CHAPTER XVII
TWO POINTS OF VIEW
Beasley Melford was in a detestable mood. For one reason his miserablebar was empty of all customers, and, for another, he knew that he wasresponsible for the fact.
Had he any sense of humor, the absurdity of the thing must have forceditself upon him and possibly helped to improve his temper. But he hadno humor, and so abandoned himself to the venomous temper that waspractically the mainspring of his life.
He cursed his absent customers. He cursed the man, Curly Saunders. Hecursed the girl whom the trouble had been about. But more than all hecursed himself for his own folly in permitting a desire to bait JoanRest to interfere with his business.
In his restless mood he sought to occupy himself, and, nothing elseoffering, he cleared his rough counter of glasses, plunged them into abucket of filthy water, and set them out to drain. Then he turned hisattention to his two oil lamps. He snuffed them with his dirty fingersin a vain attempt to improve their miserable light. Then, seatinghimself upon his counter, he lit a cheap green cigar and prepared towait.
"Damn 'em all anyway," he muttered comprehensively, and abandonedhimself to watching the hands of a cheap alarm clock creeping ontoward the hour of nine.
Apparently the soothing influence of his cigar changed the trend ofhis thoughts, for presently he began to smile in his own unpleasantway. He was reviewing the scene which his venom had inspired, and thepossibilities of it--at the moment delayed, but not abandoned--gavehim a peculiar sense of gratification.
He was thinking, too, of Joan Rest and some others. He was thinking ofthe day of her arrival in the camp, and the scene that had followedBuck's discovery of her. He could never forgive that scene, or thosewho took part in it. Buck, more surely than anybody else, he couldnever forgive. He had always hated Buck and his friend the Padre. Theyhad been in a position to hand out benefits to the starving camp, andpatronage was an intolerable insult to a man of his peculiar venom.The thought that he owed those men anything was anathema to him, forhe knew in his heart that they despised him.
Since the day of Joan's coming he had pondered upon how he could payBuck something of that which he owed him for the insult that stillrankled. He had been called an "outlaw parson," and the truth of theappellation made the insult only the more maddening. Nothing elsecould have hurt the man so much as to remind him of the downfall whichhad reduced him to an "outlaw parson."
He had told Buck then that he would not forget. He might have addedthat he could not forget. So, ever since, he had cast about for anyand every means of hurting the man who had injured him, and hiscuriously mean mind set him groping in the remotest and more subtledirections. Nor had it taken him long to locate the most vulnerablepoint in Buck's armor. He had realized something of the possibilitiesat the first coming of Joan. He had seen then the effect of thebeautiful inanimate body upon the man's susceptibilities. It had beeninstantaneous. Then had come that scene at the farm, and Buck'sfurther insult over the gold which he had hated to see pass into thegirl's possession. It was then that the first glimmer of an openingfor revenge had shown itself to him.
The rest was the simple matter of camp gossip. Here he learned,through the ridicule bestowed upon Montana Ike and Pete, who werealways trying to outdo each other in their rivalry for the favors ofJoan, and who never missed an opportunity of visiting the farm whenthey knew they would find her there, of Buck's constant attendanceupon Joan. He needed very little of his evil imagination to tell himthe rest. With Buck in love with the woman it was a simple enoughprocess to his scheming mind to drive home his revenge upon theman--through her.
The necessary inspiration had come that night, when the four womenvultures, plying their trade of preying upon the men in his bar, hadreached a sufficient degree of drunkenness. Then it had occurred tohis devilish mind to bribe them into going across to the farm andpaying what he was pleased to call a "party" call upon its mistress,and, in their own phraseology, to "raise hell with her."
It was a master stroke. Then had come Curly's interference. The foolhad spoilt it all. Nobody but Curly had attempted to interfere. Themen had all been too drunk to bother, and the women had jumped at thechance of morally rending a virtuous member of their own sex.
He laughed silently as he thought of it all. But his laugh onlyexpressed his gratification at the subtlety of his ideas. His failurestill annoyed him. Curly had stood champion for this Golden Woman, asthey called her. Well, it wasn't his, Beasley's, fault if he hadn'tpaid for his interference by this time. The men were quite drunkenough to hang him, or shoot him for "doing up" young Kid, who hadbeen a mere tool in the matter. He cordially hoped they had. Anyway,the sport at Joan's expense was too good to miss, and the night wasstill young.
