PAGE 8
Laughing Bill Hyde
by
Seeing that the fight was one-sided, the bartender hastened from his retreat, dragged Petersen’s champion to his feet, and flung him back into the arms of the onlookers, after which he stooped to aid the loser. His hands were actually upon Bill before he understood the meaning of that peculiar laughter, and saw in Mr. Hyde’s shaking fingers that which caused him to drop the prostrate victim as if he were a rattlesnake.
“God’l’mighty!” exclaimed the rescuer. He retreated hurriedly whence he had come.
Bill rose and dusted himself off, then he bent over Petersen, who was stirring.
“Just give her that billy-ducks and tell her it’s all right. Tell her I say you won’t hurt her none.” Then, still chuckling, he slipped into the crowd and out of the Last Chance. As he went he coughed and spat a mouthful of blood.
Once the mail-carrier had been apprised of the amazing incidents which had occurred during his temporary inattention, he vowed vengeance in a mighty voice, and his threats found echo in the throats of his two companions. But the bartender took them aside and spoke guardedly:
“You better lay off of that guy, or he’ll fatten the graveyard with all three of you. I didn’t ‘make’ him at first, but I got him now, all right.”
“What d’you mean? Who is he?”
“His name’s Hyde, ‘Laughing Bill.'”
“‘Laughing Bill’ Hyde!” One of Petersen’s friends, he who had come last into the encounter, turned yellow and leaned hard against the bar. A sudden nausea assailed him and he laid tender hands upon his abdomen. “‘Laughing Bill’ Hyde! That’s why he went down so easy! Why, he killed a feller I knew–ribboned him up from underneath, just that way–and the jury called it self-defense.” A shudder racked the speaker’s frame.
“Sure! He’s a cutter–a reg’lar gent’s cutter and fitter. He’d ‘a’ had you all over the floor in another minute; if I hadn’t pried you apart they’d ‘a’ sewed sawdust up inside of you like you was a doll. He had the old bone-handled skinner in his mit; that’s why I let go of him. Laughing Bill! Take it from me, boys, you better walk around him like he was a hole in the ice.”
It may have been the memory of that heavy whip handle, it may have been the moral effect of stray biographical bits garnered here and there around the gambling-table, or it may have been merely a high and natural chivalry, totally unsuspected until now, which prompted Petersen to treat Ponatah with a chill and formal courtesy when he returned from St. Michaels. At any rate, the girl arrived in Nome with nothing but praise for the mail-man. Pete Petersen, so she said, might have his faults, but he knew how to behave like a perfect gentleman.
Ponatah took up her new duties with enthusiasm, and before a month had passed she had endeared herself to her employers, who secretly assured Doctor Thomas that they had discovered a treasure and would never part with her. She was gentle, patient, sweet, industrious; the children idolized her. The Indian girl had never dreamed of a home like this; she was deliriously happy.
She took pride in discharging her obligations; she did not forget the men who had made this wonder possible. They had rented a little cabin, and, after the fashion of men, they make slipshod efforts at keeping house. Since it was Ponatah’s nature to serve, she found time somehow to keep the place tidy and to see to their comfort.
Laughing Bill was a hopeless idler; he had been born to leisure and was wedded to indigence, therefore he saw a good deal of the girl on her visits. He listened to her stories of the children, he admired her new and stylish clothes, he watched her develop under the influence of her surroundings. Inasmuch as both of them were waifs, and beholden to the bounty of others, thy had ties in common–a certain mutuality–hence they came to know each other intimately.