Читать книгу The Gambler - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 4

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The rider was instantly on the ground and, raising his ambusher out of the dirt, wiped his face first, then tore open his shirt. There was no need of a second glance. Here was a dead man, or at the least one presently to die.

The victim opened glassy eyes and looked curiously into the face of his conqueror, like a child wakening from a deep sleep. “What showed me to you, Corcoran?” he asked.

“Luck,” said Corcoran. “What in the name of Heaven brought you here, Bristol? What had I done to you?”

“You cleaned me out last night in Eugene with some more of your luck. Handmade luck, that was, Corcoran!”

“You thought I cheated at the cards?”

“I knew it. Gimme a hand to stop this bleeding, will you? That slug—”

“Bristol, it’s no use. You’re a dead man, Harry Bristol.”

The wounded man swayed in the arms which supported him; his eyes widened; his mouth gaped. Then: “That ain’t true. It don’t feel true. It’s a lie, Corcoran. For Heaven’s sake, gimme a chance. Gimme help! You ain’t goin’ to see me bleed to death like a—”

“Steady! Steady!” warned Corcoran. “You’re nine-tenths spent already. I know something about wounds, my poor fellow, and I say that you’re about done.”

The other swallowed hard and raised a hand toward his throat with a grimace, so much pain did it cost him.

“I ain’t quite forty,” groaned Bristol. “What have I done to get this—”

“You’ve lived long enough,” said the smaller man. “This cowardly trick of to-day is more than ought to be crowded into any one life.”

“You ought to turn preacher, Corcoran, instead of gambler.”

“When my wits grow dull, I may. But as long as my fingers remain supple I intend to live without labor, Bristol.”

“You admit it, then!” cried Bristol “You was crooked last night!”

“No,” said Corcoran. “Not last night. To trim a lot of thick-headed fellows like you, Bristol, doesn’t require cheating.”

Bristol snarled like a hurt, angry dog. “Well,” he said with a sudden resolution, “I’m done. I feel it comin’, now. But gimme a drink of water before you go! Gimme a drink of water, Corcoran.”

“Certainly.”

He placed Bristol against the bank at the roadside, carefully tipping his hat across his eyes to keep the fierceness of the sun out of it. Then he reached back for his canteen.

Both hands were busy with it when he saw the danger coming. Bristol had tugged the revolver from the holster at his side. His first shot sang past the temple of Corcoran; before he could fire again, Corcoran had kicked the weapon out of his hand.

“What a snake you are!” he said without passion.

The dying man regarded him wistfully. “That gun always pulled hard,” he said. “If I’d shot at your right ear, though, I’d of blowed a hole in your forehead, Corcoran.”

“Perhaps. Now, Bristol, here’s your water.”

The latter accepted the flask with suspicious eyes, first as though he suspected that the proffer would be taken back, and again frowning down as though he thought that the water might be poisoned. Finally, however, he drank, and drained the canteen dry.

He tossed it into the dust, which instantly swallowed it. But Corcoran, raising it and wiping the mouth of the canteen, said not a word in protest.

“Very well,” said Corcoran. “Now tell me what I can do for you.”

“You’re a queer sort,” breathed the other. “I dunno that I ever heard tell of your like, Corcoran.”

His companion folded his arms. “You may make your own choice,” said he in his quiet voice. “You may talk about me, if you wish, or you may tell me what I can do for you.”

“What could you do for me? Gimme a passport to Heaven, Corcoran, or teach me a card trick to take to hell!”

“A fool,” said Corcoran, “can never learn to gamble. As for a passport to Heaven, a winged angel couldn’t carry you through the gate, Bristol. A cur who will shoot from ambush—why, man, when you get to hell in a few minutes even the devils will despise you!”

The bearded face of the dying man writhed into a sneer. “Preachin’ ag’in,” he said. “You are a rare one, Corcoran.”

“For the last time,” said the other, but without impatience in his voice, “will you tell me what commissions you to want me to execute for you?”

“Am I a fool to think that you’d keep a promise to me? How could I ever know you’d live up to your promise?”

“If you recall what little you may know about me, you will realize that no one has ever accused me of breaking a promise.”

“Tell me this straight. What makes you want to do something for me? Because you skinned me out of my money?”

“My dear fellow,” began Corcoran, but he changed his mind and began again: “I shall not attempt to explain my motives. Let me tell you this, only; in the course of events, inevitably, I shall die as you are dying now, with another man or men standing over me.”

“A smooth gent like you?” said Bristol, attempting a laugh and uttering a miserable choking sound only. “A gent like you? You’ll get to eighty and give good advice to your grandchildren. That’s the way things turn out in the world. Honest folks—they don’t have no chance. Gents like you—well, the world is made for ’em.”

