Lin McLean by Owen Wister (howl and other poems .TXT) 📕

she leaned away from him toward the open door, where the old fiddle tune was coming in from the dark. But presently she noticed that she was being led, and her face turned sullen.

“Walk,” said McLean.

“Do you think so?” said she, laughing. But she found that she must go with him. Thus they took a few more turns.

“You’re hurting me,” she said next. Then a look of drowsy cunning filled her eyes, and she fixed them upon McLean’s dogged face. “He’s gone, Lin,” she murmured, raising her hand where Barker had disappeared.

She knew McLean had heard her, and she held back on the quickened pace that he had set.

“Leave me down. You hurt,” she pleaded, hanging on him.

The cow-puncher put forth more strength.

“Just the floor,” she pleaded again. “Just one minute on the floor. He’ll think you could not keep me lifted.”

Still McLean made no answer, but steadily led her round and round, as he had undertaken.

“He’s playing out!” she exclaimed. “You’ll be played out soon.” She laughed herself half-awake. The man drew a breath, and she laughed more to feel his hand and arm strain to surmount her increasing resistance. “Jessamine!” she whispered to him. “Jessamine! Doc’ll never suspicion you, Lin.”

“Talk sense,” said he.

“It’s sense I’m talking. Leave me go to sleep. Ah, ah, I’m going! I’ll go; you can’t—”

“Walk, walk!” he repeated. He looked at the door. An ache was numbing his arms.

“Oh yes, walk! What can you and all your muscle—Ah, walk me to glory, then, craziness! I’m going; I’ll go. I’m quitting this outfit for keeps. Lin, you’re awful handsome to-night! I’ll bet—I’ll bet she has never seen you look so. Let me—let me watch yus. Anyway, she knows I came first!”

He grasped her savagely. “First! You and twenty of yu’ don’t—God!! what do I talk to her for?”

“Because—because—I’m going; I’ll go. He slung me off—but he had to sling—you can’t— stop—

Her head was rolling, while the lips smiled. Her words came through deeper and deeper veils, fearless, defiant, a challenge inarticulate, a continuous mutter. Again he looked at the door as he struggled to move with her dragging weight. The drops rolled on his forehead and neck, his shirt was wet, his hands slipped upon her ribbons. Suddenly the drugged body folded and sank with him, pulling him to his knees. While he took breath so, the mutter went on, and through the door came the jigging fiddle. A fire of desperation lighted in his eyes. “Buffalo Girls!” he shouted, hoarsely, in her ear, and got once more on his feet with her as though they were two partners in a quadrille. Still shouting her to wake, he struck a tottering sort of step, and so, with the bending load in his grip, strove feebly to dance the laudanum away.

Feet stumbled across the porch, and Lusk was in the room. “So I’ve got you!” he said. He had no weapon, but made a dive under the bed and came up with a carbine. The two men locked, wrenching impotently, and fell together. The carbine’s loud shot rang in the room, but did no harm; and McLean lay sick and panting upon Lusk as Barker rushed in.

“Thank God!” said he, and flung Lusk’s pistol down. The man, deranged and encouraged by drink, had come across the doctor, delayed him, threatened him with his pistol, and when he had torn it away, had left him suddenly and vanished. But Barker had feared, and come after him here. He glanced at the woman slumbering motionless beside the two men. The husband’s brief courage had gone, and he lay beneath McLean, who himself could not rise. Barker pulled them apart.

“Lin, boy, you’re not hurt?” he asked, affectionately, and lifted the cow-puncher.

McLean sat passive, with dazed eyes, letting himself be supported.

“You’re not hurt?” repeated Barker.

“No,” answered the cow-puncher, slowly. “I guess not.” He looked about the room and at the door. “I got interrupted,” he said.

“You’ll be all right soon,” said Barker.

“Nobody cares for me!” cried Lusk, suddenly, and took to querulous weeping.

“Get up,” ordered Barker, sternly.

“Don’t accuse me, Governor,” screamed Lusk. “I’m innocent.” And he rose.

Barker looked at the woman and then at the husband. “I’ll not say there was much chance for her,” he said. “But any she had is gone through you. She’ll die.”

“Nobody cares for me!” repeated the man. “He has learned my boy to scorn me.” He ran out aimlessly, and away into the night, leaving peace in the room.

“Stay sitting,” said Barker to McLean, and went to Mrs. Lusk.

But the cow-puncher, seeing him begin to lift her toward the bed without help, tried to rise. His strength was not sufficiently come back, and he sank as he had been. “I guess I don’t amount to much,” said he. “I feel like I was nothing.”

“Well, I’m something,” said Barker, coming back to his friend, out of breath. “And I know what she weighs.” He stared admiringly through his spectacles at the seated man.

The cow-puncher’s eyes slowly travelled over his body, and then sought Barker’s face. “Doc,” said he, “ain’t I young to have my nerve quit me this way?”

His Excellency broke into his broad smile.

“I know I’ve racketed some, but ain’t it ruther early?” pursued McLean, wistfully.

“You six-foot infant!” said Barker. “Look at your hand.”

Lin stared at it—the fingers quivering and bloody, and the skin grooved raw between them. That was the buckle of her belt, which in the struggle had worked round and been held by him unknowingly. Both his wrists and his shirt were ribbed with the pink of her sashes. He looked over at the bed where lay the woman heavily breathing. It was a something, a sound, not like the breath of life; and Barker saw the cow-puncher shudder.

