With Hoops of Steel

by Florence Finch Kelly

When the train which carried Thomson Tuttle northward left the station, Nick Ellhorn watched it disappear in the hot, white, quivering distance, and then wandered forlornly up town. He went first to Emerson Mead’s room, but Mead had not yet returned. He went to Judge Harlin’s office, and found that he was out of town. He next tried the Palmleaf saloon, where he solaced and cooled himself with some glasses of beer. Several men were already there, and others came in, whom he knew, and all wanted to hear about Emerson Mead’s round-up and to congratulate him on its success. He drank mint juleps with two, straight whisky with two others, a cocktail with another, and ended with more beer. He walked up the street to the hotel, and as he talked with the landlord he could feel the liquors he had so recklessly mixed beginning to bite into his blood and raise little commotions in remote corners of his brain. A pleasant-faced young Mexican came into the office, and the landlord asked him how his patient was. The young man replied in broken English that the man was a little better but very sad, and that he wished to find some one to stay with him a few minutes while he went out on an errand.

Nick Ellhorn’s heart was warmed and expansive and he promptly volunteered to sit with the invalid and entertain him for an hour, and with effusive thanks the Mexican nurse conducted the tall Texan to the sick-room. White, gaunt and weak, the invalid lay in his bed and looked with eyes of envy and admiration at the tall, firm, well-knit frame, the big muscles and the tanned face of his companion. By that time Nick began to be conscious of a high, swift tide in his veins, and through his dancing brain came the conviction that he must hold a steady hand on himself and be very serious. He sat up stiff and straight in his chair by the bedside, and his demeanor was grave and solemn. When the sick man spoke of his health and strength, Nick replied with admonishing seriousness:

“I’d be just such a lookin’ thing as you are if I stayed indoors like you do. You can’t expect to be worth a whoop in hell if you stay in the house and in bed all the time. I’ll steal you away from here so that coyote of a Mexican can’t get hold of you again, and I’ll take you out to Emerson Mead’s ranch and put you on a horse and make you ride after the cattle, and sure and you’ll be a well man before you know it.”

The invalid appeared apprehensive, and, feeling himself weakened by the fear lest something untoward might happen, he asked Ellhorn to give him a drink of brandy from a flask which stood on the mantel. Nick poured the measured dose into a glass, smelt of it, and looked frowningly at the sick man.

“Do you-all mean to say that you drink this stuff, as sick as you are? You can have it if you insist, but I tell you you’ll be dead by sundown if you drink it! Sure and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, lyin’ in bed and soakin’ with brandy, right on the ragged edge of the tomb! That Mexican coyote ought to be shot as full of holes as a pepper box for keepin’ this stuff in the room, and I’ll do it when he comes back! I’ve taken a notion to you-all, and I’m goin’ to carry you off on my horse to Emerson’s ranch and make a well man of you. But you must sure let brandy and whisky alone, I’ll tell you that right now! And I’ll put this out of your sight, so it won’t be a temptation to you. I’ll drink it myself, just to save your life!”

He poured the glass full and drank it off without a breath. Then he began to lecture the thoroughly frightened invalid on the evil results of too much indulgence in strong drink. “Look at me!” he solemnly exclaimed. “I used to drink just as bad as you do, and where did it bring me! Yes, sir! I’ve had feathers enough in my time to make me a good bed, but I scattered and wasted ’em all with whisky and brandy, just as you’re doin’ now, and here I am a-layin’ on the hard ground! But I’ve quit! No, sirree! I don’t drink another drop, unless it’s to save a friend, same as I’m drinkin’ this.”

When the Mexican nurse returned he found his patient fainting from fright, and a very drunken man solemnly marching up and down the room, flourishing an empty flask and uttering incoherent remarks about the evils of strong drink and the certainty of death.

“I’ve saved him!” Nick proudly exclaimed to the Mexican. “I’ve saved his life! He’d ’a’ been drunk as I am, and dead, too, if I hadn’t drunk all the brandy myself! I didn’t let him touch a drop!”

The nurse pitched him out of the room and locked the door behind him, and he, after a dazed stare, stalked off indignantly to the front entrance. A Chinaman was passing by, with placid face, folded arms and long queue flopping in the wind. Ellhorn grabbed the queue with a drunken shout. The man yelled from sudden fright, and started off on the run with Ellhorn hanging on to the braid, shouting, his spurs clicking and his revolver flapping at his side. Nick’s yells and the Chinaman’s frightened screams filled the street with noise and brought people running to see what was happening. Ellhorn whipped out his knife and cut off the queue at the Chinaman’s neck, and the man, feeling the sudden release from the grip of the “white devil” behind him, ran with flying leaps down the street and at the end of the block banged against Jim Halliday, himself running to learn the cause of the uproar. The Chinaman knew Halliday’s office, and with wild gestures and screaming chatter demanded that he should go back and arrest the man who had despoiled him of his dearest possession. Halliday, guessing that his enemy was too drunk to offer much resistance, hastened at once to the task, and in five minutes Nick Ellhorn was locked in the jail.