Hidden Water

“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “Won’t you sit down?”

“No,” protested the old man, “I do’ wanner sit down–I wanner ask you a question.” He reeled, and balanced himself against a chair. “I wanner ask you,” he continued, with drunken gravity, “on the squar’, now, did you ever drink?”

“Why, yes, Uncle,” replied the younger man, smiling at the question, “I used to take a friendly glass, once in a while–but I don’t drink now.” He added the last with a finality not to be mistaken, but Mr. Johnson of Hell’s Hip Pocket was not there to urge him on.

“No, no,” he protested. “You’re mistaken, Mister–er–Mister–”

“Hardy,” put in the little man.

“Ah yes–Hardy, eh? And a dam’ good name, too. I served under a captain by that name at old Fort Grant, thirty years ago. Waal, Hardy, I like y’r face–you look honest–but I wanner ask you ’nuther question–why don’t you drink now, then?”

Hardy laughed indulgently, and his eyes lighted up with good humor, as if entertaining drunken men was his ordinary diversion.

“Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “If I should drink whiskey the way you folks down here do, I’d get drunk.”

“W’y sure,” admitted Old Man Johnson, sinking shamelessly into a chair. “I’m drunk now. But what’s the difference?”

Noting the black glances of the barkeeper, Hardy sat down beside him and pitched the conversation in a lower key.

“It may be all right for you, Mr. Johnson,” he continued confidentially, “and of course that’s none of my business; but if I should get drunk in this town, I’d either get into a fight and get licked, or I’d wake up the next morning broke, and nothing to show for it but a sore head.”

“That’s me!” exclaimed Old Man Johnson, slamming his battered hat on the table, “that’s me, Boy, down to the ground! I came down hyar to buy grub f’r my ranch up in Hell’s Hip Pocket, but look at me now, drunk as a sheep-herder, and only six dollars to my name.” He shook his shaggy head and fell to muttering gloomily, while Hardy reverted peacefully to his magazine.

After a long pause the old man raised his face from his arms and regarded the young man searchingly.

“Say,” he said, “you never told me why you refused to drink with me a while ago.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” answered Hardy, honestly, “and I’m sure you’ll understand how it is with me. I never expect to take another drink as long as I live in this country–not unless I get snake-bit. One drink of this Arizona whiskey will make me foolish, and two will make me drunk, I’m that light-headed. Now, if I had taken a drink with you a minute ago I’d be considered a cheap sport if I didn’t treat back, wouldn’t I? And then I’d be drunk. Yes, that’s a fact. So I have to cut it out altogether. I like you just as well, you understand, and all these other gentlemen, but I just naturally can’t do it.”

“Oh, hell,” protested the old man, “that’s all right. Don’t apologize, Boy, whatever you do. D’yer know what I came over hyar fer?” he asked suddenly reaching out a crabbed hand. “Well, I’ll tell ye. I’ve be’n lookin’ f’r years f’r a white man that I c’d swear off to. Not one of these pink-gilled preachers but a man that would shake hands with me on the squar’ and hold me to it. Now, Boy, I like you–will you shake hands on that?”

“Sure,” responded the young man soberly. “But I tell you, Uncle,” he added deprecatingly, “I just came into town to-day and I’m likely to go out again to-morrow. Don’t you think you could kind of look after yourself while I’m gone? I’ve seen a lot of this swearing-off business already, and it don’t seem to amount to much anyhow unless the fellow that swears off is willing to do all the hard work himself.”

There was still a suggestion of banter in his words, but the old man was too serious to notice it.

“Never mind, boy,” he said solemnly, “I can do all the work, but I jist had to have an honest man to swear off to.”

He rose heavily to his feet, adjusted his copper-riveted hat laboriously, and drifted slowly out the door. And with another spender gone the Hotel Bender lapsed into a sleepy quietude. The rain hammered fitfully on the roof; the card players droned out their bids and bets; and Black Tex, mechanically polishing his bar, alternated successive jolts of whiskey with ill-favored glances into the retired corner where Mr. Hardy, supposedly of the W. P. S. Q. T., was studiously perusing a straw-colored Eastern magazine. Then, as if to lighten the gloom, the sun flashed out suddenly, and before the shadow of the scudding clouds had dimmed its glory a shrill whistle from down the track announced the belated approach of the west-bound train. Immediately the chairs began to scrape; the stud-poker players cut for the stakes and quit; coon-can was called off, and by the time Number Nine slowed down for the station the entire floating population of Bender was lined up to see her come in.

