Trailin'! Part 37

"How'd he get away with it?"

"The Saverack was between us. Before I could get my gun out he was riding out of range. I'll meet him and have another talk some day."

"Well, the range ain't very small."

"But my dear fellow, it's not nearly as big as my certainty of meeting this--cur."

There is something in a low, slow voice more thrilling than the thunder of actual rage. Those who heard glanced to one another with thoughtful eyes. They were thinking of Nash, and thinking of him with sympathy.

Little Duffy, squat and thick-set, felt inspiration descend on him. He turned to Bard on his left.

"That ain't a full-size forty-five, is it--that one you're packin'?"

"Doesn't it look it?" answered Bard.

"Nope. Holster seems pretty small to me."

"It's the usual gun, I'm sure," said Bard, and pulled the weapon from the leather.

Holding the b.u.t.t loosely, his trigger finger hooked clear around the far side of the guard, he showed the gun.

"I was wrong," nodded Duffy unabashed, "that's the regular kind. Let's have a look at it."

And he stretched out his hand. No one would ever have guessed how closely the table followed what now happened, for each man began talking in a voice even louder than before. It was as if they sought to cover the stratagem of Duffy with their noise.

"There's nothing unusual about the gun," said Bard, "but I'd be glad to let you have it except that I've formed a habit of never letting a six-shooter get away from me. It's a foolish habit, I know, but I can't lose it. If there's any part you'd like to see, just name it."

"Thanks," answered Duffy. "I guess I've seen all I want of it."

Calamity had failed; Duffy had failed. It began to look as if force of downright numbers must settle the affair.

CHAPTER XXVIII

SALLY BREAKS A MIRROR

As Sally had remarked the night before, one does not pay much attention to a toilet when one rises at 5 a.m. At least that is the rule, but Sally, turning out with a groan in the chill, dark room, shut off the alarm, lighted her lamp, and set about the serious task of dressing. A woman, after all, is much like a diplomatic statesman; a hint along certain lines is more to her than a sworn statement.

She had secured a large mirror, and in front of this she laboured patiently for a full ten minutes, twisting her hair this way and that, and using the comb and brush vigorously. Now and then, as she worked, she became aware that a fluff of hair rolling down low over her forehead did amazing things to her face and brought her from Sally Fortune into the strange dignity of a "lady." But she could not complete any of the manoeuvres, no matter how promisingly they started. In the end she dashed a handful of hairpins on the floor and wound the hair about her head with a few swift turns.

She studied the sullen, boyish visage which looked back at her. After all, she would be unmercifully joked if she were to appear with her hair grown suddenly fluffy and womanly--it would become impossible for her to run the eating-place without the a.s.sistance of a man, and a fighting man at that. So what was the use? She threw the mirror cras.h.i.+ng on the floor; it splintered in a thousand pieces.

"After all," she murmured aloud, "do I want to be a woman?"

The sullen mouth undoubtedly answered "No"; the wistful eyes undoubtedly replied in another key. She shrugged the question away and stepped out of her room toward the kitchen, whistling a tune to raise her spirits.

"Late, Sally," said the cook, tossing another hot cake on the growing pile which surmounted the warmer.

"Sure; I busted my mirror," said Sally.

The cook stared at her in such astonishment that he allowed a quant.i.ty of dough to fall from the dish cupped in the hollow of his arm; it overflowed the griddle-iron.

"Blockhead!" shouted Sally. "Watch your step!"

She resumed, when the dough had been rescued by somewhat questionable means: "D'you think a girl can dress in the dark?"

But the cook had had too much experience with his employer to press what seemed a tender point. He confined his attention to the pancakes.

"There ain't no fool worse than a he-fool," continued Sally bitterly.

"Which maybe you think a girl can dress without a mirror?"

Since this taunt brought no response from her victim, she went on into the eating-room. It was already filling, and the duties of her strenuous day began.

They continued without interruption hour after hour, for the popularity of her restaurant had driven all compet.i.tion out of Eldara, a result which filled the pocket-book and fattened the bank account of Sally Fortune, but loaded unnumbered burdens onto her strong shoulders. For she could not hire a waiter to take her place; every man who came into the eating-room expected to be served by the slim hands of Sally herself, and he expected also some trifling repartee which would make him pay his bill with a grin.

The repartee dragged with Sally to-day, almost to sullenness, and when she began to grow weary in the early afternoon, there was no reserve strength on which she could fall back. She suddenly became aware that she wanted support, aid, comfort. Finally she spilled a great armful of "empties" down on the long drain-board of the sink, turned to the wall, and buried her face in her hands. The cook, Bert, though he cast a startled glance at her would not have dared to speak, after that encounter of the morning, but a rather explosive sniff was too eloquent an appeal to his manliness.

His left sleeve having fallen, he rolled it back, tied the strings of the ap.r.o.n tighter about his plump middle, and advanced to the battle.

His hand touched the shoulder of the girl.

"Sally!"

"Shut your face!" moaned a stifled voice.

But he took his courage between his teeth and persisted.

"Sally, somethin' is wrong."

"Nothin' you can right, Fatty," said the same woe-stricken voice.

"Sally, if somebody's been gettin' fresh with you--"

Her arms jerked down; she whirled and faced him with clenched fists; her eyes s.h.i.+ning more brightly for the mist which was in them.

"Fresh with me? Why, you poor, one-horned yearling, d'you think there's anybody in Eldara man enough to get fresh with me?"

Bert retreated a step; caution was a moving element in his nature. From a vantage point behind a table, however, he ventured: "Then what is wrong?"

Her woe, apparently, was greater than her wrath.

She said sadly: "I dunno, Bert. I ain't the man I used to be--I mean, the woman."

He waited, his small eyes gentle. What woman can altogether resist sympathy, even from a fat man and a cook? Not even the redoubtable soul of a Sally.

She confessed: "I feel sort of hollow and gone--around the stomach, Fatty."