"JELLY" GETS IN ACTION
Nothing is more disconcerting than to make elaborate plans which provide for every mishap save the one which afterwards looks absolutely inevitable. Tony had been deeply concerned over the integrity of his actors, and concentrated all his energies upon keeping himself and his fellow-actors sober, quite overlooking the obvious result of a meeting between Palmer's men and the Meadowlark boys. Tony should have remembered that a feud had existed since early spring; better still, he should have taken it for granted that the Palmer gang had circulated enough falsehoods just lately to render them self-conscious and a bit too ready to defend themselves if a Meadowlark man but looked their way.
Tony, absorbed in playing his part, was forced to take a drink or two at the bar—along with the three other members of his amateur comedy company—before he could plausibly detach himself from his fellows and wabble over to the pool table where he stood grinning a silly grin and applauding Bat Johnson's mediocre game. Tony did not know it, but his eyes held an unfriendly, calculating gleam and they clung rather tenaciously to Bat; which was not exactly reassuring to a man with as much on his conscience as made Bat's slumbers uneasy and troubled with bad dreams. A man with that silly grin stretching his lips, while above the grin his eyes stare with a malevolent intentness, need wear no other sign to warn a sober man. Bat Johnson was not drunk.
"Y're a good man, Bat," Tony burbled, when Bat had reached up his cue and slid the last set of buttons toward the center. "W' played out y'r string, Bat—played out y'r string, ain't yuh?"
"What's that?" Bat whirled upon him. "What do you mean by that, you drunken four-flush?"
"Y'r a good—what'd you say? Four-flush? Me a four-flush—me?" Tony remembered to shake his head in drunken grief. "Bat, I—I never thought you'd shpeak t' me like that, I—"
"It ain't me that's played out my string," Bat told him viciously. "You wait till a few Meadowlark necks git twisted! A string er two's been played out there, my fine buckaroo. Folks is gittin' damn' tired of them birds. You're one of 'em and you've about warbled yore last song. Git outa my way b'fore I kill yuh!"
Even the best actors may forget their parts when the proper cue is not given. Had Bat been friendly, or even neutral, Tony would have swallowed his feelings and gone ahead with his original lines. But you simply can't confide your guilt to a man like that, no matter what vital issue is at stake.
Still, Tony was vastly surprised at himself for knocking Bat head first over the pool table, because not even two unaccustomed drinks of whisky could convince him that this was a diplomatic opening to the confidential talk he had planned to have with Bat. He wondered dully whether he had spoiled the whole thing, or whether Bat would forgive the blow on account of Tony's irresponsible condition, and still consent to listen to the story which Tony had so carefully prepared to pour out at the urge of a drunken impulse.
But then Bat picked himself up and came at him with a billiard cue, and Tony decided quite suddenly that what he really wanted—and the only thing he wanted—was to show Bat exactly where to head in at (quoting Tony). He snatched up a ball and laughed when he saw how it bounced off Bat's head, leaving Bat dazed and waving the cue vaguely until his head stopped spinning.
"Yeah—you better go git into yore boat and drift on down the river!" Tony chortled recklessly. "I don't reckon yuh had a billiard cue handy at the bank, did yuh? Had t' kill Charlie with yore gun. Think nobody's wise to you an' yore bunch, ay? Well, you and—"
A big, firm hand slipped over Tony's mouth and stopped him at that point, and the arm belonging to the hand seemed in a fair way of throttling him.
"You damn drunken fool," Bob hissed in his ear. "Think us boys all stayed sober jest fer the fun of seein' you drunk an' shootin' off yore mouth thataway?"
Jack Rosen jumped a card table and kicked over two chairs, but he landed on Bat Johnson in time to spoil his aim, so the shot went wild. Big Mark Hanley grabbed Tex and Ed White, a hand on each collar, and butted their heads together while he whooped his glee at the way things were going. Other men scattered when they saw these two clawing for their guns.
"Hey! I ain't got nobody t' lick!" wailed Tony, seeing how the other boys were occupied, the whisky beginning to boil angrily in his blood. "Where's Palmer?"
No one seemed to know, or if they did they gave no sign. They made way for Tony's headlong rush for the door, where he saw that Palmer was already riding out of sight up the street. For a moment he was tempted to follow him; but time would be lost while he saddled his horse, and Palmer would have a start that would make it difficult to overtake him if he wanted to hurry. Moreover, sounds in the saloon behind him indicated that at least two fights were progressing with much vigor. Tony turned back to the fray and let Palmer go.
Had he ridden a bit faster Palmer would probably have seen Delkin and his party cross the road and turn into the hills on their way back to town with the bank's money. As it was, he rode at his usual racking trot and so arrived home not long after Gelle had taken his prisoner to the house and locked him in a room off the kitchen, where he promptly went to sleep again.
"Dass way Blinkah, he always do, Mist' Meddalahk, when Boss he go awn to town. Gittin' old, he is. Yass, suh, Blinkah he do need a pow'ful lot a slumbah. Wha' foh yo'all want wif dat ole cuss, skusin' de question?"
