Prairie Flowers | Page 4

he
seemed to have aged ten years--not physically, but--he had aged.
He spoke half aloud, with his grey eyes upon the rock: "It--hurts--like
hell. I knew it would hurt, an' I came--rode sixty miles to get to this
spot at this hour of this day. It was here she said 'good-bye,' an' then she
walked slowly around the rock with her flowers held tight, an' the wind
ripplin' that lock of hair, just above her right temple, it was--an'
then--she was gone." The man's eyes dropped to the ground. A
brilliantly striped beetle climbed laboriously to the top of a weed stem,
spread his wings in a clumsy effort, and fell to the ground. The cowboy
laughed: "A hell of a lot of us that would like to fly has to crawl," he
said, and stooping picked a tiny flower, stared at it for a moment,
breathed deeply of its fragrance, and thrust it into the band of his hat.
Reaching for his reins, he swung into the saddle and once more his eyes
sought the painted bad lands with their background of purple mountains.
"Prettiest place in the world, I reckon--to look at. Mica flashin' like
diamonds, red rocks an' pink ones, white alkali patches, an' black
cool-lookin' mud-cracks--an' when you get there--poison water,
rattlesnakes, chokin' hot dust, horse-thieves, an' the white bones of dead
things! Everything's like that. Come on, old top horse, you an' I'll shove
on to Timber City. 'Tain't over a mile, an' when we get there--! Say boy,
little old unsuspectin' Timber City is goin' to stage an orgy. We don't
aim to pull off no common sordid drunk--not us. What we'll precipitate
is goin' to be a classic--a jamboree of sorts, a bacchanalian cataclysm,
aided an' abetted by what local talent an' trimmin's the scenery affords.

Shake a leg, there! An' we'll forget the bones, an' the poison, an' the
dust, an' with the discriminatin' perception of a beltful of rollickin'
ferments, we'll enjoy the pink, an' the purple, an' the red. Tomorrow,
it'll be different but as Old Bat says 'Wat de hell?'"
Thus adjured, the horse picked his way down the little creek and a few
minutes later swung into the trail that stretched dusty white toward the
ugly little town whose wooden buildings huddled together a mile to the
southward.
Before the door of Red Front saloon the Texan drew up in a swirl of
dust, slid from the saddle, and entered. The bartender flashed an
appraising glance, and greeted him with professional cordiality, the
ritual of which, included the setting out of a bottle and two glasses
upon the bar. "Dry?" he invited as he slid the bottle toward the
newcomer.
"Middlin'," assented the Texan, as he poured a liberal potion. The other
helped himself sparingly and raised his glass.
"Here's how."
"How," responded the Texan, and returning the empty glass to the bar
produced papers and tobacco and rolled a cigarette. Then very
deliberately, he produced a roll of bills, peeled a yellow one from the
outside, and returned the roll to his pocket. Without so much as the
flicker of an eyelash, the bartender noted that the next one also was
yellow. The cowpuncher laid the bill on the bar, and with a jerk of the
thumb, indicated the four engrossed in a game of solo at a table in the
rear of the room.
"Don't yer friends imbibe nothin'?" he asked, casually.
The bartender grinned as he glanced toward the table. "Might try 'em,
now. I didn't see no call to bust into a solo-tout with no trivial politics
like a couple of drinks.
"Gents, what's yourn?"

From across the room came a scraping of chairs, and the four men lined
up beside the Texan and measured their drinks.
"Stranger in these parts?" inquired a tall man with a huge sunburned
moustache.
"Sort of," replied the Texan, "but let's licker before this sinful decoction
evaporates."
"Seems like I've saw you before, somewheres," opined a thick man
with round china blue eyes.
"Maybe you have, because astoundin' as it may seem, this ain't my first
appearance in public--but you might be nature fakin', at that. Where
was it this here episode took place?"
The man shook his head: "I dunno, only it seems like you look sort of
nat'chel, somehow."
"I always did--it's got so's it's almost what you might call a fixed
habit--like swallowin' when I drink. But, speakin' of towns, Timber
City's sure had a boom since I was here last. You've got a new horse
trough in front of the livery barn." The tall man ordered another round
of drinks, and the Texan paused to fill his glass. They drank, and with
an audible suck at his overhanging moustache, the tall man leaned an
elbow on