Ridgwell Cullum - The One-Way Trail - A story of the cattle country

“Have another?” suggested Abe, cordially.

“I won’t say ‘no,’” Gay promptly acquiesced.

But Rocket was serving drink to Jim Thorpe at one of the little poker tables on the far side of the room, and the butcher had to wait.

“How much are you givin’?” Smallbones inquired cautiously of Gay.

He was still worrying over the forthcoming demand on his charity. Gay Promptly puffed himself up.

“Wal,” he said, with some dignity. “Y’see she’s got six kiddies, each smaller nor the other. They mustn’t starve for sure. Guess I’m givin’ twenty-fi’ dollars.”

“Wot?” almost shrieked the disgusted Smallbones.

“Yes,” said the butcher-undertaker coldly. “An’ I ain’t no trust magnate.”

“That’s right up to you, Smallbones,” remarked Abe, passing his friend Gay his drink. “You’ll natcherly give fifty.”

But Abe’s ponderous levity was too much for Smallbones.

“An’ if I did it wouldn’t be in answer to the hogwash preachin’ you ladle out. Anyways I’ll give as it pleases me.”

“Then I guess them kiddies’ll starve, sure,” remarked Wilkes heavily.

How much further the ruffled tempers of these men might have been tried it is impossible to say, but at that moment a diversion was created by the advent of the redoubtable doctor. And it was easy to see at a glance how it was this man was able to sway the Barnriff crowd. He was an aggressive specimen of unyielding force, lean, but powerful of frame, with the light of overwhelming determination in a pair of swift, bright eyes.

He glanced round the vast dingy bar-room. There were two tables of poker going in opposite corners of the room, and a joyous collection of variegated uncleanness “bucking” a bank in another corner. Then there was the flower of Barnriff propping up the bar like a row of daisies in a window box–only they lacked the purity of that simple flower. He stepped at once to the centre of the room.

“Boys,” he said in a hoarse, rasping voice, “I’m in a hurry. Guess natur’ don’t wait fer nuthin’ when she gits busy on matters wot interest her; an’ seein’ Barnriff needs all the population that’s comin’ to it with so energetic a funeral maker as our friend, Angel Gay, around, I’ll git goin’. I’m right here fer dollars fer pore Sally Morby. She’s broke, dead broke, an’ she’s got six kiddies, all with their pore little bellies flappin’ in the wind for want of a squar’ feed. Say, I ain’t hyar to git gassin’, I ain’t hyar to make flowery talk fer the sake o’ them pore kiddies. I’m here to git dollars, an’ I’m goin’ to git ’em. Cents won’t do. Come on. Ther’s six pore kiddles, six pore lone little kiddies with their faces gapin’ fer food like a nest o’ unfledged chicks in the early frosts o’ spring. Now every mother’s son o’ you ‘ante’ right here. Natur’ busy or no natur’ busy, I don’t quit till you’ve dipped into your wads. Now you, Smallbones,” he cried, fixing the little man with his desperate eyes. “How much?”

Every eye was on the trust manipulator. He hated it. He hated them all, but Doc Crombie most of all. But the tall, lean man was impatient. He knew it was a race between him and a baby in a distant quarter of the village.

“How much?” he threatened the hesitating man.

“A dollar,” Smallbones muttered in the midst of profound silence. Even the chips of the poker players had ceased to rattle.

A faint light of amusement crept into every eye, every eye except the doctor’s.

Suddenly his lean figure pounced forward and stood before the beflustered speaker.

“I said ‘how much?’” he rasped, “’cause Barnriff knows its manners. Wal, the social etiquette o’ Barnriff is satisfied, so I ken talk straight. Say, you an’ me have piled a tidy heap in this yer city, so I guess you’re goin’ to match my hundred dollars right here. An’ I tel you squar’, an’ I’m a man o’ my word, if you don’t you’ll get a bath in Rocket’s hoss-trough which’ll do you till the next Presidential Election–if it pizens every hoss for miles around Barnriff. Guess I’ll take that hundred dollars.”

And he did. The furious Smallbones “weighed out” amid a circle of smiles, which suddenly seemed to light up the entire bar-room. Nor had he a single spoken word of protest. But he yielded himself up to the demands of the masterful doctor only to save himself the ducking he was certain awaited his refusal.

The rest was play to Doc Crombie. As he had pointed out, Barnriff’s social demands had been satisfied by his giving Smallbones the option of stating the amount of his contribution, and, as the result had not come up to requirements, he dispensed with further delicacy, and assessed each man present with the cool arbitrariness of a Socialist Chancellor. But in this case the process was not without justification. He knew just how much each man could afford, and he took not one cent more–or less.

This fact was exampled when he came to Jim’s table. Jim looked up from his cards. He understood Crombie.

“Well, Doc,” he said, “how much?”

Crombie eyed him with shrewd amusement.

“Wal, Jim, I’ll take on’y ten dollars from you, seein’s your contrac’s out for buildin’, an’ you need ev’rything that’s comin’ your way.”

Jim laughed. It was a boisterous laugh that had little mirth in it.

“Guess I’ll treble that,” he said. “I’ve cut the contract.”

But the laugh had irritated the doctor.

“I’ll take ten from you;” he said, with an incisive clipping of his teeth. “Not a cent more, nor a cent less.”

And Jim yielded to him promptly. The doctor passed on. Neither he nor those around him had understood the bitter humor underlying Jim’s laugh. Only, perhaps, Peter Blunt, who had entered the room with Will Henderson a moment or two before, and whose sympathetic ears had caught the sound, could possibly have interpreted it aright.

The “whip round” was completed, and the doctor read out the total. Five hundred and forty dollars was to be handed over to the widow, to ease the burden Fate had inflicted upon her. And it said something for the big hearts of this prairie folk, that, in the large majority at least, the memory of their charity left them with the departure of the doctor to complete his race with Nature at the far extremity of the village.

The saloon settled down to its evening’s entertainment as though nothing unusual had happened. The majority gathered into various games of “draw,” for which the great room was half filled with small tables. The few that resisted the seductive charms of the national card game continued to support the bar. Of these, Smallbones only remained long enough to air his spleen at the doctor’s expense. But even he found it incumbent upon him to modify his tone. For one thing he received an unmerciful baiting from his companions, and besides, he knew, if he allowed his tongue to riot too far, how easy it would be for his denunciation to reach the strenuous doctor’s ears. Gay and Wilkes left shortly after the trust magnate, and soon Abe Horsley was forced to seek a fresh gossip. He found one in Will Henderson, as soon as Peter Blunt had moved away to watch the games at the tables. Will’s mood at the moment suited the lay-preacher. He wanted to drink, and Abe was possessed of a chronic thirst.

So, with the exception of these two, Silas Rocket, ever rapacious for custom, was left free to see that the games did not detract from the men’s drinking powers. He had an eye like a hawk for possible custom. Wherever there was a big pot just won his rasping voice was always at the elbow of the winner, with his monotonous “Any drinks, gents?” If a table was slow to require his services he never left it alone. He drove the men at it to drink in self-defense. It was a skilful display–though not as uncommon as one might think, even in the best restaurants in a big metropolis.