Curly Part 14

Michael just stared at him.

The people who had no interest in the trouble must have seen drawn guns before now, because I heard them breaking rapid for cover. The scrub which belonged to Ryan was formed up behind him for war, while back of Balshannon stood only Jim and Curly with the whole rear part of the room behind them empty. The two youngsters seemed to be having baby troubles, for Curly was struggling powerful to break away from Jim.

"I got to," he shouted, "I cayn't see to shoot!" Then he jumped clear.

He had disremembered about being a cripple, he had torn the bandage away from his eye, and over the left brow, clear for all men to see, was his brand, the knife wound! At that a yell went up from Ryan's crowd, and some of his men surged forward, Louisiana and Low-Lived Joe in the lead.

I jumped straight at them with my brace of guns.

"Back!" shouted Ryan, holding them back with both arms. "Back! What's your hurry? Wait!"

"Come on!" came Curly's clear high yell. "Two thousand dollars daid or alive if you take me! I'm a sure wolf, and it's my night to howl, you cowards! I'm Curly McCalmont of the Robbers' Roost! Take me who can!"

Curly had gone plumb crazy, throwing his life away to get Balshannon one more chance of escape, but the crooks only saw that the small boy's team of guns were quick in his hands to shoot, and felt real glad of Ryan's outstretched arms. So came the lull, and I heard the bar-keep clas.h.i.+ng down bottle and gla.s.s beside Balshannon.

"Whisky," says he in a shaky voice, "and yours, Mr. Ryan?"

"Irish," said Ryan, then whispered to his son, who hauled clumsy, getting out his silver-plated pop-shooter, a thing more fit for a girl than a grown man.

I like to think of my old patrone in those last moments of his life, as he stood at the end of the bar, quiet peaceful, facing Ryan. He was a tall, straight man, gaunt some, dead weary, but the only clean thing in sight. The grey moustache raked up against the red tan of his face, his hair was curling silver, his eyes cool blue. He seemed to be amused with the Ryans, and as to weapons, he just despised a gun. Then he heard the clash of his son's spurs just behind him. "Good-bye," I heard him whisper. "G.o.d bless you, Jim."

I reckon Jim was crying.

Ryan had swung forward along the bar, and reached for Balshannon's empty gla.s.s. "Here, take your drink," he shouted, "the drink you begged for!"

Balshannon stepped aside while Ryan filled the gla.s.s for him to drink.

"Thank you," he said. But Ryan s.n.a.t.c.hed the full gla.s.s, jumped back, swung out his arm--"Take that!" he yelled, and threw the gla.s.s straight at Balshannon's face.

The patrone took a handkerchief and wiped his face, slow and dainty, but the blood was starting where the gla.s.s had struck. "I'm sorry," he said, "that it should come to this, but as you are not in condition, Mr. Ryan, to fight, I must ask you, Mr. Michael Ryan, to oblige me."

"Fight?" yelled Ryan. "Fight a thing like you? Not much! Back, Michael!

My Lord Balshannon," he sneered, "do you think my son would demean himself to fight you?"

"I observe," said Balshannon kindly, "that he seems to be rather warm in that fur overcoat."

The crowd broke out laughing, half ready, I felt then to take the weaker side against a coward. The patrone was so surely great, so much a man, so helpless--death in his eyes, peace on his smiling lips; and the Ryans in furs and jewellery looked such curs.

I had stepped back against the wall, facing the middle of the bar. On the right was the Ryan gang, on the left Balshannon, behind me the row of windows which looked on the alley-way where my men lay hid. I rapped soft with my knuckles on the window just at my right hand.

"Say, Chalkeye!" Louisiana was hailing me. "Why don't you stand by the Dook? Have you gone back on the Dook?"

"I stand here, Pete," said I, "to see fair play."

Then Ryan broke in on me.

"Boys," he said, "we don't need Chalkeye Davies to judge our play. You know me, all of you; you know my record, and what I've done for our city. I've not asked you here, citizens, to see murder, or fighting of any sort, but to witness an act of justice done by this Lord Balshannon on himself."

The crowd kept still, remembering that our leading citizen had acted straight for our city, and had a right to be heard.

"Now you shall judge as citizens," said Ryan, "between this man and me.

For a thousand years my people, the Ryans, had land and homes in Oireland, until the Balshannons came over with b.l.o.o.d.y Cromwell to steal our little holdings by force of ar-r-ms. We were overpowered, we were forced to pay rent to the tyrants, but we were free men, not slaves; we are free men to-day, and we have fought for liberty.

