Happy Hawkins Part 45

Presently a soft, gentle voice sez, "What is it?"

"Silver d.i.c.k is in the Texas penitentiary, sentenced to be hanged for a murder committed there in April four years ago. He'll be hanged a week from to-morrow night if some one don't make a plea for him. It takes a woman to do such a job as this--are you game?"

"Why, he couldn't have done it," sez she. "He was here all that spring."

"Are you willin' to swear to it?" sez I.

"Oh, I don't want to appear in public--but of course I will, if the'

ain't no other way."

"You won't have to if you'll come with me to-night. The Governor of Texas is up here on a huntin' trip; he'll be at a party to-morrow night; all you'll need to do is to wait in a room where I'll hide you until he gets into a meller mood--I know him well--an' then I'll bring him to you an' you make a plea for him. You can be his wife or his mother or daughter--or anything you wish."

"I'll go," sez she, in a quiet tone, an' I breathed free; an' as soon as she opened the door I dragged the two men inside. They were Greasers, the same as the old woman what had first talked to me; an' I turned 'em over to her a' took the woman with the soft voice down to the train by a back street. She still wore a heavy veil, an' I never looked at her--not right straight--but I could see that she walked with her feet an' held her head on the top of her neck; so I was purty certain that if d.i.c.k did return an' try to finish the weddin' as the star performer she'd give us an interestin' exhibition.

Spider Kelley was at the station when I got off the train. I turned the woman over to him, tellin' him to bring her out so as to arrive the evenin' of the weddin', not to talk to her, an' not to let d.i.c.k see her should he chance to come back that way; but to smuggle her into the office as soon as preparations for the ceremony got started. I still half looked for d.i.c.k, but I thought I had things blocked out, no matter what turned up, an' I flopped on my hoss an' rode him at about his best.

Everything around the house was whirlin' with preparation; but Barbie was about the palest lookin' bride 'at ever got ready to toe the scratch, I reckon. The Hawthorn critter had stayed over at his own ranch for the last week, an' Barbie wouldn't 'a' had no search-warrant swore out if he had sent over word that it looked so good to him that he had decided to continue to remain there for a million years.

The guests had arrived plenty early, an' whenever Barbie would stumble on to a bunch of 'em she would head up an' get right rompy again. We had about a ton o' stuff cooked, 'cause we was tol'able thoroughly experienced on the neighbors. Folks out our way ain't nowise uppity about such matters. All you need to do is to hint that a little celebration is goin' to be pulled off an' you can count on their presence; an' if so be 'at you've forgot anybody's invite, why like as not they'll hear about it anyway an' be on hand in plenty o' time. The weddin' was scheduled for Wednesday evenin' at eight thirty; but by Sunday the house was full an' the grounds looked like an Injun camp-meetin'.

Jabez, intended to give Barbie the full penalty; none o' your squires for him, nothin' but Friar Tuck, who was one o' these here Episcolopian preachers what sport a full regalia an' a book o' tactics calculated to meet any complication a human bein' is apt to veer into. Some say they're just Roman Catholics, gone Republican, an' some say that they're the ones who started the first strike--I don't know much about it myself.

He hadn't arrived by seven o'clock, but we didn't worry none; he might have had to come fifty miles, an' he never had any time to waste.

We'd had a sort o' light supper at four o'clock, an' it was intended to have the weddin' feast after the performance was finished. It was just eight o'clock when Friar Tuck swung off his pony an' as many of the crowd as could gathered in the big dinin' room an' waited for the words to be said. Spidier Kelley came an' told me that he had locked the woman in the office, an' that she was behavin' herself reasonable, so I knew 'at the finish wasn't far off. The tables an' chairs had been taken out, the intention bein' to dance in the store-room after the ceremony, an' while the dancin' was goin' on to set the banquet in the dinin' room. Oh, it was all planned out like a theater show: Jabez had a full orchestra too, three fiddlers, a guitarist, an' a fifer; an'

they began to play solemn music, like they allus do at a wedding. It's a toss-up which is the most touchin', a weddin' or a funeral,--a feller's takin' a mighty long shot at either one.

The whole crowd was on edge, but myself was strained to the breakin'

point. Just as the old clock struck the half hour the orchestra pealed forth a march, an' they all came struttin' in, slow an' stately an'

top-heavy, accordin' to the city way. Jabez was in a brand-new suit o'

black store clothes, an' had a mighty proud look on his face; he was wearin' gloves too. Barbie was a-leanin' on his arm, an' she was wearin' a dress 'at would 'a' made some o' the queens crane their necks a bit, I reckon. Hawthorn had his nerve with him, an' wore a low-necked vest an' a droop-tailed coat. I had my own rig like this hid away in the stallion stable; so it didn't jar me none; but some o' the boys had a hard time chokin' back their grins. It was the first weddin' I had ever seen where the groom hadn't wore a silk handkerchief around his neck.

