Читать книгу The Gentle Desperado - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 6

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Riding was a grateful relief to Robert Fernald after the agony of his last miles afoot, but life on the back of the pinto was by no means perfect. The horse had the beauty of an Arabian, the eye of a lion, and the soul of a mule. He knew all of a mule’s tricks: how to arch his back so that his canter bumped the brain of a rider into a dizzy haze; how to stiffen his legs so that his trot racked every bone of him in the saddle; but having gained his point and been allowed to walk, he went swiftly and sweetly, well-nigh as fast as the dogtrot of an ordinary cow pony. But when he felt that a day’s march had been completed and that a good camping place had been reached, he was apt to go dead lame. So much so that he could barely hobble on three legs, and exhaustion made him stumble again and again until his dainty nose almost touched the dust of the road. At the first of these compulsory halts, Robert spent an anxious hour massaging the useless legs of Pinto, but no sooner was the little horse turned out to graze than he began to frolic here and there and chase crows with the joy of a reckless boy. So that the first grave doubts entered the mind of Robert, and by the time the third stage of the march was completed he was forced to admit with much sorrow of soul that Pinto was a very knowing and bad-hearted pony.

There is only one way of conquering mulishness, and that is by giving a strong taste of the whip from time to time; and then Robert learned how to smooth the gaits of Pinto, though every time he flogged the horse he sighed with compunction.

The foothills sank behind the pair, turned from brown to blue, and melted at last into the loftier masses of the mountains. They were in the desert. Mesquite or greasewood or cactus was the only vegetation, and so scant and so pale was it that it seemed no more than an occasional smoke drift lying low along the ground. When the sun was two feet above the horizon, it had the force of midday heat, and at noon it withered and scorched the very soul. There were dangers for horse and man in this travel, but Robert had charted the water holes in his memory and he was able to knock over a meager, leathery jack rabbit now and again. As for Pinto, if he had the mental traits of the mule he had also the physical toughness of a mule. A good bellyful of water once a day lasted him, or for that matter, he could campaign with one drink in forty-eight hours; for he was of the true desert strain. Break the tougher spikes from the outside of a branch of cactus, and Pinto would devour the rest with neat, small, but patient bites. He was equally patient in gathering grass which had no more substance than streaks of spiderweb. No schooling could teach a horse such desert manners; but a hundred generations of tough ancestry had equipped the mind and the body of the little stallion. Where an ordinary animal would have wasted away, Pinto was growing fat and laughing at the ardors of the journey.

Robert’s feet were healing now, and the trip was turning out so much less arduous than he had expected that he began to feel like a conqueror; and like a conqueror he rode into a little desert village which came upon his horizon.

He could see no reason for the town. There was no visible supply of water. The houses were a handful of adobe huts surrounded by no gardens with no touch of greenery. There seemed no more juice of life in the place than in so much dead rock. Barely had he entered the town than he saw a one-armed Mexican beggar seated crosslegged in the full blast of the sun and holding out his hand like a shallow cup, asking alms.

Robert dismounted. Even to a beggar he would not speak from a height: “Poor man,” said he gently, “are you utterly desolate?”

The Mexican rolled up dull, black eyes. He was a pudgy figure, with stomach resting heavily upon his crossed legs.

“Ah, señor,” said he, lifting his hat to the questioner, “God gives and God takes away!”

“True,” said Robert, with a sigh.

“But one has patience. One endures.”

“That is true, also. One endures, if one has courage. I think you are very brave.”

“I? I have only the heart which God gave me. No man has more!”

“But how did you lose your arm, my friend? And don’t keep your hat off in this sun!”

“It was a little matter of dynamite. We talked, some friends and I. Was dynamite muy diablo? A little dry stick, like clay, how could it be muy diablo? I offered to hold a stick in my hand while it was set off.”

“Good heavens!” cried Robert. “But did your friends allow you to risk your life?”

“No great risk, señor. I held the stick around the corner of a house. However, there was this little accident to the arm. It seemed that dynamite was, after all, muy diablo! Well, we learn by experience. One cannot be born with all knowledge, señor!”

“And that is true also. Here is a little money. I am not rich or I would make it much more. It will buy you a few meals!” And he gave fifty dollars to the beggar.

