The Fugitive (16 page)

“Maybe. Maybe she just made up her mind that she only wanted an excuse to break off with you, and any old thing would do.”

“That sort of talk don't bother me none,” said Willie with a strange loftiness. “I know what she was yesterday, and I know what she was today. And you're the one that done it.” He paused.

Old Chris did not move in his chair. He lighted a cigar and through the smoke peered earnestly into the face of Willie. With each instant he was making astonishing and most delightful discoveries about the rich mines of manliness in this round-faced youth. It always pleased Chris to find a man, under whatsoever guise. But not a gleam of his pleasure, of course, was allowed to appear in his face. The next thunderbolt, however, completely threw him off his guard.

“I been wishing that you was a young man,” said Willie. “But you're old, and I can't fight you. You're old, and you're safe from me. But for that, I'd have your gizzard out.”

It brought a sort of groan from Chris Martin. “You young fool,” he said. “If trouble is what you're after, I can give it to you inches thick. First place, keep your cattle away from my water hole. Tomorrow, I fence it in. That's a beginner. Then I'll follow it right up. I ain't ever started to show you what I can do. I'll make this here country so hot for you that you'll howl like the devil for help. Don't forget that.”

Willie sighed. “I'm kind of glad that we know where we stand, each of us,” he declared. “Let me tell you that, if one of my cows dies because you starve her out of water that you ain't got any need of yourself . . . I'll come and take a fat cow of yours to fill her place.”

“You'll steal, eh, kid?”

“I'll take my rights and keep 'em.”

“You'll bust the law?”

“When the law busts me.”

“That's the sort of talk that makes for murder, Willie.”

“I'm rich an' ripe for it, Chris Martin. You can lay to that. I'm all set for it. For heaven's sake don't give me no chances.”

Chris Martin laughed. “Get out, kid,” he said, and rose from his chair. He waved his arm as toward bothersome flies. “Out of this here room. Never come back. You? I'm going to bust you. If you raise a hand to hit back, I'll have you pinched. If you swipe my cattle, I'll have you lynched. Now get out. I'm tired of talkin' to a fool.”

Willie Martin went most obediently. He retreated to the door, backed through it, and then went slowly and steadily down the stairs.

“He thinks that I'll shoot him right in the back if I get a chance,” translated the older man slowly. “He don't know me. He don't know the half of me, that fool kid. But he's game.”

Four revolver shots crackled through the air of the street. Old Chris hurried to the window, almost rejoicing. A fight was what he wanted most of all. To see one was the next best thing to being in one himself. But all that he saw was Willie sitting in his saddle in the street calmly putting up a smoking gun into his holster. He had fired the four shots himself, a pair close together and then another pair, just like two men exchanging a brace of shots at one another. After which the deathly silence sounded like a double murder.

He gained what he had wanted to gain. In five seconds the entire population of the town was assembled around him. He spoke quietly from his place in the saddle above them, and yet Chris could hear every syllable of his enunciation.

“Boys and friends,” he said, looking about him with no signs of stage fright before such an assemblage as this was. “I've just had a little talk with your boss, old Chris Martin. Him and me have agreed to fall out right here. What he aims to do is to shut my cattle away from his water. Well, boys, you know that I've soaked in three years' work on that there little ranch. I've got my own cattle running pretty slick and fat. I've had no help from nobody, and showed that a gent don't need no help in this here country. All I need is water. Martin ain't got cattle enough within marching distance of that water to use it. You all know how it soaks away and goes rambling off into the sand and dies in the desert after it leaves the watering pool. But old Chris says that he's going to shut me away from that there water. And I say that, whenever a cow of mine dies for the want of water, I'm going over and take one of his cows. And I mean it, every word.”

Willie paused. The faces beneath him were stunned with wonder and, as old Chris could plainly see, with admiration.

