Part 12 (1/2)
”It may be good enough for my father, but he's Irish, and he doesn't know any better. I'm an American.”
”But still you'd be a lord.”
”Would my lords.h.i.+p keep my pony from stumbling in front of a stampede of cattle? Would it save my scalp from Apaches, or help my little calves when the mountain lions want meat? Does my blood protect me from rattlesnakes, or Ryans, or skunks?”
”But there's the big land grant yo' people owns over in Ireland.”
”It's tied up with entail, whatever that means, and there's no money in it, anyway. My tail in the old country doesn't save me from being galled in the saddle here, and I'm awfully tired.”
”Same here, seh. I'm weary some myself. Yo' gun is loaded?”
Jim pawed his revolver. ”Yes.”
”Take some more,” said Crook, and pa.s.sed over a handful of cartridges to fill Jim's belt. Jim saw that the cripple was armed.
”Why do you talk,” says he, ”about horses waiting for us, and the need of guns, and father getting killed? What's the trouble, my lad?”
”The trouble is that Ryan has hired that gambling outfit to skin the Dook to-night. There's men standing round to see he don't leave that house alive. Now, look along the street here to the left, across at the Mortuary Hotel. You see old Ryan settin' there?”
”I do.”
”He's waiting for his son, the millionaire, young Michael. He's due with his private cyar at ten o'clock. If Michael comes--if he comes, I say--his father reckons to bring him over to call on yo' father here at the 'Sepulchre.' That's why the Dook is bein' skinned, and that's why Ryan's men are watching to see he don't escape alive.”
”But what does Ryan want? He's got our breeding cattle, he's taken Holy Cross, my mother's gone--we've nothing left to take.”
”You have yo' lives, you and the Dook. Ryan and his outfit allow they'll wipe you out when Michael comes.”
”Is that all?” Jim laughed. ”They're thoughtful and painstaking, anyway.
By the way, I don't know that my father and I have been shrieking for help as yet.”
”If you were the kind of people to make a big song when yo're hurt, I reckon that we-all would jest leave you squeal.”
”And who is we-all? You've acted like a white man to-night, looking after my poor roan and me like a little brother. But why should you care, young chap? I've never seen you before in my life; I don't even know your name.”
”My name is Crook; I works at the stable.”
”But why should you interfere? You may get hurt. I wouldn't like that, youngster.”
”Wall, partner”--Crook shuffled a whole lot nervous--”I got a message for you from the boys. The Dook's had nothing but greasers working for him, and that's rough on us white men, but still he's surely good. He's dead straight, he don't wear no frills, and many a po' puncher, broke, hungry, half daid of thirst, has been treated like a son at Holy Crawss.
We don't amount to much--'cept when you want an enemy or a friend--but our tribe is right into this fight a whole heap, for them Ryans is dirt; and if they comes up agin you to-night I expaict there'll be gun-play first.”
”Well, kid,” said Jim, yawning with a big mouth, ”I wish they'd put it off until to-morrow.”
”Yo' eyes is like boiled aigs. Try a cigarette to keep you awake.”
”Can't we get my father away from this house?”
”Not till the train comes in.”