CHAPTER XXII
Tom McHale ambled into Coldstream one afternoon, and dropped his pony'sreins behind the station. Thence he clanked his spurs into Mr. Quilty'ssanctum. That gentleman, nodding somnolently above a blackened claypipe, rolled an appraising eye at him.
"Fwhere in Hiven's name is the maskyrade at?" he queried sourly. "An'do yez riprisint Wild Bill Hickox--rest his sowl--or th' 'PacheKid--th' divil burn him!"
Tom glanced down at his ancient regalia of worn leather chaps, spurs,and the old forty-one that sagged from his right hip, and grinned.
"Guns is coming into style again out our way," he replied. "All thebest families wears 'em. There's so many of these here durn hobos andrailway men and Irish and other low characters----"
"Th' nerve of yez!" snorted Mr. Quilty. "And the name iv yez'McHale!'--as Irish, be hivins, as Con iv th' Hundred Battles!"
McHale chuckled to himself, having succeeded in his purpose of gettingMr. Quilty going.
"Irish? Not on your life!" he denied gravely. "What put that notion inyour head? The McHales is high-grade Scotch. Always was. They come fromLoch Lomond or Commarashindhu or them parts. Annie Laurie married aMcHale. Of course we're Scotch. You can tell by the Mac. The onlyMcHale that ever was in Ireland went there to civilize it."
"To civ'lize Ireland!" Mr. Quilty cried in derision. "Hear till him!And Ireland the owldest civ'lization in the wurruld, barrin' none, andthe best! Faix, we was givin' lessons in it to all mankind whin th' domraggety-britched tattherdemalions iv Scotchmen hadn't th' dacincy towear kilts, even, but wint about bare to th' four winds iv hivin, abarbarious race lower nor a Digger Injun, a scandal to God, man, andfaymales black and white."
"Well, maybe you're right about them old times, Corney," admittedMcHale, with an innocent face. "I meant a little later than that. Thishere McHale was with William the Conqueror at the Battle of theBoyne----"
Mr. Quilty spat at the mention of this historic event.
"Bad scran till him, then!" he exclaimed. "Yez do be a high-grade liar,and ign'rant as well. Willyum th' Conq'ror was Irish on his mother'sside, an' he bate th' heads off iv th' bloody Sassenach, an' soakedtheir king wan in th' eye wid a bow 'n' arry at a fight I disremimberth' name of, back a thousand years before Willyum th' Dutchman--may hissowl get its needin's!--come out iv his swamps. I tell yez th' McHalescome from Galway. In th' good owld days they hanged thim be th' dozento th' glor iv God an' th' greater safety iv all live stock. An th'pity is they didn't make a cleaner job iv ut."
McHale, who was enjoying himself hugely, sifted tobacco into paper.
"I won't say you ain't right, Corney," he observed mildly. "I alwaysunderstood we was Scotch, but I ain't noways bigoted about it. Thathangin' business seems to point to us bein' Irish. Did you ever noticehow many Irishmen is hanged? Of course, there's lots ain't that oughtto be, but the general average is sure high."
"I hope to glory ye boost it wan higher yerself," Quilty retorted."Small loss 'tw'u'd be to anny wan. A divil iv a desp'rado yez are, widyer gun an' all! I'm a good mind to swipe yez over th' nut wid melanthern an' take ut away from yez!"
McHale drew the weapon gently, and spun it on his finger, checking therevolutions six times with startling suddenness. Mr. Quilty watched himsourly.
"Play thricks!" he commented. "Spin a gun! Huh! Why don't yez get a jobwid a dhrama that shows the West as it used to wasn't? I knowed wan ivthim gun twirlers wanst. He was a burrd pluggin' tomatty cans an'such--a fair wonder he was. But wan day he starts to make a pinwheel ivhis finger forninst a stranger he mistakes fer a tindherfut, an' hegets th' face iv him blowed in be a derringer from that same stranger'scoat pocket."
"Sure," McHale agreed. "It was comin' to him. He should have stuck totomatter cans. Them plays is plumb safe."
"They's no safe play wid a gun," Mr. Quilty declared oracularly. "I'man owlder man nor ye, an' I worked me way West wid railwayconstruction. I knowed th' owld-time gunmen--the wans they tell storiesof. Where are they now? Dead, ivery mother's son iv thim, an' most ivthim got it from a gun. No matther how quick a man is, if he kapes atut long enough he meets up wid some felly that bates him tillit--wanst. And wanst is enough.
"Plenty," McHale agreed. "Sure. The system is not to meet that sport. Idon't figure he lives in these parts."
