Books: The Long Chance
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Peter B. Kyne >> The Long Chance
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The doctor looked at her curiously. "I hope not" he said. "But he'll
need a trained nurse and the best of care to pull through. It's long
odds."
"That young feller's middle name is Long Odds." Mr. Hennage had arrived
at the conclusion that Donna needed a great deal of comforting at that
moment. "He's lived on long odds ever since he came into this country."
"How do you know, Hennage?" the doctor demanded. "I tell--"
"Long odds an' long guns, like birds o' feather always flock together"
the gambler answered him drily, "This young feller wouldn't feel that
he was gettin' any joy out o' life if he didn't tackle the nub end o'
the deal. I'm layin' even money he comes up to the young lady's
expectations."
Donna thanked him with her eyes, and Harley P. crossed to the door and
looked down the long patio to where a small white wooden cross gleamed
through the festoons of climbing roses.
"He ought to have a nurse" the doctor advised Donna.
"Very well, doctor. You will telephone to Bakersfield, or Los Angeles,
will you not, and engage one?"
"I don't think our patient can afford the expense. Hennage frisked him
and all the money--"
"Thank you, I will attend to the financial side of this case, Doctor
Taylor."
Mr. Hennage turned from his survey of the patio.
"Doc," he complained, "it's time for you to move out o' San Pasqual.
You've stayed too long already. You're gettin' the San Pasqual sperrit,
Doc. You ain't got no sympathy for a stranger."
"Well, you don't expect me to put up twenty-five a week and railroad
fare--"
"Never mind worryin' about what you've got to put up with, Doc. If you
know all the things I put up with--thanks, Doc. Hurry back, and don't
forget to 'phone for that nurse."
"Ain't it marvelous how a small camp always narrers the point o' view?"
the gambler observed when the doctor had gone. "Always thinkin' o'
themselves an' money, A man in my business, Miss Donna, soon learns
that mighty few men--an' women, too--will stand the acid. That young
feller inside (he jerked a fat thumb over his shoulder) will stand it.
I know. I've applied the acid. An' you'll stand the acid, too," he
added--"when Mrs. Pennycook hears you kissed Bob McGraw. Ouch! That
woman's tongue drips corrosive sublimate."
Donna blushed furiously.
"You--you--won't tell, will you, Mr. Hennage?"
"Of course not. But that chuckleheaded roughneck O'Rourke will. Why did
you kiss him? I ain't one o' the presumin' kind, but I'd like to know,
Miss Donna."
"I kissed him"--Donna commenced to cry and hid her burning face in her
hands. "I kissed him because--because--I thought he was dying--and he
was the first man--that looked at--me so different. And he was so
brave, Mr. Hennage--"
"That you thought he was a man an' worth the kiss, eh, Miss Donna?"
"I guess that's the explanation" she confessed, the while she marveled
inwardly that she should feel such relief at unburdening her secret to
the worst man in San Pasqual.
"If some good woman had only done that for me" the gambler murmured a
little wistfully. "If she only had! But of course this young Bob, he's
different from--what I was at his age--"
"I couldn't help it" Donna sobbed; "he's one of the presuming kind."
Harley P. sat down and laughed until his three gold teeth almost
threatened to fall out.
"God bless your sweet soul, Miss Donna," he gasped, "go in and kiss him
again! He needs you worse than he does a nurse. Go in an' kiss the
presumin' cuss."
"You're making fun of me" Donna charged.
"I'm not. Can't a low-down, no-account man like me even laugh where
there's happiness? Why, if that young feller goes to work an' spoils it
all by kickin' the bucket, I'd die o' grief."
"You know him, do you not?"
"I should say so."
"Is he--"
"Yes, he's the nicest kind of a boy."
"How old is he!"
"Twenty-eight."
Donna was thoughtful.
"Nice disparity in ages, don't you think, Miss Donna?"
Donna blushed again. "What is his business!" she asked.
