Genre Western. Page - 12

seem to be busy," Houston said.

"Not so busy," the gambler replied. "Have a chair and try your luck. My name's Gadley, commonly known as 'Silky' because once I owned a silk shirt. That wasn't in Vista. That was in a town where men risked a dollar now and then."

"Deal a little two-handed stud," Houston said "I'm bringing forth some money. My name's Houston, just got in from Texas. Got a little business to 'tend to here."

They began playing stud in a listless manner. Houston glanced at the Three S men frequently as they stood at the bar in whispered conversation, and "Silky" Gadley watched Houston. The gambler was a tall, thin, middle-aged man fastidiously dressed, and had the icy manner peculiar to his kind.

"Somebody shot at me before I'd been in town fifteen minutes," Houston said, so the others in the room could hear. "I can't guess at the meanin' of it. I'm a stranger here, and never had a ruckus with any of the citizens, far as I know."

"Mebbe it was a mistake," Gadley s

up, like you said."

Buck laughed shortly. "I'll be waiting. I don't like that lanky bastard. I reckon I got some scores to settle with him." He looked at me, and his face twisted into what he thought was a tough snarl. Funny--you could see he really wasn't tough down inside. There wasn't any hard core of confidence and strength. His toughness was in his holster, and all the rest of him was acting to match up to it.

"You know," he said, "I don't like you either, Irish. Maybe I oughta kill you. Hell, why not?"

Now, the only reason I'd stayed out of doors that afternoon was I figured Buck had already had one chance to kill me and hadn't done it, so I must be safe. That's what I figured--he had nothing against me, so I was safe. And I had an idea that maybe, when the showdown came, I might be able to help out Ben Randolph somehow--if anything on God's Earth could help him.

Now, though, I wished to hell I hadn't stayed outside. I wished I was behind one of them windows, looking

father said, pressing the fingers of her unoccupied hand. "Now, if you could find a clean cloth to bandage it--"

She looked about the place, somewhat hopelessly. Her expedition to the main part of the house, when she had found the water pail, had not reassured her as to the housekeeping of the Eldens. Her father read her perplexity.

"It seems as though you would be in charge here for awhile, Reenie," he said, "so you will save time by getting acquainted at once with your equipment. Look the house over and see what you have to work with."

"Well, I can commence here," she answered. "This is Dave's room. I suppose I should say Mr. Elden's, but--what was it he said about 'mistering'? It would be splendid if it were cleaned up," she continued, with kindling enthusiasm. "These bare logs, bare floors, bare rafters--we've got back to essentials, anyway. And that's his bed." She surveyed a framework of spruce poles, on which lay an old straw mattress and some very grey blankets. "I suppose he is v

ained breath. "That engineer will bedown here to take charge as soon as the six o'clock stage comes in.He's an oldish chap, has got a family of two daughters, and--I--am--d----d if he is not bringing them down here with him."

"Oh, go long!" exclaimed the five men in one voice, raisingthemselves on their hands and elbows, and glaring at the speaker.

"Fact, boys! Soon as I found it out I just waltzed into that Jewshop at the Crossing and bought up all the clothes that would belikely to suit you fellows, before anybody else got a show. Ireckon I cleared out the shop. The duds are a little mixed instyle, but I reckon they're clean and whole, and a man might face alady in 'em. I left them round at the old Buckeye Spring, wherethey're handy without attracting attention. You boys can go therefor a general wash-up, rig yourselves up without saying anything,and then meander back careless and easy in your store clothes, justas the stage is coming in, sabe?"

"Why didn't you let us know earlie

s life. He might go on now and become a bad man, or he might cheapen and become an imitation desperado. In either event, his third man left him still more confident. His courage and his skill in weapons gave him assuredness and ease at the time of an encounter. He was now becoming a specialist. Time did the rest, until at length they buried him.

The bad man of genuine sort rarely looked the part assigned to him in the popular imagination. The long-haired blusterer, adorned with a dialect that never was spoken, serves very well in fiction about the West, but that is not the real thing. The most dangerous man was apt to be quiet and smooth-spoken. When an antagonist blustered and threatened, the most dangerous man only felt rising in his own soul, keen and stern, that strange exultation which often comes with combat for the man naturally brave. A Western officer of established reputation once said to me, while speaking of a recent personal difficulty into which he had been forced: "I hadn't been in anyth

his pads out crossin' the lava beds, though what in time any hombre who ain't plumb loco is trapesin' round there for, beats me. There is some grazin' on top of the Cumbre mesa, enough for a small herd, but the other side is jest plain hell with the lights out, one big slice of desert thirty mile' wide."

