The Duke Of Chimney Butte Page 4

  CHAPTER IV

  "AND SPEAK IN PASSING"

  The events of that Sunday introduced Lambert into the Bad Lands andestablished his name and fame. Within three months after going to workfor the Syndicate ranch he was known for a hundred miles around as theman who had broken Jim Wilder's outlaw and won the horse by thatunparalleled feat.

  That was the prop to his fame--that he had broken Jim Wilder's outlaw.Certainly he was admired and commended for the unhesitating action hehad taken in avenging the death of his friend, but in that he had doneonly what was expected of any man worthy the name. Breaking the outlawwas a different matter entirely. In doing that he had accomplished whatwas believed to be beyond the power of any living man.

  According to his own belief, his own conscience, Lambert had made a badstart. A career that had its beginning in contentions and violence,enough of it crowded into one day to make more than the allotment of anordinary life, could not terminate with any degree of felicity andhonor. They thought little of killing a man in that country, it seemed;no more than a perfunctory inquiry, to fulfill the letter of the law,had been made by the authorities into Jim Wilder's death.

  While it relieved him to know that the law held his justification to beample, there was a shadow following him which he could not evade in anyof the hilarious diversions common to those wild souls of the range.

  It troubled him that he had killed a man, even in a fair fight in theopen field with the justification of society at his back. In his sleepit harried him with visions; awake, it oppressed him like a sorrow, orthe memory of a shame. He became solemn and silent as a chastened man,seldom smiling, laughing never.

  When he drank with his companions in the little saloon at Misery, theloading station on the railroad, he took his liquor as gravely as thesacrament; when he raced them he rode with face grim as an Indian,never whooping in victory, never swearing in defeat.

  He had left even his own lawful and proper name behind him with hispast. Far and near he was known as the Duke of Chimney Butte, shortenedin cases of direct address to "Duke." He didn't resent it, rather took asort of grim pride in it, although he felt at times that it was one moremark of his surrender to circumstances whose current he might haveavoided at the beginning by the exercise of a proper man's sense.

  A man was expected to drink a good deal of the overardent spirits whichwere sold at Misery. If he could drink without becoming noisy, so muchthe more to his credit, so much higher he stood in the estimation of hisfellows as a copper-bottomed sport of the true blood. The Duke could putmore of that notorious whisky under cover, and still contain himself,than any man they ever had seen in Misery. The more he drank the glummerhe became, but he never had been known either to weep or curse.

  Older men spoke to him with respect, younger ones approached him withadmiration, unable to understand what kind of a safety-valve a man hadon his mouth that would keep his steam in when that Misery booze beganto sizzle in his pipes. His horse was a subject of interest almost equalto himself.

  Under his hand old Whetstone--although not more than seven--haddeveloped unexpected qualities. When the animal's persecution ceased,his perversity fled. He grew into a well-conditioned creature, sleek ofcoat, beautiful of tail as an Arab barb, bright of eye, handsome tobehold. His speed and endurance were matters of as much note as hisoutlawry had been but a little while before, and his intelligence wassomething almost beyond belief.

  Lambert had grown exceedingly fond of him, holding him more in theestimation of a companion than the valuation of a dumb creature ofburden. When they rode the long watches at night he talked to him, andWhetstone would put back his sensitive ear and listen, and toss his headin joyful appreciation of his master's confidence and praise.

  Few horses had beaten Whetstone in a race since he became the Duke'sproperty. It was believed that none on that range could do it if theDuke wanted to put him to his limit. It was said that the Duke lost onlysuch races as he felt necessary to the continuance of his prosperity.

  Racing was one of the main diversions when the cowboys from thesurrounding ranches met at Misery on a Sunday afternoon, or when loadingcattle there. Few trains stopped at Misery, a circumstance resented bythe cowboys, who believed the place should be as important to all theworld as it was to them. To show their contempt for this aloof behaviorthey usually raced the trains, frequently outrunning those westwardbound as they labored up the long grade.

  Freight trains especially they took delight in beating, seeing how itnettled the train crews. There was nothing more delightful in anyprogram of amusement that a cowboy could conceive than riding abreast ofa laboring freight engine, the sulky engineer crowding every pound ofpower into the cylinders, the sooty fireman humping his back throwing incoal. Only one triumph would have been sweeter--to outrun the bigpassenger train from Chicago with the brass-fenced car at the end.

  No man ever had done that yet, although many had tried. The engineersall knew what to expect on a Sunday afternoon when they approachedMisery, where the cowboys came through the fence and raced the trains onthe right-of-way. A long, level stretch of soft gray earth, set withbunches of grass here and there, began a mile beyond the station,unmarred by steam-shovel or grader's scraper. A man could ride it withhis eyes shut; a horse could cover it at its best.

