Part 37 (2/2)

He bent over the desk. ”Jove!” was all he said; but it stood for the realization of the mighty difference between the map under his eyes and what he was under oath to himself to make it. What ”lots” of men--not mountaineers only, but Blacklanders, too--had got to change their notions--notions stuck as fast in their belief as his mountains were stuck in the ground--before that map could suit him. To think harder, he covered his face with his hands. The gale rattled his window. He failed to hear Enos just outside his door, alone and very drunk, prying off the tin sign of John March, Gentleman. He did not hear even the soft click of the latch or the yet softer footsteps that brought the drunkard close before his desk; but at the first word he glanced up and found himself covered with a revolver.

”Set still,” drawled Enos. In his left hand was the tin sign. ”This yeh trick looked ti-ud a-tellin' lies, so I fotch it in.”

Without change of color--for despair stood too close for fear to come between--John fixed his eyes upon the drunken man's and began to rise.

The weapon followed his face up.

”Enos, point that thing another way or I'll kill you.” He took a slow step outward from the desk, the pistol following with a drunken waver more terrible than a steady aim. Enos spoke along its barrel, still holding up the sign.

”Is this little trick gwine to stay fetch in? Say 'ya.s.s, mawsteh,' aw I blow yo' head off.”

But John still held the drunkard's eye. As he took up from his desk a large piece of ore, he said, ”Enos, when a man like you leaves a gentleman's door open, the gentleman goes and shuts it himself.”

”Ya.s.s, you bet! So do a n.i.g.g.ah. Sh.e.l.l I shoot, aw does you 'llow----”

”I'm going to shut the door, Enos. If you shoot me in the back I swear I'll kill you so quick you'll never know what hurt you.” With the hand that held the stone, while word followed word, the speaker made a slow upward gesture. But at the last word the stone dropped, the pistol was in March's hand, it flashed up and then down, and the drunkard, blinded and sinking from a frightful blow of the weapon's b.u.t.t, was dragging his foe with him to the floor. Down they went, the pistol flying out of reach, March's knuckles at Enos's throat and a knee on his breast.

”'Nough,” gasped the mountaineer, ”'nough!”

”Not yet! I know you too well! Not till one of us is dead!” John pressed the throat tighter with one hand, plunged the other into his pocket, and drew and sprung his dirk. The choking man gurgled for mercy, but March pushed back his falling locks with his wrist and lifted the blade. There it hung while he cried,

”O if you'd only done this sober I'd end you! I wish to G.o.d you wa'n't drunk!”

”'Nough, Johnnie, 'nough! You air a gentleman, Johnnie, sir.”

”Will you nail that sign up again?”

”Ya.s.s.”

The knife was shut and put away, and when Enos gained his feet March had him covered with his magazine rifle. ”Pick that pistol up wrong end first and hand it to me! Now my hat! 'Ever mind yours! Now that sign.”

The corners of the tin still held two small nails.

”Now stand back again.” March thrust a finger into his vest-pocket. ”I had a thumb-tack.” He found it. ”Now, Enos, I'll tack this thing up myself. But you'll stand behind me, sir, so's if anyone shoots he'll hit you first, and if you try to get away or to uncover me in the least bit, or if anybody even c.o.c.ks a gun, you die right there, sir. Now go on!”

The sun was setting as they stepped out on the sidewalk. The mail hour had pa.s.sed. The square and the streets around it were lonely. The saloons themselves were half deserted. In one near the _Courier_ office there was some roystering, and before it three tipsy hors.e.m.e.n were just mounting and turning to leave town by the pike. They so nearly hid Major Garnet and Parson Tombs coming down the sidewalk on foot some distance beyond, that March did not recognize them. At Weed and Usher's Captain Champion joined the Major and the parson. But John's eye was on one lone man much nearer by, who came riding leisurely among the trees of the square, looking about as if in search of some one. He had a long, old-fas.h.i.+oned rifle.

”Wait, Enos, there's your brother. Stand still.”

John levelled his rifle just in time. ”Halt! Drop that gun! Drop it to the ground or I'll drop you!” The rifle fell to the earth. ”Now get away! Move!” The horseman wheeled and hurried off under cover of the tree-trunks.

”Gentlemen!” cried Parson Tombs, ”there'll be murder yonder!” He ran forward.

”Brother Tombs,” cried Garnet, walking majestically after him, ”for Heaven's sake, stop! you can't prevent anything that way.” But the old man ran on.

Champion, with a curse at himself for having only a knife and a derringer, flew up a stair and into the _Courier_ office.

”Lend me something to shoot with, Jeff-Jack, the Yahoos are after John March.”

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