Alcatraz

STRATEGY

Never had Red Perris passed a night of such pleasant dreams.  For never, indeed, had he been so exquisitely flattered as during the preceding evening when Marianne Jordan kept him after dinner in the ranchhouse while the other hired men, as was their custom, loitered to smoke their after-dinner cigarettes in the moist coolness of the patio.  For the building was on the Spanish-Mexican style.  The walls were heavy enough to defy the most biting cold of winter and the most searching sun in summer.  And they marched in a wide circle around an interior court which was bordered with a clumsy arcade of ’dobe pillars.  By daylight the defects in construction were rather too apparent.  But at night the effect was imposing, almost grand.

But while the cowhands smoked in the patio, the noise of their laughter and their heavy voices penetrated no louder than the dim humming of bees to the ear of Red Jim Perris, sitting tête-à-tête with Marianne in an inner room.  And he did not envy the sprawling freedom of those outside.

Pretty girls had come his way now and again during his wanderings north and south and east and west through the mountain deserts.  But never before had he seen one in such a background.  She had had the good taste to make the inside of the house well-nigh as Spanish as its exterior.  There were cool, dim spaces in the big rooms; and here and there were bright spots of color.  Her very costume for the evening showed the same discrimination.  She wore drab riding clothes.  But from her own garden she had chosen a scentless blossom of a kind which Red Perris had never seen before.  The absent charm of perfume was turned into a deeper coloring, a crimson intense as fire in the darkness of her hair.  That one touch of color, and no more, but it gave wonderful warmth to her eyes and to her smile.

And indeed she was not sparing in her smiles.  Red Jim Perris pleased her, and she was not afraid to show it.  To be sure, she talked of the business before them, but she talked of it only in scattered phrases.  Other topics drew her away.  A score of little side-issues carried her away.  And Jim Perris was glad of the diversions.

For the only thing which he disliked in her, the only thing which repelled him time and again, was this eagerness of hers to have the chestnut stallion killed.  She spoke of Alcatraz with a consuming hatred.  And Perris was a little horrified.  He knew that Alcatraz had stolen away the six mares, and Marianne explained briefly and eloquently how much the return of those mares meant to her self-respect and to the financial soundness of the ranch.  But this, after all, was a small excuse for an ugly passion.  If he could have known that with her own eyes she had seen the chestnut crush Cordova to shapelessness and almost to death, the mystery might have been cleared.  But Marianne could not refer to that terrible memory.  All she could say was that Alcatraz must be killed—­at once!  And she said it with her eyes on fire with detestation.

Indeed, that touch of angry passion in her was the flower of Hermes to Red Jim, keeping him from complete infatuation when she sang to him, playing her own lightly-touched accompaniment at the piano.  He had never been entertained like this before.  And when a girl sang a love ballad and at the same time looked at him with eyes at once serious and laughing, he had to set his teeth and shake himself to keep from taking the words of the poet too literally.  Perhaps Marianne was going a little farther than she intended.  But after all, every good woman has a tremendous desire to make men happy, and handsome Jim Perris with his straight, steady eyes and his free laughter was such a pleasant fellow to work with that Marianne quite forgot moderation.

And before the evening was over, Jim had come within a hair’s breadth of plunging over the cliff and confessing his admiration in terms so outright that Marianne would have closed up her charming gaiety as a flower closes up its beauty and fragrance at the first warning chill of night.  A dozen times Red Perris came to this alarming point, but he was always saved by remembering that this delightful girl had brought him here for the purpose of—­killing a horse.  And that memory chilled Jim to the very core of his manly heart.

Of course he knew that wild-running stallions who steal saddle stock must be cleared from a range, and by shooting if necessary.  He would have received such an order from a man and never thought the less of him, but the command was too stern for the smiling lips of Marianne.  To be sure, Perris was by no means a gentle rider.  In fact, he rode so very hard that only fine horses could measure up to his demands, and who, since the world began, has ridden many fine horses without coming to love the entire race?  Red Perris, at least, was such a man, and indeed he spent many an hour dreaming of some happy day when he should find beneath him a mount with speed like an eagle, soul of a lion, and the gentle, trusting heart of a child.

