# The Trail Rider/Chapter 6

OUTSIDE Uncle Boley's window the crowd had thinned away; traffic was running in the street again as if tragedy had not stood there a little while before and paralyzed its stream. From the heart of the town, two squares away, the sound of music came through the twilight.
"I can take you around and interduce you to Sallie and her mother now," Uncle Boley said. "I tell you, Texas, a feller purty near has to come with his papers in his hand before I'll do that much for him."
"I'll warrant you he does, sir, and I'm mighty proud to have you trust me as worthy of the honor. But I don't feel like I ought to go fresh from a qua'l and a brawl into that little lady's presence, sir, and take her by the hand."
"She'll be glad to see you, and she'll be keen to understand. You done it for her, Texas. If you never had 'a' stood up for her rights to-day this thing never would 'a' happened."
"To-day!" said Texas musingly, reviewing the events which had filled his few hours in Cotton​wood. "Yes, it was to-day, wasn't it? Sir, it seems to me like I have been here a hundred years!"
"I want you to wear Ed's gun when you meet 'em. That's the biggest recommend I can give you—that I thought you fit to pack that gun."
"I'll have to get me a coat, sir, and some other things. I'm not presentable to ladies to-night. I beg you, sir, to put it off another day."
"Well, we can't go to-morrow night, 'cause there's an icercream festibul at the Methodist church, and Sallie and her ma they're head and heels into it. But I tell you what we can do: we can go to the festibul."
"I'll get trimmed up a little for it."
"Trimmed up?" Uncle Boley looked him over with questioning stare. "I don't see what more a man needs when he's got a good pair of boots and his hair combed."
"Customs differ in different places, sir. To-morrow I'll have to see if I can find something to do, Uncle Boley. I can't afford to be idle many days."
Uncle Boley sat thoughtfully silent a while, gathering his beard in his hands like a sheaf of grain.
"The association wants to hire two or three trail-riders, I hear," he said at last.
​"Trail-riders? You don't mean men to carry mail, sir?"
"No, I mean trail-riders, just plain trail-riders."
"I don't believe we had 'em in Taixas, sir."
"No, I guess you didn't. Trail-ridin' is a new profession—it sprung up in this country in the last two years, since the cattlemen all went into the association to keep the Texas fever out of the Arkansas Valley range. Well, you bein' from Texas, maybe they wouldn't give you a job."
"Has it got something to do with keeping Taixas cattle out of this part of the country, sir?"
"It's got all to do with it. You know them Texas herds drops fever ticks around here sometimes as thick as beans, and the association's been trvin' to git Congress to pass a law settin' a quarantine line ag'in 'em. Congress ain't took no action on it, but the association's set certain trails for them Texas cattle to foiler when they drive 'em up to this country to ship, and the trail-riders is the fellers that sees they take to 'em and keep to 'em."
"I understand it, sir."
"You can't blame the cattlemen on this range if they have laid out trails that takes Texas cattle to hell-and-gone around and nearly wears 'em out before they git to where they're goin'. Texas fever's cost 'em millions on this range in the past five or six years, and it's either go out of business, ​or turn the range over to the Texas cowmen, or shut 'em out. Well, the association figgers they'll make more money by shuttin' 'em out."
Uncle Boley chuckled. He had many recollections of the clashes which had come between Texas and Kansas cattlemen over the quarantine trails.
"What do the trail-riders do, sir, if the Taixas cowmen refuse to keep to the trails set for them to drive over?"
"They pass the word back to headquarters down on Malcolm Duncan's ranch, and men enough's sent down to turn 'em, by granger! They have some purty sharp argyments sometimes."
"A man would need a good horse for that job," Texas reflected.
"Yes, he would, or for most any job, but some of them triflin' things I asked you about and you said you couldn't do. But I guess that could be fixed up, all right. If Malcolm Duncan gives you a job he'll trust you for a horse. They pay them riders eighty dollars a month and found. A man could mighty soon buy a horse out of that."
So they decided, after talking it over fully, that trail-riding offered the best opening for a man of Texas Hartwell's limited business experience in that country. In the morning Texas was to put in his application with Duncan, president of the Cattle Raisers' Association. In the meantime, for a ​good clean bed and a welcome like home, Uncle Boley recommended the Woodbine Hotel, kept by Malvina Smith and her mother, Mrs. Goodloe.
"Ollie Noggle, our head-leadin' barber, and several more of our professional men boards there regular, and I take my meals there myself on Sundays," he explained. "It ain't so much of a hotel to look at on the outside, for I don't like the green Malvina had it painted after she got her divorce bill from Zebedee."
"Green's for hope, they say, sir," said Texas, with that queer half-smile of his.
"Yes," said Uncle Boley, wondering what it would take to make him laugh, "and I guess she's goin' to git her hopes fulfilled, all right. Ollie Noggle seems to be leadin' peaceful and quiet. I guess she'll land him before the summer's through. The old lady she'll kind of show off to you a day or two, proud as all git-out over that divorce paper Malvina's got. It's the first one anybody in Cottonwood ever got through a court, and that old lady she shows it off like it was a deed to a ranch."
