CHAPTER XIX
THE GREEK GETS HIS
It was long after midnight when the Ramblin' Kid and Skinny rode intoEagle Butte and the heels of Captain Jack and Old Pie Face echoednoisily on the board floor of the livery stable as the bronchos turnedinto the wide, open doorway of the barn. A drowsy voice from thecubby-hole of an office called:
"In just a minute--I'll be out!"
"Aw, thunder," Skinny answered, "go on back to sleep, we'll find stallsand put 'em up!"
Captain Jack and Old Pie Face cared for, Skinny and the Ramblin' Kidstepped out into the deserted street.
Eagle Butte was sleeping.
Here and there a blaze of light from a store window invited belatedpassers to covet the bargains offered within; a half-dozen incandescentbulbs, swung on cross-wires at intervals along the street, glowed feeblyas if weary with the effort to beat back the darkness clutching at thethroat of the town; over the sidewalk in front of the Elite AmusementParlor an illuminated red and green sign told that Mike Sabota's placewas still open; across the porch of the Occidental Hotel and spillingitself on the ground out in the street a stream of light guided wearytravelers to the portals of that ancient, though hospitable,institution; from the sides of the Butte beyond the railroad tracks acoyote yelped shrilly a jerky, wailing challenge--a dozen dogs, suddenlyaroused in different parts of the town, answered.
"Pretty dead-lookin'," the Ramblin' Kid remarked. "Let's go down toSabota's."
"All right," Skinny replied, and they moved down the street.
The pool-room offered nothing of interest. A couple of traveling men,waiting for the early morning train, were playing a listless game ofbilliards at one of the tables; a pair of Jap sugar-beet workers and anegro section hand sat half-asleep and leaned against the wall; "Red"Jackson, Sabota's chief lieutenant, with an air of utter boredom,lounged behind the soft-drink bar. Sabota was not there.
"What's happened to everybody?" Skinny asked; "where's Mike?"
"Everybody's got religion, I guess," Red yawned, "and gone to bed. Whatdo you want with Sabota?" looking suspiciously at the Ramblin' Kid;"he's over at Vegas; won't be back till to-morrow--or to-day it is now,I reckon--evening sometime!"
"Th' Ramblin' Kid and me have been out in the rain," Skinny saidsuggestively, "and thought we might take cold--"
"Nothing doing!" Red laughed, "ain't a drop around! When Mike gets backhe'll fix you up, maybe--that's what he's gone after!"
"We'd just as well go to bed!" Skinny grumbled disgustedly to theRamblin' Kid.
"I reckon," was the laconic answer.
They returned to the hotel, roused the clerk from his doze, secured aroom and retired.
It was eight o'clock when they got up.
Both went directly to the livery stable and saw that Captain Jack andOld Pie Face were properly attended to. While at the barn Skinny tookthe bundle he had wrapped in the bunk-house at the ranch from the saddlewhere he had tied it.
"What's that?" the Ramblin' Kid queried.
"It's that darned shirt!" Skinny retorted. "I'm going to make Old Leoneat it--it wasn't the size Parker asked for!"
The Ramblin' Kid laughed, but said nothing.
They returned to the hotel and had breakfast. Manilla Endora waited onthem. Before Carolyn June and Ophelia came to the Quarter Circle KTManilla's yellow hair and blue eyes were the flames that fanned theaffections of Skinny. He felt guilty as, sweetly as ever and without ahint of reproach, Manilla took their orders and served them with theirham and eggs and coffee.
After breakfast Skinny and the Ramblin' Kid explored the town.
Eagle Butte had come to life. The stores were open. Business was brisk.The "dray" was delivering the express accumulated the night before atthe depot. Here and there a morning shopper was passing along thestreet. At the post-office there was quite a crowd.
Skinny carried the shirt, wrapped in the soggy, rain-soaked newspaper.As he and the Ramblin' Kid came near the dingy, general merchandiseestablishment kept by the squint-eyed Jew from whom Parker had boughtthe unfortunate garment a sudden look of cunning gleamed in the eyes ofSkinny. He laughed aloud. A box of eggs, ten or twelve dozen itcontained, was set, with other farm produce, in a display on thesidewalk at the side of the door of the store.
