CHAPTER XIX
THE BIG DRUNK
The sun rose clear for the hundredth time over the shoulder of theFour Peaks; it mounted higher, glowing with a great light, and thesmooth round tops of the bowlders shone like half-buried skulls alongthe creek-bed; it swung gloriously up to its zenith and the earthpalpitated with a panting heat. Summer had come, and the long dayswhen the lizards crawl deep into their crevices and the cattle followthe scanty shade of the box canyons or gather in standing-places wherethe wind draws over the ridges and mitigates the flies. In the pastureat Hidden Water the horses stood head and tail together, side by side,each thrashing the flies from the other's face and dozing until hungeror thirst aroused them or perversity took them away. Against the coolface of the cliff the buzzards moped and stretched their dirty wingsin squalid discomfort; the trim little sparrow-hawks gave over theirhunting; and all the world lay tense and still. Only at the ranchhouse where Hardy kept a perfunctory watch was there any sign ofmotion or life.
For two weeks now he had been alone, ever since Jeff went down toBender, and with the solitary's dread of surprise he stepped out intothe _ramada_ regularly, scanning the western trail with eyes grownweary of the earth's emptiness.
At last as the sun sank low, throwing its fiery glare in his eyes, hesaw the familiar figure against the sky--Creede, broad and bulky andtopped by his enormous hat, and old Bat Wings, as raw-boned and orneryas ever. Never until that moment had Hardy realized how much his lifewas dependent upon this big, warm-hearted barbarian who clung to hisnative range as instinctively as a beef and yet possessed humanattributes that would win him friends anywhere in the world. Often inthat long two weeks he had reproached himself for abandoning Jeff inhis love-making. What could be said for a love which made a man sopitiless? Was it worthy of any return? Was it, after all, a thing tobe held so jealously to his heart, gnawing out his vitals and robbinghim of his humanity? These and many other questions Hardy had had timeto ask himself in his fortnight of introspection and as he stood bythe doorway waiting he resolved to make amends. From a petty creaturewrapped up in his own problems and prepossessions he would makehimself over into a man worthy of the name of friend. Yet theconsciousness of his fault lay heavy upon him and as Creede rode in hestood silent, waiting for him to speak. But Jeff for his part came ongrimly, and there was a sombre glow in his eyes which told more thanwords.
"Hello, sport," he said, smiling wantonly, "could you take a porefeller in over night?"
"Sure thing, I can," responded Hardy gayly. "Where've you been all thetime?"
And Creede chanted:
"Down to Bender, On a bender, Oh, I'm a spender, You bet yer life!
"And I'm broke, too," he added, _sotto voce_, dropping off his horseand sinking into a chair.
"Well, you don't need to let that worry you," said Hardy. "I've gotplenty. Here!" He went down into his pocket and tossed a gold piece tohim, but Creede dodged it listlessly.
"Nope," he said, "money's nothin' to me."
"What's the matter?" asked Hardy anxiously. "Are you sick?"
"Yes," answered Creede, nodding his head wearily, "sick and tired ofit all." He paused and regarded his partner solemnly. "I'm a miserablefailure, Rufe," he said. "I ain't _got_ nothin' and I ain't _worth_nothin'. I never _done_ nothin'--and I ain't got a friend in theworld."
He stopped and gazed at the barren land despondently, waiting to seeif his partner would offer any protests.
"Rufe," he said, at last, his voice tremulous with reproach, "if you'donly helped me out a little on that letter--if you'd only told me afew things--well, she might have let me down easy, and I could've tookit. As it was, she soaked me."
Then it was that Hardy realized the burden under which his partner waslaboring, the grief that clutched at his heart, the fire that burnedin his brain, and he could have wept, now that it was too late.
"Jeff," he said honestly, "it don't do any good now, but I'm sorry.I'm more than sorry--I'm ashamed. But _that_ don't do you any goodeither, does it?"
He stepped over and laid his hand affectionately upon his partner'sshoulder, but Creede hunched it off impatiently.
"No," he said, slowly and deliberately, "not a dam' bit." There was nobitterness in his words, only an acknowledgment of the truth. "Theywas only one thing for me to do after I received that letter," hecontinued, "and I done it. I went on a hell-roarin' drunk. That'sright. I filled up on that forty-rod whiskey until I was crazy drunk,an' then I picked out the biggest man in town and fought him to awhisper."
