THE BACK-FIRE
When Ben Blair left the Baker home he went back to his room at the hotel, closed and locked the door, and, throwing off coat and hat, stretched himself full-length upon the floor, gazing up at the ceiling but seeing nothing. It had been a hard fight for self-control there on the prairie the day Florence rejected him, but it was as nothing to the tumult that now raged in his brain. Then, despite his pain, hope had remained. Now hope was lost, and in its place stood a maddening might-have-been. Under the compulsion of his will, the white flood of anger had passed, but it only made more difficult the solution of the problem confronting him. Under the influence of passion the situation would have been a mere physical proposition; but with opportunity to think, another's wishes and another's rights—those of the woman he loved—challenged him at every turn.
At first it seemed that a removal of his physical presence, a going away never to return, was adequate solution of the difficulty; but he soon realized that it was not. Deeper than his own love was his desire for the happiness of the girl he had known from childhood. Had he been certain that she would be happy with the man who had fascinated her, he could have conquered self, could have returned to his prairies, his cattle, his work, and have concealed his hurt. But it was impossible for him to believe she would be happy. Without volition on his part he had become an actor in this drama, this comedy, this tragedy,—whatever it might prove to be; and he felt that it would be an act of cowardice upon his part to leave before the play was ended. He was not in the least religious in the sense of creed and dogma. In all his life he had scarcely given a thought to religion. His knowledge of the Almighty by name had been largely confined to that of a word to conjure with in mastering an obstreperous bronco; but, in the broad sense of personal cleanliness and individual duty, he was religious to the core. He would not shirk a responsibility, and a responsibility faced him now.
Hour after hour he lay prone while his active brain suggested one course after another, all, upon consideration, proving inadequate. Gradually out of the chaos one fundamental fact became distinct in his mind. He must know more of this man Clarence Sidwell before he could leave the city, and this decision brought him to his feet. Under the circumstances, a strategist might have employed others to gather surreptitiously the information desired; but such was not the nature of Benjamin Blair. One thing he had learned in dealing with his fellows, which was that the most effective way to secure the thing one wished was to go direct to the man who had it to give. In this case Sidwell was the man. With a grim smile Ben remembered the invitation and the address he had received the first night he was in town. He would avail himself of both.
Night had fallen long ere this; when Ben arose the room was in darkness, save for the reflected light which came through the heavily curtained windows from the street lamps. He turned on an electric bulb and made a hasty toilet. In doing so his eye fell upon the two big revolvers within the drawer of the dresser; and the same impulse that had caused him to bring them into this land of civilization made him thrust them into his hip pockets. It was more habit than anything else, just as a man with a dog friend feels vaguely uncomfortable unless his pet is with him. Blair had the vigorously recurring appetite of a healthy animal, and it suddenly occurred to him that he had not yet dined. Descending to the street, he sought a café and ate a hearty meal.
A half-hour later, the elevator boy of the Metropolitan Block, where Sidwell had his quarters, was surprised, on answering the indicator, to find a young man in an abnormally broad hat and flannel shirt awaiting him. The youth was of vivid imagination, and knowing that a Wild West troupe was performing in town, one glance at Ben's hat, his suspicions became certainty.
"Eleventh floor," he announced, when the passenger had told his destination; then as the car moved upward he gathered courage and looked the rancher fair in the eye.
"Say, Mister," he ventured, "give me a pass to the show, will you?"
For an instant Ben looked blank; then he understood, and his hand sought his trousers' pocket. "Sorry," he explained, "but I don't happen to have any with me. Will this do instead?" and he produced a half-dollar.
The boy brought the car deftly to a stop within a half-inch of the level of the desired floor. "Thank you. Mr. Sidwell—straight ahead, and turn to the left down the short hall," he said obligingly.
Blair stepped out, saying, "Don't fail to be around to-morrow when I do my stunt."
