by Harold Titus
CHAPTER XX
The Last Stand
Even the vibrating guitar strings seemed to be stilled suddenly. ForVB, an abrupt hush crushed down on the scene. He felt the eyes as, pairafter pair, they followed those of the Mexican and gazed at him; eventhe man slumbering in his chair awoke, raised his head, and stared athim sleepily. He stood in the doorway, leaning lightly against thelogs, returning each gaze in turn.
"Hello, VB!" one of the trio before the bar said.
"Hello, Tom!" answered the newcomer--and stepped into the room.
Then what hush had fallen--real or imaginary--lifted and the talk wenton, the game progressed.
Perhaps the talk was not fully sincere, possibly the thoughts of thespeakers were not always on their words, for every man in the placestole glances at the tall young fellow as he moved slowly about theroom.
They had known for months the fight that was going on up there on JedAvery's ranch. They knew that the man who had mastered the Captain andset his name forever in the green annals of the country had beenfighting to command himself against the attacks of the stuff theypeddled here in the saloon at Ranger. They knew how he had fought offtemptation, avoided contact with whisky--and now, late at night, he hadwalked slowly into the heart of the magnet that had exerted such aninfluence on him. So they watched VB as he moved about.
The sharp lights from those black bottles! Like snakes' eyes, theycommanded his--and, when this power had been exerted, they seemed tostab the brain that directed sight at them. In the first few stepsacross the rough floor VB answered their call to look a half dozentimes, and after each turning of his gaze jerked his eyes away in pain.
He did not turn toward the bar--rather, kept close to the wall, passingso near the squatting Mexican that the flap of his chaps brushed theother's knees. The Greaser picked at the strings of his instrumentaimlessly, striking unrelated chords, tinkling on a single string; thencame a few bars from the fandango. His head was tilted to one side anda glittering eye followed the slow-moving figure of Young VB.
By the time the newcomer was halfway toward the poker table the Mexicangot to his feet, sliding his back slowly up the wall until he reached astanding position. Then, for the first time taking his eyes from VB, hestepped lightly toward the door. After a final tinkling chord hadfallen he disappeared, guitar slung under one arm, walking slowly awayfrom the lighted place. But when he was beyond sight of those within,he ran.
VB went on, past the just-awakened man in his chair, close to the pokertable. The players looked up again, first one, with a word ofrecognition; then two spoke at once, and after he had raked in the potthe fourth nodded with a welcoming grunt.
The young fellow leaned a shoulder against the log wall and watched thegame. That is, he looked at it. But continually his fevered memoryretained a vision of those glares from the bottles.
His mind again played crazy tricks, as it always did when the thirstclamored loudly. The rattle of the chips sounded like ice in glasses,and he turned his head quickly toward the bar, following the imaginarysound.
The four men there were just drinking. He followed their movements withwild eyes. The bartender lifted his glass to the level of his foreheadin salute, then drained its contents slowly, steadily, every movementfrom the lifting to the setting down of the empty glass smooth,deliberate--even polished--the movements of a professedly artfuldrinker. The silent man offered no good word--merely lifted the glassand drank, tipping his head but slightly, emptying the glass with anuneven twisting of the wrist, something like an exaggerated tremble.The short man tossed his drink off by elevating the glass quickly tohis lips and throwing his head back with a jerk to empty it into hismouth. The tall man, who talked loudly and motioned much, waved hisdrink through the air to emphasize a declaration, and with an uncertainswoop directed it to his lips. He leaned backward from the hips todrink, and the movement made him reel and grasp the bar for support.
As he had followed the movements of those men, so VB followed thecourse of the stuff they drank down their throats; in imagination, downhis throat, until it hit upon and glossed over that spot which wailedfor soothing!
Oh, how he wanted it! Still, all those months of battling had not beenwithout result. The rigid fight he had made carried him on, even inface of his resolve to yield, and he delayed, put it off just amoment--lying to himself!
He turned back to the game.
"Sit in, VB?" one of the players asked.
"Don't mind."
He dragged another chair to the table, unbuttoned and cast off hisjumper, gave the hat another low tug, and tossed a yellow-backed twentyto the table. The chips were shoved toward him.
"Jacks or better," the dealer said, and shot the cards about the board.
VB won a pot. He bet eagerly on the next and lost. Then he won again.The game interested him for the moment.
"Oh, just one more li'l' drink!" cried the garrulous cowboy at the bar.
VB had passed the opening, went in later, drew three cards, failed tohelp his tens, and hiked the bet! Called, he dropped the hand; and thewinner, showing aces up, stared at the boy who had bet against openerson lone tens. He noticed that VB's hands trembled, and he wondered. Hecould not feel VB's throat. Nor could he hear the careless plea of thesotted rider for just one more drink ringing in VB's burning brain.
A big pot was played and the winner, made happy, said:
"Well, I'll buy a drink."
The bartender, hearing, came to the table.
"What'll it be?" he asked.
"Whisky," said the man on VB's right, and the word went around thecircle.
