CHAPTER III
Roger Hapgood lifted his pale, heavy-lidded eyes from the pages of hismagazine and regarded Conniston with a look from which not allreproach had yet gone.
"I hope you've been enjoying yourself in this Eden of yours," he said,sourly.
Conniston sent his hat spinning across the room, to lodge behind thebed, and laughed.
"You've called the turn, Sobersides! I've been having the time of myyoung life. And now all I have to do is sit tight to see--"
"See--what?" drawled Roger.
"I've laid a bet, and it's wedged so and hedged so that I win bothways!" Greek chuckled gleefully at the memory of it.
"What sort of a bet?"
"Two hundred dollars!"
Hapgood put down his magazine and got to his feet, plainly concerned."You don't mean that, Greek?"
"I mean exactly that." Conniston tossed to the bed a small handful ofgreenbacks and silver. "This is all that's left to the firm ofConniston and Hapgood."
With quick, nervous fingers Hapgood swept up the money and counted it.His eyes showing the uneasiness within him, he turned to the jubilantConniston.
"There are just twenty-seven dollars and sixty cents. Are you drunk?"
Conniston giggled, his amusement swelling in pace with Hapgood'sdawning discomfiture.
"I told you I had made a bet. I have laid a wager with the Fates. Andright now, my dear Roger, while we sit comfortably and smoke and wait,the Fates are deciding things for us!"
Roger paused, regarding him. "Yes, you're drunk. If you are not, is itasking too much to suggest that you explain?"
"No. I'll explain. At the sign of the local Whisky Barrel there is agame of faro now in progress. Two very charming young gentlemen, namedJimmie and Bart, punchers of cattle, whatever that may be, aredeciding things for Roger Hapgood and William Conniston, Junior, ofNew York. Each of the amateur gamblers--and they actually do play verybadly, Roger!--has before him a hundred dollars of my money. If theywin to-night I get back two hundred dollars plus half their winnings,and you and I take the train for San Francisco!"
"If they win. And if they lose?"
"We'll take it as a sign that the Fates have decreed that we're not togo on to the city by the Golden Gate, but tarry here! Both Jimmie andBart are provided with saddle-horses, with chaps--chaps, my dearRoger, are wide, baggy, shaggy, ill-fitting riding-breeches, made, Ibelieve, out of goat's hide with the hairy side out!--spurs andquirts--in short, all the necessary paraphernalia and accoutrements ofa couple of knights of the cattle country. If they lose the twohundred dollars we win the two outfits! And to-morrow, instead ofriding in a Pullman toward San Francisco, we straddle what they calla hay-burner for the blue rim of mountains in the south!"
Hapgood stared incredulously, a sort of horror dawning in his palelittle eyes.
"I suppose this is another of your purposeless jokes," he said,stiffly, after a moment.
"Nothing of the kind! Don't you see we win either way? Frankly, I ampersuaded that the two hundred dollars are now winging their way intothe pockets of an apparently awkward dealer with slow fingers, andinto the pockets of our friend the hotel man. But we will get thehorses, and think of the lark--"
"Lark!" shrilled Hapgood. "A lark--to go wandering off into thedesert--"
"Not wandering! _Pirutin'_ is the word you want, the real vernacularof the West. Or _skallyhutin'_! I'm strong for the sound of the lattermyself--"
"Oh, rot!" broke in Hapgood. "I was a fool to come out here with afool like you."
He turned his back squarely upon Conniston and stood staring out thelittle window, biting his thin lips. Conniston stood eying him, andslowly the smile passed from his face, to be followed by a seriousfrown.
"I thought you'd kick in for the sport of it," he said, after amoment, his voice quiet and a trifle cold. "You don't have to if youfeel like that about it. You still have your ticket to San Francisco.You can have half of that twenty-seven dollars. You can sell yourhorse if we win the brutes."