"Hold on a minute," Skinny said to the Ramblin' Kid, stopping in frontof the Jew's place of business, "I got an idea--By golly," he continuedargumentatively and with apparent irrelevancy, in a loud voice, "I tellyou I'm the lightest man on my feet in Texas!" and he winked knowinglyat the Ramblin' Kid. "I can walk on eggs and never bu'st a one! I'vedone it and"--as Leon came to the door--"I'll bet four-bits I can jumpin that box of eggs right there and never crack a shell!" The Ramblin'Kid understood.
"Aw, you're crazy," he laughed. "I don't want to win your money!"
"What's the matter?" Leon asked curiously, having heard only part ofSkinny's boast.
"This locoed darn' fool thinks he can walk on them eggs an' not mash'em!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed again. "He wants to bet me four-bits hecan--"
"Walk on them eggs and not preak them?" Leon exclaimed disdainfully."You ought to lock him up! He iss crazy!"
"By gosh," Skinny argued, "you don't realize how light-footed I am--Ican jump on them, I tell you, and I got money to back it up!" And hepulled a half-dollar from his pocket.
"Put away your money, you blamed idiot--" the Ramblin' Kid began.
"I'll bet him four-bits he can't!" Leon cried, jerking a coin from hisown pocket.
Skinny and Leon each handed the Ramblin' Kid fifty cents.
"By thunder, I can," Skinny said, pausing, "that is, I'm willing to betmy money on it--"
"Vhy don't you go ahead and do it, then?" Leon exclaimed. "Vat youstanding there for? Vhy don't you do it if you're so light on yourfeet?"
"Well, I can!" Skinny argued, still hesitating.
"Den go ahead and chump--chump I told you--into the box!" Leon shoutedexcitedly.
Skinny jumped. The eggs crushed under the heels of his riding boots. Inan instant the box was filled with a squashy mass of whites, yolks andbroken shells. Skinny pawed around until there wasn't a whole egg leftin the box.
At the first crunch Leon laughed hilariously.
"I knowed you'd lose!" he cackled. "Giff me the money!"
"You win, Leon!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed, handing over the wager."Skinny wasn't as delicate on his feet as he thought he was!"
"Thunderation, that's funny!" Skinny said soberly as he stepped out ofthe box; "it wouldn't work that time! Something must have slipped!"
With a grin he calmly unwrapped the one-time white shirt and with itbegan to wipe the slimy mess from his boots.
"The next time you won't be so smart!" Leon cried, then paused inconsternation, his eyes riveted on the scrambled mixture in the box."But mine eggs!" he exclaimed, suddenly suspicious. "Who pays for theeggs? There vas twelve dozen--they are worth seventy cents a dozen--thatis more as eight dollars. Pay me for the eggs!"
"Pay, hell!" Skinny said. "I didn't agree to furnish no eggs! You won myfifty cents and th' Ramblin' Kid gave it to you--"
"That's right, Leon," the Ramblin' Kid chuckled, "you got th'four-bits--that's all you won!"
"But pay me--" Leon whined.
"I'll pay you, you dirty crook!" Skinny snapped as he slapped thesoppy, egg-splattered shirt in Leon's face. "I'll pay you with that! Thenext time," he added as he and the Ramblin' Kid started down thestreet--"anybody asks for a size fifteen shirt don't give them a sixteenand a half!"
The day was spent idling about town waiting for Sabota to return soSkinny could get some whisky and drown his disappointment in love inintoxicated forgetfulness.
After supper Skinny and the Ramblin' Kid went to the pictureshow--Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays were "movie nights" in EagleButte--and saw a thrilling "wild-west" drama in which a band of Holsteinmilk cows raced madly through an alfalfa field in a frenzied,hair-raising stampede! When the show was over the Ramblin' Kid startedtoward the l
ivery barn.
"What you going to do?" Skinny queried.
"I was just goin' to get Captain Jack," the Ramblin' Kid replied.
"What for?" Skinny asked as they moved toward the barn. "There ain't nohurry about getting back to the ranch. We won't be going out tillto-morrow or next day--there ain't no use getting the horses outto-night."
"I don't know," the Ramblin' Kid answered, without stopping, "I just gota hunch to get him in case I need him. Anyhow, it won't hurt him tostand out a while--they've been eatin' all day."
"Then I'll get Old Pie Face, too," Skinny replied.
They saddled the bronchos and rode out of the barn.
"Where'll we go?" Skinny asked.
