The Squaw Man

Nick went back to the players.

"Pete," he asked, "what has Cash got agin the Englishman?"

Pete, nothing loath to tell his yarn, especially as he had been winning all the afternoon, drawled the information so that all at his table could hear.

"Well, Jim's outfit has been heard to openly express the opinion that Cash can't tell the difference between his cattle and Jim's."

"Rustling, eh?" the Parson interrupted.

Pete nodded.

"Serious business."

"Yes," said Pete. "Serious – quite – in these here parts. I see the Englishman stand off a greaser down at the agency, and I've got a wad of the long-green to lay even money that Cash can't twist the British lion's tail a whole lot – not a whole lot. Any takers?"

Pete's eye was always keen to take up a "sure thing." The men with him fell into a dispute concerning the respective merits of Jim versus Cash Hawkins.

Meanwhile, seated at a table in the centre of the room were Shorty, Andy, and Grouchy. They had heard nothing of Pete's and the Parson's conversation. They were intent on a mild game and were awaiting Big Bill, who was to meet them at the saloon. None of them saw Big Bill coming towards them until they heard the slow, deep voice saying: "Boys, Cash Hawkins is in town. The boss asks as a special favor to him that you will avoid Cash and his gang and try to get out of town without a collision."

Bill was a giant, over six feet tall, with a great, leonine head. He had a strong face with piercing eyes. The mouth, "a large gash," as Shorty described it, could at times give vent to loud guffaws of laughter, and at others frighten one as it straightened into two lines of grim determination. For two years he had been Jim's right-hand man, and his devotion to the boss was the most beautiful side of Bill's life. Forty years ago he had been born in a prairie saloon; the woman who bore him died the night of his birth. He never knew who his father was, and the upbringing he received was from a handful of miners who had adopted him. As soon as he could toddle he began to try to do for himself. Little errands he volunteered, and long before most boys even on a ranch were anything but a nuisance, Bill was contributing gravely his share to the big game of life. Save once, to Jim, he never spoke of the past. He had drifted to Maverick twenty years ago, and except at intervals, when he took a notion to better himself, he was usually at the cow town.

On one of these occasions when he was trailing the country he met Jim, who was looking for a man to direct the practical side of his affairs. Bill had never met a gentleman who treated him as Jim did, and in return he gave his body's strength and all the scheming devotion of his brain in his endeavor to benefit Jim's complicated affairs.

The three men looked up at Bill, who slid into a chair at their table and started a new game with them.

"Say, Bill," Shorty began, "if Cash has his war-paint on there ain't no use distributin' tracts on love one another."

"Und, Bill," Andy added, "und say for peace – dot's me, Andy. But say, Bill, rustlin' – cattle stealing – you know. Particular when it's our cattle, Cash has got a lot wit' a circle-star brand which original is a big C for Carston. Say," he wildly went on, becoming more incoherent as his temper rose, "und if we stand for it – you know – und say – we got to git out of de business."

Grouchy leaned over to Bill and shook his head. "Say, I wouldn't work for a man that would stand for it."

Still Bill said nothing, but listened gravely to the storm of protests that the message from Jim to the boys had provoked.

"If the peace of a kummunity is worth a damn, you got to shoot him up a whole lot. It's this delicate consideration for the finer feelings of bad men which encourages 'em." Shorty, in his nervous, jerky manner, fairly shook the table with his vibrations of rebellion.

Then Bill spoke. He was in sympathy with the boys, but he had his orders from the boss – that was enough for him.

"Well, you know Jim. It ain't likely he'd ask you to show the white-feather nor to stand no nonsense. Only" – here Bill paused and said, impressively, "don't drink mor'n you can help, and avoid trouble if possible. Them's the boss's orders."

As Bill was laying down the law for the men, the saloon began to fill with curiosity-seekers from the train. The delay was evidently to be longer than had at first been anticipated. Shorty was the first to see the humor of some of the new-comers.

"Gee, get on to the effete East. Say," he called to the rest of them, "get on to the tenderfeet."

They looked with childish glee at a quaint-looking couple who were entering the saloon. Mrs. Doolittle was a prim, mild-mannered little woman with a saintly smile. She evidently was travelling in the West for the first time. Her husband, Hiram, was one of the prosperous New England farmer class. Pleased with the entire condition of affairs, he beamed on the cow-boys with great condescension.