Hapgood had been thinking about that before Conniston spoke. And histhoughts had gone further. It would not be long, he told himselfshrewdly, before Conniston Senior softened. And then there would bemuch money to help spend, many dinners to help eat, much wine to helpdrink, a string of glittering functions to attend. And if he brokewith Greek now--
"See here, Greek," he said, affably, forcing a smile. "What's the useof this nonsense? Why not slip your father a wire now. He'll comeacross. And then we can go on as we had intended and--"
"Nothing doing." For once Conniston was stubborn. "I'm going on withthis thing. If those horses come to us I am going to start early inthe morning for the mountains to see what I can see. You can do as youplease."
Hapgood glanced at him quickly, and, despite the wrath boiling upwithin him, the shrewder side of his nature prompted a peacefulanswer.
"Then I'll go with you. You didn't think that I was the sort of afellow to go back on you now, did you? We'll see this thing throughtogether."
Conniston put out his hand impulsively, ashamed of having misjudgedhis friend.
Long before midnight Jimmie left the saloon and crept away to thestable to stroke the soft nose of a restive cow-pony, and to swearsoft, endearing curses of eternal farewell. Not long afterward he hadthe satisfaction of seeing his fellow-cowboy steal through thedarkness to whisper good-by to his own horse. And in the early dawnboth Jimmie and Bart stood peering out from behind the corner of thebarn at two figures riding rapidly southward into the morning mists.
That day's ride was a matter never to be forgotten by the two men.Their muscles were soft from dissipation and long years of idleness.In particular did Hapgood suffer. He was a slight man to whom naturehad given none of the bigness of body which she had bestowed uponConniston. His luxury-loving disposition had made him abjure thesports which the other at one time and another had enjoyed. He was,besides, a very poor horseman, while Conniston had ridden a greatdeal. To-day his horse--a spirited colt newly broken--was not contentto go straight ahead as Hapgood would have had him, but danced backand forth across the road, shied at every conceivable opportunity,threatening constantly to unseat his rider, and jerked at therestraining, tight-gathered reins until Hapgood's arms ached.
The sun soon drove away the early mists and beat down upon the two menmercilessly from a blazingly hot sky. Nowhere was there any shadeexcept the tiny pools of shadow at the roots of the scrub brush. Theheat, the dry air shimmering over the glowing sands, abetted by themany high-balls of yesterday, soon engendered a scorching thirst, andas mile after mile of the treeless desert slipped behind they found nowater. Over and over Hapgood was tempted to turn back. He felt thathis shoulders, from which he had removed his coat, were blisteringunder the sharp rays of the sun. At every swinging stride his horsemade he felt the skin being rubbed off of his legs where they rubbedagainst the saddle leather. His soft hands were cut by the reins, hewas sore from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. But aseach fresh temptation assailed him a glance at Conniston, riding a fewpaces ahead, made him pull himself together. For some day the old manwould relent, and then Roger Hapgood would see that for every agonizedmile now he would be amply repaid.
And no water would they find until Indian Creek was thirty milesbehind them unless they turned from their way and rode a couple ofmiles to the westward where the straggling stream crawled through thesand. It was as well that they did not know, for the stream, like manyof its kind in the dry parts of the West, ran for the greater part ofits course underground, showing only here and there in a pool, where,beneath the sand, there was the hard-pan through which the water couldnot seep.
They had left the town behind them at a lope. Now they rode at a walk,curbing their horses' impatience with tight-drawn reins. They hadthought to have reached the brown hills and shade before the day'sheat was upon them. But now it was already intense, stifling, awakingfrom its light doze almost as the sun rolled upward across the lowhorizon.
And now
the temptation upon Roger Hapgood, urging him to turnback--back toward the little town, hateful yesterday, but spelling nowat least the courtyard to comfort--was so strong that he would nothave had strength to resist had he not realized that the ride backwould be longer than the ride on to water. He made no answer toConniston's sallies, but, sullenly silent, clung to his reins with onehand, to the horn of his saddle with the other, lifting his head nowand again to gaze with red-rimmed eyes ahead along the dusty, flatstretch of the desert, for the most part head down, the picture ofmisery.
