CHAPTER IV
THE WILD ROSE OF THE CANADIAN
The town's name was Mobeetie and, for the expansive suddenness of itsspringing up, might better have been Mushroom. A Cheyenne killed abuffalo in the flats that stretch from the Canadian, and as he peeledthe husk from that buffalo the nearest paleface was thirty miles away.The next day came engineers, and ran lines and mapped out town lots onthe ground where that buffalo was slain; within a week thereafterMobeetie buzzed and bustled.
Mr. Masterson, ever full of the spirit of progress, gave up buffalohunting for the nonce, and carried "chain" and pegged corners, and didwhat other deeds an amateur might do towards aiding the surveyors inlaying out Mobeetie. Later, he aided the public in laying out certainpredatory characters who from time to time rode into Mobeetie with apurpose of spoil. These latter intermittent lifts to law and orderendeared Mr. Masterson to Mobeetie; the more since he was not, speakingstrictly, a resident of that hamlet, having his roofless habitat on thebuffalo range, with a home-camp at the 'Dobe Walls.
All folk, whether they be white or black or red or wheat-hued, areidolators in their hearts, and those of Mobeetie worshipped MollieBrennan. The women worshipped her because her little feet took hold oninnocence, the men for the beauty of her face--for brown of cheek, andred of lip, and with eyes as softly, gently deep as are those of anantelope, Mollie Brennan was beautiful. To her worshippers MollieBrennan was known as The Wild Rose, and the name had been given herafter this fashion:
Misled by drink, a chance-blown poet once upon a time invaded thePanhandle. Beholding Mollie Brennan, he fell in love, as poets will, andsighed on her obdurate trail for a wasted twelve-month. Because shewould not listen, the poet poured forth his soul in sonnets, in whichvehicle of verse he identified Mollie Brennan as "The Wild Rose of theCanadian." There were no wild roses along the Canadian, at least in anynear vicinity of Mobeetie, but the love-wrung bard, more moved of thewhiskey than the flora of the region, refused to be bound by thatbarrenness. "The Wild Rose" he made it; and, since his stanzas weregranted local hearing, the Wild Rose it became, and Mollie Brennanaccepted and wore the title pleasantly enough.
But the Wild Rose resolutely declined the hand of that poet; and becauseshe would not hear him and he must tell some one, he was wont, after thefifth cup, to sob forth his soul and its defeat to the frequenters ofthe Lady Gay saloon. The defeat gave general satisfaction, for Mobeetiedistrusted if it did not disapprove of poets, and in that harsh hour thePanhandle thought better of a Sharp's rifle than of a sonnet. The poet,in a lucid moment, perceived as much, and, every hope of conquering thecallous fancy of the Wild Rose having died, he got aboard thestage-coach for Dodge, bearing with him a bottle and a broken heart. Hisgoing was regretted at the Lady Gay, but the Wild Rose felt relieved.
Sergeant King was so early in his coming to Mobeetie as to be almostentitled to fame as one of its founders. Nor did the fact go without avalue, since nothing but that residential antiquity had saved him frombeing warned to quit the town a dozen times.
Mobeetie confessed to no love for Sergeant King. He was dark of brow,with cruel mouth and furtive secret eye. He had been run out of Abilene,as the upshot of an enterprise wherein he combined a six-shooter with adeck of cards--the latter most improperly marked--and which resulted inthe demise of a gentleman then and there playing draw-poker against him.Also, he was that creature--most detested and soonest to die in theWest--a blusterer and a bully; and when a bit unbuckled of rum he wouldboast of the blood he had spilled.
This latter relaxation is exceeding bad form. Mobeetie could haveoverlooked the marked cards, since it is understood in the West thatevery gentleman, in what games of chance engage his interest, must beequal to his own protection or suffer those forfeits which natureeverywhere imposes upon ignorance gone astray; it might have condonedthe homicide, because, technically, it was a killing rather than amurder, and the departed wore his hardware at the time; even thosehang-dog facial marks of an innate treachery would have passedunchallenged, for who may help his looks? but that braggart trick of,orally, reviewing what scalps he had taken, and exulting thereat, setpublic sentiment flowing against Sergeant King to such a height ofdisfavour that no one wanted his company and but few his gold. Thislast should be the measure of an utter public disregard for, howeverblackly hated your outlaw villain may be, his gold, as a rule,partakes in no wise of his unpopularity. For what says Vespasian? "Thesmell of all money is sweet."