The prospect almost entirely restored his good-humor, and he was stillsmiling when the door was suddenly pushed open and the Padre's burlyfigure appeared on the threshold.
The saloon-keeper's smile died at sight of the familiar white hair. Ofall the people on Yellow Creek this was the man he least wanted to seeat the moment. But he was shrewd enough to avoid any sign of openantagonism. He knew well enough that Moreton Kenyon was neither a foolnor a coward. He knew that to openly measure swords with him was tochallenge a man of far superior intellect and strength, and theissue was pretty sure to go against him. Besides, this man theyaffectionately called the Padre had the entire good-will of the place.
But though he always avoided open antagonism the storekeeper never letgo his grip on his dislike. He clung to it hoping to discover somemeans of breaking the man's position in the camp and bringing about anutter revulsion of the public feeling for him. There was much aboutthe Padre that gave him food for thought. One detail in particular wasalways in his mind, a detail such as a mind like his was bound toquestion closely. He could never understand the man's object in theisolation of the life he had lived for so many years here in the backcountry of the West.
However, he was only concerned at the moment with the object of thisunusual visit, and his shrewd speculation turned upon the pursuit ofCurly.
"Evenin', Padre," he said, with a cordiality the most exacting couldhave found no fault with.
"Good-evening," replied the newcomer, smiling pleasantly as he glancedround the sordid hovel. Then he added: "Times are changed, sure.But--where are your customers?"
Beasley's quick eyes gazed sharply at the perfect mask of disarminggeniality. He was looking for some sign to give him a lead, but therewas only easy good-nature in the deep gray eyes beneath their shaggybrows.
"Guess they're out chasin' that fool-head Curly Saunders," he saidunguardedly. However, he saw his mistake in an instant and tried torectify it. "Y' see they're always skylarkin' when they git liquorunder their belts."
"Skylarking?" The Padre propped himself against the bar, and his eyessuddenly rested on an ugly stain on the sand floor.
Beasley followed his glance, and beheld the pool of blood which hadflowed from the Kid's wound. He cursed himself for not havingobliterated it. Then, in a moment, he decided to carry the matter witha high hand.
"Psha'! What's the use'n beatin' around!" he said half-defiantly."They're chasin' Curly to lynch him for shootin' up the Kid."
The Padre gave a well-assumed start and emitted a low whistle. Then heturned directly toward the counter.
"You best have a drink on me--for the good of the house," he said."I'll take rye."
Beasley swung himself across the counter with a laugh.
"Say, that beats the devil!" he cried. "I'll sure drink with you. Noone sooner."
The Padre nodded.
"Splendid," he smiled. Then as the other passed glasses and thebottle, he went on: "Tell us about it--the racket, I mean."
Beasley helped himself to a drink and laughed harshly.
"Wal, I didn't get it right," he said, raising his glass. "Here's'how'!" He gulped down his drink and set the empty glass on thecounter. "Y' see, I was handin' out drinks when the racket started.They were all muckin' aroun
d with them four sluts that come in townthe other day. Guess they was all most sloshed to the gills. Firstthing I know they were quarreling, then some un got busy with a gun.Then they started chasin' Curly, an' I see the Kid lying around shotup. It was jest a flesh wound, an' I had him boosted out to his ownshack. His partner, Pete--they struck a partnership, those two--why, Iguess he's seein' to him. 'Tain't on'y a scratch."
The Padre set his glass down. He had not drunk his liquor at a gulplike the other.
"Pity," he said, his eyes turned again to the blood-stained floor. "Is'pose it was the women--I mean the cause?"
The man's manner was so disarming that Beasley felt quite safe in"opening out."
"Pity?" he laughed brutally. "Wher's the pity? Course it was thewomen. It's always the women. Set men around a bunch of women andther's always trouble. It's always been, and it always will be. Ther'sno pity about it I can see. We're all made that way, and those who setus on this rotten earth meant it so, or it wouldn't be."
The Padre's gray eyes surveyed the narrow face before him. This man,with his virulent meanness, his iron-gray hair, his chequered past,always interested him.
"And do you think this sort of trouble would occur if--if the menhadn't been drunk?" he asked pointedly.
Beasley's antagonism surged, but his outward seeming was perfectlyamiable.
"Meaning me?" he asked, with a grin.
The Padre shrugged.