Rising head and shoulders above the crowd and well in front stood Jefferson Creede, the foreman of the Dos S; and as a portly gentleman in an unseasonable linen duster dropped off the Pullman he advanced, waving his hand largely.

“Hullo, Judge!” he exclaimed, grinning jovially. “I was afraid you’d bogged down into a washout somewhere!”

“Not at all, Jeff, not at all,” responded the old gentleman, shaking hands warmly. “Say, this is great, isn’t it?” He turned his genial smile upon the clouds and the flooded streets for a moment and then hurried over toward the hotel.

“Well, how are things going up on the range?” he inquired, plunging headlong into business and talking without a stop. “Nicely, nicely, I don’t doubt. I tell you, Mr. Creede, that ranch has marvellous possibilities–marvellous! All it needs is a little patience, a little diplomacy, you understand–and holding on, until we can pass this forestry legislation. Yes, sir, while the present situation may seem a little strained–and I don’t doubt you are having a hard time–at the same time, if we can only get along with these sheepmen–appeal to their better nature, you understand–until we get some protection at law, I am convinced that we can succeed yet. I want to have a long talk with you on this subject, Jeff–man to man, you understand, and between friends–but I hope you will reconsider your resolution to resign, because that would just about finish us off. It isn’t a matter of money, is it, Jefferson? For while, of course, we are not making a fortune–”

He paused and glanced up at his foreman’s face, which was growing more sullen every minute with restrained impatience.

“Well, speak out, Jeff,” he said resignedly. “What is it?”

“You know dam’ well what it is,” burst out the tall cowboy petulantly. “It’s them sheepmen. And I want to tell you right now that no money can hire me to run that ranch another year, not if I’ve got to smile and be nice to those sons of–well, you know what kind of sons I mean–that dog-faced Jasper Swope, for instance.”

He spat vehemently at the mention of the name and led the way to a card room in the rear of the barroom.

“Of course I’ll work your cattle for you,” he conceded, as he entered the booth, “but if you want them sheepmen handled diplomatically you’d better send up a diplomat. I’m that wore out I can’t talk to ’em except over the top of a six-shooter.”

The deprecating protestations of the judge were drowned by the scuffle of feet as the hangers-on and guests of the hotel tramped in, and in the round of drinks that followed his presence was half forgotten. Not being a drinking man himself, and therefore not given to the generous practice of treating, the arrival of Judge Ware, lately retired from the bench and now absentee owner of the Dos S Ranch, did not create much of a furore in Bender. All Black Tex and the bunch knew was that he was holding a conference with Jefferson Creede, and that if Jeff was pleased with the outcome of the interview he would treat, but if not he would probably retire to the corral and watch his horse eat hay, openly declaring that Bender was the most God-forsaken hell-hole north of the Mexican line–for Creede was a man of moods.

In the lull which followed the first treat, the ingratiating drummer who had set up the drinks, charging the same to his expense account, leaned against the bar and attempted to engage the barkeeper in conversation, asking leading questions about business in general and Mr. Einstein of the New York Store in particular; but Black Tex, in spite of his position, was uncommunicative. Immediately after the arrival of the train the little man who had called him down had returned to the barroom and immersed himself in those wearisome magazines which a lunger had left about the place, and, far from being impressed with his sinister expression, had ignored his unfriendly glances entirely. More than that, he had deserted his dark corner and seated himself on a bench by the window from which he now looked out upon the storm with a brooding preoccupation as sincere as it was maddening. His large deer eyes were fixed upon the distance, and his manner was that of a man who studies deeply upon some abstruse problem; of a man with a past, perhaps, such as often came to those parts, crossed in love, or hiding out from his folks.

Black Tex dismissed the drummer with an impatient gesture and was pondering solemnly upon his grievances when a big, square-jowled cat rushed out from behind the bar and set up a hoarse, raucous mewing.

