The Golden Woman Part 26

The necessary inspiration had come that night, when the four women vultures, plying their trade of preying upon the men in his bar, had reached a sufficient degree of drunkenness. Then it had occurred to his devilish mind to bribe them into going across to the farm and paying what he was pleased to call a "party" call upon its mistress, and, in their own phraseology, to "raise h.e.l.l with her."

It was a master stroke. Then had come Curly's interference. The fool had spoilt it all. n.o.body but Curly had attempted to interfere. The men had all been too drunk to bother, and the women had jumped at the chance of morally rending a virtuous member of their own s.e.x.

He laughed silently as he thought of it all. But his laugh only expressed his gratification at the subtlety of his ideas. His failure still annoyed him. Curly had stood champion for this Golden Woman, as they called her. Well, it wasn't his, Beasley's, fault if he hadn't paid for his interference by this time. The men were quite drunk enough to hang him, or shoot him for "doing up" young Kid, who had been a mere tool in the matter. He cordially hoped they had. Anyway, the sport at Joan's expense was too good to miss, and the night was still young.

The prospect almost entirely restored his good-humor, and he was still smiling when the door was suddenly pushed open and the Padre's burly figure appeared on the threshold.

The saloon-keeper's smile died at sight of the familiar white hair. Of all the people on Yellow Creek this was the man he least wanted to see at the moment. But he was shrewd enough to avoid any sign of open antagonism. He knew well enough that Moreton Kenyon was neither a fool nor a coward. He knew that to openly measure swords with him was to challenge a man of far superior intellect and strength, and the issue was pretty sure to go against him. Besides, this man they affectionately called the Padre had the entire good-will of the place.

But though he always avoided open antagonism the storekeeper never let go his grip on his dislike. He clung to it hoping to discover some means of breaking the man's position in the camp and bringing about an utter revulsion of the public feeling for him. There was much about the Padre that gave him food for thought. One detail in particular was always in his mind, a detail such as a mind like his was bound to question closely. He could never understand the man's object in the isolation of the life he had lived for so many years here in the back country of the West.

However, he was only concerned at the moment with the object of this unusual visit, and his shrewd speculation turned upon the pursuit of Curly.

"Evenin', Padre," he said, with a cordiality the most exacting could have found no fault with.

"Good-evening," replied the newcomer, smiling pleasantly as he glanced round the sordid hovel. Then he added: "Times are changed, sure.

But--where are your customers?"

Beasley's quick eyes gazed sharply at the perfect mask of disarming geniality. He was looking for some sign to give him a lead, but there was only easy good-nature in the deep gray eyes beneath their s.h.a.ggy brows.

"Guess they're out chasin' that fool-head Curly Saunders," he said unguardedly. However, he saw his mistake in an instant and tried to rectify it. "Y' see they're always skylarkin' when they git liquor under their belts."

"Skylarking?" The Padre propped himself against the bar, and his eyes suddenly rested on an ugly stain on the sand floor.

Beasley followed his glance, and beheld the pool of blood which had flowed from the Kid's wound. He cursed himself for not having obliterated it. Then, in a moment, he decided to carry the matter with a high hand.

"Psha'! What's the use'n beatin' around!" he said half-defiantly.

"They're chasin' Curly to lynch him for shootin' up the Kid."

The Padre gave a well-a.s.sumed start and emitted a low whistle. Then he turned directly toward the counter.

"You best have a drink on me--for the good of the house," he said.

"I'll take rye."

Beasley swung himself across the counter with a laugh.

"Say, that beats the devil!" he cried. "I'll sure drink with you. No one sooner."

The Padre nodded.

"Splendid," he smiled. Then as the other pa.s.sed gla.s.ses and the bottle, he went on: "Tell us about it--the racket, I mean."

Beasley helped himself to a drink and laughed harshly.

"Wal, I didn't get it right," he said, raising his gla.s.s. "Here's 'how'!" He gulped down his drink and set the empty gla.s.s on the counter. "Y' see, I was handin' out drinks when the racket started.

They were all muckin' around with them four s.l.u.ts that come in town the other day. Guess they was all most sloshed to the gills. First thing I know they were quarreling, then some un got busy with a gun.

Then they started chasin' Curly, an' I see the Kid lying around shot up. It was jest a flesh wound, an' I had him boosted out to his own shack. His partner, Pete--they struck a partners.h.i.+p, those two--why, I guess he's seein' to him. 'Tain't on'y a scratch."

The Padre set his gla.s.s down. He had not drunk his liquor at a gulp like the other.

"Pity," he said, his eyes turned again to the blood-stained floor. "I s'pose it was the women--I mean the cause?"

The man's manner was so disarming that Beasley felt quite safe in "opening out."

"Pity?" he laughed brutally. "Wher's the pity? Course it was the women. It's always the women. Set men around a bunch of women and ther's always trouble. It's always been, and it always will be. Ther's no pity about it I can see. We're all made that way, and those who set us on this rotten earth meant it so, or it wouldn't be."

The Padre's gray eyes surveyed the narrow face before him. This man, with his virulent meanness, his iron-gray hair, his chequered past, always interested him.

"And do you think this sort of trouble would occur if--if the men hadn't been drunk?" he asked pointedly.

Beasley's antagonism surged, but his outward seeming was perfectly amiable.

"Meaning me?" he asked, with a grin.

The Padre shrugged.

"I was thinking that these things have been occurring ever since the camp was flooded with----"

"Rye!" Beasley's eyes sparkled. He reached the Padre's now empty gla.s.s and gave him a fresh one, pus.h.i.+ng the bottle toward him. "You'll hev a drink on me, an' if you've got time, I'll tell you about this thing."

The other submitted, and the drink was poured out. The Padre ignored his.

"Get right ahead," he said in his easy way.

Beasley leered over the rim of his gla.s.s as he drank his whisky.

"You think it's rye," he said, setting his gla.s.s down with unnecessary force. "An' I say it's the women--or the woman. Trouble come to this camp with that tow-headed gal over at the farm. Anybody with two eyes could see that. Anybody that wasn't as blind as a dotin' mother. The boys are all mad 'bout her. They're plumb-crazed. They got her tow-head and sky-blue eyes on their addled brains, an' all the youngsters, anyway, are fumin' jealous of each other, and ready to shoot, or do anything else that comes handy, to out the other feller.

That's the root of the trouble--an' you brought that about selling her your farm."

Beasley had let himself go intending to aggravate, but the other's manner still remained undisturbed.

"But this only happens when they're drunk," he said mildly.

Beasley's angry impatience broke out.

"Tcha'! Drunk or sober it don't make any difference. I tell you the whole camp's on edge over that gal. It only needs a word to set things hummin'. It's that gal! She's a Jonah, a Hoodoo to us all--to this place. She's got rotten luck all over her--and you brought her here.

You needn't try an' sling mud at me fer handing them the rot-gut the boys ask for. Get that woman out of the place and things'll level up right away."

The man's rudeness still seemed to have no effect.

"But all this doesn't seem to fit in with--with this affair to-night,"

the Padre argued. "You said it began, you thought, over the four women you allow in here."

Beasley was being steadily drawn without knowing it. His swift-rising spleen led him farther into the trap.

"So it did," he snapped. Then he laughed mirthlessly. "Y' see some one suggested those gals pay a 'party' call on your Golden Woman," he said with elaborate sarcasm. "And it was because Mr. Curly Saunders sort o'

fancies he's got some sort of right to that lady he b.u.t.ted in and shot up the Kid."

"Who suggested it?" asked the other quickly, his mild gray eyes hardening.