Under Handicap

by Jackson Gregory

  CHAPTER XVIII

  With eager fingers Conniston struck a match. Almost the first thingwhich his searching eyes found was the heavy Winchester, three inchesof its barrel protruding from a roll of bedding. He flung the beddingopen upon the ground. There was half a box of cartridges with it. Hemade sure that the magazine was filled, threw a shell into the barrel,thrust the box into his pocket, and ran outside.

  No one had seen him. There were no eyes for him. A very few stragglersmoved unsteadily here and there; the great majority of the men werepacked in a mass about the barrel. Tin cups, dippers, even buckets andpans ran from hand to hand, from those nearest the wagon to theclamorous fellows upon the outskirts of the crowd, spilling the liquorfreely as they were jolted and jostled.

  This his eyes took in at a quick glance. Then he saw that fifty yardsfrom the group of men there was another wagon which had been drawnaside with its four empty barrels. Walking slowly now, the rifle heldvertically close to the side which was turned away from them, he movedtoward this second wagon. He reached it, attracting no attention.Springing into its low bed, he dragged the four barrels closetogether. The broadside of the wagon was turned toward the clamorouscrowd. Keeping his body hidden behind the bulwark he had made, hewatched and waited for more light.

  Slowly the pale glow in the east lengthened and broadened andbrightened. Once Conniston lifted his rifle quickly to see if he couldfind the sights. It was still too dark for quick, accurate work.

  So again he waited. A strange, cool calmness had succeeded to hisalmost frenzied agitation of a moment ago. He knew the danger of thething which he was about to do; he knew and realized clearly what hemight be called upon to do in self-protection alone when once he hadtaken his stand. But there was no other way; and, no matter what theconsequences, no matter what the results, he accepted the only chancewhich circumstances had left him. And moments of unswervingdetermination do not make for nervous excitement. It is the anxiousuncertainty, like that through which he had just passed, that makes aman's finger tremble upon the trigger.

  Louder and ever louder rose the throaty voices, faster and fasterpassed the cups and dippers. Ben and Mundy had their arms about eachother. In the wagon the Lark had slipped down, and now lay upon hisback, staring at the dim, swirling stars and babbling incoherentnothings.

  Men sang in strident, raucous, unmusical voices. A swarthy littleItalian was playing waltzes upon a harmonica, and heavy-booted feetshuffled and stamped upon the sand as men flung their brawny armsabout one another and swayed back and forth. Conniston saw that when aman thrust his arm down into the barrel for a fresh cupful of whiskyit did not disappear three inches above the elbow.

  Swiftly the desert daylight came. Conniston stooped and tied hisboot-laces, that they might not trip him when he moved. He stood upand whipped his revolver from its holster, spinning the cylinder, andthen shoving it back. And then, laying the rifle across the top of oneof the barrels, he cleared his throat and called out loudly.

  One of the men nearest him heard him above the shouting and pointedhim out to another. The two laughed loudly and turned away from him,forgetting him as they turned. Again he called, louder than before. Noone heard him, no one looked to him. He waved his hat above his head.If any one saw, no one gave sign of seeing. He licked his lips andlifted the rifle.

  "God see me through with it!" he muttered.

  He fired high above their heads. The sudden report crashed through thebabel of shoutings, a veritable babel into which half of the tonguesof Europe mingled with Chinese and Japanese sing-song. As the crack ofthe gun died away all other sounds died with it. The desert grew assuddenly still as it ever is in the depths of its man-free solitudes.Staring, wondering faces which had first turned to one another turnednow toward him.

  Again there broke out a volley of abrupt cries, followed by as suddena silence, as they watched him to see what he meant, what he would do.And Conniston took quick advantage of this short hush.

  "Leave that wagon, every man of you!" he shouted. "Move toward theditch. And move fast!"