"Well, that's a right hard question to answer, Miss Donna. He was a
lawyer once for about a month, after he got out o' college, an' then he
worked on a newspaper. After that, just to prove he was a human bein',
he got the notion that there was money in the chicken business. Well,
he got out o' the chicken business with a couple o' hundred dollars,
an' then he come breezin' into a minin' camp one day an' tried bustin'
a faro bank. Failed agin. I'm responsible for that failure, though. The
next I see of him is a year later, in McKittrick, where he's runnin' a
real estate office an' dealin' in oil lands. But somehow there never
was no oil on none o' the land that Bob tied up, so he got plumb
disgusted an' quit. He was thinkin' o' tourin' the country districts
sellin' little pieces o' bluestone to put in the bowls of kerosene
lamps to keep 'em from explodin', when I see him next. He borrowed
fifty dollars from me--which he ain't paid back yet, come to think on't
--an' went to Nevada minin' an' just at present he's about settled into
his regular legitimate business. He was headed that way from birth. I
could read the signs."
"What is his present profession?"
"He's an Inspector o' Landscapes."
"You're wrong. He's not a Desert Rat."
"He is. I can prove it."
"He's too young. They don't begin to 'rat' until they're close to
forty. I could name you a dozen, and the youngest is thirty-eight."
"Oh, you're thinkin' o' the ordinary, garden variety. But I tell you
this McGraw man's a Desert Rat. The desert's got him. Generally it
don't get 'em so young, but once in a while it does, An' of all the
Desert Rats that ever sucked a niggerhead cactus, the feller that goes
huntin' lost mines is the worst. They never get over it."
Donna permitted herself a very small smile.
"Sometimes they do" she reminded him.
"I wouldn't be surprised. But not until they've found what they're
lookin' for. However, we'll wait an' see if Bob McGraw--like that name,
Miss Donna?"
"I love it."
"We'll wait an' see if he pulls through this, an' then we'll find out
if he can be cured o' desert-rattin'. In the meantime I'll wait here
until Doc gets back. I ain't one of the presumin' kind, but I think I'd
better stay. An' you--I think you'd better go in an' have another good
look at this Desert Rat o' yours. He's breathin' like the north wind
sighin' through a knot-hole."
He watched her disappear.
"For the sight o' a good woman, O Lord, we thank Thee," he murmured,
"an' for the sight o' a good woman with grit, we thank Thee some more.
Great grief, why wasn't I born good an' good-lookin' 'stead o' fat an'
no account?"
At ten o'clock Doc Taylor returned to the Hat Ranch and found the
condition of his patient unchanged. He was still unconscious and his
loud, stertorous breathing, coupled with the ghastly exhaust of air
through the hole on his breast, testified to the seriousness of his
condition. Throughout the night Donna sat by the bedside watching him,
while the doctor remained in the kitchen with Mr. Hennage.
Toward morning Bob McGraw opened his eyes and looked at Donna very
wonderingly. Then his glance wandered around the room and back to the
girl. He was plainly puzzled.
"Where's my horse," he whispered, "and my spurs and my gun and hat?"
Donna bent over him and placed two cool fingers on his lips.
"The hemorrhage has stopped," she warned him, "and you mustn't speak or
move, or you may bring it on again."
"I remember--now. I fired--low--and he--got me. Where's Friar Tuck?"
"Your horse? He's in the corral at San Pasqual, and your gun is in the
kitchen with your spurs, and your hat--why, I guess I forgot to bring
your hat with me. But don't worry about it. I'm Donna Corblay of the
Hat Ranch, and I'll give you your choice of a hundred hats if you'll
only get well."
"Are you--the--girl--that kissed me?"
Donna's voice was very low, her face was very close to his as she
answered him. His lean brown hand stole confidingly into hers--for a
long time he was silent, content to lie there and know that she was
near him.
Presently he looked up at her again, with the same dominating, wistful
entreaty in his brown eyes. She lowered her head until her cheek rested
against his, and his arm went upward and around her neck.
"God--made you--for me" he whispered. "I love you, and my name is Bob
McGraw. I guess--I'll--get well."
