Bat Wing Bowles

by Dane Coolidge

  CHAPTER XX

  THE DEATH OF HAPPY JACK

  When Bowles rode back to the Bat Wing Ranch he was a hard-lookingcitizen. His aunt, the hypothetical Mrs. Earl-Bowles, would scarcelyhave recognized him; Mrs. Lee started visibly at sight of his batteredface; and Dixie smiled knowingly as she glanced at his half-closed eye.

  "Aha, Mr. Man," she said, "it looks like you'd been into a juniper,too!"

  "Well, something like that," acknowledged Bowles, gazing lover-like intoher eyes; and from that he led the conversation into other channels,less intimately associated with common brawls. For though Bowles hadgiven way to his evil passions and had even gone so far as to call forhis gun in order to beard his rival, he did not wish it known to hislady. As he contemplated her grace in a plain white dress, and thewitchery of her faintest smile, it seemed indeed a profanation of thesacred Temple of Love to so much as allude to a fight. Undoubtedly inthe wooings of the stone age the males had competed with clubs, butcertainly for no woman like this. Love, as Bowles had learned it fromthe poets, was above such sordid scenes; and as he had learned it fromher--when she had chastened his soul with a kiss--ah, now he could singwith old Ben Jonson and the deathless Greeks:

  "Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss within the cup, And I'll not ask for wine."

  Here was the shrine at which he worshiped, and he wished no carnalthought to enter in. So he spoke to her softly and went his way, lestsome one should read his heart and break the spell with jeering.

  The dust of a day's hard driving was on his face; there was a red wealover one eye and a bruise on his bearded cheek, but he was a loverstill. Dixie knew it by his eyes, that glowed and kindled; by his voice,whose every word veiled a hidden caress; and she greeted the otherscoldly from thinking of this one who had come. Then she dissembled andwent down among them, but her ways were changed and she only smiled attheir jests.

  "Hey, Dix," challenged Hardy Atkins at last, thrusting a grimy hand downinto his shap pocket, "look what I got fer ye!"

  He drew out a money-order ring that he had won in a mountain poker game,and flashed the stone in the sun.

  "It's a genuwine, eighteen-carat diamond," he announced. "Come over hyerand let's see which finger it fits. If it fits yore third finger, youknow----"

  "Well, I like your nerve," observed Dixie Lee, smiling tolerantly withGloomy Gus. "'Come over hyer!' eh? It's a wonder you wouldn't come overhere--but I don't want your old ring, so don't come."

  "W'y, what's the matter?" inquired Hardy Atkins, who loved to do hiscourting in public. "You ain't goin' back on me, are you, Dix?"

  "Well, if I went very far back on _your_ trail," answered Dixie, "Ireckon I'd find where you _got_ that ring. What's the matter? Wouldn'tshe have it? Or did that other girl give it back?"

  She turned away with a curl on her lips, and when he saw that she meantit, Hardy Atkins was filled with chagrin. From a man now, that would bea good joke; but from Dixie--well, somebody must have blabbed! He turneda darkly inquiring eye upon Bowles, and looked no farther; but Henry Leehad spoken, and all that rough work was barred. Still there were waysand ways, and after thinking over all the dubious tricks of the cow camphe called in his faithful friends and they went into executive session.

  "Now, hyer," expounded the ex-twister, as they got together over thebutchering of a beef, "the way to bump that Hinglishman off is to make amonkey of 'im--skeer 'im up and laugh 'im out o' camp. He's so stuck onhimse'f he cain't stand to be showed up--what's the matter with a fakekillin'? Here's lots of blood."

  He cupped up a handful of blood from the viscera of the newly killedbeef, and his side partners chuckled at the thought.

  "Let me do the shootin', and I'll throw in with ye," rumbled BuckBuchanan.

  "I'll hold the door on 'im," volunteered Poker Bill.

  "Well, who's goin' to play dead?" grinned Happy Jack. "Me? All right.Git some flour to put on my face, and watch me make the fall--I donethat once back on the Pecos."

  So they laid their plans, very mysteriously, and when the big poker gamebegan that night there was no one else in on the plot. Buck had thepistol he had killed the beef with tucked away in the slack of his belt;Jack had changed to a light shirt, the better to show the blood; andHardy Atkins was a make-up man, with bottled blood and a pinch of flourin his pockets to use when the lights went out.