  No man of them stirred. Their numbers, their intoxication, gave themassurance. He was no longer the "boss." They were all just men now,and he was only one while they were two hundred. They began to laugh.The Italian with the harmonica struck up a fresh, jigging air. Theheavy-booted feet took up the rhythm. A man climbed into the wagonand scooped up a dipperful of whisky, holding it aloft before hedrank.

  The light was still uncertain, but the dipper was a bright, cleartarget. Conniston waited a moment, his teeth hard set, hardlybreathing. Then, as the man lowered the dipper from his face and heldit out invitingly over the heads of the men on the ground, he fired.

  The bullet crashed through the tin thing, hurling it into the crowd.The man who had held it cried out aloud, and, clutching the fingers ofhis right hand in his left, leaped down from the wagon. The Larkrolled over and to the ground, dived between the wheels, anddisappeared. And again came a sudden silence.

  Now Conniston did not wait. He fired at the barrel itself, hoping tosmash in the staves, to drill holes near the bottom through which theconfined liquor could escape. And now the men ceased singing anddancing and leaped back, crowding away from the barrel, plunging andstumbling out of the line of bullets. For a moment Conniston thoughtthat in that wild, headlong scramble for safety he saw the end of thething. And almost before the thought was formed he knew better.

  The men were talking sullenly. He could hear their angry, snarlingvoices, no longer shouting, but low-pitched. He began to make outtheir faces and saw nowhere an expression of fear, everywhere blackwrath, restless fury. They no longer moved backward, but stood theirground, muttering. In a moment--he knew what would happen. He couldread it in their faces, could sense it in their low, rumbling tones.And so he shouted to them again, his voice ringing clear above theirmutterings.

  "I drop the first man that takes a step this way!"

  Tense, anxious, watchful, he waited. He saw hesitation, but saw, too,that the hesitation was momentary, that it would be followed by ablind rush if he could not drive fear into their hearts. And herealized with a sick sinking of his own heart that there was littlefear in men like these.

  "It looks like an end of things for Greek Conniston," he muttered,dully.

  His watchful eyes saw a little commotion upon the fringe of the knotof men who had moved a little toward the tent. He saw one of the menstep out quickly and raise a big revolver. The man, as he lifted therevolver, fired, not seeming to aim. The bullet struck one of thefront wheels of Conniston's wagon. Almost at the same second Connistonfired. Fired and missed, and fired again. With the second report camea shrill cry from the man with the revolver, and Conniston saw himstagger, drop his gun, wheel half around, and fall. And where he fellhe lay, writhing and calling out to his fellows.

  For a moment the others hung back, hesitating. The man upon the groundlifted himself upon an elbow, glared at Conniston, and began to crawlslowly back toward the tent. Obviously, he had been struck in thethigh or side. The man who had shot him, and who was new to this sortof work, thanked God that he had not killed the fellow outright.

  The next moment he forgot him entirely. Ben and Mundy were a pace ortwo in front of their men, who from force of habit had begun to flocktoward their daily leaders. They were talking earnestly, their voiceslowered so that the pressing forms about them had to crane their necksto listen.

  Still the whisky-barrel stood scarcely more than touched. Conniston,seeing that as long as it stood there he could hope to do nothingtoward a restoration of order, emptied the magazine of his rifle intoit. He saw the splinters fly, saw that the bullets had torn greatholes into the hard wood, heard the snapping of oaths from those ofthe men who had drunk only enough to arouse their thirst, and beganslipping fresh cartridges into the magazine.

  "There'll be precious little of that stuff left, anyway," he grunted,with grim satisfaction.

  He had expected a charge, but it did not come. Ben and Mundy had inall evid
ence taken command now. Their backs were to him as they issuedshort orders which he could not catch. But their purport was plainenough. He took his revolver from its holster and laid it in front ofhim upon a board across the top of one of the barrels.