"Beloved," she breathed, "of course you'll get well. I want you to."
She smoothed the wavy auburn hair back from his forehead. "Go to sleep"
she commanded. "You can't talk to me any more. I'm going to go to
sleep, too."
She drew a bright Mexican serape over her shoulders, sat down in a
rocking-chair by the side of the bed and closed her eyes. For what
seemed to her a lapse of hours, although in reality it was less than
five minutes, she tried to induce a clever counterfeit of sleep, but
unable longer to deprive herself of another look at her prize she
opened her eyes and gazed at Bob McGraw. To her almost childish delight
he was watching her; and then she noticed his little, cheerful, half-
mocking smile.
She flushed hotly. For the first time she permitted the searchlight of
reason to play on the events of the night, and it occurred to her now
that she had been guilty of a monstrous breach of convention, an
unprecedented, unmaidenly action. She felt like crying now, with the
thought that she had held herself so cheap. Bob McGraw saw the flush
and the pallor that followed it. He read the unspoken thought behind
the changing rush of color.
"Don't feel--that way--about it" he whispered haltingly. "It's unusual
--but then--you and I are unusual, too. There seems to be--perfect--
understanding, and between a--man and a woman that means--perfect
peace. It had to--be. It was preordained--our meeting. What is--your
name?"
Donna again told him.
"Nice--name. Like it."
He closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep like a tired boy.
CHAPTER VI
Donna sat there until sunrise, rocking back and forth, striving to
weave an orderly pattern of reason out of the tangle of unreason in
which she found herself when, confronted by that look in Bob McGraw's
brown eyes. She failed. She could not think calmly. She was conscious
of but one supreme emotion as she gazed at this man who had ridden into
her life, gun in hand. She was happy. Heretofore her life had been
quiet, even, unemotional, always the same--and now she was happy,
riotously, deliriously happy; and it did not occur to her that Bob
McGraw might die. She willed that he should live, for life was love,
and love--what was love? Something that surged, a wave of exquisite
tenderness, through Donna's lonely heart, something that throbbed in
the untouched recesses of her womanhood, arousing in her a fierce,
almost primitive desire to possess this man, to fondle his auburn head,
to caress him, to work for him, slave for him, to show her gratitude
and adoration by living for him, and--if need be--by dying for him!
It occurred to her presently that there was nothing so very unmaidenly
in her action, after all. She felt no distinct loss of womanly reserve
--no crumbling of the foundations of dignity. She still had those
attributes; to-morrow, when she returned to the cashier's counter at
the eating-house, she would still have these defensive weapons against
the invasions of the sensual, smirking, patronizing male brutes with
which every passing train appeared to be filled; the well-dressed,
hard-finished city men, who held her cheap because she presided behind
an eating-house cash-register. How well she knew their quick, bold
stares, their so clumsy subterfuges to enter into conversation with her;
and how different was Bob McGraw to such as they!
Here at last was the reason, unseen and unrecognized at first,
manifesting itself merely in the spontaneous and unconscious shattering
of her maidenly reserve, but distinctly visible now. It was not that
Bob McGraw had come to her out of the desert at a time when she needed
him most; it was not that he came in all the bravery and generous
sacrifice of youth, shedding his blood that she might not shed tears;
it was not the service he had rendered her that made her love him, for
San Pasqual was "long" on mere animal courage. It was the adoration
that gleamed in his eyes--an adoring stare, revealing respect behind
his love--that one quality without which love is a dead and withered
thing.
She knew him now--the man he was. She saw the priceless pearl of
character he possessed. Bob McGraw was a wild, reckless, unthinking,
impulsive fellow, perhaps, but for all that he was the sort of man at
whose feet women, both good and bad, have laid their hearts since the
world began. He was kind. Harley P. Hennage was right. Bob McGraw was a
Desert Rat. But a Desert Rat lives close to the great heart of Mother
Nature, and his own heart is clean.
