CHAPTER XX—FIRE
Angel McCoy did not ride back to the JML with Langley that evening. He had a few drinks at the Red Arrow and decided to stay a while. Langley tried to argue him into going back to the ranch, but Angel was stubborn. Whiskey usually affected him that way, so Langley rode on alone.
Sorensen, Blackwell, and Weed were trying to spend the money they had drawn from Reimer, and with them Angel found congenial companionship. They were deliberately getting drunk. Angel was able to drink a lot of whiskey and still not show it in his actions, but his talk usually gave him away. He became rabid, devilish; an anarchist without a bomb. Even the other cowboys wished that Angel would hang up his gun before he began drinking.
“Where’s that sheriff?” he demanded, after the rest of the boys had grown goggle-eyed. “He’s the whipperwill I’m layin’ for.”
“What did Slim ever do to you?” asked the bartender.
“Hit me,” snarled Angel. His pale face looked yellow in the lamplight, like old ivory, and his eyes glistened.
“Hidju?” queried Boomer Weed. “Whaffor?”
“None of yore business!”
“Hidju hard?”
“I told yuh to shut up, didn’t I?”
“Didee, Dell? Didee tell me to shud’p?”
Dell Blackwell nodded solemnly.
“I heard’m menshun’t,” said Dell. “’S far’s that’s consherned, I trail m’ bets with Slim. F’r money, marbles, ’r chalk, he c’n whip yuh on a sheepskin, Angel.”
“He couldn’t whip me no time,” declared Angel.
“Le’s go fin’ him,” suggested Boomer. “Might’s well have more fight’n lesh talk. Whatcha shay, Angel? No, don’t make fashes at me, Angel. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! You’re shore, yuh pale-fashed card-sharp. Slim swiped yore girl.”
Angel flushed crimson and his hand streaked for his gun, but Blackwell was still sober enough to clinch with him and prevent him from drawing the gun.
“Let’m loosh,” coaxed Weed. “I c’n han’le him, Dell.”
“You ought to keep yore mouth shut,” said the bartender. “Don’t start no gun-battles in here.”
“Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!” roared Sorensen with a sudden excess of mirth. “Anchel vant somebody to holt him. He don’t try git loose.”
“You dam’ Swede!” snarled Angel impotently.
“Led him loose,” said Sorensen. “I squirsh him.”
“You fools calm down,” growled the bartender.
“This ain’t no place to start fights.”
“You hang onto yourself, Angel,” warned Dell. “Weed’s drunk. Don’t start no gun-play; sabe?”
Angel shook out his twisted sleeve, glaring at Weed, who laughed owlishly at him and offered to buy a drink.
“Damn you and yore drinks!” snapped Angel.
Chuck Ring came sauntering in, and Boomer immediately got hold of his belt.
“C’mon and have a drink, Chuck. I jus’ had a battle with Angel. He says he’s goin’ to crawl Slim Caldwell.”
“Thasso?” Chuck looked curiously at Angel, who stood apart from them, glaring at Boomer.
“What you got ag’in’ old Slim, McCoy?” asked Ring.
“That’s my business.”
“Yea-a-ah? And yuh aim to git him, eh?”
“Well?” defiantly.
“Not so dam’ well,” said Chuck dryly. “You monkey with Slim and you’ll think the seat of yore pants got caught in the door of a volcano. Lemme tell yuh a few things, Angel. You start anythin’ round here and they’ll take you up on a broom. You’re a bad actor in yore own mind. You may be able to hang the Injun-sign on old Rance McCoy, but to us, you’re just another dirty shirt that needs doin’ up. Yuh play a crooked game, pardner—and that lets yuh out. Now, yuh better trot along home and forget all that talk about ‘gettin’’ Slim Caldwell. I know why yuh hate Slim. Everybody in town knows it, Lila as well, and it won’t do yuh no good with her. If I was in yore boots, I’d cut me a straight trail out of this country and not leave a single blaze.”
Angel’s face was colorless now, even to his lips, which were a white line across his white face, and his eyes were half-closed, twitching at the outer corners. But he made no move to resent what Chuck had said. Angel was fast with a gun, but he knew Chuck was as fast. And there were three more guns to account to—not counting the one behind the bar, in easy reach of the bartender.
For at least ten seconds he stood there immovable, before he stepped up to the bar a few feet away from Weed, and asked for whiskey. There was nothing of the craven about Angel. He drank alone, keeping one hand on the bottle.
“Don’t be a fool,” cautioned the bartender.
“I’m payin’ for what I get,” replied Angel evenly.
“Embalmin’ his guts,” said Blackwell. “Lotsa folks have to do that to keep their nerve.”
But Angel did not even look toward Blackwell. As far as appearances went, he might have been an entire stranger enjoying a few drinks alone. But Chuck watched him. He knew Angel was steeping his soul in liquor, either trying to deaden the sting of what Chuck had said or to brew a fresh devil in his mind.
Chuck had no mean capacity himself, but he was human enough to get drunk in a reasonable length of time. He counted Angel’s drinks in the next half-hour, and the total was twelve. Twelve drinks of raw whiskey on top of what he had already taken.
And all the effect it had was to cause Angel’s lips to draw back in a sneering grin, as he looked at himself in the back-bar mirror. Nor did his hand tremble as he filled the twelfth glass to the top.
Then he walked steadily to the door, where he turned and looked coldly at the group in front of the bar. All except Chuck were owl-eyed with liquor. Chuck watched him closely, anxiously. But all Angel did was to throw back his head and laugh hollowly at them, as though defying them to harm him in any way. Then he stepped outside and went up the street.
