Complete Works of Frank Norris

by Frank Norris

  “Say!” exclaimed old Broderson, gravely addressing the company, pulling at his beard uneasily— “say! I — I — listen! I’m a devil of a fellow with the girls.” He wagged his head doggedly, shutting his eyes in a knowing fashion. “Yes, sir, I am. There was a young lady in Ukiah — that was when I was a lad of seventeen. We used to meet in the cemetery in the afternoons. I was to go away to school at Sacramento, and the afternoon I left we met in the cemetery and we stayed so long I almost missed the train. Her name was Celestine.”

  There was a pause. The others waited for the rest of the story.

  “And afterwards?” prompted Annixter.

  “Afterwards? Nothing afterwards. I never saw her again. Her name was Celestine.”

  The company raised a chorus of derision, and Osterman cried ironically:

  “Say! THAT’S a pretty good one! Tell us another.”

  The old man laughed with the rest, believing he had made another hit. He called Osterman to him, whispering in his ear:

  “Sh! Look here! Some night you and I will go up to San Francisco — hey? We’ll go skylarking. We’ll be gay. Oh, I’m a — a — a rare old BUCK, I am! I ain’t too old. You’ll see.”

  Annixter gave over the making of the fifth bowl of punch to Osterman, who affirmed that he had a recipe for a “fertiliser” from Solotari that would take the plating off the ladle. He left him wrangling with Caraher, who still persisted in adding chartreuse, and stepped out into the dance to see how things were getting on.

  It was the interval between two dances. In and around a stall at the farther end of the floor, where lemonade was being served, was a great throng of young men. Others hurried across the floor singly or by twos and threes, gingerly carrying overflowing glasses to their “partners,” sitting in long rows of white and blue and pink against the opposite wall, their mothers and older sisters in a second dark-clothed rank behind them. A babel of talk was in the air, mingled with gusts of laughter. Everybody seemed having a good time. In the increasing heat the decorations of evergreen trees and festoons threw off a pungent aroma that suggested a Sunday-school Christmas festival. In the other stalls, lower down the barn, the young men had brought chairs, and in these deep recesses the most desperate love-making was in progress, the young man, his hair neatly parted, leaning with great solicitation over the girl, his “partner” for the moment, fanning her conscientiously, his arm carefully laid along the back of her chair.

  By the doorway, Annixter met Sarria, who had stepped out to smoke a fat, black cigar. The set smile of amiability was still fixed on the priest’s smooth, shiny face; the cigar ashes had left grey streaks on the front of his cassock. He avoided Annixter, fearing, no doubt, an allusion to his game cocks, and took up his position back of the second rank of chairs by the musicians’ stand, beaming encouragingly upon every one who caught his eye.

  Annixter was saluted right and left as he slowly went the round of the floor. At every moment he had to pause to shake hands and to listen to congratulations upon the size of his barn and the success of his dance. But he was distrait, his thoughts elsewhere; he did not attempt to hide his impatience when some of the young men tried to engage him in conversation, asking him to be introduced to their sisters, or their friends’ sisters. He sent them about their business harshly, abominably rude, leaving a wake of angry disturbance behind him, sowing the seeds of future quarrels and renewed unpopularity. He was looking for Hilma Tree.

  When at last he came unexpectedly upon her, standing near where Mrs. Tree was seated, some half-dozen young men hovering uneasily in her neighbourhood, all his audacity was suddenly stricken from him; his gruffness, his overbearing insolence vanished with an abruptness that left him cold. His old-time confusion and embarrassment returned to him. Instead of speaking to her as he intended, he affected not to see her, but passed by, his head in the air, pretending a sudden interest in a Japanese lantern that was about to catch fire.

  But he had had a single distinct glimpse of her, definite, precise, and this glimpse was enough. Hilma had changed. The change was subtle, evanescent, hard to define, but not the less unmistakable. The excitement, the enchanting delight, the delicious disturbance of “the first ball,” had produced its result. Perhaps there had only been this lacking. It was hard to say, but for that brief instant of time Annixter was looking at Hilma, the woman. She was no longer the young girl upon whom he might look down, to whom he might condescend, whose little, infantile graces were to be considered with amused toleration.

