CHAPTER II
SOME MEN
Ann Lytton ate alone--ate alone, but did not sit alone. She was the lastpatron of the dining room that evening, and, after Nora Brewster, thewaitress, had surrounded her plate with an odd assortment of heavyside-dishes, she drew out a chair at the end of the table, seatedherself, elbows on the limp, light linen, and, black eyes fast on theface of the other woman, pushed conversation.
"From the East, ain't you?" she began, and Ann smiled assent.
"New York?"
"No, not New York," and the blue eyes met the black ones, runningquickly over the pretty, dark-skinned face, the thick coils of chestnuthair, noting the big, kindly mouth, the peculiarly weak chin. Obviously,the girl was striving to pump the newcomer and on the realization someof the trouble retreated far into the blue eyes and Ann smiled inkindliness at Nora, as she parried the girl's direct questions.
In another mood a part of her might have resented this blunt curiosity,but just now it came as a relief from a line of thought which had beentoo long sustained. And, after they had talked a few moments, theeastern woman found herself interested in the simplicity, the patentsincerity, of the other. The conversation flourished throughout the mealand by the time Ann had tasted and put aside the canned plums she haddiscovered much about Nora Brewster, while Nora, returning to thekitchen to tell the cook and the boy from the office all she hadlearned, awakened to the fact that she had found out nothing at all!
Ann walked slowly from the dining room into the office to leaveinstructions about her trunk, but the room was empty and she went backto the door which stood open and looked out into the street. From acrossthe way the mechanical piano continued its racket, and an occasionalvoice was lifted in song or laughter. She thought again of the shot, therunning horse. She watched the shadowy figures passing to and fro behindthe glazed windows of the saloon and between her brows came a frown. Shedrew a deep breath, held it a long instant, then let it slip quicklyout, ending in a little catch of a cough. She closed one hand and let itfall into the other palm.
"To-morrow at this time, I may know," she muttered.
She would have turned away and climbed the stairs, then, but on her lastglance into the street a moving blotch attracted her attention. Shelooked at it again, closer; it was approaching the hotel and, after amoment she discerned the outlines of a man walking, leading a horse. Apeculiar quality about his movements, an undistinguished part of thepicture, held her in the doorway an instant longer.
Then, she saw that the man was carrying the limp figure of another andthat he was coming directly toward her, striding into the circle offeeble light cast from the lamp on the post, growing more and moredistinct with each step. A thrill ran through the woman, making hershudder as she drew back; the arms and legs of the figure that was beingborne toward her swung so helplessly, as though they were boneless; thehead, too, swayed from side to side. Yet these appearances, suggestiveas they were of tragedy, did not form the influence which caused Ann'sthroat to tighten and her pulse to speed. She heard voices and footstepsas other men ran up. She drew back into the shadows of the hall.
"What you got, Bruce?" one asked, in a tone of concern.
"O, a small parcel of man meat," she heard the tall one explaincasually, with something like amusement in his voice.
"Who is it?"
An answer was made, but the woman could not understand.
"Oh, _him_!" Disdain was in the voice, as though there were no longercause for apprehension, as if the potential consequence of the situationhad been dissipated by identification of the unconscious figure.
Other arrivals, fresh voices; out under the light a dozen men wereclustered about the tall fellow and his burden.
"Where'd you find him?" one asked.
"Out at th' edge of town--in th' ditch. Abe, here,"--with a jerk of hishead to indicate the sleek sorrel horse he led--"found him. He acted sodamned funny he made me get off to see what it was, an', sure enough,here was Yavapai's most enthusiastic drinker, sleepin' in th' ditch!
"Here, let me put him down on th' porch, there,"--elbowing his waythrough the knot about him. "He ain't much more man in pounds than he isin principle, but he weighs up considerable after packin' him all thisway."
The watching woman saw that his burden was a slight figure, short andslender, dressed roughly, with his clothing worn and torn and stained.
