The Law-Breakers

“Let’s see,” began Kate thoughtfully. “Now, just where does it begin? Oh, I know. There’s a longish rhyme about it, but I can’t remember that. The story of it goes like this.

“Somewhere away back, a young chief broke away from his tribe with a number of braves. The young chief had fallen in love with the squaw of the chief of the tribe, and she with him. Well, they decided to elope together, and the young chief’s followers decided to go with them, taking their squaws with them, too. It was decided at their council that they would break away from the old chief and form themselves into a sort of nomadic tribe, and wander over the plains, fighting their way through, until they conquered enough territory on which to settle, and found a new great race.

“Well, I guess the young chief was a great warrior, and so were his braves, and, for awhile, wherever they went they were victorious, devastating the country by massacre too terrible to think of. But the chief of the tribe, from which these warriors had broken away, was also a great and savage warrior, and when he discovered that his wife was faithless and had eloped with another, stealing all his best war paint and fancy bead work, he rose up and used dreadful language, and gathered his braves together. They set out in pursuit of the absconders, determined to kill both the wife and her paramour.

“To follow the young chief’s trail was an easy matter, for it was a trail of blood and fire, and, after long days of desperate riding, the pursuers came within striking distance. Then came the first pitched battle. Both sides lost heavily, but the fight was indecisive. The result of it, however, showed the pursuers that they had no light task before them. The chief harangued his braves, and prepared to follow up the attack next day. The fugitives, though their losses had been only proportionate with those of their pursuers, were not in such good case. Their original numbers were less than half of their opponents.

“However, they were great fighters, and took no heed, but got ready at once for more battle. The young chief, however, had a streak of caution in him. Maybe he saw what the braves all missed. If in a fight he lost as many men as his opponents, and the opponents persisted, why, by the process of elimination, he would be quietly but surely wiped out.

“Now, it so happened, he had long since made up his mind to make his permanent home in the valley of Leaping Creek. He knew it by repute, and where it lay, and he felt that once in the dense bush of the valley he would have a great advantage over the attacks of all pursuers.

“Therefore, all that night, leaving his dead and wounded upon the plains, he and his men rode hard for the valley. At daybreak he saw the great pine that stood up on the horizon, and he knew that he was within sight of his goal, and, in consequence, he and his men felt good.

“But daybreak showed him something else, not so pleasant. He had by no means stolen a march upon his pursuers. They, too, had traveled all night, and the second battle began at sunrise.

“Again was the fight indecisive, and the young chief was buoyant, and full of hope. He told himself that that night should see him and his squaw and his braves safely housed in the sheltering bush of the valley. But when he came to count up his survivors he was not so pleased. He had lost nearly three-quarters of his original numbers, and still there seemed to be hordes of the pursuers.

“However, with the remnant of his followers, he set out for the final ride to the valley that night. Hard on his heels came the pursuers. Then came the tragedy. Daylight showed them the elusive pine still far away on the horizon, and his men and horses were exhausted. He was too great a warrior not to realize what this meant. There were his pursuers making ready for the attack, seemingly hundreds of them. Disaster was hard upon him.

“So, before the battle began, he took his paramour, and, before all eyes, he slew her so that his enemy should not wholly triumph, and incidentally torture her. Then he rose up, and, in a loud voice, cursed the pine and the valley of the pine. He called down his gods and spirits to witness that never, so long as the pine stood, should there be peace in the valley. Forever it should be the emblem of crime and disaster beneath its shadow. There should be no happiness, no prosperity, no peace. So, too, with its final fall should go the lives of many of those who lived beneath its shadow, and only with their blood should the valley be purified and its people washed clean.

“By the time his curse was finished his enemies had performed a great enveloping movement. When the circle was duly completed, then, like vultures swooping down upon their prey, the attacking Indians fell upon their victims and completed the massacre.

“There!” Kate exclaimed. “That’s about as I remember it. And a pretty parlor story it is, isn’t it?”

“I like that feller,” declared Bill, with wholesome appreciation. “He was good grit. A bit of a mean cuss – but good grit.”

But Helen promptly crushed him.

“I don’t think he was at all nice,” she cried scornfully. “He deserved all he got, and – and the woman, too. And anyway, I don’t think his curse amounts to small peas. A man like that – not even his heathen gods would take any notice of.”

