The Full of the Moon/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III
The Foreman of the L.X.
"Now what for an outfit's that!"
Mr. Poth's disparaging voice in the doorway caused Nan to lift her eyes from the magazine she was reading in the shade of the Cottonwood, which had become her favorite seat during the week that had elapsed since her arrival in Hopedale, to look at a prairie schooner drawn by a thin gray horse and a little mule which was crawling up the street. The wagon had been mended often with baling wire and the harness was a patch-work of ropes, chains, and leather straps. A dusty, sun-blistered boy in an orange sweater pulled the wagon to a standstill in front of the hotel and inquired:
"Any place about here we-all can camp?"
"T'other side of the Merchantile Emporium air a pop'lar place," Poth responded hospitably.
"Ary opery-hous here?"
"Think you're strikin' a one-horse town?" inquired Mr. Poth with asperity.
"We-all are a troupe"—he seemed to force bravado into his boyish voice—"and we're all right people, too. We belong to Frohman's company over at New York, but the season's closed and we're doin' this for our health."
"'Twon't be good for your health if you're as bum as the last Frohman troupe what showed here," responded Mr. Poth candidly. "Air you comedy or tragedy?"
"We runs the gamut."
"Oh, acrobats! Well, they takes pretty well here. I leases the op'ry-house; so you can come around and see me after you make camp."
As the boy lifted the lines a hollow cough came from the interior of the wagon and a look of disapproval came over the landlord's face.
"Lunger," he said laconically.
The turn of the wagon disclosed through the opening in the rear, a tall young man, gaunt to emaciation, while, lying in the bottom, sound asleep with her head on a bag of corn, was a girl of sixteen whose travel-stained and sunburnt face wore a look of utter weariness.
"Do you reckon that's Violer Allen in there?" Mr. Poth's voice had a sarcastic edge. He added confidentially: "If this here gamut they aims to run ain't all they crack it up to be, they're takin' long chances showin' in Hopedale. The town's still feelin' tolerable peeved over the six bits they was buncoed out of by the last All-Star Troupe. Julia Marlowe and her pardner lit out between two suns, but I got Lillian Russel's trunk—they wan't anything in it only two bricks wrapped up in a petticoat. I orter made 'em pay in advance."
"But the audience wouldn't really do anything to these people if it didn't like them, would it?"
"Don't know as it would lynch 'em," admitted Poth, "and aigs, even spiled ones, is too scarce to waste. But they's turnips and this town never were stingy with the vegetables onct it set out to break up a show."
It was again Saturday, and every Saturday was a gala day, as Nan had learned, and as was evidenced by the clean shirts and increased business of the bar.
Mandolins tinkled gaily, and there was the hum of many voices in the street. The sweet scent of burning piñon filled the air like an incense-permeated cathedral and the dark-blue threads of smoke rose straight to the turquoise sky.
Nan's magazine lay in her lap while she looked on dreamily at the kaleidoscopic scene, yet it might have been observed that she turned her head quickly at the sound of galloping hoofs and scanned the face of each new rider with a certain intentness.
An incident of the afternoon was the arrival of a four-wheeled cart which pounded up the street drawn by two galloping ponies. The man who held the lines plied a long switch ceaselessly and then pulled them sharply to their haunches in front of the hotel.
He called peremptorily to a Mexican to come and stand at their heads, and Nan noted that the Mexican scrambled to his feet with an alacrity which was noteworthy.
The driver sprang lightly over the wheel and walked past her into the hotel without so much as a glance, and this too obvious lack of curiosity made Nan think that he was more conscious of her presence than had he stared at her with the frank interest to which she was becoming accustomed.
His indifference was too marked to be real, and Nan had a feeling that not only had he seen her without seeming to see, but also that he had heard of her and knew all of her that much persistent questioning had been able to extract, which she flattered herself was little.
She was not surprised when he came out again shortly, accompanied by Mr. Poth, whose face wore the strained, purposeful look which foretold some social effort on his part.
"Like to make you acquainted, Miss Galbraith, with the boss of the L.X. outfit. Shake hands with the Hon. 'Hank' T. Spiser."
