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Plain Mary Smith: A Romance of Red Saunders

<h2>X</h2> <h3>"YOUR LIFE, IF YOU HURT HIM!"</h3> I hadn't thought to ask what Saxton was at in a business way. I didn't know where to find him; there was no use in going back, so I rode at random through the streets. As I swung into a dark alley I came upon a fierce and quiet little fight. Two men set upon a third, who had his back against the wall. The knives flashed, they ducked, parried, got away, cut and come again with a quickness and a savageness that lifted my hair. Jeeminy! There was spirit in that row! And not a sound except the soft sliding of feet and the noise of blows. They'd all been touched, too; red showed here and there on them, as well as on the stones. While I looked the one man slipped and came down on his back, striking his head and his right elbow, the knife flying out of his hand. I breathed quicker—some fights make you feel warlike—and when I see the other two dive right at the man, down and helpless, I broke the silence and the peace at one and the same instant. The mouse-colored horse butted a lad sailing down the alley. I grabbed the other up on the saddle and cuffed him with all my heart. "You dirty Mut!" says I. "Two of you on one man! Have something with me," and I slapped his black face to a blister. He tried to get at me with the knife, but a pinch on the neck loosened his grip. The feller the little horse rammed got on his feet, looking like he was going to return for a minute; it was me against the two. I crowded my victim down against the saddle with my left hand—Lord! how he squawked!—and drew my gun with the right. "Take either way that suits you," says I. The bucko didn't sabe English, maybe, but a forty-four gun is easy translated in any language. He chose the other end of the alley. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus9.jpg" alt=""/></div> <h3>"I crowded my victim against the saddle with my left hand"</h3> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> The feller that fell got on his feet. He was a good-looking chap, in spite of a big scar across his face and the careless way his white clothes were daubed with red. "Mushisimas gracias, Señor," says he, "me alegro mucho de ver a usted." "Don't mention it," says I. "I understand a little Spanish, but I speak English. I wouldn't have cut in if they hadn't played it crooked on you—here's your boy, not damaged much, if you want to have it out." "I spike Anglish veree splendidlee," says he, "I th-thank ju. Eef you weel so kindly han' me dthat man, I keel heem." "Holy Christmas!" says I—he asked as cool as he would a light for his cigar—"What do you mean? Just stick him?" "Certamente," says he, "he ees no good." I chucked my victim as far as I could throw him. "Run, you fool!" I says, and he scuttled out of that like a jack-rabbit. He was gone before my friend could start after him. I got the full blast of the disappointment. "I do not quite understand, Señor," says he, with his hand on his knife. "Hold!" says I, "you've no call to jump me—I can't stand for a man being slit in cold blood—no offense meant." "I forget your service," says he. "Pardon—here ees my han'." We shook hands. "But you have made the foolish thing," he says. "There ees a man who ees to be keeled dead, and you let heem go—that ees more foolish as to let the Fer-de-lance free." "Well, I know," says I, "I suppose you're right, but my ideas ain't quite foreign enough yet." He smiled. "Your largeness made me mistake," says he. "I see you are a gentleman not of so many years, but of the heart strong and the arm stronger—you play with that man—chuckee—chuckee—chuckee—like hees mother. Eet was lovelee. May I ask the name?" "William De La Tour Saunders," says I, "commonly called Bill." "Ah, Beel!" says he, "I r-r-remember. Here is Antonio Oriñez—your frien' when you wish." "Well, Mr. Oriñez," says I, "hadn't we better be walking along? You're bleeding pretty free." "Ta!" says he, shrugging his shoulders. "I am used to eet—still, I go. Thees ees not a healthy land for me." "What was the row about?" I asked, my kid curiosity coming up. "I cannot tell even my best frien'," he answers, smiling so pleasant there was no injury. "Quiere poqnito de aguardiente?" "No," I says, "I'm not drinking at present—it's a promise I made." (Oh, the vanity of a boy!) "But I'll trot along with you." He shook his head. "Do not," he says, "believe me, I have reason—can I do you any service, now?" I was a little anxious to get on my own business. The lull from the fight had come in the shape of a seasick feeling. "Do you know a man by the name of Saxton?" I inquired. He gave me a quick look—a friendly look, "Arthur Saxton—tall—grande—play the violeen like the davil?" "That's him." "Around that corner, not far, on thees side," waving his left hand, "you see the name—eet ees a es-store for food." I was surprised enough to find that Sax had opened a grocery store. "Thanks," says I, and swung in the saddle. Oriñez raised a hand, playful. "Geeve me some other ho-r-r-r-se!" says he. "Bin' opp my wounds!" he laughed. "By-by, Beel, r-remember me, as I shall remember ju!" "Good-by, Mr. Oriñez," says I. He called after me, "Eef you need a frien', there is Oriñez!" "Same to you, old man!" I says, and swings around the corner. Saxton was working outside the store, overseeing the unloading of some wagons. It was a large store, with a big stock, and Sax was busy as a hound-pup at a rabbit-hole. I rubbed my eyes. Somehow the last thing I expected to see Sax was a storekeeper. I slipped up and put my hands on his shoulders to surprise him. It surprised him all right. I felt the muscles jump under the coat, although he stood