Kate rose from her chair laughing.

“Tell the boys of this village that. Ask them what they think of the pine.”

“I’ve heard Dirty O’Brien say he loves it,” protested Helen obstinately. “Doesn’t know how he could get on without it.”

“There, Mr. Bryant, didn’t I tell you she kept bad company? Dirty O’Brien! What a name.” Kate looked at the clock. “Good gracious, it’s nearly eight o’clock, and I have – to go out.”

Bill was on his feet in a moment.

“And all the time I’m supposed to be investigating the village and making the acquaintance of this very Dirty O’Brien,” he said. “You see, Charlie had to go out, as I told you. He didn’t say when he’d get back. So – .” He held out his hand to the elder sister.

“Did Charlie say – where he was going?” she inquired quickly, as she shook hands.

Bill laughed, and shook his head.

“No,” he replied. “And somehow he didn’t invite me to ask – either.”

Helen had slid herself off the table.

“That’s what I never can understand about men. If Kate were going out – and told me she was going, why – I should just demand to know where, when, how, and why, and every other old thing a curious feminine mind could think of in the way of cross-examination. But there, men surely are queer folks.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Bryant,” said Kate. She had suddenly lost something of her lightness. Her dark eyes had become very thoughtful.

Helen, on the contrary, was bubbling over with high spirits, and was loath to part from their new acquaintance.

“I hated your coming, Mr. Bryant,” she explained radiantly. “I tell you so frankly. Some day, when I know you a heap better, I’ll tell you why,” she added mysteriously. “But I’m glad now you came. And thank you for bringing the books. You’ll like Dirty O’Brien. He’s an awful scallywag, but he’s – well, he’s so quaint. I like him – and his language is simply awful. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Bill held the girl’s hand a moment or two longer than was necessary. It was such a little brown hand, and seemed almost swamped in his great palm. He released it at last, however, and smiled into her sunny gray eyes.

“I’m glad you feel that way. You know I have a sort of sneaking regard for the feller who can forget good talk, and – and explode a bit. I – I can do it myself – at times.”

Helen stood at the door as the man took his departure. The evening was still quite light, and Bill, looking back to wave a farewell, fell further as a victim to the picture she made in the framing of the doorway.

Helen turned back as he passed from view.

“You going out, Kate, dear?” she asked quickly.

Kate nodded.

“Where?”

“Out.”

And somehow Helen forgot all the other inquiries she might have made.

CHAPTER XIV

THE HOUSE OF DIRTY O’BRIEN

It was late at night. The yellow lamplight left hard faces almost repulsive under the fantastic shadows it so fitfully impressed upon them. The low-ceiled room, too, gained in its sordid aspect. An atmosphere of moral degradation looked out from every shadowy corner, claiming the features of everybody who came within the dull radiance of the two cheap oil lamps swinging from the rafters.

Dirty O’Brien’s saloon was a fitting setting for a proprietor with such a name. Crime of every sort was suggested in its atmosphere at all time; but at night, when the two oil lamps, with their smoky chimneys, were burning, when drink was flowing, when the room was full of rough bechapped men belonging to the valley, with their long hair, their unwashed skins, their frowsy garments, and the firearms adorning their persons, when strident voices kept up an almost continual babel of coarse oaths, interlarded with rough laughter, or deadly quarrelings, when the permeation of alcohol had done its work and left its victims in a condition when self-control, at all times weak enough in these untamed citizens, was at its lowest ebb, then indeed the stranger, unaccustomed to such sights and sounds, might well feel that at last a cesspool of civilization had been reached.

The room was large in floor space, but the bark-covered rafters, frowsy with cobwebs, were scarcely more than two feet above the head of a six-foot man. The roof was on a gradual, flat slope from the bar to the front door, which was flanked by windows on either side of it. So low were the latter set, and so small were they, that a well-grown man must have stooped low to peer through the befouled glass panes. The walls of the building were of heavy lateral logs bare as the day they were set up, except for a coating of whitewash which must have stood the wear of at least ten years.

The evening had been a long and noisy one; longer and noisier than usual. For a note of alarm had swept through the town – an alarm which, in natures as savage and unscrupulous as those of the citizens of the valley, promptly aroused the desperate fighting spirit always pretty near the surface.