Mr. Quilty blinked at him for a moment, and lowered his voice. "See,now, b'y," said he, "I'm strong for mindin' me own business, but awink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. Nobody's been hurtedhereabouts yet, but keep at ut and some wan will be. I don't want ut tobe you or Casey. Go aisy, like a good la-ad."
"I'm easy as a fox-trot," said McHale. "So's Casey. We ain't crowdin'nothin'. Only we're some tired of havin' a hot iron held to our hides.We sorter hate to smell our own hair singein'. We ain't on the prod,but we don't aim to be run off our own range, and that goes as itlies."
He rose, flipping his cigarette through the open window, and inquiredfor freight. They were expecting a binder and a mower. These had notarrived. McHale looked at the date of his bill of lading, and statedhis opinion of the railway.
"Be ashamed, bawlin' out me employers in me prisince," said Mr. Quilty."G'wan out o' here, before I take a shotgun to yez."
"Come up and have a drink," McHale invited.
"Agin' the rules whin on duty," Quilty refused. "An' I do be on dutywhiniver I'm awake. 'Tis prohibition the comp'ny has on me, no less."
McHale rode up the straggling street to Shiller's hotel, anddismounted. Bob Shiller in shirt sleeves sat on the veranda.
"They's a right smart o' dust to-day, Bob," said McHale. "S'pose wesorter sprinkle it some."
"We'll go into one of the back rooms, where it's cooler," proposedShiller.
"Oh, I'd just as soon go to the bar," said McHale. "Might be some ofthe boys there. I like to lean up against the wood."
"Well----" Shiller began, and stopped uncertainly.
"Well--what?" McHale demanded.
"Just as well you don't go into the bar right now," Shiller explained."You had a sort of a run-in with a feller named Cross, hadn't you--youor Casey? He's in there with a couple of his friends--hard-lookin'nuts. He's some tanked, and shootin' off his mouth. We'll have Billybring us what we want where it's cooler."
McHale kicked a post meditatively three times.
"There's mighty little style about me, Bob," he said. "I'm democratic alot. Havin' drinks sent up to a private room looks to me a heap likethrowin' on dog."
"I asked you," said Shiller. "It's my house. The drinks are on me."
"I spoke of the dust," McHale reminded him. "That makes it my drinks.And then I done asked a man to meet me in the bar. I wouldn't like tokeep him waitin'."
"I don't want trouble here," said Shiller positively. "I ask you in afriendly way not to make it."
"Well, I ain't makin' it, am I?" said McHale. "That's all right aboutnot wantin' trouble, but I got other things to think of. This hereCross and Dade and that bunch don't run the country. Mighty funny if Ihave to drink in a back room for them gents. Next thing you'll want meto climb a tree. I'm allowin' to stop my thirst facin' a mirror withone foot on a rail. I'll do it that way, or you and me won't be friendsno more."
"Go to it, then," said Shiller. "You always was a bullhead."
McHale grinned, hitched his holster forward a trifle, and walked towardthe bar. As he entered he took a swift survey of its half dozenoccupants.
Three of them were regulars, citizens of Coldstream. The others werestrangers, and each of them wore a gun down his thigh. They were of thetype known as "hard-faced." Cross, a glass in his right hand, wasstanding facing the door. As it pushed open he turned his head andstared at McHale, whom he did not immediately recognize.
"Come on, friend," said he; "get in on this."
"Sure," said McHale promptly. "A little number nine, Billy. Here's aho!" He set his glass down, and faced Cross. "Come again, boys. What'llyou take with me?"
But Cross swore suddenly. "Well!" he exclaimed. "Look at what blowed in
off of one of them dry-ranch layouts!"
McHale smiled blandly, pushing a bottle in his direction.
"Beats all how some things drift about all over the country," heobserved. "Tumbleweeds and such. They go rollin' along mighty gay tillthey bump into a wire fence somewheres."
"It's sure a wonder to me your boss lets you stray this far off," saidCross, with sarcasm. "He needs a man to look after him the worst way.He don't seem to have no sand. I met up with him along our ditch awhile back, and I told him to hike. You bet he did. Only that he'd agirl with him I'd have run him clean back to his reservation."
"You want to get a movin'-picture layout," McHale suggested. "That'dmake a right good show--_you_ runnin' Casey. You used to work for oneof them outfits, didn't you?"
"No. What makes you think I did?"
"Your face looked sorter familiar to me," McHale replied. "Studyin' onit, it seems like I'd seen it in one of them picture shows down inCheyenne. Right good show, too. It showed a bunch of boys after a hossthief. He got away."
