by Max Brand
There were two larger hotels in Clayrock, but they were not like the Parker Place. It stood off a bit by itself, on a hummock, so that it was able to surround itself with a narrow wedge of lawn or garden, and it had a beaming look of hospitality. Tiny Lew Sherry did not wait for a second thought, but turned in the head of his mount toward the stable. There he saw his horse placed at a well-filled rack, and went into the hostelry.
No sooner did he push open the door than he heard a chorus sung in loud, cheerful voices—the chorus of a range song, which made him feel at home at once. He went into the bar. A dozen cowpunchers reached out hands for him, but Sherry broke their grips and went on into the gaming room. He knew that he was too sober to drink with fellows such as these.
In the rear room there was not a great deal of light except for three bright pools of it over the three tables that were occupied, but there was comparative quiet. That is to say, the roar from the bar was like the noise of a sea breaking on a hollow beach. It was so loud that the bartender had to ask twice what he would have.
Sherry had no chance to answer for himself. From the next table rose a slender form—a tall and graceful man who tapped the bartender’s shoulder. “Not the regular poison, but some of mine,” he said. “I can see that you’ve made a voyage and have just come to port, partner. And a good thirst like that shouldn’t be thrown away on the filth they have behind the bar, out yonder.”
Sherry was willing to agree. He thanked the stranger and asked him to sit down; as a matter of fact, he already was seating himself, uninvited.
The drinks were brought. The stranger raised his glass, and Sherry saw that the lean, brown hand of the other shook a little.
“Drink deep,” he said.
And Sherry drank, but his mind was troubled.
II
He was troubled for several reasons, any of which would have been good enough, but the main one was a sort of savage keenness in the eye of the other. He was a lank man, with a yellowish skin, and a proud, restless way of turning his head from side to side, and in this head there was the most active and blazing pair of eyes that Sherry ever had seen.
“You hail from where, stranger?” asked this fellow.
“I’ve been punching cows for the UX outfit,” said Sherry. “What’s your line?”
“You punch cows?” said the other, dwelling on this answer before he made his own reply. “I’ve seen my storms, but I’ve never had to duck into such a rotten port as that to weather them. Cowpunching!”
He laughed shortly, and the gorge of Sherry rose. But, like most big men, it took a long time to warm him thoroughly with anger. He was willing to waive the peculiarities of a stranger, particularly since he was drinking this man’s liquor.
“You’ve never been a sailor?” the host asked.
“No,” said Sherry.
“You’ve never lived, then,” said the other.
“What’s your name?” said Sherry.
“My name is Harry Capper. What’s yours?”
“Sherry is my name. I’ll let you into the know. Some of the boys around here would take it pretty hard if they heard you at work slamming punching as a trade.”
“Would they? Would they?” snapped Capper, his buried eyes blazing more brightly than ever.
“You have to do the thing you find to do,” said Sherry with good humor. “Besides, you couldn’t sail a ship through this sort of dry land.”
He laughed a little at his own remark, but Capper refused to be softened.
“I thought that you looked like a man who would be doing a man’s work. There’s no work off the sea. There’s no life off the sea . . . except on an island.”
He laughed in turn, with a sort of drawling sneer. Sherry made up his mind that the wits of Harry Capper were more than a little unsettled.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Capper. “I’ll spot any landsman ten years, and show him more life in half the time at sea. Rough and smooth. Into the wind and with it. What does a landsman ever get a chance to do? But suppose you have four thousand tons of steel under you, and the steel loaded with a cargo, and the engines crashing and smashing, and a rotten crew to work the craft, and leagues between you and your port, and a fortune if you get to it . . . well, that’s living!”
“You’ve commanded a ship?”
“I never sailed in command, but I’ve been first officer to bring more than one ship home. You don’t always finish where you start. That’s one thing about the sea, too.”