The gathering was pretty well representative of the place. The bar had been crowded all night. Some of the men were plain townsmen belonging to the purely commercial side of the place, and these were clad as became citizens of any little western township. But they were the very small minority, and had no particularly elevating effect upon the aspect of the gathering. Far and away the majority were of the prairie, men from outlying farms and ranches, whose hard, bronzed features and toil-stained kits, marked them out as legitimate workers who found their recreation in the foul purlieus of this drinking booth merely from lack of anything more enticing. Then, too, a few dusky-visaged, lank-haired creatures wearing the semi-barbaric costume of the prairie half-breed found a place in the gathering.

But none of these were the loud-voiced, hard-swearing complainants. That was left to a section of the citizens of the town who had everything in the world to lose by the coming of the police. As the evening wore on these gradually drew everybody’s interest in the matter, until the stirring of passions raised the babel of tongues to an almost intolerable clamor.

Dirty O’Brien, sinister and cynical, stood behind his bar serving every customer with a rapidity and nonchalance which the presence of the police in the place could never disturb. But the situation was well within his grasp. On this particular night his mandate had gone forth, and, in his own bar, he was an absolute autocrat. Each drink served must be devoured at once, and the empty glass promptly passed back across the counter. These were hastily borne off by an assistant to an adjoining room, where, in secret cupboards let into the sod partition wall, the kegs of smuggled spirit were secreted. All drinks were poured out in this room, and, on the first alarm, the secret cupboards could be hidden up, and all sign of the traffic concealed. Then there was nothing left to be seen but the musty display of temperance drinks on the shelves behind the bar, and a barrel of four per cent. beer, for the dispensing of which the existence of these prohibition saloons was tolerated and licensed by the Government.

Dirty O’Brien knew the law to the last word. He only came up against it when caught in the act of selling spirits. This was scarcely likely to happen. He was far too astute. His only danger was a trap customer, and the difficulties and dangers of attempting such a course, even the most foolhardy would scarcely dare to risk in a place as untamed as Rocky Springs.

Even the wildest spirits, however, were bound to reach their limit of protest against this new move of the authorities, and by midnight the majority of the customers had taken their departure from Dirty O’Brien’s booth. Thus, when the small hours crept on, only a trifling gathering of his regular patrons still remained behind.

The air of the place was utterly foul. The stench of tobacco smoke blending with the fumes of liquor left it nauseating. In the farthest corner of the room, just beside one of the windows, a group of four men were playing draw poker, and with these were Kate’s two hired men, Nick Devereux, with his vulture head and long lean neck, and Pete Clancy, the half-breed, whose cadaverous cheeks and furtive eye marked him out as a man of desperate purpose.

At another table Kid Blaney was amusing himself with a pack of cards, betting on the turn-up with the well-known badman, Stormy Longton. For the rest there was a group of citizens lounging against the bar, still discussing with the proprietor the possibilities of the newly created situation. These were the postmaster, Allan Dy, and Billy Unguin, the dry-goods man, and the patriarch church robber known as Holy Dick. The only other occupant of the bar was Charlie Bryant.

He had come there earlier in the evening for no other purpose than to hear how the town was taking the arrival of the police, and to glean, if possible, any news of the contemplated movements of Stanley Fyles. This had been his purpose, and for some time he had resisted all other temptation. Nor, apart from his weakness, was he without considerable added temptation. Dirty O’Brien displayed a marked geniality toward him the moment he came in, and, by every consummate art of which he was master, sought to break through the man’s resolve.

Charlie fell. Of course he fell, as in the end O’Brien knew he would. And, once having fallen, he lingered on and on, drinking all that came his way with that insatiable craving, which, once indulged, never left him a moment’s peace.

Now, silent, resentful, but only partially under the influence of liquor, he was sitting upon the edge of the wooden coal box which stood against the wall at the end of the counter. His legs were outspread along the top of its side, and his back was resting against the counter itself. His eyes were bright with that peculiar luster inspired by a brain artificially stimulated. They were slightly puffed, but otherwise his boyish features bore no sign of his libations. One peculiarity, however, suggested a change in him. The womanish delicacy of his lips had somehow gone, and now they protruded sensually as he sucked at a cheap cigarette.