With open-mouthed admiration the boy watched the frontiersman's long free stride—a movement that struck the floor with the springiness of a cat, very different from the flat-footed jar of pedestrians on paved streets.
"I won't!" he called after him. "I'd rather see't than a dozen ball-games! I'll look for you, Mister!"
At the interrupting tap upon the door, Sidwell voiced a languid "Come in," and merely shifted in his seat; but his big companion, with the hospitality of inebriation, had returned his glass unsteadily to the table and arisen. He had taken a couple of uncertain steps, as if to open the door, when, in answer to the summons, Ben Blair stepped inside. Hough halted with a suddenness which all but cost him his equilibrium. The expansive smile upon his face vanished, and he stared as though the bottomless pit had opened at his feet. For a fraction of a minute not one of the three men spoke or stirred, but in that time the steady blue eyes of the countryman took in the details of the scene—the luxurious furnishings, the condition of the two men—with the rapidity and minuteness of a sensitized plate. Ironic chance had chosen an unpropitious night for his call. Intoxication surrounding a bar, under the stimulus of numbers, and preceding or following some exciting event, he could understand, could, perhaps, condone; but this solitary dissipation, drunkenness for its own sake, was something new to him. The observing eyes fastened themselves upon the host's face.
"In response to your invitation," he said evenly, "I've called."
Sidwell roused himself. His face flushed. Despite the liquor in his brain, he felt the inauspicious chance of the meeting.
"Glad you did," he said, with an attempt at ease. "Deucedly glad. I don't know of anyone in the world I'd rather see. Just speaking of you, weren't we?" he said, appealing to Hough. "By the way, Mr.—er—Blair, shake hands with Mr. Hough, Mr. Winston Hough. Mighty good fellow, Hough, but a bit melancholy. Needs cheering up a bit now and then. Needed it badly to-night—almost cried for it, in fact"; and the speaker smiled convivially.
Hough extended his hand with elaborate formality. "Delighted to meet you," he managed to articulate.
"Thank you," returned the other shortly.
Sidwell meanwhile was bringing a third chair and glass. "Come over, gentlemen," he invited, "and we'll celebrate this, the proudest moment of my life. You drink, of course, Mr. Blair?"
Ben did not stir. "Thank you, but I never drink," he said.
"What!" Sidwell smiled sceptically. "A cattle-man, and not refresh yourself with good liquor? You refute all the precedents! Come over and take something!"
Ben only looked at him steadily. "I repeat, I never drink," he said conclusively.
Sidwell sat down, and Hough followed his lead.
"All right, all right! Have a cigar, then. At least you smoke?"
"Yes," assented Blair, "I smoke—sometimes."
The host extended the box hospitably. "Help yourself. They're good ones, I'll answer for that. I import them myself."
Ben took a step forward, but his hands were still in his pockets. "Mr. Sidwell," he said, "we may as well save time and try to understand each other. In some ways I am a bit like an Indian. I never smoke except with a friend, and I am not sure you are a friend of mine. To be candid with you, I believe you are not."
Hough stirred in his chair, but Sidwell remained impassive save that the convivial smile vanished.
A quarter of a minute passed. Once the host took up his glass as if to drink, but put it down untasted. At last he indicated the vacant chair.
"Won't you be seated?" he invited.
Ben sat down.
"You say," continued Sidwell, "that I am not your friend. The statement and your actions carry the implication that of necessity, then, we must be enemies."
The speaker was sparring for time. His brain was not yet normal, but it was clearing rapidly. He saw this was no ordinary man he had to deal with, no ordinary circumstance; and his plan of campaign was unevolved.
"I fail to see why," he continued.
"Do you?" said Ben, quietly.
Sidwell lit a cigar nonchalantly and smoked for a moment in silence.
"Yes," he reiterated. "I fail to see why. To have made you an enemy implies that I have done you an injury, and I recall no way in which I could have offended you."
Ben indicated Hough with a nod of his head. "Do you wish a third party to hear what we have to say?" he inquired.
