Kitabı oku: «The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills», sayfa 18
“You think I’m goin’ to let him die, Joan?” he cried, the hot blood staining his cheeks and brow. “I tell you he won’t. I swear to you, sure, sure, he shan’t die a murderer’s death! I tell you right here, little gal, ther’ ain’t a sheriff in the country big enough to take him. He says he must give up to arrest when the time comes. Wal, he’ll have to do it over my dead body.”
His words were in answer to Joan’s appeal, but they were hurled at the man beside the fire, and were a defiance and a challenge from the depths of a loyal heart.
The Padre’s smile was good to see. But he shook his head. And instantly Joan caught at the enthusiasm which stirred her lover and hugged it to herself. She sprang to her feet, and a wonderful light shone in her eyes.
“Buck is right, Padre. He is right,” she cried. “Do you hear? You shall not take the risk, you must not. Oh, Padre! you must live for our sakes. We know your innocence, then what more is needed after all these years? For once let us be your mentors – you who have always been the mentor of others. Padre, Padre, you owe this to us. Think of it! Think of what it would mean. A murderer’s death! You shall not, you cannot give yourself up. Buck is right. I, too, am with him.”
She turned to the man at her side, and, raising her arms, clasped her hands about his neck.
“Buck – my Buck. Let us swear together that, while we have life, he shall never be the victim of this crazy, terrible woman. It shall be our fight – yours and mine.”
Buck gazed down into her beautiful, pleading eyes as he clasped her slim body in his strong, young arms. Her eyes were alight with a love, radiant in its supremacy over her whole being. Her championship of his innocent friend would have endeared her a thousandfold had such a thing been possible. In that moment it was as though her courage, her loyalty, had completed the bond between them. His jaws gritted tight. His eyes shone with a fervent resolution.
“It goes, little gal,” he cried. “It’s our lives for his. It sure goes – every time.”
CHAPTER XXIX
BEASLEY IN HIS ELEMENT
The camp was sweltering under an abnormal heat. There was not one breath of the usual invigorating mountain air. A few more degrees of humidity, and the cup of endurance would have been filled to overflowing and toiling humanity breathing something like sheer moisture. The sky was heavy and gray, and a dull sun, as though it too had been rendered faint-hearted, was painfully struggling against the laden atmosphere.
The work of the camp went on. For hours human nature wrestled with a growing inertia which robbed effort of all snap. But gradually, as the day wore on, the morning impetus gave way, and peevish tongues voiced the general plaint. Men moved about slowly, their tongues actively cursing. They cursed the heat as they mopped their dripping brows. They cursed the flies, and hurled mighty blows for their destruction. They cursed all work, and gold became the last thing in the world they desired at such a price. They cursed the camp, the country, but more than all they cursed the black hill from which they drew their living.
Then came acknowledgment of defeat. One by one at first, and finally in batches, they shouldered their tools and moodily withdrew from the attack. As they went weary eyes glanced back with hate and disgust at the frowning buttresses of the hill, with awe at the steaming cloud hanging above the simmering waters of the suspended lake. The depressing shadow of Devil’s Hill had for the moment become intolerable.
Beasley hated the heat just as cordially as these toilers, but he would have hated still more its sudden going, and the consequent appeasement of unnatural thirsts, which it was his pleasure and profit to slake. His own feelings were at all times subservient to his business instincts. This sudden, unaccountable heat meant added profit to him, therefore his complaint was half-hearted. It was almost as if he feared to give offense to the gods of his good fortune.
Then, too, Beasley had so many things to occupy his busy brain. His trade was one that required much scheming, a matter in which he reveled at all times. Problems of self-interest were his salt of life, and their accurate solution brought him as near earthly happiness as well could be.
Curiously enough problems were always coming his way. He chanced upon one that morning while busy in his storeroom, his attention divided between pricing and stacking new dry goods and smashing flies on the back of his superheated neck. And it served him with food for thought for the rest of the day.
It took him quite unawares, and for that very reason gave him ample satisfaction. He was bending over a pile of rolls of fabric when a voice suddenly hailed him from the doorway.
“Are you the proprietor of the livery stables?”
He turned about with a start. Such a question in that camp seemed superfluous. It was absurd. He looked up, and his astonished eyes fell upon the vision of an extremely well-dressed, refined-looking woman whom he judged to be anything over fifty. But what held his attention most was the lean, emaciated face and penetrating eyes. There was something of the witch about it, as there was about the bowed figure. But more than all she was a stranger.
