The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (159 page)

“Yes, married. I’m married,” said Potter, distinctly.

“Married?” said Scratchy. Seemingly for the first time, he saw the drooping, drowning woman at the other man’s side. “No!” he said. He was like a creature allowed a glimpse of another world. He moved a pace backward, and his arm, with the revolver, dropped to his side. “Is this the lady?” he asked.

“Yes; this is the lady,” answered Potter.

There was another period of silence.

“Well,” said Wilson at last, slowly, “I s’pose it’s all off now.”

“It’s all off if you say so, Scratchy. You know I didn’t make the trouble.” Potter lifted his valise.

“Well, I ‘low it’s off, Jack,” said Wilson. He was looking at the ground. “Married!” He was not a student of chivalry; it was merely that in the presence of this foreign condition he was a simple child of the earlier plains. He picked up his starboard revolver, and, placing both weapons in their holsters, he went away. His feet made funnel-shaped tracks in the heavy sand.

They were youths of subtle mind. They were very wicked, according to report, and yet they managed to have it reflect credit upon them. They often had the well informed and the great talkers of the American colony engaged in reciting their misdeeds, and facts relating to their sins were usually told with a flourish of awe and fine admiration.

One was from San Francisco, and one was from New York; but they resembled each other in appearance. This is an idiosyncrasy of geography.

They were never apart in the City of Mexico, at any rate, excepting, perhaps, when one had retired to his hotel for a respite; and then the other was usually camped down at the office, sending up servants with clamorous messages: “ Oh, get up, and come on down.”

They were two lads, — they were called the Kids, — and far from their mothers. Occasionally some wise man pitied them, but he usually was alone in his wisdom; the other folk frankly were transfixed at the splendor of the audacity and endurance of these Kids.

“When do those two boys ever sleep?” murmured a man, as he viewed them entering a café about eight o’clock one morning. Their smooth, infantile faces looked bright and fresh enough, at any rate. “Jim told me he saw them still at it about four-thirty this morning.”

“Sleep?” ejaculated a companion, in a glowing voice. “They never sleep! They go to bed once in every two weeks.” His boast of it seemed almost a personal pride.

“They’ll end with a crash, though, if they keep it up at this pace,” said a gloomy voice from behind a newspaper.

The “Café Colorado” has a front of white and gold, in which are set larger plate-glass windows than are commonly to be found in Mexico. Two little wings of willow, flip-flapping incessantly, serve as doors. Under them small stray dogs go furtively into the café, and are shied into the street again by the waiters. On the sidewalk there is always a decorative effect in loungers, ranging from the newly arrived and superior tourist to the old veteran of the silver-mines, bronzed by violent suns. They contemplate, with various shades of interest, the show of the street — the red, purple, dusty white, glaring forth against the walls in the furious sunshine.

One afternoon the Kids strolled into the Café Colorado. A half-dozen of the men, who sat smoking and reading with a sort of Parisian effect at the little tables which lined two sides of the room, looked up, and bowed, smiling; and although this coming of the Kids was anything but an unusual event, at least a dozen men wheeled in their seats to stare after them. Three waiters polished tables, and moved chairs noisily, and appeared to be eager. Distinctly these Kids were of importance.

Behind the distant bar the tall form of the old “Pop” himself awaited them, smiling with broad geniality. “Well, my boys, how are you?” he cried in a voice of profound solicitude. He allowed five or six of his customers to languish in the care of Mexican bartenders, while he himself gave his eloquent attention to the Kids, lending all the dignity of a great event to their arrival. “How are the boys to-day, eh?”

“You’re a smooth old guy,” said one, eying him. “Are you giving us this welcome so we won’t notice it when you push your worst whisky at us?”

Pop turned in appeal from one Kid to the other Kid. “There, now! Hear that, will you?” He assumed an oratorical pose. “Why, my boys, you always get the best — the very best — that this house has got.”

“Yes; we do!” The Kids laughed. “Well, bring it out, anyhow; and if it’s the same you sold us last night, we’ll grab your cash-register and run.”

Pop whirled a bottle along the bar, and then gazed at it with a rapt expression. “Fine as silk,” he murmured. “Now just taste that, and if it is n’t the finest whisky you ever put in your face, why, I’m a liar, that’s all.”

The Kids surveyed him with scorn, and poured out their allowances. Then they stood for a time, insulting Pop about his whisky. “Usually it tastes exactly like new parlor furniture,” said the San Francisco Kid. “Well, here goes; and you want to look out for your cash-register.”

“Your healthy, gentlemen,” said Pop, with a grand air; and as he wiped his bristling gray mustache he wagged his head with reference to the cash-register question. “I could catch you before you got very far.”

“Why, are you a runner?” said one, derisively.

“You just bank on me, my boy,” said Pop, with deep emphasis. “I’m a flier.”

The Kids set down their glasses suddenly, and looked at him. “You must be,” they said. Pop was tall and graceful, and magnificent in manner, but he did not display those qualities of form which mean speed in the animal. His hair was gray his face was round and fat from much living. The buttons of his glittering white vest formed a fine curve, so that if the concave surface of a piece of barrel-hoop had been laid against Pop, it would have touched each button. “You must be,” observed the Kids again.