Finally, the evening ended.  He left the house and the puzzled smile of Marianne behind him and went to the bunkhouse and a sleep of happy dreams.  But every dream ended with the thought of a wild chestnut running into the circle of his rifle’s sights, leaping into the air at the report of his gun, and dropping inert on the grass.  What wonder, then, that when he wakened he thought of Marianne Jordan with mixed emotions?  Perhaps the really important point was that he thought of her so much, whether for good or evil.

He went in with the other men to breakfast in the long dining-room of the ranch house, and there was Marianne Jordan again presiding at the head of the table.  But half of the glamour of the evening before was gone from her and she kept her eyes seriously lowered, frowning.  In fact, she had much to think about, for late the preceding evening Lew Hervey had come to her and showed her the first note that her father had written.  She was not alarmed by this sudden trip over the mountains.  There had been so many vagaries in the actions of Oliver Jordan in the past few months that this unannounced drive to an undetermined destination was not particularly surprising.  It was only the delegation of such authority to Hervey that astonished her.

She forgot even Red Jim Perris and the lost Coles horses in her abstraction, for whenever she looked down the table she saw nothing saving the erect, burly form of the foreman, swelling, so it seemed to her, with a newly acquired and aggressive importance.  However, he had the written word of her father, and she had to set her teeth over her irritation and digest it as well as he could.

Hervey had presented reasonable excuses, to be sure.  There was certain work of fence-repairing, certain construction of sheds which he had called to the attention of Oliver Jordan and which Jordan had commissioned him to overlook during his absence.

“I told him they wasn’t any use in writing out a note like this one,” Hervey had assured her, “but you know how the chief is, these days.  Sort of set in his ways when he makes up his mind about anything.”

And this was so entirely true that she was half-inclined to dismiss the whole matter from her mind.  Oliver Jordan paid so little heed to the running of the ranch and when he did make a suggestion he was so peremptory about it, that this commission to Hervey was not altogether astonishing.  Nevertheless, it kept her absent-minded throughout breakfast.

Red Perris was naturally somewhat offended by the blankness of her eye as she passed him over.  She had been so extremely intimate and cordial the night before that this neglect was almost an insult.  Perhaps she had only been playing a game—­trying to amuse herself during a dull hour instead of truly wishing to please him.  He grew childishly sulky at the thought.  After all, there was a good deal of the spoiled child about Red Jim.  He had had his way in the world so much that opposition or neglect threw him into a temper.

And he stamped out of the dining-room ahead of the rest of the men, his head down, his brows black.  Lew Hervey, following with the other men, had noted everything.  It behooved him to be on the watch during the time of trial and triumph and at breakfast he had observed Red Perris looking at the girl a dozen times with an anticipatory smile which changed straightway to glumness when her glance passed him carelessly by.  And now Hervey communicated his opinions to the others on the way to the bunkhouse to get their things for the day’s riding.

“Our new friend, the gun-fighter,” he said, pointedly emphasizing the last phrase, “ain’t none too happy this morning.  Marianne give him a smile last night and he was waiting for another this morning.  He sure looks cut up, eh?”

The bowed head and rounded shoulders of Red Perris brought a chuckle from the cowpunchers.  They were not at all kindly disposed towards him.  Too much reputation is a bad thing for a man to have on his hands in the West.  He is apt to be expected to live up to it every moment of his waking hours.  Not a man in the Valley of the Eagles outfit but was waiting to see the newcomer make the first move towards bullying one of them.  And such a move they were prepared to resent en masse.  That Marianne might have made a good deal of a fool out of Perris, as Hervey suggested, pleased them immensely.