Chuck surged away from the bar, swearing softly, and went to the front door, where he saw Angel go down the street, walking as straight as though he had not taken a drink. He stopped in front of Parker’s store, where he seemed to be looking through the window, after which he turned and came back to the Eagle hitch-rack, where he mounted his horse and rode out of town, heading toward the JML ranch.
Chuck sighed with relief as he saw Angel ride away. He did not want trouble with Angel, but he realized that it would be inevitable if Angel stayed in Red Arrow. Blackwell, Sorensen, and Weed were past even the humorous stage now; so Chuck deposited them in convenient chairs, where they might slumber until closing time.
“Where’d Angel go, Chuck?” asked the bartender.
“Home.”
“That’s good. He’s the craziest puncher I ever knew. But can’t he pack liquor! Mister man, he’s the hollowest human I ever knowed. Have a drink, Chuck?”
“I hope to die if I do. One more drink and the dignity of my office is all shot to hell. Good-night.”
Chuck went back to the office, where Scotty was playing solitaire, and told Scotty about Angel.
“I wouldn’t tr-rust him as far as I could throw a fr-reight wagon,” declared Scotty, shoving the cards aside. “He has the same glint in his eye that ye see in the eye of an outlaw cayuse. Now, where do ye suppose Slim and the two boys have gone, Chuck?”
“Slim didn’t know,” laughed Chuck. “He follows Hashknife around like a good old pup, with Sleepy trailin’ both of ’em. But Hashknife’s no fool.”
“Not a bit o’ one,” agreed Scotty earnestly. “I’d hate to be in Kid Glover’s boots when that tall cowpuncher meets up with him. Didja ever study the length of Hartley, takin’ account of the way his muscles work? They’re long, like the muscles in a snake. But he’s——”
From far up the street came a wailing cry. It was repeated several times before Chuck and Scotty reached the door. It was a woman’s voice they heard, crying—
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”
“Fire!” snorted Chuck, stepping out on the sidewalk. There were people running from Parker’s store, and more from other places of business. Chuck and Scotty ran up the street and crossed over to the crowd. The woman was Mrs. Parker.
“It’s the Parker home!” yelled one of the men.
“Get some buckets!”
Chuck raced back to the office, where he secured a large bucket and an axe. As he came through the doorway, Hashknife, Sleepy, Slim, and their two prisoners rode up to the front of the office.
“Parker’s house is on fire!” yelled Chuck, paying no attention to the prisoners, as he raced up the street.
“I’ll hold ’em,” said Sleepy. “Go ahead.”
Hashknife and Slim threw the lead-ropes to Sleepy, and went galloping toward the Parker home, passing the scattered crowd and jerking to a stop at the gate, where they dismounted and ran toward the house.
As yet the fire was confined to the front of the house, but blazing merrily. The door was open and the flames were billowing out, fanned by a breeze from the rear. The crowd came piling in, knocking down the picket-fence.
They headed for the well at the rear of the house, led by Jim Parker. Slim grabbed him by the arm, forcing him to stop.
“Where’s Lila?” demanded Slim.
“God knows!” panted Parker. “She was at home alone. My wife was at the store, and when she came home the house was on fire.”
Slim and Hashknife ran to the back door, dashing through the smoke and found the stairway. Slim pushed Hashknife aside and leaped up the stairs. Hashknife managed to close the door between the hall and the living-room, but not until he had caught a fairly good view of the blazing interior. He caught a glimpse of the center-table, lying on its side, and almost in the center of the room on the floor was the big lamp, which usually sat on the table.
Almost before Hashknife had closed the door, fighting against the smoke-fumes, Slim was staggering down the stair. Together they stumbled out of the house and into the cool night air, where they panted like a pair of Marathon runners. Men were running back and forth from the well, tossing ineffectual buckets of water through the windows, while others shouted advice, which nobody heeded.
“She’s not up there,” panted Slim. “I was in every room.”
Everybody in Red Arrow was there, it seemed, and the word had been passed that Lila was in the house. Mrs. Parker was crying, Jim Parker swearing.
Hashknife drew Parker aside.
“Any idea how it happened, Parker?”
“Hell, no!”
“Lila ain’t in there. Me and Slim searched.”
“Thank God for that, Hartley!”
Parker ran back to tell the women. The house was doomed, and everybody seemed to realize it. Hashknife and Slim drew back nearer the fence when the flames shot through the roof with a crackle like a machine gun. Chuck, sweating, his shirt on fire in several places, came to them.
“Whatsa use?” he asked. “Yuh can’t do a thing, Slim.”
“Not a thing, Chuck. How did it get started?”
“Nobody knows. Ain’t she a dinger of a fire, though? Look at her blaze!”
Dell Blackwell and Boomer Weed, still half-drunk, joined them. They had tried to carry buckets of water, but neither of them could find the well after the first trip.
“What became of Angel?” asked Slim.
“He went home,” said Chuck. “I shore told him where to head in at, didn’t I?”
“If I remember right, yuh did,” agreed Blackwell dryly.
“How long ago did he go home?” asked Slim quickly.
“Fifteen or twenty minutes ago,” replied Chuck. “Mebby it was a little longer, but I don’t think so.”
“C’mon, Hashknife!” snapped Slim. “You, too, Chuck! Never mind the fire—c’mon!”
Slim led them back at a brisk trot. Scotty saw them going away, and followed after.
“What’s the matter?” asked Chuck.
“Don’t ask me now,” replied Slim. “Wait and see.”