by Harold Titus
CHAPTER XIX
Through the Night
On into the night went the Captain, bearing VB. Over the gate thebridle-rein drew against his neck and the big beast swung to the right,following the road southward, on down the gulch, on toward Ranger--afierceness in his rider's heart that was suicidal.
All the bitterness VB had endured, from the stinging torrent his fatherturned upon him back in New York to the flat realization that to lethimself love Gail Thorpe might bring him into worse hells, surged upinto his throat and mingled with the craving there. It seeped throughinto his mind, perverted his thoughts, stamped down the optimism thathad held him up, shattered what remnants of faith still remained.
"Faster, Captain!" he cried. "Faster!"
And the stallion responded, scudding through the blue moonlight with aspeed that seemed beyond the power of flesh to attain. He shook hisfine head and stretched out the long nose as though the very act ofthrusting it farther would give more impetus to his thundering hoofs.
VB sat erect in the saddle, a fierce delight aroused by the speedrunning through his veins like fire--and, reaching to his throat,adding to the scorching. He swung his right hand rhythmically, keepingtime to the steady roll of the stallion's feet. The wind tore at him,vibrating his hat brim, whipping the long muffler out from his neck,and he shook his head against it.
He was free at last! Free after those months of doubt, of foolishfighting! He was answering the call that came from the depths of histrue self--that hidden self--the call of flesh that needs aid! He carednot for the morrow, for the stretching future. His one thought was onthe now--on the rankling, eating, festering moment that needed only onething to be wiped out forever.
And always, in the back of his mind, was the picture of Gail Thorpe asshe had turned from him that afternoon. It loomed large and larger ashe tore on to the south through the solitude, ripping his way throughthe cool murk.
"I won't put my mark on her!" he cried, and whipped the Captain'sflanks with his heavy hat, the thought setting his heart flaming. "Iwon't!" he cried. And again, "I won't!"
He was riding down into his particular depths so to stultify himselfthat it would be impossible to risk that woman's happiness against thechance that some time, some day, he would go down, loving her, makingher know he loved her, but fighting without gain. That, surely, is onesort of love, faulty though the engendering spirit may be.
The whipping with the hat sent the horse on to still greater endeavor.A slight weariness commenced to show in the ducking of his head withevery stride, but he did not slacken his pace. His ears were still setstiffly forward, flipping back, one after the other, for word from hisrider; the spurn of his feet was still sharp and clear and unfaltering;the spirit in that rippling, dripping body still ran high.
And closing his eyes, drinking the night air through his mouth in greatgulps, VB let the animal carry him on and on,--yet backward, back intothe face of all that fighting he had summoned, doubling on his owntracks, slipping so easily down the way he had blazed upward with awfulsacrifice and hardship.
An hour--two--nine--eleven--the Captain might have been running so aweek, and VB would not have known. His mind was not on time, not on hishorse. He had ceased to think beyond the recognition of a craving, acraving that he did not fight but encouraged, nursed, teased--for itwas going to be satisfied!
The stallion's pace began to slacken. He wearied. The bellows lungs,the heart of steel, the legs of tireless sinew began to feel the strainof that long run. The run waned to a gallop, and the gallop to a trot.There his breathing becoming easier, he blew loudly from his nostrilsas though to distend them farther and make way for the air he must have.
VB realized this dully but his heeding of that devilish inner call hadtaken him so far from his more tender self, from his instinctive desireto love and understand, that he did not follow out his comprehension.
"Go it, boy!" he muttered. "It's all I'll ask of you--just this onerun."
And the Captain, dropping an ear back for the word, leaned to the task,resuming the steady, space-eating gallop mile after mile. All the wayinto Ranger they held that pace. In the last mile the stallion stumbledtwice, but after both breaks in his stride ran on more swiftly for manyyards, as though to make up to his master for the jolting the halffalls gave him. He was a bit unsteady on those feet as he took the turnand dropped down the low bank into the river. They forded it in ashimmer of silver as the horse's legs threw out the black water to befrozen and burnished by the light of the moon. The stallion toiled upthe far bank at a lagging trot, and on the flat VB pulled the pantinganimal down to a walk.
Oh, VB, it was not too late then, had you only realized it! Your idealwas still there, more exemplary than ever before, but you could notrecognize it through those eyes which saw only the red of a wreckingpassion! You had drained to the last ounce of reserve the strength ofthat spirit you had so emulated, which had been as a shining light, anunfaltering candle in the darkness. It was stripped bare before you asthat splendid animal gulped between breaths. Could you have but seen!Could something only have _made_ you see! But it was not to be.
VB had forgotten the Captain. In the face of his wretched weakening thestallion became merely a conveyance, a convenience, a means forstifling the neurotic excitement within him. He forgot that this thinghe rode represented his only achievement--an achievement such as fewmen ever boast.