The brown-faced man came to his feet with a bound.

“The Holy Virgin watch and bless you, señor! May she be with you like your shadow! May you have ten children, all sons! May your wife never grow old! I, Pedrillo Oñate, foresee that these things shall be. Kind señor, my prayers shall be raised for you every day of my life!”

Robert hurried away. For fifty dollars was not much, and yet it made gratitude run like water from the heart of this “poor man, whose loud voice still cried praises and blessings after him:

“May each of your ten sons marry a rich wife, and may the ten wives die young! God give you peace in your old age! May you—”

Robert cantered the pinto around the next corner and breathed more easily when the voice died away behind him. He was flushed, happy. To give is such a joy.

There was a little hotel in this town—two squat huts, joined by a structure of galvanized iron. Bread would have baked in the frightful oven of that dining room.

Robert staggered gasping from the room at last, and went to the stable to watch Pinto finish his rations. Then he groomed the little horse with loving care, saddled him, and started down the street—when behold! seated at the outside, crosslegged, his smoky hand extended for charity, was Pedrillo Oñate!

Robert did not dismount this time.

“Friend,” he said a little sternly, “do you not know that there is a point when he who asks for alms becomes a professional beggar? Beware, Pedrillo Oñate, lest some one should apply the term to you!”

“It is my little father!” cried Oñate, unabashed, and smiling up expectantly to Robert. “Ah, kind señor, I thought that I never should see you again except in my dreams. But you are brought back to help the wretched, and aid the poor!”

“Ah?” said Robert, a little staggered by this bland flow of words.

“It never can be said of my little father,” said Pedrillo, “that he saw a hungry man—”

“Oñate,” said Robert severely, “have you eaten fifty dollars’ worth of food and are you still hungry?”

“Alas, señor, I tasted no more than a single glass of beer! I began to think of what I should eat, but it was not fated that I should touch food. There is such a thing as fate, señor!”

“It is true,” admitted Robert.

“And fate ruled that I should be robbed of your charity!”

“You have reported to the authorities, then?” asked Robert.

“Would the authorities listen to a poor Mexican? ‘Dog of a greaser,’ they would say to me, ‘out of our sight!’ ”

Robert began to grow very pale.

“Is it possible that there are such men in this town?” he asked.

“What am I? I am useless. I have only one arm. Why should they consider me? No, they kick me from their paths!”

“Who robbed you?” asked Robert in a trembling voice.

“It is a story, señor,” said the beggar. “When I looked down at the fifty dollars which you had given to me, I said to myself: It is the will of heaven that Pedrillo Oñate should be made rich this day!’ Yes, food for five months lay in my hand. My heart swelled. For five months I could do nothing but pray for my little father! But then I had another thought. It was enough for me, but for my ancient father and my poor mother—alas, even a son with one hand still must think of his honored parents, señor!”

“It is true,” conceded Robert. “And I honor you for that thought!”

“Do you, in truth?” said Pedrillo, with a little glitter of insight in his eyes. “Ah, but the poverty of my poor father and my mother! Bent and sick and unable to work! When I thought of them I said: ‘You, Pedrillo, may grow fat on this money, but what of your parents?’ But everything that the little father has touched is blessed. This money can grow. God will turn it into a great sum. And at that moment I passed the saloon, smelled the cool, fragrant beer, and heard the clinking of the glasses. I went in, and in a back room I saw the gamblers playing blackjack. ‘It is the will of God,’ said I, ‘that I should play in that game!’ Hastily I swallowed my beer. I hardly stayed to pay for it. I entered the other room and sat at the table. And just as I had expected, so it proved to be! The blessing of heaven was on the money of my little father! From fifty it turned to a hundred, and from a hundred it turned to two hundred. And all that money I pushed into the center of the table. I was dealing. I won. I was about to take in the big stake—and then suddenly a drawn gun looked into my face. They snatched the money from me. They kicked me from the place. See, señor, where a spur tore my coat! So I must sit here again and beg, and my poor father—my poor mother must—”

Pedrillo began to weep with heavy sobs, but through his fingers he was watching Robert’s face.

As for Robert, he thrust his hand inside his coat, but he did not bring forth the wallet. He merely touched the butt of his automatic and made sure that it worked smoothly in its spring clip.