“Maybe the ranch suits him pretty well,” suggested Slim, ironically.  “Maybe he figures it might be worth his while to pick it up by marrying the old man’s girl.  Eh, Lew?”

Lew Hervey shrugged his shoulders.  He did not wish to directly accuse the gun-fighter of anything, for talk is easily traced to its source and the account of Shorty had filled the foreman with immense respect for the fighting qualities of Red Perris.  However, he was equally determined to rouse a hostile sentiment towards him among the cowhands.

“Well,” said Lew, “you can’t blame a gent for playing for high stakes if he’s going to gamble at all.  I guess Red Perris is all right.  A kid like him can’t help being a little proud of himself.”

“Damn fat-head,” growled Slim, less merciful, “sat right next to me and didn’t say two words all through breakfast.  Ain’t going to waste no words on common cowpunchers, maybe.”

So the first impression of Red Jim was created on the ranch, an impression which might be dispelled by the first real test of the man, or which in the absence of such a test might cling to him forever:  Perris was a conceited gun-fighter, heart-breaker, and bully.  The men who trooped into the bunkhouse behind him already hated him with a religious intensity; in ten minutes, they might have accepted him as a bunkie!  For your true Western cowpuncher, when all is said and done, unites with Spartan stoicism a Spartan keenness of suspicion.

It was not hard for the foreman to see the trend of events.  Something had roused an ugly mood in Perris.  It might be, as he surmised, the girl.  No matter what, he was obviously not in a mood to bear tampering with.  Hervey determined to force the issue at once, knowing that his other men would be a solid unit behind him.

“Hey there, Red!” he called, cheerily enough, but brusquely, and then, bending over to fuss at a spur, he winked broadly at the other men.  They were instantly keen for the baiting of Perris, whatever form it might take.

“Well?” said Red Perris.

“Trot over to the corral and rope that Roman-nosed buckskin with the white stockings on her forelegs, will you?  I got a few things to tend to in here.”

Now there was nothing entirely unheard of in a foreman ordering one of his men to catch a saddle horse for him.  But usually such things were done by request rather than demand, and moreover, there was something so breezy in the manner of Hervey, taking the compliance of Red so for granted, that the latter raised his head slowly and turned to the foreman with a gloomy eye.  He had come to the ranch to hunt a wild horse, not to play valet to a foreman.

“Partner,” drawled Red Perris, and the silken smoothness of his tones was ample proof that he was enraged.  “I don’t know the ways you folks have up here, but around the parts where I’ve been, a gent that’s big enough to ride is big enough to saddle his own hoss.”

The reply of Lew Hervey was just sharp enough to goad the newcomer—­just soft enough to stay on the windward side of an insult.

“I’ll tell you,” he said quietly.  “Around the Valley of the Eagles, the boys do what the foreman asks ’em to do, most generally.  And the foreman don’t play favorites.  I’m waiting for that hoss, Perris.”

Perris rolled a cigarette, and smiled as he looked at Hervey.  It was a sickly smile, his lips being white and stiff.  And in another, it might have been considered a sign of fear.  In Red Perris everyone there knew it was simply the badge of a rising fury.  They knew, by the same token, that he was as dangerous as he had been advertised.  Men whom anger reddens are blinded by it; but those who turn pale never stop thinking.  Meantime, Red Jim looked at Hervey and looked at the cowpunchers behind Hervey.  It was not hard to see that in a pinch they would be solid behind their foreman.  They watched him with a wolfish eagerness.  Why they should be so instantly hostile he could not guess but he was enough of a traveller to be prepared for strange customs in strange places.  There was only one important point:  he would not saddle the buckskin.  Moreover, at sight of their solid front and their aggressive sneers he grew fighting hot.

“How gents come in these parts,” he said with deliberate scorn, “I dunno.  And I don’t care a damn.  If they brush their foreman’s boots and saddle his hosses for him, they can go ahead and do it.  But I come up here to catch a wild hoss that the gents in the Valley of the Eagles couldn’t get.  That’s my job, and nothing else.”