  Silently the men were falling back. And as they retreated they spreadout into a great semicircle, wider and wider. He saw that fifty,perhaps seventy-five, of them had revolvers in their hands. And he sawthat these men stood in advance of their companions. In another fiveminutes, in less than five minutes, the semicircle would be a circleof which he would be the center. Then they would close in on him, andthen--

  There must be no _then_. That was the one thing clear. He might shootdown a dozen of them, but they would get him in the end. At one end ofthe slowly widening arc was Ben the Englishman. At the other wasMundy.

  "Ben!" shouted Conniston, sharply. "You've got to stop that! Mundy,stop where you are! I don't want to kill you fellows, but I'll do itif you keep on!"

  In the beginning he had hoped to bluff them. Now such hope had diedout of him. These were the sort of men who would want to see the otherman's cards laid down on the table. And he knew that he must make goodhis bluff or there would in sober truth be an end of him. His voicerang with cold determination. And Ben and Mundy stopped.

  Conniston watched that line of black faces, and as his eyes clung tothe threatening arc he thought with a queer twitching of the lips ofthe football line-ups which he had watched in other days. He wassurprised that his feelings now were much as they had been then. Itwas a game, and that in the other games a goal had been the thing heschemed and battled for while now it was his life made littledifference. He was surprised that he was cool, that his heart beatsteadily, that his hands upon his gun were like rock.

  There was something strange in the way the men were watching him,something in their sudden silence, in their eager faces, which puzzledhim. Their whole attitude spoke of one thing--a breathless waiting.What were they waiting for? Had his words put the fear of death inthem? Were they watching to see if he was going to shoot down the menwho led them? Was there a chance--

  His taut senses told him of a danger which he could not understand.Something was wrong; death hovered over him--close, closer. What wasit? His eyes flashed up and down the long curve of motionless figures,seeking an explanation and finding none. A little shiver ran up anddown his backbone. He could not understand--

  A sound, scarcely louder than the footfall of a cat, but jarringharshly upon his straining, over-acute ears, told him. He swung aboutwith a sharp cry. There was the explanation. There, just behind him,barefooted, bent almost double, crouching to leap upon him, a greatChinaman, a long, curved knife clenched in his hand, was not threefeet away. Even as he swung about the giant Asiatic sprang forward,the knife flashing up and down. Conniston struck with his rifle--therange was too short for him to use the thirty-thirty save as a club.It struck the big man a glancing blow upon the shoulder.

  The lean, snarling, yellow face was so close to his that he could feelthe hot, whisky-laden breath. He parried, and the rifle was jerkedfrom his grasp, falling with a clatter to the bed of the wagon. Theknife struck and bit into the shoulder he had thrown forward. Again itwas raised. Conniston sprang back, and as he leaped he swept up therevolver from the barrel-top. As the knife fell, cutting a long gashagain in his shoulder, he jammed the muzzle of Lonesome Pete's gunagainst the Chinaman's stomach and fired. The Chinaman grunted,coughed, and sank limply, vomiting blood.

  For a moment Conniston forgot the men out yonder, growing suddenlysick at the sight of the ugly, twitching thing at his feet. And thenas quickly as it had come, the nausea was gone, and he wasclear-headed and watchful. He snatched up his rifle and whirled towardBen and Mundy and the men between them.

  They had not moved, had taken no single step forward. He rememberedhaving seen a man near Mundy standing with open mouth and bulgingeyes; the fellow's jaw still sagged, his eyes were fixed in the samestrange stare, his eyelids had not so much as winked.

  "That's one!" yelled Conniston. He laughed out loud, the laugh of aman whose nerves are strained almost to the point of snapping.

  "Come on, come on! Who'll be next?"

  They muttered among themselves; here and there a man called outsharply. But still they did not move. A thing like that which they hadjust witnessed drives the fumes of alcohol from a man's brain like adip in ice-water. They could beat him down, they could take him, theycould kill him as he had killed the Chinaman. But he could kill morethan one of them before they could drop him. These things were clear.And the men hesitated.

  "Afraid?" he laughed, taunting, jeering them, all discretion sweptaway from him. "Why don't you send some more men? There might be alittle whisky left--if you hurry!"

