I
The great Pullman was whirling onward with such dignity of motion that a glance from the window seemed simply to prove that the plains of Texas were pouring eastward. Vast flats of green grass, dull-hued spaces of mesquite and cactus, little groups of frame houses, woods of light and tender trees, all were sweeping into the east, sweeping over the horizon, a precipice.
A newly married pair had boarded this coach at San Antonio. The mans face was reddened from many days in the wind and sun, and a direct result of his new black clothes was that his brick-colored hands were constantly performing in a most conscious fashion. From time to time he looked down respectfully at his attire. He sat with a hand on each knee, like a man waiting in a barbers shop. The glances he devoted to other passengers were furtive and shy.
The bride was not pretty, nor was she very young. She wore a dress of blue cashmere, with small reservations of velvet here and there, and with steel buttons abounding. She continually twisted her head to regard her puff sleeves, very stiff, straight, and high. They embarrassed her. It was quite apparent that she had cooked, and that she expected to cook, dutifully. The blushes caused by the careless scrutiny of some passengers as she had entered the car were strange to see upon this plain, underclass countenance, which was drawn in placid, almost emotionless lines.
They were evidently very happy. Ever been in a parlor car before? he asked; smiling with delight.
No, she answered. I never was. Its fine, aint it?
Great! And then after a while well go forward to the diner, and get a big layout. Finest meal in the world. Charge a dollar.
Oh, do they? cried the bride. Charge a dollar? Why, thats too much for usaint it, Jack?
Not this trip, anyhow, he answered bravely. Were going to go the whole thing.
Later, he explained to her about the trains. You see, its a thousand miles from one end of Texas to the other; and this train runs right across it, and never stops but four times. He had the pride of an owner. He pointed out to her the dazzling fittings of the coach; and in truth her eyes opened wider as she contemplated the sea-green figured velvet, the shining brass, silver, and glass, the wood that gleamed as darkly brilliant as the surface of a pool of oil. At one end a bronze figure sturdily held a support for a separated chamber, and at convenient places on the ceiling were frescoes in olive and silver.
To the minds of the pair, their surroundings reflected the glory of their marriage that morning in San Antonio. This was the environment of their new estate, and the mans face in particular beamed with an elation that made him appear ridiculous to the negro porter. This individual at times surveyed them from afar with an amused and superior grin. On other occasions he bullied them with skill in ways that did not make it exactly plain to them that they were being bullied. He subtly used all the manners of the most unconquerable kind of snobbery. He oppressed them; but of this oppression they had small knowledge, and they speedily forgot that infrequently a number of travelers covered them with stares of derisive enjoyment. Historically there was supposed to be something infinitely humorous in their situation.
We are due in Yellow Sky at 3:42, he said, looking tenderly into her eyes.
Oh, are we? she said, as if she had not been aware of it. To evince surprise at her husbands statement was part of her wifely amiability. She took from a pocket a little silver watch; and as she held it before her, and stared at it with a frown of attention, the new husbands face shone.
I bought it in San Anton from a friend of mine, he told her gleefully.
Its seventeen minutes past twelve, she said, looking up at him with a kind of shy and clumsy coquetry. A passenger, noting this play, grew excessively sardonic, and winked at himself in one of the numerous mirrors.
At last they went to the dining car. Two rows of negro waiters, in glowing white suits, surveyed their entrance with the interest, and also the equanimity, of men who had been forewarned. The pair fell to the lot of a waiter who happened to feel pleasure in steering them through their meal. He viewed them with the manner of a fatherly pilot, his countenance radiant with benevolence. The patronage, entwined with the ordinary deference, was not plain to them. And yet, as they returned to their coach, they showed in their faces a sense of escape.
To the left, miles down a long purple slope, was a little ribbon of mist where moved the keening Rio Grande. The train was approaching it at an angle, and the apex was Yellow Sky. Presently it was apparent that, as the distance from Yellow Sky grew shorter, the husband became commensurately restless. His brick-red hands were more insistent in their prominence. Occasionally he was even rather absent-minded and faraway when the bride leaned forward and addressed him.