“How this'll all come out,” Willie continued, “I dunno. I'll be breaking the law if it gets that far. And then I'll be run off my place, my cattle will die, and I'll probably get grabbed by a sheriff or a deputy while I'm trying to get even with old Chris. But before they start in lying about me, I want to tell you the straight of what's going to happen if Chris bars me from the water, and so help me God.”

He actually raised his hand as he swore it, his gun hand—his right hand—and looked up into the white-hot sky. Then old Chris knew that he could never draw back from this solemn engagement. It was a matter of honor—of pride. He had to crush this defiant young fool no matter how much his heart bled for him.

 

After that, old Hank Ballon was not the only one who waited for the downfall of Chris Martin and the dénouement of this strange little war, for the whole range heard the tale and wondered heartily what the outcome of it could be. Of course, on the face of it, there was no hope for Willie Merchant. He had bid defiance to a giant, and therefore he would be crushed. Yet there is an element of suspense even in a lost cause. And the course of that battle was waited for with the keenest expectation. There was hope against hope that justice might somehow be done to the weaker of the two combatants and justice done at the expense of old Chris.

In the meantime, Chris could not help but go ahead. What he prized more than anything else in the world was the fear with which he was looked upon by his neighbors. That which he had spent his life working over was the subjugation of the men of the village so that they dreaded him more than they dreaded death. They were in the palm of his hand, and that sense of power was most delightful to Chris. He could observe the workings of his perfect system now. For no matter what black looks were cast upon him by the villagers, they dared not speak to him of what they thought. They were his men as absolutely as though he were a feudal lord and they his serfs. To maintain himself in that proud position, he must convince them that it was ruin to oppose him. And he could only convince them by promptly crushing young Willie Merchant.

He proceeded at once with the work at hand. He sent his men to erect stout fences that shut away the southwestern lands from his great water hole; now Willie might take care of himself as best he could. The gantlet was down.

After that, the contest was followed with the keenest anxiety in the town. The whole range heard of what was happening, and the whole range wondered how it would come out. Not a man, perhaps, who did not sympathize with Willie Merchant up to a certain point—but suppose that he were actually to cut fences and run off the cattle of the tyrant—what would happen then? What would the law do?

There was no appeal to the law for the time being, however. Willie saw his cattle grow wild of eye. They no longer ate. They waited in front of the fence that barred them from the water hole where they were so accustomed to go. Every day, Willie went out and watched them with an aching heart. Nothing tames the wild so much as thirst. It is more terrible than mere hunger, because it strikes sooner, and the pangs of its torments are sharper in the vitals. The thirsty cattle grew so gentle that they huddled together, but, when Willie dismounted and came among them, not a foot stamped and not a horn swung at him. It seemed to him that they turned their brute eyes upon him with a dumb appeal for help, he who had helped them so often, who brought them through the most terrible winters with a little extra forage, who got them up and scraped the chilling snow from their backs in hard weather, who pulled them from the bogs in spring, who was ever seen through the day, hovering somewhere against the horizon. And so long as that familiar silhouette was near, there was nothing to fear from the wolves. They dared not come near the eyes of the man.

Of course it was sheerest fancy, but it seemed to Willie that all of these things were running in the brains of his cattle as he walked among them.

At times the cowpunchers from the big Martin Ranch came down to the fence and sat calmly in their saddles there and viewed the dying herd. They tried to talk to Willie. But he could not speak a word to them. He knew that if he parted his lips, it would be to curse and rave like a madman. So he would not speak to them. Again he knew that, if he started to talk, his voice would break and he would weep like a woman—for he was very sensitive, very proud. He carried himself with a haughty air, with a chip on his shoulder, simply because he knew that his face was incurably boyish, and he was ashamed of that appearance. He loathed the weakness that made him come close to tears at every crisis. Shame is a terrible power that lives in the human soul, and it was what controlled the life of Willie Merchant.

