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 sort 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. ‘What’s worrying you, Jack?’
He laughed again. ‘I’m not worrying, girl. I’m 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 bride’s face seemed quite permanent.
The traitor to the feelings of Yellow Sky narrowly watched the speeding landscape. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he said.
Presently the porter came and announced the proximity of Potter’s home. He held a brush in his hand and, with all his airy superiority gone, he brushed Potter’s 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 hang-dog glance perceived that they were unloading the two trunks, and also that the station-agent 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 wife’s 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 sheep-herders who did not talk as a general practice in the ‘Weary Gentleman’ saloon. The barkeeper’s dog lay on the board walk 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[45].
Save for the busy drummer and his companions in the saloon, Yellow Sky was dozing. The new-comer 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 down stairs with the bureau in his arms, the old woman was coming up with two scuttles of coal, and, of course – ’
The drummer’s tale was interrupted by a young man who suddenly appeared in the open door. He cried: ‘Scratchy Wilson’s 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. S’pose 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 won’t 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 don’t mean there is going to be a gun-fight?’
‘Don’t know whether there’ll be a fight or not,’ answered one man grimly. ‘But there’ll be some shootin’ – some good shootin’.’
The young man who had warned them waved his hand. ‘Oh, there’ll be a fight fast enough if anyone wants it. Anybody can get a fight out there in the street. There’s 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 can’t break down that door,’ replied the barkeeper. ‘He’s tried it three times. But when he comes you’d better lay down on the floor, stranger. He’s 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 scornfully at the question.
‘He’s out to shoot, and he’s out for trouble. Don’t 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 Potter’s in San Anton’.’
‘Well, who is he? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Oh, he’s 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 he’s got.’
The
mesquite – a deep rooted shrub or small tree in South America and in the southwest of the USA.