“Well, you can laugh all you like, but — no jolly, now, boys — I tell you I’m a winner. Why, I bet you I can skin anything in this town on a square go. When I kept my place in Eagle Pass, there was n’t anybody who could touch me. One of these sure things came down from San Anton’. Oh, he was a runner, he was — one of these people with wings. Well, I skinned ‘im. What? Certainly I did. Never touched me.”

The Kids had been regarding him in grave silence; but at this moment they grinned, and said, quite in chorus: “Oh, you old liar!”

Pop’s voice took on a whining tone of earnestness: “Boys, I’m telling it to you straight. I’m a flier.”

One of the Kids had had a dreamy cloud in his eye, and he cried out suddenly: “Say, what a joke to play this on Freddie!”

The other jumped ecstatically. “Oh, wouldn’t it be, though? Say, he wouldn’t do a thing but howl! He’d go crazy!”

They looked at Pop as if they longed to be certain that he was, after all, a runner. “Say, now, Pop, — on the level,” said one of them, wistfully,—”can you run?”

“Boys,” swore Pop, “I’m a peach! On the dead level, I’m a peach.”

“By golly, I believe the old Indian can run,” said one to the other, as if they were alone in conference.

“That’s what I can,” cried Pop.

The Kids said: “Well, so long, old man.” They went to a table, and sat down. They ordered a salad. They were always ordering salads. This was because one Kid had a wild passion for salads, and the other did not care much. So at any hour of the day or night they might be seen ordering a salad. When this one came, they went into a sort of executive session. It was a very long consultation. Some of the men noted it; they said there was deviltry afoot. Occasionally the Kids laughed in supreme enjoyment of something unknown.  The low rumble of wheels came from the street. Often could be heard the parrot-like cries of distant venders. The sunlight streamed through the green curtains and made some little amber-colored flitterings on the marble floor. High up among the severe decorations of the ceiling, — reminiscent of the days when the great building was a palace, — a small white butterfly was wending through the cool air-spaces. The long billiard-hall stretched back to a vague gloom. The balls were always clicking, and one could see endless elbows crooking. Beggars slunk through the wicker doors, and were ejected by the nearest waiter.

At last the Kids called Pop to them. “Sit down, Pop! Have a drink!”

They scanned him carefully. “Say, now, Pop, on your solemn oath, can you run?”

“Boys,” said Pop, piously, and raising his hand, “I can run like a rabbit.”

“On your oath?”

“On my oath.”

“Can you beat Freddie?”

Pop appeared to look at the matter from all sides. “Well, boys, I’ll tell you: no man is cock-sure of anything in this world, and I don’t want to say that I can best any man; but I’ve seen Freddie run, and I’m ready to swear I can beat ‘im. In a hundred yards I’d just about skin ‘im neat — you understand — just about neat. Freddie is a good average runner, but I — you understand — I’m just — a little — bit — better.”

The Kids had been listening with the utmost attention. Pop spoke the latter part slowly and meaningly. They thought that he intended them to see his great confidence.

One said: “Pop, if you throw us in this thing, we’ll come here and drink for two weeks without paying. We’ll back you, and work a josh on Freddie! But oh — if you throw us!”

To this menace Pop cried: “Boys, I’ll make the run of my life! On my oath!”

The salad having vanished, the Kids arose. “All right, now,” they warned him. “If you play us for duffers, we’ll get square. Don’t you forget it!”

“Boys, I’ll give you a race for you money. Bank on that. I may lose — understand, I may lose — no man can help meeting a better man, but I think I can skin ‘im, and I’ll give you a run for your money, you bet.”

“All right, then. But look here,” they told him. “You keep your face closed. Nobody but us gets in on this. Understand?”

“Not a soul,” Pop declared.

They left him, gesturing a last warning from the wicker doors.

In the street they saw Benson, his cane gripped in the middle, strolling among the white-clothed, jabbering natives on the shady side. They semaphored to him eagerly, their faces ashine with a plot. He came across cautiously, like a man who ventures into dangerous company.

“We’re going to get up a race — Pop and Fred. Pop swears he can skin ‘im. This is a tip; keep it dark, now. Say, won’t Freddie be hot?”

Benson looked as if he had been compelled to endure these exhibitions of insanity for a century. “Oh, you fellows are off. Pop can’t beat Freddie. He’s an old bat. Why, it’s impossible. Pop can’t beat Freddie.”

“Can’t he? Want to bet he can’t?” said the Kids. “There, now; let’s see — you’re talking so large.”

“Well, you—”

“Oh, bet! Bet, or else close your trap. That’s the way!”

“How do you know you can pull off the race? Seen Freddie?”

“No; but—”

“Well, see him, then. Can’t bet now, with no race arranged. I’ll bet with you all right, all right. I’ll give you fellows a tip, though — you’re a pair of asses. Pop can’t run any faster than a brick school-house.”