The Mesa Trail Page 9

  CHAPTER IX--THE WICKER DEMIJOHN

  As has been related, Thady Shea somewhat vaguely set out upon the way toMagdalena, after disposing of his shoeless flivver and its snoring load.

  The dawn came up and found him plodding onward. An hour later he washailed from the roadside by a venerable ancient having one very blue eyeand a long white beard. This worthy proved to be a tramp printer, whointended to get work at Magdalena when his money gave out.

  For the present, however, the ancient had no intention of working; so heproposed a road partnership, stating that he liked Shea's looks. ThadyShea wanted to sleep, which "Dad" Griffith, as the ancient was named,deemed a highly laudable ambition.

  Accordingly, a little while afterward, Shea found himself snuglyensconced in a camp well back from the road and well hidden in a clumpof trees. Before sleeping, he explored his pockets and found some money,left from the sum given him by Mrs. Crump for his Zacaton Citypurchases.

  "Take it, friend," he said, drowsily, thrusting the money upon theancient. "Take it, and add it to thy scanty store, that so we may havewherewithal to live."

  "You bet I will, partner," and Dad Griffith seized it. "It'll keep usquite a spell, with what I got. No sense workin', I says, when they's noneed. I figger on gettin' a job to Magdalena when I got to work. I had ajob there two year ago. These here goshly-gorful linotypes is puttin'honest printers out o' business. Why, I seen th' day----"

  In the midst of a dissertation upon the elegancies of hand-set type andthe blasted frightfulness of an existence surrounded by linotypemachines, Shea stretched out and fell asleep. The ancient droned along,regardless. When Shea wakened toward sunset, old Griffith was stilldiscoursing upon the same topic.

  Over a tiny smokeless fire Griffith conjured biscuits, coffee, andbeans, and the two men ate. Thady Shea probed his companion's mind forfuture plans, and found only a vague emptiness; the ancient liked tospend each night in a different spot, that was all. Thady Shea proposed,with pursuit in mind, that it might be better to camp during the day andto tramp at night.

  At this suggestion the ancient winked his one intensely blue eye. Hewinked with the uncanny gusto of an old man, with the horriblecraftiness of an old man. His one eye winked, and the ancient wastransformed. He became an emblem of doddering truancy, a living symbolof the soul which desires ever to flee responsibilities and to shirk theonus of labour inherited from Father Adam.

  "Suits me, pardner. I used to do that over in Missouri, one time, 'countof a hawg bein' missed from a pen. Anyhow, these nights is too cold tosleep 'thout blankets, which mine ain't extra good.

  "Still, a spry young feller like you, Thady, ought to have more get upan' get to him than to be gettin' in a mess o' trouble. Take agoshly-gorful old ranger like me, and it's all right; I'm a sinful man,an' proud of it. But you, now--you'd ought to be aimin' for something. Iknow, I do! That's the trouble with folks; ain't got no aim ahead. Butno use talkin'. You got your reasons, I reckon."

  Thady Shea sat and stared into the fire. He did not take the hint toretail his story. He was suddenly thinking.

  Memory worked within him. "It ain't lack of ambition that makes folksmis'able and unsatisfied; it's lack o' purpose!" Mrs. Crump had saidthose words, and they had been burned into Shea's brain. Purpose,indeed! What purpose now lay ahead, except the vague desire torehabilitate himself? To become a vagrant with this tramp printer--why,this would be to shake off all the shackles of purpose! Yet, what elsewas there to do? What could be done, except to evade the law which bythis time must be seeking him?

  His head drooped. Was some higher Power extending its hand against him,closing every avenue of escape from his old drifting existence, forcinghim back into vagrancy? His eyes widened under the thought. The thoughtstaggered him. Then, slowly, his mouth tightened, his wide lips drewfirmly clenched. A flush of fever darkened his high cheekbones.

  Very well; he would go on fighting! For once the superstitious nature ofthe man was borne down by his inward anger, was borne down by theimpotent feeling that he was a pawn in Destiny's game; he rebelledagainst it. He rebelled against everything.

  "By heaven, I'll _make_ a purpose!" he mentally vowed. "I'll look forone--find one--fight for one!"

  Even as the words rose in him, he choked down a vague feeling that theywere false and erroneous, a feeling that this purpose could not besought, but must seek him out, must come to him of itself. Yet he chokeddown the feeling, repulsed it. He reiterated his mental vow, fiercelyinsistent upon it.

  All this while the ancient had been droning something about the beautiesof the old flat-bed presses, and the goshly-gorfulness of machineprinting. Now Shea became aware of a more personal note in the droning.

