“Strenuous!” repeated Mr. Masterson. “I should say as much! Cimarron was as ugly as a sore-head dog, and wanted everything he could think of from a sandwich to a six-shooter. I was never so worn to a frazzle. It was certainly,” concluded Mr. Masterson, replenishing his glass, “the most arduous rescue in which I ever took a hand; and we’d have never pulled it off if it hadn’t been for the Cochino Colorow. Here’s hoping he can square himself with that relative he robbed. She’s as sour as pig-nuts, and I don’t feel altogether easy about the Cochino Colorow. However, if the lady puts up too rough a deal, I told him he’d find a ready-made asylum here.”
[CHAPTER XIV—THE WORRIES OF MR. HOLIDAY]
It was growing dark in California Gulch. Red Jack, the barkeeper of the Four Flush saloon, began to light up one by one the kerosene lamps, so that the Four Flush might be made resplendent against the advent of its evening customers. Just then the customers were at flap-jacks and bacon, for it was supper time in California Gulch. Having rendered the Four Flush a blaze of expectant glory, Red Jack took a rag and mopped the bar, already painfully clean. Then he shifted the two six-shooters, which were part of the concealed furniture of the bar, so that vagrant drops from careless glasses might not bespatter them.
Commonly, Red Jack consoled himself by whistling the “Mocking Bird,” at this hour, when the stones of the Four Flush were grinding low. On this particular evening he was mute. Also his glance, when now and then he cast it upon Mr. Masterson and Mr. Holiday, who were engaged in whispered converse over a monte table just across the room, showed full of decorous interest.
Not that Red Jack objected to Mr. Masterson and Mr. Holiday holding a conference on the premises. It was plain by the respectful softness of his eye that he dwelt in sympathy therewith, and was only restrained from making a third for the pow-wow by an experience which taught him never to volunteer advice or put a question. Patronage and curiosity are crimes in the West, and ones sophisticated will not risk their commissions.
However, Red Jack might, without violating the canons of his tribe and region, relieve himself with one act of amiable politeness. While he could not have a share in the talk between Mr. Masterson and Mr. Holiday, wanting an invitation to join them therein, he was free to provide the inspiration. Wherefore Red Jack brought a bottle and two glasses, and set them between Mr. Masterson and Mr. Holiday. Having thus made himself one with them in spirit, Red Jack left the pair to themselves, and made the rounds of the lamps to turn down ones which in a primary exuberance had begun to smoke.
“It’s tough lines, Bat,” said Mr. Holiday, as he poured himself a drink. “I’ve never done anything worse than down a man, always a warrior at that, and now to have to rustle a party, even when it isn’t on the level, comes plenty hard.”
“But it’s the one thing to do, Doc,” returned Mr. Masterson. Mr. Holiday had been a dentist in his native Georgia, and his intimates called him Doc. “It’s the only trail,” reiterated Mr. Masterson. “The message says that they start to-day from Tucson. They’ll be in Denver day after to-morrow. The only way to beat them is to have you under arrest. Our Governor won’t give up a man to Arizona who’s wanted here at home. Those reward-hungry sports from Tucson will get turned down, and meanwhile you will be on bail. That Arizona outfit can never take you away while a charge is pending against you in Colorado. You’ll be safe for life.”
“That wouldn’t be for long,” returned Mr. Holiday, “at the rate my lungs are losing.”
Mr. Holiday was in the grasp of consumption, as one might tell by the sunken chest and hollow eye, even without the cough which was never long in coming. It was this malady of the lungs which had brought him West in the beginning.