Conniston, feeling the heat riotous in his own veins, feeling the acheof fatigued muscles, felt a sudden pity for Hapgood. And still, eventhrough his own discomfort, there laughed always a certain somethingin his buoyant nature which saw the humorous in the adventure.
It was late in the forenoon when they saw a clump of green willows,and ten minutes later came to a roadside spring and watering-trough.Hapgood threw an aching leg over the horn of his saddle and slippedstiffly to the ground. Conniston dismounted after him, holding the twohorses' reins as they thrust their dry muzzles deep into the clearwater. Hapgood, applying his mouth to the pipe from which the waterran into the trough, drank long and thirstily, and then, dragging hisfeet heavily, went to the clump of willows and dropped to the groundin their shade.
"We've done thirty miles, anyway," said Conniston, cheerily, when he,too, had drunk. "Twenty miles farther to the hills, and--"
Hapgood, his head between his hands, groaned.
"Twenty miles farther and I'll be dead. I couldn't eat any of thatinfernal mess last night, and I couldn't eat beefsteak and mashedpotatoes this morning. And I've got pains through me now in a dozenplaces. I wish--"
He broke off suddenly. There was little use to tell what he wished: acool club-room on Broadway; a deep, soft leather chair; a waiter tobring him delicate dishes and cool drinks.
For an hour they sat in the shade resting. Then Conniston got to hisfeet and threw his reins over his horse's head.
"Come on, Roger," he said, quietly, the unusual gentleness of his toneshowing the pity he felt. "We can't stay here all day."
Hapgood rose wordlessly and walked stiffly to his horse. He cursed itroundly when it jerked back from him, and for five minutes he stroveto mount. The animal, high strung and restless, was frightened, firstat his lunging gait, then at his loud, angry voice, and jerked awayfrom him each time that he tried to get his foot into the stirrup. Butat last, with the aid of Conniston, who rode his own horse close tothe other, preventing its turning, Hapgood climbed into the saddle.And again in silence they pushed on toward the hills.
It took them five hours to do the twenty miles lying between thewatering-trough and the edge of the hills. A large part of the lastten miles Hapgood did on foot, leading his astonished horse. And oftenhe stopped to rest, squatting or lying full length on the ground. Itwas nearly five o'clock in the afternoon when at last they came to thesecond spring by the roadside. And here Hapgood sank down wearily,muttering colorlessly that he could not and would not go a stepfarther. And they were still forty miles to the nearest cabin and bed.
Conniston unsaddled the two horses, watered them, and staked them outto crop the short, dry grass. And then he stood by the spring, smokingand frowning at the barren brown hills. They had had nothing to eatsince early morning; they had not thought to bring any lunch withthem. And now if they spent the night here it would be close upon noonon the next day before they could hope to find food. He lookedcovertly at his friend, only to see him sprawled on the ground, hishead laid across his arm.
"Poor old Roger," he muttered to himself. "This is pretty hard lines.And a night out here on the ground--"
He determined to wait until the cool of the evening and then topersuade Hapgood to ride with him across the hills. It would be hard,but it seemed not only best, but almost the only way. So Connistonfilled his pipe, thought longingly of the cigarettes he had left inhis suit-case at the hotel, and, lying down near Hapgood, smoked anddozed in the warm stillness.
An hour passed. The shadow of the scrub-oak under which they hadthrown themselves was a long blot across the sand. About themeverything was drowsy and sleepy and still. Conniston, turning uponhis side, his pipe dropping dead from between his teeth, saw thatHapgood was asleep. He lay back, looking upward through the stillbranches of the oak, his spirit heavy with the heaviness of natureabout him. And musing idly upon the new scenes his exile had alreadybrought him, musing on a pair of gray eyes, Conniston himself went tosleep.
The sun was low down in the western sky, dropping swiftly to theclear-cut line of the horizon, the air growing misty with the comingnight, the sunset sky glowing gold and flaming crimson, when Connistonawoke. He sat up rubbing his eyes, at first at a loss to account forhis surroundings. Then he saw Hapgood sprawled at his side andremembered. And then, too, he saw what it was that had awakened him.