The dawn-light came filtering across the desert and lit up the room
where she sat. She turned to the bed and saw that Bob McGraw was
watching her again, and on his face was that little, cheerful, mocking,
inscrutable smile.
Again Donna found herself powerless to resist the appeal in the man's
eyes. She was crying a little as she slipped to her knees beside the
bed and laid her cheek against his.
"I can't help it" she whispered. "I seem to have loved you always, and
oh, Bob, dear, you'll be very, very good to me, won't you? You must be
brave and try to get well, for both our sakes. We need each other so."
Bob McGraw did not answer readily. He was too busy thanking God for the
great gift of perfect understanding. Moreover, he had a perforated lung
and a heart whose duties had suddenly been increased a thousand-fold,
if it was to hold inviolate this sacred joy of possession which
thrilled him now. He was alert and conscious, despite the shock of his
wound, and the reserve strength in his six feet of splendid manhood was
coming to his aid. When he could trust himself to speak, he said:
"You're a very wonderful woman."
"But you were laughing at me--a little."
"Not at you, at Fate--the great, big, bugaboo Fate."
"Why?"
"Because I--can afford to. My luck's--turned."
"You dear, big, red-headed philosopher."
"And you--didn't you save my hat?"
"No, dear. Don't worry over such a trifle as a hat. I'll give you a--"
"But this was--a--good hat" he complained. "I paid twenty dollars--"
"Never mind your old hat. Don't talk. I'm selfish. I want to listen to
you, but for all that, you must be quiet."
He sighed. Forget all about that big, wide sombrero--genuine beaver--
that cost him twenty dollars only a week ago? His horse, his saddle,
his hat, his spurs, his gun--he was particular about these
possessions, for in his way Mr. McGraw was something of a frontier
dandy. His calm contempt of life and death amused Donna when she
compared it with his boyish concern for his dashing equipment. Hats,
indeed! Worrying over a lost hat while a guest at the Hat Ranch! If Bob
McGraw could only have understood Donna Corblay's contempt for hats he
would never have mentioned the matter twice.
She gauged the size of his red head with the practiced eye of one who
has sold many hats.
"Seven and a quarter" she mused fondly. "Wouldn't he look splendid in
that big new Stetson that blew in the day before yesterday! You great
big man-baby. I'll save that one for you."
And having decided this momentous question of hats, she kissed him and
went out to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for Doctor Taylor and
Harley P. Hennage.
After having breakfasted at the Hat Ranch, Harley P. Hennage helped
himself to Bob McGraw's automatic gun, reloaded it and walked back to
San Pasqual. He had never carried a gun before, but something seemed to
tell him that he might need one to-day. Borax O'Rourke generally
carried one and if Borax had talked, Mr. Hennage meant to chastise him.
In consequence of which decision, Mr. Hennage, like a good gambler,
decided to fill his hand and not be caught bluffing.
Arrived outside the Silver Dollar, Harley P. immediately found himself
greatly in demand. Borax O'Rourke, having told all he knew, which was
little enough, and aching to supply further details, was the first man
to accost him.
"Well, Hennage," he began, "what's the latest? Any more kissin' goin'
on?"
Mr. Hennage's baleful eyes scouted the mule-skinner's person for
evidence of hardware. Observing none, he said fiercely "You mutton-
headed duffer!" and for the first time within the memory of the
citizens of San Pasqual he had recourse to his hands. He clasped Mr.
O'Rourke fondly around the neck and choked him until his eyes
threatened to pop out, the while he shook O'Rourke as a terrier shakes
a rat. Then, after two prodigious parting kicks, accurately gauged and
delivered, the gambler crossed over to the hotel, leaving the garrulous
one to pick himself out of the dust, gasping like a chicken with the
pip. It is worthy of remark that the discomfiture of Borax O'Rourke was
observed by Mrs. Daniel Pennycook, who having noted from afar the
approach of Mr. Hennage, had endeavored to intercept him first. Judging
from his hasty action that the gambler was not in that state of mind
most propitious to the dissemination of the information which she
sought, Mrs. Pennycook decided to bide her time and returned to her
cottage and her neglected housework.