He sighed and glanced at his swollen knuckles, which still showed themarks of combat.
"That feller was a jim-dandy scrapper," he said, smiling magnanimously,"but I downed 'im, all right. I couldn't quite lick the whole town, butI tried; and I certainly gave 'em a run for their money, while itlasted. If Bender don't date time from Jeff Creede's big drunk Imiss my guess a mile. And you know, after I got over bein' fightin'drunk, I got cryin' drunk--but I never did get drunk enough to tellmy troubles, thank God! The fellers think I'm sore over bein' sheepedout. Well, after I'd punished enough booze to start an Injun uprisin',and played the faro bank for my wad, I went to sleep; and when I wokeup it seemed a lo-ong time ago and I could look back and see jest howfoolish I'd been. I could see how she'd jollied me up and got mecomin', playin' me off against Bill Lightfoot; and then I could see howshe'd tantalized me, like that mouse the cat had when you was down inBender; and then I could see where I had got the big-head bad, thinkin'I was the only one--and all the time she was _laughin'_ at me! Oh,it's nothin' now--I kin laugh at it myself in a month; but I'm so dam'_'shamed_ I could cry." He lopped down in his chair, a great hulk ofa man, and shook his head gloomily.
"They ain't but one girl I ever knowed," he said solemnly, "thatwasn't stringin' me, and that was Sallie Winship. Sal liked me, dam'dif she didn't. She cried when she went away, but the old lady wouldn'tstand for no bow-legged cowpuncher--and so I git euchred, everytime."
For lack of some higher consolation Hardy cooked up a big supper forhis low-spirited partner, and after he had done the honors at thefeast the irrepressible good health of the cowboy rose up andconquered his grief in spite of him. He began by telling the story ofhis orgy, which apparently had left Bender a wreck. The futile rage ofBlack Tex, the despair of the town marshal, the fight with the BigMan, the arrest by the entire _posse comitatus_, the good offices ofMr. Einstein in furnishing bail, the crying and sleeping jags--allwere set forth with a vividness which left nothing to the imagination,and at the end the big man was comforted. When it was all over and hismemory came down to date he suddenly recalled a package of lettersthat were tied up in his coat, which was still on the back of hissaddle. He produced them forthwith and, like a hungry boy who seesothers eat, sat down to watch Rufe read. No letters ever came forhim--and when one did come it was bad. The first in the pack was fromLucy Ware and as Hardy read it his face softened, even while he knewthat Creede was watching.
"Say, she's all right, ain't she?" observed Jeff, when his partnerlooked up.
"That's right," said Hardy, "and she says to take you on again asforeman and pay you for every day you didn't carry your gun."
"No!" cried Creede, and then he laughed quietly to himself. "Does thatinclude them days I was prizin' up hell down in Bender? Oh, it does,eh? Well, you can tell your boss that I'll make that up to her beforethe Summer's over."
He leaned back and stretched his powerful arms as if preparing forsome mighty labor. "We're goin' to have a drought this Summer," hesaid impressively, "that will have the fish packin' water in canteens.Yes, sir, the chaser is goin' to cost more than the whiskey beforelong; and they's goin' to be some dead cows along the river. Do youknow what Pablo Moreno is doin'? He's cuttin' brush already to feedhis cattle. That old man is a wise _hombre_, all right, when it comesto weather. He's been hollerin' '_Ano seco, ano seco_,' for the lastyear, and now, by Joe, we've got it
! They ain't hardly enough water inthe river to make a splash, and here it's the first of June. We'vebeen kinder wropt up in fightin' sheep and sech and hain't noticed howdry it's gittin'; but that old feller has been sittin' on top of hishill watchin' the clouds, and smellin' of the wind, and measurin' theriver, and countin' his cows until he's a weather sharp. I wasa-ridin' up the river this afternoon when I see the old man cuttin'down a _palo verde_ tree, and about forty head of cattle lingerin'around to eat the top off as soon as she hit the ground; and he saysto me, kinder solemn and fatherly:
"'Jeff,' he says, 'cut trees for your cattle--this is an _ano seco_."