"Look at this last Balshannon, this man who once tried to get me hung on a false charge, this cowardly, brutal ruffian, who drove me and all my people out of our homes to die in the bitter cold. Think of our women starving to death in the snow-drifts--and, if you doubt me, go and ask me wife. We were driven, she and I, and all our people, out of the land we loved, out of Erin, beggared, hopeless, despairing exiles. Out on the black Atlantic we had to bury one of my little children in the sea--there stands the murderer! Do you blame me, citizens, for wanting vengeance?"

"Dook," says the Alabama Kid, "suppose we hear your side?"

"You'll hear my side," says Lord Balshannon, "from Ryan. This is his court--of--er--justice." Then he wiped the running blood from his cheek, and yawned behind his hand. Even Ryan's men began to look ashamed of such a court.

"Vengeance!" Ryan was howling; "vengeance with the Apaches first--I turned them loose on your camp! Vengeance with McCalmont's robbers--I turned them loose on your ranche!"

Balshannon swung half round and grasped Curly McCalmont's hand. We saw his back shaking with laughter, but when he faced Ryan again he straightened his lips. "Excuse me," he said, "go on."

But the crowd remembered how McCalmont's wolves had breakfasted with Ryan after that little dinner at Holy Cross. They howled with laughter.

"You may laugh!" yelled Ryan; "laugh, you hounds!" but Balshannon lifted his hand, and the crowd were silent.

"Yes, I failed," said Ryan. "I had to wait--I waited--but what I couldn't do you did for yourself; yes, you, Balshannon, drinking and gambling here while your forsaken wife lay dying yonder! I had only to find a few friends to lend you me money, and sharpers to be after rooking you of all you borrowed. Yes, that was me vengeance; can you say that failed? Where is your big estate? Where are your cattle? Where is your wife?"

Balshannon's face had gone dead with pain, but he never flinched.

"And now," Ryan shouted at him, "you beggared gambler, you broken, shaking drunkard, you shall finish this vengeance on yourself, which you began, which needs no hand of mine! Here!" He ran forward, and jammed a long knife into Balshannon's hand. "Finis.h.!.+ Kill yourself, and have done, for shure an' you're not fit to live, ye filthy beast!"

Balshannon was reeling, faint, sick, clinging to the bar for support.

"Boys," I shouted, "if Ryan's a man, let him fight. Stand aside, give him room, give him a gun. Patrone, take this gun!" I jumped to his side, jammed one of my revolvers into his hand, then leapt back to my place by the wall. Ryan's tin-horn pets had deserted him; even his son, scared to death, had slunk away.

"Help!" Ryan was screaming. "Murther!" But a gun was thrust into his hand, and his own hired thugs shoved him forward to fight Balshannon.

"When I call 'Three!'" I shouted, and saw Balshannon stand like a man, cool, steady.

"One, two, three!"

Ryan fired and missed before my second call, but at the "Three"

Balshannon's gun blazed out. I saw a little black hole between Ryan's eyes, and he fell forward all in a heap, stone dead.

I reckon that for years I'd been heaps virtuous keeping my quick gun off Balshannon's meat, so now I was full of joy because the patrone had finished up all the unpleasantness and made peace without loss or damage. No grown responsible man had any quarrel left.

But then my youngsters weren't grown up a bit, nor responsible, nor anything else, but rattled with a gun-fight too rich for their blood.

Curly was scared all to pieces, Jim was right off his head, and as to my three kids outside the window, they had no sense anyways at their best. I ought to have thought of that before; it was too late now.

What matter if young Michael eased his feelings by empting off his toy at the patrone? His pellets chipped the ceiling, and did him credit for a pious son, but only got a laugh from Balshannon. Michael just went on popping ostentatious, so Balshannon showed he bore no malice by throwing his own gun on the bar. Then somebody called out for drinks as a sign of peace.

But Jim only saw his father being attacked, and he surely never had a sense of humour. He turned his wolf-howl loose, and broke his gun-arm free from Curly's hold, then started splas.h.i.+ng lead at Michael Ryan. I saw some fur fly off from the Jew coat, and the next shot dispersed young Michael's hat, but the third struck Low-Lived Joe on the shoulder.

Then there was surely war, for Louisiana loved that Joe more than anything else on earth, and all his friends lashed out their guns. Curly knelt quick below the blast of lead, and Jim leapt sudden behind the end of the bar, but in a blaze of flame and rolling smoke I saw Balshannon clutch both hands to his heart, then swing half round and fall.

It must have been then that poor Curly fired the two shots which killed Louisiana and Beef Jones, the horse thief. It must have been then that the window close beside me fell with a crash of gla.s.s upon the floor, and my three men, all masked, with guns and rifles poured red-hot slaughter into the Ryan crowd. That was bad, but I felt grateful then, while one by one I shot out the swinging lamps which lit the smoke.

There were five, making so many shades of deeper gloom, and then dead blackness pierced by flaming guns, and at the end of that silence, with a patter of running feet, the groan of a dying man.