by Rex Beach
The front room of the roadhouse was deserted save for the slumberingbartender, back-tilted in a corner, his chin upon his chest, and oneother man who sat in the glare of a swing lamp playing solitaire. Itwas, perhaps, three hours after midnight. The last carouser had turnedin. There was no sound save the scream of the black night and the cry ofthe salt wind. At intervals only, when the storm lulled, there came fromthe back room the sound of many men asleep.
I stumbled out from the rear room, heavy-eyed, half clad, and of avicious temper, dressing in sour silence beside the stove.
"Did they wake you up?" the card-player inquired.
"Yes."
"Me, too. I'd rather bunk in with a herd of walrus in the matingseason."
He was a long, slim man, with blue-black hair and a gas-bleached face ofstartling pallor from which glittered two wild and roving eyes thatflitted in and out of my visual line toward, to, and past me with abaffling elusive glimmer like that of jet spangles. His hands wereslender and bony and colorless, but while he talked they worked, eachindependently. They performed queer, wizard antics with thecards--one-handed cuts, rapid, fluttering shuffles and "frame-ups,"after each pass leaving the pile of pasteboards as square-edged and evenas before. While he observed me over his shoulder one hand wandered tosome scattered poker-chips which clicked together beneath his touch intoa solid-ivory column as if separately magnetized. He shuffled and dealtand cut the disks and made them do odd capers like the cards.
"I slept in a menagerie tent once," said he, "but these people have gotit on the animals." He nodded toward the sleeping-quarters.
"The open life seems to make a Pan's pipe out of the human nose," saidI, with disgust.
My indignation was intense and underlaid with a sullen fury at losing myrest. I seized the stranger and led him with me to the open door,saying, roughly, "Listen to that."
The room was large and low, dim-lighted and walled with tiers ofcanvas-bottomed "standees" three high. The floor was a litter of boots,the benches piled with garments. Every bed was full, and the placegroaned with sounds of strangulation, asphyxiation, and otherdisagreeable demises. The bunks were peopled by tortured bodies, whichseemed to cry of throttlings, garrotings, and sundry hideouspunishments. My nervous system, unable to stand it, had risen a-quiver,then shrieked for mercy.
From the nearest sleeper came the most unhappy sounds. He snored atfree-and-easy intervals with the voice of a whistling-buoy in a groundswell--a handsome, resonant intake that died away reluctantly, thenchanged to a loathsome gurgle, as if he blew his breath through a tubeinto a pot of thick liquid. Now and then he smacked his lips and groundhis teeth until the gooseflesh arose on my neck.
"That's the fellow that drove me out," said my new acquaintance as wewent back to our seats beside the stove. "I had the berth below him. Isleep light, anyhow, since I woke up one night down on the TexasPanhandle and found a Chinaman astraddle of my brisket with abutcherknife."
"That must have been nice," said I at random. "What did you do?"
"I doubled up my legs and kicked him into the camp-fire." The strangerwas dealing the cards again, this time into a fanlike, intricatesolitaire much affected by gamblers. "I tried the trick again to-night,but I went wrong. I wanted to stop the swan-song of the guy over myhead, so I lifted up my feet and put them where the canvas saggedlowest. Then I stretched my legs like a Jap juggler, but I fetched awaymy own bunk and came down on the man below. I broke a snore short off inhim. He'll never get it out unless he has it pulled. That was us youheard two hours ago."
I was too tired and sleepy to talk, for I had come down from the hillsthe previous afternoon to find the equinoxial raging, and as a resultthe roadhouse full from floor to ridge-pole with the motley crew thathad sifted out from the interior. The coastwise craft were hugging thelee of the sandy islet, waiting for the blow to abate; telephone-wireswere down, and Bering's waters had piled in from the south until theyflooded the endless sloughs and tide flats behind Solomon City,destroyed the ferries, and cut us off both east and west, by land and bysea. It were better, I had thought, to wait on the coast for a day orso, watching for a chance to dodge to Nome, than to return to the mines,so I had lugged my war bag into Anderson's place and made formal demandfor shelter.
