The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (165 page)

When he returned to the Casa Verde there was no display of the ‘Frisco Kid and Benson. Freddie was leaning upon the bar listening to four men terribly discuss a question that was not plain. There was a card-game in the corner, of course. Sounds of revelry pealed from the rear rooms.

When the Kid asked Freddie if he had seen his friend and Benson, Freddie looked bored. “Oh, yes, they were in here just a minute ago but I don’t know where they went. They’ve got their skates on. Where’ve they been? Came in here rolling across the floor like two little gilt gods. They wobbled around for a time and then ‘Frisco wanted me to send six bottles of wine around to Benson’s rooms, but I didn’t have anybody to send this time of night and so they got mad and went out. Where did they get their loads?”

In the first deep gloom of the street, the Kid paused a moment debating. But presently he heard quavering voices. “Oh, Kid! Kid! Comere!” Peering, he recognized two vague figures against the opposite wall. He crossed the street and they said: “Hellokid.”

“Say, where did you get it?” he demanded sternly. “You Indians better go home. What did you want to get scragged for?” His face was luminous with virtue.

As they swung to and fro, they made angry denials. “We ain’ load’! We ain’ load’. Big chump. Comonangetadrink.” The sober youth turned then to his friend. “Hadn’t you better go home, Kid? Come on, it’s late. You’d better break away.”

The ‘Frisco Kid wagged his head decisively. “Got take Benson home first. He’ll be wallowing ‘round in a minute. Don’t mind me. I’m all right.”

“Cer’ly, he’s all right,” said Benson arousing from deep thought. “He’s all right. But better take’m home, though. That’s ri-right. He’s load’. But he’s all right. No need go home any more’n you. But better take’m home. He’s load’.” He looked at his companion with compassion. “Kid, you’re load’.”

The sober Kid spoke abruptly to his friend from San Francisco. “Kid, pull yourself together, now. Don’t fool. We’ve got to brace this ass of a Benson all the way home. Get hold of his other arm.”

The ‘Frisco Kid immediately obeyed his comrade without a word or a glower. He seized Benson and came to attention like a soldier. Later, indeed, he meekly ventured: “Can’t we take cab?” But when the New York Kid snapped out that there were no convenient cabs he subsided to an impassive silence. He seemed to be reflecting upon his state without astonishment, dismay or any particular emotion. He submitted himself woodenly to the direction of his friend.

Benson had protested when they had grasped his arms. “Washa doing?” he said in a new and guttural voice. “Washa doing? I ain’ load’. Comonangetadrink. I -”

“Oh, come along, you idiot,” said the New York Kid. The ‘Frisco Kid merely presented the mien of a stoic to the appeal of Benson and in silence dragged away at one of his arms. Benson’s feet came from that particular spot on the pavement with the reluctance of roots and also with the ultimate suddenness of roots. The three of them lurched out into the street in the abandon of tumbling chimneys. Benson was meanwhile noisily challenging the others to produce any reasons for his being taken home. His toes clashed into the kerb when they reached the other side of the calle and for a moment the Kids hauled him along with the points of his shoes scraping musically on the pavement. He balked formidably as they were about to pass the Casa Verde. “No! No! Leshavanothdrink! Anothdrink! One-more!”

But the ‘Frisco Kid obeyed the voice of his partner in a manner that was blind but absolute and they scummed Benson on past the door. Locked together the three swung into a dark street. The sober Kid’s flank was continually careering ahead of the other wing. He harshly admonished the ‘Frisco child and the latter promptly improved in the same manner of unthinking complete obedience. Benson began to recite the tale of a love affair, a tale that didn’t even have a middle. Occasionally the New York Kid swore. They toppled on their way like three comedians playing at it on the stage.

At midnight a little Mexican street burrowing among the walls of the city is as dark as a whale’s throat at deep sea. Upon this occasion heavy clouds hung over the capital and the sky was a pall. The projecting balconies could make no shadows.

“Shay,” said Benson breaking away from his escort suddenly, “what want gome for? I ain’ load’. You got reg’lar spool-fact’ry in your head - you N’ York Kid there. Thish oth’ Kid, he’s mos’ proper, mos’ proper shober. He’s drunk but - but he’s shober.”

“Ah, shut up, Benson,” said the New York Kid. “Come along now. We can’t stay here all night.” Benson refused to be corralled but spread his legs and twirled like a dervish, meanwhile under the evident impression that he was conducting himself most handsomely. It was not long before he gained the opinion that he was laughing at the others. “Eight purple dogsh - dogs! Eight purple dogs. Thas what Kid’ll see in the morn’. Look ou’ for ‘em. They -”

As Benson, describing the canine phenomena, swung wildly across the sidewalk, it chanced that three other pedestrians were passing in shadowy rank. Benson’s shoulder jostled one of them.

A Mexican wheeled upon the instant. His hand flashed to his hip. There was a moment of silence during which Benson’s voice was not heard raised in apology. Then an indescribable comment, one burning word, came from between the Mexican’s teeth.

Benson, rolling about in a semi-detached manner, stared vacantly at the Mexican who thrust his lean yellow face forward while his fingers played nervously at his hip. The New York Kid could not follow Spanish well but he understood when the Mexican breathed softly: “Does the señor want fight?”

