Part 14 (1/2)

Michael just stared at him.

The people who had no interest in the trouble must have seen drawn guns before now, because I heard them breaking rapid for cover. The scrub which belonged to Ryan was formed up behind him for war, while back of Balshannon stood only Jim and Curly with the whole rear part of the room behind them empty. The two youngsters seemed to be having baby troubles, for Curly was struggling powerful to break away from Jim.

”I got to,” he shouted, ”I cayn't see to shoot!” Then he jumped clear.

He had disremembered about being a cripple, he had torn the bandage away from his eye, and over the left brow, clear for all men to see, was his brand, the knife wound! At that a yell went up from Ryan's crowd, and some of his men surged forward, Louisiana and Low-Lived Joe in the lead.

I jumped straight at them with my brace of guns.

”Back!” shouted Ryan, holding them back with both arms. ”Back! What's your hurry? Wait!”

”Come on!” came Curly's clear high yell. ”Two thousand dollars daid or alive if you take me! I'm a sure wolf, and it's my night to howl, you cowards! I'm Curly McCalmont of the Robbers' Roost! Take me who can!”

Curly had gone plumb crazy, throwing his life away to get Balshannon one more chance of escape, but the crooks only saw that the small boy's team of guns were quick in his hands to shoot, and felt real glad of Ryan's outstretched arms. So came the lull, and I heard the bar-keep clas.h.i.+ng down bottle and gla.s.s beside Balshannon.

”Whisky,” says he in a shaky voice, ”and yours, Mr. Ryan?”

”Irish,” said Ryan, then whispered to his son, who hauled clumsy, getting out his silver-plated pop-shooter, a thing more fit for a girl than a grown man.

I like to think of my old patrone in those last moments of his life, as he stood at the end of the bar, quiet peaceful, facing Ryan. He was a tall, straight man, gaunt some, dead weary, but the only clean thing in sight. The grey moustache raked up against the red tan of his face, his hair was curling silver, his eyes cool blue. He seemed to be amused with the Ryans, and as to weapons, he just despised a gun. Then he heard the clash of his son's spurs just behind him. ”Good-bye,” I heard him whisper. ”G.o.d bless you, Jim.”

I reckon Jim was crying.

Ryan had swung forward along the bar, and reached for Balshannon's empty gla.s.s. ”Here, take your drink,” he shouted, ”the drink you begged for!”

Balshannon stepped aside while Ryan filled the gla.s.s for him to drink.

”Thank you,” he said. But Ryan s.n.a.t.c.hed the full gla.s.s, jumped back, swung out his arm--”Take that!” he yelled, and threw the gla.s.s straight at Balshannon's face.

The patrone took a handkerchief and wiped his face, slow and dainty, but the blood was starting where the gla.s.s had struck. ”I'm sorry,” he said, ”that it should come to this, but as you are not in condition, Mr. Ryan, to fight, I must ask you, Mr. Michael Ryan, to oblige me.”

”Fight?” yelled Ryan. ”Fight a thing like you? Not much! Back, Michael!

My Lord Balshannon,” he sneered, ”do you think my son would demean himself to fight you?”

”I observe,” said Balshannon kindly, ”that he seems to be rather warm in that fur overcoat.”

The crowd broke out laughing, half ready, I felt then to take the weaker side against a coward. The patrone was so surely great, so much a man, so helpless--death in his eyes, peace on his smiling lips; and the Ryans in furs and jewellery looked such curs.

I had stepped back against the wall, facing the middle of the bar. On the right was the Ryan gang, on the left Balshannon, behind me the row of windows which looked on the alley-way where my men lay hid. I rapped soft with my knuckles on the window just at my right hand.

”Say, Chalkeye!” Louisiana was hailing me. ”Why don't you stand by the Dook? Have you gone back on the Dook?”

”I stand here, Pete,” said I, ”to see fair play.”

Then Ryan broke in on me.

”Boys,” he said, ”we don't need Chalkeye Davies to judge our play. You know me, all of you; you know my record, and what I've done for our city. I've not asked you here, citizens, to see murder, or fighting of any sort, but to witness an act of justice done by this Lord Balshannon on himself.”

The crowd kept still, remembering that our leading citizen had acted straight for our city, and had a right to be heard.

”Now you shall judge as citizens,” said Ryan, ”between this man and me.