Again he laughed, and more than ever Sherry was convinced that this man’s brain was addled. He would have liked, too, to hear something about the steps by which the other had risen to the command of vessels when he sailed in subordinate roles. He had no opportunity, for suddenly Capper started to his feet.
He sat down again, almost at once. His nostrils quivered, and his eyes flared more villainously than ever; he was staring at Sherry with an almost murderous intensity as he said: “I’ll show you some of the things that you learn at sea. Look at the fellow just coming into the room. He looks like a swell, don’t he?”
Sherry saw a man of middle age come into the room and stand for a moment near the door, drawing off his gloves slowly. He had a fine, thoughtful face, a most magnificent forehead, and the whole bearing of a quiet gentleman who lives more inside himself than in the world.
“You’d say that a fine gentleman like that wouldn’t talk to a bird like Harry Capper, beachcomber and what-not?”
“And will he?” asked Sherry, beginning to feel a good deal of disgust.
“I think he will . . . if I ask him,” said Capper. “You’ll see, now.” He turned suddenly in his chair. “Hello,” he said. “Come over and have a drink with me.”
The newcomer started a little at the sound of this voice, but now he replied courteously: “I’m not drinking, Capper. Thank you.”
The sailor laughed in his unusually disagreeable manner. “You’d better think again,” he said with a great deal of ugliness.
The other hesitated for a moment, then he came to the table and sat down.
“This here is by name of Sherry,” said Capper. “And this is Oliver Wilton, an old messmate of mine. Ain’t you, Oliver?”
The other made a little gesture that might have expressed assent, or simple irritation.
“Sure, he’s a messmate of mine,” said Capper. “We’ve sailed around the world together. We got a lot of the same charts in our heads. We’ve seen places. We’ve seen Bougainville Island, and Choiseul. And Treasury Island, and Ronongo, and Buena Vista, and San Cristobal. Have we seen them, mate?”
He reached across and slapped the shoulder of Oliver Wilton, and the latter winced from the touch of the sailor. He had refused whiskey and was merely making a pretense of sipping his beer, while he watched Capper with an extraordinary expression that, Sherry thought, contained elements of disgust, fear, and keen anger.
And the surprise of Sherry grew. It was beyond words amazing that a gentleman should submit to such familiarity from such a fellow as Capper.
“But Oliver left the sea,” said Capper. “You don’t mind if I call you Oliver, do you, Oliver?”
“I suppose not,” said the other.
Capper grinned with delight at the torment he was inflicting. “Of course, you don’t mind,” he said. “Not a good fellow and a rare sport like you . . . why, the things that we got to remember together would fill a book, and a good fat book, at that! Am I right, old man?”
Oliver Wilton bit his lip.
“Close-mouthed old boy he is,” said Capper, “but always willing to stand his round of drinks. Slow in the talk, but fast in the drinking was always his way.”
At this broad hint, Wilton presently ordered a round of drinks, and Sherry could not help noticing the curious glance that the waiter cast at the sailor and at Wilton who would sit at such a table.
“You’re not taking more than you can hold?” said Wilton to the sailor.
“Me?” chuckled Cappe
r. “I always got room in my hold for the right kind of goods to be stowed away in an extra corner. Always! So bring on the new shipment.”
The drinks were duly ordered, and then Wilton said suddenly: “I’ll see that they fill out of the right bottle. They have a way of substituting in this place.” He got up and hurried from the table.
Capper leaned back in his chair, his face filled with malicious satisfaction. “He’s a rum old boy, eh?” he said. “But he’s on the hook. Oh, he can wriggle if he wants to, but he can’t get off the hook. It’s stuck into his gills. I suppose,” he went on, his face flushing with a sort of angry triumph, “that there’s nothing that he wouldn’t give me, if I asked for it. I start with asking for a drink, but I might ask more. Oh, I might ask a whole cargo from him. But he’s got that good a heart that he never could turn down an old shipmate.”
