Books: The Long Chance
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Peter B. Kyne >> The Long Chance
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The drawling words fell on the gossip like a rain of blows. Her eyelids
grew suddenly red and watery.
"It ain't a man's trick to hammer you like this, Mrs. Pennycook," the
gambler continued, almost sadly, "but for a lady that's livin' in a
glass house, you're too fond o' chuckin' stones, an' it's got to stop.
Hereafter, if you've got somethin' to say about Donna Corblay you see
that it's somethin' nice. You gabbed about her mother when she was
alive, and the minute I saw you streakin' it over to Miss Pickett I
knew you were at it again. Now you do any more mud-slingin', Mrs.
Pennycook, and I'll tell San Pasqual about that thug of a brother o'
yours. He's out o' San Quentin."
"But his time wasn't up, Mr. Hennage," wailed Mrs. Pennycook. "He got
fifteen years."
"He served half of it and was paroled."
Mrs. Pennycook bowed her head and quivered. "Then he'll be around here
again, blackmailing poor Dan an' me out of our savings." She commenced
to cry.
"No, he won't. I'll protect you from him, Mrs. Pennycook. I want to
make a bargain with you. Every time you hear any of the long-tongued
people in this town takin' a crack at Donna Corblay because they don't
understand her and she won't tell 'em all her business, you speak a
good word for her. Understand? And the first thing tomorrow mornin' I
want you to get out an' nail that lie that Donna Corblay kissed the
feller that saved her from them tramps last night. It's a lie, Mrs.
Pennycook. I was there, an' I know. I ordered O'Rourke out o' town for
circulatin' that yarn. Suppose this town knew your twin brother was a
murderer an' a highwayman? Would they keep still about it?"
"No" faltered Mrs. Pennycook.
"I can keep Joe away from you, I have somethin' on him. You'll never
see him again. I'll save you from gossip an' blackmail, but you've got
to take programme."
"I will" Mrs. Pennycook promised him fervently.
"Then it's a go" said Harley P. and walked away. He returned to the
Silver Dollar saloon, smiling a little at the joke in which he had
indulged at the expense of Mrs. Pennycook. He had informed her that he
had "something on" her brother Joe, but he had neglected to inform her
what the "something" was which he had "on" brother Joe. Mr. Hennage
could see no profit in telling her that it was a blood-stained
tarpaulin, under which Mrs. Pennycook's brother reposed, quite dead, in
the back room of the stage stable, to which impromptu morgue Joseph,
with his two companions, had been borne by the committee of citizens
headed by the constable, shortly after the elimination of the trio by
Mr. Bob McGraw.
No, Mr. Hennage, while a man of firmness and resource, was not brutal.
He contrived, however, to avoid identification of the body by keeping
Dan Pennycook from attending the coroner's inquest, for he was a good
gambler and never wasted a trump.
"I never knew there was such fun at funerals" he soliloquized while
returning from the cemetery. He bit a large piece out of his "chewing"
and gazed around him. "Doggone it" he muttered, "if this ain't the
worst town in California for killin's. I never did see such a one-horse
camp with such a big potter's field. If I wasn't a inquisitive old
hunks I'd get out of such a pesky hole P. D. Q. I wouldn't a' come back
in the first place if it hadn't a' been for that Joe person. Dog-gone
him!"
This was quite true. For some months Mr. Hennage had been running a
game in Bakersfield, which, at that time, was a wide open town, just
beginning to boom under the impetus of rich oil strikes. It had been
one of his diversions, outside of business hours, to walk down to the
freight yards once a week and fraternize with the railroad boys. In
this way he managed to keep track of affairs in San Pasqual. Upon the
occasion of his last trip to the freight yards he had spied Mrs.