Following her inadvertent conquest of the poet, and his broken-hearteddismissal to Dodge, Sergeant King was that one who gave to the Wild Rosewhat he would have called his heart. The gift bred an alarm in her bosombeyond any induced by the rhyming passion of the sonneteer. Whereas thepoet had only annoyed her, she drew back frightened in the base instanceof Sergeant King. He saw and understood, and the bitterness which laylike poison at the bottom of his evil heart was stirred.
Every resident of Mobeetie, in an hour devoid of convention, was theacquaintance, if not the friend, of every other resident of thatmetropolis by dint of a citizenship common to both, and Sergeant Kingwas therefore an acquaintance of the Wild Rose. However, what few wordshe addressed to her never went beyond the commonplace; warned as byintuition of her aversion, he offered no syllable of love. But his eyes,black, and burning with a hungry fire--half-hidden, half-bursting intoflame--made no secret of those sentiments that had swept down SergeantKing; the Wild Rose could feel their glances play about her like atongue of fire. There it stopped; if he possessed a hope of winning her,he never made it manifest--coming near her only with his eyes!
You are not to suppose that the Wild Rose went untouched of love. When amaiden refuses one man, it is a reason for believing she has givenherself to some one else. Mobeetie had grown up a brisk three hours'canter from the 'Dobe Walls, and Mr. Masterson was frequently about itscauseways. Buffalo hunting would wax monotonous betimes, and in whatmoments it palled upon him Mr. Masterson unbent in visits to Mobeetie.Thus the Wild Rose caught frequent glimpses of him, and the heart whichhad refused the poet, and was closed fast and fear-locked againstSergeant King, went following Mr. Masterson with its love. The Wild Roselearned to know the very jingle of his spurs, and their melody about theboard sidewalks of Mobeetie would bring her face to the pane.
Once, the Wild Rose met Mr. Masterson as he emerged from the Santa Anarestaurant, to which place of refection he had been drawn in favour offlapjacks, and the blush that spread redly over her cheek would havetold tales to one more gifted of self-conceit. The tender truth missedfire; Mr. Masterson, if he nursed opinions on the point at all, held bya theory that love ought to be confined to the East as a region endowedof what leisure was demanded by its pursuit. When the Wild Rose swepthim softly, and then let fall those lids in fear lest the modest hazeldepths give up their blissful secret, his mind was on Cheyennes, and howfar his raid on Bear Shield's ponies one Christmas Eve might have been asource of the recent uprising of that peevish people. He escaped news ofthe sweet story told by those deep fringed eyes, and the Wild Rose hadthe romance to herself.
And yet, while her soul's cry went unheard by Mr. Masterson, it was notto die unnoted. Jealousy is more alert than love, and Sergeant King,lounging in the doorway of the Lady Gay, surprised the look of the WildRose, and read its truth. The knowledge shone in upon him with a redhatefulness that was as a ray from the pit. The love which had fled fromhim would follow another--unsought and uninvited!
Like an icicle the thought pierced through and through the soul ofSergeant King. Wanting the touch of a jealous spur, he might have lovedon for unresentful years, passively enduring the coldness which was hisreward. But that Mr. Masterson should have the Wild Rose aroused in hima mindless fury that was like unto the blind anger of an animal. Evenhis vanity arose to edge the sense of loss and sharpen him forretaliation.
At the rough seminary wherein Sergeant King had been reared blood wastaught as that one reprisal worth the while of a man, and death andvengeance were set side by side as synonyms
. To determine on the takingoff of Mr. Masterson was the one thing natural. It called for no motionof the intelligence; the resolution leaped instantly into being as thefruit of what he saw and what he felt. His enemy must die, and the solequestion that invited pause was: How might that enemy be blotted outwith least risk to himself? He retired into an uttermost corner of theLady Gay to consider and lay out his dark campaign.
Such as Sergeant King are unequal to sure bloodshed unless their nervesare stiffened by alcohol, and he caused a bottle to be brought to hiselbow to assist his cogitations. He put away glass after glass, for--asthose mule-skinners freighting between Mobeetie and Dodge would havephrased it--he "wasn't able to start such a load as Bat Masterson on acold collar."
