[Charles W. Coyle, The Desert Rat, The Overland Monthly, January 1911]

 

THE DESERT RAT

BY CHARLES W. COYLE

            IT IS PLAIN to see by the thoughtful taps on his cigar and the reminiscent gaze at Hogan, the young partner who dictates letters in his private office, that Mr. Hennesey is musing, and the reach of his thought includes a bit of personal history when the camp was young and he fell in with Hogan on the edge of a desert.

            Hogan was discouraged and so was Hennesey. Wonderfully beautiful was the desert, the Ralston Desert, everywhere brilliant, glowing, glistening with sunlight, sunlight chastening the tenuous air, gleaming on pearly walls over the mountain tops, resting by steel-gray shadows on the malapi, on the distant summits toning away into ineffable shades of upland color, a garment of marvelous light everywhere embracing all the wide, round circle of jagged peaks and burnt-out mesa land. Yet Hennesey was sad. In fact, his disreputable garments and bleary face would indicate that Hennesey had been drinking. In this unhappy condition, he fell in with Hogan, a chivalrous youth who had neglected to carry sufficient water and stood in a fair way to provide a banquet for coyotes and buzzards.

            Now Hennesey was sick for a touch of friendliness, and the eyes of the brother in distress disclosed a hungry, appealing spirit which suggested -- if one so may express it -- the aspect of a gaunt coyote in the moonlight, so the two wretched men, attracted in the vastness of the desert solitude, cemented a friendship that had the strength of years about it.

            They traveled on for a time, when the youth who limped painfully was advised by the prospector to rest for a minute under a Joshua tree, one of those candelabra of the desert, where he quickly fell asleep. And both of the new-found comrades in misery dreamed. The one in the realm of sleep, the other looked over the desert and dreamed a sad day-dream, bitter as the salt grass.

            "A Desert Rat," he muttered. "Has it come to this, Barney Hennesey?" Then he glanced at the tattered clothes and at his feet, one of which carried a boot, while the toes of the other protruded from a shoe.

            "A Desert Rat ! They call me a Desert Rat who has made the fortunes o' dozens o' them ! They, use me. They pay me a peso for me finds, and phin Oi'm broke, they'll do me the kindness to throw a scrap o' meat from their offices to the Desert Rat."

            A lizzard scurried out of a sage brush and he tossed a stone after it.

            "An' who are they? Are they so much better than meself save for the readin' an' writin'? Had I that, I'd beat the crowd o' thim hands down."

            The youth, fascinated by the desert as the prospector was bored, dreamed of the wide, desolate places where yellow gold gleams in rusty crevices. And his fancy mingled with the sapphire and the gray of the desert the carmine of a pair of dainty lips and the flush of crimson cheek, then added just a dash of blue from lustrous eyes and an elusive shade of silken brown that all belonged to the artist face of a girl he'd known in days gone by who had seemed so high and holy to him that he marched away with all the rash impetuosity and chivalry of youth from a junior's desk to seek a fortune in the treacherous sands of Nevada. He dwelt with sadness on that face, for a whole year had passed, and in the harsh experience of many camps he had acquired humility and an acritude of soul which accompanies the disillusionments of life.

            "'Tis a foine lad yonder, Barney," said the prospector. "He's a thoroughbred, game an' honest, too, if Oi'm a judge. Had he my knowledge o' the desert he'd be a

70        OVERLAND MONTHLY.

ridin' in his auto at the head of the procission."

            And Barney, rough, shrewd, desert-wise Barney, with the uncut-granite nature, the respect for "book-larnin'," and the craving for whisky gnawing at his vitals, glanced at the youth and then surveyed his tattered garments and disgraceful shoes.

            The long, long thoughts, the long, sweet thoughts of youth, will sometimes out to the world even in dreams, and Barney caught a muttered syllable, but mistook its meaning.

            "Hel—"

            "'Hell ?' You bet it is, an' more a-coming," and he cast his eye over the long, white stretch before them where sand spirals rising deliberately scores of feet in the air swayed in circular paths above the quivering heat rays of the alkali.

            The lad moved uneasily, and his lips murmured the word "Helen."