Then a moment's pause, while the cards fluttered out.
"VB?"
There it was, reaching out for him, holding out its tentacles thatceased to appear as such and became soft, inviting arms. It was thatfor which he had ridden through the night; it was that against which hehad fought month after month until, this night, he realized that afight was useless; it was the one solace left him, for indirectly ithad brought into his life the glorious thing--and wiped it out again.So why hold off? Why refuse?
But those months of fighting! He could not overcome that impetus whichhis subjective self had received from the struggle. Consciously hewanted the stuff--oh, how he wanted it! But deep in him _something_--
"Not now--thanks," he managed to mutter, and clasped his cards tightly.
The bartender turned away, rubbing his chin with one finger, as thoughperplexed. VB dealt, and with lightning agility. He even broke in onthe silence of the playing with senseless chatter when the drinks werebrought. He held his cards high that he might not see the glasses, andwas glad that the men did not drink at once. Nor did they drink formany moments. The opener was raised twice; few cards were drawn. Acheck passed one man, the next bet, the next raised, and VB, the deal,came in.
The opener raised again and the bartender, seeing, stepped across towatch. The drowsy lounger, sensing the drift of the game, rose to lookon.
VB dropped out. He held threes, but felt that they had no place in thatgame. The betting went on and on, up and up, three men bent on raising,the fourth following, intent on having a look, anyhow. VB threw hiscards down and dropped his hands loosely on the table. The back of hisright hand touched a cold object. He looked down quickly. It wasresting against a whisky glass.
"And ten more," a player said.
"Ten--and another ten." More chips rattled into the pile.
His hand stole back and hot fingers reached out to touch with sensitivetips that cool surface. His nostrils worked to catch the scent of thestuff. His hand was around the glass.
"I'm staying."
"You are--for five more."
VB's fingers tightened about the thing, squeezed it in the palm of hishand. It had felt cool at first; now it was like fire. The muscles ofthat arm strove to lift it. His inner mind struggled, declared againstthe intention, weakened, yielded, and--
"Well, I'm through. Fight it out."
The man at VB's right d
ropped his cards in disgust and with a quickmovement reached for his drink.
His nervous, hot hand closed on VB's and their surprised glances met.
"Excuse me," muttered VB.
"Sure!" said the other, surly over his lost stake, and gulped down thewhisky.
Two of the players went broke in that pot. The fourth had a scantremnant of his original stack left, and VB was loser. The two who hadfailed shoved back their hats and yawned, almost simultaneously.
"How about it?" asked the winner, stacking his chips.
"I'm satisfied," said the man at VB's right.
"And VB?"
"Here, too!"
The boy sat back in his chair with a long-drawn breath after shovinghis chips across to be cashed. He pushed his hat back for the firsttime, and a man across the table stared hard as he saw the harriedface. The others were busy, cashing in.
"Just get in, VB?" some one asked.
He heard the question through a tumult. His muscles had alreadycontracted in the first movement of rising; his will already directedhis feet across the room to the bar to answer the call of thosesearching bottle eyes. Inwardly he raged at himself for holding off solong, for wasting those months, for letting that other new thing comeinto his life only to be torn away again; when it all meant mere delay,a drawing out of suffering! Only half consciously he framed the answer:
"Yes, I rode down to-night."
"Goin' on out?"
"What?" he asked, forcing his mind to give heed to the other.
"Goin' on out, or goin' to hang around a while?"
"I don't know." The boy got to his feet, and the reply was given withrare bitterness. "I don't know," he said again, voice mounting. "I maygo out--and I may not. I may hang around a while, and it mayn't takelong. I'm here to finish something I started a long time ago, somethingthat I've been putting off. I'm going to put a stop to a lying,hypocritical existence. I'm--"
He broke off thickly and moved away from the table.
No imagination created a hush this time. On his words the counting ofchips ceased. They looked at him, seeing utter desperation, and notunderstanding.
A face outside that had been pressed close to a window was lowered,darkness hiding the glitter of green eyes and the leering smile oftriumph. A figure slunk along carefully to the corner of the buildingand joined two others.
It was his chance! Rhues was out to get his man this moonlight night,and there was now no danger. Young VB was no longer afraid to take adrink. He would give up his fight, give up his hard-wrung freedom, andwhen drunken men go down, shot in a quarrel, there is always cause. Hehad him now!
VB lurched across the room toward the bar. In mid-floor he paused,turned, and faced those at the poker table.
"Don't mistake me," he said with a grin. "Don't think I'm talkingagainst any man in the country. It's myself, boys--just _me_. I'm theliar, the hypocrite. I've tried to lie myself into being what I nevercan be. I've come out here among you to go by the name of the outfit Iride for. You don't know me, don't even know my name, say nothing of myown rotten self. Well, you're going to know me as I am."
He swung around to face the bar. The bartender pulled nervously on hismustache.
"What'll it be, VB?" he asked, surprised knowledge sending theprofessional question to his lips.
"The first thing you come to," the boy muttered, and grasped the barfor support.