"Why didn't you let Abe pack him?" a man asked, as the big cowboy,stooping gently, put the inert head and shoulders to the boards andslowly lowered the limp legs. He straightened, and, with a redhandkerchief, whipped the dust from his shirt. Then, he hitched up hiswhite goatskin chaps and looked into the face of his questioner andsmiled.
"Well, Tommy, Abe here ain't never had to carry a souse yet, an' I guesshe won't have to so long as I'm around an' healthy. That right, Abe?"
He reached out a hand and the sorrel, intelligent ears forward ininquiry, moved closer by a step to smell the fingers; then, allowed themto scratch the white patch on his nose.
A chuckle of surprise greeted the man's remark.
"Why, Bruce, to hear you talk anybody'd think that you close-herded yourmorals continual; that you was a 'Aid S'city' wagon boss; that lips thattouch liquor should never--"
"I ain't said nothin' to make you think that, Tommy Clary," the otherreplied, laughing at the upturned face of his challenger, who was shortand pug-nosed and possessed of a mouth that refused to do anything butsmile; who was completely over-shadowed and rendered top-heavy by a hatof astonishing proportions. "I drink," he went on, "like th' rest of usdamn fools, but I don't think it's smart to do it. I think it is prettymuch all nonsense, an' I think that when you drink you ought toassociate with drinkin' folks an' let th' ones who have better sensealone.
"That's why I never ride Abe to town when I figure I'm goin' to be doin'any hellin' around; that's why, if I have got drunk by mistake when Ihad him here, I've slept in town instead of goin' home. Abe, you see,Tommy, has got a good deal of white man in him for a horse. He'd carryme all right if I was drunk, if I asked him to; but I won't, becausehe's such a _good_ horse that he ought to always have a mighty good manon his middle. When a man's drunk, he ain't good ... for nothin'. Likethis here"--with a contemptuous movement of one booted foot to indicatethe huddle of a figure which lay in the lamplight.
"No, I don't make no claim to bein' a saint, Tommy. Good Lord, _hombre_,do you think, if I thought I was right decent all th' time, all through,I'd ever be seen swapping lies with any such ugly outcast as you are?"
The others laughed again at that, and the tall man removed his hat towipe the moisture from his forehead.
Ann, watching from the shadows, lips pressed together, heart on arampage from a fear that was at once groundless and natural, saw hisfine profile against the lamp, as he laughed good-naturedly at the manhe had jibed. His head was flung back boyishly, but about its poise, itslines, the way it was set on his sturdy neck, was an indication ofsuperb strength, a fine mettle. His hair fell backward from the brow. Ittended toward waviness and was dry and light in texture as well as incolor, for the rays of the light were scattered and diffused as theyshot through it. He was incredibly tall in his high-heeled riding boots,but his breadth was in proportion. The movements of his long arms, hisfinely moulded shoulders, his whole lithe torso were well measured,splendidly balanced, of that natural grace and assurance which marks theinherent leadership born in individuals. His voice went well with therest of him, for it was smooth and deep and filled with capabilities ofexpression.
"Well, if you think all us drunkards are such buzzard fodder, what areyou packin' this around with you for?" Clary asked, after the laughterhad subsided.
The cowman looked down thoughtfully a moment and his face grew serious.He shook his head soberly.
"This fellow's a cripple, boys; that's all. Just a cripple," heexplained.
"Cripple! He's about th' liveliest, most cantankerous, trouble-makerthis country has had to watch since Bill Williams named h
is mountain!" aman in the group scoffed.
"Yes, I know. His legs ain't broke or deformed; he can use both arms;his fool tongue has made us all pretty hot since we've knowed him. Buthe ain't right up here, in his head, boys. He's crippled there. Thereain't no reason for a human bein' gettin' to be so nasty as he's got tobe. It ain't natural. It's th' booze, Tommy, th' booze that's crippledhim. He ought to be kept away from it until he's had a chance, butnobody's took enough interest in him or th' good of th' town to tend tothat. We've just locked him up when he got too drunk an' turned himloose to hell some more when he was halfway sober. He ain't had nobodyto look out for him, when he's needed it more 'n anything else.
