Oh, You Tex!

  CHAPTER X

  "A DAMNED POOR APOLOGY FOR A MAN"

  The big cattleman from New Mexico who was talking with the owner of theA T O threw his leg across the arm of the chair. "The grass is good onthe Pecos this year. Up in Mexico[2] the cattle look fine."

  "Same here," agreed Wadley. "I'm puttin' ten thousand yearlin's on theCanadian."

  A barefoot negro boy appeared at his elbow with a note. The owner of theA T O ripped open the envelope and read:

  Dear Mr. Wadley:

  I was held up last night by masked men and robbed. They took the gold. I'm too sick to go farther. Arthur Ridley.

  The jaw of the Texas cattleman clamped. He rose abruptly. "I gotbusiness on hand. A messenger of mine has been robbed of six thousanddollars." He turned to the colored boy. "Where's the man who gave youthis?"

  "At the Buffalo Corral, sah."

  Wadley strode from the hotel, flung himself on a horse, and gallopeddown the street toward the corral.

  Young Ridley was lying on a pile of hay when his employer entered. Hisheart was sick with fear and worry. For he knew now that his lack ofboldness had led him into a serious mistake. He had by his indecisionput himself in the power of Moore, and the chances were that the man wasin collusion with the gang that had held him up. He had made anothermistake in not going directly to Wadley with the news. The truth wasthat he had not the nerve to face his employer. It was quite on thecards that the old-timer might use a blacksnake whip on him. So he hadtaken refuge in a plea of illness.

  The cattleman took one look at him and understood. He reached down andjerked the young fellow from the hay as if he had been a child. Thestomach muscles of the boy contracted with fear and the heart diedwithin him. Clint Wadley in anger was dangerous. In his youth he hadbeen a gun-fighter and the habit had never entirely been broken.

  "I--I'm ill," the young fellow pleaded.

  "You'll be sure enough ill if you don't watch out. I'll gamble on that.Onload yore tale like shot off'n a shovel. Quit yore whinin'. I got notime for it."

  Arthur told his story. The cattleman fired at him crisp, keen questions.He dragged from the trembling youth the when, where, and how of therobbery. What kind of pilgrim was this fellow Moore? Was he tall? Short?Dark? Bearded? Young? Old? What were the masked men like? Did they useany names? Did he see their horses? Which way did they go?

  The messenger made lame answers. Mostly he could only say, "I don'tknow."

  "You're a damned poor apology for a man--not worth the powder to blowyou up. You hadn't the sand to fight for the money entrusted to you, northe nerve to face me after you had lost it. Get out of here._Vamos!_ Don't ever let me hear yore smooth, glib tongue again."

  The words of Wadley stung like hail. Arthur was thin-skinned; he wantedthe good opinion of all those with whom he came in contact, andespecially that of this man. Like a whipped cur he crept away and hidhimself in the barn loft, alone with his soul-wounds.

  From its window he watched the swift bustle of preparation for thepursuit. Wadley himself, big and vigorous to the last masculine inch ofhim, was the dominant figure. He gave curt orders to the members of theposse, arranged for supplies to be forwarded to a given point, andoutlined plans of action. In the late afternoon the boy in the loft sawthem ride away, a dozen lean, long-bodied men armed to the limit. Withall his heart the watcher wished he could be like one of them, ready forany emergency that the rough-and-tumble life of the frontier mightdevelop.

  In every fiber of his jarred being he was sore. He despised himself forhis failure to measure up to the standard of manhood demanded of him byhis environment. Twice now he had failed. The memory of his firstfailure still scorched his soul. During ghastly hours of many nights hehad lived over that moment when he had shown the white feather beforeRamona Wadley. He had run for his life and left her alone to face acharging bull. It was no excuse to plead with himself that he could havedone nothing for her if he had stayed. At least he could have pushed herto one side and put himself in the path of the enraged animal. The lossof the money was different. It had been due not wholly to lack of nerve,but in part at least to bad judgment. Surely there was something to besaid for his inexperience. Wadley ought not to have sent him alone onsuch an errand, though of course he had sent him because he was the lastman anybody was likely to suspect of carrying treasure....

  Late that night Ridley crept out, bought supplies, saddled his horse,and slipped into the wilderness. He was still writhing with self-contempt. There was a futile longing in his soul for oblivion to blotout his misery.

  [Footnote 2: In western Texas when one speaks of Mexico he means NewMexico. If he refers to the country Mexico, he says Old Mexico.]