He admitted the impeachment in the midst of his astonishment with an abruptness equal to her own.
“Sure,” he said, and waited.
“Where will I find the sheriff of this place?”
Beasley’s eyes opened wider.
“Guess ther’ ain’t no sheriff in this camp.”
The woman’s next words came impatiently.
“Why isn’t there? Is there a lawyer?”
Beasley grinned. His astonishment was giving place to curiosity and speculation. He tapped the revolver at his hip.
“We’re mostly our own lawyers around here,” he said easily.
But the woman ignored his levity.
“Where can I find one – a lawyer, or sheriff?” she demanded with an added imperiousness.
“Guess Leeson Butte’s nearest.”
The stranger considered a moment. Beasley’s eyes never left her. He had noticed the refinement of her accent, and wondered the more.
“How can I get there – best?” the woman next demanded.
“Guess I ken let you have a team,” Beasley said with alacrity. He smelt good business.
“How much?”
“Fifty dollars. In an’ out – with teamster.”
“Does he know the way?”
“Sure.”
The woman eyed him steadily.
“I don’t want any mistakes. This – is a case of murder.”
Beasley’s interest suddenly redoubled. The problem was growing in its attractiveness.
“Who’s the feller?” he asked unguardedly.
“That’s not your business.” The woman’s eyes were cold. “Send the team over to the farm down the river in two hours’ time. The horses must be able to travel fast. Here’s the money.”
The saloon-keeper took the money promptly. But for once his astonishment held him silent. Mercy Lascelles had reached the door to go. Then she seemed to change her mind. She paused.
“There’s fifty dollars more when I get back – if you keep your tongue quiet,” she said warningly. “I don’t want my business to get around. I should say gossip travels fast amongst the hills. That’s what I don’t want.”
“I see.”
It was all the astonished man could think of to say at the moment. But he managed an abundant wink in a markedly friendly way.
His wink missed fire, however, for the woman had departed; and by the time he reached the door to look after her he saw her mounting the wagon, which was drawn by the heavy team from Joan’s farm, and driven by her hired man.
As the stranger drove off he leant against the doorway and emitted a low whistle. In his own phraseology he was “beat,” completely and utterly “beat.”
But this state of things could not last long. His fertile brain could not long remain under such a cloud of astonished confusion. He must sort out the facts and piece them together. This he set to work on at once.
Abandoning his work in the storeroom he went at once to the barn, and gave orders for the dispatch of the team. And herein, for once, he traded honestly with his visitor. He ordered his very best team to be sent. Perhaps it was in acknowledgment of the problem she had offered him.
Then he questioned his helpers. Here he was absolutely despotic. And in less than half an hour he had ascertained several important facts. He learned that a team had come in from Crowsfoot the previous afternoon, bringing a passenger for the farm. The team had remained at the farm, likewise the teamster. Only the fact that daylight that morning had brought the man into camp for a supply of fodder and provisions had supplied them with the news of his presence in the district. This had happened before Beasley was up.
With this Beasley went back to the saloon, where his dinner was served him in the bar. His bartender was taking an afternoon off. It was a thoughtful meal. The man ate noisily with the aid of both knife and fork. He had acquired all the habits of the class he had so long mixed with. Nor was it until his plate of meat and canned vegetables had nearly disappeared that light began to creep into his clouded brain.
He remembered that Joan had refurnished the farm. Why? Because some one from the East, no doubt, was coming to stay with her. Who? Mother? Aunt? Cousin? Female anyway. Female arrives. Queer-looking female. Goes to farm. Stays one night. Comes looking for sheriff next morning. A case of murder. No murder been done around here. Where? East? Yes. Then there’s some one here she’s found – or she knows is here – and he’s wanted for murder. Who?
At this point Beasley grinned. How many might there not be on Yellow Creek who could be so charged?
But his shrewd mind was very quick. This woman had not been into camp until she visited him. Where had she been? In the hills – coming from Crowsfoot. Still she might have been aware of the presence of her man before she came – through Joan.
For a moment he was disappointed.
But it was only for a moment. He quickly brightened up. A new idea had occurred to him which narrowed his field of possibilities. This woman was educated, she belonged to a class he had once known himself. She would know nothing of the riffraff of this camp. It must be somebody of the same class, or near it, somebody of education – He drew a sharp breath, and his wicked eyes lit.
The wildest, the most impossible thought had occurred to him. He pondered long upon the passage of the trail from Crowsfoot to the farm. He remembered how she did not desire the “gossip” to travel – especially to the hills.