Pennycook's brother dodging into an empty box-car. Mr. Hennage had seen
this worthy upon the occasion of his (Joe's) last visit to San Pasqual,
the object of the said visit having been imparted to him by Dan
Pennycook himself. Having no money available for the blackmailer, poor
Pennycook had come to Hennage to borrow it. Upon the occasion of the
payment of the loan, Pennycook informed Mr. Hennage joyfully that Joe
was out of the way for fifteen years and Mr. Hennage had rejoiced with
the yardmaster. Hence, when Mr. Hennage observed Joe sneak into the
box-car, he at once surmised that Joe was broke and headed for San
Pasqual to renew his fortunes. Having a warm spot in his heart for Dan
Pennycook, Mr. Hennage instantly decided to follow Joe in another box-
car, which, in brief, is the reason why he had returned to San Pasqual.
Presently Mr. Hennage paused and glanced across the blistering half-
mile of desert, to where the sun glinted on the dun walls of the Hat
Ranch. In the middle distance a dashing girlish figure in a blue dress
was walking up the tracks.
Mr. Hennage's three gold teeth flashed like heliographs.
"This world is so full o' a number o' things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings"
he quoted, and walked across to meet her.
CHAPTER VII
Early in the forenoon of the day following Bob McGraw's spectacular
advent into San Pasqual, the nurse for whom Doc Taylor had telephoned
to Bakersfield arrived at the Hat Ranch. She proved to be a kind
middle-aged woman, devoted to her profession and thoroughly competent
to do everything for Bob McGraw that could be done. Her arrival
released Donna from the care of watching the wounded man, and she
rested at last.
It was late in the afternoon before she appeared again in the sick
room, when she was overjoyed to learn of the change in Bob's condition.
There was no further hemorrhage from the wound, although his pulse was
racing at several degrees above normal. He was awake when Donna entered
the room and greeted her with a weak smile of welcome. It may be that
at the moment Mr. McGraw fondly hoped that he might be further rewarded
with another kiss; but if so he was disappointed. Donna favored him
with nothing more tangible than a rather sad, wistful, interested
scrutiny, and then, satisfied that he was making his fight, she turned
to leave the room, whereupon Mr. McGraw, disregarding his nurse's
explicit instructions, presumed to enter into conversation.
"Hello, Donna," he whispered, "aren't you going to speak to a fellow?"
Donna shook her head.
"But I might die" he pleaded piteously. The nurse intervened.
"Nobody's worried over that remote contingency," she retorted, "so do
not endeavor to seek sympathy."
He looked at her so tragically that she could not forbear a little
laugh, as she ordered Donna to leave the room.
"The right of free speech--and free assemblage," Mr. McGraw protested
hoarsely, "is guaranteed to--every American citizen--under the con--"
"Silence!" commanded the nurse.
Mr. McGraw muttered something about gag rule and the horror of being
mollycoddled, sighed dismally and predicted his death within the hour.
Donna left the room and he was forced to amuse himself, until he fell
asleep, watching the antics of an inquisitive lizard which in turn was
watching him from a crack in the sun-baked adobe wall. As for Donna,
the very fact that Bob was still a fighter and a rebel proved
conclusively that within a week he would be absolutely unmanageable.
This thought was productive of such joy in Donna's heart that she
became a rebel herself. In the bright evening she took her guitar and
went out into the patio, where she stood under Bob's window and sang
for him a plaintive little Spanish love song. Donna's voice, while
untrained, was, nevertheless, well pitched, sweet and true, and to Bob
McGraw, who for three years had not heard a woman's voice raised in
song, the simple melody was a treat indeed.
The nurse came out, looked at her and laughed, as who would not; for
all the world loves a lover, and the nurse was very human.
"That's quite irregular, Miss Corblay," she commented, "but in this
particular case I believe it has a soothing effect. Mr. McGraw has
promised me that he will be very good if I can induce you to sing for
him every evening. He said 'Bravo' three times."
"Then he has decided not to die after all."
"I think he has changed his mind."