As a matter of truth, Jack Potter was beginning to find the shadow of a deed weigh upon him like a leaden slab. He, the town marshal of Yellow Sky, a man known, liked, and feared in his corner, a prominent person, had gone to San Antonio to meet a girl he believed he loved, and there, after the usual prayers, had actually induced her to marry him, without consulting Yellow Sky for any part of the transaction. He was now bringing his bride before an innocent and unsuspecting community.
Of course people in Yellow Sky married as it pleased them, in accordance with a general custom; but such was Potters thought of his duty to his friends, or of their idea of his duty, or of an unspoken form which does not control men in these matters, that he felt he was heinous. He had committed an extraordinary crime. Face to face with this girl in San Antonio, and spurred by his sharp impulse, he had gone headlong over all the social hedges. At San Antonio he was like a man hidden in the dark. A knife to sever any friendly duty, any form, was easy to his hand in that remote city. But the hour of Yellow Skythe hour of daylightwas approaching.
He knew full well that his marriage was an important thing to his town. It could only be exceeded by the burning of the new hotel. His friends could not forgive him. Frequently he had reflected on the advisability of telling them by telegraph, but a new cowardice had been upon him. He feared to do it. And now the train was hurrying him toward a scene of amazement, glee, and reproach. He glanced out of the window at the line of haze swinging slowly in toward in toward the train.
Yellow Sky had a kind of brass band, which played painfully, to the delight of the populace. He laughed without heart as he thought of it. If the citizens could dream of his prospective arrival with his bride, they would parade the band at the station and escort them, amid cheers and laughing congratulations, to his adobe home.
He resolved that he would use all the devices of speed and plains-craft in making the journey from the station to his house. Once within that safe citadel, he could issue some of a vocal bulletin, and then not go among the citizens until they had time to wear off a little of their enthusiasm.
The bride looked anxiously at him. Whats worrying you, Jack?
He laughed again. Im not worrying, girl. Im only thinking of Yellow Sky.
She flushed in comprehension.
A sense of mutual guilt invaded their minds and developed a finer tenderness. They looked at each other with eyes softly aglow. But Potter often laughed the same nervous laugh. The flush upon the brides face seemed quite permanent.
The traitor to the feelings of Yellow Sky narrowly watched the speeding landscape. Were nearly there, he said.
Presently the porter came and announced the proximity of Potters home. He held a brush in his hand, and, with all his airy superiority gone, he brushed Potters new clothes as the latter slowly turned this way and that way. Potter fumbled out a coin and gave it to the porter, as he had seen others do. It was a heavy and muscle-bound business, as that of a man shoeing his first horse.
The porter took their bag, and as the train began to slow they moved forward to the hooded platform of the car. Presently the two engines and their long string of coaches rushed into the station of Yellow Sky.
They have to take water here, said Potter, from a constricted throat and in mournful cadence, as one announcing death. Before the train stopped, his eye had swept the length of the platform, and he was glad and astonished to see there was none upon it but the station-agent, who, with a slightly hurried and anxious air, was walking toward the water tanks. When the train had halted, the porter alighted first, and placed in position a little temporary step.
Come on, girl, said Potter, hoarsely. As he helped her down they each laughed on a false note. He took the bag from the negro, and bade his wife cling to his arm. As they slunk rapidly away, his hangdog glance perceived that they were unloading the two trunks, and also that the stationagent, far ahead near the baggage car, had turned and was running toward him, making gestures. He laughed, and groaned as he laughed, when he noted the first effect of his marital bliss upon Yellow Sky. He gripped his wifes arm firmly to his side, and they fled. Behind them the porter stood, chuckling fatuously.
