A First Family of Tasaa | Page 6

ends of a loose handkerchief tied round his throat.
From the action, and what could be seen of his pale, exhausted face, it
was evident that the moisture upon it was beads of perspiration, and not
the rain which some abnormal heat of his body was converting into
vapor from his sodden garments as he stood there.
"I've got a document here," he began again, producing a roll of paper
tremblingly from his pocket, "that I'd like you to glance over, and

perhaps you'd"-- His voice, which had been feverishly exalted, here
broke and rattled with a cough.
Billings, Wingate, and Peters fell apart and looked out of the window.
"It's too dark to read anything now, 'Lige," said Harkutt, with evasive
good humor, "and I ain't lightin' up to-night."
"But I can tell you the substance of it," said the man, with a faintness
that however had all the distinctness of a whisper, "if you'll just step
inside a minute. It's a matter of importance and a bargain"--
"I reckon we must be goin'," said Billings to the others, with marked
emphasis. "We're keepin' Harkutt from shuttin' up." "Good- night!"
"Good-night!" added Peters and Wingate, ostentatiously following
Billings hurriedly through the door. "So long!"
The door closed behind them, leaving Harkutt alone with his
importunate intruder. Possibly his resentment at his customers' selfish
abandonment of him at this moment developed a vague spirit of
opposition to them and mitigated his feeling towards 'Lige. He groped
his way to the counter, struck a match, and lit a candle. Its feeble rays
faintly illuminated the pale, drawn face of the applicant, set in a tangle
of wet, unkempt, party-colored hair. It was not the face of an ordinary
drunkard; although tremulous and sensitive from some artificial
excitement, there was no ENGORGEMENT or congestion in the
features or complexion, albeit they were morbid and unhealthy. The
expression was of a suffering that was as much mental as physical, and
yet in some vague way appeared unmeaning--and unheroic.
"I want to see you about selling my place on the creek. I want you to
take it off my hands for a bargain. I want to get quit of it, at once, for
just enough to take me out o' this. I don't want any profit; only money
enough to get away." His utterance, which had a certain kind of
cultivation, here grew thick and harsh again, and he looked eagerly at
the bottle which stood on the counter.
"Look here, 'Lige," said Harkutt, not unkindly. "It's too late to do
anythin' tonight. You come in to-morrow." He would have added

"when you're sober," but for a trader's sense of politeness to a possible
customer, and probably some doubt of the man's actual condition.
"God knows where or what I may be tomorrow! It would kill me to go
back and spend another night as the last, if I don't kill myself on the
way to do it."
Harkutt's face darkened grimly. It was indeed as Billings had said. The
pitiable weakness of the man's manner not only made his desperation
inadequate and ineffective, but even lent it all the cheapness of acting.
And, as if to accent his simulation of a part, his fingers, feebly groping
in his shirt bosom, slipped aimlessly and helplessly from the shining
handle of a pistol in his pocket to wander hesitatingly towards the
bottle on the counter.
Harkutt took the bottle, poured out a glass of the liquor, and pushed it
before his companion, who drank it eagerly. Whether it gave him more
confidence, or his attention was no longer diverted, he went on more
collectedly and cheerfully, and with no trace of his previous
desperation in his manner. "Come, Harkutt, buy my place. It's a bargain,
I tell you. I'll sell it cheap. I only want enough to get away with. Give
me twenty-five dollars and it's yours. See, there's the papers--the
quitclaim--all drawn up and signed." He drew the roll of paper from his
pocket again, apparently forgetful of the adjacent weapon.
"Look here, 'Lige," said Harkutt, with a business-like straightening of
his lips, "I ain't buyin' any land in Tasajara,--least of all yours on the
creek. I've got more invested here already than I'll ever get back again.
But I tell you what I'll do. You say you can't go back to your shanty.
Well, seein' how rough it is outside, and that the waters of the creek are
probably all over the trail by this time, I reckon you're about right. Now,
there's five dollars!" He laid down a coin sharply on the counter. "Take
that and go over to Rawlett's and get a bed and some supper. In the
mornin' you may be able to strike up a trade with somebody else--or
change your