He laughed again in that peculiarly disagreeable manner of his, and Sherry stirred in his chair. He had had enough of this company and he determined to leave after the present round. Moreover, Pete Lang would be expecting his return before long.
Wilton came back, himself carrying the tray.
“There you are,” said Capper. “I told you he was a rare old sport. Pay for the drinks and play waiter to bring ’em, too. That’s his way. Big-hearted and an open hand for all. That’s him, always.”
Wilton set down the drinks.
He seemed much more cheerful, now, although Sherry could not help suspecting that there was something assumed in the present good nature. But he sat down and offered the glasses with a smile.
“Good luck and good health to you, Capper,” he said, “and to you.”
“Why,” said Capper, leaning a little over the table, “that’s a kind thing, sir. A mighty kind way of putting things. And here’s to you, with all my heart.”
It seemed that Capper was genuinely moved by the cheerful manner of the man he had been tormenting, and he showed his emotion in his voice.
Sherry, in the meantime, with a nod to the others, picked up a glass, in haste to be done and away.
Half the contents were down his throat before he heard the exclamation of Wilton: “Hello! That’s not your glass!”
At that, he lowered the glass. It had had rather a bitter taste, he thought. Already Capper had finished the glass he had taken up, and, hearing the alarmed exclamation of Wilton, he now snatched the one from the hand of Sherry and swallowed off the contents, saying, with his brutal laugh: “I’ve got to have my own, of course.”
Sherry, half disgusted, stared at Capper. His temper had been frayed thin by the repeated insolence of the other, and now the striking muscles up and down his arm began to tighten.
“I ain’t had enough drinks,” said Capper suddenly, “to make me feel so dizzy. I . . .” He half rose from his chair and slumped heavily back into it, his head canting over upon one shoulder.
“Gents,” said Sherry, “I’ve gotta leave you. I’ll pay for a round, but then I have to start back . . .”
He rose in turn, and then a stunning darkness struck him back into his chair and he heard a voice, apparently from a great distance, saying: “Here is a pair of helpless drunks. What will you do with them?”
III
Flashes of sense returned to Sherry, thereafter. He knew that he was being dragged, half carried, to another place. He knew that he was allowed to slump heavily to the floor. And after that, he had a sense of cold and darkness. When he was able to get to his knees, his eyes were still half open, half shut, and it was at this time that he heard the crash of a revolver, inhaled the pungent fumes of burned powder, and was dimly aware of the red spitting of fire.
That roused him fully and quickly to his senses, and, starting to his feet, he stumbled upon a revolver that lay upon the floor before him. He picked up the gun and found the barrel warm to his touch, and a wisp of smoke floated in the deep, narrow gullet of the weapon. It was his own revolver! He knew it by four significant notches that he had filed into the handles of it for certain reasons best known to himself.
Startled by this, he look around, and then he saw the stranger, Capper, lying on his side against the wall, with a crimson trickle of blood down his face, and an ugly, purple-rimmed blotch on his forehead. He was dead, and Sherry knew it at a glance. He did not go near the dead body, but he looked wildly about him. There was only one means of escape, but that appeared a simple one—a large window at the farther side of the room. To this he ran. It was locked!
But what was that to Sherry? Outside, he saw the ground; by fortune he had been placed upon the lowest floor of the hotel, and he was a mere stride from freedom.
A hand struck at the door.
“What the dickens is up in there?” asked a rough voice.
For an answer Sherry took his Colt by the barrel and with the heavy butt of the gun he smashed out a panel of the window. A second stroke brought out three more, and a third opened a gap through which he could easily make his exit, but at this moment the door was sent open with a crash.
Sherry whirled against the wall, his Colt ready. It was not the first time that he had had to fight his way out from a tight corner, but apparently the hotelkeepers at Clayrock were more thoroughly prepared for trouble than the hotelkeepers of other communities. No fewer than five men charged through the doorway, and Sherry, in his first glance, saw a sawed-off shotgun—most convincing of all persuaders—a rifle, and three leveled revolvers.