still enough, and he whirled on me with an ugly look in his eye. I think, perhaps, of all the unpleasant positions a man can get himself into, that of a playful friendly fit gone wrong will bring the sweat out the quickest—you do feel such a fool! "Beg your pardon, Arthur," says I, fairly cool, as really I hadn't done anything for him to get so wrathy about. But he got the best of himself at once, and the old, kind smile came, taking out the lines that changed his face so. "What are you talking about?" says he, playful in his turn—forced playful, painful to see. He gave me a slap on the back and I let her flicker at that—always willing to take a friend's intentions rather than the results. I never went into friendship as a money-making business. "I thought I startled you," I said. He laughed loud, so loud that I looked at him and backed away a little. "Startled me!" he says. "What nonsense! When did you come in? How do you like your job? Going to stay long?" He fired these questions at me as fast as he could talk. I, dumb-struck, answered somehow, while I felt around for something to think with. He was here and there and all over, doing everything with the same fever-hurry. Popping a string of questions at me and away before I could answer the half of them, as if he couldn't hold his mind to one thing more than a minute—and this was Arthur Saxton! Part of my mind talked to him, part wrastled with Mary's hints and the other part kept up a wondering why and what, for I felt for that man a whole-hearted kid's worship. A sack of flour fell from the wagon and split. Instantly Sax broke out into a fit of cursing. I never heard anything like it. He cursed the flour, the man that dropped it, Panama, the business, and everything above and below, his eyes two balls of wild-fire. The man jumped back scared. Sax's jaws worked hard; he got back an outside appearance of humanity. "This heat makes me irritable, Bill," he said. "Besides, there's lots of annoyance in a new business." "Sure," says I. I saw the flour sack was only an excuse—a little hole to let out the strain. A person's wits will outfoot his judgment sometimes. I had no experience to guide me, yet I knew Saxton needed humoring. I've heard people say that things—like liquor, for instance—couldn't get the best of such and such a man, because he was strong-willed. What kind of argument is that? Suppose he wants to drink. Ain't his strong will going to make him drink just that much harder, and be that much harder to turn back, than a man with a putty spine? The only backbone some men has is what their neighbors think. Them you can handle. But the man that rules himself generally finds it quite different from being the lady boss of an old woman's home. Just because he's fit to rule, he'll rebel, and he'll scrap with himself till they put a stone up, marking the place of a drawn battle. But the neighbors won't know it. They'll envy him the dead easy time he had, or get mad when he does something foolish—loses one heat out of many that the neighbors didn't even dare to run—and gossip over him. "Who'd think a man that's lived as good a life as Mr. Smith would," and so forth. But you can't blame the neighbors neither. Most people reasonably prefer peace to war, and with a man like Sax it's war most of the time. You have to care a heap to stay with him. Well, he was in a bad way for sure. He talked fast—often not finishing what he had to say. He laughed a great deal, too, and when the laugh passed and the dreary look came on his face again, it was enough to make you shiver. Presently a nice little man came up—a Spaniard and a gentleman. From the time I took hold of his hand I felt more cheerful. You knew by his eye he understood things. Sax introduced him as an old friend and as his partner in the business. "Perez puts up the money and the experience," says he, "and I put up a bold front." "After I've begged you not to speak in that way?" says Perez, smiling, but reproachful. "I'm not sailing under false colors," says Sax, sharp. "You've made an asylum for an empty head—you'll have to listen to it." Perez dropped the subject at once. The Spaniard turned to me and asked me most courteously about my aims in the country. We were talking along when Saxton interrupted us. "We'll never get enough to drink this way," says he; "come into the office." We went back into the little room where they entertained the big customers. Saxton called a boy and ordered brandy. When it came he grabbed the bottle feverishly. As he did so, Perez glanced at me. We understood each other. Sax couldn't drink until we joined him—habit again—how she pulls! He wanted that drink. It was the one thing he did want in the world, yet there he waited while we fooled away as much time as we could. "Well, here's regards!" he said at last, and his lower jaw trembled with eagerness. Perez drank and I made the motions. "That's the stuff!" says Sax, with a cheap swagger that knocked me harder than anything I'd seen so far. "The good old truck that you Spaniards mollify under the name of aguardiente is the solution of all problems, Perez." "Si, si, Señor?" says Perez. "It is a great solvent." He stirred the red sugar in the bottom of his glass. "I have seen it dissolve many a good manhood—like that." "None of your friends, I hope?" sneers Sax. "I hope not." Saxton looked at him a minute; a hundred different fits showed in his eye, but the hurry of his mind let none stay long enough for action. The shadow settled on him again. I never in my life saw more misery in a human face, and to save me I couldn't tell you where the expression came from, because the man kept his muscles in an iron grip. There wasn't a droop of the mouth, nor a line in the forehead, nor a