“Ah, shet up!” growled Brady, throwing him away with his foot; but as the cat’s demands became more and more insistent the barkeeper was at last constrained to take some notice.

“What’s bitin’ you?” he demanded, peering into the semi-darkness behind the bar; and as the cat, thus encouraged, plunged recklessly in among a lot of empty bottles, he promptly threw him out and fished up a mouse trap, from the cage of which a slender tail was wriggling frantically.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, advancing triumphantly into the middle of the floor. “Look, boys, here’s where we have some fun with Tom!” And as the card players turned down their hands to watch the sport, the old cat, scenting his prey, rose up on his hind legs and clutched at the cage, yelling.

Grabbing him roughly by the scruff of the neck Black Tex suddenly threw him away and opened the trap, but the frightened mouse, unaware of his opportunity, remained huddled up in the corner.

“Come out of that,” grunted the barkeeper, shaking the cage while with his free hand he grappled the cat, and before he could let go his hold the mouse was halfway across the room, heading for the bench where Hardy sat.

“Ketch ’im!” roared Brady, hurling the eager cat after it, and just as the mouse was darting down a hole Tom pinned it to the floor with his claws.

“What’d I tell ye?” cried the barkeeper, swaggering. “That cat will ketch ’em every time. Look at that now, will you?”

With dainty paws arched playfully, the cat pitched the mouse into the air and sprang upon it like lightning as it darted away. Then mumbling it with a nicely calculated bite, he bore it to the middle of the floor and laid it down, uninjured.

“Ain’t he hell, though?” inquired Tex, rolling his eyes upon the spectators. The cat reached out cautiously and stirred it up with his paw; and once more, as his victim dashed for its hole, he caught it in full flight. But now the little mouse, its hair all wet and rumpled, crouched dumbly between the feet of its captor and would not run. Again and again the cat stirred it up, sniffing suspiciously to make sure it was not dead; then in a last effort to tempt it he deliberately lay over on his back and rolled, purring and closing his eyes luxuriously, until, despite its hurts, the mouse once more took to flight. Apparently unheeding, the cat lay inert, following its wobbly course with half-shut eyes–then, lithe as a panther, he leaped up and took after it. There was a rush and a scramble against the wall, but just as he struck out his barbed claw a hand closed over the mouse and the little man on the bench whisked it dexterously away.

Instantly the black cat leaped into the air, clamoring for his prey, and with a roar like a mountain bull Black Tex rushed out to intercede.

“Put down that mouse, you freak!” he bellowed, charging across the room. “Put ’im down, I say, or I’ll break you in two!” He launched his heavy fist as he spoke, but the little man ducked it neatly and, stepping behind a table, stood at bay, still holding the mouse.

“Put ’im down, I tell you!” shouted the barkeeper, panting with vexation. “What–you won’t, eh? Well, I’ll learn you!” And with a wicked oath he drew his revolver and levelled it across the table.

“Put–down–that–mouse!” he said slowly and distinctly, but Hardy only shook his head. Every man in the room held his breath for the report; the poker players behind fell over tables and chairs to get out of range; and still they stood there, the barkeeper purple, the little man very pale, glaring at one another along the top of the barrel. In the hollow of his hand Hardy held the mouse, which tottered drunkenly; while the cat, still clamoring for his prize, raced about under the table, bewildered.

“Hurry up, now,” said the barkeeper warningly, “I’ll give you five. One–come on, now–two–”

At the first count the old defiance leaped back into Hardy’s eyes and he held the mouse to his bosom as a mother might shield her child; at the second he glanced down at it, a poor crushed thing trembling as with an ague from its wounds; then, smoothing it gently with his hand, he pinched its life out suddenly and dropped it on the floor.

Instantly the cat pounced upon it, nosing the body eagerly, and Black Tex burst into a storm of oaths.

“Well, dam’ your heart,” he yelled, raising his pistol in the air as if about to throw the muzzle against his breast and fire. “What–in–hell–do you mean?”

Baffled and evaded in every play the evil-eyed barkeeper suddenly sensed a conspiracy to show him up, and instantly the realization of his humiliation made him dangerous.