Trail's End Page 6

  CHAPTER VI

  RIDERS OF THE CHISHOLM TRAIL

  Peden's emporium of viciousness was a notable establishment in its day.By far the largest in Ascalon, it housed nearly every branch ofentertainment at which men hazard their fortunes and degrade theirmorality. It was a vast shell of planks and shingles, with skeletonjoists and rafters bare overhead, built hastily and crudely to serve itsephemeral day.

  In the farther end there was a stage, upon which mephitic femalesdisplayed their physical lures, to come down and sell drinks at acommission in the house, and dance with the patrons, at intervals.Beyond the many small round tables which stood directly in front of thestage was a clear space for dancing, and on the border of this festivalarena, in the front of the house, the gambling devices. A bar ran thelength of the building on one side from door to orchestra railing. Itwas the pride of Ascalon that a hundred men could stand and regalethemselves before this counter at one time.

  Five bartenders stood behind this altar of alcohol when Morgan set footin the place intent on putting himself in the way of the riders of theChisholm Trail. These Texas cowboys were easily identified among theearly activities of the place by the unusual amount of Mexican silverand leather ornamentation of their apparel. They were a road-worn anddusty crew, growing noisy and hilarious in their celebration of one oftheir number being elevated to the place of so conspicuous power as citymarshal of that famous town. It appeared to have its humorous side fromthe loud laughter they were spending over it, and the caressing thumpswhich they laid on Seth Craddock's bony back.

  They were lined up against the bar, Craddock in the midst of them, aregiment of bottles before them. Morgan drew near, ordered a drink,stood waiting the moment of his discovery and what might follow it. TheTexans were trying everything in the stock, from gin to champagne, gayin the wide choice the marvelous influence of their comrade opened tothem without money or the hint of price.

  Morgan lounged at the bar, turning meditatively the little glass ofamber liquor that was the passport to the estate of a proper man inAscalon, as in many places neither so notorious nor perilous in thosetimes. Each of the big metal kerosene lamps swung high on the joiststhrew a circular blotch of shadow on the floor, but the light from themfell brightly on the bar, increased in brilliancy by reflection from thelong row of mirrors.

  In this sparkle of glass and bar furniture Morgan stood, conspicuous bybeing apart, like a solitary who had ridden in for a jambouree of hisown without companion or friend. He wore his broad-brimmed black hatwith the high crown uncreased, and only for the lack of boots and pistolhe might have passed for a man of the range. The bartender who servedhim looked at him with rather puzzled and frequent sidelong turning ofthe eyes as he stood brooding over the untasted liquor, as if he soughtto place him in memory, or to classify him among the drift of men whocame in varying moods to his mahogany altar to pay their devotions toits bottled gods.

  Morgan's hat cast a shadow over half his face, making it as stern as aCovenanter's portrait. His eyes were on the bar, where his great handturned and turned the glass, as if his mind were withdrawn a thousandleagues from the noisy scene about him. But for all that apparentlywrapt and self-centered contemplation, Morgan knew the moment when SethCraddock looked his direction and discovered him. At that moment helifted his glass and drank.

  Craddock turned to his companions, upon whom a quiet settled as theydrew together in brief conference. Presently the city marshal saunteredout, leaving his comrades of the long trail to carry on their revelryalone. A gangling young man, swart-faced, fired by the contendingcrosses of alcoholic concoctions which he had swallowed, approachedMorgan where he leaned against the bar. This fellow straddled as if hehad a horse between his legs, and he was dusty and road-rough, but newlyshaved and clipped, and perfumed with all the strong scents of thebarber's stock.

  "Good evenin', bud. How does your copperosticies seems to segastuatethis evenin'?" he hailed, in a bantering, insolent, overriding way.

  "I'm able to be up and around and take a little grub," Morgan returned,as good-humoredly as if there had been no insulting sneer in thecowboy's words.

  "I hear you're leaving town this evenin'?"

  "I guess that's a mistake of the printer," Morgan said with casual ease.

  The other men in the party drew around Morgan, some of them challenginghim with insolent glances, all of them holding their peace but the onewho had spoken, who appeared to have been selected for that office.

  "A friend of mine told me you was hittin' the grit out of here tonight,"the young man insisted, putting that in his voice which seemed to admitno controversy. "This country ain't no place for a granger, bud;farmin's the unhealthiest business here a man ever took up, they tellme, he don't live no time at it. Sure, you're hittin' the road out ofhere tonight--my friend appointed us a committee to see you off."

  "I'm sorry to disappoint you, boys, but your friend's got the wronginformation on me and my movements, whoever he is. I'm goin' to hangaround this town some little time, till my farming tools come, anyhow.Just pass that word along to your friend, will you, sport?"

  "You ain't got erry gun stuck around in your pants, have you, bud?" theTexan inquired with persuasive gentleness.

  "Not the ghost of a gun."

