The Yellow Rose Part 19

"You owe _n.o.body_ anything?"

"What extraordinary questions you do ask to be sure!" exclaimed the cowboy.

"No, I am not in debt, even to the priest. What does it matter to you?"

The csikos shook his head, and broke the neck of another bottle. He wished to fill his friend's gla.s.s, but the cowboy placed his hand over it.

"You won't drink my beer?"

"I'm keeping to the rule. Wine on beer--never fear. Beer on wine--no time."

The csikos poured himself out the whole bottle, and then began to moralise (the not unfrequent result of beer-drinking).

"See, comrade," he said, "there is no uglier sin in the world than lying. I once lied myself, though not in my own defence, and it has oppressed my soul ever since. Lying does well enough for shepherds, but not for lads on horseback. The first shepherd of all was a liar. Jacob, the patriarch, lied when he deceived his own father, making his hands rough like Esau's. So little wonder if his followers, who keep flocks, should live by lies. It may suit a shepherd, but it is not for a cowboy."

The cowherd went into roars of laughter.

"I say, Sandor, what a good parson you would make! You can preach as well as the Whit-Sunday probationer at Balmaz ujvaros."

"Yes? Well, comrade, maybe you would not mind my turning out a good preacher, but if I turned out a good lawyer, you might care more. So you say you don't owe a crooked kreuzer to any human being?"

"Not to any human soul."

"Without lying?"

"No need for it."

"Then what is this? This long paper? Do you recognise it?"

The csikos pulled out the bill from his pocket, and held it before his companion's nose.

The cowboy turned suddenly crimson with anger and shame.

"How did that come into your hands?" he demanded angrily, and springing from his seat.

"Honestly enough. Sit down, comrade," said the csikos. "I am not asking any questions, only preaching. The good man who got this bill instead of money came to our place not long ago to buy horses. He paid with a bill of exchange, and when I asked what it meant, explained, mentioned that you knew the use of a bill, and then showed me your writing, complaining bitterly that there was some omission, that it was only made payable on the Hortobagy, and that the Hortobagy is a wide word. So now I have brought you the bill for you to correct the mistake. Don't let a horse-cooper say that a Hortobagy cowboy cheated him! Fill in the line, 'Payable on the Hortobagy, in the inn courtyard.'"

The csikos spoke so mildly that he entirely misled his companion. He began to think that after all nothing was called into question here but the honour of csikos and cowboys.

"All right, I will do as you wish," he said.

They rapped on the table, and Klarika came out (she had been lurking near the door). Great was her surprise when, instead of witnessing a b.l.o.o.d.y encounter, she beheld the two young men conferring peaceably together.

"Fetch us pen and ink, Klari, dear," they said.

So she brought writing materials from the town commissioner's room. Then she looked on to see what would be done.

The csikos showed the paper to the cowherd, pointing with his finger where, and dictating what to write.

"'Payable on the Hortobagy,' so much is written already, now add, 'in the inn courtyard.'"

"Why in the _courtyard_?" inquired the cowboy.

"Because--because it can't be otherwise."

Meanwhile the storm was nearing rapidly. A hot wind preceded the tempest, covering earth and sky with yellowish clouds of dust. Birds of prey hovered shrieking over the Hortobagy, while flocks of swallows and sparrows hurried under the shelter of the eaves. A loud roar swept over the puszta.

"Won't you come indoors?" urged the girl.

"No, no, we can't," answered the csikos, "our work is out here."

When the cowherd had finished writing, then the csikos took the pen from his hand, and turning over the bill, inscribed his name on the back, in big roundhand characters.

"Now, what is the sense of you writing your name there?" asked the cowboy, inquisitively.

"The use is, that when the pay-day comes round, then _I_ and _not you_ will pay those ten florins."

"Why should you, instead of me?"

"Because it is _my debt_!" said the csikos, and clapped his cap to his head. His eyes flashed.

The cowboy paled all at once. Now he knew what awaited him. The girl had learnt nothing from the scribbling nor from the discourse. She shook her head. "They were very foolish," she thought, and the gilded ear-rings tinkled in her ears. "'This,' and 'that,' and 'Yellow Rose,' they must be talking about her!"

But the csikos carefully folded the paper, and handed it to her. Very gently he spoke,

"Dear Klari," he said, "please be so very kind and put this safely away in your drawer. Then should Mr. Pelikan, the horse-dealer, come in here to dine on his way back from Onod fair, give it him. Tell him that we sent it, we two old comrades, Ferko Lacza, and Sanyi Decsi, with our best respects. One of us will meet it, which, time will show."

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Funny people! Not a thought of quarrelling in their heads! Signing their names to the same paper."

She collected the writing materials and carried them back to the commissioner's room, at the end of the long pillared verandah. The two lads were left alone together.

CHAPTER XII.

The csikos quietly emptied his last bottle of beer. The cowboy poured out the rest of his red wine into the gla.s.s.

They clinked gla.s.ses.

"Your health!" It was drained at a breath.

Then the csikos began. Leaning on his elbows he remarked,

"This is a fine large puszta, this Hortobagy, eh, comrade?"

"Truly it is!"