the U P Trail (1940)

by Grey, Zane

"No, I didn't," replied Neale. He remembered Casey, the flagman, but probably there were many Caseys in that camp.

  "There wus a foight, out on the line, yisteddy," went on the fellow, "an' the dom' redskins chased the gang to the troop-train. Phwat do you think? A bullet knocked Casey's pipe out of his mouth, as he wus runnin', an' b'gorra, Casey sthopped fer it an' wus all shot up."

  "Is he dead?" inquired Neale.

  "Not yit. No bullets can't kill Casey."

  "Was his pipe a short, black one?"

  "It wus thot."

  "And did Casey have it everlastingly in his mouth?"

  "He shlept in it."

  Neale knew that particular Casey, and he examined this loquacious Irishman more closely. He recognized him as Pat Shane, one of the trio he had known during the survey in the hills two years ago. The recognition was like a stab to Neale.

  Memory of the Wyoming hills; of the lost Allie Lee; cut him to the quick. Shane had aged greatly. There were scars on his face that Neale had not seen before.

  "Mister, don't I know yez?" leered Shane, studying Neale with bleary eyes.

  Neale did not care to be remembered. The waiter brought his dinner, which turned out to be a poor one at a high price. After eating, Neale went out and began to saunter along the walk. The sun had set and the wind had gone down. There was no flying dust. The street was again crowded with men, but nothing like it had been after the arrival of the train. No one paid much attention to Neale. On that walk he counted nineteen saloons, and probably some of the larger places were of like nature, but not so wide open to the casual glance.

  Neale strolled through the town from end to end, and across the railroad outside the limits, to a high bank, where he sat down. The desert was beautiful away to the west, with its dull, mottled hues backed by gold and purple, with its sweep and heave and notched horizon. Near at hand it seemed drab and bare. He watched a long train of flat and box cars come in, and saw that every car swarmed with soldiers and laborers. The train discharged its load of thousands, and steamed back for more.

  Twilight fell. All hours were difficult for Neale, but twilight was the most unendurable, for it had been the hour Allie Lee loved best, and during which she and Neale had walked hand in hand along the brook, back there in the lovely and beautiful valley in the hills. Neale could not sit still long; he could not rest, nor sleep well, nor work, nor indeed be of any use to himself or to any one, and all because he was haunted and driven by the memory of Allie Lee. And at such quiet hours as this, in the midst of the turmoil he had sought for weeks, a sadness filled his soul, and an eternal remorse. The love that had changed him and the life that had failed him seemed utterly misrelated.

  To and fro he paced on the bare ridge while twilight shadowed. A star twinkled in the west, a night wind began to seep the sand. The desert, vast, hidden, mysterious, yet so free and untrammeled, darkened.

  Lights began to flash up along the streets of Benton, and presently Neale became aware of a low and mounting hum, like a first stir of angry bees.

  The loud and challenging strains of a band drew Neale toward the center of the main street, where men were pouring into a big tent.

  He halted outside and watched. This strident, businesslike, quick- step music and the sight of the men and women attracted thereby made Neale realize that

  Benton had arisen in a day and would die out in a night; its life would be swift, vile, and deadly.

  When the band ceased a sudden roar came from inside the big tent, a commingling of the rough voices of men and the humming of wheels, the clinking of glasses and gold, the rattling of dice, the hoarse call of a dealer, the shuffling of feet; a roar pierced now and then by the shrill, vacant, soundless laugh of a woman.

  It was that last sound which almost turned Neale away from the door. He shunned women. But this place fascinated him. He went in under the flaming lamps.

  The place was crowded; a huge tent stretched over a framework of wood, and it was full of people, din, smoke, movement. The floor was good planking covered with sand. Walking was possible only round the narrow aisles between groups at tables.

