The Open Boat and Other Stories
the two trunks, and also that the station-agent, far ahead, near the
baggage-car, had turned, and was running toward him, making gestures.
He laughed, and groaned as he laughed, when he noted the first effect
of his marital bliss upon Yellow Sky. He gripped his wife's arm firmly
to his side, and they fled. Behind them the porter stood chuckling
fatuously.
II
The California Express on the Southron Railway was due at Yellow Sky
in twenty-one minutes. There were six men at the bar of the Weary
Gentleman saloon. One was a drummer, who talked a great deal and
rapidly; three were Texans, who did not care to talk at that time;
and two were Mexican sheep-herders, who did not talk as a general
practice in the Weary Gentleman saloon. The bar-keeper's dog lay on the
board-walk that crossed in front of the door. His head was on his paws,
and he glanced drowsily here and there with the constant vigilance of
a dog that is kicked on occasion. Across the sandy street were some
vivid green grass plots, so wonderful in appearance amid the sands that
burned near them in a blazing sun, that they caused a doubt in the
mind. They exactly resembled the grass-mats used to represent lawns on
the stage. At the cooler end of the railway-station a man without a
coat sat in a tilted chair and smoked his pipe. The fresh-cut bank of
the Rio Grande circled near the town, and there could be seen beyond it
a great plum-coloured plain of mesquit.
Save for the busy drummer and his companions in the saloon, Yellow Sky
was dozing. The new-comer leaned gracefully upon the bar, and recited
many tales with the confidence of a bard who has come upon a new field.
"And at the moment that the old man fell down-stairs, with the bureau
in his arms, the old woman was coming up with two scuttles of coal,
and, of course----"
The drummer's tale was interrupted by a young man who suddenly appeared
in the open door. He cried--
"Scratchy Wilson's drunk, and has turned loose with both hands."
The two Mexicans at once set down their glasses, and faded out of the
rear entrance of the saloon.
The drummer, innocent and jocular, answered--
"All right, old man. S'pose he has. Come and have a drink, anyhow."
But the information had made such an obvious cleft in every skull in
the room, that the drummer was obliged to see its importance. All had
become instantly morose.
"Say," said he, mystified, "what is this?"
His three companions made the introductory gesture of eloquent speech,
but the young man at the door forestalled them.
"It means, my friend," he answered, as he came into the saloon, "that
for the next two hours this town won't be a health resort."
The bar-keeper went to the door, and locked and barred it. Reaching
out of the window, he pulled in heavy wooden shutters and barred them.
Immediately a solemn, chapel-like gloom was upon the place. The drummer
was looking from one to another.
"But say," he cried, "what is this, anyhow? You don't mean there is
going to be a gun-fight?"
"Don't know whether there'll be a fight or not," answered one man
grimly. "But there'll be some shootin'--some good shootin'."
The young man who had warned them waved his hand. "Oh, there'll be a
fight, fast enough, if any one wants it. Anybody can get a fight out
there in the street. There's a fight just waiting."
The drummer seemed to be swayed between the interest of a foreigner,
and a perception of personal danger.
"What did you say his name was?" he asked.
"Scratchy Wilson," they answered in chorus.
"And will he kill anybody? What are you going to do? Does this happen
often? Does he rampage round like this once a week or so? Can he break
in that door?"
"No, he can't break down that door," replied the bar-keeper. "He's
tried it three times. But when he comes you'd better lay down on the
floor, stranger. He's dead sure to shoot at it, and a bullet may come
through."
Thereafter the drummer kept a strict eye on the door. The time had not
yet been called for him to hug the floor, but as a minor precaution he
sidled near to the wall.
"Will he kill anybody?" he said again.
The men laughed low and scornfully at the question.
"He's out to shoot, and he's out for trouble. Don't see any good in
experimentin' with him."
"But what do you do in a case like this? What do you do?"
A man responded--"Why, he and Jack Potter----"
But, in chorus, the other men interrupted--"Jack Potter's in San
Anton'."
"Well, who is he? What's he got to do with it?"
"Oh, he's the town-marshal. He goes out and fights Scratchy when he
gets on one of these tears."
"Whow!" said the drummer, mopping his brow. "Nice job he's got."
The voices had toned away to mere whisperings. The drummer wished to
ask further questions, which were born of an increasing anxiety and
bewilderment, but when he attempted them, the men merely looked at him
in irritation, and motioned him to remain silent. A tense waiting hush
was upon them. In the deep shadows of the room their eyes shone as
they listened for sounds from the street. One man made three gestures
at the bar-keeper, and the latter, moving like a ghost, handed him a
glass and a bottle. The man poured a full glass of whisky, and set down
the bottle noiselessly. He gulped the whisky in a swallow, and turned
again toward the door in immovable silence. The drummer saw that the
bar-keeper, without a sound, had taken a Winchester from beneath the
bar. Later, he saw this individual beckoning to him, so he tip-toed
across the room.
"You better come with me back of the bar."
"No, thanks," said the drummer, perspiring. "I'd rather be where I can
make a break for the back-door."
Whereupon the man of bottles made a kindly but peremptory gesture.