  When Annixter returned to the harness room, he let himself into a clamour of masculine hilarity. Osterman had, indeed, made a marvellous “fertiliser,” whiskey for the most part, diluted with champagne and lemon juice. The first round of this drink had been welcomed with a salvo of cheers. Hooven, recovering his spirits under its violent stimulation, spoke of “heving ut oudt mit Cudder, bei Gott,” while Osterman, standing on a chair at the end of the room, shouted for a “few moments quiet, gentlemen,” so that he might tell a certain story he knew. But, abruptly, Annixter discovered that the liquors — the champagne, whiskey, brandy, and the like — were running low. This would never do. He felt that he would stand disgraced if it could be said afterward that he had not provided sufficient drink at his entertainment. He slipped out, unobserved, and, finding two of his ranch hands near the doorway, sent them down to the ranch house to bring up all the cases of “stuff” they found there.

  However, when this matter had been attended to, Annixter did not immediately return to the harness room. On the floor of the barn a square dance was under way, the leader of the City Band calling the figures. Young Vacca indefatigably continued the rounds of the barn, paring candle after candle, possessed with this single idea of duty, pushing the dancers out of his way, refusing to admit that the floor was yet sufficiently slippery. The druggist had returned indoors, and leaned dejected and melancholy against the wall near the doorway, unable to dance, his evening’s enjoyment spoiled. The gayly apparelled clerk from Bonneville had just involved himself in a deplorable incident. In a search for his handkerchief, which he had lost while trying to find his programme card, he had inadvertently wandered into the feed room, set apart as the ladies’ dressing room, at the moment when Mrs. Hooven, having removed the waist of Minna’s dress, was relacing her corsets. There was a tremendous scene. The clerk was ejected forcibly, Mrs. Hooven filling all the neighbourhood with shrill expostulation. A young man, Minna’s “partner,” who stood near the feed room door, waiting for her to come out, had invited the clerk, with elaborate sarcasm, to step outside for a moment; and the clerk, breathless, stupefied, hustled from hand to hand, remained petrified, with staring eyes, turning about and about, looking wildly from face to face, speechless, witless, wondering what had happened.

  But the square dance was over. The City Band was just beginning to play a waltz. Annixter assuring himself that everything was going all right, was picking his way across the floor, when he came upon Hilma Tree quite alone, and looking anxiously among the crowd of dancers.

  “Having a good time, Miss Hilma?” he demanded, pausing for a moment.

  “Oh, am I, JUST!” she exclaimed. “The best time — but I don’t know what has become of my partner. See! I’m left all alone — the only time this whole evening,” she added proudly. “Have you seen him — my partner, sir? I forget his name. I only met him this evening, and I’ve met SO many I can’t begin to remember half of them. He was a young man from Bonneville — a clerk, I think, because I remember seeing him in a store there, and he wore the prettiest clothes!”

  “I guess he got lost in the shuffle,” observed Annixter. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. He took his resolution in both hands. He clenched his teeth.

  “Say! look here, Miss Hilma. What’s the matter with you and I stealing this one for ourselves? I don’t mean to dance. I don’t propose to make a jumping-jack of myself for some galoot to give me the laugh, but we’ll walk around. Will you? What do you say?”

 
Hilma consented.

  “I’m not so VERY sorry I missed my dance with that — that — little clerk,” she said guiltily. “I suppose that’s very bad of me, isn’t it?”

  Annixter fulminated a vigorous protest.

  “I AM so warm!” murmured Hilma, fanning herself with her handkerchief; “and, oh! SUCH a good time as I have had! I was so afraid that I would be a wall-flower and sit up by mamma and papa the whole evening; and as it is, I have had every single dance, and even some dances I had to split. Oh-h!” she breathed, glancing lovingly around the barn, noting again the festoons of tri-coloured cambric, the Japanese lanterns, flaring lamps, and “decorations” of evergreen; “oh-h! it’s all so lovely, just like a fairy story; and to think that it can’t last but for one little evening, and that to-morrow morning one must wake up to the every-day things again!”

  “Well,” observed Annixter doggedly, unwilling that she should forget whom she ought to thank, “I did my best, and my best is as good as another man’s, I guess.”