Suddenly he hailed his Chinese cook and flung his knife and fork down upon his plate. In his elation he forgot the heat, the sticky flies. He forgot his usual custom of abstention during the day. He poured himself out a long drink of really good whisky, which he gulped down, smacking his lips with appreciation before flinging his customary curse at the head of his Mongolian servitor.
He had never had such a morning in his life.
Two of the boys came in for a drink. Such was his mood that he upset their whole focus of things by insisting that they have it at his expense. And when a third came along with a small parcel of gold dust he bought it at its full value.
These were significant signs. Beasley Melford was in a generous mood. And such a mood in such a man required a lot of inspiration.
But it was not likely to continue for long. And surely enough it quickly reached its limit, and resolved itself into his every-day attitude, plus a desire to make up, at the first opportunity, the losses incurred by his moments of weak generosity.
The heat of the day soon afforded him his desire, for the limp and sweating miners straggled back into camp long before their usual working day was ended. And what is more, they came to seek solace and refreshment under his willing roof.
By the middle of the afternoon the bar was fairly well filled. The place was little better than a furnace of humid heat. But under the influence of heartening spirits the temperature passed almost unnoticed, or at least uncared. Here at least the weary creatures were called upon for no greater effort than to deal cards, or raise a glass to their lips and hold it there until drained. They could stand any heat in the pursuit of such pastimes.
Beasley watched his customers closely. Three tables of poker were going, and from each he drew a percentage for the “chips” sold at the bar. Each table was well supplied with drinks. A group of five men occupied one end of the counter, and two smaller groups were farther along. They were all drinking with sufficient regularity to suit his purposes. Amongst the crowd gathered he noticed many of the men of the original camp. There was Curly Saunders and Slaney at one poker table with Diamond Jack. Abe Allinson was in close talk with two financial “sharps” from Leeson, at the bar. The Kid was with a number of new hands who had only just come in to try their luck. He was endeavoring to sell a small share of his claim at a large price. Two others were with the larger group at the bar, discussing “outputs” and new methods of washing gold. It was a mixed collection of humanity, but there were sufficient of the original members of the camp to suit him.
In a lull in the talk, when for a moment only the click of poker “chips” and the shuffle of cards broke the silence, Beasley propped himself against his counter and, for once, paused from his everlasting habit of glass wiping.
“Guess none o’ you heard the news?” he inquired, with a grin of anticipation.
His first effort failed to produce the effect he desired, so a repetition followed quickly. For a moment play was suspended at one of the tables, and the men looked up.
“Noos?” inquired Diamond Jack.
The Kid and his youthful companions looked round at the foxy face of their host.
“Oh! I don’t guess it’s nuthin’,” said Beasley. “Only – it’s so dogone queer.”
His manner was well calculated. His final remark drew the entire barroom. All play and all talk was abruptly held up.
“Wot’s queer?” demanded Diamond Jack, while all eyes searched the saloon-keeper’s sharp face.
Beasley bit the end off a green cigar.
“That’s just it,” he said. “Ther’s suthin’ I can’t jest make out. Say – ” he paused while he lit his cigar with a sulphur match. “Any you fellers heard of a murder around here lately? Can’t say I have.”
He puffed leisurely at his cigar. The scattered groups at the bar drew closer. There was no question but he now had the attention he desired. The blank negative on the faces about him gave him his answer.
“Sure,” he observed thoughtfully. “That’s wher’ I’m beat. But – ther’s sure murder been done, an’ ther’s goin’ to be a big doin’ around – in consequence. Ther’s word gone in to the sheriff at Leeson, an’ the law fellers o’ that city is raisin’ a mighty business to get warrants signed. Say, I heerd they’re sendin’ a dozen dep’ties to hunt these hills. Seems to me the guy whoever it is is a pretty hot tough, an’ he’s livin’ in the hills. I heard more than that. I heard the murder was a low-down racket that if folks knew about it they’d be right out fer lynchin’ this guy. That’s why it’s bin kep’ quiet. I bin goin’ over the folks in my mind to locate the – murderer. But it’s got me beat.”
“Ther’ ain’t bin no murder since the camp got boomin’,” said Abe Allinson thoughtfully, “’cept you reckon that racket of Ike an’ Pete’s.”
Beasley shook his head.
“’Tain’t that. That was jest clear shootin’. Though it’s queer you mention that. Say, this racket’s got somethin’ to do with that farm. It’s mighty queer about that farm. That gal’s brought a heap of mischief. She sure is an all-fired Jonah.”
