Acres of Unrest (13 page)

The great Mike Jarvin did not often descend upon the world. In the days of his prime, when his waistline was slighter, and his gun hand faster, Jarvin frequently showed himself abroad in the company of strangers. There was this great advantage. In the first place, he would thus find himself among strange faces, and, above all, his reputation could be shielded behind an assumed name. In the second place, even when men resented him in those days, they were not so apt to express their resentment with guns.

Times had changed sadly. With profound melancholy great Mike Jarvin regarded the world upon which he looked down from his fastness of the mine. There, seated among a rebellious garrison, he kept his fort, as one might have said, against the constant assaults of fear. It was like sailing a rotten ship through a sea filled with reefs. Jarvin had seen the waters lapping upon the stones so often that he was almost grown accustomed to the pale face of peril. When he looked forth and wondered where he could go to seek diversion among strangers, and so escape from the more constant and almost more terrible dangers at the mine, he was in a quandary.

He had once been slim enough to pass almost anywhere and melt easily into a crowd. But there
was now a certain dimension of his jowls and a certain fullness of his waist that called too much attention his way. No sooner did he show his face than men were apt to say: “There’s Mike Jarvin.”

After that, there was sure to be a reaching for guns, to make sure—each of them—that he was properly heeled for the approaching event. One would have thought that honest Mike was in the habit of taking money from others like a bandit, at the point of a Colt, whereas, as a matter of fact, he always used well-oiled, soundless, and painless methods at the gaming table. It made Mike sigh and shake his head, when he thought of the viciousness with which other men regarded him. He almost wished that he could open his heart to them and let them see how many virtues were harbored therein.

However, on this day he was filled with a new hope. To his buckboard there were attached two strong-shouldered, gauntbellied mustangs, capable of unrolling 100 miles behind them in the course of the day, and yet be fresh enough to kick the hat off a man’s head at nightfall. With these powerful animals, he proposed to cruise farther afield than usual.

As a rule, he had never dared to get farther away from the home port than a single hot ride, at full speed, would carry him—unless he had the Buttricks along, like a company of soldiers. But even with the Buttricks, there was a distinct limit to the distance over which he could cruise. The mine was comparative safety for him. The rest of the world was filled, as one might say, with dangerous, cruising sharks and submarines, all aware of the past of Mike Jarvin, all ready to tear him to pieces or to swallow him whole.

But now he was filled with a new confidence. The Buttrick boys had been famous and gallant fighters, to be sure. But they were not like Soapy and the cripple. For many and many a month, he would really have preferred the single hand of Soapy to guard him, rather than the troublesome Buttricks. But he had not dared to approach the mulatto. He knew that Soapy’s hatred for him was of a well-ripened variety and that nothing in this wide world could be so thoroughly pleasing to Soapy as to have a chance to fasten silently his thick fingers in the throat of his master.

Now, however, there was found for Soapy a master whose influence possessed such a mysterious strength that Soapy could actually be kept in hand. It amazed Jarvin and delighted him to his heart’s core. Here was he, Mike Jarvin, reasonably capable as a fighting man, but preferring that his enemies should come at him one by one. Behind him now stood the strange form of the cripple who was not a cripple—the wise, calm, terrible strength of Peter Hale. Behind Peter Hale there was a ravenous beast, a mad man, one who breathed terrible danger as another breathed the freshest and the purest mountain air. They made a powerful triangle. Was it any wonder, then, that he thought that he might safely venture down into the rich lowlands for another piratical cruise?

From those lumber camps, those distant mines, those swarming towns, those populous cattle ranges, and those teeming farms along the river bottoms—from each of these sources there was a steady current of wealth flowing forth. To be sure, in these days of much banking, the rivers of wealth were apt to flow invisibly. But, after all, wise men
were usually able to detect the presence of the invisible streams and sink a well to tap them. Men no longer carried about with them a great amount of gold dust or large sheafs of treasury promises to pay. On the other hand, they could sign I.O.U.s for much fatter amounts, and their courage was the greater in the dealing with high sums, just as their resources were the greater behind them.

This was the way in which Mike Jarvin looked upon the fattening world beneath him, rubbed his hands together, and smiled, so that his eyes disappeared.

“Ah, well,” he said, “who can tell? By night, we may be in a part of the country where they’ve never seen me before.”

Jarvin proposed to cut straight across the domain of his mine to the purple hills against the horizon. On the farther side of those hills, he would have a chance to drop down among new men. There, perhaps, he could perform enough interesting exploits to warm his heart for something to come—enough rascality to let him chew the cud of evil joys in the deadly quiet of the mine.

If danger should suddenly rear its head against him, he had gathered to his side the two most formidable men that he had ever encountered in all of his busy life—so much of which had been spent in rubbing elbows with expert fighters of one brand or another. The mustangs, he knew, would see them safely to the conclusion of their journey—in a single sweeping march. But they were not to be trusted alone. Besides the mustangs, there was Soapy’s long-striding, patient, untiring mule. And there was Jarvin’s own pet horse, of powerful build, yet fleet enough to stand off most challengers on
the road. Besides these resources, they had the giant form of Larribee to carry their fighting ace, their Peter Hale, into the teeth of danger and out again.

