As a matter of truth, Jack Potter was beginning to find the shadow of a deed weigh upon him like a leaden slab. He, the town marshal of Yellow Sky, a man known, liked, and feared in his corner, a prominent person, had gone to San Antonio to meet a girl he believed he loved, and there, after the usual prayers, had actually induced her to marry him, without consulting Yellow Sky for any part of the transaction. He was now bringing his bride before an innocent and unsuspecting community.
Of course, people in Yellow Sky married as it pleased them, in accordance with a general custom; but such was Potters thought of his duty to his friends, or of their idea of his duty, or of an unspoken form which does not control men in these matters, that he felt he was heinous. He had committed an extraordinary crime. Face to face with this girl in San Antonio, and spurred by his sharp impulse, he had gone headlong over all the social hedges. At San Antonio he was like a man hidden in the dark. A knife to sever any friendly duty, any form, was easy to his hand in that remote city. But the hour of Yellow Sky, the hour of daylight, was approaching.
He knew full well that his marriage was an important thing to his town. It could only be exceeded by the burning of the new hotel. His friends could not forgive him. Frequently he had reflected on the advisability of telling them by telegraph, but a new cowardice had been upon him. He feared to do it. And now the train was hurrying him toward a scene of amazement, glee, and reproach. He glanced out of the window at the line of haze swinging slowly in towards the train.
Yellow Sky had a kind of brass band, which played painfully, to the delight of the populace. He laughed without heart as he thought of it. If the citizens could dream of his prospective arrival with his bride, they would parade the band at the station and escort them, amid cheers and laughing congratulations, to his adobe home.
He resolved that he would use all the devices of speed and plains-craft in making the journey from the station to his house. Once within that safe citadel he could issue some sort of a vocal bulletin, and then not go among the citizens until they had time to wear off a little of their enthusiasm.
The bride looked anxiously at him. Whats worrying you, Jack?
He laughed again. Im not worrying, girl. Im only thinking of Yellow Sky.
She flushed in comprehension.
A sense of mutual guilt invaded their minds and developed a finer tenderness. They looked at each other with eyes softly aglow. But Potter often laughed the same nervous laugh. The flush upon the brides face seemed quite permanent.
The traitor to the feelings of Yellow Sky narrowly watched the speeding landscape. Were nearly there, he said.
Presently the porter came and announced the proximity of Potters home. He held a brush in his hand and, with all his airy superiority gone, he brushed Potters new clothes as the latter slowly turned this way and that way. Potter fumbled out a coin and gave it to the porter, as he had seen others do. It was a heavy and muscle-bound business, as that of a man shoeing his first horse.
The porter took their bag, and as the train began to slow they moved forward to the hooded platform of the car. Presently the two engines and their long string of coaches rushed into the station of Yellow Sky.
They have to take water here, said Potter, from a constricted throat and in mournful cadence, as one announcing death. Before the train stopped, his eye had swept the length of the platform, and he was glad and astonished to see there was none upon it but the station-agent, who, with a slightly hurried and anxious air, was walking toward the water-tanks. When the train had halted, the porter alighted first and placed in position a little temporary step.
Come on, girl, said Potter hoarsely. As he helped her down they each laughed on a false note. He took the bag from the negro, and bade his wife cling to his arm. As they slunk rapidly away, his hang-dog glance perceived that they were unloading the two trunks, and also that the station-agent far ahead near the baggage-car had turned and was running toward him, making gestures. He laughed, and groaned as he laughed, when he noted the first effect of his marital bliss upon Yellow Sky. He gripped his wifes arm firmly to his side, and they fled. Behind them the porter stood chuckling fatuously.
II
The California Express on the Southern Railway was due at Yellow Sky in twenty-one minutes. There were six men at the bar of the Weary Gentleman saloon. One was a drummer who talked a great deal and rapidly; three were Texans who did not care to talk at that time; and two were Mexican sheep-herders who did not talk as a general practice in the Weary Gentleman saloon. The barkeepers dog lay on the board walk that crossed in front of the door. His head was on his paws, and he glanced drowsily here and there with the constant vigilance of a dog that is kicked on occasion. Across the sandy street were some vivid green grass plots, so wonderful in appearance amid the sands that burned near them in a blazing sun that they caused a doubt in the mind. They exactly resembled the grass mats used to represent lawns on the stage. At the cooler end of the railway station a man without a coat sat in a tilted chair and smoked his pipe. The fresh-cut bank of the Rio Grande circled near the town, and there could be seen beyond it a great, plum-colored plain of mesquite[45].