The proprietor had apologized as he assigned me a bunk. "It's the bestI've got," said he. "I've put you alongside of the stove, so if the boyssnore too loud you can heave coal on 'em. Them big lumps is better thanyour boots."
I had tried both fuel and footgear fruitlessly, and when my outragedears would not permit further slumber I had given up the attempt. Now,while the blue-haired man with insomnia dealt "Idiot's Delight" I satvaguely fascinated by the play of his hands, half dozing under the droneof his voice.
The wind rioted without, whipping the sea spray across the sand-dunesuntil it rattled upon our walls like shot. Meanwhile my companionadventured aimlessly, his strange and vagrant fancies calling for noanswer, his odd and morbid journeyings matching well with the whimperingnight. His stories were without beginning, and they lacked any end. Theycommenced without reason, led through unfrequented paths, then closedfor no cause. Through them ran no thread of relevancy. They were neithercogent nor cohesive. Their incidents took shape and tumbled forthirrelated and inconsequent. Wherefore I knew them for the truth, andfound myself ere long wide-eyed and still, my brain as keen as evernature made it.
The story of the dead Frenchman has seemed strained and gruesome to mesince, but that night the storm made it real, and the stranger'sunsmiling earnestness robbed it of offense. His words told me a tale ofwhich he had no thought, and painted pictures quite apart from those hehad in mind. His very frame of mind, his pagan superstition, his frank,irreverent philosophy, disclosed queer glimpses of this land wheremorals are of the fourth dimension, where life is a gamble and death ajoke. Whether he really believed all he said or whether he made sport ofme I do not know. It may be that the elfin voices of the storm roused inhim an impulse to gratify his distorted sense of humor at my expense--orat his own. He began somewhat as follows:
"It's a good night for a dead man to walk." Then, seeing the flicker inmy eyes, he ran on: "You don't think they can do it, eh? Well, I didn'tbelieve it neither, and I'm not sure I believe it now, but I've seenqueer things--queer things--and I've only got one pair to draw to.Either they happened as I saw them or I'm crazy." He leaped at his storyboldly.
"I'm pretty tired and hungry when I hit Council City late one fall, forI'd upset my rowboat, lost my outfit, and 'mushed' it one hundred fiftymiles. My whole digestive paraphernalia is in a state of _innocuousdesuetude_, if you know what that is, because all I save from the wreckis a flour-sack full of cigarette-papers and a package of chocolatepills about the size of a match-head. Each one of these pellets iswarranted to contain sufficient nourishment to last the Germany army forone month. I read it on the label. They may have had it in them; I don'tknow. I swallowed one every morning and then filled up on reindeer mosstill I felt like the leaping-pad in a circus.
"Now, when I reach camp I find there ain't any fresh grub to speak of.But I can't get away, so I stick on until spring. See! In time we beginto have scurvy something terrible. One man out of every five cashes in.I'm living in a cabin with a lot of Frenchmen and we bury seven fromthis one shack--seven, that's all! It gets on my nerves finally. I don'tlike dead men. Now, the last two who fall sick is old man Manard and mypal, young Pete De Foe. Pete has a ten-dollar gold piece and Manard ownsa dog. Inasmuch as they both knew that they can't weather it out tillthe break-up, Pete bets his ten dollars against the dog that he'll diebefore Manard. Well, this is something new in the sporting line, and webegin to string our bets pretty free. There ain't much excitement goingon, so the boys visit the cabin every day, look over the entries, thengo outside and make book. I open up a Paris mutuel. The old man is aseven-to-one favorite at the start because he had all the best of it onform, but the youngster puts up a grand race. For three weeks theyseesaw back and forth. First one looks like
a winner, then the other.It's as pretty running as I ever see. Then Pete lets out a wonderfulburst of speed, 'zings' over the last quarter, noses out Manard at thewire, and brings home the money. He dies at 3 A.M. and wins by fourhours. I cop eighty-four dollars, six pairs of suspenders, a keg of wirenails, and a frying-pan, which constitutes all the circulating medium ofthe camp. I'm the stakeholder for the late deceased also, so I findmyself the administrator of Manard's dog and the ten dollars that Peteput up.