“But what’s she to do wi’ this new racket?” inquired Slaney.
Beasley shook his head.
“You got me beat again. The sheriff’s comin’ right out to that farm, chasin’ some feller for murder. Ther’s the fact – plain fact. He’s comin’ to that farm – which shows that gal is mussed-up with the racket someways. Now I tho’t a heap on this thing. An’ I’m guessin’ this murder must have been done back East. Y’ see that gal comes from back East. ‘Wal, now,’ says I, ‘how do we shape then?’ Why, that gal – that Jonah gal – comes right here an’ locates some feller who’s done murder back East. Who is it? I gone over every feller in this yer camp, an’ ’most all are pretty clear accounted for. Then from what I hear the sheriff’s posse is to work the hills. Who is ther’ in the hills?”
Beasley paused for effect. His purpose was rapidly becoming evident. He glanced over the faces about him, and knew that the same thought was in each mind.
He laughed as though an absurd thought had passed through his mind.
“Course,” he exclaimed, “it’s durned ridic’lous. Ther’s two fellers we know livin’ in the hills. Jest two. Ther’s Buck an’ – the Padre. Buck’s bin around this creek ever since he was raised. I ain’t no use for Buck. He’s kind o’ white livered, but he’s a straight citizen. Then the Padre,” he laughed again, “he’s too good. Say, he’s next best to a passon. So it can’t be him.”
He waited for concurrence, and it came at once.
“I’ll swar’ it ain’t the Padre,” cried Curly warmly.
“It sure ain’t,” agreed Slaney, shaking his serious head.
“The Padre?” cried Abe, with a scornful laugh. “Why, I’d sooner guess it’s me.”
Beasley nodded.
“You’re dead right ther’, boys,” he said, with hearty good-will. “It sure ain’t the Padre. He’s got religion, an’ though I’m ’most allus curious ’bout folks with religion – it ain’t right to say ther’s any queer reason fer ’em gettin’ it. Then the Padre’s bin here nigh twenty years. Jest fancy! A feller of his eddication chasin’ around these hills fer twenty years! It’s easy fer a feller raised to ’em, like Buck. But when you’ve been a feller in a swell position East, to come an’ hunt your hole in these hills fer twenty years, why, it’s – it’s astonishin’. Still, that don’t make no diff’rence. It can’t be the Padre. He’s got his reasons fer stayin’ around here. Wal, nigh all of us has got reasons fer bein’ here. An’ it ain’t fer us to ask why. No, though I don’t usually trust folks who get religion sudden, I ain’t goin’ agin the Padre. He’s a white man, sure.”
“The whitest around here,” cried Curly. He eyed Beasley steadily. “Say, you,” he went on suspiciously, “who give you all this?”
It was the question Beasley had been waiting for. But he would rather have had it from some one else. He twisted his cigar across his lips and spat a piece of tobacco leaf out of his mouth.
“Wal,” he began deliberately, “I don’t guess it’s good med’cine talkin’ names. But I don’t mind sayin’ right here this thing’s made me feel mean. The story’s come straight from that – that – Jonah gal’s farm. Yep, it makes me feel mean. Ther’s nothin’ but trouble about that place now – ’bout her. I ain’t got over Ike and Pete. Wal, I don’t guess we’ll get to the rights of that now. They wer’ two bright boys. Here are us fellers runnin’ this camp fer all we know, all good citizens, mind, an’ ther’ ain’t nothin’ amiss. We ke’p the place good an’ clean of rackets. We’re goin’ to boom into a big concern, an’ we’re goin’ to make our piles – clean. An’ we got to put up with the wust sort of mischief – from this farm. It ain’t right. It ain’t a square shake by a sight. I sez when ther’s Jonahs about they need to be put right out. An’ mark you, that gal, an’ that farm are Jonahs. Now we got this sheriff feller comin’ around with his dep’ties chasin’ glory after a crook. He’ll get his nose into everybody. An’ sheriffs’ noses is quick at gettin’ a nasty smell. I ain’t sayin’ a thing about any citizen in this place – but I don’t guess any of us has store halos about us, an’ halos is the only things’ll keep any feller safe when sheriffs get around.”
A murmur of approval greeted his argument. Few of the men in the camp desired the presence of a sheriff in their midst. There were few enough among them who would care to have the ashes of their past disturbed by any law officer. Beasley had struck the right note for his purpose.
“How’d you put this Jonah out, Beasley?” cried Diamond Jack.
Beasley thought for a moment.
