CHAPTER XXIII
THE BACK-FIRE
When Ben Blair left the Baker home he went back to his room at thehotel, closed and locked the door, and, throwing off coat and hat,stretched himself full-length upon the floor, gazing up at the ceilingbut seeing nothing. It had been a hard fight for self-control there onthe prairie the day Florence rejected him, but it was as nothing to thetumult that now raged in his brain. Then, despite his pain, hope hadremained. Now hope was lost, and in its place stood a maddeningmight-have-been. Under the compulsion of his will, the white flood ofanger had passed, but it only made more difficult the solution of theproblem confronting him. Under the influence of passion the situationwould have been a mere physical proposition; but with opportunity tothink, another's wishes and another's rights--those of the woman heloved--challenged him at every turn.
At first it seemed that a removal of his physical presence, a going awaynever to return, was adequate solution of the difficulty; but he soonrealized that it was not. Deeper than his own love was his desire forthe happiness of the girl he had known from childhood. Had he beencertain that she would be happy with the man who had fascinated her, hecould have conquered self, could have returned to his prairies, hiscattle, his work, and have concealed his hurt. But it was impossible forhim to believe she would be happy. Without volition on his part he hadbecome an actor in this drama, this comedy, this tragedy,--whatever itmight prove to be; and he felt that it would be an act of cowardice uponhis part to leave before the play was ended. He was not in the leastreligious in the sense of creed and dogma. In all his life he hadscarcely given a thought to religion. His knowledge of the Almighty byname had been largely confined to that of a word to conjure with inmastering an obstreperous bronco; but, in the broad sense of personalcleanliness and individual duty, he was religious to the core. He wouldnot shirk a responsibility, and a responsibility faced him now.
Hour after hour he lay prone while his active brain suggested one courseafter another, all, upon consideration, proving inadequate. Graduallyout of the chaos one fundamental fact became distinct in his mind. Hemust know more of this man Clarence Sidwell before he could leave thecity, and this decision brought him to his feet. Under thecircumstances, a strategist might have employed others to gathersurreptitiously the information desired; but such was not the nature ofBenjamin Blair. One thing he had learned in dealing with his fellows,which was that the most effective way to secure the thing one wished wasto go direct to the man who had it to give. In this case Sidwell was theman. With a grim smile Ben remembered the invitation and the address hehad received the first night he was in town. He would avail himself ofboth.
Night had fallen long ere this; when Ben arose the room was in darkness,save for the reflected light which came through the heavily curtainedwindows from the street lamps. He turned on an electric bulb and made ahasty toilet. In doing so his eye fell upon the two big revolvers withinthe drawer of the dresser; and the same impulse that had caused him tobring them into this land of civilization made him thrust them into hiship pockets. It was more habit than anything else, just as a man with adog friend feels vaguely uncomfortable unless his pet is with him. Blairhad the vigorously recurring appetite of a healthy animal, and itsuddenly occurred to him that he had not yet dined. Descending to thestreet, he sought a _cafe_ and ate a hearty meal.
A half-hour later, the elevator boy of the Metropolitan Block, whereSidwell had his quarters, was surprised, on answering the indicator, tofind a young man in an abnormally broad hat and flannel shirt awaitinghim. The youth was of vivid imagination, and knowing that a Wild Westtroupe was performing in town, one glance at Ben's hat, his suspicionsbecame certainty.
"Eleventh floor," he announced, when the passenger had told hisdestination; then as the car moved upward he gathered courage and lookedthe rancher fair in the eye.
"Say, Mister," he ventured, "give me a pass to the show, will you?"
For an instant Ben looked blank; then he understood, and his handsought his trousers' pocket. "Sorry," he explained, "but I don't happento have any with me. Will this do instead?" and he produced ahalf-dollar.
The boy brought the car deftly to a stop within a half-inch of the levelof the desired floor. "Thank you. Mr. Sidwell--straight ahead, and turnto the left down the short hall," he said obligingly.
Blair stepped out, saying, "Don't fail to be around to-morrow when I domy stunt."