"Now, seeing that it had been a killing finish, we arrange for adouble-barreled burial and a swell funeral. The ground is froze, ofcourse, but we dig two holes through the gravel till we break apick-point and decide to let it go at that. The 'Bare-headed' Kid isclergyman because he has a square-cut coat that buttons up the front tohis chin. There ain't any Bible in camp, so he read some recipes out ofa baking-powder cook-book, after which Deaf Mike tries to play 'Taps' onthe cornet. But he's held the horn in his mit during the services, and,the temperature being forty degrees below freezo, when he wets his lipsto play they stick to the mouthpiece and crab the hymn. As a whole, itis an enjoyable affair, however, and the best-conducted funeral of thewinter. Everybody has a good time, though nothing rough.
"Now, I've been friendly to young Pete De Foe--him and I bunkedtogether--and the next night he comes to me, saying that he can't rest.I see him as plain as I see you.
"'What's wrong?' says I. 'Are you cold?'
"'No. The ground is chilly, but it ain't that. Manard, the old hellion,won't let me sleep. He's doing a sand jig on my grave. He says I wonthat bet crooked and died ahead of time just to get his dog. He's soreon you, too.'
"'What's he sore on me for?' says I.
"'He says he's an old man, and he'd 'a' died first if you hadn't put inwith me to double-cross him. He's laying for you,' says Pete.
"Well, I'm pretty sick myself, with a four months' diet of pea soup andoatmeal, and when I wake up I think it's a dream. But the next nightPete is back again, complaining worse than ever. It seems the ghost ofold man Manard is still buck-and-winging on Pete's coffin, and he begsme to come down and call the old reprobate off so that he can get somerest. He comes back the third night, the fourth, and the fifth, and byand by Manard himself comes up to the cabin and begins to abuse me. Hesays he wants his dog back, but naturally I can't give it to him. Itgets so that I can't sleep at all. Finally, when Pete ain't sitting onmy bunk Manard is calling me names and gritting his teeth at me. I beginto fall off in weight like a jockey in a sweat bath. It gets so I haveto sit up all night in a chair and make the fellers prod me in thestomach with a stick whenever I doze off. I tell you, stranger, it wasworse than horrible. I don't know how I made it through till spring.
"Well, in the early summer I get a letter from the steamboat agent atNome saying Manard's people out in the States have slipped him somecoin, with instructions to send the old man out so they can give himdecent burial. He offers me one-fifty to bring him down to the coast.Now, this decent-burial talk makes me sore, for I staged the obsequiesmyself, and they were in perfect form. It was one of the tastiestfunerals I ever mixed with. However, I'm broke, so I agree to deliverwhat is left of Manard at the mouth of the river, and the agent sayshe'll have a first-class coffin shipped down to the trader at Chinik,our landing. When I deliver Manard, ready for shipment, I get my hundredand fifty.
"I give you my word I ain't tickled pink with this undertaking. I'm notstrong on body-snatching, and I have a hunch that the shade of oldManard is still hanging around somewhere. However, a bird in the hand isthe noblest work of God, and I need that roll, so I make ready. It takesme half a day to get drunk enough to want to do the job, and when I getdrunk enough to want to do it I'm so drunk I can't. Then I have to soberup and begin all over again. The minute I get sober enough to do thetrick I realize I ain't drunk enough to stand the strain. I jockey thatway for quite a spell till I finally strike an average, beingconsiderable scared and reckless to the same extent.
"I remembered that we planted the old man in the left-hand grave, butwhen I get to the graveyard I can't recollect whether I stood at thefoot or at the head of the hole during the services--a pint of thatmining-camp hootch would box the compass for any man--so I think I'llmake sure.
