"That's what I never can understand about men. If Kate were going out--and told me she was going, why--I should just demand to know where, when, how, and why, and every other old thing a curious feminine mind could think of in the way of cross-examination. But there, men surely are queer folks."

"Good-bye, Mr. Bryant," said Kate. She had suddenly lost something of her lightness. Her dark eyes had become very thoughtful.

Helen, on the contrary, was bubbling over with high spirits, and was loath to part from their new acquaintance.

"I hated your coming, Mr. Bryant," she explained radiantly. "I tell you so frankly. Some day, when I know you a heap better, I'll tell you why," she added mysteriously. "But I'm glad now you came. And thank you for bringing the books. You'll like Dirty O'Brien. He's an awful scallywag, but he's--well, he's so quaint. I like him--and his language is simply awful. Good night."

"Good night."

Bill held the girl's hand a moment or two longer than was necessary.

It was such a little brown hand, and seemed almost swamped in his great palm. He released it at last, however, and smiled into her sunny gray eyes.

"I'm glad you feel that way. You know I have a sort of sneaking regard for the feller who can forget good talk, and--and explode a bit. I--I can do it myself--at times."

Helen stood at the door as the man took his departure. The evening was still quite light, and Bill, looking back to wave a farewell, fell further as a victim to the picture she made in the framing of the doorway.

Helen turned back as he pa.s.sed from view.

"You going out, Kate, dear?" she asked quickly.

Kate nodded.

"Where?"

"Out."

And somehow Helen forgot all the other inquiries she might have made.

CHAPTER XIV

THE HOUSE OF DIRTY O'BRIEN

It was late at night. The yellow lamplight left hard faces almost repulsive under the fantastic shadows it so fitfully impressed upon them. The low-ceiled room, too, gained in its sordid aspect. An atmosphere of moral degradation looked out from every shadowy corner, claiming the features of everybody who came within the dull radiance of the two cheap oil lamps swinging from the rafters.

Dirty O'Brien's saloon was a fitting setting for a proprietor with such a name. Crime of every sort was suggested in its atmosphere at all time; but at night, when the two oil lamps, with their smoky chimneys, were burning, when drink was flowing, when the room was full of rough bechapped men belonging to the valley, with their long hair, their unwashed skins, their frowsy garments, and the firearms adorning their persons, when strident voices kept up an almost continual babel of coa.r.s.e oaths, interlarded with rough laughter, or deadly quarrelings, when the permeation of alcohol had done its work and left its victims in a condition when self-control, at all times weak enough in these untamed citizens, was at its lowest ebb, then indeed the stranger, unaccustomed to such sights and sounds, might well feel that at last a cesspool of civilization had been reached.

The room was large in floor s.p.a.ce, but the bark-covered rafters, frowsy with cobwebs, were scarcely more than two feet above the head of a six-foot man. The roof was on a gradual, flat slope from the bar to the front door, which was flanked by windows on either side of it.

So low were the latter set, and so small were they, that a well-grown man must have stooped low to peer through the befouled gla.s.s panes.

The walls of the building were of heavy lateral logs bare as the day they were set up, except for a coating of whitewash which must have stood the wear of at least ten years.

The evening had been a long and noisy one; longer and noisier than usual. For a note of alarm had swept through the town--an alarm which, in natures as savage and unscrupulous as those of the citizens of the valley, promptly aroused the desperate fighting spirit always pretty near the surface.

The gathering was pretty well representative of the place. The bar had been crowded all night. Some of the men were plain townsmen belonging to the purely commercial side of the place, and these were clad as became citizens of any little western township. But they were the very small minority, and had no particularly elevating effect upon the aspect of the gathering. Far and away the majority were of the prairie, men from outlying farms and ranches, whose hard, bronzed features and toil-stained kits, marked them out as legitimate workers who found their recreation in the foul purlieus of this drinking booth merely from lack of anything more enticing. Then, too, a few dusky-visaged, lank-haired creatures wearing the semi-barbaric costume of the prairie half-breed found a place in the gathering.

But none of these were the loud-voiced, hard-swearing complainants.

That was left to a section of the citizens of the town who had everything in the world to lose by the coming of the police. As the evening wore on these gradually drew everybody's interest in the matter, until the stirring of pa.s.sions raised the babel of tongues to an almost intolerable clamor.

Dirty O'Brien, sinister and cynical, stood behind his bar serving every customer with a rapidity and nonchalance which the presence of the police in the place could never disturb. But the situation was well within his grasp. On this particular night his mandate had gone forth, and, in his own bar, he was an absolute autocrat. Each drink served must be devoured at once, and the empty gla.s.s promptly pa.s.sed back across the counter. These were hastily borne off by an a.s.sistant to an adjoining room, where, in secret cupboards let into the sod part.i.tion wall, the kegs of smuggled spirit were secreted. All drinks were poured out in this room, and, on the first alarm, the secret cupboards could be hidden up, and all sign of the traffic concealed.

