Trailin'!

LEMONADE

In fact, so thoughtful had Nash become, that he slept with extraordinary lightness that night and was up at the first hint of day.  Sue appeared on the scene just in time to witness the last act of the usual drama of bucking on the part of the roan, before it settled down to the mechanical dog-trot with which it would wear out the ceaseless miles of the mountain-desert all day and far into the night, if need be.

Nash now swung more to the right, cutting across the hills, for he presumed that by this time the tenderfoot must have gotten his bearings and would head straight for Eldara.  It was a stiff two day journey, now, the whole first day’s riding having been a worse than useless detour; so the bulldog jaw set harder and harder, and the keen eyes squinted as if to look into the dim future.

Once each day, about noon, when the heat made even the desert and the men of the desert drowsy, he allowed his imagination to roam freely, counting the thousand dollars over and over again, and tasting again the joys of a double salary.  Yet even his hardy imagination rarely rose to the height of Sally Fortune.  That hour of dreaming, however, made the day of labour almost pleasant.

This time, in the very middle of his dream, he reached the cross-roads saloon and general merchandise store of Flanders; so he banished his visions with a compelling shrug of the shoulders and rode for it at a gallop, a hot dryness growing in his throat at every stride.  Quick service he was sure to get, for there were not more than half a dozen cattle-ponies standing in front of the little building with its rickety walls guiltless of paint save for the one great sign inscribed with uncertain letters.

He swung from the saddle, tossed the reins over the head of the mustang, made a stride forward—­and then checked himself with a soft curse and reached for his gun.

For the door of the bar dashed open and down the steps rushed a tall man with light yellow moustache, so long that it literally blew on either side over his shoulders as he ran; in either hand he carried a revolver—–­a two-gun man, fleeing, perhaps, from another murder.

For Nash recognized in him a character notorious through a thousand miles of the range, Sandy Ferguson, nicknamed by the colour of that famous moustache, which was envied and dreaded so far and so wide.  It was not fear that made Nash halt, for otherwise he would have finished the motion and whipped out his gun; but at least it was something closely akin to fear.

For that matter, there were unmistakable signs in Sandy himself of what would have been called arrant terror in any other man.  His face was so bloodless that the pallor showed even through the leathery tan; one eye stared wildly, the other being sheltered under a clumsy patch which could not quite conceal the ugly bruise beneath.  Under his great moustache his lips were as puffed and swollen as the lips of a negro.

Staggering in his haste, he whirled a few paces from the house and turned, his guns levelled.  At the same moment the door opened and the perspiring figure of little fat Flanders appeared.  Scorn and anger rather than hate or any bloodlust appeared in his face.  His right arm, hanging loosely at his side, held a revolver, and he seemed to have the greatest unconcern for the levelled weapons of the gunman.

He made a gesture with that armed hand, and Sandy winced as though a whiplash had flicked him.

“Steady up, damn your eyes!” bellowed Flanders, “and put them guns away.  Put ’em up; hear me?”

To the mortal astonishment of Nash, Sandy obeyed, keeping the while a fascinated eye upon the little Dutchman.

“Now climb your hoss and beat it, and if I ever find you in reach again, I’ll send my kid out to rope you and give you a hoss-whippin’.”

The gun fighter lost no time.  A single leap carried him into his saddle and he was off over the sand with a sharp rattle of the beating hoofs.

“Well,” breathed Nash, “I’ll be hanged.”

“Sure you will,” suggested Flanders, at once changing his frown for a smile of somewhat professional good nature, as one who greeted an old customer, “sure you will unless you come in an’ have a drink on the house.  I want something myself to forget what I been doin’.  I feel like the dog-catcher.”

Steve, deeply meditative, strode into the room.

“Partner,” he said gravely to Flanders, “I’ve always prided myself on having eyes a little better than the next one, but just now I guess I must of been seein’ double.  Seemed to me that that was Sandy Ferguson that you hot-footed out of that door—­or has Sandy got a double?”

“Nope,” said the bartender, wiping the last of the perspiration from his forehead, “that’s Sandy, all right.”

“Then gimme a big drink.  I need it.”

The bottle spun expertly across the bar, and the glasses tinkled after.