"Minin' camp over that way, ain't there?"

"Was. There's a lava bed strip of six-seven miles at the end of the pass, then comes a bu'sted mesa, all box cañon an' rim-rock, shot with caves, nothin' greener than cactus an' not much of that. There's a twenty per cent. grade wagon road, or there was, for it warn't engineered none too careful, that run over to the mines. I was over there once, nigh on to ten years ago. They called the camp Hopeful then. Next year they changed the name to Dynamite. Jest natcherully blew up, did that camp. Nothin' left but a lot of tumbledown shacks an' a couple hundred shafts an' tunnels leadin' to nothin'. Reckon this P. Casey is a prospector, Sam. One of them

kes and grub."

"Yours truly," responded the other. "When you land in the calaboose for this racket I'll keep you in tobacco. What name shall I ask for?"

"If I land there you can ask for a damfool--and I'll answer the first time," laughed the holdup over his shoulder. "Next gent! Here's the little bag. Lady, keep your weddin' ring. You fat sport, stand up till I see what you're sittin' on. Why, was you tryin' to hatch out that bunch of money? I'll surely do that incubatin' myself."

He levied tribute swiftly, in spite of his badinage, and the gunny sack sagged heavier and heavier. As he reached the end, his companion, who had dominated the passengers with his gun, abandoned his position and came down the aisle. At the rear door he turned.

"Keep your seats till the train moves," he ordered harshly. "I'm layin' for the first man that sticks his head out of this car."

Behind him the coach buzzed like a disturbed hive. Its occupants bewailed their losses, vowed vengeance on both h

ld son, have you been a good boy to-day?" asked Mr. Moore as Roger slid into his place at the table.

"No, sir. I've been pretty bad. Say, Papa, how much would it cost to build a railroad, under the ground, from our house to Prebles'?"

"A good deal of money. What way were you bad, Rog?"

"Oh, about every way, temper and all. Papa, I guess I'll build that railroad. I got a big piece of pipe and a gauge that might work. Guess I might begin to make a engine. Aren't I a pretty good inventor, Papa?"

"I don't know, Son. Nothing you've ever said or done makes me think you're one yet. In the first place an inventor is the most patient animal in the world. An inventor just can't lose his temper. Why don't you begin by inventing a way to control your temper, Son?"

Roger subsided into his bowl of bread and milk.

Mr. Moore was smoking on the front porch when Mrs. Moore joined him after putting Roger to bed. She sat down on the steps beside him while she told him of Roger's day.

finally at that moment, they would have done so with no more concern for preliminary detail than a bird or squirrel. The wagon rolled steadily on. The boy could see that one of the teamsters had climbed up on the tail-board of the preceding vehicle. The other seemed to be walking in a dusty sleep.

"Kla'uns," said the girl.

The boy, without turning his head, responded, "Susy."

"Wot are you going to be?" said the girl.

"Goin' to be?" repeated Clarence.

"When you is growed," explained Susy.

Clarence hesitated. His settled determination had been to become a pirate, merciless yet discriminating. But reading in a bethumbed "Guide to the Plains" that morning of Fort Lamarie and Kit Carson, he had decided upon the career of a "scout," as being more accessible and requiring less water. Yet, out of compassion for Susy's possible ignorance, he said neither, and responded with the American boy's modest conventionality, "President." It was safe, required no embarrassing descriptio

his look was one of contentment; and I could but note the suggestion of merriment--the merriment of a happy memory--in his eye. How happy it is for an offspring to be able to recall the character of his forefathers with such liveliness of mind!

"The motive which impelled me towards Texas," he resumed, "was one which was natural for me to feel, thus ancestrally connected. I had heired my father's business,--the deacon, who had died full of honors, ripe in years, and in perfect peace. But the business did not prosper in my hands; perhaps, I had not heired, with the business, the deacon's ability,--that accuracy of eye, that gravity of appearance, that deftness of touch, so to speak, which underlay his success. Be that as it may, the business did not pay, and without hesitation I sold it; and, with a comfortable sum for investment, I journeyed to Texas.

"It is proper for me to remark that the welcome I received was most cordial. I chose a populous centre for a temporary residence, and proceeded to