Nan found herself looking into a pair of hazel eyes curiously shot with streaks of green, the pupils of which were like tiny specks of pepper. His prominent nose was beak-like and his thin, upper lip lifted frequently under a short, stiff mustache, to disclose two rows of strong, yellow teeth.
The conspicuous cleft in his square, hard chin seemed at variance with the rest of his face, which chiefly denoted arrogance.
In the cart he had seemed a tall man, but standing, his height was not much greater than Nan's own. He was of stocky build and inclined to corpulency, also he had a peculiar rolling walk not unlike a sailor's.
Now, as he acknowledged the landlord's introduction in a sweeping bow, the removal of his hat displayed a rather bald head upon which a few lengthy hairs were used to the greatest advantage.
"Poth tells me you've come to make a little stay in our country. Glad to hear it! If there's anything I can do for you—anything at all you want, lemme know." His manner of speech was abrupt, authoritative, wholly indicative of a man accustomed to obedience.
"You are very kind," Nan murmured formally.
"Now, don't hesitate," he urged. "We're rough out here, and style ain't our long suit, but we aim to treat strangers right. Ain't that so, Poth?"
"Sure," with a heartiness which seemed somewhat forced.
As he sprang into the cart and lifted the lines over the backs of the dripping horses, he turned and asked:
"You'll be at the show to-night, I suppose?"
"Mrs. Poth has invited me." Something in his eyes, his voice, his manner subtly conveyed the impression that his appearance there was contingent upon her own.
Nan was not sure that she liked Mr. "Hank" Spiser, boss of the L. X. outfit. What was it he disseminated?—an impression of insincerity beneath his bluff hospitality, of an indefinable disrespect disguised by pretentious bows?
She, however, had not a strong belief in the theory of "first impressions" and dismissed her unfavorable opinion as hasty, but of one thing she was sure, and that was that her interest in the handsome and picturesque foreman of the L. X. outfit was far greater than in its more important manager.
Not for the world would Nan have admitted that this interest had anything to do with her acceptance of the shy little Mexican woman's invitation, or her choice of a frock for the evening's entertainment. And she tried to delude herself with the belief that her wish was merely to "look decent" upon her first public appearance in Hopedale, but in her heart she knew that the thought that Ben Evans might ride in from the ranch affected her decision when her choice lay between a plain shirtwaist and a particularly becoming blouse of filmy lingerie.
From the silence which fell when Nan and Poth's pretty Mexican wife took their seats in the already well-filled opera-house that evening, it is to be inferred that Nan had entirely succeeded in her desire to look "decent." In magazines and books they had seen girls who looked like Nan, and from the same source Nan had obtained her knowledge of audiences which looked like this one.
At the door of the opera-house Mr. Poth stood guard with a lantern under his arm, by the light of which he looked for plugged money among the silver which was flowing in an encouraging stream.
The kerosene lamps screwed to the sides of the long, unplastered hall, aided by tin reflectors, gleamed their brightest, while a fresh layer of sawdust upon the floor showed that Mr. Poth had been giving the opera-house his personal attention.
Nan found herself the cynosure of all eyes as she and Mrs. Poth searched for their names upon the slips of paper laid upon the seats of the pine chairs marked "Reserved." She glanced about and once more she felt the same strange agitation when her eyes met those of Ben Evans, who was leaning against the wall among a group of cowboys.
Of cowboys there were plenty in the motley crowd, a rim of white encircling their scalps in evidence of recent haircuts, while a powerful odor of cologne and Florida water emanated from their vicinity.
Swarthy Mexicans, lean, oily-haired, showed their white teeth frequently as they whispered together. Brawny miners and grizzled prospectors, the more dapper merchants of the town, the few women of Hopedale in antique fashions, and innumerable small boys dangling their thin legs from the window-sills made up the audience.
While Nan flashed occasional surreptitious glances at the foreman of the L.X. outfit, its manager in the seat behind her was studying her piquant profile with fascinated intentness.