“Funny about him, all right,” nodded Flanders, “but then it’s happened the same way with others I could tell about.  As long as he was winnin’ Sandy was the king of any roost.  The minute he lost a fight he wasn’t worth so many pounds of salt pork.  Take a hoss; a fine hoss is often jest the same.  Long as it wins nothin’ can touch some of them blooded boys.  But let ’em go under the wire second, maybe jest because they’s packing twenty pounds too much weight, and they’re never any good any more.  Any second-rater can lick ’em.  I lost five hundred iron boys on a hoss that laid down like that.”

“All of which means,” suggested Nash, “that Sandy has been licked?”

“Licked?  No, he ain’t been licked, but he’s been plumb annihilated, washed off the map, cleaned out, faded, rubbed into the dirt; if there was some stronger way of puttin’ it, I would.  Only last night, at that, but now look at him.  A girl that never seen a man before could tell that he wasn’t any more dangerous now than if he was made of putty; but if the fool keeps packin’ them guns he’s sure to get into trouble.”

He raised his glass.

“So here’s to the man that Sandy was and ain’t no more.”

They drank solemnly.

“Maybe you took the fall out of him yourself, Flanders?”

“Nope.  I ain’t no fighter, Steve.  You know that.  The feller that downed Sandy was—­a tenderfoot.  Yep, a greenhorn.”

“Ah-h-h,” drawled Nash softly, “I thought so.”

“You did?”

“Anyway, let’s hear the story.  Another drink—­on me, Flanders.”

“It was like this.  Along about evening of yesterday Sandy was in here with a couple of other boys.  He was pretty well lighted—­the glow was circulatin’ promiscuous, in fact—­when in comes a feller about your height, Steve, but lighter.  Goodlookin’, thin face, big dark eyes like a girl.  He carried the signs of a long ride on him.  Well, sir, he walks up to the bar and says:  ’Can you make me a very sour lemonade, Mr. Bartender?’

“I grabbed the edge of the bar and hung tight.

“‘A which?’ says I.

“‘Lemonade, if you please.’

“I rolled an eye at Sandy, who was standin’ there with his jaw falling, and then I got busy with lemons and the squeezer, but pretty soon Ferguson walks up to the stranger.

“‘Are you English?’ he asks.

“I knew by his tone what was comin’, so I slid the gun I keep behind the bar closer and got prepared for a lot of damaged crockery.

“‘I?’ says the tenderfoot.  ‘Why, no.  What makes you ask?’

“‘Your damned funny way of talkin’,’ says Sandy.

“‘Oh,’ says the greenhorn, nodding as if he was thinkin’ this over and discovering a little truth in it.  ’I suppose the way I talk is a little unusual.’

“‘A little rotten,’ says Sandy.  ‘Did I hear you askin’ for a lemonade?’

“‘You did.’

“‘Would I seem to be askin’ too many questions,’ says Sandy, terrible polite, ‘if I inquires if bar whisky ain’t good enough for you?’

“The tenderfoot, he stands there jest as easy as you an’ me stand here now, and he laughed.

“He says:  ’The bar whisky I’ve tasted around this country is not very good for any one, unless, perhaps, after a snake has bitten you.  Then it works on the principle of poison fight poison, eh?’

“Sandy says after a minute:  ’I’m the most quietest, gentle, innercent cowpuncher that ever rode the range, but I’d tell a man that it riles me to hear good bar whisky insulted like this.  Look at me!  Do I look as if whisky ain’t good for a man?’

“‘Why,’ says the tenderfoot, ‘you look sort of funny to me.’

“He said it as easy as if he was passin’ the morning with Ferguson, but I seen that it was the last straw with Sandy.  He hefted out both guns and trained ’em on the greenhorn.

“I yelled:  ‘Sandy, for God’s sake, don’t be killin’ a tenderfoot!’

“‘If whisky will kill him he’s goin’ to die,’ says Sandy.  ’Flanders, pour out a drink of rye for this gent.’

“I did it, though my hand was shaking a lot, and the chap takes the glass and raises it polite, and looks at the colour of it.  I thought he was goin’ to drink, and starts wipin’ the sweat off’n my forehead.

“But this chap, he sets down the glass and smiles over to Sandy.

