The Duke Of Chimney Butte Read online

  CHAPTER VII

  THE HOMELIEST MAN

  That brilliant beam falling through the barber's open door anduncurtained window came from a new lighting device, procured from aChicago mail-order house. It was a gasoline lamp that burned with a gasmantle, swinging from the ceiling, flooding the little shop with agreenish light.

  It gave a ghastly hue of death to the human face, but it would light upthe creases and wrinkles of the most weathered neck that came under thebarber's blade. That was the main consideration, for most of thebarber's work was done by night, that trade--or profession, as those whopursue it unfailingly hold it to be--being a side line in connectionwith his duties as station agent. He was a progressive citizen, and nograss grew under his feet, no hair under his hand.

  At the moment that the Duke and Taterleg entered the barber'sfar-reaching beam, some buck of the range was stretched in the chair.The customer was a man of considerable length and many angles, a shornappearance about his face, especially his big, bony nose, that seemed totell of a mustache sacrificed in the operation just then drawing to aclose.

  Taterleg stopped short at sight of the long legs drawn up like a sharpgable to get all of them into the chair, the immense nose raking theceiling like a double-barreled cannon, the morgue-tinted light givinghim the complexion of a man ready for his shroud. He touched Lambert'sarm to check him and call his attention.

  "Look in there--look at that feller, Duke! There he is; there's the manI've been lookin' for ever since I was old enough to vote. I didn'tbelieve there was any such a feller; but there he is!"

  "What feller? Who is he?"

  "The feller that's uglier than me. Dang his melts, there he is! I'mgoing to ask him for his picture, so I'll have the proof to show."

  Taterleg was at an unaccountable pitch of spirits. Adventure had takenhold of him like liquor. He made a start for the door as if to carry outhis expressed intention in all earnestness. Lambert stopped him.

  "He might not see the joke, Taterleg."

  "He couldn't refuse a man a friendly turn like that, Duke. Look at him!What's that feller rubbin' on him, do you reckon?"

  "Ointment of some kind, I guess."

  Taterleg stood with his bow legs so wide apart that a barrel could havebeen pitched between them, watching the operation within the shop withthe greatest enjoyment.

  "Goose grease, with _pre_-fume in it that cuts your breath. Look at thatfeller shut his eyes and stretch his derned old neck! Just like a calfwhen you rub him under the chin. Look at him--did you ever see anythingto match it?"

  "Come on--let the man alone."

  "Wrinkle remover, beauty restorer," said Taterleg, not moving forward aninch upon his way. While he seemed to be struck with admiration for theprocess of renovation, there was an unmistakable jeer in his tone whichthe barber resented by a fierce look.

  "You're goin' to get into trouble if you don't shut up," Lambertcautioned.

  "Look at him shut his old eyes and stretch his neck! Ain't it thesweetest----"

  The man in the chair lifted himself in sudden grimness, sat up frombetween the barber's massaging hands, which still held their pose likesome sort of brace, turned a threatening look into the road. If half hisface was sufficient to raise the declaration from Taterleg that the manwas uglier than he, all of it surely proclaimed him the homeliest man inthe nation. His eyes were red, as from some long carousal, their lidsheavy and slow, his neck was long, and inflamed like an old gobbler'swhen he inflates himself with his impotent rage.

  He looked hard at the two men, so sour in his wrath, so comical in hisunmatched ugliness, that Lambert could not restrain a most unusual andgenerous grin. Taterleg bared his head, bowing low, not a smile, not aripple of a smile, on his face.

  "Mister, I take off my hat to you," he said.

  "Yes, and I'll take your fool head off the first time I meet you!" theman returned. He let himself back into the barber's waiting hands, agrowl deep in him, surly as an old dog that has been roused out of hisplace in the middle of the road.

  "General, I wouldn't hurt you for a purty, I wouldn't change your looksfor a dollar bill," said Taterleg.

  "Wait till I git out of this chair!" the customer threatened, voicesmothered in the barber's hands.

  "I guess he's not a dangerous man--lucky for you," said Lambert. He drewTaterleg away; they went on.

  The allurements of Glendora were no more dazzling by night than by day.There was not much business in the saloon, there being few visitors intown, no roistering, no sounds of uncurbed gaiety. Formerly there hadbeen a dance-hall in connection with the saloon, but that branch of thebusiness had failed through lack of patronage long ago. The bar stood inthe front of the long, cheerless room, a patch of light over and aroundit, the melancholy furniture of its prosperous days dim in the gloombeyond.

  Lambert and Taterleg had a few drinks to show their respect for theinstitutions of the country, and went back to the hotel. Somebody hadtaken Taterleg's place beside Alta on the green bench. It was a man whospoke with rumbling voice like the sound of an empty wagon on a rockyroad. Lambert recognized the intonation at once.

  "It looks to me like there's trouble ahead for you, Mr. Wilson," hesaid.

  "I'll take that feller by the handle on his face and bust him ag'in' atree like a gourd," Taterleg said, not in boasting manner, but in theeven and untroubled way of a man stating a fact.

  "If there was any tree."

  "I'll slam him ag'in' a rock; I'll bust him like a oyster."

  "I think we'd better go to bed without a fight, if we can."

  "I'm willin'; but I'm not goin' around by the back door to miss thatfeller."

  They came up the porch into the light that fell weakly from the officedown the steps. There was a movement of feet beside the green bench, anexclamation, a swift advance on the part of the big-nosed man who hadafforded amusement for Taterleg in the barber's chair.

  "You little bench-leggid fiste, if you've got gall enough to say oneword to a man's face, say it!" he challenged.