"Reckon we'd better go back down to Sabota's," the Ramblin' Kid said asthey turned their horses in the direction of the pool-room, "if youstill insist on makin' a blamed fool of yourself an' gettin' drunk.Maybe Mike's back by now. Anyhow, there might be a little poker gamegoin' on--I saw a couple of the fellers from over on th' Purgatory comein a while ago!"
They left Captain Jack and Pie Face standing, with bridle reins dropped,across the street and in the broad shaft of light streaming from theopen door of the pool-room, and went into the resort.
The place was well filled. Sabota had returned, evidently with an amplesupply of the fiery stuff he called "whisky." Like vultures thatunerringly seek and find the spot where a carcass has fallen the thirstyof Eagle Butte had gathered at the Elite Amusement Parlor.
Inside the door of the pool-room and at the left, as one entered, was ahardwood bar eighteen or twenty feet long and over which at one time, inthe days before Eagle Butte "reformed," had been dispensed real"tarantula juice." The back bar, with its big mirrors and otherfixtures, was as it had been when the place was a regular saloon. At theright of the room, opposite the bar, were several round, green-toppedcard tables. In the rear was the billiard and pool equipment, whichentitled the place to the name "pool-room." Just across from the fartherend of the bar and near the last card table a half-dozen hard-looking,small-town "toughs"--creatures who loafed about Sabota's and aided him,as occasion required, in his boot-legging operations or otherquestionable enterprises--were lounging, some standing, some sitting,watching a slow poker game going on at the last table. Cards, under thelaws of Texas, are taboo, but for some reason Sabota managed to get byand games were allowed in his place.
The two cowboys the Ramblin' Kid had mentioned, a rancher from theirrigated section near Eagle Butte and "Jeff" Henderson, one of Sabota'shenchmen, who was playing for the house, were sitting in at the game.
Half-way down the room at one side against the wall a mechanical playerpiano was grinding out garish, hurdy-gurdy music.
"Red" Jackson was dispensing soft drinks from behind the bar.
Sabota himself, with one heel caught on the brass foot-rail, was leaningindolently but with a lordly air against the front of the polished,imitation mahogany counter.
He had been drinking and was in his shirt-sleeves.
As Skinny and the Ramblin' Kid stepped into the pool-room Sabota glancedaround. For an instant he eyed the Ramblin' Kid keenly while a nastysneer curled his lips. As they approached he turned the grin into ahypocritical smile of welcome. The Ramblin' Kid barely noticed the Greekand passed on to where the card game was in progress. Skinny paused andsaid something in a low tone to Sabota. The two walked to the rear endof the bar where the proprietor of the place in turn spoke to Red andthe latter furtively handed a pint bottle to the cowboy and which hedropped into the bosom of his flannel shirt.
The Ramblin' Kid was recognized by the cowboys from the Purgatory.
"Come on and get into the game!" one of them invited, moving over.
"Yes," Henderson added, hitching his own chair to one side to make roomfor another, "the cards are running like"--he paused--"like the GoldDust maverick for everybody but the house!" There was a laugh at thesubtle reference to the outlaw filly that had cost Sabota so much inlosses on the sweepstakes at the Rodeo.
The Greek scowled.
"In that case," the Ramblin' Kid drawled, "I reckon I'll ride 'em a fewrounds!" dropping into the chair he had dragged forward and which placedhim with his back toward the bar.
"What they costin' a stack?" he questioned, reaching to the left breastpocket of his shirt for a roll of bills.
In the same pocket was the pink satin garter Carolyn June had lost themorning of his first meeting with her at the circular corral.
"Five bones!" Jeff answered languidly.
"Well, give me a couple of piles," the Ramblin' Kid replied, glancingaround at the cowboy sitting at his right, who had invited him into thegame. "How's the Purgatory?"
As the bills came from the Ramblin' Kid's pocket the silver butterflyclasp of the garter caught in the paper currency and the elastic bandwas drawn out and dropped, at the side of his chair, on the floor nextto Sabota.
The Greek and Skinny saw, at the same time, the dainty satin ribbon.
Sabota stepped quickly forward and with the toe of his shoe kicked thegarter toward the bar, where all could see it.
"Look what th' Ramblin' Kid's been carrying!" he exclaimed with a coarselaugh. "Some size garter, that!" And guessing at random that it hadbelonged to Carolyn June, he added: "Old Heck's niece must be--damnedconvenient and accommodating!"
