II
The California Express on the Southern Railway was due at Yellow Sky in twenty-one minutes. There were six men at the bar of the ‘Weary Gentleman’ saloon. One was a drummer who talked a great deal and rapidly; three were Texans who did not care to talk at that time; and two were Mexican sheep-herders who did not talk as a general practice in the ‘Weary Gentleman’ saloon. The barkeeper’s dog lay on the board walk that crossed in front of the door. His head was on his paws, and he glanced drowsily here and there with the constant vigilance of a dog that is kicked on occasion. Across the sandy street were some vivid green grass plots, so wonderful in appearance amid the sands that burned near them in a blazing sun that they caused a doubt in the mind. They exactly resembled the grass mats used to represent lawns on the stage. At the cooler end of the railway station a man without a coat sat in a tilted chair and smoked his pipe. The fresh-cut bank of the Rio Grande circled near the town, and there could be seen beyond it a great, plum-colored plain of mesquite[45].
Save for the busy drummer and his companions in the saloon, Yellow Sky was dozing. The new-comer leaned gracefully upon the bar, and recited many tales with the confidence of a bard who has come upon a new field.
‘ – and at the moment that the old man fell down stairs with the bureau in his arms, the old woman was coming up with two scuttles of coal, and, of course – ’
The drummer’s tale was interrupted by a young man who suddenly appeared in the open door. He cried: ‘Scratchy Wilson’s drunk, and has turned loose with both hands.’ The two Mexicans at once set down their glasses and faded out of the rear entrance of the saloon.
The drummer, innocent and jocular, answered: ‘All right, old man. S’pose he has. Come in and have a drink, anyhow.’
But the information had made such an obvious cleft in every skull in the room that the drummer was obliged to see its importance. All had become instantly solemn. ‘Say,’ said he, mystified, ‘what is this?’ His three companions made the introductory gesture of eloquent speech, but the young man at the door forestalled them.
‘It means, my friend,’ he answered, as he came into the saloon, ‘that for the next two hours this town won’t be a health resort.’
The barkeeper went to the door and locked and barred it. Reaching out of the window, he pulled in heavy wooden shutters and barred them. Immediately a solemn, chapel-like gloom was upon the place. The drummer was looking from one to another.
‘But, say,’ he cried, ‘what is this, anyhow? You don’t mean there is going to be a gun-fight?’
‘Don’t know whether there’ll be a fight or not,’ answered one man grimly. ‘But there’ll be some shootin’ – some good shootin’.’
The young man who had warned them waved his hand. ‘Oh, there’ll be a fight fast enough if anyone wants it. Anybody can get a fight out there in the street. There’s a fight just waiting.’
The drummer seemed to be swayed between the interest of a foreigner and a perception of personal danger.
‘What did you say his name was?’ he asked.
‘Scratchy Wilson,’ they answered in chorus.
‘And will he kill anybody? What are you going to do? Does this happen often? Does he rampage around like this once a week or so? Can he break in that door?’
‘No, he can’t break down that door,’ replied the barkeeper. ‘He’s tried it three times. But when he comes you’d better lay down on the floor, stranger. He’s dead sure to shoot at it, and a bullet may come through.’
Thereafter the drummer kept a strict eye upon the door. The time had not yet been called for him to hug the floor, but, as a minor precaution, he sidled near to the wall. ‘Will he kill anybody?’ he said again.
The men laughed low and scornfully at the question.
‘He’s out to shoot, and he’s out for trouble. Don’t see any good in experimentin’ with him.’
‘But what do you do in a case like this? What do you do?’
A man responded: ‘Why, he and Jack Potter – ’
‘But,’ in chorus, the other men interrupted, ‘Jack Potter’s in San Anton’.’
‘Well, who is he? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Oh, he’s the town marshal. He goes out and fights Scratchy when he gets on one of these tears.’
‘Wow,’ said the drummer, mopping his brow. ‘Nice job he’s got.’
The voices had toned away to mere whisperings. The drummer wished to ask further questions which were born of an increasing anxiety and bewilderment; but when he attempted them, the men merely looked at him in irritation and motioned him to remain silent. A tense waiting hush was upon them. In the deep shadows of the room their eyes shone as they listened for sounds from the street. One man made three gestures at the barkeeper, and the latter, moving like a ghost, handed him a glass and a bottle. The man poured a full glass of whisky, and set down the bottle noiselessly. He gulped the whisky in a swallow, and turned again toward the door in immovable silence. The drummer saw that the barkeeper, without a sound, had taken a Winchester from beneath the bar. Later he saw this individual beckoning to him, so he tiptoed across the room.
‘You better come with me back of the bar.’
‘No, thanks,’ said the drummer, perspiring. ‘I’d rather be where I can make a break for the back door.’
Whereupon the man of bottles made a kindly but peremptory gesture. The drummer obeyed it, and finding himself seated on a box with his head below the level of the bar, balm was laid upon his soul at sight of various zinc and copper fittings that bore a resemblance to armor-plate. The barkeeper took a seat comfortably upon an adjacent box.
‘You see,’ he whispered, ‘this here Scratchy Wilson is a wonder with a gun – a perfect wonder – and when he goes on the war trail, we hunt our holes – naturally. He’s about the last one of the old gang that used to hang out along the river here. He’s a terror when he’s drunk. When he’s sober he’s all right – kind of simple – wouldn’t hurt a fly – nicest fellow in town. But when he’s drunk – whoo!’
There were periods of stillness. ‘I wish Jack Potter was back from San Anton’,’ said the barkeeper. ‘He shot Wilson up once – in the leg – and he would sail in and pull out the kinks in this thing.’
Presently they heard from a distance the sound of a shot, followed by three wild yowls. It instantly removed a bond from the men in the darkened saloon. There was a shuffling of feet. They looked at each other. ‘Here he comes,’ they said.
III
A man in a maroon-colored[46] flannel shirt, which had been purchased for purposes of decoration and made, principally, by some Jewish women on the east side of New York, rounded a corner and walked into the middle of the main street of Yellow Sky. In either hand the man held a long, heavy, blue-black revolver. Often he yelled, and these cries rang through a semblance of a deserted village, shrilly flying over the roofs in a volume that seemed to have no relation to the ordinary vocal strength of a man. It was as if the surrounding stillness formed the arch of a tomb over him. These cries of ferocious challenge rang against walls of silence. And his boots had red tops with gilded imprints, of the kind beloved in winter by little sledding boys on the hillsides of New England.
The man’s face flamed in a rage begot of whisky. His eyes, rolling and yet keen for ambush, hunted the still doorways and windows. He walked with the creeping movement of the midnight cat. As it occurred to him, he roared menacing information. The long revolvers in his hands were as easy as straws; they were moved with an electric swiftness. The little fingers of each hand played sometimes in a musician’s way. Plain from the low collar of the shirt, the cords of his neck straightened and sank, straightened and sank, as passion moved him. The only sounds were his terrible invitations. The calm adobes preserved their demeanor at the passing of this small thing in the middle of the street.
45
mesquite – a deep rooted shrub or small tree in South America and in the southwest of the USA.