They all met in front o' Friar Tuck, who was standin' under a tissha paper bell with about four miles o' ribbon tied to it. I couldn't see Barbie's face on account o' the veil she was wearin'; but she held her head high, an' I knew she was ready to take all the jumps without balkin'. The Friar had one o' these voices 'at never seem to say an idle word, an' the room got as still as though it was a trial for life; which ain't so mighty far off the mark, that bein' the usual sentence, an' out our way we don't count it game to get pardoned out for a new trial.

I was on pins an' needles durin' the openin', but Friar Tuck boomed along until he arrived at the part where it sez "If any man knows just cause why this here couple should not be joined together in holy wedlock let him make his kick right now, or forever after hold his peace." The room was as still as the grave, an' I had just taken a full breath, so that I could make a clean throw, when a deep voice at the back of the room sez: "I think that I know a cause. I don't believe the girl is doin' this of her own free will."

We all whirled around, an' there stood Silver d.i.c.k. Dusty he was an'

travel-stained; but as he loomed up, straight an' tall, he certainly did look like a man. His beard was gone, his face was pale with a sort of unnatural whiteness, an' he was ganted down in weight a little; but all the same he put up a great front as he stood with his hands on his hips, his head thrown back, an' a grim smile on his face. Quick as a flash the ol' man, who had half expected this, pulls a gun out of his pocket an' drops it on d.i.c.k, while the crowd politely splits apart to give 'em a fair show. Barbie had settled back, an' I caught her in my arms an' held her a moment; but all the time my eyes were on d.i.c.k as though I'd been charmed.

Never in my life have I seen such a figger of a man as him, as he stood there alone an' unfriended. His hat was tilted back a bit, an' his short wavey hair rippled across his forehead, his mustache had been shaved off and his lips somehow reminded me of the muzzle of a gun, they was that firm; while his eyes--man, he had the greatest eyes in the world. Blue steel they was, but never for a moment free from some hidden fire. When he smiled they danced; when he frowned they blazed; but to-night the' was a new darin' in 'em,--a confidence, a purpose, an' a strength that defied Death himself.

He had changed a heap since we'd seen him last. His face was as smooth as a woman's, his hands were white, an' his clothes looked like picture clothes out of a book. He didn't speak for some time, an' then he said: "Is your gun broke, Mr. Judson, or do you think it would be only the square thing to talk things over first? I think I can interest you. I am not armed; perhaps you would be more comfortable if you lowered your gun until you were ready to shoot."

The' was a sting in his slow, sarcastic tone, an' a scowl came over Jabez' face; but he lowered his gun just the same. I didn't want to soften any toward d.i.c.k so I had to keep grittin' my teeth as I watched him, 'cause bluffin' a man like Cast Steel, armed an' ready, was a stirrin' sight, an' d.i.c.k looked as if he had the backin' of an army.

"Mr. Judson," sez d.i.c.k, "when I left here your daughter was promised to marry me, an' I promised to write as often as possible; but after I started in to clean up my record I was denied the privilege of writin'.

I am here now, with my record clean; the' ain't no spot on this earth where I don't feel free to go--an' now I claim her hand."

"Claim her hand, do ya?" sez Jabez, with a wicked leer. "Well, you allus was better at claimin' than at gettin'. I don't want to sadden my daughter's weddin' night, but if you ain't minded to go your way peaceable I'll have to spoil ya."

"Barbie," sez d.i.c.k, an' his voice was meller as a flute, "don't ya love me no more?"

She raised her head an' looked at him, but she couldn't speak, so she only nodded her head.

"Will ya marry me?" sez d.i.c.k, an' we all waited a long time for the answer.

Once or twice she tried it, before her voice finally got back to her, "d.i.c.k," she sez, "I waited for ya a long time, an' I never heard from you; so I thought 'at you had either forgot me or else you were--were no longer living; an'--oh, d.i.c.k, you have no idee how hard it has been for me. You can't imagine how often I refused, nor what a lonely life I was forced to live; but I've never ceased to love you, an' I allus told 'em so. Now I am half married to another man; an' I don't see what we can do."

"Well, I see what we can do!" blurts out Jabez, raisin' his gun again.

"We can go right on with this ceremony. You have give your word, an'

the word of a Judson is bindin'. As for you, you sneakin' card-sharp, I'll give you just ten to state your intentions."

