28. Antic Colt
Parker's awakening was accompanied by a series of discoveries, the initial one being that he still lived. The second was the heat, stifling to suffocation, perhaps from the fact that the roof lowered close over him.
Through a paneless window could be seen a hillside whose occasional bare patches showed soil of fervid color. Above, the sky was covered with thin clouds, like asbestos, that hung quite still and radiated the heat of the quarter-high sun behind.
It seemed to be the first really torrid day of the summer.
He realized that he was in great physical discomfort, his limbs cramped, his body oozing sweat. Although he yearned to go to sleep again, his brain forbade. Even while the thumping within his temples accented a conviction that he would have been more comfortable dead, curiosity as to the cause of his unhappy state urged him.
In trying to move, to sit up, he found that he was tied hand and foot. Collapsing again upon his springy resting-place, he tried to think. Why was he lying on a hay-loft, close under cobwebby rafters and tied with ropes? He was Cal Parker - of that he felt sure. The circumstance was most unusual. But never mind. It did not matter particularly at the moment. The chief thing was to forget his misery, to go back to sleep.
The second time he roused, it seemed hotter, must have been a good deal later. There were things he should be doing, he remembered with a start. There was that lard pall of flames - blue flames - which he ought to find. And the Metcalf still - Currle must not be allowed to worm Its new location out of Sandyred. Currle planned - Just what was It the bootlegger planned? Tobe RIker had told him. It was something that struck a chord of vibrant uneasiness In his mind.
He jerked himself Into a sitting posture and began to Investigate his state of bondage. The knots in the rope proved to be of the "slip" variety and yielded to his nervous manipulation. Shortly, he found himself free. His hand brushed against something hard and cool which, on examination, showed to be a flask two-thirds full of amber-colored whisky. Empty flasks were weighting both side pockets of his coat. They started him remembering other things.
Why had Currle assorted the liquor for the young blockader's dare? Why was his amber, rather than the Inocuous-looking white of pure corn whisky? That peculiar, bitter taste to It - why hadn't he recognized It In time? Of course the stuff had been doped, else those few drinks never would have knocked him out. Why had they doped It?
A sense of loss caught him as his hand lifted to his cravat. His pin, the small amethyst brooch which Verne had hoped would protect him from just such temptation, what had become of It? Oh, yes, he knew now. He had been unable to take that first drink until he removed it. Hurriedly he searched through his pockets and drew a deep inhalation of relief when he found it. Carefully he refastened it in the brocade folds of his scarf. He would never trust himself with it off again.
In his descent of the ladder that led to the groundfloor of the barn In which he found himself, Parker was steadied by a rage, primarily against himself and growingly against those who so successfully had accomplished his downfall. He had been gullible - . made a fool by his desire to convince the brother of Verne. But there should be - there would be a penalty for the crime of drugging his drinks I Rung by rung, each a stand of justification for the resentment which was conquering his exquisite physical misery, he descended.
Like the "good-morning" of some tolerant roommate, a familiar whinny from a near-by stall greeted him. Teetotaler here? In whose barn was he, then, sequestered?
From the door, he looked out over the kitchen garden that distinguished the Hotel Plott. So - his horse had been untied from the hitching-rack and stabled suggestively with him. To judge by the sun, it must be about lunch-time. Probably Sylvia and her mother were Inside the house. Probably they had a very poor opinion of him. But that didn't matter much; in fact. It might help In the difficult favor he had Intended to ask of Sylvia last night and would make occasion to ask now.
Sandy But he was Verne's brother. Currie
he would reckon with first. Perhaps some excuse would show up for Sandyred.
He turned back to his horse.
"Tee," he remarked, "you see me for the first time mad - fighting mad."
The piebald looked him over - but with his blind eye.
As rapidly as possible, Parker saddled, then rode toward the kitchen door. A pan of dishwater, soused to the ground, heralded the appearance of Mrs. Plott.
