The Open Boat and Other Stories
bill. Something had occurred which was mildly out of the ordinary, and
his surcharged brain refused to cope with it. He displayed only the
agitation of a smoker temporarily without a light.
The New York kid had almost instantly grasped Benson's arm, and was
about to jerk him away, when the other kid, who up to this time had
been an automaton, suddenly projected himself forward, thrust the
rubber Benson aside, and said--"Yes."
There was no sound nor light in the world. The wall at the left
happened to be of the common prison-like construction--no door, no
window, no opening at all. Humanity was enclosed and asleep. Into the
mouth of the sober kid came a wretched bitter taste as if it had filled
with blood. He was transfixed as if he was already seeing the lightning
ripples on the knife-blade.
But the Mexican's hand did not move at that time. His face went still
further forward and he whispered--"So?" The sober kid saw this face
as if he and it were alone in space--a yellow mask smiling in eager
cruelty, in satisfaction, and above all it was lit with sinister
decision. As for the features, they were reminiscent of an unplaced, a
forgotten type, which really resembled with precision those of a man
who had shaved him three times in Boston in 1888. But the expression
burned his mind as sealing-wax burns the palm, and fascinated,
stupefied, he actually watched the progress of the man's thought toward
the point where a knife would be wrenched from its sheath. The emotion,
a sort of mechanical fury, a breeze made by electric fans, a rage made
by vanity, smote the dark countenance in wave after wave.
Then the New York kid took a sudden step forward. His hand was at his
hip. He was gripping there a revolver of robust size. He recalled that
upon its black handle was stamped a hunting scene in which a sportsman
in fine leggings and a peaked cap was taking aim at a stag less than
one-eighth of an inch away.
His pace forward caused instant movement of the Mexicans. One
immediately took two steps to face him squarely. There was a general
adjustment, pair and pair. This opponent of the New York kid was a
tall man and quite stout. His sombrero was drawn low over his eyes.
His serape was flung on his left shoulder. His back was bended in the
supposed manner of a Spanish grandee. This concave gentleman cut a fine
and terrible figure. The lad, moved by the spirits of his modest and
perpendicular ancestors, had time to feel his blood roar at sight of
the pose.
He was aware that the third Mexican was over on the left fronting
Benson, and he was aware that Benson was leaning against the wall
sleepily and peacefully eying the convention. So it happened that
these six men stood, side fronting side, five of them with their right
hands at their hips and with their bodies lifted nervously, while the
central pair exchanged a crescendo of provocations. The meaning of
their words rose and rose. They were travelling in a straight line
toward collision.
The New York kid contemplated his Spanish grandee. He drew his revolver
upward until the hammer was surely free of the holster. He waited
immovable and watchful while the garrulous Frisco kid expended two and
a half lexicons on the middle Mexican.
The eastern lad suddenly decided that he was going to be killed. His
mind leaped forward and studied the aftermath. The story would be a
marvel of brevity when first it reached the far New York home, written
in a careful hand on a bit of cheap paper, topped and footed and
backed by the printed fortifications of the cable company. But they
are often as stones flung into mirrors, these bits of paper upon which
are laconically written all the most terrible chronicles of the times.
He witnessed the uprising of his mother and sister, and the invincible
calm of his hard-mouthed old father, who would probably shut himself
in his library and smoke alone. Then his father would come, and they
would bring him here and say--"This is the place." Then, very likely,
each would remove his hat. They would stand quietly with their hats in
their hands for a decent minute. He pitied his old financing father,
unyielding and millioned, a man who commonly spoke twenty-two words a
year to his beloved son. The kid understood it at this time. If his
fate was not impregnable, he might have turned out to be a man and have
been liked by his father.
The other kid would mourn his death. He would be preternaturally
correct for some weeks, and recite the tale without swearing. But it
would not bore him. For the sake of his dead comrade he would be glad
to be preternaturally correct, and to recite the tale without swearing.
These views were perfectly stereopticon, flashing in and away from his
thought with an inconceivable rapidity until after all they were simply
one quick dismal impression. And now here is the unreal real: into this
kid's nostrils, at the expectant moment of slaughter, had come the
scent of new-mown hay, a fragrance from a field of prostrate grass, a
fragrance which contained the sunshine, the bees, the peace of meadows,
and the wonder of a distant crooning stream. It had no right to be
supreme, but it was supreme, and he breathed it as he waited for pain
and a sight of the unknown.
But in the same instant, it may be, his thought flew to the Frisco kid,
and it came upon him like a flicker of lightning that the Frisco kid
was not going to be there to perform, for instance, the extraordinary
office of respectable mourner. The other kid's head was muddled, his
hand was unsteady, his agility was gone. This other kid was facing the
determined and most ferocious gentleman of the enemy. The New York kid
became convinced that his friend was lost. There was going to be a
screaming murder. He was so certain of it that he wanted to shield his
eyes from sight of the leaping arm and the knife. It was sickening,
utterly sickening. The New York kid might have been taking his first
sea-voyage. A combination of honourable manhood and inability prevented
him from running away.
