The Texan Part 2

Sweat stood out upon the forehead of the heavy-paunched proprietor as with a flabby-faced grin he set out the bottle. But the Texan caught the snake-like flash of the eyes with which the man signalled to the croupier across the room. Gun in hand, he whirled:

"No, you don't, Toney!" An ugly blue-black automatic dropped to the floor and the croupier's hands flew ceilingward.

"I never seen such an outfit to be always a-reachin'," grinned the cowpuncher. "Well, if there ain't the ol' eagle-bird wheel! Give her a spin, Toney! They say you can't hit an eagle on the fly with a six-gun, but I'm willin' to try! Spin her good, 'cause I don't want no onfair advantage of that there n.o.ble bird. Stand back, Greasers, so you don't get nicked!"

As the croupier spun the wheel, three shots rang in an almost continuous explosion and the gamblers fell over each other in an effort to dodge the flying splinters that filled the powder-fogged air.

"Little black bull slid down the mountain, L-o-n-g t-i-m-e ago!"

roared the Texan as he threw open the cylinder of his gun.

"H-e-e-e-e sc.r.a.ped his horn on a hickory saplin', L-o-n-g t-i-m-e ago----"

There was a sudden commotion behind him, a swift rush of feet, a m.u.f.fled thud, and a gasping, agonized grunt. The next instant the huge acetelyne lamp that lighted the room fell to the floor with a crash and the place was plunged in darkness.

"Queek, m's'u, dees way!" a hand grasped his wrist and the cowpuncher felt himself drawn swiftly toward the door. From all sides sounded the scuffling of straining men who breathed heavily as they fought in the blackness.

A thin red flame cut the air and a shot rang sharp. Someone screamed and a string of Spanish curses blended into the hubbub of turmoil.

"De hosses, queek, m's'u!"

The cool air of the street fanned the Texan's face as he leaped across the sidewalk, and vaulted into the saddle. The next moment the big black was pounding the roadway neck and neck with another, smaller horse upon which the half-breed swayed in the saddle with the ease and grace of the loose-rein rider born.

It was broad daylight when the cowpuncher opened his eyes in an arroyo deep among the hills far, far from Las Vegas. He rubbed his forehead tenderly, and crawling to a spring a few feet distant, buried his face in the tiny pool and drank deeply of the refres.h.i.+ng liquid. Very deliberately he dried his face on a blue handkerchief, and fumbled in his pockets for papers and tobacco. As he blew the grey smoke from his nostrils he watched the half-breed who sat nearby industriously splicing a pair of broken bridle reins.

"Did you get that ticket, Bat?" he asked, with a hand pressed tightly against his aching forehead.

The other grinned. "Me, A'm no wan' no ticket. A'm lak A'm stay wit'

you, an' mebbe-so we git de job togedder."

The cowpuncher smoked for a time in silence.

"What was the rookus last night?" he asked, indifferently. Then, suddenly, his eye fell upon the sorrel that snipped gra.s.s at the end of a lariat rope near the picketed black, and he leaped to his feet. "Where'd you get that horse?" he exclaimed sharply. "It's Fatty's! There's the reins he busted when he snorted loose!"

Again the half-breed grinned. "A'm bor' dat hoss for com' 'long wit'

you. Dat Fatty, she d.a.m.n bad man. She try for keel you w'en you tak' de shot at de wheel. A'm com' 'long dat time an' A'm keek heem in de guts an' he roll 'roun' on de floor, an' A'm t'row de bottle of wheesky an'

smash de beeg lamp an' we com' 'long out of dere." The cowpuncher tossed his cigarette away and spat upon the ground.

"How'd you happen to come in there so handy just at the right time?" he asked with a sidewise glance at the half-breed.

"Oh, A'm fol' you long tam'. A'm t'ink mebbe-so you git l'il too mooch hooch an' som'one try for do you oop. A'm p'ek in de door an' seen Fatty gon' shoot you. Dat mak' me mad lak h.e.l.l, an' A'm run oop an' keek heem so hard I kin on hees belly. You ma frien'. A'm no lak I seen you git keel."

The Texan nodded. "I see. You're a d.a.m.n good Injun, Bat, an' I ain't got no kick comin' onto the way you took charge of proceedin's. But you sure raised h.e.l.l when you stole that horse. They's prob'ly about thirty-seven men an' a sheriff a-combin' these here hills fer us at this partic'lar minute an' when they catch us----"

The half-breed laughed. "Dem no ketch. We com' feefty mile. Dat leetle hoss she d.a.m.n good hoss. We got de two bes' hoss. We ke'p goin' dey no ketch. 'Spose dey do ketch. Me, A'm tell 'em A'm steal dat hoss an' you not know nuthin' 'bout dat."

