Jingo Read online

  “No, I think I found the name in a book,” said Jingo.

  “Yeah. And there’s been books wrote about him, too. He’s one of these here empire builders, if you know what I mean. He’s a Maker of the West, and a Big Man, and one of the Most Remarkable Men in the Country. He lays cornerstones with a gold trowel and he’s the head of the committee of big birds that gives the bouquet of cactus to the visiting Queen of Egypt. He calls the President by his nickname, and the train makes a special stop for folks that want to get off and see the front face of Judge Tyrrel’s house.”

  “I must have met him somewhere,” said Jingo, “and it’s a cinch that I’m going to meet his daughter in Tower Creek.”

  “What makes you feel so good?” asked the Parson.

  “I don’t feel so good,” Jingo said. “No honest, earnest worker feels very good when he thinks about retiring. But it seems to me that I’d better retire to the Tyrrel millions, brother.”

  “You take an imagination like you got,” commented the Parson, “and you waste yourself, son. You oughta write books and things. What’s the hard and honest work that you been doing all your long life?”

  “Ah, Parson,” said Jingo, “time is not alone what counts. The number of the years may be short, but responsibility is what ages us, young or old. Many a man, Parson, is still young-hearted at seventy ... and many a man of twenty-five is already bowing his head toward the earth.”

  “That’s great,” said the Parson. “You could put the boys to sleep in church just as good as if you was a salaried minister and was paid for the work.”

  “A trifle, a trifle,” said Jingo. “You’ve never heard my line really working, Parson. When I start, the guinea hens stop sounding off in the barnyard, and the wild geese come down out of the sky to listen. You’ve never really heard me honk.”

  The Parson looked at him with an indulgent eye. “What I mean,” he said, “is this. If you try to crowd that Tyrrel girl tonight, there’s going to be trouble popping. Understand?”

  “It sort of saddens me, Parson,” answered Jingo. “What grieves me is that a fellow like you, with a head your size, shouldn’t have more brains behind the eyes. I’ve told you that I’m going to give the girl a dizzy rush tonight. I’ve told you that I intend to retire on the Tyrrel millions, if I can stand the girl’s face. And still you don’t seem to believe me.”

  The Parson dropped his cigarette on the floor and smashed it under the slow pressure of his foot.

  “Money,” said the Parson, “is all that talks.”

  “How much money?” Jingo asked.

  “Lend me a hundred dollars,” said the Parson.

  “Here you are, brother,” answered Jingo, handing over the money.

  “You’ve made a mistake and given me a hundred and twenty,” said the Parson, pocketing the money. “That’ll teach you to make your change more careful, in the future, kid. Now, before there’s any betting, I wanna be honest. I wanna tell you something. You might think that Tower Creek has gone and hired an orchestra with two slide trombones in it for nothing. You’re wrong. They hired it for Eugenia Tyrrel.”

  “Eugenia,” said Jingo. “What a name that is.”

  “Wait a minute,” went on the Parson. “They go and hire her a special orchestra, like that, and they send around special word that the sheriff is going to be standing near the door of the dance hall, and any gent that comes along with a whiskey breath is going to be kicked in the face and throwed out in the gutter where he belongs, the pup. You follow me?”

  “I’m drifting right along with you,” said Jingo.

  “And the gents that get inside that dance hall all get special instructions that they ain’t to mob the girl. They’re to stand back and give her air. They ain’t to ask her to dance with them unless the sheriff himself gives them an introduction. She’s to be left to her three or four slick young Easterners. For why? Because it’s a big honor for a Tyrrel to come into a dump of a town like this and look it over. Tower Creek is all heated up with joy because the girl has come down here for a frolic, if you follow me.”

  “I follow you so far,” Jingo assured him, “that I begin to feel pain.”

  “You’ll be eased of the pain when you see the girl,” said the Parson.

  “Is she the goods?” asked Jingo.

  “She is the stuff,” the Parson confirmed. “She is the horsehair bridle and the gold work on the saddle. She is the silk sash and the diamond pin.”

  “Well,” Jingo said, sighing, “I can see, every minute, that I’m right at the age of retirement. I’ve got to go in and give that poor girl a whirl. Stand by, brother. When she’s dizzy, I may lean her against you. Fan her and treat her right.”

  The Parson cleared his throat.

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that you mightn’t take two steps with her in a tag dance, before the sheriff slams you into the street.”

  “Parson,” said Jingo, “you are speaking to a man incapable of low devices and tricks.”

  “In that case,” the Parson answered, “I’ve got a hundred dollars that says you won’t dance a full dance with her.”

  “In that case,” Jingo said, “I ought to give you odds. A hundred bucks it is.”

  “Jingo,” said the Parson, “you’re terrible young. But I got a soft place in my heart for kids, even the fool ones. Now put up your money or shut up.”

  Jingo put his money on the table. He said dreamily: “But she’ll have to have a face, Parson. There’s something more than money to be looked for in this short life of ours.”

  Chapter Six

  There had been, long ago, a great, flourishing commercial enterprise started in Tower Creek. The idea was to cut thousands of tons of hay in the spring and store it in town through the winter, to be peddled at high prices to ranchmen whose cattle might be starving through the bad season. The enterprise had accomplished the building of the great barn and stopped there.