"I was thinking that these things have been occurring ever since thecamp was flooded with----"
"Rye!" Beasley's eyes sparkled. He reached the Padre's now empty glassand gave him a fresh one, pushing the bottle toward him. "You'll hev adrink on me, an' if you've got time, I'll tell you about this thing."
The other submitted, and the drink was poured out. The Padre ignoredhis.
"Get right ahead," he said in his easy way.
Beasley leered over the rim of his glass as he drank his whisky.
"You think it's rye," he said, setting his glass down with unnecessaryforce. "An' I say it's the women--or the woman. Trouble come to thiscamp with that tow-headed gal over at the farm. Anybody with two eyescould see that. Anybody that wasn't as blind as a dotin' mother. Theboys are all mad 'bout her. They're plumb-crazed. They got hertow-head and sky-blue eyes on their addled brains, an' all theyoungsters, anyway, are fumin' jealous of each other, and ready toshoot, or do anything else that comes handy, to out the other feller.That's the root of the trouble--an' you brought that about selling heryour farm."
Beasley had let himself go intending to aggravate, but the other'smanner still remained undisturbed.
"But this only happens when they're drunk," he said mildly.
Beasley's angry impatience broke out.
"Tcha'! Drunk or sober it don't make any difference. I tell you thewhole camp's on edge over that gal. It only needs a word to set thingshummin'. It's that gal! She's a Jonah, a Hoodoo to us all--to thisplace. She's got rotten luck all over her--and you brought her here.You needn't try an' sling mud at me fer handing them the rot-gut theboys ask for. Get that woman out of the place and things'll level upright away."
The man's rudeness still seemed to have no effect.
"But all this doesn't seem to fit in with--with this affair to-night,"the Padre argued. "You said it began, you thought, over the four womenyou allow in here."
Beasley was being steadily drawn without knowing it. His swift-risingspleen led him farther into the trap.
"So it did," he snapped. Then he laughed mirthlessly. "Y' see some onesuggested those gals pay a 'party' call on your Golden Woman," he saidwith elaborate sarcasm. "And it was because Mr. Curly Saunders sort o'fancies he's got some sort of right to that lady he butted in and shotup the Kid."
"Who suggested it?" asked the other quickly, his mild gray eyeshardening.
"Why, the Kid."
The Padre looked the saloon-keeper squarely in the eye.
"And who put it into that foolish boy's head?" he asked slowly.
Beasley's face purpled with rage.
"You needn't to put things that way with me," he cried. "If you gotthings to say, say 'em right out. You reckon I was the man whosuggested----"
"I do."
The Padre's eyes were wide open. The hard gray gleam literally boredinto the other's heated face. He stood up, his whole body rigid withpurpose.
"I say right here that you were responsible for it all. The Kid wasn'tcapable of inventing such a dirty trick on a decent girl. He wassufficiently drunk to be influenced by you, and, but for Curly'stimely interference, you would doubtless have had your rotten way. Itell you the trouble, whatever trouble happens in this camp, istrouble which you are directly or indirectly responsible for. Thesemen, in their sober senses, are harmless. Give them the poison youcharge extortionately for and they are ready to do anything. I warnyou, Beasley, to be careful what you do--be damned careful. There areways of beating you, and, by thunder! I'll beat you at your own game!Good-night!"
The Padre turned and walked out, leaving the discomfited storekeeperspeechless with rage, his narrow eyes glaring after him.
Moreton Kenyon was never a man to allow an impulse of anger to get thebetter of him. All that he had said to Beasley he had made up his mindto say before starting for the camp. There was only one way of dealingwith the man's genius for mischief. And that way did not lie in thedirection of persuasion or moral talk. Force was the only thing such anature as his would yield to. The Padre knew well enough that suchforce lay to his command should he choose to exert his influence inthe camp. He was man of the world enough to understand that the moralcondition of the life in this camp must level itself. It could not beregulated--yet. But the protection of a young and beautiful girl wasnot only his duty, but the duty of every sane citizen in the district,and he was determined it should be carried out. There was no ordinarylaw to hold this renegade in check, so, if necessary, he must betreated to the harshness of a law framed by the unpracticed hands ofmen who only understood the wild in which they lived.
On his way home the Padre encountered Buck, who had been back to thefur fort, and, learning from Curly the facts of what had occurred, wasnow on his way to join his friend.
They paused to talk for some minutes, and their talk was upon thosethings which were still running through their minds in a hot tide ofresentment. After a while they parted, Buck to continue his way to thecamp, and the Padre to his home.