Benson simply gazed in gentle surprise. The woman next to him at dinner had said something inventive. His tailor had presented his bill. Something had occurred which was mildly out of the ordinary and his surcharged brain refused to cope with it. He displayed only the agitation of a smoker temporarily without a light.

The New York Kid had almost instantly grasped Benson’s arm and was about to jerk him away when the other Kid who up to this time had been an automaton suddenly projected himself forward, thrust the rubber Benson aside and said: “Yes!”

There was no sound nor light in the world. The wall at the left happened to be of the common prison-like construction - no door, no window, no opening at all. Humanity was enclosed and asleep. Into the mouth of the sober Kid came a wretched bitter taste as if it had filled with blood. He was transfixed as if he was already seeing the lightning ripples on the knife-blade.

But the Mexican’s hand did not move at that time. His face went still further forward and he whispered: “So?” The sober Kid saw this face as if he and it were alone in space - a yellow mask smiling in eager cruelty, in satisfaction, and above all it was lit with sinister decision. As for the features they were reminiscent of an unplaced, a forgotten type which really resembled with precision those of a man who had shaved him three times in Boston in 1888. But the expression burned his mind as sealing-wax burns the palm and fascinated, stupefied, he actually watched the progress of the man’s thought toward the point where a knife would be wrenched from its sheath. The emotion, a sort of mechanical fury, a breeze made by electric fans, a rage made by vanity, smote the dark countenance in wave after wave.

Then the New York Kid took a sudden step forward. His hand was also at his hip. He was gripping there a revolver of robust size. He recalled that upon its black handle was stamped a hunting scene in which a sportsman in fine leggings and a peaked cap was taking aim at a stag less than one eighth of an inch away.

His pace forward caused instant movement of the Mexicans. One immediately took two steps to face him squarely. There was a general adjustment, pair and pair. This opponent of the New York Kid was a tall man and quite stout. His sombrero was drawn low over his eyes. His serape was flung on his left shoulder. His back was bended in the supposed manner of a Spanish grandee. This concave gentleman cut a fine and terrible figure. The lad, moved by the spirits of his modest and perpendicular ancestors, had time to feel his blood roar at sight of the pose.

He was aware that the third Mexican was over on the left fronting Benson and he was aware that Benson was leaning against the wall sleepily and peacefully eyeing the convention. So it happened that these six men stood, side fronting side, five of them with their right hands at their hips and with their bodies lifted nervously while the central pair exchanged a crescendo of provocations. The meaning of their words rose and rose. They were travelling in a straight line toward collision.

The New York Kid contemplated his Spanish grandee. He drew his revolver upward until the hammer was surely free of the holster. He waited immovable and watchful while the garrulous ‘Frisco Kid expended two and a half lexicons on the middle Mexican.

The Eastern lad suddenly decided that he was going to be killed. His mind leaped forward and studied the aftermath. The story would be a marvel of brevity when first it reached the far New York home, written in a careful hand on a bit of cheap paper topped and footed and backed by the printed fortifications of the cable company. But they are often as stones flung into mirrors, these bits of paper upon which are laconically written all the most terrible chronicles of the times. He witnessed the uprising of his mother and sister and the invincible calm of his hard-mouthed old father who would probably shut himself in his library and smoke alone. Then his father would come and they would bring him here and say: “This is the place.” Then, very likely, each would remove his hat. They would stand quietly with their hats in their hands for a decent minute. He pitied his old financing father, unyielding and millioned, a man who commonly spoke twenty-two words a year to his beloved son. The Kid understood it at this time. If his fate was not impregnable, he might have turned out to be a man and have been liked by his father.

The other Kid would mourn his death. He would be preternaturally correct for some weeks and recite the tale without swearing. But it would not bore him. For the sake of his dead comrade he would be glad to be preternaturally correct and to recite the tale without swearing.

These views were perfectly stereopticon, flashing in and away from his thought with an inconceivable rapidity until after all they were simply one quick dismal impression. And now here is the unreal real: into this Kid’s nostrils, at the expectant moment of slaughter, had come the scent of new-mown hay, a fragrance from a field of prostrate grass, a fragrance which contained the sunshine, the bees, the peace of meadows and the wonder of a distant crooning stream. It had no right to be supreme but it was supreme and he breathed it as he waited for pain and a sight of the unknown.

But in the same instant, it may be, his thought flew to the ‘Frisco Kid and it came upon him like a flicker of lightning that the ‘Frisco Kid was not going to be there to perform, for instance, the extraordinary office of respectable mourner. The other Kid’s head was muddled, his hand was unsteady, his agility was gone. This other Kid was facing the determined and most ferocious gentleman of the enemy. The New York Kid became convinced that his friend was lost. There was going to be a screaming murder. He was so certain of it that he wanted to shield his eyes from sight of the leaping arm and the knife. It was sickening, utterly sickening. The New York Kid might have been taking his first sea-voyage. A combination of honorable manhood and inability prevented him from running away.

He suddenly knew that it was possible to draw his own revolver and by a swift manoeuver face down all three Mexicans. If he was quick enough he would probably be victor. If any hitch occurred in the draw he would undoubtedly be dead with his friends. It was a new game; he had never been obliged to face a situation of this kind in the Beacon Club in New York. In this test, the lungs of the Kid still continued to perform their duty.   “Oh, five white mice of chance,

Shirts of wool and corduroy pants,

Gold and wine, women and sin,

All for you if you let me come in –