Then there was nothing left to be seen but the musty display of temperance drinks on the shelves behind the bar, and a barrel of four per cent. beer, for the dispensing of which the existence of these prohibition saloons was tolerated and licensed by the Government.

Dirty O'Brien knew the law to the last word. He only came up against it when caught in the act of selling spirits. This was scarcely likely to happen. He was far too astute. His only danger was a trap customer, and the difficulties and dangers of attempting such a course, even the most foolhardy would scarcely dare to risk in a place as untamed as Rocky Springs.

Even the wildest spirits, however, were bound to reach their limit of protest against this new move of the authorities, and by midnight the majority of the customers had taken their departure from Dirty O'Brien's booth. Thus, when the small hours crept on, only a trifling gathering of his regular patrons still remained behind.

The air of the place was utterly foul. The stench of tobacco smoke blending with the fumes of liquor left it nauseating. In the farthest corner of the room, just beside one of the windows, a group of four men were playing draw poker, and with these were Kate's two hired men, Nick Devereux, with his vulture head and long lean neck, and Pete Clancy, the half-breed, whose cadaverous cheeks and furtive eye marked him out as a man of desperate purpose.

At another table Kid Blaney was amusing himself with a pack of cards, betting on the turn-up with the well-known badman, Stormy Longton. For the rest there was a group of citizens lounging against the bar, still discussing with the proprietor the possibilities of the newly created situation. These were the postmaster, Allan Dy, and Billy Unguin, the dry-goods man, and the patriarch church robber known as Holy d.i.c.k. The only other occupant of the bar was Charlie Bryant.

He had come there earlier in the evening for no other purpose than to hear how the town was taking the arrival of the police, and to glean, if possible, any news of the contemplated movements of Stanley Fyles.

This had been his purpose, and for some time he had resisted all other temptation. Nor, apart from his weakness, was he without considerable added temptation. Dirty O'Brien displayed a marked geniality toward him the moment he came in, and, by every consummate art of which he was master, sought to break through the man's resolve.

Charlie fell. Of course he fell, as in the end O'Brien knew he would.

And, once having fallen, he lingered on and on, drinking all that came his way with that insatiable craving, which, once indulged, never left him a moment's peace.

Now, silent, resentful, but only partially under the influence of liquor, he was sitting upon the edge of the wooden coal box which stood against the wall at the end of the counter. His legs were outspread along the top of its side, and his back was resting against the counter itself. His eyes were bright with that peculiar l.u.s.ter inspired by a brain artificially stimulated. They were slightly puffed, but otherwise his boyish features bore no sign of his libations. One peculiarity, however, suggested a change in him. The womanish delicacy of his lips had somehow gone, and now they protruded sensually as he sucked at a cheap cigarette.

Although these were only slight changes in Charlie's appearance, they nevertheless possessed a strangely brutalizing effect upon the refinement of his handsome face. And, added to them was an air of moroseness, of cold reserve, that suggested nothing so much as impotent resentment at the conditions under which he found himself.

Without any appearance of interest he was listening to the talk of those at the bar. And somehow, though his back was turned toward him, O'Brien, judging by the frequency with which his quick-moving eyes flashed in his direction, was aware of his real interest, and was looking for some sign whereby he might draw him into the talk. But the sign did not come, and the saloonkeeper was left without the least encouragement.

Finally, however, O'Brien made a direct attempt. He was standing a round of drinks and included in his invitation the man on the coal box. He pa.s.sed him a gla.s.s of whisky.

"Have another," he said, in his short way. Then he added: "On me."

Charlie thanked him curtly, and took the drink. He drank it at a gulp and pa.s.sed the gla.s.s back. But his general att.i.tude underwent no change. His eyes remained morosely fixed upon the poker players.

Billy Unguin winked significantly at O'Brien and glanced at Charlie.

"Queer cuss," he said, under his breath. Then he turned to Allen Dy, as though imparting news: "Drinks alone--always alone."

Dy nodded comprehendingly.

"Sure sign of a drunkard," he returned wisely, in a similar undertone.

O'Brien smiled. He was about to give vent to one of his coldest cynicisms, when Nick Devereux looked over from the card table and claimed him.

"Say, Dirty," he drawled, in his rather musical southern accent, "wher' in h.e.l.l is Fyles located anyhow? There's been a mighty piece of big talk goin' on, but none of us ain't seen him. Big talk makes me sick." He spat on the floor as though to emphasize his disgust.

"He's around anyways," O'Brien returned coldly. "I've seen him right here. After that he rode east. One of the boys see him pick up Sergeant McBain an' two troopers. Will that do you?" he inquired sarcastically.

Nick picked up a fresh hand of cards.

"Have to--till I see him," he said savagely.

"Oh, you'll see him all right--all right," O'Brien returned with a laugh, while the men at the bar grinned over at the card players.