Courage is admirable, and fighting skill is delightful in its full employment, but even a disposition such as that of Sherry could see that this was not the time to strike back. It was better to be armed with a conscious innocence than to use his gun.
“Stick up your hands!” came the grim order.
And he obeyed quietly.
They found the dead body at once. There was an outbreak of exclamations. They herded Sherry into a corner of the room and took his gun away from him; an armed guard stood upon either side, while the other three lifted the dead man and placed him on the bed.
“He’ll never be deader in a thousand years than he is now,” pronounced one who Sherry recognized as the waiter who just had served him.
“And what’ll we do with this bird?” asked another.
“Stick him in the jail.”
“Why in the jail? Here’s his gun warm in his hand. Judge Rope is about good enough for this bum.”
“Bill is right,” said another. Then: “What you gotta say about this, stranger?”
Before Sherry could speak, a quiet voice said through the shattered window: “If you boys will listen to me, I think I can explain this.”
“It’s Mister Wilton,” said the bartender, attempting to convey an air of much respect.
They wrenched open the rest of the broken window, and Wilton climbed easily into the room. “I was half afraid that something like this would happen,” he said. “That man is entirely innocent . . . unless you want to hang a man for self-defense. I knew that dead man. His name was Capper. He sailed before the mast on a ship that I commanded. And when he sent up word to me today that he was in town, I came down to see him. He was always a wild, reckless fellow. A little wrong in the head, as a matter of fact. I was afraid that he might get into mischief, and so I came down to take what care of him I could. I even had a drink with him . . . and it was the drink that polished off the pair of them. When they were carried in here, I wanted to follow, but the door was locked. So I walked around into the garden to look through the window. A very lucky thing that I did. I saw Capper, like a mad creature, as he was, throw himself at this fellow while he was still half conscious. He barely had sense enough to defend himself. You can see the bruise on his forehead, where Capper struck him. Capper was a madman. Mad with drink, no doubt. He managed to tear the gun out of the holster of Sherry, here. But that brought Sherry out of his whiskey sleep. He grabbed the gun back and knocked Capper away, and when Capper started to rush in again . . . he shot him dead.”
He made a pause here. Silence an
d then a murmur of surprise followed this statement.
“Funny, I didn’t hear no racket in here,” said one.
“They weren’t shouting,” said Wilton. “Their brains were too filled with whiskey fumes for that. And, after all, the finish came in about two seconds . . . before I could get in through the window, in fact. Sherry seemed to come to his senses. He saw the dead body and made for the window, and started smashing it open. He saw, of course, that the case looked black for him, and he didn’t know that he’d had a witness who could clear him.”
There was a general murmur again; it was of pure assent except for one bearded man, wearing a heavy plaid raincoat. He was a rough customer, with a growth of beard of several days’ ripeness upon his chin, and overhanging brows, from beneath which he peered earnestly out at the others. Now he advanced upon big Lew Sherry and stood before him with his legs well braced, and his hands upon his hips.
“Boys,” he said, “before you let this gent loose, I want to tell you a few things about him.”
“Go on,” said the bartender, who seemed to be in charge of the crowd.
But others were gathering, and the room was full of pushing people.
“If a dog bites once,” said the man in the raincoat, “you call it bad luck and let him go. If he bites twice, you shoot him, I take it?”
“Go on,” said the bartender. “What are you driving at?”
“I’ll show you in a minute.” He turned back upon Sherry. “You know me, Tiny?” he asked.
Sherry had worn a dark scowl from the moment he first eyed the other. He hesitated now, but at length he said: “I know you, Jack.”
“And how did you come to know me?” asked the other.
“By breaking your jaw for you,” said Sherry. “I see you wear a lump on the side of your ugly face still.”
The man of the raincoat grinned in a lopsided fashion. “And how did you come to bust my jaw?” he asked, while all grew hushed with interest, listening to this strange conversation.