  The game was straight draw poker, and the prize a private horse. Tendollars apiece was the price of a chance, and it was freeze-out atfour-bits a chip. That served to draw the whole crowd, and as thecontest narrowed down to Buck Buchanan and Happy Jack, the table waslined three deep.

  "How many?" asked Buck, picking up the deck.

  "Gimme one!" said Jack, and when he got it he looked grave and turneddown his hand, the way all good poker players do when they have tried tofill a flush and failed.

  "I bet ye ten!" challenged Jack.

  "Go you--and ten more!" came back Buck.

  "Raise ye twenty!"

  "What ye got?" demanded Buck, shoving his beans to the center, and then,with a sudden roar, he leaped up and seized the stakes. "Keep yore handsoff that discyard!" he bellowed, hammering furiously on the table. "Youlie, you----"

  _Whack!_ came Happy Jack's hand across his face, and Buchanan grabbedfor his gun. Then, as the crowd scattered wildly, he thrust out hispistol and shot a great flash of powder between Happy Jack's arm and hisribs.

  "Uh!" grunted Jack, and went over backward, chair and all.

  Then Hardy Atkins blew out the lamp, and the riot went on in the dark.Bowles was only one of ten frantic punchers who struggled to get out thedoor; Brigham Clark was one of as many more who burrowed beneath thebeds; and when Hardy Atkins lit the lamp and threw the dim light onHappy Jack's wan face he was just in time to save his audience. True,the older punchers had been in fake fights before; but they had been inreal ones, too--where the bullets flew wide of the mark--and this hadseemed mighty real. In fact, if one were to criticize such a finishedproduction, it was a little too real for the purpose, for the conduct ofBowles was in no wise different from the rest. There had been a littletoo much secrecy and not quite enough team-work about the play, butPoker-face Bill was still at his post and the victim was caught in thecrowd.

  "Oh, my Gawd!" moaned Hardy Atkins, kneeling down and tearing asideJack's coat. "Are you hurt bad, Jack?"

  The red splotch on his shirt gave the answer, and the room was silent asdeath. Then Poker Bill began to whisper and push; delighted grins werepassed and stilled; and, moving in a mass, with Bowles up near thefront, the crowd closed in on the corpse.

  "He's dead!" rumbled Buck Buchanan, making a fierce gesture with hispistol. "I don't make no mistakes. You boys saw him cheat," he went on,approaching nearer to the crowd. "And he slapped me first! You saw that,didn't you, Bowles?"

  "Oh, hush up!" cried Hardy Atkins, tragically shaking his fallen friend;and then as he worked up to the big scene where Happy Jack was to cometo life and run amuck after Bowles, the door was kicked open and gloomyGus strode in.

  "What's the matter with you fellers?" he demanded, his voice tremblingwith indignation at the thought of his broken sleep, and then, at sightof Jack, he stopped.

  "Jack's dead," said Hardy Atkins, trying hard to give Gus the wink; butthe cook was staring at the corpse. Perhaps, being roused from a soundsleep, his senses were not quite as acute as usual; perhaps theplay-acting was too good; be that as it may, his rage was changed topity, and, he took the center of the stage.

  "Ah, poor Jack!" he quavered, going closer and gazing down upon him."Shot through the heart. He's dead, boys; they's no use workin' on'im--I've seen many a man like that before."

  "Well, let's try, anyway!" urged Atkins, in a desperate endeavor to getrid of him. "Go git some water, Gus! Haven't you got any whisky?"

  "Oh, he's dead," mourned the cook; "they's no use troublin' him--it'sall over with poor old Jack. You'll never hear _him_ laugh no more."

 
; A faint twitch came over the set features of the corpse at this, andHardy Atkins leaped desperately in to shield his face.

  "He was a good-hearted boy," continued Gloomy Gus, still intent upon hiseulogy--and then Happy Jack broke down. First he began to twitch, then asnort escaped him, and he shook with inextinguishable laughter. A lookwent around the room, Brigham Clark punched Bowles with his elbow andpulled him back, and then Gus glanced down at the corpse. His perorationceased right there, and disgust, chagrin, and anger chased themselvesacross his face like winds across a lake; then, with a wicked oath, hesnatched the gun away from Buck and struggled to get it cocked.

  "You young limb!" he raved, menacing Happy Jack with the pistol andfighting to break clear of Buck. "You'll play a trick on me, will ye--anold man and punched cows before you was born! Let go of that gun, Mr.Buchanan! I'll show the blankety-blank----" And so he raged, while theconspirators labored to soothe him, and Brig dragged Bowles outside.