  That was the racing ground over which they had contended with theChicago-Puget Sound flier for many years, and a place which engineersand firemen prepared to pass quickly while yet a considerable distanceaway. It was a sight to see the big engine round the curve below, itsplume of smoke rising straight for twenty feet, streaming back like arunning girl's hair, the cowboys all set in their saddles, waiting togo.

  Engineers on the flier were not so sulky about it, knowing that the racewas theirs before it was run. Usually they leaned out of the window andurged the riders on with beckoning, derisive hand, while the firemanstood by grinning, confident of the head of steam he had begun storingfor this emergency far down the road.

  Porters told passengers about these wild horsemen in advance, and eagerfaces lined the windows on that side of the cars as they approachedMisery, and all who could pack on the end of the observation carassembled there. In spite of its name, Misery was quite a comfortablebreak in the day's monotony for travelers on a Sunday afternoon.

  Amid the hardships and scant diversions of this life, Lambert spent hisfirst winter in the Bad Lands, drinking in the noisy revels at Misery,riding the long, bitter miles back to the ranch, despising himself forbeing so mean and low. It was a life in which a man's soul would eithershrink to nothing or expand until it became too large to findcontentment within the horizon of such an existence.

  Some of them expanded up to the size for ranch owners, superintendents,bosses; stopped there, set in their mold. Lambert never had heard ofone stretching so wide that he was drawn out of himself entirely, hiseyes fixed on the far light of a nobler life. He liked to imagine a manso inspired out of the lonely watches, the stormy rides, the battleagainst blizzard and night.

  This train of thought had carried him away that gentle spring day as herode to Misery. He resented the thought that he might have to spend hisyouth as a hired servant in this rough occupation, unremunerative belowthe hope of ever gaining enough to make a start in business for himself.There was no romance in it, for all that had been written, no beautifuldaughter of the ranch owner to be married, and a fortune gained withher.

  Daughters there must be, indeed, among the many stockholders in that bigbusiness, but they were not available in the Bad Lands. Thesuperintendent of the ranch had three or four, born to that estate, fullof loud laughter, ordinary as baled hay. A man would be a loser inmarrying such as they, even with a fortune ready made.

  What better could that rough country offer? People are no gentler thantheir pursuits, no finer than the requirements of their lives. Daughtersof the Bad Lands, such as he had seen of them in the wives to whom heonce had tried to sell the All-in-One, and the superintendent's girlswere not intended for any ot
her life. As for him, if he had to live itout there, with the shadow of a dead man at his heels, he would live italone. So he thought, going on his way to Misery, where there was to beracing that afternoon, and a grand effort to keep up with the Chicagoflier.

  Lambert never had taken part in that longstanding competition. Itappeared to him a senseless expenditure of horseflesh, a childishpursuit of the wind. Yet, foolish as it was, he liked to watch them.There was a thrill in the sweeping start of twenty or thirty horsementhat warmed a man, making him feel as if he must whoop and wave his hat.There was a belief alive among them that some day a man would come whowould run the train neck and neck to the depot platform.

  Not much distinction in it, even so, said he. But it set him musing andconsidering as he rode, his face quickening out of its somber cloud. Alittle while after his arrival at Misery the news went round that theDuke was willing at last to enter the race against the flier.

  True to his peculiarities, the Duke had made conditions. He was willingto race, but only if everybody else would keep out of it and give him aclear and open field. Taterleg Wilson, the bow-legged camp cook of theSyndicate, circulated himself like a petition to gain consent to thisunusual proposal.

  It was asking a great deal of those men to give up their establisheddiversion, no matter how distinguished the man in whose favor they wererequested to stand aside. That Sunday afternoon race had become as mucha fixed institution in the Bad Lands as the railroad itself. With someargument, some bucking and snorting, a considerable cost to Taterleg forliquor and cigars, they agreed to it. Taterleg said he could state,authoritatively, that this would be the Duke's first, last, and onlyride against the flier. It would be worth money to stand off and watchit, he said, and worth putting money on the result. When, where, woulda man ever have a chance to see such a race again? Perhaps never in hislife.

  On time, to a dot, the station agent told the committee headed byTaterleg, which had gone to inquire in the grave and important manner ofmen conducting a ceremony. The committee went back to the saloon, andpressed the Duke to have a drink. He refused, as he had refused politelyand consistently all day. A man could fight on booze, he said, but itwas a mighty poor foundation for business.

  There was a larger crowd in Misery that day than usual for the time ofyear, it being the first general holiday after the winter's hardexactions. In addition to visitors, all Misery turned out to see therace, lining up at the right-of-way fence as far as they would go, whichwas not a great distance along. The saloon-keeper could see the finishfrom his door. On the start of it he was not concerned, but he had moneyup on the end.