Mr. Hennage went at once to his room, where he lay down and went to
sleep. Late in the afternoon he was awakened by a knocking at his door.
He sprang out of bed and unlocked the door, and Dan Pennycook came into
the room.
"Hello, Dan" the gambler greeted him. "You look worried."
"You would too, if you knew what I know" replied Pennycook. He sat
down. "Harley, old man, you've laid violent hands on a mighty hard
character."
"Well," retorted the gambler, "ain't that the kind to lay violent hands
on? You wouldn't expect me to choke old Judge Kenny, or that little Jap
laundryman, would you?"
"But O'Rourke is dangerous. He's got two guns reachin' down to his
hocks an' he's tellin' everybody he'll get you on sight."
"Barkin' dogs never bite, Dan. However, I wish you'd carry a message
for me. Will you?"
"Who to?"
"The dangerous Mr. O'Rourke. Tell him from me he'd better go back to
the borax works at Keeler, where he got his nickname, an' take up his
old job o' skinnin' mules. Tell him I'll loan him that roan pony in the
corral, an' he can saddle up an' git. Tell him to send the little horse
back with the stage-driver. I want him to ride out tonight, Dan. Tell
him it's an order."
Pennycook nodded. "If I was you, though, Harley, I'd heel myself."
The gambler opened a bureau drawer and brought forth McGraw's automatic
pistol. He smiled brightly.
"No use givin' orders unless a feller can back 'em up, Dan" he said.
"Thanks for the hint, though. Of course you'll tell Borax privately. No
use arousin' his pride lettin' the whole town know he had to go. He's a
rat, but a rat'll fight when he's cornered--an' I don't want to kill
him."
"I will" replied Mr. Pennycook. "I'd hate to see any more trouble in
this town."
"Thank you, Dan."
"Donna all right?"
"Yes."
"Who's the feller that interfered?"
"Stranger ridin' through."
"Hard hit?"
"Right lung. He'll pull through."
"Hope so" responded the amiable yardmaster, and left. Mr. Hennage got
back into bed and pulled the sheet over him again. But it was too hot
to sleep, so he lay there, rubbing his chin and thinking. Late in the
afternoon he heard the sound of a horse loping through the street
beneath his window. He sprang up and looked out, just in time to see
Borax O'Rourke riding out of town on Bob McGraw's roan bronco.
Mr. Hennage permitted himself a quiet little smile. "Now there goes the
star witness for the prosecution" he mused. "But I'll stay an' tell 'em
Borax was mistaken. I guess, even if I ain't a gentleman, I can lie
like one."
He bathed and dressed and started over to the post-office--not because
he expected any mail, for he did not. No one ever wrote to Mr. Hennage.
But he had seen Mrs. Pennycook dodging into the post-office, and it was
his intention to have a quiet little conversation with the lady.
When he arrived at the post-office, however, Mrs. Pennycook was not in
sight. Mr. Hennage stepped lightly inside, and at that moment he heard
Miss Molly Pickett, the postmistress, exclaim: "Well, for the land's
sake!"
"It's a fact, Miss Pickett. She kissed him!"
The voices came from the inner office, behind the tier of lock boxes.
Realizing that he was in a public place, Mr. Hennage did not feel it
incumbent upon him to announce his presence by coughing or shuffling
his feet. He remained discreetly silent, therefore, and Mrs.
Pennycook's voice resumed:
"She had him taken right down to the Hat Ranch, of all places. Of
course it wouldn't do to bring him up town, where he could be looked
after. Of course not! He might be sent to a hospital and she wouldn't
have a chance to look after him herself. I never heard of such
carryings-on, Miss Pickett. It's so scandalous like."
Miss Pickett sighed. "Who is he?" she demanded.
"That's what nobody can find out. I told Dan to ask Harley Hennage, but
you know how stupid a man is. I don't suppose he even asked."
