The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand
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to sing songs. I like this one. Listen!”
“They put me in the quad—in the quad;
They put me in the quad—in the quad.
They put me in the quad,
They chained me to a rod,
And they left me there, by God—
Damn your eyes!”
“Kilrain, come here and make it fast or I’ll damn your eyes!”
He explained to Bard: “Got to be hard with these fellers or you never get nowhere with ’em.”
“Yo ho!” answered the voice of the singer, and approached booming:
“The parson he did come, he did come;
The parson he did come—did come.
The parson he did come,
He looked almighty glum,
He talked of kingdom come—.
Damn your eyes!”
Shorty loomed in the doorway and caught his hand to his forehead in a nautical salute. He had one bad eye, and now it squinted as villainously as if he were the real _Sam’l Hall_.
“Righto sir. What’ll you have, mate?”
“Don’t mate me, you igner’nt sweepin’ of the South Sea, but trot up some red-eye—and gallop.”
The ex-sailor shifted his quid so that it stuck far out in the opposite cheek with such violence of pressure that a little spot of white appeared through the tan of the skin. He regarded Lawlor for a silent moment with bodeful eyes.
“What the hell are you lookin’ at?” roared the other. “On your way!”
The features of Kilrain twitched spasmodically.
“Righto, sir.”
Another salute, and he was off, his voice coming back less and less distinctly.
“So up the rope I’ll go, I will go;
So up the rope I’ll go—I’ll go.
So up the rope I’ll go
With the crowd all down below
Yelling, ‘Sam, I told you so!’
Damn their eyes!”
CHAPTER XXV
HAIR LIKE THE SUNSHINE
“Well,” grumbled Lawlor, settling back comfortably into his chair, “one of these days I’m goin’ to clean out my whole gang and put in a new one. They maybe won’t be any better but they can’t be any wuss.”
Nevertheless, he did not seem in the least downhearted, but apparently had some difficulty in restraining his broad grin.
The voice of the grim cook returned:
“I’ll see Nelly in the crowd, in the crowd;
I’ll see Nelly in the crowd, in the crowd;
I’ll see Nelly in the crowd,
And I’ll holler to her loud:
‘Hey, Nelly, ain’t you proud—
Damn your eyes?’”
“I ask you,” cried Lawlor, with freshly risen wrath, “is that any way to go around talkin’ about women?”
“Not talking. He’s singing,” answered Bard. “Let him alone.”
The thunder of their burly Ganymede’s singing rose and echoed about them.
“And this shall be my knell, be my knell;
And this shall be my knell—my knell.
And this shall be my knell:
‘Sam, I hope you go to hell,
Sam, I hope you sizzle well—
Damn your eyes!’”
Shorty Kilrain appeared in the doorway, his mouth wide on the last, long, wailing note.
“Shorty,” said Lawlor, with a sort of hopeless sadness, “ain’t you never been educated to sing no better songs than that?”
“Why, you old, grey-headed—” began Shorty, and then stopped short and hitched his trousers violently.
Lawlor pushed the bottle of whisky and glass toward Bard.
“Help yourself.” And to Kilrain, who was leaving the room: “Come back here.”
“Well?” snarled the sailor, half turning at the door.
“While I’m runnin’ this here ranch you’re goin’ to have manners, see?”
“If manners was like your whiskers,” said the unabashed Shorty, “it’d take me nigh onto thirty years to get ’em.”
And he winked at Bard for sympathy.
Lawlor smashed his fist on the table.
“What I say is, are you running this ranch or am I?”
“Well?” growled Kilrain.
“If you was a kid you’d have your mouth washed out with soap.”
The eyes of Shorty bulged.
“It ought to be done now, but there ain’t no one I’d give such dirty work to. What you’re going to do is stand right here and show us you know how to sing a decent song in a decent way. That there song of yours didn’t leave nothin’ sacred untouched, from parsons and jails to women and the gallows. Stand over there and sing.”
The eyes of the sailor filmed over with cold hate.
“Was I hired to punch cattle,” he said, “or make a blasted, roarin’ fool out of myself?”
“You was hired,” answered Lawlor softly, as he filled his glass to the brim with the old rye whisky, “to be a cook, and you’re the rottenest hash-slinger that ever served cold dough for biscuits; a blasted, roarin’ fool you’ve already made out of yourself by singin’ that song. I want another one to get the sound of that out of my ears. Tune up!”
Thoughts of murder, ill-concealed, whitened the face of the sailor.
“Some day—” he began hoarsely, and then stopped. For a vision came to him of blithe mornings when he should sit on the top of the corral fence rolling a cigarette, while some other puncher went into the herd and roped and saddled his horse.
“D’you mean this—Drew?” he asked, with an odd emphasis.
“D’you think I’m talking for fun?”
“What’ll I sing?” he asked in a voice which was reduced to a faint whisper by rage.
“I dunno,” mused Lawlor, “but maybe it ought to lie between ‘Alice, Ben Bolt,’ and ‘Annie Laurie.’ What d’you choose, partner?”
He turned to Bard.
“‘Alice, Ben Bolt,’ by all means. I don’t think he could manage the Scotch.”
“Start!” commanded Lawlor.
The sailor closed his eyes, tilted back his head, twisted his face to a hideous grimace, and then opening his shapeless mouth emitted a tremendous wail which took shape in the following words:
“Oh, don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,
Sweet Alice, with hair like the sunshine—”
“Shut up!” roared Lawlor.
It required a moment for Shorty to unkink the congested muscles of his face.
“What the hell’s the matter now?”