Shorty, who scented some fun, whispered to Bill: "D.C. brand. Day Coach, savvy?" As he watched the odd pair he made his way towards them. They were quietly studying the place. The pictures of prize-fighters and ballet-girls that lined the walls really shocked them, but it also tickled their sense of the wickedness of their adventure. They reached a roulette-table with the game in progress.

"Why, Hiram!" Mrs. Doolittle ejaculated, as she watched the players and surveyed the saloon, "this is a gambling-hell."

Shorty, who with the others was closely watching the strange adventurers and planning to tease them, mocked them in an aside – "Well, I want to know."

But Hiram was too intent on Faith's observations to notice that they were becoming the centre of interest in the place.

"Durned if it ain't," he affirmed, in a pleased tone. Then, ashamed of his laxity, he added, "Want to git out?"

"Why, Hiram, what a question!" Faith Doolittle answered, severely, as she drew away from her husband's out-stretched hand. "'Tain't often one gets a chance to see life. I've read about Montey Carlo, and here it is."

The boys were now all attention. Andy whispered, "Three card, eh; Montey Carlo here, eh!" The laugh began to be noticed by Hiram.

"Dear me," Faith Doolittle gravely remarked, "and over there is rouletty, I suppose."

Shorty came forward. He took off his large sombrero and bowed low to the ground, in mock cavalier fashion as he good-humoredly said, "No lady, that's where they're voting for the most popular lady in the Sabbath-school." His sally was greeted with applause. Faith hardly noticed it; she had taken Hiram by the arm and was trying to drag him to the table.

Pete called to them, "That's not rouletty, that's faro, lady."

The parson added, "So called after Pharaoh's daughter."

"Who found a little prophet in the rushes on the bank," Shorty further explained.

But Faith was eagerly whispering to Hiram, "You know, Hiram, frequently people by just putting down fifty cents, or a dollar, walk out with millions." Then timidly she added, "I'd like to try it once."

"Faith Doolittle!" was all Hiram could exclaim, so great was his surprise at his wife's request. Truly, he thought, women were strange cattle. To think of Faith, so quiet, so serene all these years, and then – to see her now with flushed cheeks, hat awry, and an eager, feverish look in her mild eyes as she tried to draw him to the table.

"Oh," she pleaded, "only fifty cents' worth, Hiram. There couldn't be any harm in fifty cents' worth."

Behind his great hand Shorty convulsed the others by observing, "Mother's a sport, but father's near."

Hiram now realized that he must be firm and leave this place that was affecting so strangely his wife's conduct.

"You couldn't keep money got in that nefarious way, even if you won it," he explained; "you're a churchwoman."

"We could give some of it to the church," quickly reasoned Faith; "and, Hiram, we could do such a lot of good with a million. Just try fifty cents' worth." She made a further attempt to reach the table.

"Come out of here, Faith Doolittle," stormed Hiram, as he saw his protests were of no avail, "or you'll have me going it in a minute." He, too, began to feel the tempting influence of the green cloth, the glittering money-heaps, and the feverish gayety of the ribald crowd.

As Hiram started to lead Faith to the door they were stopped by Shorty.

"Nick," he called to the bartender, "my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Hill – Bunkco Hill – of Boston." The slang name for the innocence of the couple caught the crowd's fancy. They quickly formed a circle around them.

"Pleased to know you," Nick observed from the bar. "What's your drink?" He began filling glasses with whiskey.

This time Hiram's indignation was effectual. Grasping his now-frightened spouse by the arm, he fiercely drew her away, the cow-boys laughingly letting them go, with polite bows, and bits of advice called good-naturedly after them.

It was the sport of children, as indeed these men were to a great extent – crude, rough, but with a sweetness not to be denied and a decency that it might seem strange to find in such a place. So far their fun might go, but they knew where to stop, and Faith Doolittle's gentle face was its own protection. They watched Hiram nervously leading his wife along the platform down the line. Then they turned back to the saloon and amused themselves by giving imitations of the quaint visitors, until the place rang with their boisterous merriment.

Suddenly there was a rattle of spurs and a noise from without as a tall cow-puncher lurched through the door.

In a moment there was silence. Every one knew the man.

"Hello, here's Cash now," observed Shorty.