  He saw Ben and Mundy stir uneasily, saw them glance at each other, atthe barrel with its shattered staves and gushing liquor, at the menwhom they were self-elected to lead, and back to him. He saw the Larkand the man Peters standing close together, talking earnestly, seemingto argue with growing heat. And as the wave of hot blood left him andhe grew cool and his saner judgment came back to him he called out tothem sternly, but not threateningly, not mockingly:

  "Ben! Mundy! you, Peters! and you, Lark! what's the use? Hasn't thisthing gone far enough? You can kill me, but what good will it do? Yourwhisky is spilled, and you can't get it back. You know the wages Ioffered you fellows yesterday. You can go back to them, and nothingsaid. I have five hundred more men coming from Denver. They can takeyour jobs if you like. You can go to Swinnerton, but when he knowsthat I have fired you he won't take you on. You know that he is justtaking men to keep us from getting them. You'd be fools to give upyour jobs now. What's the word, boys? Will you go back to work, Ben?And you, Peters? And you, Mundy and the Lark? Shall I tell the cook toget coffee ready? Talk up lively. What is it?"

  A rumbling chorus of murmurs rose up to greet him. The men weresullen, and they snarled openly at him. But he could see that alreadythe thing had gone further than the more law-abiding spirits hadthought to see it go. A sudden soberness had fallen upon many of them,and with it a cooler sanity. They broke into quick talk everywhere upand down the line. He could see that no longer at least were theyunited against him. He could see that the argument between Peters andthe Lark was strong, heated. And he hoped and prayed that good mightcome of it and of the brief hesitation.

  Suddenly the Lark broke away from his comrades and ran forward.Conniston, ever watchful, ever suspicious, covered him with his rifle.But the Lark was grinning, and as he came closer he lifted his twohands.

  "I'm with you!" he shouted. "I got a bellyful of this here racket.An'," with a glance over his shoulder, "I got a bellyful of thatrotgut, too. Besides, it's all gone. How about coffee, boys?"

  "And you, Mundy? How about you?" Conniston called, quickly. "Do youwant to keep your job at the wages I offered you yesterday? Or shall Iput another man in your place? Quick, man! Speak up!"

  Mundy hesitated, glancing at Ben before he answered. And then slowlyhe stepped out to where the Lark already stood.

  "I'll keep my job," he grunted, sullenly.

  "Please, sir," grinned the Lark, shaking his hand high above his headlike a ragged urchin in school, "kin I go git a drink? Water, I mean,"he finished with widening grin.

  "Yes," answered Conniston, trying to keep from his eyes the gladnesswhich was surging up within him. "Come this way first. There--stop.Now throw your gun toward me. You've got some sense. Now go get yourwater."

  Ben came forward; and slowly, reluctantly, with evil, red-rimmed eyes,Peters. And, as the Lark had done, they tossed their revolvers to thesand near Conniston's wagon and trudged off toward the nearestwater-wagon. A dozen men followed them. Gradually the line broke up asthe call of water grew imperative to parched throats.

  From the corner of his eye Conniston saw these men go to the firstwagon, tilt up the barrels, and go to the next. And suddenly he hearda great shout go up from them--a shout no longer of anger, but ofsheer surp
rise.

  In the bottom of every barrel there was an auger-hole. There was not asingle drop of water in camp!

  In a flash of inspiration Conniston saw the thing which he must say.

  "Who wants to go to work for Swinnerton now?" he cried. "You knowwhose work this is; you know who is trying to block every move wemake. You know as well as I do that it was Swinnerton, or one of themen working for Swinnerton, the same man who got Bat Truxton drunk,who has given you your whisky--and taken away your chasers! And youknow as well as I do how many miles it is to water."

  The rest of the men had flung down their guns and rushed to the emptybarrels. Already the burning thirst engendered by the raw, vile whiskywas making them lick their dry lips, making their throats workpainfully. They pulled over barrel after barrel, seeking to find thatsomewhere there was a cupful of water. And they found none.