"I'll sing him to sleep" Donna answered--and forthwith did so. And that
night, when she retired, she could not sleep herself for the happiness
that was hers; that excessive happiness which, more poignant than pain,
is often productive of tears.
The wounded man slept well that night. If he suffered nobody knew it.
In the morning his condition was slightly improved, and after hearing a
most cheerful and favorable report from both doctor and nurse, Donna
decided not to prejudice her position at the eating-house by staying
away another day, and accordingly she set off up the track to the town.
She was half-way there when she observed Harley P. Hennage walking
toward her from the direction of the cemetery.
"Well, Miss Donna," he began as he approached, "how are you after the
battle?"
"Still a little shaky, Mr. Hennage, but not enough to prevent my going
to work. I can count change, to-day, I think."
"Good news, good news. If I was governor of this state I'd declare to-
day a legal holiday. How's the wounded hero? Able to sit up and take
some food?"
"No, no food as yet. Nothing but nutriment. Who ever heard of a sick
man getting anything but that?"
Mr. Hennage showed his three gold teeth. "Ain't Mrs. Pennycook been
down with a plate o' calf's-foot jelly or somethin' o' that nature?" he
asked.
It was Donna's turn to laugh. "I hardly think she'll come. She hasn't
given me a friendly look in three years."
"Well, of course, you haven't needed her," the gambler reminded her,
"but she'll be droppin' in before long, now--Bob McGraw's a stranger
in town, an' entitled to the kindly services o' the community as a
whole, so Mrs. P. can show up at the Hat Ranch under those conditions
without unbendin' her dignity."
"I suppose she is kind enough in her way," Donna began, "but--"
"You don't like her way, eh?"
"I'm afraid I'm inclined to be uncharitable at times."
"Nonsense!" he corrected. "Ain't you been a' nursin' the sick?"
"Yes. Which reminds me that you, also, have been performing one of
the works of mercy. You came from the cemetery, did you no?!"
"Yes, I've been buryin' the dead. They had me as witness on the
coroner's jury last night, an' after the jury decided that it was
justifiable homicide, there was nothin' to do but plant the three o'
'em--before the sun got too high. But let's take up some live topic--"
Again Donna laughed, for while Harley P.'s humor was rather grim, Donna
had lived long enough in San Pasqual to appreciate it. The big gambler
loved to see her laugh, and the thought that she was courageous enough
to enjoy his jest, considering the terrible experience which she had
lately undergone, filled him with manly admiration.
"It's another joke," he began presently, "only this time it's on San
Pasqual. I want to put up a job on the town, an' you've got to help me,
Miss Donna."
Donna gave him a graceful travesty of a military salute.
"'Onward, Heart of Bruce, and I will follow thee,'" she quoted. "But
before you explain your plans, tell me what has poor little San Pasqual
been doing of late to earn your enmity?"
"Nothin' much. The town ain't no worse than any other one-horse camp
for wantin' to know everybody's business but its own. They never found
out any o' mine, though, you can bank on that; and it always hurt 'em
because they never found out any of your poor mother's when she was
livin'. An' since your trouble the other night, they're all itchin' to
learn the name o' the brave that saved you. Some o' the coroner's jury
was for callin' you to testify at the inquest, but considerin' the hard
looks o' the deceased an' what you told me--an' what Borax O'Rourke
told everybody else before he left town yesterday, I prevailed on Doc
Taylor to testify that you weren't in no fit frame o' mind to face the
music, so they concluded to bring in a verdict _muy pronto,_ an'
let it go at that. They tell me there's been a plague o' hard characters
droppin' off here lately, an' anyway, to make a long story short,
the boys rendered a verdict on general principles an' there ain't no
news for the rest o' the town--particularly the women. The way some o'
them women's been dodgin' back and forth between their own homes and
the post-office, you'd think it was the finish of a jack-rabbit drive.
