WHEN THE DEATH GLOOM GATHERS.
Amos staggered out of the fog of powder smoke and groped his way to the door. He took the center of the street reeling as he went, and made his way to his home. The scenes at the Bucket of Blood were magnified in his whisky-crazed brain. He raved in wild delirium, fighting the demons that gathered around his bedside. The doctor came and shook his head. “He has been drinking so long that my medicine will not act,” he said. Amos glared wildly from his bloodshot eyes when a monkey seemed to leap on the footboard. He held a glass in his hand. “Have a cocktail, Amos,” said the monkey, as he tossed the liquid into the air and caught it in another glass. Amos’ throat was parched and he wanted the cocktail, but the monkey did not give it to him. A rhinoceros came creeping through the 231 wall and looked at him with its leaden eyes. The monkey tossed the cocktail into the wide open mouth of the rhinoceros, who smacked his lips and said to the monkey, “Let’s play ante over.”
“All right,” replied the monkey, “what with?”
“Get his eye, get his eye,” exclaimed the rhinoceros.
The monkey crept forward and plucked out one of Amos’ eyes, as he groaned and yelled. For awhile the rhinoceros was on one side of the dresser and the monkey on the other, tossing his eye to and fro between them. The scene changed. He was on a white horse, plunging down a steep rocky road lined with trees on either side; pythons and rattlesnakes reached out from among the branches striking their fangs at his head. There was the form of a dead woman behind him on the horse. Her cold arms clung about his neck as little devils came out from behind the trees and shouted: “You did it; you did it.” The horse was now plunging over a snow-covered 232 country. He felt the icy winds chill his heart. He was trying to shake off the dead arms that clung to his neck, when the horse stopped in a wild spot among the rocks. A grave digger, with the flesh of face and arms dried to the bone, appeared. “We will bury her here,” he said as he sunk his spade into the earth. As the grave digger threw up the clods they turned to little devils, the size of frogs and yelped, “We are the sins of Amos come out of the grave.” The vision passed and another appeared. Three Sisters of Charity stood at the footboard of his bed. They were looking down on him with sorrowful eyes. One of them lifted her hand and all was a livid flame. Amos raised his head and gave one prolonged shriek. A shriek of death.
When Amos returned to Saguache after his spree with Rayder his first act was to purchase a ranch in the San Luis valley and deed it to his wife. He then went to his assay office and drew down the blinds and sat in the shadows like a cunning old 233 spider in hiding waiting for the unwary fly for which he had wove his web. His life had been that of the iconoclast who creates nothing to adorn the world’s great gallery of gods. But he was not philosophical enough to evolve an idea that would disrupt existing beliefs.
It was some weeks after his arrival home, when he espied Rayder one morning coming down the street towards his office. He cautiously turned the key in his office and slipped over to the Bucket of Blood and returned with some beer and two quart bottles of whisky. When Rayder returned an hour later he was maudlin drunk.
Rayder was still pale from the effects of his recent debauch and when he found Amos in an intoxicated condition he went away, not caring to stay and talk with him on important business matters lest he should get drawn into another spree. Meanwhile, Carson had arrived and spread the news of the imprisoned miners under the snow slide. Rayder learned that this 234 was the mine he had come to purchase through the connivance of Amos and concluded to wait and see what time would develop.
Day after day he sought Amos, but the latter was too drunk to talk with any sense. He then sought Carson and offered financial assistance in the rescue work, but the men spurned the offer. They felt they were doing a God-given duty and to receive money for an act of that kind would be debasing their manhood. Such was it then and such is now the spirit of the West. He called at the Amos home, and while he was received by the matron and failed to see Annie, he thought he detected an air of distress in the surroundings, and attributed it to Amos’ condition. Feeling that he was at their home at an inopportune time, he went away and started out to find Amos and if possible persuade him to quit drinking. Not finding him at his office he took a nearer route and entered the Bucket of Blood by the back door. He passed two or three hoboes sitting on beer kegs on the 235 outside. “Say, old timer, can’t I dig into ye for two bits?” asked one. The man was trembly and his lips quivered as he spoke. Remembering his own recent condition Rayder handed the fellow a dollar and motioning to the others, said: “Divide up.” The men jumped to their feet with alacrity and followed the first man to the bar.
Rayder walked to the faro table where Amos sat with his back to him putting down twenty dollar gold pieces on the money. “I never squeal,” Amos was saying to another man who was drawing out the cards from the box. “Bet yer life, man wins my money I never squeal,” Amos was saying to the dealer. “Got skads of it anyhow, and when that’s gone I know where to get a mine worth more an’ a million.” Rayder stood watching the player tossing twenty after twenty in gold and tapping a tiny bell now and then when a waiter came and took the orders from those seated around the table watching the game. They all called for whisky except the dealer, he 236 took a cigar. It requires a clear head to deal faro.