"I ain't blamin' nobody. Don't know as I'd looked out for him myself, ifhe hadn't looked so helpless, there 'n th' ditch, Gosh, any one of you'dtake in a dog with a busted leg an' try to fix him up; if he bit at youan' scratched and tried to fight, you'd only feel sorrier for him. Thisfeller ... he's kind of a dog, too. Maybe it'd be a good investment forus to look after him a little an' see if we can't set him on his feet.We've tried makin' an example of him; now let's try to treat him likeany of you'd treat me, if I was down an' out."
He looked down upon the figure on the porch; in his voice had been afine humane quality that set the muscles of the listening woman's throatcontracting.
"Say, Bruce, he's bleedin'!"
On the man's announced discovery the group outside again became compactabout the unconscious man and the tall cowboy squatted beside himquickly.
"Get back out of th' light, boys," he said, quietly, and the curious menmoved. "Hum ... I'm a sheepherder, if somebody ain't nicked him in th'arm, boys! I'll be--
"Say, he must of laid on that arm an' stopped th' blood. It'sclotted.... Oh, damn! It's bleedin' worse. Say, I'll have to get himinside where we can have him fixed up before that breaks open again.Wonder how much he's bled--"
He rose and moved to the door, pulled open the screen quickly. He madeone step across the threshold and then paused between strides, forbefore him in the darkness of the hallway a woman's face stood out likea cameo. It was white, made whiter by the few feeble rays of the lightoutside that struggled into the entry; the eyes were great, darksplotches, the lips were parted; one hand was at the chin and about thewhole suggested posture of her body was a tensity, an anxiety, ahelplessness that startled the man ... that, and her beauty. For amoment they stood so, face to face, the one in silhouette, the other inblack and white; the one surprised, only, but the other shrinking interror.
"I ... he ..."
Then, giving no articulate coherence to the idea that was in his mind,Bruce Bayard stepped through the doorway to his left and entered theoffice, as though he had not seen the woman at all. He looked about,returned to the hallway, gazed almost absently at the stairway where hehad seen that troubled countenance and which was now a blank, hesitateda moment and stepped out to join the others.
"I heard somebody shoot, when we was comin' up from th' depot," someonewas saying when Bayard broke in:
"Nobody here. Anybody seen Charley?"
"Here's his dad," Clary said, as a fat, wheezing man made his wayimportantly into the group.
"Uncle, I want to get a room," Bayard said, "to take this here man to soI can wash him up an' look after his arm. He's been shot. I passed Docon th' road goin' out when I come in, so I'll just try my hand as aveterinary myself. Can you fix me up?"
"All right! Right here! Bring him in. I've got a room; a nice dollarroom," the man wheezed as he stumped into the building. "No disturbance,mind, but I've got a room ... dollar room ..."--and the screen doorslapped shut behind him.
"He won't die on you, Bruce," the man with a moustache said,straightening, after inspecting the ragged, dirt-filled wound, andlaughing lightly. "It just stung him a little. There's a lot ofdisorderly conduct left in him yet, an' it's a wonder he ain't beenventilated before."
"Yeah.... Well, we'll take him up and look him over," Bayard said, hisface serious, and stooped to gather the burden in his arms.
"Want any help, Bruce?" Tommy asked.
"Not on this trip, thanks. A good sleep and a stiff cussin' out'll helpa little I guess. Mebbe he's learnt a lesson an' he may go back home an'behave himself."
He shouldered open the screen door and, led by the wheezing landlord whocarried a lamp at a reckless angle in his trembling hand, startedclumping up the resounding stairway, while the group that had been aboutthe lamp-post drifted off into the darkness. Only the sorrel horse, Abe,remained, bridle-reins down, one hip slumped, great, intelligent eyeswatching occasional figures that passed, ears moving to catch thescattered sounds that went up toward the Arizona stars.