II
The California express on the Southern Railway was due at Yellow Sky in twenty-one minutes. There were six men at the bar of the Weary Gentleman saloon. One was a drummer who talked a great deal and rapidly; three were Texans who did not care to talk at that time; and two were Mexican sheepherders, who did not talk as a general practice in the Weary Gentleman saloon. The barkeepers dog lay on the boardwalk that crossed in front of the door. His head was on his paws, and he glanced drowsily here and there with the constant vigilance of a dog that is kicked on occasion. Across the sandy street were some vivid green grass-plots, so wonderful in appearance, amid the sands that burned near them in a blazing sun, that they caused a doubt in the mind. They exactly resembled the grass mats used to represent lawns on the stage. At the cooler end of the railway station, a man without a coat sat in a tilted chair and smoked his pipe. The fresh-cut bank of the Rio Grande circled near the town, and there could be seen beyond it a great plum-colored plain of mesquite.
Save for the busy drummer and his companions in the saloon, Yellow Sky was dozing. The newcomer leaned gracefully upon the bar, and recited many tales with the confidence of a bard who has come upon a new field.
and at the moment that the old man fell downstairs with the bureau in his arms, the old woman was coming up with two scuttles of coal, and of course
The drummers tale was interrupted by a young man who suddenly appeared in the open door. He cried: Scratchy Wilsons drunk, and has turned loose with both hands. The two Mexicans at once set down their glasses and faded out of the rear entrance of the saloon.
The drummer, innocent and jocular, answered: All right, old man. Spose he has? Come in and have a drink, anyhow.
But the information had made such an obvious cleft in every skull in the room that the drummer was obliged to see its importance. All had become instantly solemn. Say, said he, mystified, what is this? His three companions made the introductory gesture of eloquent speech, but the young man at the door forestalled them.
It means, my friend, he answered, as he came into the saloon, that for the next two hours this town wont be a health resort.
The barkeeper went to the door and locked and barred it. Reaching out of the window, he pulled in heavy wooden shutters and barred them. Immediately a solemn chapel-like gloom was upon the place. The drummer was looking from one to another.
But say, he cried, what is this, anyhow? You dont mean there is going to be a gunfight?
Dont know whether therell be a fight or not, answered one man, grimly. But therell be some shootinsome good shootin.
The young man who had warned them waved his hand. Oh, therell be a fight fast enough, if any one wants it. Anybody can get a fight out there in the street. Theres a fight just waiting.
The drummer seemed to be swayed between the interest of a foreigner and a perception of personal danger.
What did you say his name was? he asked.
Scratchy Wilson, they answered in chorus.
And will he kill anybody? What are you going to do? Does this happen often? Does he rampage around like this once a week or so? Can he break in that door?
No; he cant break down that door, replied the barkeeper. Hes tried it three times. But when he comes youd better lay down on the floor, stranger. Hes dead sure to shoot at it, and a bullet may come through.
Thereafter the drummer kept a strict eye upon the door. The time had not yet been called for him to hug the floor, but, as a minor precaution, he sidled near to the wall. Will he kill anybody? he said again.
The men laughed low and scronfully at the question.
Hes out to shoot, and hes out for trouble. Dont see any good in experimentin with him.
But what do you do in a case like this? What do you do?
A man responded: Why, he and Jack Potter
But, in chorus the other men interrupted, Jack Potters in San Anton.
Well, who is he? Whats he got to do with it?
Oh, hes the town marshal. He goes out and fights Scratchy when he gets on one of these tears.
Wow! said the drummer, mopping his brow. Nice job hes got.
The voices had toned away to mere whisperings. The drummer wished to ask further questions, which were born of an increasing anxiety and bewilderment; but when he attempted them, the men merely looked at him in irritation and motioned him to remain silent. A tense waiting hush was upon them. In the deep shadows of the room their eyes shone as they listened for sounds from the street. One man made three gestures at the barkeeper; and the latter, moving like a ghost, handed him a glass and a bottle. The man poured a full glass of whiskey, and set down the bottle noiselessly. He gulped the whiskey in a swallow, and turned again toward the door in immovable silence. The drummer saw that the barkeeper, without a sound, had taken a Winchester from beneath the bar. Later he saw this individual beckoning to him, so he tiptoed across the room.
You better come with me back of the bar.