  "Grangers burn their eyebrows off and shoot theirselves through the feetwhen they go totin' guns around," the fellow said, speaking in thewheedling, ingratiating way that one addresses an irresponsible child ora man in alcoholic paresis. The others appeared to find a subtle humorin their comrade's mode of handling a granger. Morgan grinned with themas if he found it funny himself.

  One fellow stood a little apart from the rest of the band, studyingMorgan with an expression of insolence such as might well warrant thebelief that he held feud with all grangers and made their discomfiture,dislodgment, and extermination the chief business of his life. This wasa man of unlikely proportions for a trade aback of a horse--short oflegs, heavy of body, long in the reach of his arms. His face was roundand full, fair for one who rode abroad in all seasons under sun andstorm, his teeth small and far apart.

  This man said nothing, took no part in the side comment that passedamong his comrades, only grinned occasionally, his eyes unwaveringly onMorgan's face. Morgan was drawn to note him particularly among thismainly trifling and innocuous bunch, uneasily impressed by the coldcuriosity of his round, tigerish eyes. He thought the fellow appeared tobe calculating on how much blood a granger of that bulk contained, andhow long it would take him to drink it.

  "You ain't got a twenty-two hid around in your pocket nowhere?" theinquisitor pressed, with comically feigned surprise. Morgan denied theownership of even a twenty-two. "I'll have to feel over you and see--Inever saw a granger in my life that didn't tote a twenty-two," the Texandeclared, stepping up to Morgan to put his declaration into effect.

  Morgan had stood through this mocking inquisition in careless posture,elbows on the bar at his back, with as much good humor as if he were amember of the band taking his turn as the butt of the evening'smerrymaking. Now, as the young Texan approached with the evidentintention of searching him for a weapon, Morgan came suddenly out of hislounging posture into one of watchfulness and defense. He put up hishand in admonitory gesture to stay the impending degradation.

  "Hands off, pardner!" he warned.

  The cowboy stopped, turned to his comrades in simulated amazement.

  "Did you hear the pore feller make that noise?" he asked, turning hishead as if he listened, not quite convinced that his ears had notdeceived him.

  "He's sick, he orto have a dose of turkentime for the holler horn," saidone.

  "He's got the botts--drench him for the botts," another prescribed.

  That suggestion appealed to their humor. It was endorsed with laughteras they pressed around Morgan to cut off his escape.

  "I was told you men were looking for me," Morgan said, estimating themindividually and collectively with calculative eyes, "so I stepped inhere where you could fin
d me if you had anything worth a man's time tosay to me. I guess you've shot your wad, and you've got my answer. Youcan tell your friend I'm stopping at the Elkhorn hotel, if he don't knowit already."

  Morgan moved away from the bar as if to leave the place. They bunched infront of him to bar his passage, one laying hold of his arm.

  "We're fixin' up a little drink for you," this detainer said, indicatingthe former spokesman, who was busy at the bar pouring something of thecontents of the various bottles into one that bore a champagne label.

  "I've had my drink, it isn't time for another," Morgan said, swinginghis arm, sending the fellow who clung to it headlong through the ranksof his companions.

  At this show of resistance the mask of humor that had covered theirsinister intention was flung aside. The man with the wide-set teethstepped into action there, the others giving place to him as to arecognized champion. He whirled into Morgan, planting a blow just abovethe bridge of his nose that sent him back against the bar with a joltthat made the bottles dance.

  It was such a sudden and mighty blow that Morgan was dazed for a moment,almost blinded. He saw his assailant before him in wavering lines as heguarded instinctively rather than scientifically against the fiercefollow-up by which the fellow seemed determined to make an ingloriousend of it for the despised granger. Morgan cleared out of the mists ofthis sudden assault in a moment, for he was a man who had taken andgiven hard blows in more than one knock-down and drag-out in his day. Hecaught the swing that was meant for a knock-out on his left guard, anddrove his able right fist into the fellow's face.

  The pugilistic cowboy, rare fellow among his kind, went to the floor.But there was good stuff in him, worthy the confidence his comradesreposed. For a breath or two he lay on his back as he fell, twisted tohis side with a springy movement of incredible swiftness, and sprang tohis feet. Blood was running from his battered nose and already puffedlips. The cheers of his comrades warmed him back to battle, and theonlookers who came pressing from all quarters, drew aside to give themroom to fight.

  They began to mix it at a furious pace, both of them sledging heavily,the advantage of reach and height sparing Morgan much of the heavypunishment his opponent lacked the cleverness to avoid. While the fellowdoubtless was a champion among the men of his range, he had littlechance against Morgan, imperfect as he was at that game. In a fewminutes of incessant hammering, no breathing spell to break the fierceencounter, Morgan had chopped the cowboy's face severely. Five timesMorgan knocked him down in less than half as many minutes, the elastic,enduring fellow coming back each time with admirable courage and vigor.

  Morgan's hands were cut from this bare-knuckled mauling, but hisopponent had not landed a damaging blow on his face since the firstunexpected and unguarded one. He could see, from their crowding andattempts to interfere, that the spirit of fairness had gone out of therest of the bunch. An end must be made speedily, or they would climb himlike a pack of wildcats and crush him like a rabbit in a fall. With thismenace plainly before him, Morgan put his best into the rush and wallopthat he meant to finish the fight.