On the whole, Mr. Jarvin was contented. He spent some moments carefully looking over the luggage that had been prepared. When that was all arranged to his complete satisfaction, he added one little item that happened to be an old traveling companion and favorite of his.

“I may be queer,” Jarvin said to Peter. “I may be sort of old-fashioned and out of date, complete. I see some of the boys have even took to the wearing of these automatic pistols that you just pull the trigger of them, and they sluice out a half dozen bullets as slick and as neat as you please. Well, Pete, they may have all of their newfangled contraptions, but I tell you that I’m exceeding partial to this here sort of an old gat. It ain’t fast, and it ain’t long distance, and it ain’t very accurate. But satisfying? I’ll say it’s satisfying! With this here same gun, I got into the way of a bunch of cattle raiders that was heading back to Mexico. I didn’t aim to interfere with them. I didn’t know them. I didn’t want to know them. But when I turned the corner of the trail, there I was, and there they was. They just had one thought…that I’d been sent out to stop them. Before you could wink, there was a gun glittering in the sunshine, and there was a pair of bullets humming past my ears. Well, it was sort of an emergency, you might say. I fetched up this here old pal of mine. I didn’t have no time for aiming. They was just getting the right and proper range of me, and they was about to erase my face. Pete, as you might say. I hitched this here old
friend up above my knee, and I tipped the muzzles of her…and I pulled one trigger…and then, without looking, I just pulled the other. Son, it was a crime the way them slugs had spread. A minute before, there was all of them bold, bad cattle raiders heading for Mexico. And the next minute, here was the same bold, bad, cattle raiders all lying in the dust, some on their faces and some on their backs, and some praying wonderful fast, and some cussing wonderful loud, and all of them hound for a hotter place than Mexico. From that day to this, I’ve always made a point of carrying the old gun along with me. Even if drunk, you ain’t helpless, if you got her handy.

“Hop in, Soapy. You’re gonna drive. And I’ll sit here beside you and watch your pretty face.”

The mustangs jerked the buckboard steadily along. Before they had dropped into a walk, they had spun out the long leagues that lay between them and the northern hills. When these hills rolled from blue haze into brown reality, and, when the road was winding up the steeper grades, Peter Hale was indescribably weary. He was tired of the racking in the springless seat of the buckboard, tired even of sitting on the smoothly gaited stallion. Most of all he was disgusted with life itself, which had tied him to two such companions.

For it had not been a dull trip to Mike Jarvin. He only made sure that Peter was not looking at him from behind, and then he produced a capacious whiskey bottle. It was filled with moonshine, colorless as water, and terrible as gunpowder. It passed from him to Soapy and back again all of that long, dusty day, and, although he knew well enough that the mulatto would have enjoyed nothing more than a chance to wring his neck, still, with Peter in the background, it was safe to make a boon companion of Soapy.

Mr. Jarvin reached a state of reeling hilarity when the hills were reached. He was bellowing forth noisy songs while the mustangs toiled upward, but, when they reached the crest of the rise, honest Mike pulled himself suddenly together with a great effort.
Soapy, as sober as though alcohol had not passed his lips on that day, sent the horses onward at a smooth trot, while the buckboard jolted and rattled over the bumps on the downward way. Presently his hat off, and a tin cupful of water poured over his head, Mike allowed the cooling breeze of the sunset to blow through his hair until his wits cleared.

His singing ended, and his red eye brightened and cleared, as he stared down upon the valley beneath him. It was plain that he was laying his plans rapidly. The sunset reddened, darkened, and then through the evening shadows they could mark two groups of twinkling lights, one to the left and one to the right. To the town upon the right they steered their course.

It seemed that instinct had guided the fat man aright. Even before they reached the bridge across the little river, Jarvin knew that he was right. For there were other vehicles journeying toward the town. Carts and buggies whirled along past the tired mustangs, and gay voices floated back to the journeyers. When they crossed the bridge over the creek, they could hear the widespread bellowing of hundreds of cattle.

Lawson Creek was celebrating its fair. The streets were lighted; every window showed a lamp, and an unusual activity stirred up the dust of the winding lanes. At the hotel, one room was vacant. It was enough—a little corner room with a single cot in it, but some extra blankets could be rolled down on the floor for the second and the third members of the party. So Soapy shouldered the baggage and carried the entire mass of it up the narrow stairs at a single journey. Peter, negotiating the stairway dexterously, saw that all possible arrangements were made for
their comfort, but fat Mike Jarvin was concerned a greater matter than this. His first act was to open the window, not for the sake of more fresh air, but to scan the slope the roof beneath them. It descended fairly close to the ground, and Mr. Jarvin asked the advice of Peter soberly.

“Could a gent jump to the ground, yonder, without busting his leg?”

“Yes,” answered Peter.