With open-mouthed admiration the boy watched the frontiersman's longfree stride--a movement that struck the floor with the springiness of acat, very different from the flat-footed jar of pedestrians on pavedstreets.
"I won't!" he called after him. "I'd rather see't than a dozenball-games! I'll look for you, Mister!"
At the interrupting tap upon the door, Sidwell voiced a languid "Comein," and merely shifted in his seat; but his big companion, with thehospitality of inebriation, had returned his glass unsteadily to thetable and arisen. He had taken a couple of uncertain steps, as if toopen the door, when, in answer to the summons, Ben Blair stepped inside.Hough halted with a suddenness which all but cost him his equilibrium.The expansive smile upon his face vanished, and he stared as though thebottomless pit had opened at his feet. For a fraction of a minute notone of the three men spoke or stirred, but in that time the steady blueeyes of the countryman took in the details of the scene--the luxuriousfurnishings, the condition of the two men--with the rapidity andminuteness of a sensitized plate. Ironic chance had chosen anunpropitious night for his call. Intoxication surrounding a bar, underthe stimulus of numbers, and preceding or following some exciting event,he could understand, could, perhaps, condone; but this solitarydissipation, drunkenness for its own sake, was something new to him. Theobserving eyes fastened themselves upon the host's face.
"In response to your invitation," he said evenly, "I've called."
Sidwell roused himself. His face flushed. Despite the liquor in hisbrain, he felt the inauspicious chance of the meeting.
"Glad you did," he said, with an attempt at ease. "Deucedly glad. Idon't know of anyone in the world I'd rather see. Just speaking of you,weren't we?" he said, appealing to Hough. "By the way, Mr.--er--Blair,shake hands with Mr. Hough, Mr. Winston Hough. Mighty good fellow,Hough, but a bit melancholy. Needs cheering up a bit now and then.Needed it badly to-night--almost cried for it, in fact"; and the speakersmiled convivially.
Hough extended his hand with elaborate formality. "Delighted to meetyou," he managed to articulate.
"Thank you," returned the other shortly.
Sidwell meanwhile was bringing a third chair and glass. "Come over,gentlemen," he invited, "and we'll celebrate this, the proudest momentof my life. You drink, of course, Mr. Blair?"
Ben did not stir. "Thank you, but I never drink," he said.
"What!" Sidwell smiled sceptically. "A cattle-man, and not refreshyourself with good liquor? You refute all the precedents! Come over andtake something!"
Ben only looked at him steadily. "I repeat, I never drink," he saidconclusively.
Sidwell sat down, and Hough followed his lead.
"All right, all right! Have a cigar, then. At least you smoke?"
"Yes," assented Blair, "I smoke--sometimes."
The host extended the box hospitably. "Help yourself. They're good ones,I'll answer for that. I import them myself."
Ben took a step forward, but his hands were still in his pockets. "Mr.Sidwell," he said, "we may as well save time and try to understand eachother. In some ways I am a bit like an Indian. I never smoke except witha friend, and I am not sure you are a friend of mine. To be candid withyou, I believe you are not."
Hough stirred in his chair, but Sidwell remained impassive save that theconvivial smile vanished.
A quarter of a minute passed. Once the host took up his glass as if todrink, but put it down untasted. At last he indicated the vacant chair.
"Won't you be seated?" he invited.
Ben sat down.
"You say," continued Sidwell, "that I am not
your friend. The statementand your actions carry the implication that of necessity, then, we mustbe enemies."
The speaker was sparring for time. His brain was not yet normal, but itwas clearing rapidly. He saw this was no ordinary man he had to dealwith, no ordinary circumstance; and his plan of campaign was unevolved.
"I fail to see why," he continued.
"Do you?" said Ben, quietly.
Sidwell lit a cigar nonchalantly and smoked for a moment in silence.
"Yes," he reiterated. "I fail to see why. To have made you an enemyimplies that I have done you an injury, and I recall no way in which Icould have offended you."
Ben indicated Hough with a nod of his head. "Do you wish a third partyto hear what we have to say?" he inquired.