“‘Listen,’ he says, still grinnin’, ’in the old days I suppose this would have been a pretty bluff, but it won’t work with me now.  You want me to drink this glass of very bad whisky, but I’m sure that you don’t want it badly enough to shoot me.

“’There are many reasons.  In the old days a man shot down another and then rode off on his horse and was forgotten, but in these days the telegraph is faster than any horse that was ever foaled.  They’d be sure to get you, sir, though you might dodge them for a while.  And I believe that for a crime such as you threaten, they have recently installed a little electric chair which is a perfectly good inducer of sleep—­in fact, it is better than a cradle.  Taking these things all into consideration, I take it for granted that you are bluffing, my friend, and one of my favourite occupations is calling a bluff.  You look dangerous, but I’ve an idea that you are as yellow as your moustache.’

“Sandy, he sort of swelled up all over like a poisoned dog.

“He says:  ‘I begin to see your style.  You want a clean man-handlin’, which suits me uncommon well.’

“With that, he lays down his guns, soft and careful, and puts up his fists, and goes for the other gent.

“He makes his pass, which should have sent the other gent into kingdom come.  But it didn’t.  No, sir, the tenderfoot, he seemed to evaporate.  He wasn’t there when the fist of Ferguson come along.  Ferguson, he checked up short and wheeled around and charged again like a bull.  And he missed again.  And so they kept on playin’ a sort of a game of tag over the place, the stranger jest side-steppin’ like a prize-fighter, the prettiest you ever seen, and not developin’ when Sandy started on one of his swings.

“At last one of Sandy’s fists grazed him on the shoulder and sort of peeved him, it looked like.  He ducks under Sandy’s next punch, steps in, and wallops Sandy over the eye—­that punch didn’t travel more’n six inches.  But it slammed Sandy down in a corner like he’s been shot.

“He was too surprised to be much hurt, though, and drags himself up to his feet, makin’ a pass at his pocket at the same time.  Then he came again, silent and thinkin’ of blood, I s’pose, with a knife in his hand.

“This time the tenderfoot didn’t wait.  He went in with a sort of hitch step, like a dancer.  Ferguson’s knife carved the air beside the tenderfoot’s head, and then the skinny boy jerked up his right and his left—­one, two—­into Sandy’s mouth.  Down he goes again—­slumps down as if all the bones in his body was busted—­right down on his face.  The other feller grabs his shoulder and jerks him over on his back.

“He stands lookin’ down at him for a moment, and then he says, sort of thoughtful:  ’He isn’t badly hurt, but I suppose I shouldn’t have hit him twice.’

“Can you beat that, Steve?  You can’t!

“When Sandy come to he got up to his feet, wobbling—­seen his guns—­went over and scooped ’em up, with the eye of the tenderfoot on him all the time—­scooped ’em up—­stood with ’em all poised—­and so he backed out through the door.  It wasn’t any pretty thing to see.  The tenderfoot, he turned to the bar again.

“‘If you don’t mind,’ he says, ’I think I’ll switch my order and take that whisky instead.  I seem to need it.’

“‘Son!’ says I, ‘there ain’t nothin’ in the house you can’t have for the askin’.  Try some of this!’

“And I pulled out a bottle of my private stock—­you know the stuff; I’ve had it twenty-five years, and it was ten years old when I got it.  That ain’t as much of a lie as it sounds.

“He takes a glass of it and sips it, sort of suspicious, like a wolf scentin’ the wind for an elk in winter.  Then his face lighted up like a lantern had been flashed on it.  You’d of thought that he was lookin’ his long-lost brother in the eye from the way he smiled at me.  He holds the glass up and lets the light come through it, showin’ the little traces and bubbles of oil.

“‘May I know your name?’ he says.

“It made me feel like Rockerbilt, hearin’ him say that, in that special voice.

“‘Me,’ says I, ‘I’m Flanders.’

“‘It’s an honour to know you, Mr. Flanders,’ he says.  ’My name is Anthony Bard.’

“We shook hands, and his grip was three fourths man, I’ll tell the world.

“‘Good liquor,’ says he, ’is like a fine lady.  Only a gentleman can appreciate it.  I drink to you, sir.’

“So that’s how Sandy Ferguson went under the sod.  To-day?  Well, I couldn’t let Ferguson stand in a barroom where a gentleman had been, could I?”