  Neale's sauntering brought him to the bar. It had to him a familiar look, and afterward he learned that it had been brought complete from St. Louis, where he had seen it in a saloon. It seemed a huge, glittering, magnificent monstrosity in that coarse, bare setting. Wide mirrors, glistening bottles, paintings of nude women, row after row of polished glasses, a brawny, villainous barkeeper, with three attendants, all working fast, a line of rough, hoarse men five deep before the counter; all these things constituted a scene that had the aspects of a city and yet was redolent with an atmosphere no city ever knew. The drinkers were not all rough men. There were elegant black-hatted, frock-coated men of leisure in that line; not directors and commissioners and traveling guests of the

  U. P. R., but gentlemen of chance. Gamblers!

  The band now began a different strain of dance music. Neale slowly worked his way around. At the end of the big tent a wide door opened into another big room; a dance-hall, full of dancers.

  Neale had seen nothing like this in the other construction camps.

  A ball was in progress. Just now it was merry, excited, lively. Neale got inside and behind the row of crowded benches; he stood up against a post to watch.

  Probably two-hundred people were in the hall, most of them sitting. How singular, it struck Neale, to see good-looking, bare-armed and bare-necked young women dancing there, and dancing well! There were other women; painted, hollow-eyed; sad wrecks of womanhood. The male dancers were young men, as years counted, mostly unfamiliar with the rhythmic motion of feet to a tune, and they bore the rough stamp of soldiers and laborers. But there were others, as there had been before the bar, who wore their clothes differently, who had a different poise and swing; young men, like Neale, whose earlier years had known some of the graces of society. They did not belong there; the young women did not belong there. The place seemed unreal. This was a merry scene, apparently with little sign, at that moment, of what it actually meant. Neale sensed its undercurrent.

  He left the dance-hall. Of the gambling games, he liked best both to watch and to play poker. It had interest for him. The winning or losing of money was not of great moment. Poker was not all chance or luck, such as the roll of a ball, the turn of a card, or the facing up of dice. Presently he became one of an interested group round a table watching four men play poker.

  One, a gambler in black, immaculate in contrast to his companions, had a white, hard, expressionless face, with eyes of steel and thin lips. His hands were wonderful. Probably they never saw the sunlight, certainly no labor. They were as swift as light, too swift for the glance of an eye. But when he dealt the cards he was slow, careful, deliberate. The stakes were gold, and the largest heap lay in front of him. One of his opponents was a giant of a fellow, young, with hulking shoulders, heated face, and broken nose; a desperado if Neale ever saw one. The other two players called this strapping brute Fresno. The little man with a sallow face like a wolf was evidently too intent on the game to look up. He appeared to be losing. Beside his small pile of gold stood an empty tumbler. The other and last player was a huge, bull-necked man whom Neale had seen before. It was difficult to place him, but after studying the red cheeks and heavy, drooping mustache, and hearing the loud voice, he recognized him as a boss of graders; a head boss. Presently the sallow-faced player called him Mull, and then Neale remembered him well.

  Several of the watchers round this table lounged away, leaving a better vantage-place for Neale.

  "May I sit in the game?" he inquired, during a deal.

  "Certainly," replied the gambler.

  "Naw. We gotta nough," said the sallow man, and he glanced from Neale to the gambler as if he suspected them. Gamblers often worked in pairs.

  "I just came to Benton," added Neale, reading the man's thought. "I never saw the gentleman in black before."

  "What th' hell!" rumbled Mull, grabbing up h
is cards.

  Fresno leered.

  The gambler leaned back and his swift white hands flashed. Neale believed he had a derringer up each sleeve. A wrong word now would precipitate a fight.

  "Excuse me," said Neale, hastily. "I don't want to make trouble. I just said I never saw this gentleman before."

  "Nor I him," returned the gambler, courteously. "My name is Place Hough and my word is not doubted."

  Neale had heard of this famous Mississippi River gambler. So, evidently, had the other three players. The game proceeded, and when it came to Hough's deal Mull bet hard and lost all. His big, hairy hands shook. He looked at Fresno and the other fellow, but not at Hough.

  "I'm broke," he said, gruffly, and got up from the bench.

  He strode past Hough, and behind him; then as if suddenly, instinctively, answering to fury, he whipped out a gun.

  Neale, just as instinctively, grasped the rising hand.

  "Hold on, there!" he called. "Would you shoot a man in the back?"

  And Neale, whose grip was powerful, caused the other to drop the gun. Neale kicked it aside. Fresno got up.