  The cowboy's extraordinary resistance broke with the blow; he lay solong like a dead man where he fell that his comrades brought whisky torevive him. Presently he struggled to hands and knees, where he stoodcoughing blood, Morgan waiting by to see what would follow.

  "Take them knucks away from him! he slugged me!" Morgan was amazed tohear the fellow charge.

  "That's not so!" Morgan denied. "Here--search me," he offered, liftinghis arms.

  In the code governing personal encounter in those days of the frontier,which was not so very long ago, just one tick in the great clock ofhistory, it was permissible to straddle one's enemy when one got himdown, and churn his head against the ground; to gouge out his eyes; tobite off his ears; to kick him, carve him, mutilate him in various andunsportsman-like and unspeakable ways. But it was the high crime of thecode to slug him with brass or steel knuckles, commonly called knucks.The man who carried this reenforcement for the natural fist in hispocket and used it in a fight was held the lowest of all contemptibleand namelessly vile things. So, these Texas cowboys turned on Morgan attheir comrade's accusation, deaf to any denial, flaming with vengefulresentment.

  They probably would have made an end of Morgan then and there, but forthe interference of Peden, proprietor of the place, who appeared on thescene of the turmoil at that moment, calm and unruffled, expensive whitesombrero on the back of his head, fresh cigar in his mouth, black frockcoat striking him almost to the knees.

  Peden pushed in among the cowboys as they made a rush for Morgan, whostood his ground, back to the bar, regretting now the foolish impulsethat had led him into this pack of wolves. Peden stepped in front ofMorgan, authority in his very calmness, and restrained the inflamedTexans.

  He asked them to consider the ladies. The ladies were in a terriblepanic, he said, sweeping his hand toward the farther end of the roomwhere a dozen or so of the creatures whom he dignified with the namewere huddled under the restraint of the chief fiddler, who stood beforethem with fiddle in one hand, bow in the other, like sword and buckler.

  There was more curiosity than fright in the women, as the mostunsophisticated observer could have read in their kalsominedcountenances. Peden's only object in keeping them back from a closerenjoyment of the battle was entirely commercial, humanity and delicacybeing no part of his business plan. A live lady was worth a great dealmore to his establishment than one with a stray bullet in her skin,waiting burial at his expense in the busy undertaker's morgue.

  The cowboys yielded immediately to Peden's appeal in behalf of theladies, although they very likely would have resented a more obscurecitizen's interference with their plans. They fronted the bar again onPeden's invitation to pour another drink. Two of them lifted from thefloor the man whom Morgan had fought, and supported him in a weak-kneedadvance upon the bar. They cheered him in his half-blind and bleedingwretchedness with promise of what that marvelous elixir, whisky, woulddo for him once he began to feel the quickening of its potent flame.

  Peden indicated by a lifting of the eyebrows, a slight movement of thehead toward the door, that Morgan was to improve this moment by makinga quiet and expeditious get-away. Morgan needed no urging, being quitewilling to allow matters to rest where they stood. He started for thedoor, making a little detour to put a faro table, around which severalmen were standing, between himself and the men to whom Seth Craddock haddelegated the business of his expulsion from the town. One of the mensupporting their defeated champion saw Morgan as he rounded the table,and set up the alarm that the granger was breaking for the range.

  Even then Morgan could have escaped by a running dash, for thosehigh-heeled horseback men were not much on foot. But he could not paythat much for safety before the public of Ascalon, despicable as thoseof it gathered there might be. He made a pretense of watching the farogame while the Texans put down their glasses to rush after him and makehim prisoner, threatening him with clubbed pistols above his head.

  The lookout at the faro game, whose patrons were annoyed by this renewalof the brawl, jumped from his high seat and took a hand in the row.Friends of the marshal or friends of the devil, he said, made nodifference to him. They'd have to go outside to finish their fuss. Thisman, a notorious slayer of his kind, quicker of hand than any man inAscalon, it was said, urged them all toward the door.

  The cowboys protested against this breach of hospitality, but Pedenstood in his customary pose of calmness to enforce his bouncer's word,hand pushing back his long black coat where it fell over the holster athis belt.

  Morgan was in no mind to go with them, for he began to have a disturbingalarm over what these men might do in their drunken vengeance, relievedas they thought themselves to be of all responsibility to law by theliberty their friend Craddock had given them. Without regard to thebouncer's orders or Peden's threatening pose, he began to lay about himwith his fists, making a breach in the ranks of his captors that wouldhave opened the way
to the door in a moment, the outbreak was sounexpected and violent, if it had not been for a quieting tap thebouncer gave him with one of the lethal instruments which he carried forsuch exigencies.

  Morgan was conscious of a sensation of expulsion, which seemed swift,soft, and soundless, with a dim sense of falling at the end. When hisdispersed senses returned to their seat again, he found himself in theopen night, stretched on the ground, hands bound behind his back.