            " 'Helen ?' Hum ? The usual woman. Helen – Helen -- Hum -- Norah -- Helen -- Norah -- Yis, they're both purty names but you're a long time, Barney, an' a weary mile from County Fermanagh in the ould country."

            Then the Desert Eat drew a flask from his pocket, slowly unscrewed the cap, sniffed the pungent liquor, shook it up, held the beady amber at arm's length and took a long, satisfactory pull.

            "Two fingers left. Whin that is gone, so help me, Gawd, I'll take no drink for foive years. We'll hit a new trail, Barney Hennesey."

            Perhaps it was the somnolence of the hour or the effect of the liquor which caused Barney to close his eyes and lie down with one shoulder on the canteen which rested on the needle point of a rock, and he was unaware of the flowing of a tiny stream into the thirsty maw of the desert; so he dreamed of County Fermanagh and the auriferous ledges hidden away in the distant fastnesses of Death Valley.

            No romancer saw Barney and the chivalrous youth start down into the alkali sink of the cruel Ralston desert, winsome as Delilah, fawning as a treacherous Hindoo, soft as a panther's paw, but the holy saints whom he imprecated and the pitying, all-seeing eye beheld a strong man's battle and heard the prayer of a fainting heart.

            "'Tis nawthing," says Barney when you ask him about it, "only an incydent of the desert." But midway of the white desert-furnace, the youth on his back, a black mist before his eyes, the prospector raised a prayer to Heaven: "Holy Mary, Mither o' Gawd, pray fer us !" Then he fell upon his face in the sand. He lay there for a while, gasping for breath, his arms outstretched, the youth by his side. When he arose, the fingers of his right hand closed on a handful of alkali and a silver dollar. He noticed in the vicinity a few bones, a jack-knife and the sole of a boot studded with nails. Mechanically he thrust the money in his pocket and started on with his burden. At length some prospectors found them wandering in a zig-zag course toward the edge of the malapi.

            Now, Barney is a great believer in omens and luck, and can produce not a few personal illustrations to support the contention. On the way to Goldfield in the prospectors' wagon he fingered the dead man's coin with the confident assurance that it held the seed of his fortune, and the luck had changed. He said as much for the encouragement of the youth, who was rapidly recovering his strength.

            "To-night in the 'Northern,' me boy," said he. "We'll break the head o' misfortune."

            "The Northern" is Tex Rickard's famous gambling hall, one of a quartette that flank the intersection of Crook with Main street, Goldfield, a Monte Carlo of the desert, replete with romance and tragedy, a vortex of the social pool where cosmopolite and prospector, clerk and employer, millionaire and digger, mingle ceaselessly in the long, crowded room and feverish devotees at the money shrines ranged on the north side play with nervy fingers for the high stakes of Nevada.

            Hennesey shouldered his way through the crowd to a roulette table, while the youth dropped into a chair. A foreigner was playing, one of those bored globe-trotters who desire to touch the fringe of real life on the desert with the tip of a gloved finger. "'Tis so thrilling, you know." He drew back with aversion from the stalwart Desert Rat who slipped in beside him and planked down the dead man's

JUSTICE UNTEMPERED. 71

coin on number seven. Number seven won. Barney eagerly seized his lucky piece from the table, while the dealer handed him thirty-five silver dollars. Hennesey played again, to the limit, five dollars, three silver piles of five dollars each. Again the dealer twirled the wheel and threw the marble. One of the prospector's lucky three, number twelve, took the stakes. The foreigner withdrew. He had lost heavily. In the heat of the play, the prospector both won and lost. Once he staked his pile on the turn of the wheel. The dealer gathered in his money. There remained but one dollar, his lucky piece. Again Barney threw it down with a sickening feeling at heart -- on number seven. The wheel spun around, the dealer twirled the marble, and Barney watched with bated breath the gyrations of the little thing of destiny. It seemed alive, it slackened speed, it hung, it trembled, apparently: fell erratically -- into number seven. Now began one of these thrilling runs of luck that lighten the sombre history of "The Northern." The player scarcely missed. He lost sometimes, but repeatedly gathered in the larger pile. Idlers crowded about the wheel. At the other table business ceased.