They're just plumb _loco,_ Miss Donna, to find out the name o'
this gallant stranger that saved you. They want to know what he looks
like, the color o' his hair an' how he parts it, how he ties his
necktie, an' if he votes the Republican ticket straight and believes in
damnation for infants."
"I see," said Donna, "and you want to let them suffer, do you?"
"I wouldn't wag my tongue to save 'em" he retorted bitterly. "Now
here's the programme. You've got young McGraw bottled up there at the
Hat Ranch, and I want you to keep him there until he's able to walk
away without any assistance, an' all that time don't you let nobody see
him. I've got Doc Taylor fixed already, which was easy, Doc bein' a
bachelor--an' now if you stand in we'll have 'em goin' south. On
account o' bein' postmistress an' in a position to get all the news,
the town's lookin' to Miss Pickett to produce, an' if she can't
produce, I'm hopin' she'll go into convulsions."
"Mr. Hennage," said Donna, "this is most unworthy of you. I didn't
think you would harbor a grudge."
"Why, you know my reputation, Miss Donna."
"Yes, you're the worst man in San Pasqual. But I'm afraid I can't agree
to enter into this conspiracy."
"Why not?"
"It's unlawful."
"Miss Donna, I'm serious--"
"It's cruel and unusual punishment--"
"I'd light a fire under 'em" said Harley P. ferociously. "Better stand
in, Miss Donna--to oblige me."
"All right, it's a go, if you put it that way."
"Shake! You'll enjoy it, Miss Donna. You'll find yourself real popular
when you get up to the hotel. Some o' the natives was thinkin' o'
bringin' their blankets an' three days' rations, an' campin' in front
o' the hotel until you arrived. Well, good-by, till supper-time. I'm
goin' to breeze along down to the Hat Ranch an' warn the nurse agin
spies an' secret emissaries masqueradin' as angels o' mercy."
He waved his big hand at her and waddled down the track toward the Hat
Ranch. Arrived there, he introduced himself to the nurse and made a few
perfunctory inquiries regarding the condition of her patient, after
which, with many premonitory coughs, he ventured to outline his
campaign as San Pasqual's official news censor. The nurse was not
lacking in a sense of humor, and readily agreed to enlist under the
banner of Harley P.
"An' remember," he warned her, as he prepared to leave, "to look sharp
if you see a forty-five-year-old damsel, with a little bright red face,
all ears an' no chin, like the ace o' hearts. That'll be Miss Pickett.
She'll have with her, like as not, a stout married lady, all gab an'
gizzard, like a crow, an' a mouth like a new buttonhole. That'll be
Mrs. Pennycook. Look out for 'em both. They talk!"
And having played this unworthy trick on the gossips of San Pasqual,
Mr. Hennage returned to town in a singularly cheerful state of mind,
and devoted the balance of the day to the duties of his profession.
That night, when he went to his dinner at the eating-house, he stopped
at the counter to have a little chat with Donna.
"What luck?" he asked.
"I declare I'm almost exhausted. I've been dodging questions and
tripping over hints all day long."
"Miss Pickett come over to offer sympathy."
"Yes."
"Hu-u-um! An' after she went away, I suppose Mrs. Pennycook come in as
thick as three in a bed?"
"She was very nice."
"She'd better be" he remarked, and Donna thought that beneath the
jocularity of his manner she detected a menace.
"What have you heard?" she queried.
"I've heard," he replied deliberately, "that Donna Corblay is harboring
a desperate character in her home."
"I heard something else to-day. While we're gossiping, Mr. Hennage,
I'll tell you the latest--the very latest. It's reported that Dan
Pennycook is drinking."
"No!" Mr. Hennage was concerned. He was fond of Dan Pennycook. "Who
told you!" he inquired.
"He was seen buying a bottle of port wine in the Silver Dollar saloon
this afternoon, and you know his wife is strictly temperance."
