Trailin'! by Max Brand (children's ebooks free online TXT) 📕

a new presence peering in upon him, like a winter-starved lynx that might flatten its round face against the window and peer in at the lazy warmth and comfort of the humans around the hearth inside. Some such feeling sent a chill through Lawlor's blood.

"Hello!" called Calamity Ben.

"Humph!" grunted Lawlor.

"Got a visitor, Mr. Drew."

"Bring him in."

And Lawlor cleared his throat.

"All right, here he is."

The door closed, and Lawlor snapped the book shut.

"Drew!" said a low voice.

The cowpuncher turned in his chair. He had intended to rise, but at the sound of that controlled menace he knew that his legs were too weak to answer that purpose. What he saw was a slender fellow, who stood with his head somewhat lowered while his eyes peered down from under contracted brows, as though the light were hurting them. His feet were braced apart and his hands dropped lightly on his hips—the very picture of a man ready to spring into action.

Under the great brush of his moustache, Lawlor set his teeth, but he was instantly at ease; for if the sight of the stranger shook him to the very centre, the other was even more obviously shocked by what he saw. The hands dropped limp from his hips and dangled idly at his sides; his body straightened almost with a jerk, as though he had been struck violently, and now, instead of that searching look, he was blinking down at his host. Lawlor rose and extended a broad hand and an even broader smile; he was proud of the strength which had suddenly returned to his legs.

"H'ware ye, stranger? Sure glad to see you."

The other accepted the proffered hand automatically, like one moving in a dream.

"Are you Drew?"

"Sure am."

"William Drew?"

He still held the hand as if he were fearful of the vision escaping without that sensible bondage.

"William Drew is right. Sit down. Make yourself to home."

"Thanks!" breathed the other and as if that breath expelled with it all his strength he slumped into a chair and sat with a fascinated eye glued to his host.

Lawlor had time to mark now the signs of long and severe travelling which the other bore, streaks of mud that disfigured him from heel to shoulder; and his face was somewhat drawn like a man who has gone to work fasting.

"William Drew!" he repeated, more to himself than to Lawlor, and the latter formed a silent prayer of gratitude that he was not William Drew.

"I'm forgetting myself," went on the tenderfoot, with a ghost of a smile. "My name is Bard—Anthony Bard."

His glance narrowed again, and this time Lawlor, remembering his part, pretended to start with surprise.

"Bard?"

"Yes. Anthony Bard."

"Glad to know you. You ain't by any chance related to a John Bard?"

"Why?"

"Had a partner once by that name. Good old John Bard!"

He shook his head, as though overcome by recollections.

"I've heard something about you and your partner, Mr. Drew."

"Yes?"

"In fact, it seems to be a rather unusual story."

"Well, it ain't common. John Bard! I'll tell the world there was a man."

"Yes, he was."

"What's that?"

"He must have been," answered Anthony, "from all that I've heard of him. I'm interested in what I scrape together about him. You see, he carries the same name."

"That's nacheral. How long since you ate?"

"Last night."

"The hell! Starved?"

"Rather."

"It's near chow-time. Will you eat now or wait for the reg'lar spread?"

"I think I can wait, thank you."

"A little drink right now to help you along, eh?" He strode over and opened the door. "Hey! Shorty!"

For answer there came only the wail of an old pirate song.

    "Oh, my name's Sam'l Hall—Sam'l Hall;
     My name's Sam'l Hall—Sam'l Hall.
     My name is Sam'l Hall,
     And I hate you one an' all,
     You're a gang of muckers all—
       Damn your eyes!"

"Listen!" said Lawlor, turning to his guest with a deprecating wave of the hand. "A cook what sings! Which in the old days I wouldn't have had a bum like that around my place, but there ain't no choosin' now."

The voice from the kitchen rolled out louder:

    "I killed a man, they said, so they said;
     I killed a man, they said, so they said.
     I killed a man they said,
     For I hit 'im on the head,
     And I left him there for dead—
       Damn your eyes!"

"Hey! Shorty Kilrain!" bellowed the aggravated host.

He turned to Bard.

"What'd you do with a bum like that for a cook?"

"Pay him wages and keep him around to sing songs. I like this one.
Listen!"