twitch of the eye—it was just powerful enough to make itself felt, without signs. He came back again with a snap. "Why, you're not drinking, Bill!" says he, noticing my glass. It was not Arthur Saxton, to urge a boy to drink. "No," I says, easy, "I'm not used to tropical beverages—I expect to find it full of red peppers. Lord, what a dose I got in my first chile con carne—" He cut into my attempt at a diversion. "Why don't you drink?" he asked. "Because I promised Mary not to." The mention of the name was too much. He took a quick breath. "Oh, I wouldn't mind that," he says, light enough on the outside, but beginning to heat up inside again. "I mind my word," I answered. Perez looked quickly across at me and smiled. "She makes mistakes like the rest of us," says Saxton. "She makes mistakes," says I, "but not like the rest of us." Perez stretched out his hand. "I am again glad to have met Mr. Saunders," he said. Sax looked from one to the other of us. Suddenly he sprang up, giving the table such a push it landed on its back against the wall. "I hate to be the only blackguard in the party," he said, and stood furious, panting. Perez slipped to me and whispered, "Mind him not—for two weeks, day and night, brandy, brandy, brandy—it has not drunken him—but the man is mad." "What are you whispering about?" demanded Sax, so savagely I got ready for action. "If you've anything to say about me, let me hear it—I yearn for interesting news." He had his fist drawn back as he came up to Perez. The little man's face went white. "Arthur," he said, "would you strike me?" "I'd strike any one—any dirty sneak who'd talk about me behind my back." "Arthur," said Perez, slowly, "when I was a poor, sickly, sad little boy at a Northern school I had a friend who protected me, who took many a blow for my sake; when I was a young man, sick with la viruela, I had a friend who risked his life to save mine; as an older man, I have a friend who can take my life if he wishes—strike." And so help me! He would have struck! Never tell me a man is this and that. A man is everything. In his right mind, nothing an Apache invented would have forced Arthur Saxton to do such a thing—no fear on earth, nor no profit on earth would have tempted him for an instant. But now he would have struck. I grabbed his wrist. "You fool!" I cried, "what are you doing?" He clipped me bang in the eye. Saxton was a strong man, weakened by whisky. I was twice as strong and braced with rage. I whirled him around and slammed him on the floor. Something cold pressed against my temple. It was a revolver in the hands of Perez. "Your life for it, if you hurt him," said he. For a second, I meant to quit that place in disgust. Then the size of it took hold of me. It doesn't matter whether a thing is wise or not—in fact, you never can tell whether a thing is wise or not—but if it has a size to it, it suits me. I thought for a minute. There we stood, me holding Saxton, Perez holding me—just that little, cold touch, you'd think might be pleasant on a hot day. "I hope you ain't nervous, Mr. Perez?" says I, to gain time. "What?" says he, kind of befuzzled. "No, I am not nervous." "That's right," says I, hearty. "Don't try to see how hard that trigger pulls, or you'll disturb my thoughts." Then I made up my mind. "Saxton," says I, "if there's a remnant in you of the man you once was, get your friend to leave, and take the licking you deserve." I looked down at him—the man was back again! Talk about your moral suasion, I tell you there's a time when only one thing counts. I'd done more for Arthur Saxton by slamming him down on the floor than the doctors and preachers could have brought about in ten years. He went down hard, mind you. Yes, sir, there was the old Saxton, with his forehead frowned up because his head hurt, but the old, kindly, funny little smile on his lips. "Perez," he said, "run away and let the bad little boy get his spanking—although, Bill," he went on, "if it's reformation you're after, I don't need it." He laughed up at me. "You think I'm trying to dodge payment, but, so help me, I'm not, Billy boy." To see him like that, his laughing self again, after the nightmare we'd just been through, set me to sniveling—darn it, I was excited and only a kid, but I cried—yes, I cried. And Perez, he cried. "N-nice way for you to act," says I, "and s-spoil all a poor boy's got to respect." The awful slush of that struck us all, and we broke out into a laugh together—a wibbly kind of laugh, but it served. Arthur got up and dusted his clothes. He shook fearfully. I never saw a man in worse shape and still be able to stand. Two weeks of a steady diet of French brandy on top of trouble will put a man outside the ordinary run, or inside his long home. It was fine, the way he gathered himself. He brought something like what he ought to be out of the wreck in two minutes. "Now," he says steady, "I owe you fellows something—I owe you a great deal, Perez—I'd started to finish on the alcohol route. I don't like the company I keep. If I'm going to die I'll die with a better man than you stopped, Bill. In fact, I think my kid fit is over. I reckon I'll try to live like a man, and as a start I'm going to tell you both what ails me—to have it out for once. So help me, it isn't for myself—it's for you, Henry. You've invested time and money in me, and you sha'n't lose it. If you know what you're up against, you may be able to help me help myself. I'm sick of myself. All my life I have kept my mouth shut, out of a foolish pride. The little sacrifice will be something on the altar of friendship, Henry, old man. Come along to my room." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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