The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country

So the night wore on. Every man drank. They drank when they won. They drank when they lost. In the former case it was out of the buoyancy of their spirits, in the latter because they wished to elevate them. Whatever excuse they required they found, and when difficulty in that direction arose, there was always Silas Rocket on hand to coax them.

Jim, huddled away in a corner behind the great stove used for heating the place in winter, was busy with his game. He had shown no recognition of Will Henderson’s coming. He had probably seen him, because, though hidden from it himself, he had a full view of the bar, and any time he looked up, his eyes must have encountered the two figures now left alone beside it.

He was drinking, and drinking hard. He was also losing. The cards were running consistently against him. But then, he was always an unlucky player. He rarely protested against it, for in reality he had little interest in the play, and to-night less than usual. He played because it saved him thinking or talking, and he wanted to sit there and drink until Silas turned them out. Then he intended returning to the ranch. He meant to have one night’s forgetfulness, at least, even if he had to stupefy his senses in bad whiskey.

Abe and Will had reached the confidential stage. They were full of friendliness for each other, and ready to fall on each other’s necks. For some time Will had desired an opportunity to open his heart to this man. He would have opened it to anybody. His Celtic temperament was a fire of enthusiasm. He felt that all the world was his, and he wanted to open his arms and embrace it. But so far Abe had given him little opportunity. His own voice pleased the lay-preacher, and he had orated on every subject from politics to street-paving, giving his companion little chance for anything but monosyllabic comments. But finally Will’s chance came. Abe had abruptly questioned the propriety of permitting marriage in their village, where the burden of keeping the offspring of the union was likely to fall upon the public shoulders. Will plunged into the midst of the man’s oratory, and would not be denied.

“Marriage,” he said, “is not for regulation by law. No one has the right,” he declared, with an emphatic thump on the bar, “to dictate to the individual on the subject.” He went on at high pressure in a heated crescendo for some moments, denouncing any interference by public bodies. Then of a sudden he laid a hand on Abe’s shoulder and abruptly dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. His eyes were smiling and shining with the feelings which stirred him. Everything was forgotten except the fact of his engagement to Eve. Jim was obscured from his mental vision by the uplifting spirit vapors which supported his thoughts. Eve, and Eve alone, was in his mind, that–and the fact that she was to be–his.

“Listen to me, Abe,” he said, a little thickly. “All this talk of yours don’t hold water–no, nor spirit either,” he laughed. “Say, I’m goin’ to get married, and so I know.”

Quite how he knew didn’t seem clear; but he paused for the impression. Abe whistled interestedly and edged nearer, turning his ear so as not to miss what the youngster had to say.

“Who?” he demanded.

“A-ah!” Will prolonged the exclamation knowingly, and waited for the man to guess.

“You wus allus sweet on Eve Marsham–you and Jim Thorpe.”

Will suddenly ceased to smile. He drank his whiskey at a gulp and banged his glass on the counter.

“By G–!” he exclaimed harshly, while Abe wondered at his changed tone. “Yes, it’s Eve–Eve Marsham; and I’m going to marry her–not Jim. D’you git that? By heaven!–yes. Here, Rocket–!” He lurched round on the bar. “Here, you old Sky-Rocket, get drinks, quick! For everybody! I’ll pay! See, here’s the wad,” and he slammed a thick roll of bills on the counter. “I’ve got money, sure, and I’m–hic–goin’ to burn it. Boys,” he cried, swinging about and facing the tables, supporting himself against the bar, “you’ll drink with me. Si–Silas here’ll take your orders, an’ serve you. You, too, Abe, ole pal.”

Jim looked up from his cards the moment Will addressed the room, and now he watched him swaying against the bar. The light in his dark eyes was peculiar. He seemed to be speculating, and his thoughts were uneasy. Will yawned drunkenly. Peter Blunt, from across the room, was watching Jim, and moved abruptly clear of the tables, but not ostentatiously so.

Will’s eyes watched Silas passing round the drinks. He was smiling in the futile manner of a drunken man, and his fingers were clutching nervously at the moulded edge of the bar. Rocket came back and handed him and Abe their whiskey. The former promptly clutched his glass and raised it aloft, spilling the neat spirit as he did so. Then, with drunken solemnity, he called for order.

“Boys,” he cried, “you’ll–you’ll drink a to–toast. Sure you will. Every one of you’ll drink it. My fu–sher wife, Eve–Eve Marsham. Jim Th–Thorpe thought he’d best–me, but–”

A table was suddenly sent flying in the crowd. A man’s figure leaped out from behind the stove and rushed up to the speaker. It was Jim Thorpe. His eyes were blazing, and a demon of fury glared out upon the drunken man.

“Another word, and I’ll shoot you like a dog! You liar! You thieving–!”

But his sentence was never completed. Peter Blunt stood between them, one of his great hands gripping Jim’s arm like a vice.

“Shut up!” he cried, in a hoarse whisper. “You’ll have the whole story all over the village.”

But the mischief was done. Everybody present was on their feet agog with excitement, and came gathering round to see the only possible finish to the scene, as they understood it. But, quick as lightning, Peter took in the situation. Flinging Jim aside as though he were a baby, he hugged the drunken Will Henderson in his two great arms, and carried him bodily out of the saloon.

The men looked after him wondering. Then some one laughed. It was an odd, dissatisfied laugh, but it had the effect of relieving the tension. And one by one they turned back to Jim, who was standing moodily leaning on the bar; his right hand was still resting on the gun on his hip.