"Haw-haw!" laughed one of the regulars, and suddenly froze to silence.Billy, behind the bar, stood as if petrified, towel in hand. Cross'sface, flushed with liquor, blackened in a ferocious scowl.
"You ---- ---- ----!" he roared. "What do you mean by that?"
"Mean?" asked McHale innocently. "Why, I was tellin' you about a show Iseen. What's wrong with that?"
"You called me a horse thief!" cried Cross.
"Who? Me?" said McHale. "Why, no, Mr. Cross, you ain't no hoss thief. Iknow different. If anybody says you are, you just send him right alongto me. No, sir; I know you ain't. There's two good reasons against it."
Cross glared at him, his fingers beginning to twitch.
"Let's hear them," he said. "If they ain't good you go out of that doorfeet first."
"They're plumb good--best you ever heard," McHale affirmed. "Now,listen. Here's how I know you ain't no hoss thief: For one thing, yougot too much mouth; and for another you ain't got the nerve!"
Out of the dead silence came Shiller's voice from the door:
"I'll fill the first man that makes a move plumb full of buckshot. Ifthere's any shootin' in here, I'm doin' it myself." He held a pump gunat his shoulder, the muzzle dominating the group. "You, Tom," hecontinued, "you said you wouldn't make trouble."
"Am I makin' it?" asked McHale.
"Are you makin' it?" Shiller repeated. "Oh, no, you ain't. You're agentle, meek-and-mild pilgrim, you are. I ain't goin' to hold this gunall day, neither. You better hit the high spots. I'll give you time toget on your cayuse and drift. At the end of two minutes this man goesout of that door, and I ain't responsible for what happens. I'm suresorry, Tom, to treat you like this, but I got my house to consider."
"That's all right, Bob," said McHale. "Looks like you hold the ace.I'll step. Far's I'm concerned you needn't keep them gents two minutesnor one." He turned to the door.
"I'm lookin' for you, McHale," said Cross.
"Come a-runnin'," said McHale. "Bring your friends."
He walked into the middle of the road, turned, and waited. His actionattracted little attention. Coldstream was indoors, somnolent with theafternoon heat. Across the street the proprietor of the general storecommented lazily to a friend:
"What's Tom McHale doin'?"
"Some fool joke. He's full of them. I reckon he wants us to ask him."
McHale called to them: "Boys, if I was you I'd move out of line of meand Bob's door."
"What did I tell you?" the wise one commented. "You bet I don't bite.I----"
Out of the door of Shiller's surged Cross, gun in hand. Uncertain whereto find McHale, he glared about. Then, as he saw him standing in themiddle of the road, the weapon seemed to leap to a level.Simultaneously McHale shot from the hip.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Pale-pink flashes stabbed the afternoon light. Coldstream echoed to thefusillade. Its inhabitants ran to doors and windows, streaming into thestreets. One of the store windows suddenly starred. Long lines, likecracks in thin ice, appeared in it, radiating from a common centre. Theproprietor and his friend, electrified, ducked and sprang for shelter.A woman screamed in fright.
Suddenly Cross staggered, turning halfway around. The deadly rage inhis face changed to blank wonder. His pistol arm sagged. Then hecollapsed gently, not as a tree falls, but as an overweighted saplingbends, swaying backward until, overbalanced, he thudded limply on theground.
McHale, half crouched like a fighting animal awaiting an attack, peeredwith burning eyes over the hot muzzle of his gun at the prostratefigure. Swiftly he swung out the cylinder of the weapon, ejected theempty shells, refilled the chambers, and snapped it shut. Shiller'sdoor opened. McHale covered it instantly, but it was Shiller himself.
"So you done it, did you?" he said.
"Sure," said McHale. "He comes a-shootin', and I gets him. Likewise Igets them two _tillikums_ of his if they want it that way."
"Billy's keepin' them quiet with the pump gun," Shiller informed him."You better get out o' town. I'll clean up your mess, darn you! Gitquick. Them fellers expects some more in."
McHale nodded. "I ain't organized to stand off a whole posse with onegun. So long, Bob. I'm plumb sorry I mixed you into this. They won'tlike you much now."
"They don't need to," said Shiller. "Want any money? Want another gun?I got a handy little three-ought-three carbine."
"No. I'll get my own outfit. I may have to lie out for a spell. Well,I'll be movin'."
He mounted swiftly. Men crowding up to the scene of the affray stoppedsuddenly. Few of them had seen the like before. They shrank back, awed,from the killer. He rode down the street, gun in hand, casting swiftglances right and left, ready for any attempt to stop him. There wasnone. He vanished in the swells of brown grasses, riding at an easylope, as unhurried as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Desert Conquest; or, Precious Waters Page 22
