Near them, tilted against the wall in a wire-trussed chair, sat a sleeping man, hat on the floor.

Two swinging oil lamps lighted the smoke-fogged air of the place, and their glow seemed to be diffused by it, idealizing everything, softening it--

Everything except the high lights from the bottles on the shelf. Those were stabs of searing brightness; they hurt VB's eyeb.a.l.l.s.

His gaze traveled back to the Mexican. The melody had drifted from the fandango into a swinging waltz song popular in the cities four years before. He whistled the air through his teeth. The cigarette was still between his lips. The face brought vague recollections to VB. Then he remembered that this was Julio, the Mexican who ran with Rhues. He belonged to Rhues, they had told him, body and soul.

Thought of Rhues sent VB's right hand to his left side, up under the arm. He squeezed the gun that nestled there.

Of a sudden, nausea came to the man who looked in. It was not caused by fear of Rhues--of the possibility of an encounter. The poignant fumes that came from the open door stirred it, and the sickness was that of a man who sees his great prize melt away.

For the moment VB wanted to rebel. He tore his eyes from those glittering bottles; tried to stop his breathing that treacherous nostrils might not inhale those odors.

But it was useless--his feet would not carry him away. He knew he must move, move soon, and though he now cried out in his heart against it he knew which way his feet would carry him.

He half turned his body and looked back toward the shack where the Captain waited, and a tightening came in his throat to mingle with the rapaciousness there.

"Just a little while, Captain," he whispered, feeling childishly that the horse would hear the words and understand. "Just a little while--I'm just--just going to take a little hand in the card game."

And as the Mexican finished his waltz with a rip of the thumb clear across the six strings of his instrument, Young VB put a foot on the threshold of the saloon and slowly drew himself to his full height in the doorway. Framed by darkness he stood there, thumbs in his belt, mouth in a grim line, hat down to hide the pallor of his cheeks, the torment in his eyes; his shoulders were braced back in resolution, but his knees, inside his generous chaps, trembled.

CHAPTER XX

The Last Stand

Even the vibrating guitar strings seemed to be stilled suddenly. For VB, an abrupt hush crushed down on the scene. He felt the eyes as, pair after pair, they followed those of the Mexican and gazed at him; even the man slumbering in his chair awoke, raised his head, and stared at him sleepily. He stood in the doorway, leaning lightly against the logs, returning each gaze in turn.

"h.e.l.lo, VB!" one of the trio before the bar said.

"h.e.l.lo, Tom!" answered the newcomer--and stepped into the room.

Then what hush had fallen--real or imaginary--lifted and the talk went on, the game progressed.

Perhaps the talk was not fully sincere, possibly the thoughts of the speakers were not always on their words, for every man in the place stole glances at the tall young fellow as he moved slowly about the room.

They had known for months the fight that was going on up there on Jed Avery's ranch. They knew that the man who had mastered the Captain and set his name forever in the green annals of the country had been fighting to command himself against the attacks of the stuff they peddled here in the saloon at Ranger. They knew how he had fought off temptation, avoided contact with whisky--and now, late at night, he had walked slowly into the heart of the magnet that had exerted such an influence on him. So they watched VB as he moved about.

The sharp lights from those black bottles! Like snakes' eyes, they commanded his--and, when this power had been exerted, they seemed to stab the brain that directed sight at them. In the first few steps across the rough floor VB answered their call to look a half dozen times, and after each turning of his gaze jerked his eyes away in pain.

He did not turn toward the bar--rather, kept close to the wall, pa.s.sing so near the squatting Mexican that the flap of his chaps brushed the other's knees. The Greaser picked at the strings of his instrument aimlessly, striking unrelated chords, tinkling on a single string; then came a few bars from the fandango. His head was tilted to one side and a glittering eye followed the slow-moving figure of Young VB.

By the time the newcomer was halfway toward the poker table the Mexican got to his feet, sliding his back slowly up the wall until he reached a standing position. Then, for the first time taking his eyes from VB, he stepped lightly toward the door. After a final tinkling chord had fallen he disappeared, guitar slung under one arm, walking slowly away from the lighted place. But when he was beyond sight of those within, he ran.

VB went on, past the just-awakened man in his chair, close to the poker table. The players looked up again, first one, with a word of recognition; then two spoke at once, and after he had raked in the pot the fourth nodded with a welcoming grunt.

The young fellow leaned a shoulder against the log wall and watched the game. That is, he looked at it. But continually his fevered memory retained a vision of those glares from the bottles.

His mind again played crazy tricks, as it always did when the thirst clamored loudly. The rattle of the chips sounded like ice in gla.s.ses, and he turned his head quickly toward the bar, following the imaginary sound.

The four men there were just drinking. He followed their movements with wild eyes. The bartender lifted his gla.s.s to the level of his forehead in salute, then drained its contents slowly, steadily, every movement from the lifting to the setting down of the empty gla.s.s smooth, deliberate--even polished--the movements of a professedly artful drinker. The silent man offered no good word--merely lifted the gla.s.s and drank, tipping his head but slightly, emptying the gla.s.s with an uneven twisting of the wrist, something like an exaggerated tremble.

The short man tossed his drink off by elevating the gla.s.s quickly to his lips and throwing his head back with a jerk to empty it into his mouth. The tall man, who talked loudly and motioned much, waved his drink through the air to emphasize a declaration, and with an uncertain swoop directed it to his lips. He leaned backward from the hips to drink, and the movement made him reel and grasp the bar for support.

As he had followed the movements of those men, so VB followed the course of the stuff they drank down their throats; in imagination, down his throat, until it hit upon and glossed over that spot which wailed for soothing!

Oh, how he wanted it! Still, all those months of battling had not been without result. The rigid fight he had made carried him on, even in face of his resolve to yield, and he delayed, put it off just a moment--lying to himself!

He turned back to the game.

"Sit in, VB?" one of the players asked.

"Don't mind."

He dragged another chair to the table, unb.u.t.toned and cast off his jumper, gave the hat another low tug, and tossed a yellow-backed twenty to the table. The chips were shoved toward him.

"Jacks or better," the dealer said, and shot the cards about the board.

VB won a pot. He bet eagerly on the next and lost. Then he won again.

The game interested him for the moment.

"Oh, just one more li'l' drink!" cried the garrulous cowboy at the bar.

VB had pa.s.sed the opening, went in later, drew three cards, failed to help his tens, and hiked the bet! Called, he dropped the hand; and the winner, showing aces up, stared at the boy who had bet against openers on lone tens. He noticed that VB's hands trembled, and he wondered. He could not feel VB's throat. Nor could he hear the careless plea of the sotted rider for just one more drink ringing in VB's burning brain.

A big pot was played and the winner, made happy, said:

"Well, I'll buy a drink."

The bartender, hearing, came to the table.

"What'll it be?" he asked.

"Whisky," said the man on VB's right, and the word went around the circle.

Then a moment's pause, while the cards fluttered out.

"VB?"

There it was, reaching out for him, holding out its tentacles that ceased to appear as such and became soft, inviting arms. It was that for which he had ridden through the night; it was that against which he had fought month after month until, this night, he realized that a fight was useless; it was the one solace left him, for indirectly it had brought into his life the glorious thing--and wiped it out again.

So why hold off? Why refuse?

But those months of fighting! He could not overcome that impetus which his subjective self had received from the struggle. Consciously he wanted the stuff--oh, how he wanted it! But deep in him _something_--

"Not now--thanks," he managed to mutter, and clasped his cards tightly.