While Sergeant King was thus employed in bringing about that neededtemperature, as though Fate were delivering his victim into his clutch,Mr. Masterson with Mr. Dixon came into the Lady Gay. The two sat at atable just across from Sergeant King.
It was a big day for the Lady Gay; the tides of custom had risen tounusual heights. There were a busy dozen about the faro table, whichstood at the end of the bar; an equal number bent noisily over monte,the latter diversion being dealt by a careworn Mexican, who looked asthough luck were against him. In the far end a sedate poker gameprevailed.
To every man his interest; with two-score folk in the Lady Gay, no oneobserved the sombre Sergeant King, brooding schemes of blood. A Mexicanlost his last _peso_ at monte, and drew out of the eager fringe aboutthe table. Sergeant King called him with a motion of his hand. TheMexican approached, received the whispered directions, took the goldpiece tendered, and disappeared. By the time Sergeant King had takenanother drink the Mexican led up his pony, saddled and bridled, to thedoor of the Lady Gay and stood holding it by the bits, awaiting themurderous convenience of its owner. Plainly Sergeant King was opening agate for final flight.
There be many species of courage; there are day courage and nightcourage, water courage and land courage, gun courage and knife courage,with forty further courages beside. And, when you have settled its sort,there remains the matter of comparison. There is a courage born ofcaution; it is fed and led by caution, and runs by its side like a calfby the side of the mother-cow. There is another courage, whitelydesperate, which owns no element of prudence, and against which no oddsprevail.
Once in the Panhandle--he may be there to-day--there lived a personage ofcows whose name was Old Tom Harris. I have referred to this worthy manbefore. He numbered but thirty years, and the epithet of "Old" was atitle of endearment which his mates of rope and running-iron hadconferred upon him to mark their admiration of his arctic dauntlessnessof heart. Mr. Willingham, sheriff, having official reason so to do,aimed his six-shooter at Old Tom Harris when the latter's back wasturned. Then he called upon him to hold up his hands. Old Tom Harriscame 'round on his heel, but he did not throw up his hands. Looking intothe point-blank mouth of the Willingham pistol, he pulled his own. Thenhe laid it, muzzle for muzzle, with the opposing piece of ordnance, anddefied Mr. Willingham to begin his blazing work.
"You haven't the sand to shoot!" said Old Tom Harris.
And Mr. Willingham hadn't.
It might bear suggestion that the courage of Sergeant King wascaution-born. With seven chances in his favour where his enemy possessedbut three he would offer battle. With chances even he would be morediscreet. Mr. Masterson's courage was of the Old Tom Harris stamp.
The Mexican stood at the door of the Lady Gay, holding the pony ofSergeant King. Suddenly, above the hubbub of the games, arose the voiceof that unworthy.
"Thar's a hoss thief here I'd like to kill!"
In the hush that followed every eye went nervously seeking the speaker.He stood erect, his six-shooter in his right hand and hanging by hisside.
It would have been wiser, from the standpoint of his enterprise, youwill say, had Sergeant King gone instantly and wordlessly to work; youwill condemn the oratory as marking a lack of military intelligence.
There was a reason for the rhetoric of Sergeant King. The rules togovern Western gun-play do not permit the shooting of one's enemy in theback. It is one's notifying duty to arouse him. Once he be on his guard,and reaching for his artillery, one is licensed to begin his downfall. Aviolation of these laws leads to a vigilance committee, a rope, and anearest tree.
Sergeant King was aware of these courtesies of the gun and what publicresentment would attend their violation. Wherefore, and that theproprieties related might be appeased, he shouted:
"Thar's a hoss thief here I'd like to kill."
Mr. Masterson was in no wise a friend of Sergeant King, and yet he wouldnot have called himself that person's enemy. He quietly distasted, andas quietly failed, to be on nearer than nodding terms with him. Also, hedistrusted the fortitude of Sergeant King as neither granite-bedded noriron-bound.
"I once," observed Mr. Masterson, in later exposition of that courage ofSergeant King, and his estimate thereof; "I once saw him jump over acounter to get at a party, when he might as well have gone 'round, andthe episode struck me as too dramatic. From that moment I knew theSergeant wasn't clean strain game."