"Oh, shucks! There's nothin' to that report. I can account for that
just as easy as lookin' through a hoop. It's goin' to be wine jelly,
after all. I thought maybe it might be calf's-foot, but--" he broke
off. "I wish," he said earnestly, "I could get hold of a low-spirited
billy goat, Miss Donna, an' tie him to your front gate when Mrs. P.
arrives. You want to warn the nurse, Miss Donna. Remember what the old
sharp in the big book says: 'Beware o' the Greeks when they come into
camp with gifts.' Hey, Josephine!"
He hailed his waitress.
"About twenty-five dollars' worth o' ham an' eggs," he ordered, "with
some pig's ear and cauliflower on the side. I ain't had such a big
appetite for my grub since I was a boy."
That evening, when Donna left the eating-house for her home, it seemed
to her that the Hat Ranch must be situated at least ten miles further
from San Pasqual than it had been two days previous. It almost seemed
as if she would never reach the gate that pierced the big seven-foot
adobe wall which shut Bob McGraw in from the prying eyes of the
townspeople; she felt that her heart, over-burdened with its weight of
agonized happiness, must break before she found herself once more
standing by Bob's bed, gazing down at him with a look of proprietorship
and love.
As she stood there, smiling, her face flushed from the exertion of her
rapid walk, her jaunty straw hat casting little vagrant shadows across
her great, dark, sparkling eyes, he awakened and looked up. She was
drawing off her gloves, and one who has ridden in the waste places as
much as had Bob McGraw soon learns that simple signs are sometimes
pregnant of big things. The big thing, as Bob read it then, was the
fact that she had just come home; that she had hurried, for she was
breathing hard. Why had she hurried? Why, to see him, Bob McGraw--and
in such a hurry was she that she had not waited to remove her hat and
gloves. This was all very gratifying; so gratifying that Mr. McGraw
would almost, at that moment, have welcomed a .45 through his other
lung, if thereby he could only make her understand how deeply gratified
he really was--how dearly he loved her and would continue to love her.
He was so filled with such thoughts as these that he continued to gaze
at her in silence for fully a minute before he spoke.
"It's been a long, hot day" he whispered. "I worried. Thought you might
be kept--late--again."
The adorable old muggins! The very thought of having somebody to worry
over her was so very new to Donna, and so very sweet withal, that she
_called_ Mr. McGraw an adorable old muggins, and pinched the lobe
of his left ear, and tweaked the sunburned apex of his Irish nose. Then
she kissed the places thus pinched and tweaked, and declared that she
was happy enough to--to--to _swear!_ "I understand--perfectly"
said Bob McGraw, and there is no doubt that he did. The idea of a
glorious young Woman like Donna swearing was, indeed, perfectly
ridiculous. Of course, nerve-racked tired waitresses and be-deviled
chefs "cussed each other out" as a regular thing up at the eating-house
during a rush, and Donna, having listened to these conversational
sparks, off and on, for three years, felt now, for the first time, as
she imagined they must feel--that the unusual commotion in one's soul
occasionally demands some extraordinary outlet.
"I could beat Soft Wind with the broom, or tip over the stove, or do
something equally desperate" she told him. "I feel so deeply--it hurts
me--here," and she pressed her hand to her heart.
"Think of me," he whispered, "hurt on--both sides. Bullet--hole in--
right lung--key-hole in--my heart."
The blarney of the wretch! Really, this McGraw man was the most forward
person! As if he could ever, by any possibility, love her as she loved
him!
"You great red angel" she said. Then she ruffled his hair and fled out
to the kitchen to investigate the exact nature of the savory concoction
which the nurse was preparing for her invalid. No royal chef, safe-
guarding the stomach of his monarch against the surreptitious
introduction of a deadly poison in the soup, could have evinced a
greater interest in the royal appetite than did Donna in Bob McGraw's
that night. As the nurse was about to take the bowl of broth which she
had prepared, in to her patient, Donna dipped up a small quantity on a
teaspoon and tasted it.
