Dane Coolidge - The Texican

THE languid quiet of midday lay upon the little road-house that stood guard by Verde Crossing. Old Crit and his wild Texas cowboys had left the corral at dawn, riding out mysteriously with their running irons in their chaps; the dogs had crawled under José Garcia's house and gone to sleep; to the north the Tonto trail stretched away vacant and only the brawling of the Verde as it rushed over the rocky ford suggested the savage struggle that was going on in the land. Within the adobe fort that served for both store and saloon Angevine Thorne, Old Crit's roustabout, sat tipped back in his chair breathing thoughtfully through a mouth-organ while a slender Mexican girl, lingering by the doorway, listened in childish adoration.

" Oyez , Babe," she pleaded, lisping in broken English, "sing 'Work iss Done' for me, otra vez , once more."

"Yore maw will be singin' a different tune if you don't hurry home with that lard," counselled Babe, but seeing that she was in no mood to depart he cleared his throat to sing. "You don't know how bad this makes me feel, Marcelina," he said, rubbing his hand over his bald spot and smoothing down his lank hair, "but I'll sing you the first verse – it ain't so bad." He stood up and turned his eyes to heaven; a seraphic smile came into his face, as if he saw the angels, and in a caressing tenor voice he began: —

A pause followed his last words and the singer limped in behind the counter. "Well, that's all, now," he said, waving her away, "go on home, child – can't you see it makes me feel powerful bad?"

The girl smiled with the sweet melancholy of her race. "I like to feel bad," she said. "Sing about the wind."

Angevine Thorne looked down upon her and shook his head sadly. "Ah, Marcelina," he said, "you are growing up to be a woman." Then he sighed and began again: —

"And now the rest – how he died," breathed Marcelina, and once more the troubadour smiled.

A rapt silence, such as artists love, followed the last wailing cadence of the song; the stillness of the desert crept in upon them, broken only by the murmur of the river and an almost subterranean thud of hoofs; then with a jingle of spurs and the creaking of wet leather a horseman rode up and halted before the door. The water sloshed in his boots as he dismounted but he swung into the store with the grace of a cavalier – a young man, almost a boy, yet broad-shouldered and muscular, with features moulded to an expression of singular resolution and courage. A heavy pair of apron chaps – sure sign of Texas – cumbered his limbs and the wooden handle of a Colts forty-five showed above its holster in the right leg; for the rest, he wore a new jumper over his blue shirt, and a broad, high-crowned hat, without frills. As the stranger headed for the bar with business-like directness Angevine Thorne felt a sudden sense of awe, almost of fear, and he wondered for the instant if it was a hold-up; but the Texan simply dropped a quarter on the counter and motioned to a bottle.

"Two," he corrected, as Babe filled a single glass; and, shoving the second one towards his host, who eyed it with studied unconcern, the cowboy tossed off his own and looked around.

"What's the matter?" he inquired, as Babe moved thoughtfully away; "swore off? All right, you drink the chaser, then," and leaving the superfluous glass of water on the bar he drank the whiskey himself.

"Ughr! That's the real old tarantula-juice," he observed, as the fiery liquor made him shudder. "Since when did you swear off?"

"Six weeks," responded Babe, shortly. "How's Texas?"

"All right," replied the cowboy. "Did it git away with you?"

"Yep," returned the bar-keeper. "Don't like to talk about it – say, is they anybody left in Texas?"

The stranger gazed at him shrewdly for a moment, and a grim light came into his eye.

"Don't like to talk about it," he said, "but now you speak of it I know of one feller, for sure – and dam' badly left, too. May be around on crutches by now." He glanced out at his horse, which had just shaken itself under the saddle, and let his gaze wander to Marcelina.

"Pretty girls you have in this country," he remarked, turning a little sidewise to Babe, but watching her from beneath his hat. "Don't speak any English, I suppose?"

"Nope," replied Babe, sullenly, "her mother don't like cowboys. Oyez, Marcelina, vaya se a su madre, chiquita! " But though her mother was calling, the wilful Marcelina did not move. Like an Aztec princess she stood silent and impassive, gazing out from beneath her dark lashes and waiting to catch some further word of praise from this dashing stranger. Undoubtedly, Marcelina was growing to be a woman.

"Name's Marcelina, eh?" soliloquized the cowboy, innocently. "Pity she can't savvy English – she's right pretty, for a Mex."