a cent. I’ll starve to death.”
Bob Partridge fidgeted around in discomfort. “Oh, no you won’t,” he burst out suddenly. “I’m here to say that if Miss Mary Platt will have me, I’ll marry her and support you both!”
Mary smiled through her tears. “Even if I didn’t love you,” she said, “I think I’d marry you anyway.”
Jake was positively dumbfounded. He wanted to cuss good and loud, but held it back on account of the lady present. He looked at Satan, disconsolate and alone in a corner, staring at Luke James’ closed eyes.
“Hand that infernal crow here,” he growled.
“Please don’t hurt him, Uncle,” Mary said. “He uses bad language sometimes, but he’s really a very nice bird.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ to hurt him,” Jake snapped. “I just want to tell’ him that if he still wants an eye, he can have one of mine!”
BULLDOG CARNEY, by W. A. Fraser
I’ve thought it over many ways and I’m going to tell this story as it happened, for I believe the reader will feel he is getting a true picture of things as they were but will not be again. A little padding up of the love interest, a little spilling of blood, would, perhaps, make it stronger technically, but would it lessen his faith that the curious thing happened? It’s beyond me to know—I write it as it was.
To begin at the beginning, Cameron was peeved. He was rather a diffident chap, never merging harmoniously into the western atmosphere; what saved him from rude knocks was the fact that he was lean of speech. He stood on the board sidewalk in front of the Alberta Hotel and gazed dejectedly across a trench of black mud that represented the main street. He hated the sight of squalid, ramshackle Edmonton, but still more did he dislike the turmoil that was within the hotel.
A lean-faced man, with small piercing gray eyes, had ridden his buckskin cayuse into the bar and was buying. Nagel’s furtrading men, topping off their spree in town before the long trip to Great Slave Lake, were enthusiastically, vociferously naming their tipple. A freighter, Billy the Piper, was playing the “Arkansaw Traveller” on a tin whistle.
When the gray-eyed man on the buckskin pushed his way into the bar, the whistle had almost clattered to the floor from the piper’s hand; then he gasped, so low that no one heard him, “By cripes! Bulldog Carney!” There was apprehension trembling in his hushed voice. Well he knew that if he had clarioned the name something would have happened Billy the Piper. A quick furtive look darting over the faces of his companions told him that no one else had recognized the horseman.
Outside, Cameron, irritated by the rasping tin whistle groaned, “My God! a land of bums!” Three days he had waited to pick up a man to replace a member of his gang down at Fort Victor who had taken a sudden chill through intercepting a plug of cold lead.
Diagonally across the lane of ooze two men waded and clambered to the board sidewalk just beside Cameron to stamp the muck from their boots. One of the two, Cayuse Gray, spoke:
“This feller’ll pull his freight with you, boss, if terms is right; he’s a hell of a worker.”
Half turning, Cameron’s Scotch eyes took keen cognizance of the “feller”: a shudder twitched his shoulders. He had never seen a more wolfish face set atop a man’s neck. It was a sinister face; not the thin, vulpine sneak visage of a thief, but lowering; black sullen eyes peered boldly up from under shaggy brows that almost met a mop of black hair, the forehead was so low. It was a hungry face, as if its owner had a standing account against the world. But Cameron wanted a strong worker, and his business instinct found strength and endurance in that heavy-shouldered frame, and strong, wide-set legs.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Jack Wolf,” the man answered.
The questioner shivered; it was as if the speaker had named the thought that was in his mind.
Cayuse Gray tongued a chew of tobacco into his cheek, spat, and added, “Jack the Wolf is what he gets most oftenest.”
“From damn broncho-headed fools,” Wolf retorted angrily.
At that instant a strangling Salvation Army band tramped around the corner into Jasper Avenue, and, forming a circle, cut loose with brass and tambourine. As the wail from the instruments went up the men in the bar, led by Billy the Piper, swarmed out.
A half-breed roared out a profane parody on the Salvation hymn:—
“There are flies on you, and there’re flies on me.
But there ain’t no flies on Je-e-e-sus.”
This crude humor appealed to the men who had issued from the bar; they shouted in delight.
A girl who had started forward with her tambourine to collect stood aghast at the profanity, her blue eyes wide in horror.
The breed broke into a drunken laugh: “That’s damn fine new songs for de Army bums, Miss,” he jeered.
The buckskin cayuse, whose mouse-colored muzzle had been sticking through the door, now pushed to the sidewalk, and his rider, stooping his lithe figure, took the right ear of the breed in lean bony fingers with a grip that suggested he was squeezing a lemon. “You dirty swine!” he snarled; “you’re insulting the two greatest things on earth—God and a woman. Apologize, you hound!”
Probably the breed would have capitulated readily, but his river-mates’ ears were not in a death grip, and they were bellicose with bad liquor. There was an angry yell of defiance; events moved with alacrity. Profanity, the passionate profanity of anger, smote the air; a beer bottle hurtled through the open door, missed its mark,—the man on the buckskin,—but, end on, found a bull’s-eye between the Wolf’s shoulder blades, and that gentleman dove parabolically into the black mud of Jasper Avenue.
A silence smote the Salvation Army band. Like the Arab it folded its instruments and stole away.
A Mounted Policeman, attracted by the clamour, reined his horse to the sidewalk to quiet with a few words of admonition this bar-room row. He slipped from the saddle; but at the second step forward he checked as the thin face of the horseman turned and the steel-gray eyes met his own. “Get down off that cayuse, Bulldog Carney,—I want you!” he commanded in sharp clicking tones.
Happenings followed this. There was the bark of a 6-gun, a flash, the Policeman’s horse jerked his head spasmodically, a little jet of red spurted from his forehead, and he collapsed, his knees burrowing into the black mud and as the buckskin cleared the sidewalk in a leap, the half-breed, two steel-like fingers in his shirt band, was swung behind the rider.
With a spring like a panther the policeman reached his fallen horse, but as he swung his gun from its holster he held it poised silent; to shoot was to kill the breed.
Fifty yards down the street Carney dumped his burden into a deep puddle, and with a ringing cry of defiance sped away. Half-a-dozen guns were out and barking vainly after the escaping man.
Carney cut down the bush-road that wound its sinuous way to the river flat, some two hundred feet below the town level. The ferry, swinging from the steel hawser, that stretched across the river, was snuggling the bank.
“Some luck,” the rider of the buckskin chuckled. To the