A man in a buckboard drawn by two sweating horses was lookingcuriously at him while his horses drank noisily at the trough. He wasan unmistakable son of the West, bronzed and lean and quick-eyed. Thelong hair escaping from under his battered gray hat vied with his longdrooping mustache in color, and they both challenged the flamingcrimson of the sunset. Conniston told himself that he had never seenhair one-half so fiery or eyes approaching the brilliant blueness ofthis man's. And he told himself, too, that he had never been gladderto see a fellow human being. For the horses were headed toward thehills in the south.
"How are you?" Conniston cried, scrambling to his feet and stridingwith heavy feet to the buckboard.
"Howdy, stranger?" answered the red-headed man, his voice strangelylow-toned and gentle.
"My name's Conniston," went on the young man, putting out a hand whichthe other took after eying him keenly.
"Real nice name," replied the red-headed man. And dropping Conniston'shand and turning to his horses, "Hey there, Lady! Quit that blowin'bubbles an' drink, or I'll pull your ol' head off'n you!"
Lady seemed to have understood, and thrust her nose deeper into thewater. And the new-comer, catching his reins between his knees, tookpapers and tobacco from the pocket of a sagging, unbuttoned vest andmade a cigarette. Licking the paper as a final touch, his eyes went toHapgood.
"Pardner sick or something?"
"No. Just fagged out. We came all the way from Indian Creek sincemorning."
"That's real far, ain't it?" remarked the man in the buckboard, with alittle twitch to the corner of his mouth, but much deep gravity in hiseye. "Which way you goin', stranger?"
"We're going across the hills into the Half Moon country. It's fortymiles farther, they tell me."
"Uh-uh. That's what they call it. An' a darn long forty mile, or I'llput in with you."
"And," Conniston hurried on, "if you are going--You are going the sameway, aren't you?"
"Sure. I'm goin' right straight to the Half Moon corrals."
"Then would you mind if my friend rode with you? I'll pay whatever isright."
The other eyed him strangely. "I reckon you're from the East, maybe?Huh?"
"Yes. From New York."
"Uh-uh. I thought so. Well, stranger, we won't quarrel none over thepayin', an' your frien' can pile in with me."
Conniston turned, murmuring his thanks, to where Hapgood now wassitting up. And the red-headed man climbed down from his seat andbegan to unhitch his horses.
"You needn't git your frien' up jest now in case he ain't finished hissiesta. We won't move on until mornin'."
"Where are you going to sleep?" Hapgood wanted to know.
"I had sorta planned some on sleepin' right here."
"Right here! You don't sleep on the ground?"
The red-headed man, drawing serenely at his cigarette, went aboutunharnessing his horses.
"Bein' as how I ain't et for some right smart time," he was saying ashe came back from staking out his horses, "I'm goin' to chaw realsoon. Has you gents et yet?"
They assured him that they had not.
"Then if
you've got any chuck you want to warm up you can sling it inmy fryin'-pan." He dragged a soap-box to the tail end of the buckboardand began taking out several packages.
"We didn't bring anything with us," Conniston told him. "We didn'tthink--"
The new-comer dropped his frying-pan, put his two hands on his hips,and stared at them. "You ain't sayin' you started out for the HalfMoon, which is close on a hundred mile, an' never took nothin' alongto chaw!"
Conniston nodded. The red-headed man stared at them a minute,scratched his head, removing his hat to do so, and then burst out:
"Which I go on record sayin' folks all the way from Noo York has gotsome funny ways of doin' business. Bein' as you've slipped me yourname, frien'ly like, stranger, I don't min' swappin' with you. It'sPete, an' folks calls me Lonesome Pete, mos'ly. An' you can tellanybody you see that Lonesome Pete, cow-puncher from the Half Moon,has made up his min' at las' as how he ain't never goin' any nearerNoo York than the devil drives him."
He scratched his head again, put on his hat, and reached once more forhis frying-pan.
Under Handicap Page 3