"Well, all I've got to say, Mrs. Pennycook, is that Donna Corblay's
taking a mighty big interest in a man she's never even been introduced
to. Still, I'm not surprised at anything she'd do, the stuck-up thing.
She just thinks she's it, with her new hats and a different wash-dress
every week, and her high an' mighty way of looking at people. She could
have been married long ago if she wasn't so stuck-up."
"Oh, nobody's good enough for _her_" sneered Mrs. Pennycook. "If a
dook was to ask her she wouldn't have him. She'd sooner make fools of
half the married men in town."
"She thinks she's too good for San Pasqual" Miss Pickett supplemented.
"I suppose she imagines her grand airs make her a lady," Mrs. Pennycook
deprecated, "but for my part, I think it shows that she's kinder vulgar
like."
"Well, what do you think o' last night's performance?" Miss Pickett
demanded.
"I can't think, dearie" murmured Mrs. Pennycook weakly. "I'm so shocked
like. It's hard to believe. I know the girl for a sly, scheming, hoity-
toity flirt, but to think that she'd act so low like! Who told
_you_ she kissed him?"
"Borax O'Rourke."
"He told everybody."
"Well, then, if it's got around, public like, we can't shield her, Miss
Pickett, an' I guess it's no use trying. Water will seek its own level,
Miss Pickett. You remember her mother. Nobody ever knew a thing about
her, an' you remember the talk that used to be goin' around about
_her._"
"The tree grows as the twig is bent" Miss Pickett murmured.
"I'll say this much, though, Miss Pickett" continued Mrs. Pennycook.
"You're a woman an' so'm I, an' you know, just as well as I do, that no
man or set o' men ever looks twice at any respectable woman that goes
right along tendin' to her business. You know that, Miss Pickett. A
man's got to have _some_ encouragement."
"Well" Miss Pickett was forced to remark. "I've been postmistress an'
assistant postmistress here for fifteen years, an' nobody's ever
insulted me, or tried to flirt with me. I can take my oath on that."
"I believe you, Miss Pickett" interrupted Harley P. Hennage serenely.
"Even in a tough town like San Pasqual human courage has its
limitations."
Miss Pickett flew to the delivery window and looked out. Harley P. was
looking in.
"Is that so!" sneered Miss Pickett.
"Looks like it" retorted the gambler. "You're Exhibit A to prove it,
ain't you, Miss Pickett? I hope I see you well, Mrs. Pennycook" he
added.
"So you're back, are you?" Mrs. Pennycook's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Yes, I've been away three years, but I see time ain't softened the
tongues nor sharpened the consciences o' some of my old lady friends.
You're out late this afternoon, Mrs. P., with your scandal an' your
gossip."
"There ain't no mail for you, Mr. Card Sharp" Miss Pickett informed him
acidly.
"I didn't call for any" the gambler replied, and eyed her sternly. She
quivered under his glance, and he turned to Mrs. Pennycook. "Would you
oblige me, Mrs. Pennycook, with a few minutes of your valuable time--
where Miss Pickett can't hear us talk? Miss Pickett, you can go right
on readin' the postal cards."
"I'm a respectable woman--" Mrs. Pennycook began.
"Well, it ain't ketchin', I guess" he retorted. "I ain't afraid."
"What do you want? If you've got anything to say to me, speak right out
in meeting."
"Not here" the gambler answered. "It'll keep."
He walked out of the post-office and waited until Mrs. Pennycook came
by.
"Mrs. Pennycook, ma'am."
She tilted her nose and glanced at him scornfully, but did not stop.
"It's about Joe" the gambler called after her.
If he had struck her she could not have stopped more quickly. She
turned, facing him, her chin trembling.
"I thought you'd stop" he assured her. "Nothin' like shakin' the bones
of a family skeleton to bring down the mighty from their perch. Bless
you, Mrs. Pennycook, this thing o' bein' respectable must be hard on
the constitution. Havin' been low an' worthless all my life, I suppose
I can't really appreciate what it means to a respectable lady with a
angelic relative like your brother."
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