The Fugitive (28 page)

Still, too much had been contained in that sentence of Speedy; there had to be an accounting or the taking of water would be suddenly shifted to Slade Bennett. Therefore he demanded in a harsh voice: “What d'you mean by calling me a fool, Speedy?”

“Calling you a fool? I didn't call you a fool, Slade,” said Speedy gently. “I wouldn't do that. I said don't be a fool. There's a good deal of difference, isn't there?”

His smile was so calm, and his eyes, withal, so very steady, that the other men in the room began to shift their position a little. No two of them recognized the name that Bennett had given to the stranger, but everyone was able to see that this was a man of mark; otherwise, Bennett would have crushed him to the floor and gone after his first victim.

“I don't see much difference,” said Bennett, “but I don't mind hearing you try to explain.”

“Certainly I like to explain,” said Speedy cheerfully. “It's like this, Slade. Are you listening?”

“Yeah . . . what else would I be doing?” growled Bennett, taking as much ground as this formidable opponent allowed to him.

“Why,” said Speedy, “you didn't know that fellow was John Wilson, did you?”

“He might be John Smith, for all I know,” said Bennett. “He's a yellow dog, is all that I know about him.”

Speedy shook his handsome head. “Oh, you're wrong, Slade,” he said. “You're dead wrong. I'd rather sit in the electric chair than face a John Wilson when that cold, white look comes over 'em. That's when they kill, and I've never known a man fast enough and straight enough with a gun to hold 'em off. His father was the same way.”

“You're joking, Speedy. This is one of your tricks,” said Slade Bennett. “Didn't I see the dirty cur sneak out of the place?”

“You saw him go to get a gun,” Speedy advised, smiling steadily. “That's all you saw him do.”

“If he's a man, he'd wear a gun,” declared the other.

“Why, he wore a gun too often,” said Speedy. “I hear that he's had to swear to his father that he won't wear a gun. He uses it too well, I understand.”

“The mischief he does,” said Bennett. “If ever I saw a scared kid, he's the one, just now.”

“That's the Wilson look. I don't know how many men before you have gone wrong about it. A lot of 'em, Bennett,” said Speedy. “A lot of people have taken the white look of a Wilson for a look of fear. And a lot of people have died, I understand, Bennett. That's why I called out to you when I saw the look on his face. I didn't want you to go wrong. That wouldn't exactly do . . . seeing that you're an old acquaintance of mine.”

“I'm trying to believe you, Speedy,” said the other, plainly troubled.

“I know him. I'm a friend of his,” Speedy said confidently. “And I'll try to go and steer him in a new direction, away from you. Otherwise, he'll be back here in a few minutes and the saints help your unlucky soul, Bennett.”

“Is that so?” said Bennett, rearing his head again, although his color was not so bright as it had been the moment before. “If he's a friend of yours, Speedy, you tell him that right here is where he can find me, and that I stand by what I said.”

Speedy sighed. “Well, Slade, I've warned you,” he said.

“Cut out the warnings,” said Slade Bennett. “Everybody up to the bar.”

“Not for me, thanks,” answered Speedy. “I'm going to get hold of him and see what I can do. It'll be a hard job, but I'll try my best for you, Slade.” And he departed, hastily through the side door of the saloon.

“Who's that?” asked some one of Bennett, who stared at the still swinging door.

“That?” answered Bennett, rousing himself from a trance. “Oh, that's a streak of poison and greased lightning, that's all it is.” And he turned for his drink.

 

Speedy went for the hotel with all the speed that he could make. He felt that his hands were more than filled, because he had a double task before him—the problem of Oliver Fenton was enough, but the problem of John Wilson was equally big and difficult.

When he reached the hotel, he found that Wilson, as he expected, had already gone to his room. He got the number and was instantly at the door, rapping.

After a moment a heavy voice asked who was there.

“Speedy,” answered the youth. “I've got to see you.”

“I can't see anyone,” Wilson said drearily.

“I've got to talk to you,” insisted Speedy.

