PAGE 7
The Unheavenly Twins
by
Weary, not aware until the moment that he was wounded, answered that he had done it shaving; at which the three hooted derision and wanted to know since when he had taken to shaving his nose. Weary smiled inscrutably and began talking of something else until he had weaned them from the subject, and learned that they had bribed the stage driver to let them off at this particular ranch; for the stage driver knew Irish, and knew also that a man he had taken to be Irish was making this place his headquarters. The stage driver was one of those male gossips who know everything.
When he could conveniently do so, Weary took Irish out of hearing of the others and told him about Spikes Weber. Irish merely swore. After that, Weary told him about Spikes Weber’s wife, in secret fear and with much tact, but in grim detail. Irish listened with never a word to say.
“I done what looked to me the best thing, under the circumstances,” Weary apologized at the last, “and I hope I haven’t mixed yuh up a bunch uh trouble. Mamma mine! she’s sure on the fight, though, and she’s got a large, black opinion of yuh as a constant lover. If yuh want to square yourself with her, Irish, you’ve got a big contract.”
“I don’t want to square myself,” Irish retorted, grinning a bit. “I did have it bad, I admit; but when she went and got tied up to Spikes, that cured me right off. She’s kinda pretty, and girls were scarce, and–oh, hell! you know how it goes with a man. I’d a married her and found out afterwards that her mind was like a little paper windmill stuck up on the gatepost with a shingle nail–only she saved me the trouble. Uh course, I was some sore over the deal for awhile; but I made up my mind long ago that Spikes was the only one in the bunch that had any sympathy coming. If he’s been acting up like you say, I change the verdict: there ain’t anything coming to him but a big bunch uh trouble. I’m much obliged to yuh, Weary; you done me a good turn and earnt a lot uh gratitude, which is yours for keeps. Wonder if supper ain’t about due; I’ve the appetite of a Billy goat, if anybody should ask yuh.”
At supper Irish was uncommonly silent, and did some things without thinking; such as pouring a generous stream of condensed cream into his coffee. Weary, knowing well that Irish drank his coffee without cream, watched him a bit closer than he would otherwise have done; Irish was the sort of man who does not always act by rule.
After supper Weary missed him quite suddenly, and went to the door of the bunk-house to see where he had gone. He did not see Irish, but on a hilltop, in the trail that led to Sleepy Trail, he saw a flurry of dust. Two minutes of watching saw it drift out of sight over the hill, which proved that the maker was traveling rapidly away from the ranch. Weary settled his hat down to his eyebrows and went out to find the foreman.
The foreman, down at the stable, said that Irish had borrowed a horse from him, unsacked his saddle as if he were in a hurry about something, and had pulled out on a high lope. No, he had not told the foreman where he was headed for, and the foreman knew Irish too well to ask. Yes, now Weary spoke of it, Irish did have his gun buckled on him, and he headed for Sleepy Trail.
Weary waited for no further information. He threw his saddle on a horse that he knew could get out and drift, if need came: presently he, too, was chasing a brown dust cloud over the hill toward Sleepy Trail.