Although these were only slight changes in Charlie’s appearance, they nevertheless possessed a strangely brutalizing effect upon the refinement of his handsome face. And, added to them was an air of moroseness, of cold reserve, that suggested nothing so much as impotent resentment at the conditions under which he found himself.

Without any appearance of interest he was listening to the talk of those at the bar. And somehow, though his back was turned toward him, O’Brien, judging by the frequency with which his quick-moving eyes flashed in his direction, was aware of his real interest, and was looking for some sign whereby he might draw him into the talk. But the sign did not come, and the saloonkeeper was left without the least encouragement.

Finally, however, O’Brien made a direct attempt. He was standing a round of drinks and included in his invitation the man on the coal box. He passed him a glass of whisky.

“Have another,” he said, in his short way. Then he added: “On me.”

Charlie thanked him curtly, and took the drink. He drank it at a gulp and passed the glass back. But his general attitude underwent no change. His eyes remained morosely fixed upon the poker players.

Billy Unguin winked significantly at O’Brien and glanced at Charlie.

“Queer cuss,” he said, under his breath. Then he turned to Allen Dy, as though imparting news: “Drinks alone – always alone.”

Dy nodded comprehendingly.

“Sure sign of a drunkard,” he returned wisely, in a similar undertone.

O’Brien smiled. He was about to give vent to one of his coldest cynicisms, when Nick Devereux looked over from the card table and claimed him.

“Say, Dirty,” he drawled, in his rather musical southern accent, “wher’ in hell is Fyles located anyhow? There’s been a mighty piece of big talk goin’ on, but none of us ain’t seen him. Big talk makes me sick.” He spat on the floor as though to emphasize his disgust.

“He’s around anyways,” O’Brien returned coldly. “I’ve seen him right here. After that he rode east. One of the boys see him pick up Sergeant McBain an’ two troopers. Will that do you?” he inquired sarcastically.

Nick picked up a fresh hand of cards.

“Have to – till I see him,” he said savagely.

“Oh, you’ll see him all right – all right,” O’Brien returned with a laugh, while the men at the bar grinned over at the card players. “Guess you boys’ll see him later – all you need.” Then his eyes flashed in Charlie’s direction, and he winked at those near him. “Maybe some folks around here’ll hate the sight of him before long.”

Pete looked up, turning his cruel eyes with a malicious grin on O’Brien.

“Guess there’s more than us boys goin’ to see him if there’s trouble busy. Say, I don’t guess there’s a heap of folk ’ud fancy Fyles sittin’ around their winter stoves in this city.”

“Or summer stoves either,” chuckled Holy Dick, craning round so that his gray hair revealed the dirty collar on his soft shirt.

Stormy Longton glanced over quickly, while the kid shuffled the cards.

“Who cares a curse for red-coats?” he snorted fiercely, his keen, scarred face flushing violently, his steel-gray eyes shining like silver tinsel. “If Fyles and his boys butt in there’ll be a dandy bunch of lead flying around Rocky Springs. Maybe it won’t drop from the sky neither. There’s fools who reckon when it comes to shooting that fair play’s a jewel. Wal, when I’m up against police butters-in, or any vermin like that, I leave my jewelry right home.”

O’Brien chuckled voicelessly.

“Gas,” he cried, in his cutting way. “Hot air, an’ – gas. I tell you right here, Fyles and his crowd have got crooks beat to death in this country. I’ll tell you more, it’s only because this country’s so mighty wide and big, crooks have got any chance of dodging the penitentiary at all. I tell you, you folks ain’t got an eye open at all, if you can’t see how things are. If I was handing advice, I’d say to crooks, quit your ways an’ run straight awhiles, if you don’t fancy a striped suit. The red-coats are jest runnin’ this country through a sieve, and when they’re done they’ll grab the odd rock, which are the crooks, and hide ’em away a few years. You can’t beat ’em, and Fyles is the daddy of the outfit. No, sir, crooks are beat – beat to death.”

Then his eyes shot a furtive look in Charlie’s direction.