  "Whar's your head, Mull?" he growled. "Git out of this!"

  Attention had been attracted to Mull. Some one picked up the gun. The sallow-faced man rose, holding out his hand for it. Hough did not even turn around.

  "I was goin' to hold him up," said Mull. He glared fiercely at Neale, wrenched his hand free, and with his comrades disappeared in the crowd.

  The gambler rose and shook down his sleeves. The action convinced Neale that he had held a little gun in each hand. "I saw him draw," he said. "You saved his life! ... Nevertheless, I appreciate your action. My name is Place Hough. Will you drink with me?"

  "Sure.... My name is Neale."

  They approached the bar and drank together.

  "A railroad man, I take it?" asked Hough.

  "I was. I'm foot-loose now."

  A fleeting smile crossed the gambler's face. "Benton is bad enough, without you being foot-loose."

  "All these camps are tough," replied Neale.

  "I was in North Platte, Kearney, Cheyenne, and Medicine Bow during their rise," said Hough. "They were tough. But they were not Benton. And the next camp west, which will be the last; it will be Roaring Hell. What will be its name?"

  "Why is Benton worse?" inquired Neale.

  "The big work is well under way now, with a tremendous push from behind. There are three men for every man's work. That lays off two men each day. Drunk or dead. The place is wild; far off. There's gold; hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold dumped off the trains. Benton has had one payday. That day was the sight of my life! ... Then... there are women."

  "I saw a few in the dance-hall," replied Neale.

  "Then you haven't looked in at Stanton's?"

  "Who's he?"

  "Stanton is not a man," replied Hough.

  Neale glanced inquiringly over his glass.

  "Beauty Stanton, they call her," went on Hough. "I saw her in New Orleans years ago when she was a very young woman; notorious then. She had the beauty and she led the life... did Beauty Stanton."

  Neale made no comment, and Hough, turning to pay for the drinks, was accosted by several men. They wanted to play poker.

  "Gentlemen, I hate to take your money," he said. "But I never refuse to sit in a game. Neale, will you join us?"

  They found a table just vacated. Neale took two of the three strangers to be prosperous merchants or ranchers from the Missouri country. The third was a gambler by profession. Neale found himself in unusually sharp company. He did not have a great deal of money. So in order to keep clear-headed he did not drink. And he began to win, not by reason of excellent judgment, but because he was lucky. He had good cards all the time, and part of the time very strong ones. It struck him presently that these remarkable hands came during Hough's deal, and he wondered if the gambler was deliberately manipulating the cards to his advantage. At any rate, he won hundreds of dollars.

  "Mr. Neale, do you always hold such cards?" asked one of the men.

  "Why, sure," replied Neale. He could not help being excited and elated.

  "Well, he can't be beat," said the other.

  "Lucky at cards, unlucky in love," remarked the third of the trio. "I pass."

  Hough was looking straight at Neale when this last remark was made. And Neale suddenly lost his smile, his flush. The gambler dropped his glance.

  "Play the game and don't get personal in your remarks," he said. "This is poker."

  Neale continued to win, but his excitement did not return, nor his elation. A random word from a strange man had power to sting him. Unlucky in love! Alas!

  What was luck, gold; anything to him any more!

  By the time the game was ended Neale felt a friendly interest in Hough that was difficult to define or explain; and the conviction gained upon him that the gambler had deliberately dealt him those remarkable cards.

  "Let's see," said Hough, consulting his watch. "Twelve o'clock! Stanton's will be humming. We'll go in."

  Neale did not want to show his reluctance, yet he did hot know just what to say.

  After all, he was drifting. So he went.

  It seemed that all the visitors who had been in the gambling-hall had gravitated to this other dance-hall. The entrance appeared to be through a hotel. At least

  Neale saw the hotel sign. The building was not made of canvas, but painted wood in sections, like the scenes of a stage. Men were coming and going; the hum of music and gaiety came from the rear; there were rugs, pictures, chairs; this place, whatever its nature, made pretensions. Neale did not see any bar.

