CHAPTER XIV: BAD NEWS GETS UP SPEED
And Jim Kelton was thinking the same thing as he sat on the shady veranda at the JK that day and mulled over what Jane had told him. His daughter had heard much which had been said to Blaze Nolan at the Triangle X, and he felt his hatred of Blaze oozing away to a certain extent. Either Blaze was still loyal to the cattlemen of Painted Valley, or he didn’t know where the Lost Trail was located.
Harry came up to see him, still dusty from a long ride.
“I saw Tommy Simpson to-day, dad. Sam Hawker went out to the Triangle X to have a talk with Kendall Marsh, but Marsh has left the valley. The bank refused to renew Sam’s mortgage, and I guess Sam went out there to argue it out with Marsh. Tommy said that the gang out there acted kinda meek and mild, and Terry Ione is goin’ around with his head all bandaged up.”
“What do you think of Jane’s story?” asked his father.
“It looks as though Blaze Nolan wasn’t so strong with Marsh. Jane was a little fool to go out there, and I feel like kickin’ myself for givin’ her the chance; but you know Jane. Dad, I think she’s fightin’ for a chance to help Blaze Nolan.”
“Women are queer critters, son. But I can’t believe that Nolan carried her all the way from the Triangle X to Medicine Tree, without knowin’ who she was. And if this other woman has lied about him and done all them things against him, why did he pick her up and take her to town?”
“Jane spoke about that. She said Nolan told her it was because she was a woman.”
The old man nodded slowly.
“Some men are queer critters, too.”
“Tommy says Hawker is goin’ to round up his stock and see if he can’t save a little out of the wreck. It’ll break old Sam, and he knows it, but he swears that Kendall Marsh will never get the O Bar B ranch as long as he lives. Marsh owns the bank, the War Dance Saloon and the Triangle X, and he’s got the rest of us under his thumb.”
“And he’s pulled out of the valley, eh?”
“That’s what Tommy says. But that don’t mean anythin’, as far as our condition is concerned. Marsh can work from one place as well as another.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see what happens. If Blaze Nolan won’t tell Kendall Marsh where the Lost Trail is located, we’re safe, as far as rustlin’ our stock is concerned, and if it come to a showdown, I’ll go broke before I’ll give up keepin’ cases on the Pass.”
That night Bad News Buker got drunk. Inaction palled upon him, and he looked upon the flowing bowl for inspiration. A bad example as an officer of the law, it is true; but Bad News was human, in spite of his job.
Then came Tommy Simpson from the O Bar B, and “Ole” Olsen, from the Bar Anchor. Ole was a huge, blond, open-faced sort of person, while Tommy was of medium height, with copper-coloured hair and a wide mouth. Ole’s laugh was thunderous in its capacity, and after a few drinks he was as gentle as a grizzly bear.
Bad News welcomed them to his one-ring circus, which made it a three-ring attraction, and they started out to put on a regular show.
“Thish is the time fer all good men to come to the aid of their party,” declared Bad News, after they had become sufficiently organised to appreciate their own worth.
“Motion made an’ carried,” stated Tommy. “We shall now procheed to shave the country. Ole, will you lead us in our openin’ shong?”
“Hold everythin’,” begged Oscar, the barkeep. “Don’t let Ole sing. My gosh, he shakes all the glasses loose from the back bar.”
“Ole,” said Bad News seriously, “has what I conshider a good voice.”
“It’s durable,” agreed Oscar, “but not musical.”
“That’s all accordin’ to yore ears,” said Tommy owlishly. “Fer my part, I don’t want it too damn’ musical. And who has a better right to shing. I’d crave to know? Wasn’t it one of Ole’s anchestors who dis-dischovered this wonnerful land?”
“What’s the joke?” asked Oscar.
“Th’t a fact,” agreed Ole. “He shore discovered America.”
“Hey!” snorted Oscar. “You ain’t no Eyetalian, Ole. Columbus was an Eyetalian, you big Swede.”
“Shore was; but he never discovered thish country. It was my grandfather, I tell yuh; old man Erickson.”
“Yore grandfather?”
“Sure as hell. My mother’s name was Erickson, and she married a Olsen.”
“Which makes you a Swedish cowpuncher in spite of anythin’,” said Tommy seriously. “But how about a shong?”
“With all that behind me, I could have been anythin’ I wanted to be,” declared Ole, his chest swelling visibly.
Tommy, as he reached for the bottle and helped himself to a drink, sang in a quivering tenor:
“If Columbus didn’t discover this country, what did he discover?” asked Oscar, making a mental note that Tommy owed the house two-bits.
“He discovered how to make an egg stand on end,” said Tommy seriously. “It was a great boon to humanity.”
“Stand an egg on end?” Oscar was interested.