The drummer obeyed it, and finding himself seated on a box, with his
head below the level of the bar, balm was laid upon his soul at sight
of various zinc and copper fittings that bore a resemblance to plate
armour. The bar-keeper took a seat comfortably upon an adjacent box.
"You see," he whispered, "this here Scratchy Wilson is a wonder with a
gun--a perfect wonder--and when he goes on the war-trail, we hunt our
holes--naturally. He's about the last one of the old gang that used
to hang out along the river here. He's a terror when he's drunk. When
he's sober he's all right--kind of simple--wouldn't hurt a fly--nicest
fellow in town. But when he's drunk--whoo!"
There were periods of stillness.
"I wish Jack Potter was back from San Anton'," said the bar-keeper. "He
shot Wilson up once--in the leg--and he would sail in and pull out the
kinks in this thing."
Presently they heard from a distance the sound of a shot, followed
by three wild yells. It instantly removed a bond from the men in the
darkened saloon. There was a shuffling of feet. They looked at each
other.
"Here he comes," they said.
III
A man in a maroon-coloured flannel shirt, which had been purchased for
purposes of decoration, and made, principally, by some Jewish women
on the east side of New York, rounded a corner and walked into the
middle of the main street of Yellow Sky. In either hand the man held
a long, heavy blue-black revolver. Often he yelled, and these cries
rang through a semblance of a deserted village, shrilly flying over
the roofs in a volume that seemed to have no relation to the ordinary
vocal strength of a man. It was as if the surrounding stillness formed
the arch of a tomb over him. These cries of ferocious challenge rang
against walls of silence. And his boots had red tops with gilded
imprints, of the kind beloved in winter by little sledging boys on the
hillsides of New England.
The man's face flamed in a rage begot of whisky. His eyes, rolling and
yet keen for ambush, hunted the still door-ways and windows. He walked
with the creeping movement of the midnight cat. As it occurred to him,
he roared menacing information. The long revolvers in his hands were
as easy as straws; they were moved with an electric swiftness. The
little fingers of each hand played sometimes in a musician's way. Plain
from the low collar of the shirt, the cords of his neck straightened
and sank as passion moved him. The only sounds were his terrible
invitations. The calm adobes preserved their demeanour at the passing
of this small thing in the middle of the street.
There was no offer of fight--no offer of fight. The man called to the
sky. There were no attractions. He bellowed and fumed and swayed his
revolver here and everywhere.
The dog of the bar-keeper of the Weary Gentleman saloon had not
appreciated the advance of events. He yet lay dozing in front of his
master's door. At sight of the dog, the man paused and raised his
revolver humorously. At sight of the man, the dog sprang up and walked
diagonally away, with a sullen head and growling. The man yelled,
and the dog broke into a gallop. As it was about to enter an alley,
there was a loud noise, a whistling, and something spat the ground
directly before it. The dog screamed, and, wheeling in terror, galloped
headlong in a new direction. Again there was a noise, a whistling, and
sand was kicked viciously before it. Fear-stricken, the dog turned and
flurried like an animal in a pen. The man stood laughing, his weapons
at his hips.
Ultimately the man was attracted by the closed door of the Weary
Gentleman saloon. He went to it, and, hammering with a revolver,
demanded drink.
The door remaining imperturbable, he picked a bit of paper from the
walk, and nailed it to the framework with a knife. He then turned his
back contemptuously upon this popular resort, and, walking to the
opposite side of the street and spinning there on his heel quickly and
lithely, fired at the bit of paper. He missed it by a half-inch. He
swore at himself, and went away. Later, he comfortably fusilladed the
windows of his most intimate friend. The man was playing with this
town. It was a toy for him.
But still there was no offer of fight. The name of Jack Potter, his
ancient antagonist, entered his mind, and he concluded that it would be
a glad thing if he should go to Potter's house, and, by bombardment,
induce him to come out and fight. He moved in the direction of his
desire, chanting Apache scalp music.
When he arrived at it, Potter's house presented the same still, calm
front as had the other adobes. Taking up a strategic position, the
man howled a challenge. But this house regarded him as might a great
stone god. It gave no sign. After a decent wait, the man howled further
challenges, mingling with them wonderful epithets.
Presently there came the spectacle of a man churning himself into
deepest rage over the immobility of a house. He fumed at it as the
winter wind attacks a prairie cabin in the north. To the distance there
should have gone the sound of a tumult like the fighting of two hundred
Mexicans. As necessity bade him, he paused for breath or to reload his
revolvers.
IV
Potter and his bride walked sheepishly and with speed. Sometimes they
laughed together shamefacedly and low.
"Next corner, dear," he said finally.
They put forth the efforts of a pair walking bowed against a strong
wind. Potter was about to raise a finger to point the first appearance
of the new home, when, as they circled the corner, they came face to
face with a man in a maroon-coloured shirt, who was feverishly pushing
cartridges into a large revolver. Upon the instant the man dropped this
revolver to the ground, and, like lightning, whipped another from its
holster. The second weapon was aimed at the bridegroom's chest.
There was a silence. Potter's mouth seemed to be merely a grave for his
tongue. He exhibited an instinct to at once loosen his arm from the