  "It's Swinnerton's gang you have to thank for this, boys," Connistonshouted again, seeing and taking his opportunity. "Swinnerton, whowants to break us like a rotten stick. He will be a millionaire manytimes over if he breaks us. And if we put our work across, if we makea go of it, Swinnerton will be the rotten stick!"

  He stopped suddenly and watched them. And as often as he heard themcurse him he heard them curse Swinnerton.

  "Ben," he cried, when he had waited for them to understand what he hadsaid, "get the harness on some horses and take one of the wagons toValley City. Take a couple of men with you. Go to the general officeand ask for Tommy Garton. Tell him we've got to have water. You, Lark,take the rest of the wagons as fast as you can send your horses to theHalf Moon for more water. Take what men you need. Cook, see if youhave enough water in your tent to do any good. And then get ussomething to eat. Ben will be back from Valley City before you knowit. The rest of you fellows better lie around and chew tobacco untilwater comes. We'll get an early start to-morrow to make up for losttime. Peters, you and Mundy see that somebody looks out for the menthat are hurt. Take them to the tent. They get first water if thecook has any. If not, Ben, you take them with you to Valley City."

  His orders came with staccato precision. There was no tremor of doubtin his tones. And there was no slightest hesitation in obeying theorders from the man who was again "boss." Ben shouted out his owncommands to two men who stood close to him, and they ran for thehorses. The Lark was at the same time snapping out his orders, and themen he called by name hurried for horses, and many hands made quickwork of the hitching-up. Other fingers whittled plugs, wrapped themabout with bits of sack, and drove them tight into the holes in thebarrels. The cook sped to his tent, found a bucket half full of water,and was drinking thirstily when Mundy jerked it from his hands.

  "None of that, you sneakin' skunk!" he shouted. "Them guys as got hurtgets the first show."

  The fellow Conniston had shot in the thigh, and the man whom he hadseen a companion strike with a knife, cutting him deeply in the neck,were carried into the tent, water thrust up to their parched lips,their wounds bound swiftly and gently. The Chinaman Mundy rolled overwith his foot.

  "Deader 'n hell," he grunted. "Might as well leave him where he isuntil plantin'-time."

  Once more order had grown quietly out of chaos. The men stood here andthere talking, chewing tobacco, cursing the thirst which as theminutes dragged by grew ever more tormenting. Already the sun hadrolled upward above the flat horizon. Already the desert heat hadleaped out at them. A dozen men climbed upon Ben's wagon, thinking togo to Valley City with him to get water there. But he drove them back,threatening them with his big fists and cockney oaths, and theydropped down and watched him as the wagon, rocking and swaying andlurching, was drawn away from them by galloping horses.

  At a sharp word from Conniston two of the men brought the brokenbarrel which had contained whisky to where the discarded revolvers layglinting in the early light and tossed them into it. And then Brayleycame.

  "What's up, Con?" he asked, swinging down from his panting horse, hiskeen eyes taking in the fading excitement, the general idleness. Andthen, as he stooped forward and looked into the barrel: "Good heavens!What _is_ the matter?"

  In a few words Conniston told him. For a moment Brayley said nothing,shaking his head and eying him curiously.

  "You sure got your nerve, Con," he said, simply, after a minute.

  Conniston laughed shakily. Again a sinking nausea made him faint anddizzy. He could remember now the way the nose of his revolver had sunkinto the Chinaman's stomach, could see again all of the horror of thething which he had done.

  "I'm sick, Brayley," he said, unsteadily. "The thing will drive memad. I--I had to kill a man--and I can't forget how he looked!"

  "How you managed to stop 'em jest killing _one_ gets me. Where is he?"

  Conniston nodded to the wagon and turned away shuddering. The HalfMoon foreman strode over to the wagon and looked closely at the limpbody. And then he came to Conniston with long strides.

  "Hell," he grunted, disgustedly. "I thought you said you'd killed aman! That's only a Chink!"