  Lambert hadn't as much flesh, by a good many pounds, as he had carriedinto the Bad Lands on his bicycle. One who had known him previouslywould have thought that seven years had passed him, making him overcompletely, indeed, since then. His face was thin, browned andweathered, his body sinewy, its leanness aggravated by its length. Hewas as light in the saddle as a leaf on the wind.

  He was quite a barbaric figure as he waited to mount and ride againstthe train, which could be heard whistling far down the road. Coatless,in flannel shirt, a bright silk handkerchief round his neck; calfskinvest, tanned with the hair on, its color red and white; dressed leatherchaps, a pair of boots that had cost him two-thirds of a month's pay.His hat was like forty others in the crowd, doe-colored, worn with thehigh crown full-standing, a leather thong at the back of the head, thebrim drooping a bit from the weather, so broad that his face lookednarrower and sharper in its shadow.

  Nothing like the full-blooded young aggie who had come into the BadLands to found his fortune a little less than a year before, and aboutas different from him in thought and outlook upon life as in physicalappearance. The psychology of environment is a powerful force.

  A score or more of horsemen were strung out along the course, where theyhad stationed themselves to watch the race at its successive stages, andcheer their champion on his way. At the starting-point the Duke waitedalone; at the station a crowd of cowboys lolled in their saddles, notcaring to make a run to see the finish.

  It was customary for the horsemen who raced the flier to wait on theground until the engine rounded the curve, then mount and settle to therace. It was counted fair, also, owing to the headway the train alreadyhad, to start a hundred yards or so before the engine came abreast, inorder to limber up to the horses' best speed.

  For two miles or more the track ran straight after that curve, Miseryabout the middle of the stretch. In that long, straight reach thebuilders of the road had begun the easement of the stiff grade throughthe hills beyond. It was the beginning of a hard climb, a stretch inwhich west-bound trains gathered headway to carry them over the top.Engines came panting round that curve, laboring with the strain oftheir load, speed reduced half, and dropping a bit lower as theyproceeded up the grade.

  This Sunday, as usual, train crew and passengers were on the lookout forthe game sportsmen of Misery. Already the engineer was leaning out ofhis window, arm extended, ready to give the derisive challenge to comeon as he swept by.

  The Duke was in the saddle, holding in Whetstone with stiff rein, forthe animal was trembling with eagerness to spring away, knowing verywell from the preparations which had been going forward that some bigevent in the lives of his master and himself was pending. The Duke heldhim, looking back over his shoulder, measuring the distance as the traincame sweeping grandly round the curve. He waited until the engine waswithin a hundred feet of him before he loosed rein and let old Whetstonego.

  A yell ran up the line of spectators as the pale yellow horse reachedout his long neck, chin level against the wind like a swimmer, and ranas no horse ever had run on that race-course before. Every horsemanthere knew that the Duke was still holding him in, allowing the trainto creep up on him as if he scorned to take advantage of the handicap.

  The engineer saw that this was going to be a different kind of race fromthe yelling, chattering troop of wild riders which he had beenoutrunning with unbroken regularity. In that yellow streak of horse,that low-bending, bony rider, he saw a possibility of defeat anddisgrace. His head disappeared out of the window, his derisive handvanished. He was turning valves and pulling levers, trying to coax alittle more power into his piston strokes.

  The Duke held Whetstone back until his wind had set to the labor, hismuscles flexed, his sinews stretched to the race. A third of the racewas covered when the engine came neck and neck with the horse, and theengineer, confident now, leaned far out, swinging his hand like the oarof a boat, and shouted:

  "Come on! Come on!"

  Just a moment too soon this confidence, a moment too soon this defiance.It was the Duke's program to run this thing neck and neck, force toforce, with no advantage asked or taken. Then if he could gather speedand beat the engine on the home stretch no man, on the train or off,could say that he had done it with the advantage of a handicap.

  There was a great whooping, a great thumping of hoofs, a monstrous swirlof dust, as the riders at the side of the race-course saw the Duke'smaneuver and read his intention. Away they swept, a noisy troop, like aflight of blackbirds, hats off, guns popping, in a scramble to get up asclose to the finishing line as possible.

  Never before in the long history of that unique contest had there beenso much excitement. Porters opened the vestibule doors, allowingpassengers to crowd the steps; windows were opened, heads thrust out,every tongue urging the horseman on with cheers.

  The Duke was riding beside the engineer, not ten feet between them. Morethan half the course was run, and there the Duke hung, the engine notgaining an inch. The engineer was on his feet now, hand on the throttlelever, although it was open as wide as it could be pulled. The firemanwas throwing coal into the furnace, looking round over his shoulder nowand then at the persistent horseman who would not be outrun, his eyeswhite in his grimy face.

  On the observation car women hung over the rail at the side, wavinghandkerchiefs at the rider's back; along the fence the inhabitants ofMisery broke awa
y like leaves before a wind and went running toward thedepot; ahead of the racing horse and engine the mounted men who hadtaken a big start rode on toward the station in a wild, deliriouscharge.