            "Take off the limit," suggested the crowd.

            Barney's pockets sagged with coin. A man brought a sack to hold the silver. The crowd swayed with sympathy for the Desert Rat who placed his money with the calm assurance of a man who feels that the mysterious gambler's luck is dictating the plays.

            "Take off the limit!" cried the spectators.

            "Sure take it off !" said Barney.

            "All right,"' responded the dealer, affably. "Let her go to the ceiling."

            Barney now played twenties. A couple of men held their hats into which he threw the gold. A booster walked back and forth from the safe to the wheel, carrying stacks of coin required in the game.

            "This reminds me," drawled a fatigued roue to a gray-bearded miner, "of the young fellow who came in here last week with $1.50 and walked out with $8,000."

            "I can go you one better than that, partner," said the miner. "I saw Billy Hanley win $35,000 at the wheel in Casey's saloon in Columbia one evening."

            "He'll break the bank," said an excited onlooker.

            "Oh, no; not the Northern," replied a lounger.

            After a while Barney grew weary of the nerve-racking play. He saw the money accumulating in heaps about him. It was enough. Placing $100 gold on number thirty-five, he made the last star play and waited for the fall of the marble.

            "Thirty-five wins," shouted the crowd.

            With a chuckle, Barney swept his $15,000 stakes into a sack. He threw the load of gold, silver and bills over his shoulder, and with a sly glance at the dealer, exclaimed : "Give me regards to Tex."

            Then Barney pushed his way through the crowd of hero-worshipers, and accompanied by Hogan, directed his steps toward the "Palm Grill," where he explained the next move in the game.

            The young man had no ears for Barney's conversation. At length he was in a congenial atmosphere. He saw beyond the curtains that screened their box the classic features of strong men, dainty women appropriately gowned, white table linen, while the music of subdued laughter mingled with the notes of the orchestra. He wished to forget the mundane life of a twelve-month past and resign himself to the quiet pleasures of a satisfied soul, but the work-a-day Barney, transformed now by a worthy enthusiasm into a human dynamo, required his immediate attention to a plan of action outlined by a ponderous fist.

            " Tis but the first turn of the wheel, me lad. We'll play while the luck is with us. Do ye think I've given away me full hand? Not on your life. There's many a secret this ould desert whispers to her friends, the Desert Rats, an' I've a pair o' cards up me sleeve yet will surprise me bunco frinds. Now off to bed wid ye, an' we'l man the hot-air worruks in the marning."

            The weary youth threw himself on a snowy bed in the "Brown Palace," without so much as pulling off his shoes. He had rested, so it seemed, about a half hour when he awoke with effort to see a strange man looking down at him. There was something familiar about the well-shaven face, tinged an iodine color, and the iron

72        OVERLAND MONTHLY.

gray hair newly cropped; yet he did not remember that particular attire – gray-check suit, a hulky sombrero bedecked with a Mexican leather band, a red-striped shirt on which sparkled a diamond, and a white vest conspicuously set off by a chain of Klondike nuggets.

            Barney grinned. "Git up," said he, "it's eleven o'clock."

            "I've set the ball a-rollin'," he remarked, tickled as a school boy at the surprise of his friend. "We've hired the office of an old geezer that's on the hog -- sold a claim to Wingfield -- an' picked up a rich Eastern guy down stairs. He's a stunner with whiskers parted down the chin, a fancy bald spot -- an' the girl, she's a peach. Here's some clothes," added Barney, throwing a package on the bed. "Now I'm off." But he returned in a minute, and poking his head through the door, called out: "Ask the kid down stairs to take you to Finnigan's office. It's ourn. Sit down and look wise till I come back with his nibs."

            The prospector tramped with heavy step down the hall.

            "An' the girl's name is Helen," muttered Barney with his fingers on the lucky piece. "By me grandmither's ol' cat if it were true !"

            The young man opened his package. Enclosed was the best the town carried, everything necessary, chosen apparently by some clerk, except the patent leather shoes, which were four sizes too large. Barney had even included a pair of puttees of which he stood in profound contempt, but the smart young broker wore them, and he wished his friend to act the part.