"I have brought along three tools--a pick, a shovel, and a bottle ofrye. The ground is froze, so I use all of them. Naturally I can't affordto get the wrong Frenchman, so I pry up the lid of the first box Iuncover and take a good rubber. Well, sir, it is a shock! Instead ofrags and bones like I'm expecting, there is old Manard in statuary quo,so to speak. Froze? Maybe so. Anyhow, he grins at me! That's what Isaid! He grins at me, and I take it on the lam. Understand, I have nointentions of running away--in fact, I don't know I'm doing it until Ifetch up back in the saloon. It seems I just balanced my body on my legsand they did all the work.
"Well, I'm pretty well rattled, so I blot up another pint ofpain-killer, and finally the bartender goes back with me and helps loadManard into my Peterboro. I'm pretty wet by this time. We get the boxinto the canoe all right, but it's too big to fit under the seat, so weplace the foot of it on the bottom of the boat and rest the other end ona paddle laid across the gunnels. This sort of gives Manard theappearance of lounging back on an incline. You see, when I ripped up theboards to take a look I broke off a piece at a knot-hole, and thatallows him a chance to look out with one eye. He seems to approve of theposition, however, so I get in at the stern, facing him, and ask if he'sready. He gives me the nod, and I shove off. Just for company I take mygrave-digging tools along--that is, all but the pick and the shovel. Itwas pretty near full when I started, but I lose the cork and drink it upfor safety.
"I don't remember much about the first part of the trip except that Iget awful lonesome. By and by I begin to sing:
"'Oh, the French are in the bay!' said the Shaun Van Vocht. 'The French are in the bay,' said the Shaun Van Vocht. 'The French are in the bay. They'll be here without delay. 'But their colors will decay,' said the Shaun Van Vocht."
"I've got a mean singing-voice when I'm sober, but when I'm kipperedit's positively insulting. It makes my passenger sore, and he shows it.Now, I'm not saying that Manard wasn't as dead as a dried herring. Hewas past and gone, and he'd made his exit all right. He'd moved out, andhis lease had expired. But I saw that box move. It shifted from side toside. I quit singing. My song-fountain ran dry. Says I to myself: 'Ijust neglected to lash you down, Mr. Manard; you didn't really turnover. It was the motion of the boat.' Then, just to make sure, I breakforth into 'Johnny Crapaud,' keeping my eye on the right lens of the oldman where it showed through the broken board. This time there ain't adoubt of it. He lurches, box and all, clean out of plumb and nearlycapsizes me. His one lamp blazes. Yes, sir, blazes! I tries to get outof range of it, but it follers me like a searchlight. I creeps forwardto cover it up with my coat, but the old frog-eater leans to starboardso far that I have to balance on the port gunnel to keep from goingover. We begin to spin in the current. Manard sees he has me buffaloed,and it pleases him. He wags his head at me and grins like he did when hecame to me in my sleep.
"Well, sir, that eye enthralls me. It destroys my chain of thought. Ifeel the chills stealing into my marrow, and that one hundred and fiftydollars looks mighty small and insignificant. By and by I begin tofigure it out this way: says I, 'I've outrun him once to-day, and if Ican get ashore I'll try it again.' But when I turn the canoe towardshore Manard heels over till we take water.
"'Lie still, you blame fool!' says I. 'If you feel that way about itI'll stay with the ship, of course.' I can see the corner of his mouthcurl up at that, and he slides back into position. Then I know thathe'll let me stick as long as I don't try to pull out and leave himflat. You really can't blame a corpse much under the circumstances.However, I can't swim, so I try to square myself. I make conversation ofa polite and friendly nature, and the old boy settles back to enjoyhimself.
"Well, this one-sided talkfest gets tiresome after a while. I run out oftopics, so
I tell him funny stories. Sometimes he likes them, andsometimes he 'most jumps out of the box. Sore? Say, when I pull a wheezethat he don't like he makes it known quick, and I sit clutching thegunnels, with my hair on end while he rocks the boat like a demon.