Sidwell looked at the questioner narrowly. Deep in his heart he was thankful that they two were not alone. He did not like the look in the countryman's blue eyes.
"Mr. Hough," he said with dignity, "is a friend of mine. If either of you must leave the room, most assuredly it will not be he." His eyes returned to those of the visitor, held there with an effort. "By the bye," he challenged, "what is it we have to say, anyway? So far as I can see, there's no point where we touch."
Ben returned the gaze steadily. "Absolutely none?" he asked.
"Absolutely none." Sidwell spoke with an air of finality.
The countryman leaned a bit forward and rested his elbow upon his knee, his chin upon his hand.
"Suppose I suggest a point then: Miss Florence Baker."
Sidwell stiffened with exaggerated dignity. "I never discuss my relations with a lady, even with a friend. I should be less apt to do so in speaking with a stranger."
The lids of Ben's eyes tightened just a shade. "Then I'll have to ask you to make an exception to the rule," he said slowly.
"In that case," Sidwell responded quickly, "I'll refuse."
For a moment silence fell. Through the open window came the ceaseless drone of the shifting multitude on the street below.
"Nevertheless, I insist," said Ben, calmly.
Sidwell's face flushed, although he was quite sober now. "And I must still refuse," he said, rising. "Moreover, I must request that you leave the room. You forget that you are in my home!"
Ben arose calmly and walked to the door through which he had entered. The key was in the lock, and turning it he put it in his pocket. Still without haste he returned to his seat.
"That this is your home, and that you were its dictator before I came and will be after I leave, I do not contest," he said; "but temporarily the place has changed hands. I do not think you were quite in earnest when you refused to talk with me."
For answer, Sidwell jerked a cord beside the table. A bell rang vigorously in the rear of the apartments, and the big negro hurried into the room.
"Alec," directed the master, "call a policeman at once! At once—do you hear?"
"Yes, sah," and the servant started to obey; but the visitor's eye caught his.
"Alec," said Ben, steadily, "don't do that! I'll be the first person to leave this room!"
Instantly Sidwell was on his feet, his face convulsed with passion. "Curse you!" he cried. "You'll pay for this! I'll teach you what it means to hold up a man in his own house!" He turned to his servant with a look that made the latter recoil. "I want you to understand that when I give an order I mean it. Go!"
Blair was likewise on his feet, his long body stretched to its full height, his blue eyes fastened upon the face of the panic-stricken darky.
"Alec," he repeated evenly, "you heard what I said." Without a motion save of his head he indicated a seat in the corner of the room. "Sit down!"
Sidwell took a step forward, his clenched fists raised menacingly.
"Blair! you—you—"
"Yes."
"You—"
"Certainly, I—"
That was all. It was not a lengthy conversation, or a brilliant one, but it was adequate. Face to face, the two men stood looking in each other's eyes, each taking his opponent's measure. Hough had also risen; he expected bloodshed; but not once did Blair stir as much as an eyelid, and after that first step Sidwell also halted. Beneath his supercilious caste dominance he was a physical coward, and at the supreme test he weakened. The flood of anger passed as swiftly as it had come, leaving him impotent. He stood for a moment, and then the clenched fist dropped to his side.
For the first time, Ben Blair moved. Unemotionally as before, his nod indicated the chair in the corner.
"Sit over there as long as I stay, Alec," he directed; and the negro responded with the alacrity of a well-trained dog.
Ben turned to the big man. "And you, too, Hough. My business has nothing to do with you, but it may be well to have a witness. Be seated, please."
Hough obeyed in silence. Sober as Sidwell now, his mind grasped the situation, and in spite of himself he felt his sympathy going out to this masterful plainsman.
Ben Blair now turned to the host, and as he did so his wiry figure underwent a transformation that lived long in the spectators' minds. With his old characteristic motion, his hands went into his trousers' pockets, his chest expanded, his great chin lifted until, looking down, his eyes were half closed.