Save for the busy drummer and his companions in the saloon, Yellow Sky was dozing. The new-comer leaned gracefully upon the bar, and recited many tales with the confidence of a bard who has come upon a new field.
and at the moment that the old man fell down stairs with the bureau in his arms, the old woman was coming up with two scuttles of coal, and, of course
The drummers tale was interrupted by a young man who suddenly appeared in the open door. He cried: Scratchy Wilsons drunk, and has turned loose with both hands. The two Mexicans at once set down their glasses and faded out of the rear entrance of the saloon.
The drummer, innocent and jocular, answered: All right, old man. Spose he has. Come in and have a drink, anyhow.
But the information had made such an obvious cleft in every skull in the room that the drummer was obliged to see its importance. All had become instantly solemn. Say, said he, mystified, what is this? His three companions made the introductory gesture of eloquent speech, but the young man at the door forestalled them.
But the information had made such an obvious cleft in every skull in the room that the drummer was obliged to see its importance. All had become instantly solemn. Say, said he, mystified, what is this? His three companions made the introductory gesture of eloquent speech, but the young man at the door forestalled them.
It means, my friend, he answered, as he came into the saloon, that for the next two hours this town wont be a health resort.
The barkeeper went to the door and locked and barred it. Reaching out of the window, he pulled in heavy wooden shutters and barred them. Immediately a solemn, chapel-like gloom was upon the place. The drummer was looking from one to another.
But, say, he cried, what is this, anyhow? You dont mean there is going to be a gun-fight?
Dont know whether therell be a fight or not, answered one man grimly. But therell be some shootin some good shootin.
The young man who had warned them waved his hand. Oh, therell be a fight fast enough if anyone wants it. Anybody can get a fight out there in the street. Theres a fight just waiting.
The drummer seemed to be swayed between the interest of a foreigner and a perception of personal danger.
What did you say his name was? he asked.
Scratchy Wilson, they answered in chorus.
And will he kill anybody? What are you going to do? Does this happen often? Does he rampage around like this once a week or so? Can he break in that door?
No, he cant break down that door, replied the barkeeper. Hes tried it three times. But when he comes youd better lay down on the floor, stranger. Hes dead sure to shoot at it, and a bullet may come through.
Thereafter the drummer kept a strict eye upon the door. The time had not yet been called for him to hug the floor, but, as a minor precaution, he sidled near to the wall. Will he kill anybody? he said again.
The men laughed low and scornfully at the question.
Hes out to shoot, and hes out for trouble. Dont see any good in experimentin with him.
But what do you do in a case like this? What do you do?
A man responded: Why, he and Jack Potter
But, in chorus, the other men interrupted, Jack Potters in San Anton.
Well, who is he? Whats he got to do with it?
Oh, hes the town marshal. He goes out and fights Scratchy when he gets on one of these tears.
Wow, said the drummer, mopping his brow. Nice job hes got.
The voices had toned away to mere whisperings. The drummer wished to ask further questions which were born of an increasing anxiety and bewilderment; but when he attempted them, the men merely looked at him in irritation and motioned him to remain silent. A tense waiting hush was upon them. In the deep shadows of the room their eyes shone as they listened for sounds from the street. One man made three gestures at the barkeeper, and the latter, moving like a ghost, handed him a glass and a bottle. The man poured a full glass of whisky, and set down the bottle noiselessly. He gulped the whisky in a swallow, and turned again toward the door in immovable silence. The drummer saw that the barkeeper, without a sound, had taken a Winchester from beneath the bar. Later he saw this individual beckoning to him, so he tiptoed across the room.
You better come with me back of the bar.
No, thanks, said the drummer, perspiring. Id rather be where I can make a break for the back door.
Whereupon the man of bottles made a kindly but peremptory gesture. The drummer obeyed it, and finding himself seated on a box with his head below the level of the bar, balm was laid upon his soul at sight of various zinc and copper fittings that bore a resemblance to armor-plate. The barkeeper took a seat comfortably upon an adjacent box.
You see, he whispered, this here Scratchy Wilson is a wonder with a gun a perfect wonder and when he goes on the war trail, we hunt our holes naturally. Hes about the last one of the old gang that used to hang out along the river here. Hes a terror when hes drunk. When hes sober hes all right kind of simple wouldnt hurt a fly nicest fellow in town. But when hes drunk whoo!