"When I get to the mouth of the river it's night. I find a stiff breezeblowing and the bay covered with whitecaps, so I try to convince Manardthat we'd better camp. But I no more than suggest it till I have to bailfor dear life. Seeing that he's dead set to keep going, I kiss myselfgood-by and paddle out across the bay. How we ever made it I don't know,but along about midnight we blow into Chinik, with me singing songs tomy passenger and cracking 'Joe Millers' that came over in seventy-six.I'm still pretty drunk.
"The trader tells me that the coffin hasn't come from Nome yet. But thesteamer is due before morning, so I ask him to cache Manard somewhereand wake me up when the boat comes. Then I go to the hay. I'm tuckeredout. It seems that the coaster comes in a few hours later, but thetrader is dealing a stud game and tells the purser to dump his freighton the beach. They do as ordered, then pull out. About daylight the windshifts, the tide rises and begins to wash the merchandise away. Two'rough-necks' get busy saving their outfit, when what comes bobbing paston the waves but a handsome zink-lined casket--the one from Nome.
"'Hey, Bill, cop that box; it'll make a swell bath-tub,' says one. Sothe other pulls up his rubber boots, wades out, and brings it in. Thetrader, hearing that his goods are in danger, adjourns the game longenough to see about it. He hurries down to the beach, looks over hisstuff, then inquires:
"'Where's my coffin?'
"'You 'ain't got no more coffin than a rabbit,' says one of the miners.
"'Oh, yes, I have. That's it right there.'
"'I guess not. That's my coffin. I copped it on the high seas--flotsamand jetsam,' says the 'roughneck.' 'What's more, I'm going to use it fora cupboard or a cozy corner. If you want it bad pay me fifty dollarssalvage and it's yours.' Naturally the trader belched.
"'All right. If you don't want it I'll use it myself,' says the miner.'It's the first one I ever had, and I like it fine. There's no tellingwhen I'll get another.'
"'Said time ain't but a minute,' observes the trader, 'unless you gimmethat freight.'
"There is some further dispute till the miner, being a quick-temperedparty, reaches for his Gat. After the smoke clears away it is found thathe has made an error of judgment, that the storekeeper is gifted as aprophet, and that the 'roughneck' is ready for his coffin.
"Now, inasmuch as this had been a purely personal affair and the boyswas anxious to reopen the stud game, they exonerated the trader from allblame complete, and he, being ever anxious to maintain a reputation forfair dealing and just to show that there ain't no animus behind hisaction, gives the coffin to the man who had claimed it. What's more, hehelps to lay him out with his own hands. Naturally this is consideredconduct handsome enough for any country. In an hour the man is buriedand the poker game is open again. The trader apologizes to the boys forthe delay, saying:
"'The box is mine, all right, and I'm sorry this play come up, but the late lamented was so set on having that piece of bric-a-brac that it seemed a shame not to give it to him.'"
At this point the narrator fell silent, much to my surprise, forthroughout this weird recital I had sat spellbound, forgetful of thehour, the storm outside, and the snoring men in the bunkroom. When hehad gone thus far he began with a bewildering change of topic.
"Did you ever hear how Dawson Sam cut the ears off a bank dealer?"
"Hold on!" said I. "What's the rest of this story? What became ofManard?"
"Oh, he's there yet, for all I know," said the stranger as he shuffledthe cards. "His folks wouldn't send no more money, the steamboat agentat Nome had done his share, and the trader at Chinik said he wasn'tresponsible."
"And you? Didn't you get your one hundred and fifty dollars?"
"No. You see, it was a C. O. D. shipment. I wake up along about noon,put my head under the pump, and then look up the trader. He is stillplaying stud.
"'Where's my casket?' says I. 'I've got my dead man, but I don't collecton him till he's crated and f. o. b.' The trader has an ace in the holeand two kings in sight, so he says over his shoulder:
"'I'm sorry, old man, but while you was asleep a tenderfoot jumped yourcoffin.' Now, this Dawson Sam has a crooked bank dealer named--"
"I think I'll go back to bed," said I.
THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION
