"Here, boys, you'll kinder have to sort 'em out for yerselves," she laughed, her eager eyes watching the Clown.

Freme started in again, unconscious of the girl's anxiety--too drunk to notice anything in fact:

"She used to live in Stove-pipe--"

He stopped short and looked at the girl with a half-drunken leer, then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his red shirt.

"Ham an' eggs, fried pork, tea or coffee, mince or apple pie," rattled the girl, holding the dishes under Freme's nose.

Skinner leaned back, tried to fix his gaze upon her, lurched in his chair and slid heavily to the floor. Such breaches of etiquette were not infrequent occurrences at Morrison's.

The men filed out, crowding around the red-hot stove in the bar-room.

When Belle burst in again to clear the table, the Clown lay snoring flat on his back.

By daylight Monday morning Morrison's hotel held but a single guest--the rest, penniless by Sunday night, had gone back to work. The Clown, with a dollar still in his pocket, remained. When the others had gone he came down softly in his sock feet from his room and drew up a chair to the stove in the stagnant and deserted bar-room. The room had not yet been either swept or aired. Then he rose, opened the door leading to the porch and let in the tingling frosty air and the sunlight. For a long time he played with the kitten under the stove, but he did not take a drink. He had promised Belle that he would not, and she had kissed him as a reward. A new light shone in the girl's eyes as she busied herself with the dishes in the kitchen beyond the bar-room--now and then she sang to herself the refrain of a popular song. Finally she opened the door of the kitchen and entered the bar-room. The next moment the Clown placed his great paw of a hand about her slim waist.

"I hain't took no drink," he said shakily, with an embarra.s.sed laugh.

She looked up at him.

"I knowed you wouldn't, Freme," she answered searching his blood-shot blue eyes. "You promised, Freme, and--you know I'll marry ye," she said, "jest as I said I would if ye'll only keep to what ye promised.

I guess we kin be as happy as most folks," she added, smiling bravely through tears.

"Thar ain't no guessin' 'bout it, Belle. Thar--you needn't cry 'bout it," he replied.

"You was awful drunk, Freme," she went on. "There warn't no one could handle ye 'cept me. They was tryin' to get ye upstairs and to bed, but ye was uglier 'n sin."

"Pshaw--I want to know," drawled the giant sheepishly. "Didn't none git hurted, did they?"

"None 'cept Ed Munsey; ye throwed him downstairs."

"Ed ain't hurted, be he?" he asked in alarm.

"His shoulder was swelled bad when he come back to work," she confessed. She nodded to the door behind the bar and the splinters sticking through its panel.

"Gosh all whimey!" he exclaimed; "who done that?"

"You done it, Freme; you was crazy drunk. There warn't none of 'em could handle you 'cept me, I tell ye. I spoke to ye and ye come 'long with me back inter the kitchen and set there lookin' at me strange-like for most an hour. Arter I got my dishes washed I took ye up to the little room at the end of the hall."

The Clown scratched his head as if trying to remember.

"Warn't it Ed that throwed that buffalo hide over me?" he asked after a moment of useless research.

"No," she said, "I wouldn't let one of 'em tech ye."

"And do you think he'll keep his promise, Belle?" asked Holcomb, when she had finished the story.

"I dunno. He will if I kin stay 'longside of him. But if he don't he's got to git along without me. He says he loves me better 'n liquor, and I guess maybe he does."

The following night Freme swung into the forest and took the short cut to Big Shanty, and that same night Holcomb welcomed him with a hearty handshake and the morning after set him to work. When the next day came around and Freme shook his head when the liquor pa.s.sed, those around the stove at Morrison's marvelled at his grit and speculated how long it would last, wondering if Freme had "got religion"--to which the girl had answered, "Yes, he has--I'm his religion."

But liquor was not the only menace that threatened the work down Morrison's way. Drunkenness Holcomb could handle to some extent--had handled it in the cases of both the Clown and the Clown's head-chopper, a little French Canadian by the name of Le Boeuf, from whom Holcomb himself had extracted a pledge, which, to the little Kanuck's credit, he manfully kept. What was more to be feared was the drove of stragglers, outlaws, and tramps who, attracted by the unusual expenditure at Big Shanty, made Morrison's their resting place as long as they had a dollar to pay for a lodging or a gla.s.s of whiskey.

In addition to these there came a more prosperous and, for that reason, a more dangerous cla.s.s--speculators, lumber sharps, land agents, and the like, each one with a scheme for the improvement of some part of Big Shanty. Most, if not all of them, Holcomb turned down with a curt "No--don't want it." Now and then someone more shrewd than the others would write direct to Thayor, and on the strength of a formal business answer--"You might inquire of my superintendent, Mr.

William Holcomb," etc., etc., would use the doc.u.ment to pave the way for an introduction.

One evening in June a rickety buck-board rattled up to Morrison's and inquired the way to Big Shanty. The pa.s.senger was short and broad-shouldered; wore a derby hat shading a pair of crafty eyes as black as his thick, scrubby beard. In his hand he carried a small black valise.

The stranger stepped into the bar, emptied his gla.s.s, waited until Morrison had cleared his throat and uttered the customary remark of "I goll--we cal'late to keep the best--" and then asked:

"How far did you say this place of Thayor's was?" The voice was harsh and peremptory--with a nasal tw.a.n.g in it and a faint trace of Jewish accent, despite the fact that he spoke the dialect of the country from habit.

"'Bout two miles, we cal'late it by the new road," returned the proprietor as he re-corked the bottle. "You'll see the new road 'bout a hundred rod 'bove here to the left; you can't miss it."

"I've got a letter from Thayor himself," explained the stranger, as he squinted over his hooked nose and searched cautiously the contents of an inside pocket. "It's for a man named Holcomb--he's Thayor's superintendent, ain't he?"

"Yes," said Morrison, "and a durn good one, too. I'll warrant Sam Thayor got the feller he was lookin' for when he got Billy."

"Ain't the job gettin' too big for him?" ventured the man with an attempt at a grin under the thick beard that grew to the corners of his crafty eyes.

"He kin handle any job he's a mind to," said Morrison with rough emphasis.

"Um!" grunted the man. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Bill Morrison--and yourn?"

"Bergstein."

Morrison leaned forward over the bar and his brow tightened:

"Guess I've hearn of you before--horse-trader, bean't ye?"

"Yes; if you ever want a good horse"--and his small, black eyes glittered--"let me know."

"Got 'bout all I kin afford," replied Morrison; "twenty to work on my job now." Again Morrison looked at him; this time from his scrubby black beard to his dust-covered shoes. "Seems to me I heard your name before. There was a man by that name that was mixed up in that Jim Bailey murder. You ain't he, be ye?"

"No--I come from Montreal," replied Bergstein in a more positive tone.

"The name's common enough." Here he opened the black valise stuffed with business papers and handed Morrison a card.

Morrison looked at it carefully, tucked it in a fly-specked screen behind the bar, and with a satisfied air said:

"Let's see--you hain't had no supper, hev ye? Supper's most ready--I'll go and tell the old woman you're here."

"No--I ain't stoppin' for supper," replied Bergstein, paying for his gla.s.s. "I'm going up to Thayor's place now; this feller Holcomb's expectin' me."

"Suit yourself, friend," returned Morrison, and he pulled down the heavy shutter screening the array of bottles.