  Neck and neck with the engine old Whetstone ran, throwing his long legslike a wolf-hound, his long neck stretched, his ears flat, not leaving ahair that he could control outstanding to catch the wind. The engineerwas peering ahead with fixed eyes now, as if he feared to look again onthis puny combination of horse and man that was holding its own in thisunequal trial of strength.

  Within three hundred yards of the station platform, which sloped down atthe end like a continuation of the course, the Duke touched oldWhetstone's neck with the tips of his fingers. As if he had given asignal upon which they had agreed, the horse gathered power, grunting ashe used to grunt in the days of his outlawry, and bounded away from thecab window, where the greasy engineer stood with white face and set jaw.

  Yard by yard the horse gained, his long mane flying, his long tailastream, foam on his lips, forging past the great driving wheels whichground against the rails; past the swinging piston; past the powerfulblack cylinders; past the stubby pilot, advancing like a shadow over thetrack. When Whetstone's hoofs struck the planks of the platform, markingthe end of the course, he was more than the length of the engine in thelead.

  The Duke sat there waving his hand solemnly to those who cheered him asthe train swept past, the punchers around him lifting up a joyful chorusof shots and shouts, showing off on their own account to a considerableextent, but sincere over all because of the victory that the Duke hadwon.

  Old Whetstone was standing where he had stopped, within a few feet ofthe track, front hoofs on the boards of the platform, not more thannicely warmed up for another race, it appeared. As the observation carpassed, a young woman leaned over the rail, handkerchief reached out tothe Duke as if trying to give it to him.

  He saw her only a second before she passed, too late to make even afutile attempt to possess the favor of her appreciation. She laughed,waving it to him, holding it out as if in challenge for him to come andtake it. Without wasting a precious fragment of a second in hesitationthe Duke sent Whetstone thundering along the platform in pursuit of thetrain.

  It seemed a foolish thing to do, and a risky venture, for the platformwas old, its planks were weak in places. It was not above a hundred feetlong, and beyond it only a short stretch of right-of-way until thepublic road crossed the track, the fence running down to the cattleguard, blocking his hope of overtaking the train.

  More than that, the train was picking up speed, as if the engineerwanted to get out of sight and hearing of that demonstrative crowd, andput his humiliation behind him as quickly as possible. No man's horsecould make a start with planks under his feet, run two hundred yardsand overtake that train, no matter what the inducement. That was thethought of every man who sat a saddle there and stretched his neck towitness this unparalleled streak of folly.

  If Whetstone had run swiftly in the first race, he fairly whistledthrough the air like a wild duck in the second. Before he had run thelength of the platform he had gained on the train, his nose almost evenwith the brass railing over which the girl leaned, the handkerchief inher hand. Midway between the platform and the cattle guard they saw theDuke lean in his saddle and snatch the white favor from her hand.

  The people on the train end cheered this feat of quick resolution,quicker action. But the girl whose handkerchief the Duke had won onlyleaned on the railing, holding fast with both hands, as if she offeredher lips to be kissed, and looked at him with a pleasure in her facethat he could read as the train bore her onward into the West.

  The Duke sat there with his hat in his hand, gazing after her, only herstraining face in his vision, centered out of the dust and wideningdistance like a star that a man gazes on to fix his course before it isoverwhelmed by clouds.

  The Duke sat watching after her, the train reducing the distance like avision that melts out of the heart with a sigh. She raised her hand asthe dust closed in the wake of the train. He thought she beckoned him.

  So she came, and went, crossing his way in the Bad Lands in that hour ofhis small triumph, and left her perfumed token of appreciation in hishand. The Duke put it away in the pocket of his shirt beneath thecalfskin vest, the faint delicacy of its perfume rising to his nostrilslike the elusive scent of a violet for which one searches the woodlandand cannot find.

  The dusty hills had gulped the train that carried her before the Dukerode round the station and joined his noisy comrades. Everybody shookhands with him, everybody invited him to have a drink. He put themoff--friend, acquaintance, stranger, on their pressing invitation todrink--with the declaration that his horse came first in hisconsideration. After he had put Whetstone in the livery barn and fedhim, he would join them for a round, he said.

  They trooped into the saloon to square their bets, the Duke going hisway to the barn. There they drank and grew noisier than before, to comeout from time to time, mount their horses, gallop up and down the roadthat answered Misery for a street, and shoot good ammunition into theharmless air.

  Somebody remarked after a while that the Duke was a long time feedingthat horse. Taterleg and others went to investigate. He had not beenthere, the keeper of the livery barn said. A further look aroundexhausted all the possible hiding-places of Misery. The Duke was notthere.

  "Well," said Taterleg, puzzled, "I guess he's went."