FullReads

“Rocky grub. But I ain’t kicking. Say–can you give me any pointers about managing that–affair? It’s my first deal in that line of business, you know.”

“No, I can’t,” answered Bell, after some thought. “I’ve tried all kinds of ways. You’ll have to try some of your own.”

“Tried soft soap?”

“Barrels of it.”

“Tried a saddle girth with a buckle on the end of it?”

“Never none. Started to once; and here’s what I got.”

Bill held out his right hand. Even in the deepening twilight, I could see on the back of it a long, white scar that might have been made by a claw or a knife or some sharp-edged tool.

“Oh, well,” said the florid man, carelessly, “I’ll know what to do later on.”

He walked away without another word. When he had gone ten steps he turned and called to Bell:

“You keep well out of the way when the goods are delivered, so there won’t be any hitch in the business.”

“All right,” answered Bell, “I’ll attend to my end of the line.”

This talk was scarcely clear in its meaning to me; but as it did not concern me, I did not let it weigh upon my mind. But the singularity of the other man’s appearance lingered with me for a while; and as we walked toward Bell’s house I remarked to him:

“Your customer seems to be a surly kind of fellow–not one that you’d like to be snowed in with in a camp on a hunting trip.”

“He is that,” assented Bell, heartily. “He reminds me of a rattlesnake that’s been poisoned by the bite of a tarantula.”

“He doesn’t look like a citizen of Saltillo,” I went on.

“No,” said Bell, “he lives in Sacramento. He’s down here on a little business trip. His name is George Ringo, and he’s been my best friend–in fact the only friend I ever had–for twenty years.”

I was too surprised to make any further comment.

Bell lived in a comfortable, plain, square, two-story white house on the edge of the little town. I waited in the parlor–a room depressingly genteel–furnished with red plush, straw matting, looped-up lace curtains, and a glass case large enough to contain a mummy, full of mineral specimens.

While I waited, I heard, upstairs, that unmistakable sound instantly recognized the world over–a bickering woman’s voice, rising as her anger and fury grew. I could hear, between the gusts, the temperate rumble of Bell’s tones, striving to oil the troubled waters.

The storm subsided soon; but not before I had heard the woman say, in a lower, concentrated tone, rather more carrying than her high-pitched railings: “This is the last time. I tell you–the last time. Oh, you WILL understand.”

The household seemed to consist of only Bell and his wife and a servant or two. I was introduced to Mrs. Bell at supper.

At first sight she seemed to be a handsome woman, but I soon perceived that her charm had been spoiled. An uncontrolled petulance, I thought, and emotional egotism, an absence of poise and a habitual dissatisfaction had marred her womanhood. During the meal, she showed that false gayety, spurious kindliness and reactionary softness that mark the woman addicted to tantrums. Withal, she was a woman who might be attractive to many men.

After supper, Bell and I took our chairs outside, set them on the grass in the moonlight and smoked. The full moon is a witch. In her light, truthful men dig up for you nuggets of purer gold; while liars squeeze out brighter colors from the tubes of their invention. I saw Bell’s broad, slow smile come out upon his face and linger there.

“I reckon you think George and me are a funny kind of friends,” he said. “The fact is we never did take much interest in each other’s company. But his idea and mine, of what a friend should be, was always synonymous and we lived up to it, strict, all these years. Now, I’ll give you an idea of what our idea is.