There is a telepathy of the guns. This was once shown when ClayAllison--but that comes later; let us return to the Lady Gay. With thefirst war-shout, the experienced intuition of what portion of theMobeetie public was then gathered in the Lady Gay, went wholly awarethat the feud of Sergeant King was addressed solely to Mr. Masterson.Not a whit behind the public in the feather-edged character of hisapprehension, Mr. Masterson was likewise made aware of it. In logicalretort and with the promptness of light, he kicked his chair frombeneath him and arose to his feet.
"I reckon I'm the horse thief you refer to," said Mr. Masterson, andwhen he said it his six-shooter was pointing squarely at the plottinghead of Sergeant King.
You have read of such a commodity as fascination, and that a surenearness of death induces trance. It is the bird with the serpent, themouse with the cat. It is also the palsied truth of divers men whenbrought within touch of cold eternity.
Of those who congeal at sight of death was Sergeant King. He hadperformed with reckless valour, as he would have held it, on twentysmoke-swept fields, and more than once had killed his man. What was itnow that froze him motionless? As he looked into the mouth of thatColt's-45, and beheld the gray fire in the eye beyond, for the earliesttime he felt the clutch of the grave upon him. It left him still asstone; his heart became water, his cheek clay.
There was a chill pause--a silence as of the tomb! You might have heardthe heart-beats of the Mobeetie public as, strung like a bow, it waitedon the fatal crash.
Four seconds went ticking into the past; their passing was as thepassing of four ages. Mr. Masterson, with unwavering muzzle andunblinking eye, began slowly closing in on Sergeant King, who remainedas though planet-struck.
The slow advance continued until the pistol of Mr. Masterson was withinan inch of the transfixed face. Then, with the abruptness of a shot, Mr.Masterson let down the hammer of his weapon, and with it smote the otheron the head. It was a downright, crushing blow, and only the goodthickness of the skull of Sergeant King saved him from annihilation. Hedropped like some log of wood--his pistol falling from his fingers andrattling on the board floor of the Lady Gay. As Mr. Masterson replacedhis own weapon in his belt, he kicked that of Sergeant King into a nookof safety. "It's the notion of Mobeetie," explained Mr. Dixon toSergeant King, when thirty minutes later the latter was mentally fit tograsp a warning, "it's the notion of Mobeetie that you'd better pullyour freight. Here's your gun, thar's your hoss; an' if you've got alick of savey, by noon to-morry you'll be either in Tascosa, Fort Elliotor Fort Sill. Any one of 'em's a heap healthier than Mobeetie, which foryou at least might be deescribed as a mighty sickly camp."
It has been explained that although from Boston Mr. Dixon had fallenfrom those heights of strictest English to which he had been lifted byeducation into the slipshod accent of the Brazos.
The long speech of Mr.
Dixon's, however, was not thrown away; without aword, and reeling a bit in the saddle with the blur that still hung likea cloud across his faculties, Sergeant King rode off to the west. As hedisappeared where the trail led over a low hill Mr. Dixon nodded aforeboding head.
"Bat ought to have downed him," observed Mr. Dixon to those severalmembers of the body politic assembled to witness the exodus of SergeantKing; "Bat ought to have downed him. However, he's makin' for Tascosa,an' if he'll only open his system on that outfit, you can bet Bob Pierceor Jim East'll bump him off."
"That's whatever!" assented one of Mr. Dixon's hearers.
The incident was over, and with frank accord, one and all, they returnedto the Lady Gay, and by second drink-time in the evening--to employ aPanhandle method of marking the flight of time--the affair, as being dulland commonplace in its finale, was quite forgot. Had Mr. Mastersonemptied his Colt's-45 into the head or the heart of Sergeant King thepublic would have talked of it for a day.
It was nine of the moonless night and Mobeetie's citizens for thegreater part were gathered in store or bar or what other emporium bestattracted their favour. There were no street lamps and the streets werealmost deserted, since no one cared at risk of shin to blunder andstumble in the dark.