"Hell, I don't want him," Gelle denied pensively. "All I want is another drink of that buttermilk, and mebby a bite of somethin' to eat, Snowball. It's Bud that wants the old man. He come leadin' him along to where it was shady and cool, and then he told me I had to go and set with him fer company. I don't want him atall. I'm jest keepin' cases till I find out what Bud's idee was of havin' me day-herd the old coot. He ain't done a thing but sleep ever since I went on guard."
Sam grinned, showing an amazing lot of teeth.
"Yessuh, Mist' Meddalahk, he sho' kin sleep when chance comes along. Boss, he make a great ole niggah-drivah down Souf—yessuh, he sho' would do so! Ain' much sleepin' when Boss is home; nothin' but wuhk fo' ole Blinkah 'n' me.
"Ah sho' admire to git yo'all somethin' to eat, if Boss, he doan' come ketch me. Lawsy, Mist' Meddalahk, ef Boss, he come ridin' along home, Ah'd sho' 'preciate it ef yo'all lock up ole Sam jes' lak Blinkah. An' ef Boss, he s'picions Ah never made no desistunce, Ah'd lak lil small cut, mebby, on mah haid to show. Boss, he's pow'ful s'picious man, Mist' Meddalahk, yessuh."
"Say, the boys call me Jelly. Don't be so darn formal, Snowball, or I'll likely give you a lump about the size of a goose egg to show. You set out the grub, and I'll mebby lock you up jest fer a josh. I dunno but what I like the idee."
Thus it happened that Gelle was sitting with his mouth full and his jaws working comfortably when Palmer rode up to the gate, leaned and unlatched it, sidled his horse through and closed the gate afterwards. Perhaps he noticed fresh horse tracks that were strange, though Gelle's horse stood tied in the bushes at the edge of the gully. Perhaps Palmer saw the imprint of Gelle's boots. Whatever the cause, he eyed the house as if he knew some danger lurked within—or perhaps he was merely estimating the amount of damage done to his shingles.
Gelle had not expected him back. He took up his glass of buttermilk and washed down the mouthful of bread and butter with one huge swallow, drew his hand hastily across his mouth and did a rapid mental calculation.
"Yo're my prisoner, Snowball," he said over his shoulder. "I might give you another dollar if you do a good job of playin' dead till I holler when. Go awn and take a nap with the old man while I talk to yore Boss."
From the yard a harsh voice called Sam, and after a minute's hesitation Gelle motioned him forward.
"Act natural, Snowball, or I'll spill you all over the room," he muttered.
"Boss, he's pow'ful mean man. He kill dis ole niggah—" Sam held up his two shaking hands, the palms pinkish as if he had worn off the color.
"Gwan—answer him! He ain't goin' to have a chance at yuh. I want t' git him inside, Snowball. Gwan."
Palmer shouted again, and Sam caught up a chipped yellow bowl and stood forth bravely enough, though Gelle, standing just out of sight behind the door, could see how his legs were shaking.
"Yessuh, Boss, yessuh." Sam ducked his head propitiatingly.
"Sam, who's been here to the house? No lies, you damn' worthless black whelp!"
"Heah? To dis house? Ah dunno zackly, Boss, Ah-h—" He took another breath and plunged. "Sho'ht time aftah yo'all rode off, Boss, man he comes lopin' along. Wants to speak wid yo'all, 'cawdin' to what he says. Ah says yo'all ain't heah an' 'tain't pawssible he kin speak wid yo'all. He hang eroun' awn his hawse, but he doan' shoot no gun, an' bimeby he ride awn off."
"Did, ay? Anybody you know?"
"No-suh, Boss, Ah doan' reckon Ah knows dat cowboy, nohow. But Ah notice, Boss, he's got Meddalahk brand on he's hawse—"
Palmer swore such fluent, heartfelt oaths that Gelle grinned and whispered to Sam that there was one thing old Palmer wasn't stingy with, and that was cuss words.
"Which way—here, come back here, you damn' lazy idiot, and tell me which way he went!"
"'Clah to goodness, Boss, Ah so plum tickled he's goin', Ah doan' rightly know! Awn up river som'ers, Boss." Sam rolled his eyes in terror, for Palmer was climbing down from his horse in the manner that promised blows delivered upon the first luckless object within reach.
"Scoot!" whispered Gelle, pointing toward the door of the small room beyond. Then remembering that the door was locked, he strode across on his toes, unlocked it and thrust Sam headfirst inside. He had just turned the key and faced the outside doorway when Palmer stepped in.
Surprise halted Palmer just an instant too long, for Gelle gave a long leap and landed a blow with his fist that rocked Palmer and brought both hands up and away from his gun, vaguely attempting to ward off another blow that landed full on the nose. Tears of pain started to Palmer's eyes, but he fought back viciously and shouted for Sam.
"The coon's locked up," Gelle told him between clenched teeth. "'Twouldn't help yuh none to have him here. Leggo that gun! Damn yuh, I could have shot yuh down like a dog if I'd wanted to!"