  "If I was you," and the ancient chuckled in his dirty white beard,transfixing Thady Shea with his one bright-blue eye, "if I was you, I'dgrow whiskers!

  "They's places and places I can't never go no more without these herewhiskers. Yes, they is! I'm a sinful man an' proud of it; mebbe ye thinkI'm old, but I can show you young fellers a thing or two, he, he! Growwhiskers, Thady. You can take 'em with ye to go a-sinning, and then goback over the same trail without 'em, and nobody the wiser!"

  Shea's gorge rose. He suddenly saw Dad Griffith as the latter reallywas--a foul old man, a worthless wastrel of humanity, seemingly dead toall higher things. He grew afraid for himself; he was vaguely alarmed,as though he had touched some slimy, crawling thing in the darkness. Hecame to his feet with an impellent desire to crush this unholy man likea toad, to flee into the night, to lie under the stars and seekclearance for his troubles. However, he did none of these things. Sheareached for his pipe, filled it, lighted it with an ember from the fire.Here he got a new sensation--the tang and sweetness of an ember-lightedpipe!

  "Let's be moving," said Thady Shea, crisply. "It's a fine night."

  An hour later they were plodding along, sharing the load of provisions.Thady Shea was quite aware that something was wrong with him in thebody, but he felt no definite pain. It was an errant "something" whichhe could not place, and which he was too uplifted in spirit to heed.

  The night wore on. With every step, Thady Shea was learning from thelore of Dad Griffith. He was learning the worldly wise lore of theroads--to walk with straight feet, to carry his body uphill on bendedknees, to take the high side of a wet trail. The ancient talkedcontinually, eternally. The ancient seemed to like Thady Shea immensely.

  Some time after midnight they left the road by a faint and unknowntrail, followed it until they were weary, and then camped. Griffith hada pair of tattered blankets. Thady Shea refused to share them; he sleptin his clothes. When he wakened at sunrise his head was heavy withfever. A mile distant the ancient descried a creek, and they moved overto it for the day. Thady Shea felt peculiar, and detailed his symptoms,whereupon the ancient produced a tattered little case of leather. Heopened the case and disclosed three vials.

  "All the med'cine a man needs, I claim," he declared. "Middle one'squinine; right's physic; left's physic again, only more so. Take yourchoice, one or all!"

  "Give me the more so," said Thady, who felt miserable in the extreme.

  The ancient began to look alarmed. His one intensely blue eye shone withan uneasy light. His continual talk became querulous. After a time heforced Thady Shea to continue their progress; the trail, said he, mustlead them to a ranch. Groaning, Shea protested; but presently he yieldedto the urgings of Griffith. The two men followed the trail.

  There was a man named Fred Ross, who had homesteaded a canon in thehills beyond the Datils. Thus far unmarried, although he had his hopes,he lived alone; a hard, rough man, kindly at heart, redly wrinkled offace, and keenly alert of eye, he shot beaver and turkey when the forestrangers were not around, and fared well. Indeed, he was wont to say thathe was the last man in the United States to know the taste of thatsucculent morsel, a beaver's tail.

  Fred Ross was plowing on the flat behind his shack when he observed theapproach of a tattered old man who moved in trembling has
te. Having noliking for tramps, Ross set his hands on his hips and met the visitorwith a vigilant eye.

  "Well?" he snapped. "Who in time are _you_?"

  "Don't matter 'bout me, mister," said the other, agitatedly pawing along and dirty white beard. "A friend o' mine is down the canon a ways,plumb petered out. He was took sick last night--I reckon he's got atouch o' fever. D'you s'pose you could let him lay somewheres--mebbe inthat cowshed yonder?"

  "You be damned, you old fool," said Ross, harshly. "I ain't got no roomfor sick men in my shed--which ain't no cowshed, neither. Where is he?"

  "He--he give out by them trees," faltered Dad Griffith, backing away. "Igot a little money, mister----"

  "You be blistered, you an' your money!" roared Ross. "I don't want notramps around here, savvy? I got trouble of my own. Let's have a look atthis friend o' yours--if you-all are tryin' any skin game on _me_, lookout!"

  He strode forward, and Dad Griffith fluttered away. After him strodeRoss. Ten minutes later they came to the gaunt figure of Thady Shealying beneath some scrub oaks and muttering faintly. Ross leaned overhim then straightened up and faced the ancient.

  "You--on your way!" he said, roughly, "I'll take care o' this feller,but I don't aim to keep two of ye."

