CHAPTER XXV
HAIR LIKE THE SUNSHINE
"Well," grumbled Lawlor, settling back comfortably into his chair, "oneof these days I'm goin' to clean out my whole gang and put in a new one.They maybe won't be any better but they can't be any wuss."
Nevertheless, he did not seem in the least downhearted, but apparentlyhad some difficulty in restraining his broad grin.
The voice of the grim cook returned:
"I'll see Nelly in the crowd, in the crowd; I'll see Nelly in the crowd, in the crowd; I'll see Nelly in the crowd, And I'll holler to her loud: 'Hey, Nelly, ain't you proud-- Damn your eyes?'"
"I ask you," cried Lawlor, with freshly risen wrath, "is that any way togo around talkin' about women?"
"Not talking. He's singing," answered Bard. "Let him alone."
The thunder of their burly Ganymede's singing rose and echoed aboutthem.
"And this shall be my knell, be my knell; And this shall be my knell--my knell. And this shall be my knell: 'Sam, I hope you go to hell, Sam, I hope you sizzle well-- Damn your eyes!'"
Shorty Kilrain appeared in the doorway, his mouth wide on the last,long, wailing note.
"Shorty," said Lawlor, with a sort of hopeless sadness, "ain't you neverbeen educated to sing no better songs than that?"
"Why, you old, grey-headed--" began Shorty, and then stopped short andhitched his trousers violently.
Lawlor pushed the bottle of whisky and glass toward Bard.
"Help yourself." And to Kilrain, who was leaving the room: "Come backhere."
"Well?" snarled the sailor, half turning at the door.
"While I'm runnin' this here ranch you're goin' to have manners, see?"
"If manners was like your whiskers," said the unabashed Shorty, "it'dtake me nigh onto thirty years to get 'em."
And he winked at Bard for sympathy.
Lawlor smashed his fist on the table.
"What I say is, are you running this ranch or am I?"
"Well?" growled Kilrain.
"If you was a kid you'd have your mouth washed out with soap."
The eyes of Shorty bulged.
"It ought to be done now, but there ain't no one I'd give such dirtywork to. What you're going to do is stand right here and show us youknow how to sing a decent song in a decent way. That there song of yoursdidn't leave nothin' sacred untouched, from parsons and jails to womenand the gallows. Stand over there and sing."
The eyes of the sailor filmed over with cold hate.
"Was I hired to punch cattle," he said, "or make a blasted, roarin' foolout of myself?"
"You was hired," answered Lawlor softly, as he filled his glass to thebrim with the old rye whisky, "to be a cook, and you're the rottenesthash-slinger that ever served cold dough for biscuits; a blasted,roarin' fool you've already made out of yourself by singin' that song. Iwant another one to get the sound of that out of my ears. Tune up!"
Thoughts of murder, ill-concealed, whitened the face of the sailor.
"Some day--" he began hoarsely, and then stopped. For a vision came tohim of blithe mornings when he should sit on the top of the corral fencerolling a cigarette, while some other puncher went into the herd androped and saddled his horse.
"D'you mean this--Drew?" he asked, with an odd emphasis.
"D'you think I'm talking for fun?"
"What'll I sing?" he asked in a voice which was reduced to a faintwhisper by rage.
"I dunno," mused Lawlor, "but maybe it ought to lie between 'Alice, BenBolt,' and 'Annie Laurie.' What d'you choose, partner?"
He turned to Bard.
"'Alice, Ben Bolt,' by all means. I don't think he could manage theScotch."
"Start!" commanded Lawlor.
The sailor closed his eyes, tilted back his head, twisted his face to ahideous grimace, and then opening his shapeless mouth emitted atremendous wail which took shape in the following words:
"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, Sweet Alice, with hair like the sunshine--"
"Shut up!" roared Lawlor.
It required a moment for Shorty to unkink the congested muscles of hisface.
"What the hell's the matter now?" he inquired.
"Whoever heard of 'hair like the sunshine'? There ain't no such thingpossible. 'Hair so brown,' that's what the song says. Shorty, we gotmore feelin' for our ears than to let you go on singin' an' showin' yourignerance. G'wan back to the kitchen!"
Kilrain drew a long breath, regarded Lawlor again with that considerate,expectant eye, and then turned on his heel and strode from the room.Back to Bard came fragments of tremendous cursing of an epic breadth anda world-wide inclusiveness.
"Got to do things like this once in a while to keep 'em under my thumb,"Lawlor explained genially.
With all his might Bard was struggling to reconcile this big-handedvulgarian with his mental picture of the man who could write for anepitaph: "Here sleeps Joan, the wife of William Drew. She chose thisplace for rest." But the two ideas were not inclusive.
He said aloud: "Aren't you afraid that that black-eyed fellow will run aknife between your ribs one of these dark nights?"
"Who? My ribs?" exclaimed Lawlor, nevertheless stirring somewhatuneasily in his chair. "Nope, they know that I'm William Drew. They maybe hard, but they know I'm harder."
"Oh," drawled the other, and his eyes held with uncomfortable steadinesson the rosy face of Lawlor. "I understand."
To cover his confusion Lawlor seized his glass.
"Here's to you--drinkin' deep."
And he tossed off the mighty potion. Bard had poured only a few dropsinto his glass; he had too much sympathy for his empty stomach to domore. His host leaned back, coughing, with tears of pleasure in hiseyes.
"Damn me!" he breathed reverently. "I ain't touched stuff like this inten years."
"Is this a new stock?" inquired Bard, apparently puzzled.
"This?" said Lawlor, recalling his position with a start. "Sure it is;brand new. Yep, stuff ain't been in more'n five days. Smooth, ain't it?Medicine, that's what I call it; a gentleman's drink--goes down likewater."
Observing a rather quizzical light in the eyes of Bard, he felt that hehad probably been making a few missteps, and being warmed greatly at theheart by the whisky, he launched forth in a new phase of theconversation.