The innocent gayety was forgotten. A different expression began to appear on the men's faces. In Jim's crowd it was one of sullen rebellion and suppressed indignation, in the other an expectant desire for real mischief. With Cash Hawkins's entrance that afternoon, history was made in Maverick.

CHAPTER XV

Cash Hawkins leaned against the bar and maliciously took in the silence that followed his entrance into the saloon. He knew he was feared; he had made more than one man there feel his power. Malignity was marked in his demeanor and in the physiognomy of his face. He was lithe and straight, with wiry, steel-like muscles. He had a small head with a shock of tawny hair that he wore much longer than is usual with ranchmen. The rawhide strap of his hat hung under his chin, and his face, with its long, pointed wolf jaw, suggested that animal in its expression of ferocious keenness. When he grew excited his mouth moved convulsively, like an ugly trap ready to devour its prey. His hands were curiously beautiful – long and slender, with almond-shaped nails. The care he bestowed on them to keep their beauty in the midst of his rough life, the gorgeousness of his leather chaps with their mounting of silver, and the embroidery on his waistcoat betrayed his salient weakness – inordinate vanity. He was handsome in a cruel, hard fashion. Of his power as an athlete there was no question. In the saloon many could testify to the devilish cunning of those supple hands.

"Got a bottle of ink handy, Nick?" he said, when he had insolently surveyed the assemblage, who, after a pause, were beginning to talk and settle down to new games.

Nick, who wished to be friendly with all who patronized him, answered:

"Ink? Ink is a powerful depressing drink, Cash."

"Drink!" Cash's face grew livid with rage. "You see here, Nick, don't you joke with me; I ain't in the humor for it. People has to know me intimate to joke with me – savvy? You get me a pen and a bottle of ink P.D.Q. I'm buying some cattle of Tabywana, the Ute chief – savvy? And he's got to put his mark to the contract."

With swaggering gestures Cash announced his business so that all could hear him. Bill whispered to the boys, who, going on with their game, were still listening and watching Cash intently:

"You know what that skunk's up to now. He's got Tabywana drunk – been at it for days – in order to swindle him out of his cattle."

Shorty, with all of the cow-boy's intolerance of the red man's rights, snapped, "Well, it don't make much difference about Injins."

"No," growled Grouchy, "guv'ment supports 'em anyway."

Nick had unearthed a bottle of ink.

"Well," he said, as he handed it across the bar, "that was ink once, Cash. 'Ain't had no use for it sense my gal throwed me. Gits more people into trouble. Often wisht I was illiterate." Nick's dry humor betrayed his descent from the Emerald Isle.

Cash paid no attention to Nick's attempts at conversation. He was filling his glass and surveying the crowds at the various tables. It annoyed him that no one had greeted him with any particular show of enthusiasm. Save for a "How d'ye," or a nod from some of the hangers-on, no one had particularly noticed him. He stood against the bar, and without turning his body directed his words towards Big Bill and Jim's men at a table near him. With a truculent swagger he blew his cigarette smoke through his nostrils.

"There's just one thing I can't stand for," he began, "and that's an Englishman." There was a movement from Jim's men, but it was quickly controlled. Cash went on: "He's a blot on any landscape, and wherever I see him I shall wipe him off the map. He is distinctly no good. We whipped 'em once, and we kin do it again. They 'ain't never whipped nuthin' but niggers and savages. The Englishman is a coward and any American who works for him is a cur."

With one movement Andy, Shorty, and Grouchy rose and their hands went to their guns, but almost before they had clutched them Bill was towering over them. With one hand he pushed Grouchy, and with the other gripped the shoulders of Shorty and Andy, until he forced them down into their chairs.

"Leave him to me," was all he said, and the men sullenly subsided under their foreman's orders.

Bill stood looking at Cash. He wanted to gain time and not take any notice of insults from him until it was so directly levelled that they could no longer endure it. He wished Jim would come; it was time for him. He wanted to finish some details of the shipping and then get their men to leave Maverick.

Cash saw Bill's command of the men; he ground his jaw with ugly grating sounds from his big white teeth. Looking directly at Bill, he said, "There is a certain outfit been a circilatin' reports derogitory to my standin' in this here kummunity, and before the day is over I will round up said outfit and put my brand on 'em." As he spoke he touched his gun.

"Same as you been a-puttin' it on their cattle?" Bill remarked, coldly.