  Hilma overwhelmed him with a burst of gratitude which he gruffly pretended to deprecate. Oh, that was all right. It hadn’t cost him much. He liked to see people having a good time himself, and the crowd did seem to be enjoying themselves. What did SHE think? Did things look lively enough? And how about herself — was she enjoying it?

  Stupidly Annixter drove the question home again, at his wits’ end as to how to make conversation. Hilma protested volubly she would never forget this night, adding:

  “Dance! Oh, you don’t know how I love it! I didn’t know myself. I could dance all night and never stop once!”

  Annixter was smitten with uneasiness. No doubt this “promenading” was not at all to her taste. Wondering what kind of a spectacle he was about to make of himself, he exclaimed:

  “Want to dance now?”

  “Oh, yes!” she returned.

  They paused in their walk, and Hilma, facing him, gave herself into his arms. Annixter shut his teeth, the perspiration starting from his forehead. For five years he had abandoned dancing. Never in his best days had it been one of his accomplishments.

  They hesitated a moment, waiting to catch the time from the musicians. Another couple bore down upon them at precisely the wrong moment, jostling them out of step. Annixter swore under his breath. His arm still about the young woman, he pulled her over to one corner.

  “Now,” he muttered, “we’ll try again.”

  A second time, listening to the one-two-three, one-two-three cadence of the musicians, they endeavoured to get under way. Annixter waited the fraction of a second too long and stepped on Hilma’s foot. On the third attempt, having worked out of the corner, a pair of dancers bumped into them once more, and as they were recovering themselves another couple caromed violently against Annixter so that he all but lost his footing. He was in a rage. Hilma, very embarrassed, was trying not to laugh, and thus they found themselves, out in the middle of the floor, continually jostled from their position, holding clumsily to each other, stammering excuses into one another’s faces, when Delaney arrived.

  He came with the suddenness of an explosion. There was a commotion by the doorway, a rolling burst of oaths, a furious stamping of hoofs, a wild scramble of the dancers to either side of the room, and there he was. He had ridden the buckskin at a gallop straight through the doorway and out into the middle of the floor of the barn.

  Once well inside, Delaney hauled up on the cruel spade-bit, at the same time driving home the spurs, and the buckskin, without halting in her gait, rose into the air upon her hind feet, and coming down again with a thunder of iron hoofs upon the hollow floor, lashed out with both heels simultaneously, her back arched, her head between her knees. It was the running buck, and had not Delaney been the hardest buster in the county, would have flung him headlong like a sack of sand. But he eased off the bit, gripping the mare’s flanks with his knees, and the buckskin, having long since known her master, came to hand quivering, the bloody spume dripping from the bit upon the slippery floor.

  Delaney had arrayed himself with painful elaboration, determined to look the part, bent upon creating the impression, resolved that his appearance at least should justify his reputation of being “bad.” Nothing was lacking — neither the campaign hat with upturned brim, nor the dotted blue handkerchief knotted behind the neck, nor the heavy gauntlets stitched with red, nor — this above all — the bear-skin “chaparejos,” the hair trousers of the mountain cowboy, the pistol holster low on the thigh. But for the moment this holster was empty, and in his right hand, the hammer at full cock, the chamber loaded, the puncher flourished his teaser, an army Colt’s, the lamplight dully reflected in the dark blue steel.

  In a second of time the dance was a bedlam. The musicians stopped with a discord, and the middle of the crowded floor bared itself instantly. It was like sand blown from off a rock; the throng of guests, carried by an impulse that was not to be resisted, bore back against the sides of the barn, overturning chairs, tripping upon each other, falling down, scrambling to their feet again, stepping over one another, getting behind each other, diving under chairs, flattening themselves against the wall — a wild, clamouring pell-mell, blind, deaf, panic-stricken; a confused tangle of waving arms, torn muslin, crushed flowers, pale faces, tangled legs, that swept in all directions back from the centre of the floor, leaving Annixter and Hilma, alone, deserted, their arms about each other, face to face with Delaney, mad with alcohol, bursting with remembered insult, bent on evil, reckless of results.