"You, Mr. Sidwell," he said, "can stand or sit, as you please; but one thing I warn you not to do—don't lie to me. We're in the home of lies just now, but it can't help you. Your face says you are used to having your own way, right or wrong. Now you'll know the reverse. So long as you speak the truth, I won't hurt you, no matter what you say. If you don't, and believe in God, you'd best make your peace with Him. Do you doubt that?"
One glance only Sidwell raised to the towering face, and his eyes fell. Every trace of fight, of effrontery, had left him, and he dropped weakly into his chair.
"No, I don't doubt you," he said.
Ben likewise sat down, but his eyes were inexorable.
"First of all, then," he went on, "you will admit you were mistaken when you said there was no point where we touched?"
"Yes, I was mistaken."
"And you were not serious when you refused to talk with me?"
A spasm of repugnance shot over the host's dark face. He heard the labored breathing of the negro in the corner, and felt the eyes of his big friend upon him.
"Yes, I was not serious," he admitted slowly.
Ben's long legs crossed, his hands closed on the chair-arms.
"Very well, then," he said. "Tell me what there is between you and Miss Baker."
Sidwell lit a cigar, though the hand that held the match trembled.
"Everything, I hope," he said. "I intend marrying her."
The ranchman's face gave no sign at the confession.
"You have asked her, have you?"
"No. Your coming prevented. I should otherwise have done so to-day."
The long fingers on the chair-arms tightened until they grew white.
"You knew why I came to town, did you not?"
"I had an intuition," he admitted reluctantly.
Again silence fell, and the subdued roar of the city came to their ears.
"You have not called at the Baker home to-day," continued Blair. "Was it consideration for me that kept you away?" The thin, weather-browned face grew, if possible, more clean-cut. "Remember to talk straight."
Sidwell took the cigar from his lips. An exultation he could not quite repress flooded him. His eyes met the other's fair.
"No," he said, "it was anything but consideration for you. I knew she was going to refuse you."
In the corner the negro's eyes widened. Even Hough held his breath; but not a muscle of Ben Blair's body stirred.
"You say you knew," he said evenly. "How did you know?"
Sidwell flicked the ash from his cigar steadily. He was regaining, if not his courage, at least some of his presence of mind. This seeming desperado from the West was a being upon whom reason was not altogether wasted.
"I knew because her mother told me—about all there was to tell, I guess—of your relations before Florence came here. I knew if she refused you then she would be more apt to do so now."
Still the figure in brown was that of a statue.
"She told you—what—you say?"
Sidwell shifted uncomfortably. He saw breakers ahead.
"The—main reason at least," he modified.
"Which was—" insistently.
Sidwell hesitated, his new-found confidence vanishing like the smoke from his cigar. But there was no escape.
"The reason, she said, was because you were—minus a pedigree."
The last words dropped like a bomb in the midst of the room. Ben Blair swiftly rose from his seat. The negro's eyes rolled around in search of some place of concealment. With a protesting movement Hough was on his feet.
"Gentlemen!" he implored. "Gentlemen!"
But the intervention was unnecessary. Ben Blair had settled back in his seat. Once more his hands were on the chair-arms.
"Do you," he insinuated gently, "consider the reason she gave an adequate one? Do you consider that it had any rightful place in the discussion?"
The question, seemingly simple, was hard to answer. An affirmative trembled on the city man's tongue. He realized it was his opportunity for a crushing rejoinder. But cold blue eyes were upon him and the meaning of their light was only too clear.
"I can understand the lady's point of view," he said evasively.
Ben Blair leaned forward, the great muscles of his jaw and temples tightening beneath the skin.
"I did not ask for the lady's point of view," he admonished, "I asked for your own."
Again Sidwell felt his opportunity, but physical cowardice intervened. No power on earth could have made him say "yes" when the other looked at him like that.
"No," he lied, "I do not see that it should make the slightest difference."