Sidwell looked at the questioner narrowly. Deep in his heart he wasthankful that they two were not alone. He did not like the look in thecountryman's blue eyes.
"Mr. Hough," he said with dignity, "is a friend of mine. If either ofyou must leave the room, most assuredly it will not be he." His eyesreturned to those of the visitor, held there with an effort. "By thebye," he challenged, "what is it we have to say, anyway? So far as I cansee, there's no point where we touch."
Ben returned the gaze steadily. "Absolutely none?" he asked.
"Absolutely none." Sidwell spoke with an air of finality.
The countryman leaned a bit forward and rested his elbow upon his knee,his chin upon his hand.
"Suppose I suggest a point then: Miss Florence Baker."
Sidwell stiffened with exaggerated dignity. "I never discuss myrelations with a lady, even with a friend. I should be less apt to do soin speaking with a stranger."
The lids of Ben's eyes tightened just a shade. "Then I'll have to askyou to make an exception to the rule," he said slowly.
"In that case," Sidwell responded quickly, "I'll refuse."
For a moment silence fell. Through the open window came the ceaselessdrone of the shifting multitude on the street below.
"Nevertheless, I insist," said Ben, calmly.
Sidwell's face flushed, although he was quite sober now. "And I muststill refuse," he said, rising. "Moreover, I must request that you leavethe room. You forget that you are in my home!"
Ben arose calmly and walked to the door through which he had entered.The key was in the lock, and turning it he put it in his pocket. Stillwithout haste he returned to his seat.
"That this is your home, and that you were its dictator before I cameand will be after I leave, I do not contest," he said; "but temporarilythe place has changed hands. I do not think you were quite in earnestwhen you refused to talk with me."
For answer, Sidwell jerked a cord beside the table. A bell rangvigorously in the rear of the apartments, and the big negro hurried intothe room.
"Alec," directed the master, "call a policeman at once! At once--do youhear?"
"Yes, sah," and the servant started to obey; but the visitor's eyecaught his.
"Alec," said Ben, steadily, "don't do that! I'll be the first person toleave this room!"
Instantly Sidwell was on his feet, his face convulsed with passion."Curse you!" he cried. "You'll pay for this! I'll teach you what itmeans to hold up a man in his own house!" He turned to his servant witha look that made the latter recoil. "I want you to understand that whenI give an order I mean it. Go!"
Blair was likewise on his feet, his long body stretched to its fullheight, his blue eyes fastened upon the face of the panic-strickendarky.
"Alec," he repeated evenly, "you heard what I said." Without a motionsave of his head he indicated a seat in the corner of the room. "Sitdown!"
Sidwell took a step forward, his clenched fists raised menacingly.
"Blair! you--you--"
"Yes."
"You--"
"Certainly, I--"
That was all. It was not a lengthy conversation, or a brilliant one, butit was adequate. Face to face, the two men stood looking in each other'seyes, each taking his opponent's measure. Hough had also risen; heexpected bloodshed; but not once did Blair stir as much as an eyelid,and after that first step Sidwell also halted. Beneath his superciliouscaste dominance he was a physical coward, and at the supreme test heweakened. The flood of anger passed as swiftly as it had come, leavinghim impotent. He stood for a moment, and then the clenched fist droppedto his side.
For the first time, Ben Blair moved. Unemotionally as before, his nodindicated the chair in the corner.
"Sit over there as long as I stay, Alec," he directed; and the negroresponded with the alacrity of a well-trained dog.
Ben turned to the big man. "And you, too, Hough. My business has nothingto do with you, but it may be well to have a witness. Be seated,please."
Hough obeyed in silence. Sober as Sidwell now, his mind grasped thesituation, and in spite of himself he felt his sympathy going out tothis masterful plainsman.
Ben Blair now turned to the host, and as he did so his wiry figureunderwent a transformation that lived long in the spectators' minds.With his old characteristic motion, his hands went into his trousers'pockets, his chest expanded, his great chin lifted until, looking down,his eyes were half closed.