'Tou have come to?" she inquired superfluously. "Spencer Pope said to leave you where you were, that the haymow was as good a resting place as any. 'Light and come in. I'll warm over the coffee for you."
At her suggestion, Parker realized anew his condition.
"Thank you, but I don't feel like breakfast."
"I reckon you don't." The hoot was all out of her voice. It trailed dismally as she added: " 'T wouldn't have been my way to put the wets off guard - it wasn't exactly what we hoped from you."
"Was I," he asked, "pretty bad?"
"Badf?" She cheered visibly under remembered horrors. "Friend Parker, you'll never be forgot hereabouts. You was what the natives call an 'antic colt.' Nobody sees as how you could be an officer now, what with your right hand aiding your left in dashing out the jewel of consistency."
"Nor I, Mrs. Plott. Now, what I want worse than my breakfast is a talk with my friends."
"Your friends?"- blankly.
"Yes. Spencer and the Brainards. Are they in?"
Another rush of words delayed the truth. "Oh, you poor, misused boy! To think that she would leave them drag her away from you - and she your affianced bride ! Land knows, I did my best with Mrs. Bralnard to explain that a strong spiritual purpose lurked behind your weakness of the flesh. But I couldn't sway their purpose, although Miss Bralnard cried her pretty eyes most out when I told her how disappointed you'd be when you came to over her desertion."
"You mean that they " It was Parker's turn to look blank.
"Have gone, bag and baggage. I could cry, too, every time I recollect the look of that sweet Miss Sylvia. When I asked her just at the last, should I give you any message, *Tell him, good-by,' says she. Then she shivered, hot as It was already, and covered her little white face with her veil. Spencer promised to send down two officers to your aid without delay. By the time they arrive, you'll likely be all ready to lead the raid, although why you felt called upon to - well, to do what you did "
She stopped In her consolatory outpouring for want of an object. The tail of the horse was swishing around the corner of the house. Automatically, he had lifted his hat, his face twisting Into a stiff Imitation of the Gal Parker smile that belonged with the act.
In truth, he was reduced to automatism by the blow. They had gone and he had not made that statement, dictated by past Parkers, to Sylvia ! Why had she cried on leaving If not because she still cared enough for him to feel personal shame in his disgrace? The fact that she had cried, she whose life had all been laughter, hurt and obligated him.
He must follow them to New York and settle the questions once and for all. He must not yield to the temptation of speaking first to Verne. He could not afford to have the jeers of the fossils hurled at him for the rest of his life because he had slumped from the high standard set by them. He had endured their stinging rebukes so long over his Intemperance, he did not Intend to furnish them with another cause of complaint.
And yet He frowned at the mental addendum. He could not leave the Blue Ridge just now, even briefly. There was Currie to be dealt with and advisedly. There was the arrival of those promised officers to be anticipated. After the last bumbllngs were disposed of and Verne and her people were safe - then It would be time enough to follow Sylvia and ask release.
Evidently Teetotaler missed his rider's wonted bridle control, for several times he shifted course through trying to discover by backward glances the cause of the laxity. By the time the master had come to a decision on his personal difficulties, the mount had made his way inside the fair grounds and stood waiting to be hitched.
Parker accommodated him. His interest aroused by the crowd around Sandyred's refreshment booth, he strode that way. The text of a sort of chant raised In the African tones of Cotton Eye Lee reached his ears.
"Step right up, ladles and genulmen. Buy a sandwich and see the only antic colt In captivity. The greatest show on earth, begun at the dance last night, Is being circumscribed within the walls of this here tent. Land sakes alive, fellow citizens, are you-all going to hang back when the show costs nothing extraditional? This here's a real, gov'mentbroke colt, anticking around with the blood of "
He stopped, but not from shortage of wind or enthusiasm in his delirium of words. For a moment he returned his variegated stare into that of the man offering him a dime. Unintelligibly he mumbled, while lifting a hand to tweak his own ebony ear, as if to make sure that he was awake and not seeing a "ghost." Recovering, he took the coin, handed over a sandwich and resumed his barking with what sang-froid he could assume.