“The sharps ain’t in such bad case,” he went on. “I’d say it’s the sharps are worrying the p’lice about now. The prohibition law has got ’em plumb on edge. The other things are dead easy to ’em. You see, a feller shoots up another and they’re after him, red hot on his trail. They’ll get him sure – in the end, because he’s wanted at any time or place. It’s different running whisky. They got to get the fellow in the act o’ running it. They can’t touch him five minutes after he’s cached it safe – not if they know he’s run it. If they find his cache they can spill the liquor, but still they can’t touch him. That’s where the sharps ha’ got Fyles beat.”

He chuckled sardonically.

“Guess I’d sooner be a whisky-running sharp than be a crook with Fyles on my trail,” he added as an afterthought.

“An’ he’s after the sharps most now,” suggested Holy Dick, with a contemplative eye on Charlie.

A laugh came from the poker table. Holy Dick glanced round as a harsh voice commented —

“Feelin’ glad, ain’t you, Holy?” it said.

Holy Dick spat.

“I’d feel gladder, Pete Clancy, if I could put him wise to some o’ the whisky sharps,” said the old man vindictively. “Maybe it would sheer him off Rocky Springs.”

The man’s eyes were snapping for all the mildness of his words.

O’Brien replied before Pete could summon his angry retort.

“There’s a good many sharps in the game in this town, and I don’t guess it would be a gay day for the feller that put any of ’em away. Not that I think anybody could, by reason of the feller that runs the gang. Look at that train ‘hold-up’ at White Point. Was there ever such a bright play? I tell you, whoever runs that gang is a wise guy. He’s ten points flyer than Master Stanley Fyles. Say, Fyles was waiting for that cargo at Amberley, and here are you boys, drinking some of it right here, and with him around the town, too. Say, the boss of that gang is a bright boy.”

He sighed as though regretful that so much cleverness should have passed him by in favor of another, and again his gaze wandered in Charlie’s direction.

“Well, I’m glad I’m not a – sharp,” said Billy Unguin, preparing to depart. “Come on, Allan,” he went on to the postmaster. “It’s past midnight and – ”

O’Brien chuckled.

“There’s the old woman waiting.”

Billy nodded good-naturedly, and the two passed out with a brief “good night.”

When they had gone Holy Dick leaned across the bar confidentially.

“Who’d you guess is the boss of the gang?” he inquired.

O’Brien shook his head.

“Can’t say,” he said, with a knowing wink. “All I know is I can lay hands on all the liquor I need right here in this town, and I’m dealing direct with the boss. When the money’s up right, the liquor’s laid any place you select. He don’t give himself away to any customer. He’s the smartest guy this side of hell. He’s right here all the time, jest one of the boys, and we don’t know who he is.”

“No one’s ever seen him – except his gang,” murmured Holy, with a smile. “Guess they wouldn’t give him away neither.”

Stormy Longton and the Kid arose from their table and demanded a final drink. O’Brien served them and they took their departure.

“I sort of fancy I saw him once,” said O’Brien, in answer to Holy Dick’s remark.

He spoke loudly, and his eyes again took in the silent Charlie in their roving glance. At that instant the poker game broke up, and the men gathered at the bar.

“What’s he like?” demanded Nick derisively.

“Guess he’s a hell of a man,” laughed Pete sarcastically.

O’Brien eyed his interlocutors coldly. He had no liking for men with color in them. They always roused the worst side of his none too easy nature.

“Wal,” he said frigidly, “I ain’t sure. But, if I’m right, he ain’t such a hell of a feller. He ain’t a giant. Kind o’ small. All his smartness wrapped in a little bundle. Sort o’ refined-looking. Make a dandy fine angel – to look at. Bit of a swell sharp. Got education bad. But he ain’t got swells around him. Not by a sight. His gang are the lowest down bums I ever heard tell of. Say, they’re that low I’d hate to drink out of the same glass as any one of them.” He picked up Pete’s glass and dipped it in water, and began to wipe it. “It ’ud need to be mighty well cleaned first – like I’m doing this one.”

His manner and action were a studied insult, which neither Pete nor Nick attempted to take up. But Holy Dick’s grin drew threatening glances. Somehow, however, even in his direction neither made any more aggressive movement. Toughs as they were, these two men fully appreciated the company they were in. Holy Dick was one of the most desperate men in Rocky Springs, and, as for O’Brien, well, no one had ever been known to get “gay” with Dirty O’Brien and come off best.