He looked at her hair. The way it grew about her temples and close to her ears was adorable. In repose, her mouth was sensitive and soft and yielding; he noticed that, in a nervous trick she had of shutting her teeth hard upon her lower lip, the blood rushed back in a crimson flood as though it flowed swift and red in her veins.
She had an odd way, too, of suddenly throwing her head back with a little air of haughtiness and looking under her long lashes. There was something spirited in the mannerism which appealed mightily to that which was masterful in him. The speck of pepper in his hazel eyes dilated until it seemed almost a normal pupil.
The curtain of turkey-red calico which was stretched across the stage on wire and gave an air of mystery to the coming entertainment, was a trifle late in parting, and the stamping of restless feet, catcalls and hisses, told Nan something of the temper of the audience which the traveling entertainers had to face.
It was apparent that Poth had been altogether correct in his surmise that the audience would be in no mood for leniency with the failure of the last "troupe" still rankling.
The performers themselves may have felt the unfriendly atmosphere, for, when at last the curtain parted, and the boy who had driven the wagon came out and announced a banjo solo by himself, his face wore a twisted, frightened smile.
The air was simple, but he stumbled badly in his nervousness, and when he bowed himself off it was amid a faint half-hearted round of applause which was little short of condemnation.
Beneath his brave assumption of ease Nan felt intuitively the young, entertainer's discomfiture and humiliation at his failure to please, and her heart went out in quick sympathy to the strange trio and the ordeal before them.
Remembering Poth's vague threat, she felt a growing uneasiness as to their treatment if the remainder of the program was no better than the beginning.
A hollow cough, which came at intervals from somewhere in the rear of the curtained stage, now served as an announcement of the next entertainer's appearance. He came on with an attempt at jauntiness, the emaciated invalid of the afternoon, looking more pitifully gaunt than before in the clownish dress of a countryman.
A raucous voice from the rear of the room greeted him.
"Hello, Boneyards! When did they dig you up?"
The audience snickered, and Nan saw the startled flash of pain in his sunken eyes. His long fingers closed convulsively as he nerved himself to face them, and then, with a gulp of nervousness he began his monologue of ancient conundrums and jokes, not too skilfully revamped.
But far-fetched and venerable as they were they brought laughter and vociferous applause from the boisterous critics in front, and Nan breathed easier when she saw confidence growing in the pathetic humorist upon the stage.
His efforts were something to be endured, not enjoyed, by a person with a vestige of culture or taste, and she turned her head ever so slightly to note the effect upon Ben Evans. She experienced a kind of shock to see that he was following the crude humor and dreadful puns with the keenest enjoyment and she felt a vehement disgust, a secret shame for him when she observed that he evidenced his approbation by kicking his heels against the mop-board. Imagine—well. Bob, for instance, kicking his heels against the mop-board! Nan turned her head from him abruptly. Her interest in him and the care with which she had dressed for the absurd entertainment suddenly made her seem ridiculous to herself.
Whatever hopes the reception of the monologue had raised as to the friendliness of the audience was quickly dispelled by its reception of the young girl's vocal solo.
It was bad, indescribably bad, but made worse by fright as she stood before the jeering crowd holding a sheet of music between hands which shook with a violence that made the music useless.
She looked only a frightened, countrified child as she stood on the high platform in her frock of figured pink calico, scarcely ankle length, with its ruffles of cheap lace in the elbow sleeves and a string of glass beads for ornament.
The hoots from the rear of the hall grew louder as she lost the key, and sibilant sounds from all parts stung her nearly to tears as she tried shrilly for notes which, in her panic, she could not reach. Yet she stood her ground with something of a bantam's spirit. Nan could see the trembling of her knees beneath her skirts.
The howls increased, her plucky defiance seeming only to arouse further opposition and antagonism. Had they no pity? Could they not see the appeal in the child's eyes? This, then, was the chivalrous West? Nan's lips curled contemptuously and her cheeks burned with anger as clownish witticisms and coarse comments were bellowed from different parts of the house.
"Take that calf out to its maw!"
"Them top notes sonpd like a saw hittin' a knot."
"Fly away, birdie!"
"Aw, git off—git off!"