Although Parker pulled his hat well over his eyes, his garb was too distinctive for others not to recognize him. The soft pedal was put upon the crescendo of laughter around him and his way was made easy to a vantage-view through the tent entrance.
Within, an orchestra-stand had been improvised of an overturned box and a keg. Upon the latter squatted Abide-with-me Shortoff, engaged In "beating straws" - a local device for aiding the fiddler In marking time, wherein a stout broom-straw is whanged upon a string of the violin. On the box sat the musician, his heels seconding the work of his hands by timely and effective kicks against the sides, as the tune merged from "Sourdough Mountain" to a jerky conception of "Old Black Joe." The fact that this wielder of the bow was Rex Currle proved to be Parker's one gratifying observation.
His gaze settled upon the artist being advertised afresh by the word-obsessed barker as a "reg'lar stem-twister of mimicry - the plumb liveliest colt what ever took off the antics of a foreigner from New York town." His physical sufferings gave way to mental ones as he watched.
His wildest impulse - that primal one of selfprotection - was to rush the tent and with the brute force of his rage put a stop to this amusement of the public at his expense; his tamest was to slink away and spare himself the humiliating spectacle. He mastered both. Sternly put was the reminder that no fair-minded man refuses to see himself as others see him.
Through the performance he came to appreciate why Sylvia could contribute only tears to the tragedy of his "reform." Long before the end of the act he had the knowledge, not the mere hope, that he would never again risk a first drink, no matter how excused by Its "object." The self-respect exhorted by his dear defense before her court of hills henceforth should be held above all else.
His subconsciousness roused to a recognition of himself when drunk beyond the mercy of a doubt. "Mea culpa me a culpapled the conscious mind which, for the first time, really understood. The forehead of his pride beat the dust.
In pantomime, that language which the leastlettered can understand, Sandyred Metcalf, the Inimitable, revived the scene of the out-Norther's yesterday. He greeted his city guests with drink-effusive gallantry and undertook to escort them through the ways and byways of the carnival. With a flask In either pocket and frequent stops to accept the Invitation of their open mouths, he conducted early events with the exaggerated Importance of the Inebriate. Imaginary acquaintances along the way he greeted and recontaended by introduction to his friends. A mythical flight of stairs he undertook, only to stumble and sprawl on the ground.
Rising, he reproached the two bottles with winks and varied facial contortions, denoting that his sense of humor had not been jostled in the fall. He addressed a street audience on prohibition, with significant if somewhat uncertain gestures toward reward in the ether above and doom in the earth below. As a quip to the supposedly riotous applause over this farce, he passed his two flasks before beginning the bows of acknowledgment which eventually disturbed his equilibrium to the extent of another sprawl.
He came to evening and the dance. Evidently he had passed from the early, weakling stages of a Gal Parker spree into that condition of strength and Initiative which would carry him through hours of activity, for not one minute of which he could account after he had slept off the effects. Wound up now by the grip of the drug Into a thing of extravagant Impulse and machinelike prowess, he Improvised a dance that combined Oriental suggestiveness with a down-South clog.
Sipping anon from the pocket fonts, his goodhumor became drowned In an oncoming wave of irascibility. Presumably challenged by some swain, he forsook "art" for a brawl and battled drunkenly until, overcome by superior numbers, he was thrown and roped.
There he lay, spitting the dust, blubbering in vain appeal for some one to convoy the bottle within his captive hand to his lips. His tongue lolled, his eyelids grew heavy over rolling eyeballs. It became evident, as licensed by the speed of the "act," that,' sans fuel, the fires within him were burning down to the ash of exhaustion. Soon, with features unpleasantly snarled, he slept.
The performance thrown in with a sandwich was over; most of the spectators, rousing above the restraining presence of the man In the doorway, uproariously applauded the young genius who had impersonated him.
A few glanced around hopefully to see how the original antic colt was going to take it.