No, thanks, said the drummer, perspiring. Id rather be where I can make a break for the back door.
Whereupon the man of bottles made a kindly but peremptory gesture. The drummer obeyed it, and, finding himself seated on a box with his head below the level of the bar, balm was laid upon his soul at sight of various zinc and copper fittings that bore a resemblance to armor plate. The barkeeper took a seat comfortably upon an adjacent box.
You see, he whispered, this here Scratchy Wilson is a wonder with a guna perfect wonderand when he goes on the war trail, we hunt our holesnaturally. Hes about the last one of the old gang that used to hang out along the river here. Hes a terror when hes drunk. When hes sober hes all rightkind of simplewouldnt hurt a flynicest fellow in town. But when hes drunkwhoo!
There were periods of stillness. I wish Jack Potter was back from San Anton, said the barkeeper. He shot Wilson up oncein the legand he would sail in and pull out the kinks in this thing.
Presently they heard from a distance the sound of a shot, followed by three wild yowls. It instantly removed a bond from the men in the darkened saloon. There was a shuffling of feet. They looked at each other. Here he comes, they said.
III
A man in a maroon-colored flannel shirt, which had been purchased for purposes of decoration, and made principally by some Jewish women on the East Side of New York, rounded a corner and walked into the middle of the main street of Yellow Sky. In either hand the man held a long, heavy, blue-black revolver. Often he yelled, and these cries rang through a semblance of a deserted village, shrilly flying over the roofs in a volume that seemed to have no relation to the ordinary vocal strength of a man. It was as if the surrounding stillness formed the arch of a tomb over him. These cries of ferocious challenge rang against walls of silence. And his boots had red tops with gilded imprints, of the kind beloved in winter by little sledding boys on the hillsides of New England.
The mans face flamed in a rage begot of whiskey. His eyes, rolling, and yet keen for ambush, hunted the still doorways and windows. He walked with the creeping movement of the midnight cat. As it occurred to him, he roared menacing information. The long revolvers in his hands were as easy as straws; they were moved with an electric swiftness. The little fingers of each hand played sometimes in a musicians way. Plain from the low collar of the shirt, the cords of his neck straightened and sank, straightened and sank, as passion moved him. The only sounds were his terrible invitations. The calm adobes preserved their demeanor at the passing of this small thing in the middle of the street.
There was no offer of fightno offer of fight. The man called to the sky. There were no attractions. He bellowed and fumed and swayed his revolvers here and everywhere.
The dog of the barkeeper of the Weary Gentleman saloon had not appreciated the advance of events. He yet lay dozing in front of his masters door. At sight of the dog, the man paused and raised his revolver humorously. At sight of the man, the dog sprang up and walked diagonally away, with a sullen head, and growling. The man yelled, and the dog broke into a gallop. As it was about to enter an alley, there was a loud noise, a whistling, and something spat the ground directly before it. The dog screamed, and, wheeling in terror, galloped headlong in a new direction. Again there was a noise, a whistling, and sand was kicked viciously before it. Fear-stricken, the dog turned and flurried like an animal in a pen. The man stood laughing, his weapons at his hips.
Ultimately the man was attracted by the closed door of the Weary Gentleman saloon. He went to it and, hammering with a revolver, demanded drink.
The door remaining imperturbable, he picked a bit of paper from the walk, and nailed it to the framework with a knife. He then turned his back contemptuously upon this popular resort and, walking to the opposite side of the street and spinning there on his heel quickly and lithely, fired at the bit of paper. He missed it by a half-inch. He swore at himself, and went away. Later, he comfortably fusilladed the windows of his most intimate friend. The man was playing with this town. It was a toy for him.
But still there was no offer of fight. The name of Jack Potter, his ancient antagonist, entered his mind, and he concluded that it would be a glad thing if he should go to Potters house, and by bombardment induce him to come out and fight. He moved in the direction of his desire, chanting Apache scalp-music.