"I think it's all right for to-night," the Padre said as he preparedto move off. "I don't think he'll make another attempt. Anyway, theboys will be sober. But you might have an eye on him."
Buck nodded, and in the darkness the fierce anger in his dark eyes waslost to his companion.
"I'll be to home when the camp's abed," he said. "I'll sure see thegal safe."
So they parted, leaving the Padre perfectly confident in Buck'sability to make good his assurance.
* * * * *
It was a wild scene inside the drinking-booth over which theex-Churchman presided. The men had returned from their fruitlesspursuit of their intended victim. And as they came in, no longerfuriously determined upon a man's life, but laughing and joking overthe events of their blind journey in the darkness, Beasley saw thatthey were rapidly sobering.
Still raging inwardly at the result of the Padre's visit he set towork at once, and, before any one else could call for a drink, heseized the opportunity himself. He plied them with a big drink at hisown expense, and so promptly enlisted their favor--incidentallysetting their appetites for a further orgie with a sharpness that itwould take most of the night to appease.
The ball set rolling by his cunning hand quickly ran riot, and soonthe place again became the pandemonium which was its nightly habit.Good-humor was the prevalent note, however. The men realized now, intheir half-sober senses, that the Kid was only wounded, and thisinclined them to leniency toward Curly. So it was quickly evident thattheir recently-intended victim need no longer have any fear for hislife. He
was forgiven as readily and as easily as he had beencondemned.
So the night proceeded. The roulette board was set going again in onecorner of the hut and a crowd hung about it, while the two operatorsof it, "Diamond" Jack and his partner, strangers to the place, rakedin their harvest. The air was thick with the reek of cheap cigars,sold at tremendous prices, and the foul atmosphere of stale drink.The usual process of a further saturation had set in. Nor amidst thedin of voices was there a discordant note. Even the cursings of thelosers at the roulette board were drowned in the raucous din oflaughter and loud-voiced talk around the bar.
As time went on Beasley saw that his moment was rapidly approaching.The shining, half-glazed eyes, the sudden outbursts of wild whoopings,told him the tale he liked to hear. And he promptly changed his ownattitude of bonhomie, and began to remind those who cared to listen ofthe fun they had all missed through Curly's interference. This wasdone at the same time as he took to pouring out the drinks himself insmaller quantities, and became careless in the matter of makingaccurate change for the bigger bills of his customers.
Beasley's hints were not long in bearing the fruit he desired. Someone recollected the women who had been participants in their earlierfrolic, and instantly there was a clamor for their presence.
Beasley grinned. He was feeling almost joyous.
The women readily answered the summons. They came garbed in long,flowing, tawdry wrappers, the hallmark of the lives they lived. Norwas it more than seconds before they were caught in the whirl of theorgie in progress.
The sight was beyond all description in its revolting and hideouspathos. These blind, besotted men hovered about these wrecks ofwomanhood much in the manner of hungry animals. They plied them withdrink, and sought to win their favors by ribald jesting and talk asobscene as their condition of drunkenness would permit them, while thewomen accepted their attentions in the spirit in which they wereoffered, calculating, watching, with an eye trained to the highestpitch of mercenary motive, for the direction whence the greatestbenefit was to come.
Beasley was watching too. He knew that the Padre's threat had been noidle one, but he meant to forestall its operation. The Padre was awayto his home by now. Nothing that he could do could operate until themorning, when these men were sober. He had got this night, at least,in which to satisfy his evil whim.
His opportunity came sooner than he expected. One of the girls, quitea young creature, whose originally-pretty face was now distorted andbloated by the life she lived, suddenly appealed to him. She jumped upfrom the bench on which she had been sitting listening to the drunkenattentions of a stranger who bored her, and challenged thesaloon-keeper with a laugh and an ingratiating wink.
"Say, you gray-headed old beer-slinger," she cried, "how about that'party' call you'd fixed up for us? Ain't ther' nuthin' doin' sincethat mutt with the thin yeller thatch got busy shootin'? Say, he gotyou all scared to a pea shuck."
She laughed immoderately, and, swaying drunkenly, was caught by theattentive stranger.
"Quit it, Mamie," protested one of the other girls. "If you wantanother racket I don't. You're always raisin' hell."