            "You're a big-hearted fellow, sure," murmured Hogan, who scarcely had roused to the sudden change in his fortunes.

            When the young man found himself well-dressed and at ease in the office, he experienced an influx of the old impetuous spirit with which he had entered the Sage- Brush State. He wanted to get to work. He felt that he had material in him. The rush and ardor of life as he saw it even from the office window pricked his ambition. He longed to venture into the arena with the other young fellows who were guiding the destinies of this wonderful gold camp, and measure swords with them. There was an abundance of subjects to occupy his mind until the arrival of Barney. He planned a re-arrangement of the office, a striking style of business stationary, and other details, but most of all, his mind, his soul, his very fingertips thrilled to contemplate a re-opening of correspondence with the inspiration of his wanderings, whom now he could address with honor to himself and her station in life. Had she other attachments? The question worried him. Was she piqued at this incomprehensible lover whose pride which forbade him to address her because he was poor and unsuccessful at the same time plunged the steel into his own bosom. He could not say. The arrival of Barney cut short his reverie.

            Behind the prospector walked a distinguished-looking gentleman wearing gray whiskers parted on the chin, and whose face disclosed an amazed expression as he gazed on the youth seated on the revolving chair. Between them passed a distant nod of recognition. But a crimson blush, a charming, mantling crimson, succeeded by pallor, an embarrassment followed by calm, agitated the exquisite Miss who entered behind the distinguished gentleman. The occasion demanded all her well-bred self-possession, but she managed to extend a reserved little hand and remark, "She was pleased to see Mr. Hogan."

            In the practical depths of Hennesey's concrete mind there arose an impression that he had a matter of supreme importance to unfold before the prospective investor in an adjoining room. Their long deliberations were at length interrupted by sounds of an osculatory nature, and the smothered word, "Helen," which caused the distinguished investor to rush to the door, followed by Barney.

            An interesting tableaux presented, itself.

            "My! Why! This is an extraordinary proceeding. Helen !"

            "Oh, Mr. Hennesey! You noble, noble man !" cried the girl, radiant in her passion.  "You've saved his life, and you've -- Boo-hoo-hoo –"

            She threw her arms about the Desert Rat's neck, and lifting herself on her tiny toes, kissed him. Then after the inconsequential manner of women, she sank

WHEREFORE THE CHOICE?         73

down on the floor and wept".

            The action so disconcerted Hennesey that he grabbed his hat and bolted through the door.

            "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "She kissed me. Hennesey, ye sunburnt, crosswise, twistical, bediviled old Desert Rat, she kissed ye."

            He had no idea where he was going. In fact he had no consciousness of anything but the radiant Miss. The subconscious mind had to act in the emergency, and it directed his steps toward the exit. With every long stride down the stairs the prospector murmured, "By me grandmither's ol' cat, she kissed ye. Barney, the purty creature kissed ye." He could scarcely believe it. "'Tis a dream; she did not. 'Tis so, I tell ye she did."

            Accustomed to the slights of men and the wrath of the desert, the Rat staggered as from a shock when he felt the arms of love about his neck. He could understand a blow, and react to the smiting of the desert sirocco, but he trembled at the touch of gentle lips, and as he walked he stroked his face to learn if the kiss had left a delicate impression there.

            "She called me Misther Hennesey," he murmured. He had got out onto the street, and was swinging along as if in a maze with his husky desert stride. Oblivious to the tides of humanity that flowed along the street, he scattered the crowd of saloon loungers at the corner like chaff, and guided by instinct alone, headed for the open desert.

            "Gawd bless thim! Gawd bless thim," he said.

            "Hennesey, ye Desert Rat, she kissed ye."

            He strode on. His figure grew smaller or the desert. In the silence of the mesa carried along by the tumultuous stream of his thoughts, the prospector recurred to his own wasted youth, to Enniskillen, the banks of the Erne and what might have been. The entrance on the new trail seemed sweet to him. He wandered on till the night wind cooled his fevered head and the desert stars at length guided him back to Goldfield.