There was a moment of suspense. Then Jim’s hand left the gun, and he straightened himself up. He tried to smile, but the attempt was a failure.

“I’m sorry for upsetting your game, boys,” he said stupidly.

Then Rocket came effectively to the rescue.

“Gents,” he cried, “you’ll all honor me by drinkin’ with the house.”

CHAPTER IX

A WOMAN’S CARE

“He’s right now, Eve, dear–right as right. He’ll sleep till morning, and then he’ll wake up, an’–an’ forget about being ill.”

It was not so much the words as the tone that brought comfort to Eve. She was leaning over her brother’s bed watching the beautiful face, so waxen now, and listening to his heavy breathing, which was steadily moderating to a normal ease. The boy was sleeping the result of a dose administered to him by Doc Crombie who had been urgently summoned immediately after winning his race with Nature in another part of the village. Elia had been prostrated with a nervous attack which ended in a terrible fit, and Eve, all unaware of what had gone before between her brother and Will, had been hard put to it, in her grief and anxiety.

When the boy first showed signs of illness she sent for Mrs. Gay to find the doctor, and the bright, busy little woman was still with her. Annie Gay was quite the antithesis of her husband. She was practical, energetic and, above all things, bright. She was quite young and pretty, and Eve and she were considerable friends. She answered the girl’s summons without a moment’s delay, and, to her utmost distress, when she arrived, she found Elia in a fierce paroxysm of convulsions.

“You think so, Annie?” Eve’s eyes lifted hungrily to her friend’s face. They were full of almost painful yearning. This boy’s welfare meant more to her than any one knew.

Annie took her arm, and gently drew her from the bedside, nodding her pretty head sagely.

“Sure.” Then she added with a great assumption of knowledge, “You see those weakly creatures like poor Elia have got a lot o’ life in them. You can’t kill ’em. Angel allus says that, an’ he’s sure to know. Elia’s body ain’t worth two cents as you might say, but he’s got–what’s the word–vi–vi–”

“Vitality,” suggested Eve.

“Yes, sure. That’s it. Now he’ll just sleep and sleep. And then he’ll be bully when he wakes. So come you and sit down while I make you a drop of hot coffee. Pore girl, you’re wore out. There’s no end to the troubles o’ this world for sure,” she added cheerfully, as she hustled off to the kitchen to get the promised coffee.

Eve sat down in her workroom. She was comforted in spite of herself. Annie Gay’s manner was of an order that few could resist; it was illogical, and, perhaps, foolishly optimistic, yet it had that blessed quality of carrying conviction to all who were fortunate enough to lean on her warm, strong heart. And on Eve she practiced her best efforts.

But Eve’s anxiety only lay dormant for the time. It was still there gnawing at her heart. She knew the danger of the fits Elia was subject to and a brooding thought clung to her that one day one of these would prove fatal. The least emotion, the least temper, fear, excitement, brought them on. This one–it was the worst she had known. Supposing he had died–she shuddered. Like a saving angel Annie reëntered with the coffee in time to interrupt her thoughts.

“Now, dear, you drink this at once,” she said. Then she went on, in response to a mute inquiry, “Oh, yes, there’s plenty here for me. And when I come back I’m going to make some more, and cook a nice light supper, while you watch the boy, and we can sit here together with his door open until morning.”

“But you’re not going to stop, Annie,” Eve protested. “I can’t have that. You must get your sleep. It’s very kind of you–”

“Now look right here, Eve,” the busy woman said decidedly, “you’ve got nothing to say about it, please. Do you think I could sleep in my bed with you fretting and worrying your poor, simple heart out? What if he woke up in the night an’–an’ had another? Who’s to go and fetch Doc? Now wot I says is duty’s duty, and Angel Gay can just snore his head off by himself for once, and I’m not sure but what I shall be glad to be shut of the noise.”

The genuine sympathy and kindliness were quite touching, and Eve responded to it as only a woman can.

“Annie,” she said, with a wistful smile, “you are the kindest, dearest thing–”

“Now don’t you call me a ‘thing,’ Eve Marsham,” the other broke in with a laugh, “or we’ll quarrel. I’m just a plain woman with sense enough to say nothing when Gay gets home with more whiskey aboard than is good for his vitals. And don’t you think I’m not putting a good value on myself when I say that. Not that Gay’s given to sousing a heap. No, he’s a good feller, sure, an’ wouldn’t swap him for–for your Will–on’y when he snores. So you see it’s a kindness to me letting me stop to-night.”

“You’re a dear,” Eve cried warmly,–“and I won’t say ‘thing.’ Where are you going now?”

“Why, I’m going to set Angel’s cheese an’ pickles, and put his coffee on the stove. If he’s to home when I get around, maybe I’ll sit with him ten minutes or so, an’ then I’ll come right along back.”

She had reached the door, which stood open, and now she paused, looking back.

“When are you gettin’ married, Eve?” she demanded abruptly.

“Two months to-day,” the other replied. She was surprised out of herself, and for a moment a warm glow swept over her as she realized that there was something still in the world which made for other than unhappiness.

“Two months,” said Annie, thoughtfully. “Two months, eh?” Then she suddenly became mysterious and smiled into the other’s face. “That’ll be nice time for Gay to think about something that ain’t–a coffin.”

She hurried out on her mission of duty and affection. Gay was her all, but she had room in her heart for a good deal more than the worthy butcher-undertaker’s great, fat image. She had no children of her own yet, but, as she often said, in her cheery, optimistic way, “time enough.”