Jabez started to count slow an' steady with his left forefinger, while he held his gun above his right shoulder ready for the drop. His face was white an' his eyes blazed like live coals. The' was no time to waste now; d.i.c.k had a card up his sleeve, an' this was his chance to take the trick, or he'd spoil my own game. The room was so still it hurt you to breathe. Somebody sneezed, an' it sounded like a boiler explosion.

"Judson," sez d.i.c.k, an' he was smilin' now; but it was the chillin'

smile I had first seen durin' the card game. It wasn't a pleasant smile. "Judson, I did not cheat durin' that game, an' I never did cheat, although gamblin was my business. You have become a fanatic on the subject o' truth, an' I propose to tell you some. You are a bully; you have bullied this girl in order to make her consent; and you are a coward, a miserable coward. Any man afraid of his own past is a coward; and your past stands back of you like a ghost, d.o.g.g.i.n' your steps awake, an' hauntin' your dreams 'sleep. You preach the truth; but your entire life is one black--"

"Stop!" yells Jabez, holdin' his hand over his heart, but gettin' the drop on d.i.c.k, although his face looked like the face of a man long dead. "Say another word an' a bullet will drive it back through your teeth."

"All right," sez d.i.c.k, still smilin' his cruel, hard smile; "but you have only counted up to five, an' you gave me ten. You're surely honest enough to stick to your own agreement. Begin to count now, while I start the tale about Jack Whitman an' the Creole Belle--"

When d.i.c.k mentioned the name o' Jack Whitman both o' Jabez' arms fell to his side; an' when d.i.c.k spoke o' the Creole Belle his legs shut together like a pocket knife; an' he crumpled down on a little padded bench they had fixed up to kneel on. His face was gray, an' his eyes had a sc.u.m over 'em, while his mouth hung open like the mouth of a man dyin' of old age. Barbie gave a low, waverin' call: "Oh, what have you done, oh, d.i.c.k! Daddy, Daddy; what's the matter Dad?"

She jumped to his side, an' after tearin' off her veil she knelt at his feet; but he drew his hands feebly away, an' refused to touch her; while a look of sorrow--sorrow an' pain an' shame, swept across his old gray face, an' his lips trembled so 'at he couldn't talk.

I glanced at Silver d.i.c.k; he stood there with his lips set tight, his eyes cold an' hard, an' I knew 'at he was ready to make his kill, cost what it would.

"Oh, Daddy," pleaded Barbie, "don't look this way. Tell me what it is all about. Don't turn away from me, Dad; I don't care what it is, or whether it is true or false--I am ready to forgive you, an' to love you. Look at me. Daddy. I care more for you than for any one else in the whole world.

"Yes," she sez, standin' up an' flashin' a look into d.i.c.k's eyes as fierce as they had ever shot themselves. "Yes, an' if you think to win me by strikin' down my old Dad, why--we have both been mistaken, an' I despise you!"

Silver looked as though she had struck him in the face with a whip; the hot blood swept up to his hair, an' then left him ghastly white again; while she put her hand on the ol' man's shoulder an' looked like an eagle protectin' her brood. I looked around for Hawthorn, who had become entirely forgotten. Gee! how I envied him his chance just then; but there he stood, lookin' like a white rabbit bein' tried for murder.

The girl looked at him too, gave him one long scornful look; then she looked back at Silver, standin' all alone like the statue of a king; an' then she looked up at me. "Happy," she sez, "you never failed me yet. Clear this room--clear it of every one but just ourselves."

"Clear the room," I yells. "Come, friends, this is the time to step lively. You can go into the store-room an' dance if you want to, but the weddin' has been postponed."

They filed out in good order, all except d.i.c.k, Friar Tuck, an'

Hawthorn. Hawthorn stood leanin' again the wall, lookin' at d.i.c.k as though he was seein' a ghost. I tapped him on the shoulder. "Git!" I sez, "your number didn't win nothin'." He gives a start, then down on the floor he flops with his eyes turned in an' his mouth frothin' a little. Friar Tuck straightened him out an' began to rub his hands; an'

I turned to d.i.c.k.

"Now, it's your turn to go," I sez. "I'd advise you to go clear to England, where you'll find good news."

He came toward me as if he didn't see me, an' when he reached me he said: "You better go along too, Happy. I want to talk to them alone."

"Jim," I said, usin' the old name, "I don't want to do you harm. This game is up; you'd better go along peaceable."

He looked at me a moment in surprise, an' then his face got haughty, an' he put out his hand to push me aside. I took him by the arm an'

swung him over against the wall. At first he couldn't seem to understand that I was in ear-nest, an' then his hand shot to hip an'

breast; but he had spoke the truth, he wasn't armed. I had him covered, an' he sneered into my face without speakin'. I walled over an'