"'Yes, I've heard that before,' says I. 'But my cows is learnin' toclimb.'"
"'_Stawano_,' he says, throwin' out his hands like I was a hopelessproposition. But all the same I think I'll go out to-morrow and cutdown one of them _palo verdes_ like he show'd me--one of these kindwith little leaves and short thorns--jest for an expeeriment. Ifthe cattle eat it, w'y maybe I'll cut another, but I don't want tobe goin' round stuffin' my cows full of twigs for nothin'. Let 'emrustle for their feed, same as I do. But honest to God, Rufe, some ofthem little runty cows that hang around the river can't hardlycast a shadder, they're that ganted, and calves seems to begittin' kinder scarce, too. But here--git busy, now--here's a letteryou overlooked."
He pawed over the pile purposefully and thrust a pale blue envelopebefore Hardy--a letter from Kitty Bonnair. And his eyes took on acold, fighting glint as he observed the fatal handwriting.
"By God," he cried, "I hain't figured out yet what struck me! I neverspoke a rough word to that girl in my life, and she certainly gimme anice kiss when she went away. But jest as soon as I write her a loveletter, w'y she--she--W'y hell, Rufe, I wouldn't talk that way to asheep-herder if he didn't _know_ no better. Now you jest readthat"--he fumbled in his pocket and slammed a crumpled letter downbefore his partner--"and tell me if I'm wrong! No, I want you to doit. Well, I'll read it to you, then!"
He ripped open the worn envelope, squared his elbows across the table,and opened the scented inclosure defiantly, but before he could readit Hardy reached out suddenly and covered it with his hand.
"Please don't, Jeff," he said, his face pale and drawn. "It was all myfault--I should have told you--but please don't read it to me. I--Ican't stand it."
"Oh, I don't know," retorted Creede coldly. "I reckon you can stand itif I can. Now suppose you wrote a real nice letter--the best youknowed how--to your girl, and she handed you somethin' like this: 'Mydear Mr. Creede, yore amazin' letter--' Here, what ye doin'?"
"I won't listen to it!" cried Hardy, snatching the letter away,"it's--"
"Now lookee here, Rufe Hardy," began Creede, rising up angrily fromhis chair, "I want to tell you right now that you've got to read thatletter or lick me--and I doubt if you can do that, the way I happen tobe feelin'. You got me into this in the first place and now, by God,you'll see it out! Now you _read_ that letter and tell me if I'mwrong!"
He reared up his head as he spoke and Hardy saw the same fierce gleamin his eyes that came when he harried the sheep; but there wassomething beside that moved his heart to pity. It was the lurkingsadness of a man deep hurt, who fights the whole world in his anguish;the protest of a soul in torment, demanding, like Job, that some oneshall justify his torture.
"All right, Jeff," he said, "I will read it--only--only don't crowd mefor an answer."
He spread the letter before him on the table and saw in a kind of hazethe angry zigzag characters that galloped across the page, the wordswhose meaning he did not as yet catch, so swiftly did his thoughtsrise up at sight of them. Years ago Kitty had written him a letter andhe had read it at that same table. It had been a cruel letter, butunconsidered, like the tantrum of a child. Yes, he had almostforgotten it, but now like a sudden nightmare the old horror clutchedat his heart. He steadied himself, and the words began to take formbefore him. Surely she would be gentle with Jeff, he was so big andkind. Then he read on, slowly, grasping at the meaning, and once morehis eyes grew big with horror at her words. He finished, and bowed hishead upon the table, while the barren room whirled before him.
From his place across the table the big cowboy looked down upon him,grim and masterful, yet wondering at his silence.
"Well, am I wrong?" he demanded, but the little man made no answer.
Upon the table before Hardy there lay another letter, written in thatsame woman's hand, a letter to him, and the writing was smooth andfair. Jeff had brought it to him, tied behind his saddle, and he stoodbefore him now, waiting.
"Am I wrong?" he said again, but Hardy did not answer in words.Holding the crumpled letter behind him he took up his own fairmissive--such a one as he would have died for in years gone by--andlaid it on the fire, and when the tiny flame leaped up he dropped theother on it and watched them burn together.
"Well, how about it?" inquired Creede, awed by the long silence, butthe little man only bowed his head.
"Who am I, to judge?" he said.