"You, Mr. Sidwell," he said, "can stand or sit, as you please; but onething I warn you not to do--don't lie to me. We're in the home of liesjust now, but it can't help you. Your face says you are used to havingyour own way, right or wrong. Now you'll know the reverse. So long asyou speak the truth, I won't hurt you, no matter what you say. If youdon't, and believe in God, you'd best make your peace with Him. Do youdoubt that?"
One glance only Sidwell raised to the towering face, and his eyes fell.Every trace of fight, of effrontery, had left him, and he dropped weaklyinto his chair.
"No, I don't doubt you," he said.
Ben likewise sat down, but his eyes were inexorable.
"First of all, then," he went on, "you will admit you were mistaken whenyou said there was no point where we touched?"
"Yes, I was mistaken."
"And you were not serious when you refused to talk with me?"
A spasm of repugnance shot over the host's dark face. He heard thelabored breathing of the negro in the corner, and felt the eyes of hisbig friend upon him.
"Yes, I was not serious," he admitted slowly.
Ben's long legs crossed, his hands closed on the chair-arms.
"Very well, then," he said. "Tell me what there is between you and MissBaker."
Sidwell lit a cigar, though the hand that held the match trembled.
"Everything, I hope," he said. "I intend marrying her."
The ranchman's face gave no sign at the confession.
"You have asked her, have you?"
"No. Your coming prevented. I should otherwise have done so to-day."
The long fingers on the chair-arms tightened until they grew white.
"You knew why I came to town, did you not?"
Sidwell hesitated.
"I had an intuition," he admitted reluctantly.
Again silence fell, and the subdued roar of the city came to their ears.
"You have not called at the Baker home to-day," continued Blair. "Was itconsideration for me that kept you away?" The thin, weather-browned facegrew, if possible, more clean-cut. "Remember to talk straight."
Sidwell took the cigar from his lips. An exultation he could not quiterepress flooded him. His eyes met the other's fair.
"No," he said, "it was anything but consideration for you. I knew shewas going to refuse you."
In the corner the negro's eyes widened. Even Hough held his breath; butnot a muscle of Ben Blair's body stirred.
"You say you knew," he said evenly. "How did you know?"
Sidwell flicked the ash from his cigar steadily. He was regaining, ifnot his courage, at least some of his presence of mind. This seemingdesperado from the West was a being upon whom reason was not altogetherwasted.
"I knew because her mother told me--about all there was to tell, Iguess--of your rel
ations before Florence came here. I knew if sherefused you then she would be more apt to do so now."
Still the figure in brown was that of a statue.
"She told you--what--you say?"
Sidwell shifted uncomfortably. He saw breakers ahead.
"The--main reason at least," he modified.
"Which was--" insistently.
Sidwell hesitated, his new-found confidence vanishing like the smokefrom his cigar. But there was no escape.
"The reason, she said, was because you were--minus a pedigree."
The last words dropped like a bomb in the midst of the room. Ben Blairswiftly rose from his seat. The negro's eyes rolled around in search ofsome place of concealment. With a protesting movement Hough was on hisfeet.
"Gentlemen!" he implored. "Gentlemen!"
But the intervention was unnecessary. Ben Blair had settled back in hisseat. Once more his hands were on the chair-arms.
"Do you," he insinuated gently, "consider the reason she gave anadequate one? Do you consider that it had any rightful place in thediscussion?"
The question, seemingly simple, was hard to answer. An affirmativetrembled on the city man's tongue. He realized it was his opportunityfor a crushing rejoinder. But cold blue eyes were upon him and themeaning of their light was only too clear.
"I can understand the lady's point of view," he said evasively.
Ben Blair leaned forward, the great muscles of his jaw and templestightening beneath the skin.
"I did not ask for the lady's point of view," he admonished, "I askedfor your own."
Again Sidwell felt his opportunity, but physical cowardice intervened.No power on earth could have made him say "yes" when the other looked athim like that.
"No," he lied, "I do not see that it should make the slightestdifference."