  They entered a big room full of people, apparently doing nothing. From the opposite side, where the dance-hall opened, came a hum that seemed at once music and discordance, gaiety and wildness, with a strange, carrying undertone raw and violent.

  Hough led Neale across the room to where he could look into the dance-hall.

  Neale saw a mad, colorful flash and whirl of dancers.

  Hough whispered in Neale's ear: "Stanton throws the drunks out of here."

  No, it appeared the dancers were not drunk with liquor. But there was evidence of other drunkenness than that of the bottle. The floor was crowded. Looking at the mass, Neale could only see whirling, heated faces, white, clinging arms, forms swaying round and round, a wild rhythm without grace, a dance in which music played no real part, where men and women were lost. Neale had never seen a sight like that. He was stunned. There were no souls here. Only beasts of men, and women for whom there was no name. If death stalked in that camp, as Hough had intimated, and hell was there, then the two could not meet too soon.

  If the mass and the spirit and the sense of the scene dismayed Neale, the living beings, the creatures, the women; for the men were beyond him; confounded him with pity, consternation, and stinging regret. He had loved two women; his mother and

  Allie; so well that he ought to love all women because they were of the same sex.

  Yet how impossible! Had these creatures any sex? Yet they were; at least many were; young, gay, pretty, wild, full of life. They had swift suppleness, smiles, flashing eyes, a look at once intent and yet vacant. But few onlookers would have noticed that. The eyes for which the dance was meant saw the mad whirl, the bare flesh, the brazen glances, the close embrace.

  The music ended, the dancers stopped, the shuffling ceased. There were no seats unoccupied, so the dancers walked around or formed in groups.

  "Well, I see Ruby has spotted you," observed Hough.

  Neale did not gather exactly what the gambler meant, yet he associated the remark with a girl dressed in red who had paused at the door with others and looked directly at Neale. At that moment some one engaged Hough's attention.

  The girl would have been striking in any company. Neale thought her neither beautiful nor pretty, but he kept on looking. Her arms were bare, her dress cut very low. Her face offered vivid contrast to the carmine on her li
ps. It was a round, soft face, with narrow eyes, dark, seductive, bold. She tilted her head to one side and suddenly smiled at Neale. It startled him. It was a smile with the shock of a bullet. It held Neale, so that when she crossed to him he could not move. He felt rather than saw Hough return to his side. The girl took hold of the lapels of Neale's coat. She looked up. Her eyes were dark, with what seemed red shadows deep in them. She had white teeth. The carmined lips curled in a smile; a smile, impossible to believe, of youth and sweetness, that disclosed a dimple in her cheek. She was pretty. She was holding him, pulling him a little toward her.

  "I like you!" she exclaimed.

  The suddenness of the incident, the impossibility of what was happening, made

  Neale dumb. He felt her, saw her as he were in a dream. Her face possessed a peculiar fascination. The sleepy, seductive eyes; the provoking half-smile, teasing, alluring; the red lips, full and young through the carmine paint; all of her seemed to breathe a different kind of a power than he had ever before experienced; unspiritual, elemental, strong as some heady wine. She represented youth, health, beauty, terribly linked with evil wisdom, and a corrupt and irresistible power, possessing a base and mysterious affinity for man.

  The breath and the charm and the pestilence of her passed over Neale like fire.

  "Sweetheart, will you dance with me?" she asked, with her head tilted to one side and her half-open veiled eyes on his.

  "No," replied Neale. He put her from him, gently but coldly.

  She showed slow surprise. "Why not? Can't you dance? You don't look like a gawk."

  "Yes, I can dance," replied Neale.

  "Then will you dance with me?" she retorted, and red spots showed through the white on her cheeks.

  "I told you no," replied Neale.

  His reply transported her into a sudden fury. She swung her hand viciously.

  Hough caught it, saving Neale from a sounding slap in the face.

  "Ruby, don't lose your temper," remonstrated the gambler.

  "He insulted me!" she cried, passionately.

  "He did not. Ruby, you're spoiled; "

  "Spoiled; hell! ... Didn't he look at me, flirt with me? That's why I asked him to dance. Then he insulted me. I'll make Cordy shoot him up for it."