A laugh started from the lips of the crowd. It was instantly checked anda dead silence followed as the Ramblin' Kid looked around, saw Sabotaleering down at the trinket and heard his vulgar insinuation. He slowlypushed his chair back from the table and with eyes half-closed--the lidstightening until there were but narrow slits through which the blackpupils burned like drops of jet--he began slowly to straighten up. Not asound came from his lips save the deep, regular breathing those sittingnear could hear and which was like a bellows fanning embers into a whiteheat. His mouth was drawn back in a smile, almost caressing in itssoftness, but a thousand times more menacing than the black scowl on theface of the Greek.
The Ramblin' Kid's gun was at his hip, but he made no move to draw it.
Sabota watched the slender young cowboy. A look of contempt and derisionwas in his eyes. The Greek was no taller, but full eighty pounds heavierthan the other. But he forgot that the other's lithe body moving withthe calm, undulating grace of a panther preparing to spring was allclean youth, muscle and courage, unbroken by any debauchery!
"That's a hell of a thing for a _man_ to pack," the giant bully criednastily, "and it's a hell of a _lady_ that gives it to a man to pack!"
With a sneering laugh he raised his foot and brought it down on thegarter, grinding the silver clasp and the satin ribbon under the sole ofhis shoe.
"You damned black cur!" The Rambling' Kid spoke scarcely louder than awhisper, yet his voice echoed throughout the tense silence of the room."_I'll put my heel in your face for that_!"
Sabota threw back his head to laugh.
For a second of time the Ramblin' Kid crouched, then shot through theair like a wire spring drawn far back and suddenly released, and withan his hundred and forty pounds of nerve and sinew behind it his rightfist smashed the big Greek squarely on the half-open mouth, splittingthe thick lip wide and causing a red stream to spurt from the gash.Sabota staggered back and, would have fallen had he not crashed againstthe hardwood bar.
As the Greek reeled away from the garter the Ramblin' Kid stoopedquickly forward, picked up the elastic and dropped it again into hispocket.
With a roar like a mad bull Sabota rushed his slight antagonist. Lungingforward, blind with rage, he aimed a murderous blow at the head of theRamblin' Kid. The cowboy ducked, but not in time to escape the wideswing of the massive, hairy fist. The Greek's knuckles raked the side ofthe Kid's face and the blood rained down his cheek from a cruel cutunder the eye. The Ramblin' Kid spun around like a top and for thefraction of a second stood swaying uncertainly.
For a moment they faced each other, crouching, watching for an opening.Sabota's great hands worked convulsively, ea
ger to grasp and crush hiswiry opponent; the Ramblin' Kid, with lips curled back from white teeth,like a pure-bred terrier circling a mastiff, bent forward, every muscletense as drawn copper, his eyes cold as a rattler's as he searched for aplace to strike!
The crowd in the pool-room instinctively kept far back and gave theunequal combatants ample room.
From Sabota's lips poured a steady torrent of blasphemy. The Ramblin'Kid made no sound as, with body swaying slowly from side to side, hisshoulders heaved with the full, heavy breaths that reached to the bottomof his lungs.
Suddenly, like some wild beast, Sabota sprang forward. The Ramblin' Kidmet him--in mid-air--right and left jolting, almost at the sameinstant, into the beefy jaws of the Greek. At the impact a claw-likehand shot out and the gorilla fingers of the left hand of the brute-manthe Ramblin' Kid fought, closed over the throat of the cowboy. Sabotathrew his right arm around the back of his antagonist, gripping theshoulder on the far side of his body and drew the slender form towardhim--pinning the Ramblin' Kid's left arm and hand to his side.
Skinny's hand dropped to the butt of his gun and rested there.
The Ramblin' Kid struggled desperately in the strangling grasp of thecrazed Greek. The two reeled back and forth, crashing chairs and tablesto the floor, and lunged against the bar. The Ramblin' Kid's gun fellfrom its scabbard at the side of the brass foot-rail. Sabota's eyesglared down into the face of the man he was choking to death--gleamingwith the ferocity of an animal gone mad--Awhile bloody foam spewed fromhis bleeding lips. The cowboy's face was beginning to flush a terriblepurple as the breath was gradually crushed from his body.
As the Greek forced him back, bending him down and over, the Ramblin'Kid, his eyes burning like fire while a million flashes of light seemedto stab the darkness before them and needles darted through every fiberof his flesh, wrenched his right arm free and gripping the back ofSabota's shirt with his left hand to give purchase to the blow, with allthe strength left in his body, drove the knuckles of his right fist intothe left temple of the Greek.