  "Devil take ye, I don't want none of ye!" quavered Griffith in querulousanger. "I'm goin' to Magdalena to get me a job; you tell him so when hecan travel, ye goshly-gorful old ranch hand!"

  Disdaining a response, Ross stooped; after some effort, he got ThadyShea in the "fireman's grip" and staggered erect, the delirious manstill muttering. He turned and walked toward his shack, striding heavilyunder the burden. Dad Griffith hesitated, then wagged his beard--he didnot deem it wise to follow.

  "Hey!" he lifted his voice after the departing rancher. "You be good tohim, hear me? Mind my words, if ye ain't good to him I'll--I'll comeback and burn ye out some night!"

  Ross paid no heed but strode on out of sight. Dad Griffith shook hisfist in senile rage, then slowly, and with a sigh, turned about andstarted in the opposite direction.

  The shack which Ross had built, anticipating matrimony, was a two-roomaffair with a lean-to kitchen. Grunting beneath his load, Ross stoopedinto the house and deposited Thady Shea upon an iron bed.

  Ross came erect, panting, and stared down at Shea's fever-flushedfeatures. He scratched his head, as though in perplexity, and his eyeswere suddenly very kindly.

  "Poor devil!" he said, being a man who talked much to himself. "Poordevil! Got a real good face, too. What in time can I do? The car's brokedown and there's no doctor closer'n Magdalena anyhow. Well, I neverknowed whiskey to fail curin' any trouble, and I guess a bit o' quininewill help out. Thank the Lord I got whiskey to burn!"

  He went to a cupboard in the corner and drew forth a wicker demijohn, anew demijohn, a demijohn that hung heavy in his hand. Upon the chairbeside the bed he put a big crockery cup, thick and heavy. He pouredwhiskey into it; he filled it nearly to the brim with raw red liquor; aray of sunlight fell upon the cup and made it seem filled with rich thinblood.

  "Just for a starter," murmured Ross. "Now the quinine."

  The hours passed, and darkness fell. Ross went out to stable and beddown his team. He came back, ate, resumed his vigil.

  Ross was starkly amazed by his muttering patient. Cup upon cup ofwhiskey and quinine he poured down the gaunt man's throat; the man drankit like water, avidly, without visible effect. He seemed to soak up theraw red liquid as a sponge soaks up water. It seeped down his throat andwas gone.

  "My Lord!" exclaimed Ross at last, awed despite himself. "The man ain'thuman!"

  Thady Shea was human; although invisible, the effect was there. Throughthe hours of darkness his sonorous voice rose and filled the shack. Hespoke of things past the understanding of the watching Ross. He usedstrange names--names like Ophelia or Rosalind or Desdemona; at timespassion shook his voice, a fury of resonant passion; at times his wordstrembled with grief, his rolling words quavered and surged with avehemently agonized utterance, until the listening Ross felt a vagueache wrenched into his own throat.

  About midnight, Thady Shea fell asleep. It was a deep, full slumber, aslumber of stertorous breathing, a sound and absolute slumber, a drunkenslumber. Thady Shea lay motionless except for his deeply heaving chest.His hands, face, and body were glistening wet, were wet withperspiration that streamed from him, were wet with salty sweat oozingfrom his fever-baked flesh. Fred Ross turned out the lamp and climbedinto a bunk in the corner.

  "That ends it," he said, drowsily. "He'll sweat out the fever and sleepoff the whiskey, and wake up cured. Can't beat whiskey! Cureseverything!"

  Upon the following morning Ross returned from his chores to find ThadyShea still lustily snoring, the fever gone. He got breakfast anddeparted to his work, leaving the coffee ready to hand. From time totime he came in from the nearer end of the flat to inspect his patient.He was a big man, a rough-tongued man, a deep-hearted man.

  Thady Shea wakened to an uncomfortable sensation. He dimly and vaguelyrecognized the sensation; he was bewildered and frightened by it. He hadfelt that uncomfortable sensation many times in his life, always on themorning after a night spent with the jorum.

  He tried to sit up, and succeeded, only to close his eyes before ablinding wave of pain. A headache? It went with the other symptoms, ofcourse. He had no remembrance of drinking. Indeed, he had a fierceremembrance of having meant never to drink again. Where was he and howhad he come here? His last memory was of trees, and the ancient helpinghim as he sank down. He looked around; the strange room bewildered him.