“All right,” said Jarvin. “We want a place like that. A lot better than a front room with thirty feet between you and a hard street. I tell you what, Pete, when you get ready for fun, there’s nothing like having the way clear for your retreat, eh? That’s generalship, Pete, ain’t it?”

Peter said nothing, but it was not necessary to give an answer.

Jarvin continued: “The hosses is fagged out, Soapy. Go spot a good tough span of mustangs somewhere. Trade in my pair and get the others. A hundred dollars ought to be boot enough. Then you get those new mustangs sized up and have the buckboard ready. And see that the saddles are on the three horses. Maybe we’ll have to start away from here sudden and fast. If we got the time, we’ll go in the buckboard, but, if we ain’t got the time, we’ll travel in the saddle. Y’understand? You be ready at that end with the life line. Pete and me is gonna be busy.”

Afterward, while they ate dinner, the satisfaction of Mr. Jarvin increased by leaps and bounds. There was a swirl of noise and excitement and tobacco smoke around them. Somewhere in the distance, Soapy was finding a meal to his own satisfaction and seeing to the exchange of the horses. It left Peter and Jarvin alone, and the latter unburdened his heart freely.

“When I hear folks talking like this and joking and scraping chairs and hollering and laughing, it makes me feel pretty good, Pete.”

“You like to see people happy, eh?” asked Peter, raising his brows a little, for this was a touch of humanity such as he would never have guessed in the other before.

“Happy? The devil, yes,” replied honest Mike. “Because when I hear that noise, it sounds to me just like the rattling of money. Their change is loose in their pockets, and they’re getting ready to get rid of it. Why, when that time comes, they don’t have to ask anybody to hold out a sack to catch what drops. Old Mike Jarvin will be there to rake in the coin. Old Mike Jarvin will be there, ready to take what they got to spare. That’s the kind of a burden that I love to take off of the shoulders of other folks, Pete.” He laughed and rolled a little from side to side, so complete was his joy. “There’s something fat coming in now. There’s one of them chaps that’s known as ‘good’ boys, Pete. Handsome, quiet, discreet-looking. But you lay to it, that there’s just as much of the devil tied up inside of him as there is inside of any man. Some of the neatest hauls that I ever made in my life was made from just such quiet boys as that. Sure, he’s important, too. He’s the son of somebody. Look at the two old gents get up to shake hands with him. Look at the way that they slap him on the shoulder. Why, son, that’s a sign that he’s too big for them to trim, and that’s why they admire him so much. Now, Pete, I’d like to get that fish on my hook. Because the amount of coin that I’d get out of him would surprise you a lot. A whole lot, old son.” He grinned again.

Peter, not realizing why Mike had indulged in
this elaborate description, ventured a glance over his shoulder. Then he knew—for he saw the fine, clear eye and the handsome face of none other than Charles Hale. He turned his head hastily back, and shuddered a little. Peeling that he had hardened himself against the opinion of the world, he had tried to tell himself that it all made no difference, and that he would go on his way, regardless of the manner in which others might look upon him. But now he shrank as from a whip at the thought of meeting Charlie and talking with him, hearing the hurrying questions and answering them with—what lies?

He would have to tell the truth, and a gloomy truth that would be. While he was brooding over this so deeply, he heard little of what his companion was saying in the interim. Finally he did hear Jarvin ask: “Now, Pete, did you ever take a hand in a little game of poker?”

“In a crooked game, do you mean?” asked Peter.

“It’s a lot better to call it an arranged game, Pete. But I ain’t the man to dodge facts. Crooked you can call it, if you want to.”

Peter raised his fine head and smiled. “I think that you’re joking, Mike.”

Jarvin regarded him an instant and blinked. “Sure, I’m joking.” And he turned his talk to other channels.

The arrangement was not difficult, after all. Peter was not to be asked to offer protection, except against the most imminent destruction. In that case, he would come to the rescue—but not otherwise. He would not have to sit at the table. All that would be required would be that Peter take his place somewhere in the room where his patron started
gambling. Then he could keep an eye upon the events as they passed. Only in case of a crisis would he be asked to give help.

It was a bitter pill, but Peter saw that he would have to swallow it. After all, it was rather a nice point as to whether protecting a thief was not as bad as thievery itself. Peter tried to tell himself that, in the final outcome of the business, he could say that the thing in which he was interested was not in the knavery of the fat man or in any of his acts of sharp practice, but merely in the preservation of Jarvin from danger. Consoling himself as well as he could with that thought, he prayed that there would be no need for his intervention.

There were a dozen places where game’s were running that night. The cattlemen and the miners, flushed with money, staked high. In the room where Jarvin selected a chair at a corner table—with a great, gaping window conveniently behind him—there was already a bustling crowd when they entered.

The chairs, presently, would not hold a third of the people who wanted to play. A shifting crowd began to pass back and forth, pausing to stare at the play, and then shift on. Behind that screen stood Peter, propped between his crutches and the wall, his steel-braced legs holding him up without effort on his part. Between the heads and over the shoulders of the others, he could look down and watch the progress of Jarvin’s campaign.