the bar, with a smile upon his face which Sam misunderstood and so met with a conciliatory grin and a hand extended toward a certain round, ribbed bottle with a blue-and-silver label. Ford waved away the bottle and leaned, not on the bar but across it, and clutching Sam by the necktie, slapped him first upon one ear and next upon the other, until he was forced by the tingling of his own fingers to desist. By that time Sam’s green necktie was pulled tight just under his nose, and he had swallowed his gum—which, considering the size of the lump, was likely to be the death of him.

  Ford did not say a word. He permitted Sam to jerk loose and back into a corner, and he watched the swift crimsoning of his ears with a keen interest. Since Sam’s face had the pasty pallor of the badly scared, the ears appeared much redder by contrast than they really were. Next, Ford turned his attention to the man beside him, who happened to be Bill. For one long minute the grim spirit of war hovered just over the two.

  “Aw, forget it, Ford,” Bill urged ingratiatingly at last. “You don’t want to lick anybody—least of all old Bill! Look at them knuckles! You couldn’t thump a feather bed. Anyway, you got the guilty party when you done slapped Sam up to a peak and then knocked the peak off. Made him swaller his cud, too, by hokey! Say, Sam, my old dad used to feed a cow on bacon-rinds when she done lost her cud. You try it, Sam. Mebby it might help them ears! Shove that there trouble-killer over this way, Sammy, and don’t look so fierce at your uncle Bill; he’s liable to turn you across his knee and dust your pants proper.” He turned again to Ford, scowling at the group and at life in general, while the snow melted upon his broad shoulders and trickled in little, hurrying drops down to the nearest jumping-off place. “Come, drownd your sorrer,” Bill advised amiably. “Nobody said nothing but Sammy, and I’ll gamble he wishes he hadn’t, now.” If his counsel was vicious, hi
s smile was engaging—which does not, in this instance, mean that it was beautiful.

  Ford’s fingers closed upon the bottle, and with reprehensible thoroughness he proceeded to drown what sorrows he then possessed. Unfortunately he straightway produced a fresh supply, after his usual method. In two hours he was flushed and argumentative. In three he had whipped Bill—cause unknown to the chronicler, and somewhat hazy to Ford also after it was all over. By mid-afternoon he had Sammy entrenched in the tiny stronghold where barreled liquors were kept, and scared to the babbling stage. Aleck had been put to bed with a gash over his right eye where Ford had pointed his argument with a beer glass, and Big Jim had succumbed to a billiard cue directed first at his most sensitive bunion and later at his head. Ford was not using his fists, that day, because even in his whisky-brewed rage he remembered, oddly enough, his skinned knuckles.

  Others had come—in fact, the entire male population of Sunset was hovering in the immediate vicinity of the hotel—but none had conquered. There had been considerable ducking to avoid painful contact with flying glasses from the bar, and a few had retreated in search of bandages and liniment; the luckier ones remained as near the storm-center as was safe and expostulated. To those Ford had but one reply, which developed into a sort of war-chant, discouraging to the peace-loving listeners.

  “I’m a rooting, tooting, shooting, fighting son-of-a-gun—and a good one!” Ford would declaim, and with deadly intent aim a lump of coal, billiard ball, or glass at some unfortunate individual in his audience. “Hit the nigger and get a cigar! You’re just hanging around out there till I drink myself to sleep—but I’m fooling you a few! I’m watching the clock with one eye, and I take my dose regular and not too frequent. I’m going to kill off a few of these smart boys that have been talking about me and my wife. She’s a lady, my wife is, and I’ll kill the first man that says she isn’t.” (One cannot, you will understand, be too explicit in a case like this; not one thousandth part as explicit as Ford was.)