When he arrived at it, Potters house presented the same still front as had the other adobes. Taking up a strategic position, the man howled a challenge. But this house regarded him as might a great stone god. It gave no sign. After a decent wait, the man howled further challenges, mingling with them wonderful epithets.
Presently there came the spectacle of a man churning himself into deepest rage over the immobility of a house. He fumed at it as the winter wind attacks a prairie cabin in the North. To the distance there should have gone the sound of a tumult like the fighting of two hundred Mexicans. As necessity bade him, he paused for breath or to reload his revolvers.
IV
Potter and his bride walked sheepishly and with speed. Sometimes they laughed together shamefacedly and low.
Next corner, dear, he said finally.
They put forth the efforts of a pair walking bowed against a strong wind. Potter was about to raise a finger to point the first appearance of the new home when, as they circled the corner, they came face to face with a man in a maroon-colored shirt, who was feverishly pushing cartridges into a large revolver. Upon the instant the man dropped his revolver to the ground, and, like lightning, whipped another from its holster. The second weapon was aimed at the bridegrooms chest.
There was a silence. Potters mouth seemed to be merely a grave for his tongue. He exhibited an instinct to at once loosen his arm from the womans grip, and he dropped the bag to the sand. As for the bride, her face had gone as yellow as old cloth. She was a slave to hideous rites, gazing at the apparitional snake.
The two men faced each other at a distance of three paces. He of the revolver smiled with a new and quiet ferocity.
Tried to sneak up on me, he said. Tried to sneak up on me! His eyes grew more baleful. As Potter made a slight movement, the man thrust his revolver venomously forward. No; dont you do it, Jack Potter. Dont you move a finger toward a gun just yet. Dont you move an eyelash. The time has come for me to settle with you, and Im goin to do it my own way, and loaf along with no interferin. So if you dont want a gun bent on you, just mind what I tell you.
Potter looked at his enemy. I aint got a gun on me, Scratchy, he said. Honest, I aint. He was stiffening and steadying, but yet somewhere at the back of his mind a vision of the Pullman floated: the sea-green figured velvet, the shining brass, silver, and glass, the wood that gleamed as darkly brilliant as the surface of a pool of oilall the glory of the marriage, the environment of the new estate. You know I fight when it comes to fighting, Scratchy Wilson; but I aint got a gun on me. Youll have to do all the shootin yourself.
His enemys face went livid. He stepped forward, and lashed his weapon to and fro before Potters chest. Dont you tell me you aint got no gun on you, you whelp. Dont tell me no lie like that. There aint a man in Texas ever seen you without no gun. Dont take me for no kid. His eyes blazed with light, and his throat worked like a pump.
I aint takin you for no kid, answered Potter. His heels had not moved an inch backward. Im takin you for a damn fool. I tell you I aint got a gun, and I aint. If youre goin to shoot me up, you better begin now. Youll never get a chance like this again.
So much enforced reasoning had told on Wilsons rage. He was calmer. If you aint got a gun, why aint you got a gun? he sneered. Been to Sunday school?
I aint got a gun because Ive just come from San Anton with my wife. Im married, said Potter. And if Id thought there was going to be any galoots like you prowling around when I brought my wife home, Id had a gun, and dont you forget it.
Married! said Scratchy, not at all comprehending.
Yes, married. Im married, said Potter, distinctly.
Married? said Scratchy. Seemingly for the first time, he saw the drooping, drowning woman at the other mans side. No! he said. He was like a creature allowed a glimpse of another world. He moved a pace backward, and his arm, with the revolver, dropped to his side. Is this the lady? he asked.
Yes; this is the lady, answered Potter.
There was another period of silence.
Well, said Wilson at last, slowly, I spose its all off now.
Its all off if you say so, Scratchy. You know I didnt make the trouble. Potter lifted his valise.
Well, I low its off, Jack, said Wilson. He was looking at the ground. Married! He was not a student of chivalry; it was merely that in the presence of this foreign condition he was a simple child of the earlier plains. He picked up his starboard revolver, and, placing both weapons in their holsters, he went away. His feet made funnel-shaped tracks in the heavy sand.