He guided the stallion to a half-wrecked log house south of the road,dismounted, and stood a moment before the shack, his glittering eyes onthe squares of light yonder under the rising hill. He heard a fainttinkling from the place, and a voice raised in laughter.
As he watched, a mounted man passed between him and the yellow glare.In a moment he saw the man enter the saloon door.
"Come, boy," he muttered, moving cautiously through the opening intothe place. "You'll be warm in here. You'll cool off slowly."
Then, in a burst of hysterical passion, he threw his arms about thestallion's head and drew it to him fiercely.
"Oh, I won't be gone long, Captain!" he promised. "Not long--just alittle while. It's not the worst, Captain! I'm not weakening!"
Drunk with the indulgence of his nervous weakness, he lied glibly,knowing he lied, without object--just to lie, to pervert life. And asthe Captain's quick, hot breath penetrated his garments, VB drew thehead still tighter.
"You're all I've got, Captain," he muttered, now in a trembling calm."You'll wait. I know that. I know what you will do better than I knowanything else in the world--better than I know what--what _I'll_ do!Wait for me, boy--wait right here!"
His voice broke on the last word as he stumbled through the door andset off toward the building against the hill. He did not hear theCaptain turn, walk as far as the door of the shack, and peer after himanxiously. Nor did he see the figure of a man halted in the road,watching him go across the flat, chaps flapping, brushing through thesage noisily.
VB halted in the path of light, swaying the merest trifle from side toside as he pulled his chap belt in another hole and tried to still thetwitching of his hands, the weakening of his knees.
The tinkling he had heard became clear. He could see now. A Mexicansquatted on his spurs, back against the wall, and twanged a fandango ona battered guitar. His hat was far back over his head, cigaretteglowing in the corner of his mouth, gay blue muffler loose on hisshoulders. He hummed to the music, his voice rising now and then tofloat out into the night above the other sounds from the one room.
The bar of rough boards, top covered with red oilcloth, stretched alongone side. Black bottles flashed their high lights from a shelf behindit, above which hung an array of antlers. The bartender, broad Stetsonshading his face, talked loudly, his hands wide apart on the bar andbearing much of his weight. Now and then he dropped his head to spitbetween his forearms.
Three men in chaps lounged before the bar, talking. One, the tallest,talked with his head flung back and gestures that were a trifle tooloose. The shortest looked into his face
with a ceaseless, senselesssmile, and giggled whenever the voice rose high or the gestures becameunusually wild. The third, elbows on the oilcloth, head on his fists,neither joined in nor appeared to heed the conversation.
Back in the room stood two tables, both covered with green cloth. Onewas unused; the other accommodated four men. Each of the quartet wore ahat drawn low over his face; each held cards. They seldom spoke; whenthey did, their voices were low. VB saw only their lips move. Theirmotions were like the words--few and abrupt. When chips were counted itwas with expertness; when they were shoved to the center of the tableit was with finality.
Near them, tilted against the wall in a wire-trussed chair, sat asleeping man, hat on the floor.
Two swinging oil lamps lighted the smoke-fogged air of the place, andtheir glow seemed to be diffused by it, idealizing everything,softening it--
Everything except the high lights from the bottles on the shelf. Thosewere stabs of searing brightness; they hurt VB's eyeballs.
His gaze traveled back to the Mexican. The melody had drifted from thefandango into a swinging waltz song popular in the cities four yearsbefore. He whistled the air through his teeth. The cigarette was stillbetween his lips. The face brought vague recollections to VB. Then heremembered that this was Julio, the Mexican who ran with Rhues. Hebelonged to Rhues, they had told him, body and soul.
Thought of Rhues sent VB's right hand to his left side, up under thearm. He squeezed the gun that nestled there.
Of a sudden, nausea came to the man who looked in. It was not caused byfear of Rhues--of the possibility of an encounter. The poignant fumesthat came from the open door stirred it, and the sickness was that of aman who sees his great prize melt away.
For the moment VB wanted to rebel. He tore his eyes from thoseglittering bottles; tried to stop his breathing that treacherousnostrils might not inhale those odors.
But it was useless--his feet would not carry him away. He knew he mustmove, move soon, and though he now cried out in his heart against it heknew which way his feet would carry him.
He half turned his body and looked back toward the shack where theCaptain waited, and a tightening came in his throat to mingle with therapaciousness there.
"Just a little while, Captain," he whispered, feeling childishly thatthe horse would hear the words and understand. "Just a littlewhile--I'm just--just going to take a little hand in the card game."
And as the Mexican finished his waltz with a rip of the thumb clearacross the six strings of his instrument, Young VB put a foot on thethreshold of the saloon and slowly drew himself to his full height inthe doorway. Framed by darkness he stood there, thumbs in his belt,mouth in a grim line, hat down to hide the pallor of his cheeks, thetorment in his eyes; his shoulders were braced back in resolution, buthis knees, inside his generous chaps, trembled.