"On your honor, you swear you do not?"
Sidwell repeated the statement, and sealed it with his honor.
Ben Blair relaxed, and Hough mopped his brow with a sigh of relief. EvenSidwell felt the respite, but it was short-lived.
"I think," Ben resumed, "that what you've just said and sworn to givesthe lie to your original statement that you have given me no cause forenmity. According to your own showing you are the one existing obstaclebetween Florence Baker and myself. Is it not so?"
Like a condemned criminal, Sidwell felt the noose tightening.
"I can't deny it," he admitted.
For some seconds Ben Blair looked at him with an expression almostmenacing. When he again spoke the first trace of passion was in hisvoice.
"Such being the case, Clarence Sidwell," he went on, "caring forFlorence Baker as I do, and knowing you as I do, why in God's nameshould I leave you, coward, in possession of the dearest thing to me inthe world?" For an instant the voice paused, the protruding lower jawadvanced until it became a positive disfigurement. "Tell me why I shouldsacrifice my own happiness for yours. I have had enough of thisword-play. Speak!"
In every human life there is at some time a supreme moment, a tragicclimax of events; and Sidwell realized that for him this moment hadarrived. Moreover, it had found him helpless and unprepared. Artificialto the bone, he was fundamentally disqualified to meet such anemergency; for artifice or subterfuge would not serve him now. One hastyglance into that relentless face caused him to turn his own away. Longago, in the West, he had once seen a rustler hung by a posse ofranchers. The inexorable expression he remembered on the surroundingfaces was mirrored in Ben Blair's. His brain whirled; he could notthink. His hand passed aimlessly over his face; he started to speak, buthis voice failed him.
Ben Blair shifted forward in his seat. The long sinewy fingers grippedthe chair like a panther ready to spring.
"I am listening," he admonished.
Sidwell felt the air of the room grow stifling. A big clock was tickingon the wall, and it seemed to him the second-beats were minutes apart.His downcast eyes just caught the shape of the hands opposite him, andin fancy he felt them already tightening upon his throat. Like adrowning man, scenes in his past life swarmed through his brain. He sawhis mother, his sisters, at home in the old family mansion; his friendsat the club, chatting, laughing, drinking, smoking. In an impersonalsort of way he wondered how they would feel, what they would say, whenthey heard. On the vision swept. It was Florence Baker he sawnow--Florence, all in fleecy white; the girl and himself were on thebroad veranda of the Baker home. They were not alone. Anotherfigure--yes, this same menacing figure now so near--was on the walkbelow them, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, but leaving. Florencewas speaking; a smile was upon her lips.
Like a flash of lightning the images of fancy passed, the presentreturned. At last came the solution once before suggested,--theback-fire! Sidwell straightened, every nerve in his body tense. Hespoke--and scarcely recognized his own voice.
"There is a reason," he said, "a very adequate reason, one whichconcerns another more than it does us." With a supreme effort of willthe man met the blue eyes of his opponent squarely. "It is becauseFlorence Baker loves me and doesn't love you. Because she would neverforgive you, never, if you did--what you think of doing now."
For an instant the listening figure remained tense, and it seemed toSidwell that his own pulse ceased beating; then the long sinewy bodycollapsed as under a physical blow.
"God!" said a low voice. "I forgot!"
Not one of the three spectators stirred or spoke. Like sheep, theyawaited the lead of their master.
And it came full soon. Stiffly, clumsily, still in silence, Ben Blairarose. His face was drawn and old, his step was slow and halting. Likeone walking in his sleep, he made his way to the door, took the key fromhis pocket, and turned the lock. Not once did he speak or glance back.The door closed softly, and he was gone.
Behind him for a second there was silence, inactive incredulity as at amiracle performed; then, in a blaze of long repressed fury, Sidwellstood beside the table. Not pausing for a glass, he raised the reddecanter to his lips and drank, drank, as though the liquor were water.
"Curse him! I'll marry that girl now if for no other reason than to geteven with him. If it's the last act of my life, I swear I'll marryher!"