  After the first scramble for safety, the crowd fell quiet for the fraction of an instant, glued to the walls, afraid to stir, struck dumb and motionless with surprise and terror, and in the instant’s silence that followed Annixter, his eyes on Delaney, muttered rapidly to Hilma:

  “Get back, get away to one side. The fool MIGHT shoot.”

  There was a second’s respite afforded while Delaney occupied himself in quieting the buckskin, and in that second of time, at this moment of crisis, the wonderful thing occurred. Hilma, turning from Delaney, her hands clasped on Annixter’s arm, her eyes meeting his, exclaimed:

  “You, too!”

  And that was all; but to Annixter it was a revelation. Never more alive to his surroundings, never more observant, he suddenly understood. For the briefest lapse of time he and Hilma looked deep into each other’s eyes, and from that moment on, Annixter knew that Hilma cared.

  The whole matter was brief as the snapping of a finger. Two words and a glance and all was done. But as though nothing had occurred, Annixter pushed Hilma from him, repeating harshly:

  “Get back, I tell you. Don’t you see he’s got a gun? Haven’t I enough on my hands without you?”

  He loosed her clasp and his eyes once more on Delaney, moved diagonally backwards toward the side of the barn, pushing Hilma from him. In the end he thrust her away so sharply that she gave back with a long stagger; somebody caught her arm and drew her in, leaving Annixter alone once more in the middle of the floor, his hands in his coat pockets, watchful, alert, facing his enemy.

  But the cow-puncher was not ready to come to grapples yet. Fearless, his wits gambolling under the lash of the alcohol, he wished to make the most of the occasion, maintaining the suspense, playing for the gallery. By touches of the hand and knee he kept the buckskin in continual, nervous movement, her hoofs clattering, snorting, tossing her head, while he, himself, addressing himself to Annixter, poured out a torrent of invective.

  “Well, strike me blind if it ain’t old Buck Annixter! He was going to show me off Quien Sabe at the toe of his boot, was he? Well, here’s your chance, — with the ladies to see you do it. Gives a dance, does he, high-falutin’ hoe-down in his barn and forgets to invite his old broncho-bustin’ friend. But his friend don’t forget him; no, he don’t. He remembers little things, does his broncho-bustin’ friend. Likes to see a dance hisself on occasion, his friend does. Comes anyhow, trustin’ his welcome will be hearty; just to see old Buck Annixter dance, just t
o show Buck Annixter’s friends how Buck can dance — dance all by hisself, a little hen-on-a-hot-plate dance when his broncho-bustin’ friend asks him so polite. A little dance for the ladies, Buck. This feature of the entertainment is alone worth the price of admission. Tune up, Buck. Attention now! I’ll give you the key.”

  He “fanned” his revolver, spinning it about his index finger by the trigger-guard with incredible swiftness, the twirling weapon a mere blur of blue steel in his hand. Suddenly and without any apparent cessation of the movement, he fired, and a little splinter of wood flipped into the air at Annixter’s feet.

  “Time!” he shouted, while the buckskin reared to the report. “Hold on — wait a minute. This place is too light to suit. That big light yonder is in my eyes. Look out, I’m going to throw lead.”

  A second shot put out the lamp over the musicians’ stand. The assembled guests shrieked, a frantic, shrinking quiver ran through the crowd like the huddling of frightened rabbits in their pen.

  Annixter hardly moved. He stood some thirty paces from the buster, his hands still in his coat pockets, his eyes glistening, watchful. Excitable and turbulent in trifling matters, when actual bodily danger threatened he was of an abnormal quiet.

  “I’m watching you,” cried the other. “Don’t make any mistake about that. Keep your hands in your COAT pockets, if you’d like to live a little longer, understand? And don’t let me see you make a move toward your hip or your friends will be asked to identify you at the morgue to-morrow morning. When I’m bad, I’m called the Undertaker’s Friend, so I am, and I’m that bad to-night that I’m scared of myself. They’ll have to revise the census returns before I’m done with this place. Come on, now, I’m getting tired waiting. I come to see a dance.”

  “Hand over that horse, Delaney,” said Annixter, without raising his voice, “and clear out.”

  The other affected to be overwhelmed with infinite astonishment, his eyes staring. He peered down from the saddle.