This was what Cash wanted; but he saw Tabywana coming along the platform, and there was too much at stake to allow him to gratify his feeling of anger against Bill then. He gave a low, chuckling laugh.

"A remark I overlook for the time bein', as I ain't agoin' to take advantage of the absence of the furrin gent that owns you."

He came towards Tabywana, who, halting and stumbling, was trying to cross the room. Cash laughed malevolently as he noticed his helpless condition. The Indian was trailing his blanket along the ground, his feathers were broken, and all intelligence – even cunning – was blotted from his face. The unconquerable dignity of a fallen aristocrat alone remained, and even handicapped as he was by his inebriated condition, he stood out against the others in the saloon as the one true claimant of America's royal race.

Cash caught him by the arm and steered him to the bar. "Hello, Chief," he began, most affably; "come over here and we'll close our trade in a jiffy."

He spoke lightly, but his mouth began its rapacious twitching – Cash was really a little nervous over the deal. The government once in a while remembered its people, and took up the claim of the red man. He drew from his belt a paper.

"Ther's the big treaty, Chief," he hurriedly began to explain. "Now all you got to do is to make your mark to it." He spoke aloud so that all could hear as he said, "Heap good trade." Cash was clever enough to know that if the deal took place in the saloon in the presence of Nick it would seem, if inquiry were made later, a fair deal.

But Tabywana's mind had been tortured by one desire – more drink from the bottle that the white man controlled.

He mumbled helplessly as he leaned against the bar and began soliciting Nick for a drink.

"What's that? You don't want to trade?" Cash burst forth. "Why, damn you – " Then he paused; to lose his temper would accomplish nothing. A little patience and he could force Tabywana to make his mark. He glanced about the saloon. The others were paying little attention to him – a drunken Indian was of no moment to them. He signalled Nick that he would take the responsibility of giving the Indian liquor. Both knew it was against the law, but both also knew that it was a law daily broken.

"Touge-wayno fire-water," wailed Tabywana.

Cash took hold of him. "What's the matter, you – "

Tabywana turned to him. Yes, for days this Cash Hawkins had given him his drink; why shouldn't he do so now? Nick was watching them from over his shoulder as he took down a bottle of rye. Tabywana pointed to him.

"No give 'em, me – heap like 'em – big medicine, sick. Me all time heap sick." By his gestures he indicated that his body was suffering for the medicine. "Wayno medicine," he continued. "Pretty soon, more fire-water, catch 'em. Pretty soon – maybe so – no sick." Incoherently he tried to explain that the drink would cure him at once. If not, then pretty soon he would be very ill.

Even at a moment like this Nick could not resist the temptation to tease the Chief. He poured out some whiskey, Tabywana tried to reach it, but Nick lifted the glass and drank it. The sight of it maddened Tabywana: with his two fists he struck the bar and gave vent to his rage in a loud voice.

Cash saw it was time to finish the business. He put his arm about Tabywana, while he directed Nick to give the Indian the bottle.

"It's agin the law to give you whiskey, Chief. 'Tain't every one's got the nerve to treat you like a white man." By this time he was holding the bottle high up in the air. "But there ain't no one hereabouts goin' to question any trade I make. Every man has an inalienable right – say, 'inalienable's' great, Chief – that's good medicine," he translated – "inalienable right to git drunk if he wants to, and I'm agoin' to protect you in your rights."

He held the paper close to Tabywana; he lowered his voice.

"Now just put your mark to that paper and you get this bottleful and the time of your life." The words were accompanied with explanatory gestures so that Tabywana could understand.

The Indian tried to reach the bottle. Then he saw the paper; he took hold of the pen and bent over it. As he did so a girl's figure slid in between him and Cash, and the bottle went smashing out of Cash Hawkins's hand up against the bottles and glasses on the shelf at the back of the bar. There was a crash of breaking glass and a snarling curse from Hawkins.

Tabywana stood dazed for a moment at the sight of Nat-u-ritch, who silently faced him and Hawkins. He made a sweeping gesture of fury, and attempted to strike Nat-u-ritch, but she cleverly dodged him. The force of the unarrested blow carried Tabywana against a table, he stumbled into a chair, made an attempt to rise, but, after a desperate effort, fell back in a drunken stupor, oblivious to his surroundings. The sudden burst of anger was the natural climax to days of dissipation.