Sometimes, as he watched his herd and the cow-punchers on the farther side of the fence, he could see them talk to one another and shake their heads. Then a mist of self-pity would make his eyes dim; he would look upon the whole affair as from a pinnacle of a great height. It was a petty matter. He was a sullen fool, and Chris was a stupid old boor, no more. There was nothing here worth dying about.

Sam Hitchcock, the foreman on the ranch of Chris, called to him one day. “Are you getting your guns limbered up, Willie?”

It was half satirical and half sympathetic, the voice that asked this question, and it brought the last phase of the contest into the mind of Willie with a start. He was no expert with guns. He had used a rifle and a revolver ever since he was a youngster, just as everyone did on the range. But he could claim no particular skill with either weapon. His time was put in on the practical part of ranch work—the tending of cattle, and not the shooting of coyotes. He had not wasted three hours in his entire life pumping lead at targets. If he wished to make a showing, and against odds, he must certainly begin to practice at once.

He observed the fellows on the farther side of the fence. There were at least four of them who were infinitely better than he, and all the others were at least as expert as he. Yet, in another moment, he knew that if the time came when he must oppose fighting men, something would happen in him and make him capable of disposing of his work or else enable him to die as a brave man should. For, from this time forth, he began to feel that he was in the hand of a directing destiny that would drive him on to ruin or success as the case might be.

Then came the trip to town and the talk to the banker in an effort to sell his cattle. He had done small business with that banker before. He was astonished now by the price that was offered to him.

“I'm mighty sorry for you, Merchant,” said the banker, “but I hear that your cattle are in poor condition, just now.”

“They're starved for water, that's all. They need a drink, and then they'll be as good as ever. Two weeks will put them back.”

The banker shook his head. That might be, and again it might not. His sympathy was all with Willie, but this was a business proposition. It was not his own money; he was investing for others; the directors would take him to task; therefore he concluded by offering a tithe of what they were worth. It was a joke, thought Willie, and went elsewhere to strive to strike a bargain. But nothing could be done in reason. His honest friends who he knew would not cheat him were all too poor to offer a price. The men who were able to pay wanted the cattle for nothing. Finally one old codger answered his complaints with a bit of dry, remorseless logic.

“Look here, you want a fair price when I know you're cornered and that you got to sell. I ain't a philanthropist. I'm a businessman. I've climbed on the heads of them that have gone down. If I can climb on you,all right. If I can't . . . then sit down and smoke a cigar, but don't try to talk business with me.”

Willie went back to the ranch and straight to the herd. The first thing he noted was a cow lying on its side with the upper hind leg stiffly extended. He knew without another look that that poor creature was dead. A sudden panic passed through Willie. What if they were all to die because of the lack of water, simply because he could not get his price for them? Then, with anguish in his soul, he fled to the nearest squatter—a fellow who was playing the same game he had tried to play, and had failed in. It was ten miles of hard riding.

“Come get the cows, Jerry,” he told his friend.

“I seen 'em today,” said Jerry. “We could never drive 'em this far.”

“They'll need watering first.”

“Sure.”

“Then,” said Willie calmly, “they'll have their water.”

“How?”

“Leave that to me.”

“Willie, you ain't going to play the fool? Because you lose some cows, you ain't going to throw away yourself after 'em, are you?”

“What happens to me,” said Willie, smiling, “don't make a bit of difference. I'm just playing the game with Chris. He's won the first move. Maybe I got a chance at the second, though.”

At this strange talk, the eyes of Jerry stared. But he rode home with Willie. He helped the latter harness up an old watering wagon that had been abandoned and left there by a wandering hay press. Willie's ingenuity had patched the holes in the iron. Willie's skill and industry had repaired the ruined running gear. Now he hitched six staggering, redeyed mules to that watering cart, although two could have pulled it in the days of their strength.

“The whole shebang goes to you, Jerry,” he told his friend. “These hosses and cows and mules are all done and all in. Now you stay here and wait for me to come back.”