"It's a queer kind of thing to have a family pride in."
"Yes, I never had much use for divorce bills myself, but it's a curiosity to some folks. The neighbors is as much to blame as the old lady, and more. They used to go there in droves at first to see it. ​and set around and gab about every other thing in the lands below the firmament. But all the time they was eatchin' to see that dang fool paper, and the old lady was as tickled as if she was takin' snuff."
"You don't tell me!"
"Yes, and she'd let 'em eatch and squirm till she got 'em worked up so they felt like they was settin' over steam, then she'd grin her old yeller teeth as big as a horse's, and say: 'Show 'em your divorce paper, Malvina.'"
"That sure was a divertin' kind of a game."
"Yes, and she'll try to work your curiosity up to the blisterin' heat that way, too. Well, when she'd say that, Malvina she'd blush and simmer, and git up and go to the press and take that old fool paper out from between the ironed sheets where she kep' it from wrinklin', and hand it around like it was the Declaration of Independence, with John Hancock's name on it you could read forty feet. Huh! derned old fool thing for a passel of women to glommer over, wasn't it?"
"I expect it was because every married lady may have a secret longing to own a document of the same kind herself some day, sir."
"Oh, you git out! I've knowed women you couldn't separate from their old men with a maul and wedge."
​"They are exceptions, I have no doubt, sir."
"Yes, a notion like that ortn't keep a man from marryin'. He ort to marry young, and stay married, even if he has to do it over a couple of times."
"I'm not skeptical on the subject of marriage, or of the fidelity of the ladies, sir. I was merely remarkin'. What became of Zebedee, or what did he do to occasion the divorce?"
"Zebedee he went down to the Nation about three years ago to look around. He never come back, and he never wrote. Malvina got tired of dependin' on him to let her hear whe'er he was livin' or dead or married to a squaw, and she got her bill. Can't blame Malvina, she always had to make the livin' anyhow, and she's a real purty little chunk of a woman, but I never did agree that her red hair matched that green paint on the hotel."
So, with the history of Malvina Smith like an open book in his hand, Texas left Uncle Boley for the night. His first thought was to seek a store and buy himself a coat, for he was reluctant to appear before even the red-haired holder of the only divorce paper in Cottonwood in his shirt-sleeves. Shirt-sleeves were well enough for business hours, but out of business hours a gentleman ought to have a coat. That was the opinion of Texas, and all the usages in the world to the contrary could not have bent him from it an inch.
​Texas walked warily through the main street of Cottonwood, where gasoline-lamps on posts made a very good illumination, together with the brightness that radiated from the windows. He kept his hand hovering over his gun, and turned his head this way and that, like a man in the enemy's country where he believes every hand hostile.
He knew himself to be a man marked for destruction. That sentence he had read in the mayor's exclamation of angry disappointment when he found that Hartwell had not been slain, and the look of his eyes the moment that he turned and hid himself in the throng. There would be strain and disquietude, high tension and uncertainty, every hour that he remained in Cottonwood. He considered whether it would not be the best and wisest thing, for his own safety and peace, to leave the town at once.
Then there came flashing back to him the picture of Sallie McCoy as she sat there in her saddle when he stood alone after thrashing the mayor. The warm feeling of pride that had stirred in him then like a heroic resolution expanded over his body again. He felt that the unspoken message that had passed from eye to eye between them in that moment had been a pledge of some undreamed, embryonic thing of the future, still nebulous and misty, still not understood. But of something rest​ful to the buffeted soul and weary body, like the "shadow of a rock in a desert land."
His feet felt planted in that town; it was indeed as if he had been there many years, and had become a figure in the place. He could not go; he could not turn away, at least not so far that he could not ride back in a day or two, like the cowboys from the range around. He felt that he had been directed to Cottonwood, and into the adventures of this day, to become the instrument of a good and noble purpose.
That girl's father had carried this weapon that pressed against his thigh in the assurance of defense, like the hand of a trusted friend in the dark. Surely it was not merely the chance of a day that had put the weapon in his keeping; surely the words which he had spoken when the old man gave him the title of ownership to it had not sprung out of an empty heart or boastful mind. Time had shaped him to a purpose in that land; circumstances had placed in his hand the key to unlock mysteries, the power to adjust wrongs. The events of that day had been written into his life's program a long time in advance.
Texas appeared at the Woodbine Hotel a little while after the soft summer darkness had engulfed Cottonwood, its crudities and its sins, wearing a black coat which gave him a very professional ap​pearance above the middle thigh. This coat he had found in a store called the Racket, kept by a Jew who wore spectacles with thick lenses, and was a very worm of a man in his apparent humility.
The length of this garment—it was of the style called Prince Albert, much favored even to this day in Missouri and Arkansas by country barristers and barbers and negro preachers—seemed to increase Hartwell's height by several inches, and gave him a dignified and decent appearance, indeed. It had the added advantage of a screen for his revolver, thus taking away from him the appearance of challenge that his armament seemed to inspire. Texas was pleased with it, the fit of it in the shoulders, the comfortable feeling of being dressed that it gave him, in spite of the great sweat that it threw him into, for it was a still, warm night.