Before he had finished, Gelle was tempted to regret his fair dealing. They swayed the full length of the kitchen, locked in each other's arms. Palmer managed to get him by the throat and beat his head against the wall until points of light whirled before Gelle's eyes. He tore loose, filled his lungs with one great gasp and tripped Palmer, who pulled the table over on top of them as he went down, clawing like fighting cats. Gelle got the edge of a board in the ribs and felt a sickening crack and after that the flaming agony of a splintered rib prodding tender flesh, but he hung tenaciously with knees and fingers and managed to stay on top.
The fight ended when Gelle snatched up the heavy earthen pitcher that had held buttermilk and had come through the upheaval without a crack. He swung the pitcher aloft by the handle and brought it down on Palmer's head—breaking both. At least there was no doubt about the pitcher, and as for Palmer, he gave a convulsive shudder and went limp, and a cut on his head began to swell as the blood oozed out.
Gelle pulled himself up, grunting with the pain in his side, and looked down at the havoc he had wrought. He would have set the table back on its legs, but the effort was too painful, so he went staggering over to the bedroom door and unlocked Sam, bringing him out with an imperative, beckoning gesture, Palmer's gun in his hand. Sam came as if he were being kicked out, with his back bowed in and his fingers spread ready to ward off a blow.
"Get a rope or something to tie him up," Gelle ordered sharply. "I ain't goin' to hurt you, Snowball—not if you behave. That'll do. Pull his hands around behind him—no, he ain't dead. He'll come to after a while. Get a wiggle on."
"Yessuh, yessuh, Mist' Meddalahk."
"All right—fine. Now, jest drag him in there, will you, Snowball? And lock the door; or, no, jest drag him in there. The darn cuss might take a notion to die on my hands, and I want him alive; so you can keep an eye on him. When he comes to himself, I wanta talk to him."
"Yessuh, Mist' Meddalahk, yo'all sho' am a hahd man to git shet of bein' talked to!" Now that Palmer was safely tied, Sam could afford to take a full breath and to grin once more at his new friend. "When yo'all say you wanta talk wif a man, 'tain't no use to avoid de cawnvusashum—'tain't no mannah of use atall. Might as well make de bes' of it an' talk. Yessuh, Mist' Meddalahk, yo'all sho' am detumined!"
Gelle laughed, but that did not cause him to relax his watchfulness.
"What about the men that work here, Snowball? Purty good friends of yourn, ain't they?"
"Friends uh mine? Bat 'n' dat ah Mex, 'n' Ed friends uh mine? No, suh, Mist' Meddalahk, dey ain't no friends ob nobody but deyselfs. Dem fellahs, dey so plum mean an' awnery, dey jes' about hate deyselfs mos' awl de time. No, suh, Ah ain't got no friends—not on dis heah ranch, Ah ain'. Cusses an' kicks, dat 'bout awl Ah evah gits aroun' heah."
"Oh, all right. I just wondered, because if they come lopin' home, I'm liable to need more rope. Snowball—"
"Yessuh, yessuh, Ah gits moah rope direckly, Mist' Meddalahk. Lawsy, how dem fellahs do lie to dis heah ole niggah 'bout you gemman at de Meddalahk! Yessuh, dey sho' do lie!"
"Got anything to bandage a broken rib?"
Sam gave him a startled roll of eyeballs and hurried out. Gelle heard him clumping around overhead for a few minutes and wondered what he was up to. But when Sam came down he had a sheet, yellowed and smelling a bit musty; and over his arm was hung a coil of cotton clothes-line.
"Onlies' sheet in de house was up in de lof'. Big trunk awl wrop up wid dis heah rope. Mist' Meddalahk, suh, Ah mighty sorry yo'all done bruk a rib, kase mo' fightin' sho' is boun' t' come along when dem three gits heah, an' ole Sam, he ain' no good nohow."
"You can tie 'em up if I can get 'em into the house and pull down on 'em with my gun. Purty tame way to git 'em, but I guess it'll be best to play safe. How soon you reckon they're liable to come?"
But Sam, of course, did not know. All they could do was wait and hope for action before dark. There was, Gelle knew upon reflection, small chances that the three Palmer men would be left to ride unhindered out of Smoky Ford, once Delkin's party arrived. Palmer they had of course missed on the way, but unless his men left soon after he did, they would be captured and held in town until the sheriff could come and get them. It was just a bit of good luck that had sent Palmer into his hands.
And then, not more than half an hour after they had finished their preparations and time was beginning to drag, a scattered fusillade of shots came crackling thinly from the pasture, down near the ledge.
Gelle got up too carelessly and was obliged to sit down again, white and sweating. Sam was goggling at him as if in Gelle's face he could read the explanation of the sounds.
"Our boys chased 'em out, mebbe," Gelle muttered, speaking in that repressed tone which comes of not being able to take a deep breath. "Still—I dunno. Gee, I'd love to be down there! All I git outa this deal is sittin' around whilst the rest plays. Listen at 'em, Snowball! Darn the luck, anyway!"