Part 6 (1/2)
”I grant you that,” she replied quickly. ”But it is a shock, when one conceives a man to be something of a _gentleman_; to have some remnant of the code honorable-then, pah! to find his name a by-word on the frontier. A murderer! Even descended to common theft and dealings in contraband whisky. You have a savory record in these parts, I find. How nicely this chamber fits you, Mr.-ah-what is the euphonious t.i.tle?
Slowfoot George. Ah, yes. Why the Slowfoot? By the tale of your successful elusion of the law I should imagine you exceeding fleet of foot.”
It seemed to me unwomanly and uncalled for, that bitter, scornful speech; even granting the truth of it, which had not been established in my mind. But it had a tonic effect on Barreau. The hurt look faded from his face. His lips parted in the odd, half-scornful, half-amused smile that was always lurking about his mouth. He did not at once reply. When he did it was only a crisp sentence or two.
”Let us be done with this,” he said. ”There is neither pleasure nor profit in exchanging insults.”
”Indeed,” she thrust back, ”there can be no exchange of insults between us. Could aught _you_ say insult any honest man or woman? But so be it.
I came merely to convince my eyes that my ears heard truly. It may tickle your depraved vanity to know that MacLeod is buzzing with your exploits and capture.”
”That concerns me little,” Barreau returned indifferently.
”Ditto,” she averred, ”except that I am right glad to find you stripped of your sheep's clothing, little as I expected such a revelation concerning one who pa.s.sed for a gentleman. And to think that I might never have found you out, if my father had permitted me to return from Benton.”
”Permitted?” Barreau laid inquiring inflection on the word.
”What is it to--” she cut in sharply.
”Your father,” he interrupted deliberately, ”is a despicable scoundrel; a liar and a cheat of the first water.”
”Oh-oh!” she gasped. ”This-from _you_.”
”I said, 'let us be done with this,' a moment ago,” he reminded her.
She drew back as if he had struck at her, flus.h.i.+ng, her under lip quivering-more from anger than any other emotion, I think. Almost at once she leaned forward again, glaring straight at Barreau.
”It would be of a piece with your past deeds,” she cried, ”if you should break this flimsy jail and butcher my father and myself while we slept.
Oh, one could expect anything from such as you!” And then she was gone, the guard striding heavy-footed after her. A puzzled expression crept over Barreau's face, blotting out the ironic smile.
”It was a dirty trick of me to speak so,” he muttered, after a little.
”But my G.o.d, a man can't always play the Stoic under the lash. However-I daresay--” He went off into a profound study, resting his chin in the palms of his hands. I kept my peace, making aimless marks with my pen.
It was an odd turn of affairs.
”Bob, what did I say about Destiny awhile ago?” he raised his head and addressed me suddenly. ”I will take it back. I am going to take Destiny by the nape of the neck. Being grilled on the seat of the scornful is little to my liking. It was a bit of ill-luck that you fell in with me.
I seem to be in a bad boat.”
”Ill-luck for which of us?” I asked. It was the first time he had sounded the personal note-aside from the evening we were landed in MacLeod, when he comforted me with the a.s.surance that at the worst I would spend no more than a few days in the guardhouse.
”For you, of course,” he replied seriously. ”My sins are upon my own head. But it was unfortunate that I should have led you to Sanders'
place the very night picked for a raid. They can have nothing against you, though; and they'll let you out fast enough when it comes to a hearing. Nor, for that matter, are they likely to hang me, notwithstanding the ugly things folk say. However, I have work to do which I cannot do lying here. Hence I perceive that I must get out of here. And I may need your help.”
”How are you going to manage that?” I inquired, gazing with some astonishment at this man who spoke so coolly and confidently of getting out of prison. ”These walls seem pretty solid, and you can hardly dig through them with a lone pen-nib. That's the only implement I see at hand. And I expect the guard will be after that before I get my letter done.”
”I don't know how the thing will be done,” he declared, ”but I am surely going to get out of here pretty _p.r.o.nto_, as the cowmen have it.”
He settled back and took to staring at the ceiling. I, presently, became immersed in my letter to Bolton. When it was done I thrust a hand through the bars of my cell and wig-wagged the Policeman-they were good-natured souls for the most part, tolerant of their prisoners, and it broke the grinding monotony to exchange a few words with one under almost any pretext. Barreau was chary of speech, and the Sanders brothers were penned beyond my sight. Sheer monotonous silence, I imagine, would drive even peace-loving men to revolt and commit desperate deeds when they are cooped within four walls with nothing but their thoughts for company.
When he came I observed that the guard had been changed since Miss Montell's visit. The new man was a lean, sour-faced trooper. To my surprise he took my letter and then stood peeping in past me to where Barreau lay on his bunk. After a few seconds he walked away, smiling queerly. In a minute or so he was back again, taking another squint.