“I tell you,” said Corcoran as quietly as ever, “that a man can live in spite of a few enemies. But there is a limit. And I crossed the border line long ago. You might say that I have stolen the past five years of my life. Very well, when my time comes—when one man shoots me through the back or”—he added proudly—“when a crowd dares to meet me face to face, I hope that they will at least do for me what I am willing to do for you.”

“What’s that?”

“For every twenty enemies, perhaps I have one friend. I shall wish to leave a small message, perhaps a small token, for each of them. Who are your friends? What message shall I take for you, Bristol?”

“Friends?” echoed the other. “The friends I have got won’t more’n shrug their shoulders when they hear that I kicked out. I know ’em! Friends? I’ve had something to do besides waste time swappin’ lies.”

“No friends?” said Corcoran softly. “Well, then, there is some one of your family?”

“Nope. The old man and the old woman died a long time ago. My wife died a year after we got married. There ain’t nobody.”

“No friends? No family? Not a soul on earth who’ll think of you after you’re dead, Bristol? Dear God, man, think again!”

“There’s my wife’s boy,” growled out Bristol. “Down in San Pablo, matter of fact. Unless the redheaded brat has moved along. He might remember me, for the sake of some of the lickin’s I give him. You could find him and tell him I ain’t goin’ to have a chance to warm him up ag’in!” And he grinned broadly at Corcoran. A spasm crossed his face and he clutched at his breast.

“I’m about done,” he said faintly.

“Very nearly,” confirmed Corcoran.

“Look here,” gasped out Bristol.

“Well?”

“About this heaven and hell stuff. A gent like you—you don’t believe in it, partner?”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t see nothin’ very clear. Gimme your hand, will you?”

Corcoran kneeled in the dust and took the hand of the other in his thin, strong fingers.

“It’s sort of dark,” breathed Bristol, staring before him with great eyes. “About that other thing—I dunno what to think. Suppose that what the womanfolk and the kids believe was true. Like Santa Claus, Corcoran! Suppose that it was true—what a mighty lot I’d have to pay for! You ain’t thinking that it’s true, partner?”

He stared toward his companion out of blind eyes. His voice was a beggar’s whine.

“If it were true,” said Corcoran, “there’s no reason why you should give up hope, Bristol. You know what the preachers say: their God is a God of mercy. Eh?”

“The sky pilots! But—a terrible lot of folks believe in ’em!”

“That’s very true.”

“Suppose—suppose—that one of them was here. Could he steer me right even now—after all I’ve done?”

“Would you want him to?”

“Think of goin’ to sleep an’ never wakin’ up! Think of that! Think of bein’ no more’n the empty ribs of a steer that the buzzards have picked! A man that could talk and think and remember things—how could we turn into dirt, Corcoran? How could we do that?”

“Perhaps we don’t.”

“If there was a church—man—”

“Bristol, you don’t need a church. Repentance is the thing, they say.”

“Corcoran, that’s right—that’s me! I repent. I don’t want to be shut out in the dark—not with the hosses and the cows and the dogs, Corcoran! I want another chance—I want another chance! If there was a church and a sky pilot—”

“Steady, man! The Lord may be watching you all the time, for all you know. He may be listening to you.”

“Corcoran, Corcoran! You’re a smart man. What should I say to Him to hear? What should I say?” He clutched at his slayer, gasping out his words.

“I—” muttered Corcoran, “I don’t know, Bristol.”

“He’d want to hear me pray. Corcoran, tell me a prayer!”

“Why, Bristol, I think I know one—or most of it. Repeat it after me, if you wish.”

“Not this way. They kneel in churches, Corcoran. For pity’s sake, help me to kneel!”

So, sagging with weakness, Corcoran lifted the dying bulk to its knees, and the weight of Bristol swayed against him.

“Repeat it after me: Our Father, which art in Heaven—”

“Our Father,” whispered the numb lips of Bristol, “which art in Heaven.”

“Hallowed be Thy name.”

“What does it mean, Corcoran? How can a name be hollowed?”

“There isn’t time to tell you. Say the words. If there’s a God, He knows your heart is in the things you say.”

“Hallowed be Thy name!” breathed Bristol.

“Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.”

“Thy kingdom come,” gasped Bristol. “God a’mighty, give me one more chance. I ain’t all skunk! Thy will be done on earth as it is—”

The heavy body slumped through the arms of Corcoran and lay on the roadside. Harry Bristol was gone. So Corcoran rose and dusted his knees, looking curiously down on the dead body.

“Very odd,” said Corcoran to himself. “If I had to go through that again I might—”

He raised his head and watched a thin wisp of cloud as it hurried across the great arch of the sky.