“How’d I put her out?” he said at last. “That’s askin’ some. How’d I put her out? Say,” his face flushed, and his eyes sparkled, “ef I had my way I’d burn every stick o’ that dogone farm. Then she’d light out. That’s what I’d do. I ain’t got no use for Jonahs. An’ I say right here I’d give five hundred dollars to see her back turned on this place. I tell you, boys, an’ I’m speakin’ for your good, an’ mine, if she stops around here we’re goin’ to get it – we’ll get it good. The Lord knows how it’s goin’ to come. But it’s comin’, I feel it in my bones. It’s comin’ as sure as my name’s Beasley.”
He threw such a sincerity and earnestness into his manner that he made a marked impression. Even Curly Saunders, who, with one or two of the older hands, had some sort of regard for the girl they believed had founded their fortunes, was not quite without doubts. There was no question but mischief did seem to hang about the farm. Ike and Pete had been popular enough. The newer people had no sentiment on the matter, but they listened with interest to the saloon-keeper, feeling that his was the voice of the leading citizen. Besides, the matter of the sheriff’s coming was not pleasant. Many had spent a great part of their lives avoiding such contact.
“Seems to me you’re forgettin’ that gal brought us our luck,” the Kid suggested impulsively. “You were ther’ when we handed her the – ”
“Death’s-head,” laughed Beasley. Then his face hardened. “Tcha!” he cried with some heat. “You make me sick. I told you then, as I tell you now, it was that storm brought us our luck, an’ it brought us our Jonah with it. If you’d got a cent’s worth of grit that gal ’ud go. We don’t wish her harm. I ain’t one to wish a gal harm. But go she must if we want to be quit of trouble. Still, I’m on’y just sayin’ what I feel. It don’t matter a heap. Ther’s the sheriff comin’ along to grab some one for murder. Maybe he’ll chase up a few other rackets to fill in his time. It’s things of that nature do matter. He’s got to git some one. Maybe it’s some one in the hills. Maybe it ain’t. Maybe – wal, I sure do hope it ain’t – the Padre.”
He laughed as he turned to attend the wants of some fresh customers who entered the bar at that moment. The malice underlying his jest must have been plain to any one observing the man.
With this fresh diversion play at the card tables was resumed while the men at the bar fell back into their original groups. But the general interest was absorbed in Beasley’s news, and the channels of talk were diverted. Beasley had sown his seed on fruitful soil. He knew it. The coming of a sheriff, or any form of established law, into a new mining camp was not lightly to be welcomed by the earliest pioneers.
In the midst of this atmosphere a further interest arose. The last person Beasley expected to see in his bar at that hour of the day was Buck. He was not even sure he wanted to see him after what had passed. Yet Buck suddenly pushed his way through the swing-doors.
The saloon-keeper was in the act of replacing the whisky bottle under the counter, having just served his fresh customers, when his foxy eyes encountered the dark face of the man he most hated on Yellow Creek.
In a moment he was all smiles.
“Howdy, Buck,” he cried, as though the sight of him was the one thing in the world he desired. Then he covertly winked at those nearest him.
His wink conveyed all he intended, and the men turned and eyed the newcomer curiously.
Buck responded to the greeting indifferently, and proceeded to business. He had not come for the pleasure of the visit. He passed a slip of paper across the counter.
“Can you do them for me?” he inquired. “Just cast an eye over that list. If you’ll get ’em put up I’ll ride in in the mornin’ an’ fetch ’em out. I’ll need ’em early.”
His manner was short and cold. It was his way with Beasley, but now there was more in his mind to make for brevity.
Beasley studied the paper closely. And as he read down the list a smile spread over his mean face. It was a long list of supplies which included rifle and revolver ammunition. He whistled softly.
“Mackinaw!” Then he looked up into the dark eyes of the waiting man, and his own expressed an unwonted good-humor. “Say, wot’s doin’ at the fort? Gettin’ ready for a siege? Or – or are you an’ the Padre chasin’ the long trail?”
Buck’s thin cheeks flushed as he pointed at the paper.
“You can do that for me?” he inquired still more coldly.
Beasley shot a swift glance round at the interested faces of the men standing by.
“Oh, guess I can do it,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Sure I can do it. Say, you fellers ain’t lightin’ out?”
He winked again. This time it was deliberately at Buck.
“They’re winter stores,” said Buck shortly.
Then, as Beasley laughed right out, and he became aware of a general smile at his expense, he grew hot.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded sharply. And his demand was not intended for the saloon-keeper alone.