The growl of his cowpunchers was sweetest music to the ear of Lew Hervey.  He glanced at them as much as to say:  “You see what I got on my hands?” Then he stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“You’re young, kid,” he declared.  “When you grow up you’ll know better’n to talk like this.  But cowpunchers we ain’t going to make no trouble for you.  But I’ll tell you short, Perris, you’ll go out and rope that hoss or else roll your blankets and clear out.  Understand?  I was joking when I asked you to rope the hoss first.  I wanted to see what sort were.  Well, I see, and I don’t like what I see.”

“Hervey,” began Perris, trembling with his passion “Hervey—­”

“Wait a minute,” said the foreman, “I know your kind.  You sign your name with bullets.  You pay your way with lead.  You bully a crowd by fingering a gun-butt.  Well, son, that sort of thing don’t go in the Valley of the Eagles.  Lay a hand on that gun and I’ll have the boys tie you in knots and roll you in a barrel of tar we got handy.  Perris, get that hoss for me, or get out!”

Red Perris sat down on the edge of his bunk.  He made no move towards his revolver.  Indeed, it lay almost arm’s length away.  Almost—­everyone noted that.  He crossed his legs and his glance wandered slowly up and down the line of grim faces.

“Partner,” he said softly to Hervey, “I’m not going to get the hoss and I’m not going to get out.  The next move is up to you.  Is it tar?”

For a moment Hervey was dazed.  No one could have foreseen such daredeviltry as this.  At the same time, he was badly cornered.  If his men rushed Red Perris, Red Perris would get his gun.  And if Red Perris got his gun the first shot would be for Hervey.

“Hold on, boys,” he called suddenly, above the angry curses of his men, “I’m not going to risk one of you in getting this fool.  Miss Jordan hired him.  She can fire him if I can’t.  Which we’ll find out pronto.  Slim, go get her, will you?”

Slim jumped through the door.  They heard his footsteps fade away at a run.  And then, after an interval of steady silence, his voice began in the distance, replying to sharp, hurried inquiries of Marianne.  In another moment Marianne was in the bunkhouse.  Her glance shot from Hervey to Perris and back again.

“I knew you’d be up to something like this!” she cried.  “I knew it, Lew Hervey!”

Hervey made a gesture of surrender.

“Ask the boys,” he pleaded.  “Ask them if I didn’t try to go easy with him.  But he’s all teeth.  He wants to bite.  And we ain’t going to put up with that sort of a gent here, I guess!  I’ve ordered him off the ranch.  Does that go with you?”

“Oh, Jim Perris,” cried the girl. “Why have you let this happen!”

“I’m sure sorry,” said Perris.  He disdained further explanation.

“But,” said Marianne, “I’ve got to have that terrible stallion killed.  And who can do it but Jim Perris, Mr. Hervey?”

“Gimme time,” said Lew, “and I’ll do it.”

She stamped her foot in anger.

“How you wheedled the authority out of my father, I don’t know,” she said.  “But you have it and you can discharge him if you want.  But he’ll hear another side to this when he returns, Mr. Hervey, I promise you that!” She whirled on Red Jim.  “Mr. Perris, if Mr. Hervey allows you to stay, will you remain for—­a week, say, and try to get rid of Alcatraz for me?  Mr. Hervey, will you let me have Mr. Perris for one week?”

There was more angry demand than appeal in her voice, but Hervey knew he must give way.  After all, the way to carry this thing through was to use the high hand as little as possible.  Oliver Jordan would certainly wait a week before he returned.

“I sure want to be reasonable, Miss Jordan,” he said.  “I’m only acting in your father’s interests.  Of course he can stay for a week.”

She whirled away from him with a glance of angry suspicion which softened instantly as she faced Red Jim.

“You will stay?” she pleaded.

Sullen pride drew Jim one way; the bright, eager eyes drew him another.

“As long as you want,” he said gravely.