Читать книгу Lucky Larribee - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 7

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When the marshal could see again out of his bloodshot eyes, he turned a dreadful purple, and his face swelled until it seemed that his neck scarf would burst asunder. He was forced to ask for a fresh outfit, and got one of Derry Dent’s which fitted him only in random places. Wilbur Dent was handing him the articles desired, and, in the meantime, learning about the atrocities which Larribee had perpetrated at the Potswood. The more he learned, the more strangely his eyes were lighted, but he continued to nod approval of the threats of the marshal, now in a dangerous mood.

The marshal was in the act of carefully winding a scarf about his throat when they heard a quiet voice just outside the door, the husky, rather oily voice of Larribee, saying: “When the marshal’s dressed, will you tell him that I’m waiting for him on the back porch—to apologize?”

Hannahan paused. His thoughtful glance met Dent’s and then, still more slowly, the marshal finished tying his scarf.

Now that he was dressed, he stalked from the room, and turning just outside of it, he glared down the narrow hall towards the rear of the house.

Wilbur Dent waited the whole half of a second before he said: “If I was you, marshal, I’d not bother Larribee about his—apology. I’d get right into town and have the doctor give me a lotion for them eyes. They look mighty inflamed, sort of. You take a man in your sort of job, marshal, he’s gotta have good eyes with him!”

The marshal made one long stride towards the rear of the house after hearing this speech. Then he checked himself, as though with an effort.

“You’ve got sense, Dent,” said he. “I’d better see a doctor at once.”

He left the house by the front door and went to get his mustang, which Derry Dent was holding for him. Once in the saddle, the dashing marshal turned.

“Mind you, it’s not the last of this!” he exclaimed.

“I reckon it’s not,” said Mr. Dent, nodding his head.

It was not until the marshal had dashed away at his usual frantic gallop that Wilbur Dent raised his head. A fit seemed to have seized him. Turning towards the house, he staggered violently. His feet moved drunkedly forward, then back. He reeled. Odd choking noises came from his throat, and he clasped his ribs roundabout as though an explosive force were threatening them.

His good wife came in from the kitchen, bursting with emotion.

“A fine piece of baggage we’ve got on the place!” she shouted. “Disgracin’ us—disgracin’ us in the eye of the law, what’s more! Wilbur Dent, what’s the matter with you? Have you got a fit?”

“Cousin Wilbur,” said the voice of Larribee from the back porch, “did you see any of the marshal when he left? I’ve been waiting here to—apologize.”

“Larribee—Alfred!” groaned Wilbur Dent. “Come in here to me, at once!”

Larribee entered, saying: “I’m mighty sorry about spilling that paint, too, Cousin Wilbur.”

“You witless, graceless thing, you,” screeched Mrs. Dent.

Wilbur Dent kicked back another chair. He leaned heavily across the table and peered at Larribee as though he saw the latter at great distance.

“Set yourself down, Alfred,” said he. “Set yourself down and look me in the face, you scamp, if you can. Tell me that you knocked young Ransome galley west! If you dare!”

“Mr. Josiah Ransome?” screamed Mrs. Dent. “Oh, heavens above.”

“Oh, get along with you,” said her husband, beginning to choke. “Get along with you and fetch me some coffee. And bring two cups. Oh, my achin’ sides! Alfred, I’m a dyin’ man! Did you see the marshal’s whiskers?”

“Why?” said Larribee thoughtfully, “as nearly as I remember, the marshal’s whiskers were rather lost, when I last saw him. They seemed to be—behind a cloud, so to speak, and—”

A stifled cry came from Wilbur Dent as he buried his face in his bandanna and rocked slowly back and forth. With one arm he vainly strove to embrace his tormented body and give it rest.

At last he lay helplessly back in his chair and allowed the tears to course uninterrupted, shamelessly, down his face. His wife, coming back to the door of the room from the kitchen, almost dropped both the coffee-pot and the cups.

“Wilbur Dent, you’re laughin’!” she exclaimed. “Upon my honest soul alive, you’re laughin’!”

“I ain’t laughin’. I’m dyin’.” said he.

But the first mouthful of coffee seemed to revive him. He rested his forehead upon one hand and groaned for some moments with every breath he drew.

“They said that Hannahan would never finish out a year of office. And he won’t, for he’s finished now,” said Dent. “He’s gonna get out, not foot first to a grave, but head-first, blowed out by the laughin’ of all of Fort Ransome. Cousin Alfred, dog-gone my spots, if I ain’t been mistaken in you. I didn’t know you at all. Take my hand, and mind you take it careful, because it’s the only right hand that I’ve got in stock. Alfred, I’m a proud and happy man to have you for kinsfolk. Alfred, you can set right here on my front veranda and rest your spurs on the rail and sleep all day and gamble all night, and Wilbur Dent is a liar if he won’t be proud to have you.”

“Hold on, Cousin Wilbur,” said Larribee.

“I mean it. This here is your home. This table is what you’re going to eat off free as long as you’ll stay with me. Mr. Josiah Ransome! Ha! Ha! Ha! If only I could’ve seen him land on his lily-white brow! But I seen the marshal, and that was a chapter out of ‘Revelation’! Why, Alfred, you’ve gone and made a fool out of me. I thought you were just a bad boy. I didn’t know that you were a regular larrupin’ Larribee. But this here is your home, lad. Mind you that.”

“It would have been very pleasant, Cousin Wilbur,” said he, “if things could have gone along as they were going before. But now that you make me so welcome, I’m ashamed of myself. I wouldn’t mind loafing in spite of you, but I couldn’t take any pleasure in doing nothing with your permission. I hope I don’t sound like a fool, Cousin Wilbur?”

Dent actually stroked the hand of the boy, and then he patted it.

“You do what you want to do,” said he. “Whatever you do will be all right. Only, I want you to know that I’m proud of you. Reach me that jug from back of the door, boy. There’s close on to twenty gallon of honest liquor in there, not the rotten stuff that they sell over the bar in this town!”

Larribee brought out the great earthen jar and fetched a glass from the cupboard at the end of the room.

“Two glasses, two glasses!” cried his cousin. “Great immortal Walter Scott! D’you think that I’d drink by myself with you in the room, my boy?”

“Thank you,” said Larribee as he filled the glass of his cousin, “but here’s a glass that’s more to my liking.” And he swayed the massive bulk of that jug aloft while Dent watched him, amazed, half rising from his chair in sympathy with that tremendous effort. Mrs. Dent herself, who many a time had pulled and hauled, tugged and rocked at that jug to move it from its corner on cleaning Mondays, paused in the kitchen door and pressed her wrinkled hands together as she saw the grey jug tilt over the raised elbow of Larribee while, with one hand on his hip and the other on the neck of the monstrous flask, he placed it against his mouth.

Then for a moment the Dents stared, and heard the gurgling of the liquid. Larribee lowered the jug and swung it lightly back to its place, slapping the big cork back into its neck.

“That, sir,” said he, “was a drink fit for a man, fit to last him a week, and out of a man’s cup, I’d say. To your honour and your luck Cousin Wilbur, and may your jug always be full, I say! I didn’t know that I had such cousins in the world, or I should have been here long before!”

Wilbur Dent tossed off his glass with a grin.

“Seems like I’m drinkin’ out of a thimble,” said he, “after watchin’ you handle that wee jug so. Seems like the three fingers I’ve had hardly had a taste in ’em, and hardly a bit of smoke or burn! Havin’ you around for a year or two might make a man out of me, Cousin Alfred!”

The small voice of Mrs. Dent spoke from the kitchen door.

“And, Cousin Alfred,” said she, “I wouldn’t be minding a wee drop myself!”