“I'm seeing no one,” answered Wilson.

“Wilson, let me in for half a moment, will you?”

There was no answer. Speedy, balked by this unexpected opposition for a moment, paced catlike up and down the hall. Then he drew a short length of fine steel spring from a pocket and leaned over the lock of the door. Only for a minute or so did he work with this odd tool, and then there was a faint grinding sound as the rusted bolt turned in the lock and the door fell open before him.

John Wilson had not heard the sound. He lay face-down on his bed, his head in his arms and his hands, bent backward, clutching at his hair. Beside him was his revolver, and Speedy, as he closed the door softly behind him, shuddered a little at the sight of the gun. He knew well what it meant.

Now, shadow-like, he crossed the room, picked up the weapon, and fondled it for a moment with his too-familiar hands. It disappeared presently inside his coat; at the same time, he touched the shoulder of the boy, saying: “Well, Wilson, we can talk it over. Will you do that?”

John Wilson came wildly to his feet and glared savagely down at the smaller man. Then he glanced at the closed door. “How did you get in?” he asked. “That doesn't matter. You can do miracles, everyone says. You can read minds. You can tell fortunes. But you don't have to be a prophet to see that I've ruined my life today. I've shown yellow. I've taken water. I'm a cur that every man can kick out of the street.” His own agony bent his head far back and silenced him.

“You left the saloon to get a gun,” said Speedy. “You come out of a dangerous fighting family. I'm your friend. I knew that you didn't have a gun with you, because you can't trust yourself with one. The fighting spirit comes out in you with too much of a rush, and you can't control it. So I hurried over to the hotel to try to stop you from going back to the saloon and killing Slade Bennett.”

The young man stared. “What are you saying, Speedy?” he demanded.

“I'm telling you the truth.”

“And they don't see clearly that I'm a worthless cur?”

“No, they don't see that, because it wouldn't be true.”

“I could feel my face was frozen. They saw the white of it. They must have seen that.”

“They saw the Wilson look, which I told them about afterward. The Wilsons all turn white when they're ready to kill. Just the same some Irishmen cry when they're ready to murder you.”

“You mean to say that they believed you?” murmured Wilson. “They don't think that I'm a dog?”

“Listen to me. Did anybody in the place laugh or taunt you when you left the saloon?”

“No. That's true. I've been wondering about that. I thought they were all too sick with the feeling of my shame.”

“No, they were sure that trouble was in the air, and that you'd left the saloon meaning to come back.”

“But I can't go back,” Wilson insisted.

The face of Speedy puckered a little. “Not now, perhaps,” he said. “But you're going back later on.”

“I can't go,” said Wilson. “Look!” He held out both hands, and Speedy saw that they were trembling. Every nerve seemed to be twitching, making those big, powerful hands as helpless as a child's. “I'm like that all through,” declared Wilson. “I'm shaking all through. I'm hollow inside. I'm not a man. I never was a man. I'm only a rotten shell that looks like the real article.” He changed his gesture, and suddenly pointed at Speedy. “You saw straight through me the first time,” he said.

“I saw that you carried your head so high because you weren't sure of yourself. That was all,” said Speedy. “And I saw that you had a lot of strength that you wouldn't trust.”

Wilson sank down on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands. “You're wrong,” he said. “I'm no good. That's the truth about it.”

“They're waiting for you in the saloon,” said Speedy. “Now, you start in and try to pull yourself together, will you?”

“Let them wait,” groaned Wilson. “I'm going to sneak out of town while they're still waiting.”

“Very well,” said Speedy, “I'll write a note saying that I've managed to stop you for the time being and advising Slade Bennett to get out of town. You understand? I'll send that note over to Haggerty's Saloon. Then I'll come back up here and talk to you again.”