    "They put me in the quad—in the quad;
     They put me in the quad—in the quad.
     They put me in the quad,
     They chained me to a rod,
     And they left me there, by God—
       Damn your eyes!"

"Kilrain, come here and make it fast or I'll damn your eyes!"

He explained to Bard: "Got to be hard with these fellers or you never get nowhere with 'em."

"Yo ho!" answered the voice of the singer, and approached booming:

    "The parson he did come, he did come;
     The parson he did come—did come.
     The parson he did come,
     He looked almighty glum,
     He talked of kingdom come—.
       Damn your eyes!"

Shorty loomed in the doorway and caught his hand to his forehead in a nautical salute. He had one bad eye, and now it squinted as villainously as if he were the real Sam'l Hall.

"Righto sir. What'll you have, mate?"

"Don't mate me, you igner'nt sweepin' of the South Sea, but trot up some red-eye—and gallop."

The ex-sailor shifted his quid so that it stuck far out in the opposite cheek with such violence of pressure that a little spot of white appeared through the tan of the skin. He regarded Lawlor for a silent moment with bodeful eyes.

"What the hell are you lookin' at?" roared the other. "On your way!"

The features of Kilrain twitched spasmodically.

"Righto, sir."

Another salute, and he was off, his voice coming back less and less distinctly.

    "So up the rope I'll go, I will go;
     So up the rope I'll go—I'll go.
     So up the rope I'll go
     With the crowd all down below
     Yelling, 'Sam, I told you so!'
       Damn their eyes!"

CHAPTER XXV HAIR LIKE THE SUNSHINE

"Well," grumbled Lawlor, settling back comfortably into his chair, "one of 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 apparently had 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 to go 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 about them.

    "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 never been educated to sing no better songs than that?"

"Why, you old, grey-headed—" began Shorty, and then stopped short and hitched his trousers violently.

Lawlor pushed the bottle of whisky and glass toward Bard.

"Help yourself." And to Kilrain, who was leaving the room: "Come back here."

"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'd take 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 dirty work to. What you're going to do is stand right here and show us you know how to sing a decent song in a decent way. That there song of yours didn't leave nothin' sacred untouched, from parsons and jails to women and 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' fool out of myself?"

"You was hired," answered Lawlor softly, as he filled his glass to the brim with the old rye whisky, "to be a cook, and you're the rottenest hash-slinger that ever served cold dough for biscuits; a blasted, roarin' fool you've already made out of yourself by singin' that song. I want 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 to him of blithe mornings when he should sit on the top of the corral fence rolling a cigarette, while some other puncher went into the herd and roped 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 faint whisper by rage.

"I dunno," mused Lawlor, "but maybe it ought to lie between 'Alice, Ben
Bolt,' 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 the
Scotch."

"Start!" commanded Lawlor.

The sailor closed his eyes, tilted back his head, twisted his face to a hideous grimace, and then opening his shapeless mouth emitted a tremendous 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 his face.

"What the hell's the matter now?" he inquired.

"Whoever heard of 'hair like the sunshine'? There ain't no such thing possible. 'Hair so brown,' that's what the song says. Shorty, we got more feelin' for our ears than to let you go on singin' an' showin' your ignerance. 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 and a 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-handed vulgarian with his mental picture of the man who could write for an epitaph: "Here sleeps Joan, the wife of William Drew. She chose this place for rest." But the two ideas were not inclusive.

He said aloud: "Aren't you afraid that that black-eyed fellow will run a knife between your ribs one of these dark nights?"

"Who? My ribs?" exclaimed Lawlor, nevertheless stirring somewhat uneasily in his chair. "Nope, they know that I'm William Drew. They may be hard, but they know I'm harder."

"Oh," drawled the other, and his eyes held with uncomfortable steadiness on 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 drops into his glass; he had too much sympathy for his empty stomach to do more. His host leaned back, coughing, with tears of pleasure in his eyes.

"Damn me!" he breathed reverently. "I ain't touched stuff like this in ten years."

"Is this a new stock?" inquired Bard, apparently puzzled.

"This?" said Lawlor, recalling his position with a start. "Sure it is; brand new.