The blow went home.
A film, like a veil drawn across the fiendish glare in them, spread overthe eyes of Sabota, his grip on the throat of the cowboy relaxed and asa bull, struck by the hammer of the butcher, he dropped to the floor.
The Ramblin' Kid crouched, panting, over the massive bulk.
Sabota slowly opened his eyes and started to raise his battered head.With a laugh the cowboy swung terrible right and left blows into theGreek's face. The head dropped back.
Again the Ramblin' Kid stooped low, waiting for another sign of lifefrom the prostrate form.
Red Jackson slipped from behind the bar, half bent forward, movedstealthily up behind the Ramblin' Kid; one hand drawn partly back held,by the neck, a heavy beer bottle. Skinny saw his intention. Instantlythe Quarter Circle KT cowboy's forty-four was jerked from its holsterand the blue-steel barrel swung against the side of the bartender'shead. He pitched over in a limp heap and the bottle crushed against thebrass foot-rail, breaking into a thousand fragments. A half-dozen ofSabota's crowd started forward. Skinny's gun whipped around in front ofhim.
"Keep back, y' sons-of-hell!" he snarled, "Sabota's gettin' what'scoming to him!"
The Greek's eyes opened. His fingers touched the butt of the Ramblin'Kid's revolver and began to close slowly over the handle of the weapon.
"Make him quit," one of the pool-room loafers whined; "he's killed him!"
The Ramblin' Kid saw Sabota reach for the gun. He answered the speakerand the Greek's effort to get the forty-four at the same time:
"Not yet--_but now_!" he cried with a low laugh and leaped with bothheels squarely on the bloody face of Sabota! There was a horriblecrunching sound as of bones and flesh being ground into pulp. Thefingers about to close on the handle of the revolver grew limp, theGreek's head, a hideous, scarcely recognizable mass, slumped to one sideand lay perfectly still.
An instant longer the Ramblin' Kid looked at him, then reached over,picked up his gun and slipped it into the holster at his hip.
As he straightened up, Tom Poole, the marshal, rushed into thepool-room. He covered the Ramblin' Kid with his revolver and placed himunder arrest.
"You don't need to get excited, Tom!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed. "Ididn't do nothin' but kill that damned black cur layin' there! Comeon--I want to get out in th' air--I never like to stay around where deadskunks are!"
They moved toward the door.
Poole dropped his gun back in its scabbard and walked at the side of thenow apparently peaceful young cowboy.
At the door the marshal looked around:
"Some of you fellers get the doctor or undertaker--whichever heneeds--and take care of Sabota!" he called to the group around the bodyof the Greek.
Like a flash the muzzle of the Ramblin' Kid's gun was pressed againstthe side of Poole.
"Put 'em up, Tom!" he snapped, "_I_ don't want to kill you, but I willif I have to--I ain't goin' to rot in no jail just for stampin' a dirtysnake-to death!"
The marshal's hands shot into the air as if operated by springs.
The Ramblin' Kid, with his left hand, jerked Poole's revolver from itsholster. He backed into the street toward where Captain Jack and Old PieFace were standing, still with his own gun covering the officer.
"Jack!" he cried sharply, "meet me!"
The little stallion moved toward him.
With the thumb of the hand in which he held the marshal's gun theRamblin' Kid threw open the breech and flipped the shells on the ground.He tossed the empty forty-four to one side, threw the reins overCaptain Jack's head and the next instant was in the saddle. The bronchowheeled and was gone, in a dead run, toward the west.
The marshal rushed into the street and picked up his gun, jerked somecartridges from his belt, slipped them into the cylinder and firedquickly at the fleeing horse and rider.
The bullets whistled past the ear of the Ramblin' Kid.
He raised his own weapon, half-turned in the saddle, dropped the muzzleof the gun forward until it pointed at the flashes spitting from theofficer's revolver. His finger started to tighten on the trigger.
"Hell," he muttered, "what's the use? Tom's just doin' what he thinks hehas to do!" and the Ramblin' Kid slipped the gun, unfired, back into itsholster.
A moment later Captain Jack whirled to the right across the Santa Fetracks and bearing a little to the east, in the direction of Capaline,the dead volcano that rises out of the lavas northwest of the QuarterCircle KT, between the Purgatory and the Cimarron, disappeared in theblack starlit night.