"A little more salt, I think" she announced, with all the gravity of
her twenty years.
The nurse glanced at her for a moment, before she took her glowing face
between her cool palms and kissed the girl on each cheek. Then she
reached for the salt cellar, dropped a small pinch into the soup,
seized the tray and marched out, smiling. She was one of the women on
this earth who can understand without asking--at least Donna thought
so, and was grateful to her for it.
The three weeks that followed, while Bob McGraw, having battled his
way through the attack of traumatic pneumonia incident to the wound in
his lungs, slowly got back his strength, seemed, indeed, the most
marvelous period of Donna Corblay's entire existence. On the morning
after her conversation with Harley P., Mrs. Pennycook, true to the
gambler's prediction, did favor the Hat Ranch with her bustling
presence, and wrapped in a snow-white napkin the said Mrs. Pennycook
did carry the hereinbefore mentioned glass of wine jelly for the
debilitated stranger in their midst. Donna was at the eating-house when
Mrs. Pennycook called, but the nurse received her--not, however,
without an inward chuckle as she recalled Mr. Hennage's warning and
discovered that Mrs. Pennycook's mouth did really resemble a new
buttonhole--as the mouth of every respectable, self-righteous,
provincial female bigot has had a habit of resembling even as far back
as the days of the Salem witchcraft.
For her wine jelly, Mrs. Pennycook received due and courteous thanks
from the nurse personally, and also on behalf of Miss Corblay and the
patient. To her apparently irrelevant and impersonal queries, regarding
the identity of the wounded man, his personal and family history, Mrs.
Pennycook received equally irrelevant and impersonal replies, and when
she suggested at length that she "would dearly love to see him for a
moment--only a moment, mind you--to thank him for what he had done for
that dear sweet girl, Donna Corblay," the nurse found instant defense
from the invasions by reminding Mrs. Pennycook of the doctor's orders
that his patient be permitted to remain undisturbed.
Two days later Mrs. Pennycook, accompanied by Miss Pickett, called
again. Miss Pickett carried the limp carcass of a juvenile chicken, and
armed with this passport to Bob McGraw's heart and confidence, she too,
endeavored to run the guard. Alas! The young man was still in a very
precarious condition, and baffled and discouraged, the charitable pair
departed in profound disgust.
The next day Dan Pennycook called, at Mrs. Pennycook's orders. The
yardmaster, as he bowed to the nurse and ventured a mild inquiry as to
the patient's health, presented a remarkable imitation of a heretofore
conscientious dog that has just been discovered in the act of killing a
sheep. Poor Daniel was easy prey for the efficient nurse. He retired,
chop-fallen and ashamed, and the day following, two conductor's wives
and the sister of a brakeman, armed respectively with a brace of quail,
a bouquet of assorted sweet peas and half a dozen oranges, came,
deposited their offerings, were duly thanked and dismissed.
To all these interested ladies, Donna, at the suggestion of Harley P.
(who, by the way, fell heir to the brace of quail, which he had
prepared by the eating-house chef, and later consumed with great
gusto), wrote a polite note of thanks. This, of course merely served to
irritate an already irritated community, without affording them an
opportunity for what Mr. Hennage termed "a social comeback." He
contracted the habit, during that first week, of coming in to his
dinner earlier, in order that he might hear from Donna a detailed
report of the frantic efforts of her neighbors to get at the bottom of
the mystery. Mr. Hennage was enjoying himself immensely.
After the first week had passed without developments, interest in Donna
and her affairs began to dwindle, for not infrequently matters move in
kaleidoscopic fashion in San Pasqual, and the population, generally
speaking, soon finds itself absorbed in other and more important
matters. Mrs. Pennycook was quick to note that Donna (to quote Mr.
Hennage) was "next to her game," and with the gambler's threat hanging
over her she was careful to refrain from expressing any decided
opinions in the little circle in which she moved.
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