by Max Brand
CHAPTER XXVI
"THE CRITIQUE OF PURE REASON"
"Speakin' of hard cattlemen," he said, "I could maybe tell you a fewthings, son."
"No doubt of it," smiled Anthony. "I presume it would take a _very_ hardman to handle this crowd."
"Fairly hard," nodded the redoubtable Lawlor, "but they ain't nothin' tothe men that used to ride the range in the old days."
"No?"
"Nope. One of them men--why, he'd eat a dozen like Kilrain and thinknothin' of it. Them was the sort I learned to ride the range with."
"I've heard something about a fight which you and John Bard had againstthe Piotto gang. Care to tell me anything of it?"
Lawlor lolled easily back in his chair and balanced a second large drinkbetween thumb and forefinger.
"There ain't no harm in talk, son; sure I'll tell you about it. Whatd'you want to know?"
"The way Bard fought--the way you both fought."
"Lemme see."
He closed his eyes like one who strives to recollect; he was, in fact,carefully recalling the skeleton of facts which Drew had told himearlier in the day.
"Six months, me and Bard had been trailin' Piotto, damn his old soul!Bard--he'd of quit cold a couple of times, but I kept him at it."
"John Bard would have quit?" asked Anthony softly.
"Sure. He was a big man, was Bard, but he didn't have none too muchendurance."
"Go on," nodded Anthony.
"Six months, I say, we was ridin' day and night and wearin' out a hossabout every week of that time. Then we got jest a hint from a bartenderthat maybe the Piottos was nearby in that section.
"It didn't need no more than a hint for us to get busy on the trail. Wehit a circle through the mountains--it was over near Twin Rivers wherethe ground ain't got a level stretch of a hundred yards in a whole day'sridin'. And along about evenin' of the second day we come to the houseof Tom Shaw, a squatter.
"Bard would of passed the house up, because he knew Shaw and said therewasn't nothin' crooked about him, but I didn't trust nobody in themdays--and I ain't changed a pile since."
"That," remarked Anthony, "is an example I think I shall follow."
"Eh?" said Lawlor, somewhat blankly. "Well, we rode up on the blind sideof the house--from the north, see, got off, and sneaked around to theeast end of the shack. The windows was covered with cloths on theinside, which didn't make me none too sure about Shaw havin' no dealin'swith crooks. It ain't ordinary for a feller to be so savin' on light.Pretty soon we found a tear in one of the cloths, and lookin' throughthat we seen old Piotto sittin' beside Tom Shaw with his daughter on theother side.
"We went back to the north side of the house and figured out differentways of tacklin' the job. There was only the two of us, see, and thefellers inside that house was all cut out for man-killers. How would youhave gone after 'em, son?"
"Opened the door, I suppose, and started shooting," said Bard, "if I hadthe courage."
The other stared at him.
"You heard this story before?"
"Not this part."
"Well, that was jest what we done. First off, it sounds like a fool wayof tacklin' them; but when you think twice it was the best of all. Theynever was expectin' anybody fool enough to walk right into that room andstart fightin'. We went back and had a look at the door.
"It wasn't none too husky. John Bard, he tried the latch, soft, but thething was locked, and when he pulled there was a snap.
"'Who's there?' hollers someone inside.
"We froze ag'in' the side of the house, lookin' at each other prettysick.
"'Nobody's there,' sings out the voice of old Piotto. 'We can trust TomShaw, jest because he knows that if he double-crossed us he'd be thefirst man to die.'
"And we heard Tom say, sort of quaverin': 'God's sake, boys, what d'youthink I am?'
"'Now,' says Bard, and we put our shoulders to the door, and takes ourguns in our hands--we each had two.
"The door went down like nothin', because we was both husky fellers inthem days, and as she smashed in the fall upset two of the boys sittin'closest and gave 'em no chance on a quick draw. The rest of 'em was tooparalyzed at first, except old Piotto. He pulled his gun, but what heshot was Tom Shaw, who jest leaned forward in his chair and crumpled updead.
"We went at 'em, pumpin' lead. It wasn't no fight at first and half of'em was down before they had their guns workin'. But when the real hellstarted it wasn't no fireside story, I'll tell a man. We had the jump on'em, but they meant business. I dropped to the floor and lay on my side,shootin'; Bard, he followered suit. They went down like tenpins till ourguns were empty. Then we up and rushed what was left of 'em--Piotto andhis daughter. Bard makes a pass to knock the gun out of the hand of Joanand wallops her on the head instead. Down she goes. I finished Piottowith my bare hands."
"Broke his back, eh?"
"Me? Whoever heard of breakin' a man's back? Ha, ha, ha! You beenhearin' fairy tales, son. Nope, I choked the old rat."
"Were you badly hurt?"
Lawlor searched his memory hastily; there was no information on thisimportant point.
"Couple of grazes," he said, dismissing the subject with a tolerant waveof the hand. "Nothin' worth talkin' of."
"I see," nodded Bard.
It occurred to Lawlor that his guest was taking the narrative in aremarkably philosophic spirit. He reviewed his telling of the storyhastily and could find nothing that jarred.
He concluded: "That was the way of livin' in them days. They ain't nomore--they ain't no more!"
"And now," said Anthony, "the only excitement you get is out ofbooks--and running the labourers?"
He had picked up the book which Lawlor had just laid down.
"Oh, I read a bit now and then," said the cowpuncher easily, "but Iain't much on booklearnin'."
Bard was turning the pages slowly. The title, whose meaning dawnedslowly on his astonished mind as a sunset comes in winter over a greylandscape, was The Critique of Pure Reason. He turned the book over andover in his hands. It was well thumbed.
He asked, controlling his voice: "Are you fond of Kant?"
"Eh?" queried the other.
"Fond of this book?"
"Yep, that's one of my favourites. But I ain't much on any books."
"However," said Bard, "the story of this is interesting."
"It is. There's some great stuff in it," mumbled Lawlor, trying tosquint at the title, which he had quite overlooked during the daze inwhich he first picked it up.
Bard laid the book aside and out of sight.
"And I like the characters, don't you? Some very close work done withthem."
"Yep, there's a lot of narrow escapes."
"Exactly. I'm glad that we agree about books."
"So'm I. Feller can kill a lot of time chinning about books."
"Yes, I suppose a good many people have killed time over this book."
And as he smiled genially upon the cowpuncher, Bard felt a great reliefsweep over him, a mighty gladness that this was not Drew--that thislooselipped gabbler was not the man who had written the epitaph over thetomb of Joan Piotto. He lied about the book; he had lied about it all.And knowing that this was not Drew, he felt suddenly as if someone werewatching him from behind, someone large and grey and stern of eye, likethe giant who had spoken to him so long before in the arena at MadisonSquare Garden.
A game was being played with him, and behind that game must be Drewhimself; all Bard could do was to wait for developments.
The familiar, booming voice of Shorty Kilrain echoed through the house:"Supper!"
And the loud clangour of a bell supported the invitation.
"Chow-time," breathed Lawlor heavily, like one relieved at the end of ahard shift of work. "I figure you ain't sorry, son?"
"No," answered Bard, "but it's too bad to break off this talk. I'velearned a lot."