The crash of the glasses and the sudden entrance of the girl attracted the attention of the gamblers. Some of them, scenting a fracas, stopped playing; others merely looked up, and then went on with the game. What did an Indian, male or female, matter to them?

Cash propped himself up against the bar. For the first time he really was brought within close range of Nat-u-ritch. Silent and immovable she stood, guarding the sunken form of her father. Her head was erect and she looked her contempt and scorn full in Hawkins's face. In her hands she held the fallen blanket of her father.

"Well, what d'ye think of it, eh?" Cash finally ejaculated. His eyes took note of the girl's physical perfection. "Say, fer spunk and grit dam'f I ever see her equal. Say, she can have me, kin Tabywana's squaw."

Nick interposed sullenly as he straightened up the disordered bar.

"She ain't Tabywana's squaw – that's Nat-u-ritch, his gal – his daughter."

"Daughter or squaw, don't make no difference to me." Cash slouched up to Nat-u-ritch and insolently surveyed her. "She's puty, she is, and I'll include her in the deal. Say, sis, I like your looks. You please me a whole lot, and I'll buy you along with your father's cattle – savvy?"

Still she made no answer – she knew what the white man was suggesting. That she had accomplished what she had dared to save her father now frightened her. She wanted to get him away and escape with him. But how? She could not leave him. She only clutched the blanket tighter.

Cash caught sight of the half-breed Baco, who was often called in to act as interpreter by the white men. "Baco," he called, "what's her name mean?" He designated Nat-u-ritch with his thumb.

Baco grinned: "Purty little gal." He had cast his own eyes unsuccessfully on Nat-u-ritch.

"Well, she lives up to the name all right. Ain't she hell?" Cash drooped lower against the bar. "Say, Nat-u-ritch, you take chances with me when you interfere that way like you did jest now."

Along the platform Jim swung, the gray dust whitening his leather chaps and dusting his shirt and hat with a heavy powder. He had ridden hard to keep his appointment with Bill and his men. As he entered the centre door of the saloon he watched Hawkins and the little Indian girl with curiosity. He took in the situation at a glance. The drunken Chief, the tigerish Hawkins bending over the girl like an animal about to crunch a ewe lamb, and the contents of the smashed bottle that Nick was wiping away told him what had occurred. Cash was saying:

"Nat-u-ritch, you spoiled a very puty deal, and I ain't complaisant a whole lot with people as do that, but I'm goin' to pass that up, 'cause you please me, and I'm goin' to annex you. You're comin' to my wickyup – savvy? And to seal the bargain, and to show you that I ain't proud like the ordinary white man, I'm goin' to give you a kiss."

Before Hawkins could catch the resisting girl in his arms, Jim quietly stepped between them.

"Drop that, Hawkins." The voice of the Englishman was electrical. Jim's men jumped to their feet. At a move of Cash's hand to his belt they grasped their guns. "Don't pull your gun, Cash," Jim said. "You want to get your gang together before you do that. My boys would shoot you into ribbons." Jim was smoking a long cigar. He coolly took it from his lips, knocked off the ashes, then bent over Nat-u-ritch and whispered to her. Her eyes alone answered him. He was about to join his men when Cash Hawkins swaggered up to him.

"Say, son, ain't you courtin' disaster interferin' in my private business?" he threatened. He knew he dare not fight alone against Jim and his men, so he played for time. If only he had his gang!

Jim replied: "Do you call it 'business' robbing Indians when they're drunk, and insulting women?"

The cow-boy honor – for Cash had a crude drilling in the laws of the West – flamed at the last words, and in all sincerity, true to his American point of view, he answered, hotly:

"Don't you accuse me of insultin' women. She ain't a woman – she's a squaw."

Jim turned away. Why argue?

"Bill," he said, "you and Grouchy put Tabywana on his pony. Nat-u-ritch, pike way, and take your father with you." He knew she could manage the ponies and arrive at her wickyup in safety; in fact, the pony would take the Chief home as he would a dead weight, if Tabywana was once strapped on his back.

The men struggled with the heavy body of Tabywana, and they finally succeeded in dragging him across the room, followed by Nat-u-ritch carrying the blanket. Cash could only watch – he was helpless – so he snarled:

"You've spoiled my trade, eh?"

Jim turned to him. "The bar is closed to Indians in Maverick." He meant Cash to infer that he could make it unpleasant for him if he called the government's attention to the matter.