“I’ve seen something myself,” he went on, evidently mindful of Johnson’s observation. “I’ve seen better men than Injuns stampede on less than rattlesnakes–and cover a heap more ground in a lot less shorter time. What I’m talkin’ about is skunks,” he explained, to nobody in particular–“hydrophoby skunks–their bite. Why,” he continued, warming to his subject and seemingly ignorant of its myths, “I once seen a man ride into San Mercial with his face that white it wouldn’t ’a’ showed a chalk mark! And he was holdin’ up his thumb like it was pizen–which it was! And he was cuttin’ for old Doc Struthers that fast his cayuse was sparkin’ out of his ears. Bit by a hydrophoby skunk–yes, sirree. Got to the Doc’s just in time, too! But he allus was lucky–the Doc! Money jest rolled into that party all the time. But some folks don’t jest quite make it–horses gives out, or something. And if they ain’t got the sand to shoot the finger off–”
A sudden shadow across the window checked him. He quietly reached for his gun. Also, Johnson lifted quick eyes to the window. And now Jim turned his head. Directly Glover rose to his feet; Johnson got up off his stool; Jim flung to the door. A moment they stood tense. Then Jim moved cautiously to the window. He gazed outside. As he did so his features relaxed. Presently he returned to the table.
“That horse,” he explained, eyes twinkling.
The others returned to their places. All were visibly relieved. But Glover did not go on with his yarn. Lighting his pipe again, he fell to smoking in thoughtful silence.
Jim picked up his cards. He saw four kings. But he felt no elation. Before him was a mere dribble of chips, and he knew that he could not hold out much longer. Johnson was coldly surveying his own cards, and after a studied moment opened the pot. Jim thrust forward half his small stack, followed by Johnson with a raise, whereupon Jim placed all he had upon the board. That closed the game. The other spread out his cards generously, and Jim, glancing listlessly at four aces, rose from the table. Turning to the window, he saw Pat still lingering near the shack. He gazed at him a long moment in silence.
“He’s yours,” he said, finally, facing Johnson. “Reckon I’ll go outside for a little air.”
Outside, he made straight for Pat, removed the hobbles, led him into the grove. As the horse quenched his thirst, Jim sat down with his back against a tree and removed his hat.
“Sorry, old-timer,” he began, quietly, “but it can’t be helped. We–” He interrupted himself; shoved Pat away a step. “That’s better,” he went on, smiling. Then, as Pat looked puzzled, “On my foot–yes,” he explained. “All of your own, too, of course!” he added. “But one of mine, too!” He was silent. “As I was remarking,” he continued, after a moment, “we’ve got to beat him some other way. You’re a likely horse.”
He lowered his eyes thoughtfully. He did know of a way to beat Johnson. That way was to mount Pat, ride hard for the open, and race it out against the little gray mounted by Johnson. But already he could see the vindictive and cursing Johnson in pursuit, discharging guns before him. So the idea was hopeless, for he knew that Johnson even now was alert for some such move. But even if it were feasible, he realized that he never could rid himself of the man. Others had tried, as he well recalled–tried to break away from him for all time, with a result in no way to Johnson’s credit. Two had never been seen again, which pointed grimly to the fact that Johnson lived up to his favorite maxim, which was that dead men tell no tales. Another was the case of that poor luckless devil who, through some mysterious workings of the law, having broken with Johnson, had been arrested and convicted of a crime long forgotten. But Jim knew, as others closely associated with Johnson knew, that it was Johnson who indirectly had sent the unfortunate one to the penitentiary. So it required courage, a kind of unreasoning desperation, to quit the man and the life he led.
Suddenly Jim took a new hold upon himself. What, he began to ask himself, was getting into him? Why was he suddenly thinking of quitting Johnson? What would he do if he did quit him? To his kind all decent channels were closed for any but the exceptional man. But that wasn’t it! Why was he arguing with himself along these lines? What was getting into him? He felt as if some good and powerful influence was come into his life! He had felt like this in Denver when a Salvation Army lassie had approached him. But this wasn’t Denver! Nor was there a woman! What was it, anyway? He could not decide.