One figure there was, however, which, avoiding the glare from frontwindows, stood watching in the shadows of the Lady Gay. The Lady Gayoccupied the corner of two streets, and the lurking one was leaningagainst the side of that temple of chance. Within stretch of his handwas a small door, meant to supplement the front doors in event of acrowd.
Now the situation had its peculiar, not to say suspicious, side. Had youentered the Lady Gay you might have seen that Mr. Masterson, with two orthree about him, was sitting within touch of that small door. Had youreturned to the lurking one without, and struck a match, you would haveidentified him as Sergeant King. From where he stood, with ear pressedclose to the thin board wall of the Lady Gay, he could hear the voice ofMr. Masterson. It was by ear he had located him.
Sergeant King had returned for that revenge now twice his due. He lackedthe chilled-steel courage to invade the Lady Gay; to shoot through thepasteboard side of the structure, and try to kill by ear, was nothingsure; the best that Sergeant King might do was wait and watch. Mayhap inthe chapter of accidents it had been written that Mr. Masterson wouldopen the little door and furnish him the opportunity for which his blacksoul panted.
Mr. Kimball, the blacksmith, had discounted his social position bymarrying a Mexican woman; that was years before. Now Mr. Kimball'sMexican wife was ill, and the Wild Rose, who cared nothing for casteunder circumstances of sympathy, was nursing her. Something was wantedfrom the drug store, not two blocks away, and the Wild Rose went inquest of it. She took a lantern to guide her little feet.
Sergeant King, ambushed in the shadows of the Lady Gay, saw the WildRose coming down the walk and knew her as the lantern-flare shone onceupon her pretty face. There was enough of cynic humour in the sinisterdepths of Sergeant King to half curl his lips with a smile. Here was atwo-edged vengeance! He would have the Wild Rose call forth Mr.Masterson and then slay him before her eyes that loved him.
Sergeant King went sauntering to meet the Wild Rose. When she beheld himshe started; he, on his part, made a motion as of gratified surprise.
"Oh, Miss Brennan," said he, "I was in the Lady Gay. Mr. Masterson saidhe wished to see you. He's just inside the door. If you'll rap and callto him, he'll open it."
The doubtful strangeness of the suggestion and its source would haveoccurred even to the innocence of the Wild Rose had the name involvedbeen any other than that of Mr. Masterson. The mention of him swallowedup her wits, and, in a fashion of love-flutter, the Wild Rose hesitatedbefore the little door.
"Are you sure he wanted me?" she faltered.
"That's what he said," returned Sergeant King, as, standing a little tothe left and rear, he drew his six-shooter from its scabbard. Therewould be no oratory this time; he was not to talk away another chance.
The Wild Rose tapped timidly at the door.
"Well?" cried a voice inside.
"Mr. Masterson, it's I. You said you wanted me." The blushes of the WildRose were visible in the dark.
The door was locked. There was a turning of the key; the bolt was shot,and the door swung open.
"I don't understand," said Mr. Masterson, to whom the voice and words ofthe Wild Rose had come but faintly.
At the opening of the door Sergeant King thrust aside the Wild Rose.Next came a flash and a roar! There could be no talk of missing; thepistol was pressed against the side of Mr. Masterson. He staggered withthe awful shock of it as the lead tore through his body; but he kept hisfeet, holding by the door.
There came a second roar, a kind of double roar, and this time therewere two flashes instead of one. The trained senses inside the Lady Gayaverred later that the space to elapse between the roar and the doubleroar was less than the tenth part of a second.
However brief that measure of time, it was crimson with multipliedtragedy. With the thought of defending her love, the Wild Rose, utteringa cry of horror, and clutching at the murderous pistol, threw herselfbetween Sergeant King and Mr. Masterson. She was a breath too late forthe first; the second, meant also for her idol, drove its way into heryoung breast. The Wild Rose fell; at her side fell Sergeant King,snuffed out by the unfailing six-shooter of Mr. Masterson.
Hard hit as he was, Mr. Masterson raised the Wild Rose in his arms. Sheopened her brown eyes, swimming with love.
"He said you wanted me," whispered the Wild Rose.
Mr. Masterson, looking into the soft depths, saw that love and knew itfor his own. Even as he gazed, the warm lights failed and faded; therose flush deserted the cheek. In the arms of Mr. Masterson the WildRose lay dead.