Occasionally a protesting voice cried:
"Let the kid alone!"
Nan glanced at Ben Evans. Was he too joining in the baiting of this panic-stricken child! Scarcely. There was a frown of disapproval upon his face, a gathering storm in his blue eyes. Nan nearly forgave him for his rustic pleasure in the monologue.
The rowdies concluded that more amusement could be extracted from that recognized form of recreation known as "breaking up a show" than from allowing it to proceed. The uproar became one long howl of derision, while the child stood with her face buried in the bend of her elbow—the defenseless target of the storm.
The gaunt humorist strode out with a brave semblance of authority and lifted a long, wax-like hand over the audience for silence. His face showed ghastly beneath its make-up, and he looked a grotesque corpse as he stood trying to make himself heard above the din.
"Just give us one more chance!" he pleaded.
The effort of shouting brought on a paroxysm of coughing, violent, tearing, racking his thin chest and swelling the veins in his temples.
"He's a lunger! put him out!" Voice after voice took up the brutal yell of protest. "No lungers wanted! Get off! Get out!" Then a turnip hit him full and hard in his sunken chest.
Involuntarily Nan sprang to her feet, and not knowing what she did, turned and faced the audience behind her, with her eyes flashing and her small, red mouth curved in scorn. Simultaneously there came a fierce yell of rage so savage in its intensity that it rang above the tumult of the rioting mob in the hall.
"Cut that out! By God, you-all cut that out!"
Nan saw Ben Evans kicking chairs out of his way and hurling aside the bystanders who blocked his path as he cleared an opening to the stage.
His hat was on, tilted to shade his eyes, and the mouth and chin which showed beneath were hard and set. One hand rested significantly at his hip and, as he yelled again, a vibrating, taunting yell, he threw back a shoulder in a swaggering gesture of defiance.
"Now, you Montgomery Ward cowpunchers, you Jim-Crow miners, you yellow-back bad men from God knows where, if you-all want a target, try me! Take somebody of your size. Jest call out your names when you throw, if you're men enough."
He was a picture of reckless, personal courage, of consummate self-confidence as he bounded upon the stage and faced the bullies. Once more his voice rang out with all the challenging savagery of a Comanche war-cry:
"What's the matter with you-all! Fire away, Greasers. If you got any more of that there ammunition—shoot it here! Don't be bashful, Juan Ospino, jest because I'm lookin' at you!"
His supporters were tumbling over chairs and benches to reach his side, not only ready but eager for the fray, and they made a group too formidable for the rowdies in the rear to tackle as they stood belligerently waiting for the trouble to begin.
But there were no more turnips for the hollow-chested humorist, or for the now loudly weeping soloist on the stage, and no response to Ben Evans's urgent invitation to use his broad chest as a target.
However, it was plain enough that the "show" was done, that another of "Frohman's Troupes" was a failure. The irate manager of the opera-house was joining with the audience in their denunciation, which was demanding its admission money refunded at the door.
"They'll pay for the hall jest the same," Nan heard him declaring wrathfully. "I'll get it out'n 'em if I have to take their team and wagon."
Mr. Poth's softer side, it seemed, was not for traveling artists.
"You-all better drag it while things has simmered down," Ben was advising the entertainers, while Nan waited with Mrs. Poth for the hall to clear. "I'll see that you get out of town safe."
"We could a done better if they'd have let us go on," sobbed the girl, "but we ain't been at it long and it makes us feel bad if they don't like us on the start. And what with long jumps and brother bein' sick and all we're pretty tired the first night."
"You was doin' good," declared Ben Evans. "W'ant she, boys?"
"It was fine," came a hearty chorus, and the earnest voice of Clarence Strunk, cook of the L.X. outfit, added: "Mrs. Bernhardt couldn't a done better."
Once more Ben Evans fixed upon Nan his frank stare of admiration as he and his supporters tramped past on their way out, and again Nan felt that curious quaver of excitement when their eyes met. The foreman of the L.X. outfit attracted her more than she cared to admit, and she wanted to know him with an eagerness of which she was ashamed.