There was a twinkle in the Texan's eye as he yawned and stretched prodigiously. "An' I'll tell 'em you're the d.a.m.nedest liar in the state of Texas an' North America throw'd in. Come on, now, you throw the sh.e.l.ls on them horses an' we'll be scratchin' gravel. Fifty miles ain't no h.e.l.l of a ways--my throat's beginnin' to feel kind of draw'd already."

"W'er' we goin'?" asked the half-breed as they swung into the saddles.

"Bat," said the other, solemnly, "me an' you is goin' fast, an' we're goin' a long time. You mentioned somethin' about Montana bein'

considerable of a cow country. Well, me an' you is a-goin' North--as far North as cattle is--an' we're right now on our way!"

CHAPTER I

THE TRAIN STOPS

"I don't see why they had to build their old railroad down in the bottom of this river bed." With deft fingers Alice Marc.u.m caught back a wind-tossed whisp of hair. "It's like travelling through a trough."

"Line of the least resistance," answered her companion as he rested an arm upon the polished bra.s.s guard rail of the observation car. "This river bed, running east and west, saved them millions in bridges."

The girl's eyes sought the sky-line of the bench that rose on both sides of the mile-wide valley through which the track of the great transcontinental railroad wound like a yellow serpent.

"It's level up there. Why couldn't they have built it along the edge?"

The man smiled: "And bridged all those ravines!" he pointed to gaps and notches in the level sky-line where the mouths of creek beds and coulees flashed glimpses of far mountains. "Each one of those ravines would have meant a trestle and trestles run into big money."

"And so they built the railroad down here in this ditch where people have to sit and swelter and look at their old s.h.i.+ny rails and scraggly green bushes and dirt walls, while up there only a half a mile away the great rolling plains stretch away to the mountains that seem so near you could walk to them in an hour."

"But, my dear girl, it would not be practical. Railroads are built primarily with an eye to dividends and--" The girl interrupted him with a gesture of impatience.

"I hate things that are practical--hate even the word. There is nothing in all the world so deadly as practicability. It is ruthless and ugly. It disregards art and beauty and all the higher things that make life worth living. It is a monster whose G.o.d is dollars--and who serves that G.o.d well. What does any tourist know of the real West--the West that lies beyond those level rims of dirt? How much do you or I know of it? The West to us is a thin row of scrub bushes along a narrow, shallow river, with a few little white-painted towns sprinkled along, that for all we can see might be in Illinois or Ohio. I've been away a whole winter and for all the West I've seen I might as well have stayed in Brooklyn."

"But certainly you enjoyed California!"

"California! Yes, as California. But California isn't the _West_!

California is New York with a few orange groves thrown in. It is a tourist's paradise. A combination of New York and Palm Beach. The real West lies east of the Rockies, the uncommercialized, unexploited--I suppose you would add, the unpractical West. A New Yorker gets as good an idea of the West when he travels by train to California as a Californian would get of New York were he to arrive by way of the tube and spend the winter in the Fritz-Waldmore."

"I rather liked California, what little I saw of it. A business trip does not afford an ideal opportunity for sight seeing."

"You like Newport and Palm Beach, too."

The man ignored the interruption.

"But, at least, this trip has combined a good bit of business with a very big bit of pleasure. It is two years since I have seen you and----"

"And so you're going to tell me for the twenty-sixth time in three days that you still love me, and that you want me to marry you, and I'll have to say 'no' again, and explain that I'm not ready to marry anybody." She regarded him with an air of mock solemnity. "But really Mr. Winthrop Adams Endicott I think you _have_ improved since you struck out for yourself into the wilds of--where was it, Ohio, or some place."

"Cincinnati," answered the man a trifle stiffly. The girl shuddered.

"I had to change cars there once." Again she eyed him critically.

"Yes, two years have made a really noticeable improvement. Do the Cincinnati newspapers always remember to use your whole name or do they dare to refer to Winthrop A. Endicott. If I were a reporter I really believe I'd try it once. If you keep on improving, some day somebody is going to call you Win."

The man flushed: "Are you never serious?" he asked.

"Never more so than this minute."