There was nobody in the office of the Woodbine Hotel, but through the open door leading to the dining-room Texas could see a party gathered at supper around a long table. The cackle and chatter proclaimed a celebration of some kind, which he was reluctant to interrupt. As he waited for somebody to appear and inquire into his wants, he saw a small bell on the show-case, such as teachers once used to call up classes, and pasted inside the glass a card with "Wring" written in ink as weak and inassertive as an old person's voice.
​Mrs. Goodloe answered the bell. There was no mistaking her after Uncle Boley's mention of her teeth. Texas never had seen teeth to compare with those in any human mouth. They were as broad as thumb-nails, yellow as old teacups, and a shortage in the goods of which her upper lip had been cut had left their owner without means of concealing them save by an effort which brought on a spasmodic convulsion of the face, alarming and distressing to behold.
This operation Mrs. Goodloe seemed to consider a necessary preliminary to speech. It could be effected only by pulling down the short upper lip, and that tension in turn tightened the skin on her large nose and drew it down from her eyes, giving Mrs. Goodloe a most startled and astonished look.
She stood in the door, her face arranged in this manner, saying nothing, but looking Texas over as if in doubt whether he was cura or cowboy. Her face was red, and sweat glistened on it, as if she had put down some violent task to answer his summons. He inquired about accommodations, mentioning Uncle Boley.
At the mention of Uncle Boley Mrs. Goodloe smiled. It came on her so suddenly, and was so vast in extent, that she looked as if she had ripened and burst, like a touch-me-not, and was about to sow a crop of teeth.
​"Yes, we can put you up, but I'll have to ask you to wait a little while before I can fix you up a room. My daughter's just been married, and we're givin' an infare supper."
"There's no hurry at all, ma'am; don't interrupt the festivities on my account. I'll just sit out here and read the paper, if you don't mind?"
She bustled about a bit, pleased with his appearance and the sound of his voice, so gentle and soft compared to the high, loud key of the usual cowboy, and got him a later paper than the one on the counter.
"We get the Kansas City papers the next day after they're printed now," she told him, with pride in the metropolitan stamp that it gave Cottonwood; "they come through in a hurry since they put on the cannon-ball."
She hurried back to the feast. Texas arranged himself to read the paper, the clash of cutlery on dish, the mingled voices in loud hilarity, attesting to the enjoyment that was under way within.
From where he sat he could see the head of the table, the bride and groom facing him, Malvina unmistakable on account of her red hair. At the corner of the table on the bride's other hand was the little round minister whom Texas had seen at the fair.
There were ten or a dozen other guests, and they ​were eating boiled ham and mashed potatoes, and fried chicken heaped in a great brown mountain on a tremendous dish. This dish Mrs. Goodloe was carrying up the line. As she passed from guest to guest Texas could hear her say, in unvarying formula, with unvarying accent of generous invitation and urging, her voice as plain as if she stood behind his chair:
"Won't you have some of this here fried chicken? Won't you have some of this here fried chicken?"
She had almost reached the groom, known to Texas at the first glance as the head-leadin' barber whom Uncle Boley had mentioned, by his big black mustache, his narrow face and oiled hair; Mrs. Goodloe was even approaching him, when there came in from the street a man whose demeanor and appearance at once drew the attention of Texas from the wedding banquet.
This was a bristling, big, bony man, sour-faced, red-eyed. His shirt was as red as the grates of inferno, and his mustache was red under his long, ill-favored nose. He had the appearance of one who had come in from a long journey, and there was a sullenness in his small eyes as if he sat up nights to nurse a grudge. He wore a white silk handkerchief around his neck; on his boots Mexican spurs with rowels as big as silver dollars.
"Ain't nobody tendin' to business in this joint?" ​he inquired, his voice rough in that hoarseness that much raw liquor puts into a man naturally pitched in a low key.
"They're inside there havin' an infare party. If you'll hit that bell—"
"Whose infare party?"
The man turned to Texas with such ferocity that it gave him the appearance of being the traveling opponent of infare parties, a sort of walking delegate for the suppression of infare parties, and the elimination of such light frivolity from the somber business of life.
"Not mine, sir," said Texas, resenting the man's front, and his air of accusation and blame.
"Whose in the hell, then?"
"Smith was her name. She's the lady that runs the ranch."
The stranger stepped back from the counter and looked into the dining-room. Mrs. Goodloe had reached the groom with the platter of fried chicken, to which he was helping himself with great elegance and liberality, spearing deep into the pieces with his fork, pushing them free from the tines with his handy thumb.
There the stranger stood a little while, harsh of outline, the dust of long roads on his red shirt, a big gun dangling at his side.
Mrs. Goodloe had assisted the bride to the deli​cacy, which she bore high on her shoulder like a hod, when the man walked into the dining-room, his spurs clicking on the floor, his hat-brim pushed up flat against the crown as if a strong wind struck him in the face.
And by the hush that fell, like the silence of a broken fiddle-string, Texas Hartwell knew that the stranger was Zebedee Smith, the man who had gone to the Nation to look around.