  Alta came after him, quickly, with pacific intent. She was a tall girl,not very well filled out, like an immature bean pod. Her heavy blackhair was cut in a waterfall of bangs which came down to her eyebrows,the rest of it done up behind in loops like sausages, and fastened witha large, red ribbon. She had put off her apron, and stood forth inwhite, her sleeves much shorter than the arms which reached out of them,rings on her fingers which looked as if they would leave their shadowsbehind.

  "Now, Mr. Jedlick, I don't want you to go raisin' no fuss around herewith the guests," she said.

  "Jedlick!" repeated Taterleg, turning to Lambert with a pained,depressed look on his face. "It sounds like something you blow in tomake a noise."

  The barber's customer was a taller man standing than he was long lying.There wasn't much clearance between his head and the ceiling of theporch. He stood before Taterleg glowing, his hat off, his short-cut hairglistening with pomatum, showing his teeth like a vicious horse.

  "You look like you was cut out with a can-opener," he sneered.

  "Maybe I was, and I've got rough edges on me," Taterleg returned,looking up at him with calculative eye.

  "Now, Mr. Jedlick"--a hand on his arm, but confident of the force of it,like a lady animal trainer in a cage of lions--"you come on over hereand set down and leave that gentleman alone."

  "If anybody but you'd 'a' said it, Alta, I'd 'a' told him he was aliar," Jedlick growled. He moved his foot to go with her, stopped,snarled at Taterleg again. "I used to roll 'em in flour and swaller 'emwith the feathers on," said he.

  "You're a terrible rough feller, ain't you?" Taterleg inquired withcutting sarcasm.

  Alta led Jedlick off to his corner; Taterleg and Lambert entered thehotel office.

  "Gee, but this is a windy night!" said the Duke, holding his hat on withboth hands.

  "I'll let some of the wind out of him if he monkeys with me!"

  "Looks to me like I know another feller that an operation wouldn
'thurt," the Duke remarked, turning a sly eye on his friend.

  The landlord appeared with a lamp to light them to their beds, puttingan end to these exchanges of threat and banter. As he was leaving themto their double-barreled apartment, Lambert remarked:

  "That man Jedlick's an interesting-lookin' feller."

  "Ben Jedlick? Yes, Ben's a case; he's quite a case."

  "What business does he foller?"

  "Ben? Ben's cook on Pat Sullivan's ranch up the river; one of the bestcamp cooks in the Bad Lands, and I guess the best known, without anydoubt."

  Taterleg sat down on the side of his bed as if he had been punctured,indeed, lopping forward in mock attitude of utter collapse as thelandlord closed the door.

  "Cook! That settles it for me; I've turned the last flapjack I'll everturn for any man but myself."

  "How will you manage the oyster parlor?"

  "Well, I've just about give up that notion, Duke. I've been thinkin'I'll stick to the range and go in the sheep business."

  "I expect it would be a good move, old feller."

  "They're goin' into it around here, they tell me."

  "Alta tells you."

  "Oh, you git out! But I'm a cowman right now, and I'm goin' to stay onefor some little time to come. It don't take much intelligence in a manto ride fence."

  "No; I guess we could both pass on that."

  The Duke blew the lamp out with his hat. There was silence, all but thescuffing sound of disrobing. Taterleg spoke out of bed.

  "That girl's got purty eyes, ain't she?"

  "Lovely eyes, Taterleg."

  "And purty hair, too. Makes a feller want to lean over and pat thatlittle row of bangs."

  "I expect there's a feller down there doin' it now."

  The spring complained under Taterleg's sudden movement; there was asound of swishing legs under the sheet. Lambert saw him dimly againstthe window, sitting with his feet on the floor.

  "You mean Jedlick?"

  "Why not Jedlick? He's got the field to himself."

  Taterleg sat a little while thinking about it. Presently he resumed hisrepose, chuckling a choppy little laugh.

  "Jedlick! Jedlick ain't got no more show than a cow. When a lady stepsin and takes a man's part there's only one answer, Duke. And she calledme a gentleman, too. Didn't you hear her call me a gentleman, Duke?"

  "I seem to remember that somebody else called you that one time."

  Taterleg hadn't any reply at once. Lambert lay there grinning in thedark. No matter how sincere Taterleg might have been in this or anyother affair, to the Duke it was only a joke. That is the attitude ofmost men toward the tender vagaries of others. No romance ever isserious but one's own.

  "Well, that happened a good while ago," said Taterleg defensively.

  But memories didn't trouble him much that night. Very soon he wassleeping, snoring on the _G_ string with unsparing pressure. For Lambertthere was no sleep. He lay in a fever of anticipation. Tomorrow heshould see her, his quest ended almost as soon as begun.

  There was not one stick of fuel for the flame of this conjecture, notone reasonable justification for his more than hope. Only something hadflashed to him that the girl in the house on the mesa was she whom hissoul sought, whose handkerchief was folded in his pocketbook and carriedwith his money. He would take no counsel from reason, no denial fromfate.

  He lay awake seeing visions when he should have been asleep in the midstof legitimate dreams. A score of plans for serving her came up forexamination, a hundred hopes for a happy culmination of this greenromance budded, bloomed, and fell. But above the race of his hotthoughts the certainty persisted that this girl was the lady of thebeckoning hand.

  He had no desire to escape from these fevered fancies in sleep, as hiscompanion had put down his homely ambitions. Long he lay awake turningthem to view from every hopeful, alluring angle, hearing the smallnoises of the town's small activities die away to silence and peace.

  In the morning he should ride to see her, his quest happily ended,indeed, even on the threshold of its beginning.