The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand
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he said, dismissing the subject with a tolerant wave of the hand. “Nothin’ worth talkin’ of.”
“I see,” nodded Bard.
It occurred to Lawlor that his guest was taking the narrative in a remarkably philosophic spirit. He reviewed his telling of the story hastily and could find nothing that jarred.
He concluded: “That was the way of livin’ in them days. They ain’t no more—they ain’t no more!”
“And now,” said Anthony, “the only excitement you get is out of books—and running the labourers?”
He had picked up the book which Lawlor had just laid down.
“Oh, I read a bit now and then,” said the cowpuncher easily, “but I ain’t much on booklearnin’.”
Bard was turning the pages slowly. The title, whose meaning dawned slowly on his astonished mind as a sunset comes in winter over a grey landscape, was The Critique of Pure Reason. He turned the book over and over in his hands. It was well thumbed.
He asked, controlling his voice: “Are you fond of Kant?”
“Eh?” queried the other.
“Fond of this book?”
“Yep, that’s one of my favourites. But I ain’t much on any books.”
“However,” said Bard, “the story of this is interesting.”
“It is. There’s some great stuff in it,” mumbled Lawlor, trying to squint at the title, which he had quite overlooked during the daze in which he first picked it up.
Bard laid the book aside and out of sight.
“And I like the characters, don’t you? Some very close work done with them.”
“Yep, there’s a lot of narrow escapes.”
“Exactly. I’m glad that we agree about books.”
“So’m I. Feller can kill a lot of time chinning about books.”
“Yes, I suppose a good many people have killed time over this book.”
And as he smiled genially upon the cowpuncher, Bard felt a great relief sweep over him, a mighty gladness that this was not Drew—that this looselipped gabbler was not the man who had written the epitaph over the tomb of Joan Piotto. He lied about the book; he had lied about it all. And knowing that this was not Drew, he felt suddenly as if someone were watching him from behind, someone large and grey and stern of eye, like the giant who had spoken to him so long before in the arena at Madison Square Garden.
A game was being played with him, and behind that game must be Drew himself; all Bard could do was to wait for developments.
The familiar, booming voice of Shorty Kilrain echoed through the house: “Supper!”
And the loud clangour of a bell supported the invitation.
“Chow-time,” breathed Lawlor heavily, like one relieved at the end of a hard shift of work. “I figure you ain’t sorry, son?”
“No,” answered Bard, “but it’s too bad to break off this talk. I’ve learned a lot.”
CHAPTER XXVII
THE STAGE
“You first,” said Lawlor at the door.
“I’ve been taught to let an older man go first,” said Bard, smiling pleasantly. “After you, sir.”
“Any way you want it, Bard,” answered Lawlor, but as he led the way down the hall he was saying to himself, through his stiffly mumbling lips: “He knows! Calamity was right; there’s going to be hell poppin’ before long.”
He lengthened his stride going down the long hall to the dining-room, and entering, he found the cowpunchers about to take their places around the big table. Straight toward the head to the big chair he stalked, and paused an instant beside little Duffy. Their interchange of whispers was like a muffled rapid-fire, for they had to finish before young Bard, now just entering the room, could reach them and take his designated chair at the right of Lawlor.
“He knows,” muttered Lawlor.
“Hell! Then it’s all up?”
“No; keep bluffin’; wait. How’s everything?”
“Gregory ain’t come in, but Drew may put him wise before he gets inside the house.”
“You done all I could expect,” said Lawlor aloud as Bard came up, “but to-morrow go back on the same job and try to get something definite.”
To Bard: “Here’s your place, partner. Just been tellin’ Duffy, there on your right, about some work. Some of the doggies have been rustled lately and we’re on their trail.”
They took their places, and Bard surveyed the room carefully, as an actor who stands in the wings and surveys the stage on which he is soon to step and play a great part; for in Anthony there was a gathering sense of impending disaster and action. What he saw was a long, low apartment, the bare rafters overhead browned by the kitchen smoke, which even now was rolling in from the wide door at the end of the room—the thick, oily smoke of burnt meat mingled with steam and the nameless vapours of a great oven.
There was no semblance of a decoration on the walls; the boards were not even painted. It was strictly a place for use, not pleasure. The food itself which Shorty Kilrain and Calamity Ben now brought on was distinctly utilitarian rather than appetizing. The pièce de resistance was a monstrous platter heaped high with beefsteak, not the inviting meat of a restaurant in a civilized city, but thin, brown slabs, fried dry throughout. The real nourishment was in the gravy in which the steak swam. In a dish of even more amazing proportions was a vast heap of potatoes boiled with their jackets on. Lawlor commenced loading the stack of plates before him, each with a slab and a potato or two.
Meantime from a number of big coffee pots a stream of a liquid, bitter as lye and black as night, was poured into the tin cups. Yet the cattlemen about the table settled themselves for the meal with a pleasant expectation fully equal to that of the most seasoned gourmand in a Manhattan restaurant.
The peculiar cowboy’s squint—a frowning of the brow and a compression of the thin lips—relaxed. That frown came from the steady effort to shade the eyes from the white-hot sunlight; the compression of the lips was due to a determination to admit none of the air, laden with alkali dust, except through the nostrils. It grew in time into a perpetual grimace, so that the expression of an old range rider is that of a man steeling himself to pass through some grim ordeal.
Now as they relaxed, Anthony perceived first of all that most of the grimness passed away from the narrowed eyes and they lighted instead with good-humoured banter, though of a weary nature. One by one, they cast off ten years of age; the lines rubbed out; the jaws which had thrust out grew normal; the leaning heads straightened and went back.
They paid not the slightest attention to the newcomer, talking easily among themselves, but Anthony was certain that at least some of them were thinking of him. If they said nothing, their thoughts were the more.
In fact, in the meantime little Duffy had passed on to the next man, in a side mutter, the significant phrase: “He knows!” It went from lip to lip like a watchword passing along a line of sentinels. Each man heard it imperturbably, completed the sentence he was speaking before, or maintained his original silence through a pause, and then repeated it to his right-hand neighbour. Their demeanour did not alter perceptibly, except that the laughter, perhaps, became a little more uproarious, and they were sitting straighter in their chairs, their eyes brighter.
All they knew was that Drew had impressed on them that Bard must not leave that room in command of his six-shooter or even of his hands. He must be bound securely. The working out of the details of execution he had left to their own ingenuity. It might have seemed a little thing to do to greener fellows, but every one of these men was an experienced cowpuncher, and like all old hands on the range