“‘If you don’t mind,’ he says,
’I think I’ll switch my order and take
that whisky instead. I seem to need it.’
“‘Son!’ says I, ‘there ain’t
nothin’ in the house you can’t have for
the askin’. Try some of this!’
“And I pulled out a bottle of my private stock—you
know the stuff; I’ve had it twenty-five years,
and it was ten years old when I got it. That
ain’t as much of a lie as it sounds.
“He takes a glass of it and sips it, sort of
suspicious, like a wolf scentin’ the wind for
an elk in winter. Then his face lighted up like
a lantern had been flashed on it. You’d
of thought that he was lookin’ his long-lost
brother in the eye from the way he smiled at me.
He holds the glass up and lets the light come through
it, showin’ the little traces and bubbles of
oil.
“‘May I know your name?’ he says.
“It made me feel like Rockerbilt, hearin’
him say that, in that special voice.
“‘Me,’ says I, ‘I’m
Flanders.’
“‘It’s an honour to know you, Mr.
Flanders,’ he says. ’My name is Anthony
Bard.’
“We shook hands, and his grip was three fourths
man, I’ll tell the world.
“‘Good liquor,’ says he, ’is
like a fine lady. Only a gentleman can appreciate
it. I drink to you, sir.’
“So that’s how Sandy Ferguson went under
the sod. To-day? Well, I couldn’t
let Ferguson stand in a barroom where a gentleman had
been, could I?”
THE DARKNESS IN ELDARA
Even the stout roan grew weary during the third day,
and when they topped the last rise of hills, and looked
down to darker shadows in Eldara in the black heart
of the hollow, the mustang stood with hanging head,
and one ear flopped forward. Cruel indeed had
been the pace which Nash maintained, yet they had
never been able to overhaul the flying piebald of
Anthony Bard.
As they trotted down the slope, Nash looked to his
equipment, handled his revolver, felt the strands
of the lariat, and resting only his toes in the stirrups,
eased all his muscles to make sure that they were
uncramped from the long journey. He was fit; there
was no doubt of that.
Coming down the main street—for Eldara
boasted no fewer than three thoroughfares—the
first houses which Nash passed showed no lights.
As far as he could see, the blinds were all drawn;
not even the glimmer of a candle showed, and the voices
which he heard were muffled and low.
He thought of plague or some other disaster which
might have overtaken the little village and wiped
out nine tenths of the populace in a day. Only
such a thing could account for silence in Eldara.
There should have been bursts and roars of laughter
here and there, and now and then a harsh stream of
cursing. There should have been clatter of kitchen
tins; there should have been neighing of horses; there
should have been the quiver and tingle of children’s
voices at play in the dusty streets. But there
was none of this. The silence was as thick and
oppressive as the unbroken dark of the night.
Even Butler’s saloon was closed!