The young man made no answer, and Speedy, with a sigh and a shake of the head, hurried from the room and down the stairs. In the lobby he scribbled:

 

Dear Slade:

This fiend, Wilson, is still in a white fury. He wants the carving of your heart, and I'm afraid that he'll have it, if you don't give him room. You can slide out of this, and nobody will have it against you. I've persuaded him not to go over at once. That's all I can do. Before long, he's likely to break away from me. There's no handling him when his temper gets the best of him. And if he gets at you, Slade, he's a dead shot and sure poison.

Yours,
Speedy

He folded that paper and shoved it into an envelope. Then he gave it to the rusty-headed boy to carry to the saloon, with a quarter for the errand. “Take that to Haggerty's and give it to Slade Bennett,” he said. “There's no answer to wait for. Just put it in his hand, and then slide out.”

Speedy then went back up the stairs to the room of John Wilson, to find that the man had not altered his position. He closed and locked the door. “Wilson,” he said, “you've talked and thought yourself into a panic. You started running, and you ran backward, instead of ahead. That's all that's wrong with you. You came out West to prove yourself a man, or die trying. And you've still got your chance to fight . . . to win or go down.”

Wilson jerked up his head. A twisted, tormented grin was on his face. His voice was changed as he said: “I came out here to try to make myself a man. There's nothing inside me that is worth the making, though. Not a thing. I'm hollow. I always was hollow. I am just a big bluff. I've always been a bluff, too.”

“I don't believe it,” said Speedy. “A man can't live as long as you have without being called, sooner or later.”

“You don't understand,” said John Wilson. “When I was a youngster, I was years in one school. Right after I got there, a boy tried me out, challenged me to fight. I had to do it. I stood like a stone, sick. He rushed in at me. I threw out my hand at his head. We clinched, and he lost his footing. We fell, with me on top, and, as we dropped, my elbow struck his head. He lay stunned. It was an hour before he came to. And all the boys standing around thought that it was my one blow that had knocked him out. He was so dazed, that, when he came to, he accepted what they all were saying. From that moment, everybody was afraid of me. I was supposed to have a terrible power in my arms. None of the boys would fight me, and, as long as I was in the school, I was considered a lion. I never dared to play football, for fear they'd find out that I was yellow. I never dared to box, because that would give me away. But I knew all the while that I was a cur.

“Then I went to college. But college boys don't come to fisticuffs very often. A lot of the students from my own school were there before me, and they'd spread the reputation of my terrible strength and my dangerous punch. I wouldn't turn out for any of the athletic teams . . . only crew. There was no physical competition, no physical contact in that. I did pretty well. I pretended that I wasn't interested in anything else, although I was perishing to get into football togs.

“That's my history down to today. Finally I've been called. And you see what happened. I thought that if I came out here into the wild West, to a rough mining camp, I'd be thrown into a corner, and then I'd have to fight my way out, but, when the pinch came, I simply lay down like a yellow dog.”

“How did the trouble start between you and Slade Bennett?” asked Speedy.

“I don't know. My mind's a haze. All I could see was the gloating in his eyes as I broke down before him. I couldn't even face his eyes, to say nothing of his gun. I came back here to kill myself . . . and I didn't have the courage for that.”

“You have the nerve to row through a four-mile race,” said Speedy. “That's a form of courage.”

“But I can't face an angry man,” said the other. “I never could. I'm . . . a dirty coward, Speedy.”

“You've thought about yourself for years,” said Speedy. “You've worked up an idea about yourself and the idea's stronger than the fact. I'll tell you one thing.”

“What is it?”

“You listen to me, and you've got to believe me.”

“I'll listen to you, Speedy,” Wilson said grimly. “No man in the world but you could listen to me like this without turning sick. What is it?”

“This is what you're going to do. You're going to wait here till I get word about Bennett. It may be that my bluff has worked, and that he's clearing out. If not, you're going back to the saloon and face him. Here's a knock at the door, now. Maybe that's our answer.”

 

At the door, when he opened it, Speedy found the rusty-haired boy of the hotel. He had a letter that he shoved into Speedy's hand.

“I dunno what you wrote to Slade Bennett,” said the boy, “but it certainly heated him up a lot.”