  He was maddeningly conscious that his body, his soul, his whole being,was a soaked and impregnated thing, soaked and impregnated with whiskey.His body cried out for more whiskey, his soul writhed within him formore whiskey. His haggard gaze fell upon a cup, on a chair at hisbedside. He reached out and picked up the cup. It was half full ofbitter whiskey, and a bottle of powdered quinine explained thebitterness.

  Even then, Shea hesitated. He hesitated, but he could not resist. Noliving man could have resisted the fearful outcry of body and soul uponsuch an awakening. It was no mere craving. It was a tumultuous, riotous,lawless eagerness--a fierceness for whiskey, an awful tormenting passionfor whiskey such as he had never before known. That was because of theflood that had seeped and soaked through his whole being. The raw redliquor like thin blood had permeated all his body tissues and nerves, aswater permeates the sun-dried earth, leaving it not the hard white earthbut the brown soft mud. The earth dries again and cracks open, callingavidly for more water. So with Thady Shea's body and soul.

  He drank gulpingly, until the cup was empty. He sat down the cup; it wasa heavy cup of thick crockery. His nostrils quivered to the smell ofcoffee. He began to take in his surroundings, to realize them, toappraise them. He began to understand that he must have been drunk.Drunk! Who was responsible?

  A shadow darkened the morning sunlight in the doorway. There on thethreshold, a black blotch against the brightness outside, stood FredRoss, staring at the man who sat on the edge of the bed and stared backat him. Shea saw only a man--the man responsible.

  "Did you----" He paused, licked his lips, and continued thickly. "Didyou give me whiskey? Did you?"

  Ross stepped into the room.

  "Yes, I did," he began, roughly. He did not finish.

  Something shot from the bedside, something large and thick, somethingwhite and heavy, that left the hand of Thady Shea like a bullet. It wasthe thick, heavy crockery cup. Shea flung it blindly. It struck Rossover the ear with a "_whick!_"

  Fred Ross looked vaguely surprised. His knees appeared to give waybeneath him. He caught at the table and seemed to swing himself forward,half around. He fell, and lay without moving. The heavy white crockerycup, unhurt by the impact, rolled in the doorway.

  Relaxing on the edge of the bed, Thady Shea gave no more attention toFred Ross, but lowered his face in his two hands. They were big, stronghands; they clutched into his hair and skin unt
il their knuckles stoodout white. Shea sat motionless, thus, as though he were trying toproduce some exterior which would quell the anguish within him.

  His voice rang with a sonorous bitterness as he spoke aloud. Therecumbent Ross moved, then sat up with a lithe, agile motion; but ThadyShea did not stir. He was lost in the words that seemed wrung from hisvery soul.

  "I've tried, I've tried! How have I been weak, how have I failed? Yet Ihave failed. I've been drunk. I always fail."

  His speech was heavy, slow, words coming tenuously to his numbed brain.He did not hear the slight sound made by Ross in rising erect, instepping to the wall. He did not see Ross at all, nor the hand of Rossthat plucked a revolver from a holster suspended on the wall. He spokeagain, the words coming with more coherence.

  "Always an unseen hand blocks me. Is it your doing, oh, God? Before, itwas my own fault, for I was weak. This time it was not my fault; I knewnothing about it. God, are You trying to turn me back into the oldshiftless life, into the old vagabond, aimless existence? God, are Youtrying to make me a drunkard again? Are You trying to rob me of allpurpose?"

  He paused. The breath came from his lungs; it was a deep and unevenbreath, a sobbing breath, the breath of one who is fast in the grip ofterrible emotion. At him stood and stared Ross. Inch by inch therevolver lowered. The keen, alert, battling eyes of the rancher werefilled with perplexity, with comprehension, with a strange gentleness.Again Shea spoke, his face still in his hands:

  "I've done my best, God knows! I've put whiskey out of my life, stifledthe craving for it, forgotten about it. And now--now! Why is it thateven this one purpose is denied me? Is there no help--is there no help?Is there no help for----"

  His fingers clenched upon his iron-gray hair, swept through it. His headcame up. His blazing black eyes stared into the gaze of Ross. For half amoment the two men looked at each other, motionless.

  Then, abruptly, Ross pushed home the revolver into its holster.

  "Pardner," he said, casually, "let's have a cup o' coffee."

  He went to the stove in the kitchen, raked up charred black brands,opened the draft, and put the coffeepot over the kindling embers. He settwo thick crockery cups upon the boards of the table. He got out spoonsand sugar and "canned cow." Then he turned to the other room and with ajerk of the head invited his guest.

  Thady Shea rose, very unsteadily, and came.