"On your honor, you swear you do not?"
Sidwell repeated the statement, and sealed it with his honor.
Ben Blair relaxed, and Hough mopped his brow with a sigh of relief. Even Sidwell felt the respite, but it was short-lived.
"I think," Ben resumed, "that what you've just said and sworn to gives the lie to your original statement that you have given me no cause for enmity. According to your own showing you are the one existing obstacle between Florence Baker and myself. Is it not so?"
Like a condemned criminal, Sidwell felt the noose tightening.
"I can't deny it," he admitted.
For some seconds Ben Blair looked at him with an expression almost menacing. When he again spoke the first trace of passion was in his voice.
"Such being the case, Clarence Sidwell," he went on, "caring for Florence Baker as I do, and knowing you as I do, why in God's name should I leave you, coward, in possession of the dearest thing to me in the world?" For an instant the voice paused, the protruding lower jaw advanced until it became a positive disfigurement. "Tell me why I should sacrifice my own happiness for yours. I have had enough of this word-play. Speak!"
In every human life there is at some time a supreme moment, a tragic climax of events; and Sidwell realized that for him this moment had arrived. Moreover, it had found him helpless and unprepared. Artificial to the bone, he was fundamentally disqualified to meet such an emergency; for artifice or subterfuge would not serve him now. One hasty glance into that relentless face caused him to turn his own away. Long ago, in the West, he had once seen a rustler hung by a posse of ranchers. The inexorable expression he remembered on the surrounding faces was mirrored in Ben Blair's. His brain whirled; he could not think. His hand passed aimlessly over his face; he started to speak, but his voice failed him.
Ben Blair shifted forward in his seat. The long sinewy fingers gripped the chair like a panther ready to spring.
"I am listening," he admonished.
Sidwell felt the air of the room grow stifling. A big clock was ticking on the wall, and it seemed to him the second-beats were minutes apart. His downcast eyes just caught the shape of the hands opposite him, and in fancy he felt them already tightening upon his throat. Like a drowning man, scenes in his past life swarmed through his brain. He saw his mother, his sisters, at home in the old family mansion; his friends at the club, chatting, laughing, drinking, smoking. In an impersonal sort of way he wondered how they would feel, what they would say, when they heard. On the vision swept. It was Florence Baker he saw now—Florence, all in fleecy white; the girl and himself were on the broad veranda of the Baker home. They were not alone. Another figure—yes, this same menacing figure now so near—was on the walk below them, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, but leaving. Florence was speaking; a smile was upon her lips.
Like a flash of lightning the images of fancy passed, the present returned. At last came the solution once before suggested,—the back-fire! Sidwell straightened, every nerve in his body tense. He spoke—and scarcely recognized his own voice.
"There is a reason," he said, "a very adequate reason, one which concerns another more than it does us." With a supreme effort of will the man met the blue eyes of his opponent squarely. "It is because Florence Baker loves me and doesn't love you. Because she would never forgive you, never, if you did—what you think of doing now."
For an instant the listening figure remained tense, and it seemed to Sidwell that his own pulse ceased beating; then the long sinewy body collapsed as under a physical blow.
"God!" said a low voice. "I forgot!"
Not one of the three spectators stirred or spoke. Like sheep, they awaited the lead of their master.
And it came full soon. Stiffly, clumsily, still in silence, Ben Blair arose. His face was drawn and old, his step was slow and halting. Like one walking in his sleep, he made his way to the door, took the key from his pocket, and turned the lock. Not once did he speak or glance back. The door closed softly, and he was gone.
Behind him for a second there was silence, inactive incredulity as at a miracle performed; then, in a blaze of long repressed fury, Sidwell stood beside the table. Not pausing for a glass, he raised the red decanter to his lips and drank, drank, as though the liquor were water.
"Curse him! I'll marry that girl now if for no other reason than to get even with him. If it's the last act of my life, I swear I'll marry her!"