“Shore. Didn’t yuh ever see it done?”
“Aw, yuh can’t stand no egg on end.”
“All of which shows that you came from Yuma, Oscar. All it takes is practice.”
Oscar took a couple of eggs from beneath the bar and proceeded to try and stand one on end on the back-bar. Needless to say, he was unsuccessful. Alden Marsh came in and stopped between the bar and a poker table, possibly wondering what Oscar was tryin to do with the egg.
Alden was wearing a pair of robin’s-egg blue trousers, which were palpably new, as the creases were still sharply visible, although a trifle tight in spots. The newness of the trousers did not correspond with the rest of his raiment, which was far from new.
“Aw, there can’t nobody stand an egg on end,” declared Oscar, turning back to the bar.
“Can if yuh know how,” said Tommy. “Gimme the aig.”
Oscar passed one of them to Tommy, who drew up his sleeves in imitation of a magician. He placed the egg on end, holding it with the forefinger of his left hand.
“Now, you’ve gotta watch it close, Oscar. This is just a trick of balancin’, and it don’t stay on end very long.”
The fact of the matter was, Tommy was almost too drunk to even keep his own balance. Oscar hunched down behind the bar in close proximity to the egg, his eyes intent on the egg itself. And with a swift motion of his right palm, Tommy came down upon the egg with crushing force, and the contents of the egg just squirted out into the face of the interested Oscar.
He staggered against the back bar, one hand clawing at the mess on his face. It wasn’t an overly fresh egg. Then he drew back his right hand and flung the other egg at Tommy’s head, but his aim was poor, possibly due to his eyes being full of egg at the time, and the egg hit Alden Marsh square in the belt-buckle and sagged down in a yellowish mass over his robin’s-egg blue pants.
For several moments Alden Marsh looked down at his pants, a queer expression in his eyes. Then he sniffed audibly. The egg was probably older than the one Oscar was digging out of his eyes. Alden Marsh was just a little drunk, but not drunk enough to brook any such an insult. He reached for his gun, but too late; Tommy Simpson had jerked him sideways, throwing him off his balance, taken the gun and headed for the front door, while behind him went Bad News and Ole Olsen, whose grandfather had discovered America.
Alden Marsh was mad. In fact, he was so mad that he stood in the middle of the saloon and told the wide world all about Tommy Simpson, not considering that Oscar, the barkeep, had thrown the egg. Possibly he blamed Tommy for not getting hit with the ancient bit of hen-fruit. While the cursing didn’t hurt Tommy, who had faded from the scene, it served as sort of a blow-off for Alden. He bought himself a drink and considered the future.
The pants didn’t belong to him; they belonged to Terry Ione, and Terry wasn’t there when Alden took them. A nail in the corral fence had ruined Alden’s overalls, and there wasn’t another pair around the ranch; so he took Terry’s new pants. Robin’s-egg blue didn’t look well with that glazing of egg-yolk; it looked like a weak sunset in a midday sky. Alden sighed and decided to kill Tommy Simpson.
He tried to borrow a gun from the bartender, who didn’t own one, and then decided to try and find Tommy and get his own gun back. He thought Tommy might be a trusting soul. And while Alden went in search of Tommy Simpson, Terry Ione rode in to Medicine Tree. He wore the coat and vest of that Robin’s-egg blue suit.
Alden went to two other small saloons, looking for Tommy, and in each saloon he drank deeply; too deeply, perhaps. But he managed to forget the eggs so entirely that less than an hour later, when he met Terry in front of the War Dance Saloon, he had forgotten the incident entirely.
“H’lo, par’ner,” he greeted Terry jovially. “Whash on yore mind?”
Terry looked him over gravely. They were a queer looking pair. One with a robin’s-egg blue coat and vest, with overalls; the other with robin’s-egg blue trousers, slightly soiled, and an old, stringy vest and no coat.
“I’ve got a secret,” said Terry seriously. “C’mon where nobody can hear it, and I’ll let yuh in on it.”
“That’s great,” said Alden owlishly. “I hope it’s good.”
“If it ain’t, it’s my fault, feller.”
Alden travelled across the street like a boat in a heavy gale, but he reached the sidewalk in front of the Medicine Tree Bank. Terry led the way down an alley past the bank, while to his ears came the sound of doubtful harmony, rendered by Tommy Simpson, Bad News Buker and Ole Olsen, who were singing in Bad New’s little office just down the street:
“I can hear shingin’,” declared Alden.
“Yea-a-ah; and that ain’t a marker to what yo’re goin’ to see, feller.”
Bam! And Alden Marsh thought somebody had thrown a lighted match in a car-load of fireworks. Terry could pistol-whip a man nicely, when he put his mind to it.