“Now where is the saloon?” he asked.

“It is that fourth house, little father.”

“Come there with me,” said Robert.

“Little father, what are you about to do? They will beat me if I go in. They will speak lies. They will call me a thief and will kick me—”

Robert turned slowly away. The way of duty lay before him, as clearly seen as any sunlit path. There were three gamblers in that house of dark deeds. And he must oppose them all! But in the olden days, when had Uncle Jimmy turned from facing such odds as these?

When he entered the saloon, three men stood before the bar with little glittering glasses of whisky before them. One of them was speaking, with a chuckle.

“I knew he was as crooked as a snake, but I passed the boys the wink and we lay low and watched him deal. Doggone me, Joe, it’s a sight to see that one-handed deal and I dunno how he works the cards, but finally—”

“I beg your pardon,” said Robert.

They jerked their heads around at him.

“Mr. Pedrillo Oñate,” said Robert, “has been robbed of two hundred dollars in this place. I have come to beg you to return his money.”

The three looked soberly at him; they looked at one another; they smiled.

“Kid,” said one of them, “are you the new sky-pilot? This ain’t your church, though! Take the air, boy.”

Robert blushed. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I do not wish to use force.”

“He’s drunk,” explained one of the three. “Throw the little fool through the door, Charlie, will you?”

“Well,” grinned Charlie, “maybe it’s my turn.”

And he strode toward Robert.

What a thrill of glory passed through Robert at that moment! There could be no question of mere fisticuffs now, for the odds were three to one. He was afraid. He was hideously and shudderingly afraid, but at the same time he had the joyful assurance that he would not be too afraid to fight!

“Friends,” cried Robert, “fill your hands!”

Was it not the old time-honored formula? In those words the immortal Wild Bill had addressed his foes before he fired and slew! And, as Robert spoke, he snatched out his automatic with the speed of long and arduous practice. But, for all his speed, he had time to note that the three were not reaching for their guns. He changed his aim from head to hat, blew the sombrero of Charles into the air and sent it sailing the length of the bar.

The bartender dived for shelter; falling bottles crashed like an echo to the booming of the gun; and then the room was still. The three tall men at the bar had gripped the handles of their guns, but they had not drawn.

“Gentlemen,” said Robert, “will you kindly take your hands from those guns? Unbuckle your belts, if you please, and let them fall. And remember that I am watching you. My next bullet will be for a head and not for a hat!”

Watch he did, and in tense excitement, waiting for the first twitch of gun from holster. But, to his bewilderment, there was no such movement from any of the three. Pale, silent, with lips compressed, they slowly unbuckled their belts and let them fall, guns and all, to the floor.

It was the only safe way of disarming enemies; Wild Bill had never used any other method.

And now three helpless men stood before Robert.

“Who has the stolen money?” asked Robert.

“What stolen money?” asked Charlie with an oath.

“Don’t be a fool, Charlie,” said another. “Pass out your wallet. He’s got the drop on us. Do the watches go too, kid?”

“Do you consider me a robber?” said Don Roberto, growing very red. “You, if you please—count out two hundred dollars on the bar.”

It was done. Two hundred dollars in a stack of rather battered greenbacks lay upon the bar; Robert scooped them up and put them in his pocket.

“Kid,” said Charlie, “I don’t make out your play, but if you want your name in the paper, this’ll get it there! And I’ll be immortally danged if you don’t get something else besides a headline!”

“Sir,” said Robert with the surety of absolute virtue, “I have taken not a penny more than you stole from the helpless Mexican. And if I seem to have taken an unfair advantage of you, you can take up your guns one at a time and we shall settle the matter here and now!”

They were tall men; they were rough men. Their hard hands seemed surely to know every trick of battle and no fear seemed to live in their bright, keen eyes, so Robert waited a moment in breathless suspense. And yet not a move was made! It was odd, but when he saw that nothing more was to be done at the moment, Robert backed to the door, and through it into the street.

The moment the door closed a storm of cursing, shouting, and wrangling began inside the building. He expected to see three fighting men, guns in hands, rush into the street crying for vengeance. No one appeared! The storm seemed confined to the interior of the barroom; so Robert restored the pistol to the clip beneath his left armpit, and went hastily to his horse.