“Ke’p your shirt on, Buck,” exclaimed Beasley, with studied good-nature. “We couldn’t jest help but laff.” Then his eyes became sentimentally serious. “Y’ see, we bin worried some. We wus guessin’ when you came along. Y’ see, ther’s a sheriff an’ a big posse o’ dep’ties comin’ right along to this yer camp. Y’ see, ther’s some guy chasin’ around the hills, an’ he’s wanted fer – murder.”
The man was watching for an effect in Buck’s face. But he might as well have looked for expression in that of a sphinx.
“Wal?”
It was the only response Buck afforded him.
“Wal,” Beasley shifted his gaze. He laughed feebly, and the onlookers transferred their attention to him. “Y’ see, it was sort o’ laffable you comin’ along buyin’ winter stores in August, an’ us jest guessin’ what guy the sheriff would be chasin’ – in the hills. He won’t be smellin’ around the fort now?” He grinned amiably into the dark face. But deep in his wicked eyes was an assurance which Buck promptly read.
Nor did it take him a second to come to a decision. He returned the man’s look with a coolness that belied his real feelings. He knew beyond question that Mercy Lascelles had already commenced her campaign against the Padre. He had learned of her journey into the camp from Joan. The result of that journey had not reached him yet. At least it was reaching him now.
“You best hand it me straight, Beasley,” he said. “Guess nothin’ straight is a heap in your line. But jest for once you’ve got no corners to crawl around. Hand it out – an’ quick.”
Buck’s manner was dangerously sharp set. There was a smouldering fire growing in his passionate eyes. Beasley hesitated. But his hesitation was only for the reason of his own growing heat. He made one last effort to handle the matter in the way he had originally desired, which was with a process of good-humored goading with which he hoped to keep the company present on his side.
“Ther’s no offense, Buck,” he said. “At least ther’ sure needn’t to be. You never could play easy. I wus jest handin’ you a laff – same as we had.”
“I’m waitin’,” said Buck with growing intensity, utterly ignoring the explanation.
But Beasley’s hatred of the man could not be long denied. Besides, his last attempt had changed the attitude of the onlookers. There was a lurking derision, even contempt in their regard for him. It was the result of what had occurred before Buck’s coming. They expected him to talk as plainly as he had done then. So he gave rein to the venom which he could never long restrain.
“Guess I hadn’t best ke’p you waitin’, sure,” he said ironically. Then his eyes suddenly lit. “Winter stores, eh?” he cried derisively. “Winter stores – an’ why’ll the Padre need ’em, the good kind Padre, when the sheriff’s comin’ along to round him up fer – murder?”
There was a moment of tense silence as the man flung his challenge across the bar. Every eye in the room was upon the two men facing each other. In the mind of every one present was only one expectation. The lightning-like play of life and death.
But the game they all understood so well was not forthcoming. For once Buck’s heat was controlled by an iron will. To have shot Beasley down where he stood would have been the greatest delight of his life, but he restrained the impulse. There were others to think of. He forced himself to calmness.
Beasley had fired his shot in the firm conviction it would strike home unfailingly. Yet he knew that it was not without a certain random in it. Still, after what had been said, it was imperative to show no weakening. He was certain the quarry was the Padre, and his conviction received further assurance as he watched Buck’s face.
For an instant Buck would willingly have hurled the lie in his teeth. But to do so would have been to lie himself, and, later, for that lie to be proved. There was only one course open to him to counter the mischief of this man. He looked squarely into the saloon-keeper’s face.
“The truth don’t come easy to you, Beasley,” he said calmly, “unless it’s got a nasty flavor. Guess that’s how it’s come your way to tell it now.”
“Winter stores,” laughed the man behind the bar. And he rubbed his hands gleefully, and winked his delight in his own astuteness at the men looking on.
Then his face sobered, and it seemed as though all his animosity had been absorbed in a profound regret. His whole attitude became the perfection of a righteous indignation and sympathy, which almost deceived Buck himself.
“See here, Buck,” he exclaimed, leaning across his bar. “You an’ me don’t always see things the same way. Guess I don’t allus hit it with the Padre. No, I guess ther’ ain’t a heap of good feeling among the three of us. But before you leave here I want to say jest one thing, an’ it’s this. Sheriff or no sheriff, deputies or no deputies, if they’re lookin’ fer the Padre for murder I say it’s a jumped-up fake. That man couldn’t do a murder, not to save his soul. An’ it’ll give me a whole heap o’ pleasure fixin’ up your winter stores. An’ good luck to you both – when you hit the long trail.”