“She is strong,” he said. “Her system will fight to the end. Two hours yet, maybe. Queer world!” he moralized. “People half killing themselves to keep one in it who wanted to go—and one that nobody wanted to stay!”

McLean did not hear. He was musing, his eyes fixed absently in front of him. “I would not want,” he said, with hesitating utterance—“I’d not wish for even my enemy to have a thing like what I’ve had to do to-night.”

Barker touched him on the arm. “If there had been another man I could trust—”

“Trust!” broke in the cow-puncher. “Why, Doc, it is the best turn yu’ ever done me. I know I am a man now—if my nerve ain’t gone.”

I’ve known you were a man since I knew you!” said the hearty Governor. And he helped the still unsteady six-foot to a chair. “As for your nerve, I’ll bring you some whiskey now. And after”—he glanced at the bed—” and tomorrow you’ll go try if Miss Jessamine won’t put the nerve—”

“Yes, Doc, I’ll go there, I know. But don’t yu’—don’t let’s while she’s— I’m going to be glad about this, Doc, after awhile, but—”

At the sight of a new-comer in the door, he stopped in what his soul was stammering to say. “What do you want, Judge?” he inquired, coldly.

“I understand,” began Slaghammer to Barker—“I am informed—”

“Speak quieter, Judge,” said the cow-puncher.

“I understand,” repeated Slaghammer, more official than ever, “that there was a case for the coroner.”

“You’ll be notified,” put in McLean again. “Meanwhile you’ll talk quiet in this room.”

Slaghammer turned, and saw the breathing mass on the bed.

“You are a little early, Judge,” said Barker, “but—”

“But your ten dollars are safe,” said McLean.

The coroner shot one of his shrewd glances at the cow-puncher, and sat down with an amiable countenance. His fee was, indeed, ten dollars; and he was desirous of a second term.

“Under the apprehension that it had already occurred—the misapprehension—I took steps to impanel a jury,” said he, addressing both Barker and McLean. “They are—ah—waiting outside. Responsible men, Governor, and have sat before. Drybone has few responsible men to-night, but I procured these at a little game where they were—ah—losing. You may go back, gentlemen,” said he, going to the door. “I will summon you in proper time.” He looked in the room again. “Is the husband not intending—”

“That’s enough, Judge,” said McLean. “There’s too many here without adding him.”

“Judge,” spoke a voice at the door, “ain’t she ready yet?”

“She is still passing away,” observed Slaghammer, piously.

“Because I was thinking,” said the man— “I was just—You see, us jury is dry and dead broke. Doggonedest cards I’ve held this year, and—Judge, would there be anything out of the way in me touching my fee in advance, if it’s a sure thing?”

“I see none, my friend,” said Slaghammer, benevolently, “since it must be.” He shook his head and nodded it by turns. Then, with full-blown importance, he sat again, and wrote a paper, his coroner’s certificate. Next door, in Albany County, these vouchers brought their face value of five dollars to the holder; but on Drybone’s neutral soil the saloons would always pay four for them, and it was rare that any juryman could withstand the temptation of four immediate dollars. This one gratefully received his paper, and, cherishing it like a bird in the hand, he with his colleagues bore it where they might wait for duty and slake their thirst.

In the silent room sat Lin McLean, his body coming to life more readily than his shaken spirit. Barker, seeing that the cow-puncher meant to watch until the end, brought the whiskey to him. Slaghammer drew documents from his pocket to fill the time, but was soon in slumber over them. In all precincts of the quadrangle Drybone was keeping it up late. The fiddle, the occasional shouts, and the crack of the billiard-balls travelled clear and far through the vast darkness outside. Presently steps unsteadily drew near, and round the corner of the door a voice, plaintive and diffident, said, “Judge, ain’t she most pretty near ready?”

“Wake up, Judge!” said Barker. “Your jury has gone dry again.”

The man appeared round the door—a handsome, dishevelled fellow—with hat in hand, balancing himself with respectful anxiety. Thus was a second voucher made out, and the messenger strayed back happy to his friends. Barker and McLean sat wakeful, and Slaghammer fell at once to napping. From time to time he was roused by new messengers, each arriving more unsteady than the last, until every juryman had got his fee and no more messengers came. The coroner slept undisturbed in his chair. McLean and Barker sat. On the bed the mass, with its pink ribbons, breathed and breathed, while moths flew round the lamp, tapping and falling with light sounds. So did the heart of the darkness wear itself away, and through the stone-cold air the dawn began to filter and expand.

Barker rose, bent over the bed, and then stood. Seeing him, McLean stood also.

“Judge,” said Barker, quietly, “you may call them now.” And with careful steps the judge got himself out of the room to summon his jury.

For a short while the cow-puncher stood looking down upon the woman. She lay lumped inher gaudiness, the ribbons darkly stained by the laudanum; but into the stolid, bold features death had called up the faint-colored ghost of youth, and McLean remembered all his Bear Creek days. “Hind sight is a turruble clear way o’ seein’ things,” said he. “I think I’ll take a walk.”

“Go,” said Barker. “The jury only need me, and I’ll join you.”

But the jury needed no witness. Their long waiting and the advance pay had been too much for these responsible men. Like brothers they had shared each others’ vouchers until responsibility had melted from their brains and the whiskey was finished. Then, no longer entertained and growing