The Bad Man | Page 9

country,
establish himself on a ranch, and seek to win out in the face of
overwhelming odds.
How many other young men had staked all on a single game--and lost.
That was one of the finest qualities of the Americans who migrated to
this vast section of the country. They were always good losers, as well
as modest winners. The land was rich in possibilities, as Sturgis had
told Pell; and though the hot season lasted interminably and caused

one's spirits, as well as one's hopes, to droop, there were enchanting
spring days and bright, colorful, dwindling autumns when the air was
keen and clear, and life was a song with youth for its eternal theme.
Men with families bore the hardest burdens in their early struggle for
success. Gilbert, being single, had less to worry about than many
another; but his Uncle Henry was a handicap. For Uncle Henry used his
invalid's chair much as a king might use his throne--a vantage place
from which to hurl his tyrannous speeches. And there was no
come-back. Uncle Henry had reigned too long to be fearful of any
retort from any mere subject who walked about on two firm legs. For
ten years he had held court, moving his little throne about with sudden
jerks. When things did not go entirely his way, he could always
withdraw--expertly, swiftly, cleverly. Doorsills were nothing to him.
He skimmed them dexterously, as a regiment might storm a hill.
Fortunately, he suffered no pain, though sometimes, in a frenzy, he
affected a twinge in his body, and caused a helpless look to sweep over
his countenance. As a rule, this trick worked beautifully; for who could
be cruel to an invalid in pain? Being a bachelor, and having no relative
closer than Gilbert, the latter took him under his roof. He really liked
the old boy, despite his querulousness.
To-day, Uncle Henry was in one of his temperamental moods. Gilbert,
sitting calmly at the little table, writing, in the low main room of the
adobe, could hear the chair whirling about, each wheel vocal, and
revealing the state of mind of the occupant.
"Gosh! ain't it hot!" finally came from Uncle Henry, his voice a drawl.
Gilbert said nothing. There was nothing to say. Of course it was hot;
and he knew Uncle Henry could be depended upon to continue any
conversation once begun. Sure enough, it wasn't the weather at all that
he was deeply interested in, but the forthcoming midday meal. "Say,
ain't we never goin' to eat? I'm as hungry as a bear."
"Dinner ought to be ready now," Gilbert answered patiently, never
looking up from his paper.

Uncle Henry was not satisfied. "Then why ain't it," he rasped, giving
his chair a twist, "I ain't had nothin' but a rotten cup of coffee since five
o'clock this mornin'."
His nephew rose, and went over to the mantel-piece. How often he had
heard just that remark! He didn't bother to reply to it. Instead, he
merely silenced his uncle with a gesture. Uncle Henry didn't like being
silenced. He looked around, as peevish as a spoiled child, and picked at
the cloth that rested on his knees. Then he switched his chair within
reach of the table, and snatched up a newspaper, much as a boy might
grab the brass ring at a merry-go-round. He would read, if he couldn't
make his nephew talk; and he buried himself in the printed page.
Gilbert, having lighted his pipe, went back to his writing. "Well, what
do you know about that!" exclaimed Uncle Henry, his face aglow.
"About what, Uncle?"
"Why, Ezry Pringle's dead."
"Who's Ezry Pringle?" Gilbert asked, feigning an interest he did not
feel.
"A friend o' mine. Only seventy years old, too. He was right in the
prime of life."
Gilbert smiled. "What's that paper you're reading?"
"The Bangor Daily Commercial, printed at Bangor, Maine. An' that's
the only decent town in the whole gol darn world. Wisht I was there
now!" He glanced at the alcove that led to another room, as if conscious
that Morgan Pell might have heard him. He wanted to say something
more to Gilbert, but something told him he had better keep silent.
Instead, he read an item from the paper aloud to him. "Listen to this,
Gilbert," he said: "'The Elite Fish Market has just received five barrels
of soft clams from Eastport. Get there early, feller citizens! They won't
last long.' Think o' that, Gilbert? Clams!" He smacked his lips, and
even forgot how warm it was. "Clams! An' I ain't even seen one in five
long years! Not even a clam!" He turned his chair suddenly, and looked

out of the open door, where the country meandered away. "This is a
hell of a hole!