The Shooting of Dan McGrew, A Novel. Based on the Famous Poem of Robert Service

by Marvin Dana; Robert W. Service

CHAPTER XXII

For a time Jim Maxwell stood there without movement, blinking confusedly, while his body drank in the steaming warmth. The men in the room regarded the newcomer with frank stares of curiosity. He was unknown to any of them. They guessed him to be a miner just in from the creeks, dog-tired from his fight with the storm. Without being told, one of the hangers-on of the saloon hurried out to care for the dogs, since their owner seemed almost helpless. Very soon, in fact, a suspicion grew in the minds of the observers that something more than the cold had affected this stranger.

"Full of hooch!" was the verdict.

Presently, Jim's vision cleared. He cast one piercing glance about the room. He saw Dangerous Dan McGrew sitting at a table along the wall, a little way to his left. He had schooled himself for the sight. There was no betrayal of the emotion that shook his soul at first sight of the man who had robbed him of wife and child and happiness. He even noted with a savage satisfaction something constrained in the pose of his enemy, who sat half-turned toward him, a card suspended in mid-air. Dan McGrew had seen him—that was certain. And it was certain, too, that Dan McGrew would not make the opening move. Jim Maxwell was content. His foe hesitated—and hesitation is weakness. He had no doubt as to his own strength. He believed it adequate for every demand upon it.

He vaunted himself too soon. His eyes passed beyond the man he hated to the one who sat on the opposite side of the table. A darkness fell upon his spirit. He gazed steadily enough, for he had no power even to shift the direction of his eyes. There was no outward sign of the convulsion in his soul. He remained looking steadfastly at the woman who had been his wife, at the woman whom he had loved and lost. None of the onlookers dreamed that the sight of her meant anything to this stranger. It was natural that he should consider her attentively—she was a handsome woman, in a place where women were rare.

Jim Maxwell's heart died within him. He had tried so often throughout the years to believe that the wife, who had been tricked into deserting him, had at least never been beguiled into aught unfitting her womanhood. Now, he saw before him the damning proof that she had given herself to vileness, to Dangerous Dan McGrew, whom presently he would kill....

But the sight of her dear face! Notwithstanding all the horror, to see her once again in the flesh before his eyes was a rapture exquisite, yet torturing. Her face was the loved symbol of all his happiness. It was, as well, the symbol of all hideousness, which had swallowed up happiness. As he beheld her thus, ravening emotion devoured his strength. Suddenly he felt his knees sag. His eyelids fell of their own weight, so that sight of her was shut out. The shock of darkness, after the glory of her face, startled him to realization of his surroundings and steadied him. He asserted his will once again. He straightened and shuffled toward the bar. But he did not open his eyes until he had fairly turned his back on the pair at the table by the wall. Those observing him sniggered and mumbled again of hooch, when he lurched against the bar, and clung to it for support as a drunken man might.... Jim Maxwell was drunken—drunken with grief and hate and love.

After a little he recovered some measure of composure. He drew from his pocket a buckskin bag, and poured some gold-pieces on the bar.

"Drinks for the house!" he commanded.

The bartender busied himself in dispensing this hospitality to the crowd, which surged forward thirstily at the welcome summons. The Rag-time Kid, a wan-faced youth with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip, who performed noisily on the piano which stood against one wall, left his instrument and came forward hastily. Jim saw that drinks were served to Dangerous Dan McGrew and the woman opposite him, as well as the few others that were seated at the tables. He nodded curtly when the company raised their glasses toward him before drinking. His manner, however, was so singular and so remote that none ventured to address him directly. They eyed him askance. They speculated among themselves concerning who the man might be; for now, in some mysterious fashion, they had come to perceive that this was not one of the ordinary miners from the creeks, with the mud of the bottoms still matted in his beard. But they could make no definite surmise to account for him. In some vague way, they felt the portentousness of his presence among them. It was as if he stood enveloped in an atmosphere of tragedy. They looked at him furtively, confused, wondering, half-fearful, at his aspect. They no longer deemed him merely a drunken man. But what he was, they could by no means understand. They drank again, for his money still lay on the bar. They raised their glasses toward him. But the mystery of his coming remained unsolved, and it grew more burdensome as minutes passed, pressing heavily upon their spirits. Jim Maxwell drank with the others the first time and the second. He might, perhaps, have drained a third glass, but, while he delayed, his eyes chanced to fall on the piano, for the wan-faced youth with the cigarette dangling from his lower lip, was still enjoying his respite and was making merry at the bar. It had been a long time since Jim had touched the keys, but now, in the travail of his soul, it seemed to him that in music he might find surcease for the warring emotions within his breast. He went toward the piano, striding firmly. When he was come to it, he threw off parka and cap and seated himself and laid his hands noiselessly on the keys in a touch gentle and fond as a caress.