"Quit yourself," shrieked Mamie in sudden anger. "I ain't scared of aracket." She turned to Beasley, who was pouring out a round of drinksfor Abe Allinson, now so drunk that he had to support himself againstthe counter. "Say, you don't need to be scared, that feller's out o'the way now," she jeered. "Wot say? Guess it would be a 'scream.'"
Beasley handed the change of a twenty-dollar bill to Abe and turned tothe girl.
"Sure it would," he agreed promptly, his face beaming. Then he addedcunningly: "But it's you folks are plumb scared."
"Who the h---- scared of a gal like that?" Mamie yelled at him, hereyes blazing. "I ain't. Are you, Lulu? You, Kit?" She turned to theother women, but ignored the protesting Sadie.
Lulu sprang from the arms of a man on whose shoulder she had beenreclining.
"Scared?" she cried. "Come right on. I'm game. Beasley's keen to giveher a twistin'--well, guess it's always up to us to oblige." And shelaughed immoderately.
Kit joined in. She cared nothing so long as she was with the majority.And it was Beasley himself who finally challenged the recalcitrantSadie.
"Guess you ain't on, though," he said, and there was something like athreat in his tone.
Sadie shrugged.
"It don't matter. If the others----"
"Bully for you, Sadie!" cried Mamie impulsively. "Come right on! Who'scomin' to get the 'scream'?" she demanded of the men about her, whileBeasley nodded his approval from his stand behind the bar.
But somehow her general invitation was not received with the sameenthusiasm the occasion had met with earlier in the evening. Thememory of the Kid still hovered over some of the muddled brains, andonly a few of those who were in the furthest stages of drunkennessresponded.
Nothing daunted, however, the girl Mamie, furiously anxious to standwell with the saloon-keeper, laughed over at him.
"We'll give her a joyous time," she shrieked. "Say, what's her name?Joan Rest, the Golden Woman! She'll need the rest when we're through.Come on, gals. We'll dance a cancan on her parlor table. Come on."
She made a move and the others prepared to follow. Several of the men,laughing recklessly, were ready enough to go whither they led. AlreadyMamie was within a pace of the closed door when a man suddenly pushedAbe Allinson roughly aside, leant his right elbow on the counter, andstood with his face half-turned toward the crowd. It was Buck. Hismovements had been so swift, so well calculated, that Beasley foundhimself looking into the muzzle of the man's heavy revolver before hecould attempt to defend himself.
"Hold on!"
Buck's voice rang out above the din of the barroom. Instantly he hadthe attention of the whole company. The girls stood, staring back athim stupidly, and the men saw the gun leveled at the saloon-keeper'shead. They saw more. They saw that Buck held another gun in his lefthand, which was threatening the entire room. Most of them knew him.Some of them didn't. But one and all understood the threat and waitedmotionless. Nor did they have to wait long.
"Gals," said Buck sternly, "this racket's played out. Ther's beenshootin' to-night over the same thing. Wal, ther's going to be moreshootin' if it don't quit right here. If you leave this shanty to goacross to the farm to molest the folks there, Beasley, here, is a deadman before you get a yard from the door."
Then his glance shifted so that the saloon-keeper came into his focus,while yet he held a perfect survey of the rest of the men.
"Do you get me, Beasley?" he went on coldly. "You're a dead man ifthose gals go. An' if you send them to the farm after this--ever--I'llshoot you on sight. Wal?"
Beasley knew when he was beaten. He had reckoned only on the Padre. Hehad forgotten Buck. However, he wouldn't forget him in the future.
"You can put up your gun, Buck," he said, with an assumption ofgeniality that deceived no one, and Buck least of all. "Quit yourracket, gals," he went on. Then he added with the sarcasm he generallyfell back on in such emergencies: "Guess this gentleman feels the sameas Curly--only he ain't as--hasty."
The girls went slowly back to their seats, and Buck, lowering hisguns, quietly restored them both to their holsters.
Beasley watched him, and as he saw them disappear his whole mannerchanged.
"Now, Mister Buck," he said, with a snarl, "I don't guess I needeither your dollars or your company on my premises. You'll obligeme--that door ain't locked." And he pointed at it deliberately for theman to take his departure.
But Buck only laughed.
"Don't worry, Beasley," he said. "I'm here--till you close up for thenight."
And the enraged saloon-keeper had a vision of a smile at his expensewhich promptly lit the faces of the entire company.
The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills Page 17