He suddenly knew that it was possible to draw his own revolver, and
by a swift manoeuvre face down all three Mexicans. If he was quick
enough he would probably be victor. If any hitch occurred in the draw
he would undoubtedly be dead with his friends. It was a new game; he
had never been obliged to face a situation of this kind in the Beacon
Club in New York. In this test, the lungs of the kid still continued to
perform their duty.
"Oh, five white mice of chance,
Shirts of wool and corduroy pants,
Gold and wine, women and sin,
All for you if you let me come in--
Into the house of chance."
He thought of the weight and size of his revolver, and dismay
pierced him. He feared that in his hands it would be as unwieldy as
a sewing-machine for this quick work. He imagined, too, that some
singular providence might cause him to lose his grip as he raised his
weapon. Or it might get fatally entangled in the tails of his coat.
Some of the eels of despair lay wet and cold against his back.
But at the supreme moment the revolver came forth as if it were greased
and it arose like a feather. This somnolent machine, after months of
repose, was finally looking at the breasts of men.
Perhaps in this one series of movements, the kid had unconsciously
used nervous force sufficient to raise a bale of hay. Before he
comprehended it he was standing behind his revolver glaring over the
barrel at the Mexicans, menacing first one and then another. His finger
was tremoring on the trigger. The revolver gleamed in the darkness with
a fine silver light.
The fulsome grandee sprang backward with a low cry. The man who had
been facing the Frisco kid took a quick step away. The beautiful array
of Mexicans was suddenly disorganized.
The cry and the backward steps revealed something of great importance
to the New York kid. He had never dreamed that he did not have a
complete monopoly of all possible trepidations. The cry of the grandee
was that of a man who suddenly sees a poisonous snake. Thus the kid
was able to understand swiftly that they were all human beings. They
were unanimous in not wishing for too bloody combat. There was a sudden
expression of the equality. He had vaguely believed that they were not
going to evince much consideration for his dramatic development as an
active factor. They even might be exasperated into an onslaught by
it. Instead, they had respected his movement with a respect as great
even as an ejaculation of fear and backward steps. Upon the instant he
pounced forward and began to swear, unreeling great English oaths as
thick as ropes, and lashing the faces of the Mexicans with them. He
was bursting with rage, because these men had not previously confided
to him that they were vulnerable. The whole thing had been an absurd
imposition. He had been seduced into respectful alarm by the concave
attitude of the grandee. And after all there had been an equality of
emotion, an equality: he was furious. He wanted to take the serape of
the grandee and swaddle him in it.
The Mexicans slunk back, their eyes burning wistfully. The kid took aim
first at one and then at another. After they had achieved a certain
distance they paused and drew up in a rank. They then resumed some of
their old splendour of manner. A voice hailed him in a tone of cynical
bravado as if it had come from between lips of smiling mockery. "Well,
señor, it is finished?"
The kid scowled into the darkness, his revolver drooping at his side.
After a moment he answered--"I am willing." He found it strange that he
should be able to speak after this silence of years.
"Good-night, señor."
"Good-night."
When he turned to look at the Frisco kid he found him in his original
position, his hand upon his hip. He was blinking in perplexity at the
point from whence the Mexicans had vanished.
"Well," said the sober kid crossly, "are you ready to go home now?"
The Frisco kid said--"Where they gone?" His voice was undisturbed but
inquisitive.
Benson suddenly propelled himself from his dreamful position against
the wall. "Frishco kid's all right. He's drunk's fool and he's all
right. But you New York kid, you're shober." He passed into a state of
profound investigation. "Kid shober 'cause didn't go with us. Didn't
go with us 'cause went to damn circus. Went to damn circus 'cause lose
shakin' dice. Lose shakin' dice 'cause--what make lose shakin' dice,
kid?"
The New York kid eyed the senile youth. "I don't know. The five white
mice, maybe."
Benson puzzled so over this reply that he had to be held erect by his
friends. Finally the Frisco kid said--"Let's go home."
Nothing had happened.
FLANAGAN AND HIS SHORT FILIBUSTERING ADVENTURE
I
"I have got twenty men at me back who will fight to the death," said
the warrior to the old filibuster.
"And they can be blowed for all me," replied the old filibuster.
"Common as sparrows. Cheap as cigarettes. Show me twenty men with steel
clamps on their mouths, with holes in their heads where memory ought to
be, and I want 'em. But twenty brave men merely? I'd rather have twenty
brave onions."
Thereupon the warrior removed sadly, feeling that no salaams were paid
to valour in these days of mechanical excellence.
Valour, in truth, is no bad thing to have when filibustering; but many
medals are to be won by the man who knows not the meaning of "pow-wow,"
before or afterwards. Twenty brave men with tongues hung lightly may
make trouble rise from the ground like smoke from grass, because of
their subsequent fiery pride; whereas twenty cow-eyed villains who
accept unrighteous and far-compelling kicks as they do the rain from
heaven may halo the ultimate history of an expedition with gold, and