  Tower Creek inherited the barn and used it for dances and major assemblies of all sorts. It was a big, crazy structure through which the wind whistled and whose walls wavered and rattled in a storm. But this night was still, hot, close. The lanterns that were strung along the walls and hung from the lower rafters increased the heat and gave to the air a grim savor, which mingled with the fragrance of talcum powders, and the acrid scent of alkali dust that somehow managed to work up through the cracks in the floor.

  But it was a good dance. And all of Tower Creek was there, from the band on the platform at the far end to the ticket taker and the sheriff at the entrance door.

  Almost all of Tower Creek had gathered before Jingo and the Parson took post under the big trees in front of the barn to see the arrival of the guests of honor.

  Presently they came up in two rubber-tired buggies drawn by eager, dancing horses. Down from the buggies climbed three gentlemen in sharply creased white linen, and a girl all in white, also, with blue flowers pinned to her dress. The bystanders surged one half step toward her and stood rigid. Only Jingo did not move.

  Afterward, the Parson turned toward him and gasped: “Well, kid, I’m sorry about the hundred dollars. But it’s going to do me more good than it ever would do for you. Did you see ’em?”

  “I saw her,” said Jingo. “And I feel a little sad, Parson, when I see that I’ll really have to retire from active life and start managing cattle ranches and gold mines, and things like that. I suppose I’ll have to open an office on Wall Street to keep New York in order, now and then. Yes, Parson, the good old days are nearly over for Jingo, I fear.”

  “I’m not talking about her,” the Parson said. “I told you she was a star. I was talking about the three beauties that come with her, all in white. Who’d ever think of dressing up in white, Jingo? Doggone, if they didn’t even have on white shoes. And they had on white silk socks. I seen one of them socks as the bird was stepping out of the r
ig. Now wouldn’t that beat Aunt Maria?”

  “The fashions, Parson,” said Jingo, “are things you cannot be expected to understand. Your big, honest, simple nature cannot keep step with such frivolities. But ... I hope the girl knows how to dance.”

  “Listen, Jingo,” said the Parson, “are you going to shame me tonight? Are you going to be a plain fool and try to crash through and dance with that girl?”

  “Before I get through,” said Jingo, “you’re going to open your blue eyes a great deal wider than they are just now. Stop holding your stomach, no matter how it aches, and tell me how I’m to get past that sheriff at the door, will you?”

  “Sure,” said the Parson. “Just step into your white linens, brother, and walk right in.”

  “Well,” said Jingo, “I see that it’s to be a matter of talking. Buy a pair of tickets, and you go first.”

  Accordingly the Parson bought the tickets, and strode for the door.

  The sheriff looked him quickly up and down. Then he accepted the slip of pasteboard, saying as he did so: “You know Miss Tyrrel by sight? Then keep away from her till you’re introduced. Savvy?”

  The Parson nodded and stalked ahead.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” Jingo said, offering his ticket in turn.

  “Hello, Jingo,” said the sheriff, failing to notice the ticket apparently. “It’s a mighty hot night, ain’t it?”

  “Out in the street,” said Jingo. “But inside there, it looks as though a fellow could cool his eyes off a little.”

  “You’re wrong, son,” Sheriff Cary said. “That lantern light, in there, heats up the gents so that their reputations can be seen right away.”

  “That’s good,” said Jingo, “because I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Sure you wouldn’t be ashamed,” said the sheriff. “But I never knew a gunfighter that didn’t like himself pretty well. Back up, Jingo, and let the folks pass.”

  Jingo looked long and quietly into the eyes of the sheriff as he stepped aside.

  The sheriff looked long and not so quietly back into the eyes of Jingo.

  “You’re not kind to yourself, Sheriff,” said Jingo.

  The sheriff stuck out his blunt jaw. He said: “Young feller, I’ve had plenty enough of your lip for one day. You can’t threaten me. If I get another word out of you, I’ll find you breaking the peace. Get away from this door and stop blocking the traffic.”

  Jingo looked past that angry face and saw, nearby, the long face and the twisting grin of the Parson. Music began to blare loudly. And far off, as the dancers swirled out onto the floor, he saw a girl in shimmering white swing away with a slender youth in shining linen.

  Jingo turned and went back into the outer dark. Even Jingo’s spirit, for that moment, began to shrink in his breast. And yet he was not thinking of the $100 that he had bet.

  Chapter Seven

  There were a lot of small boys scuffing up dust in the street, and bathing in the bright light that poured out of the entrance of the barn, and watching the late arrivals at the dance, and the dancers themselves who came out to wander up and down beneath the trees during the intervals. Something about one of those boys took the dreaming eye of Jingo as he strolled away. It was the red of the lad’s hair. He was smaller than most of his companions, and his red hair stood up like that of a South Sea Island chief.

  Jingo drew near and beckoned to the boy who came slowly and by a cautious and irregular line of approach, as one who knew that older men have heavy hands.

  When he was near enough for Jingo to see the gleam of his eyes, Jingo said: “What do you know about a five-dollar bill?”

  “I read a book that told about one, once,” said the redhead.

  “Here, Red.” Jingo put a bank note in the boy’s hand.

  The youngster gave the bill one instant of examination, and then slipped it into a trousers pocket. He walked up to Jingo and stood at attention.

  “You want another?” asked Jingo.

  “I could eat ’em all day long,” said Red.

  “There’s another waiting for you,” Jingo told him. “But I want to tell you something first. There’s a bowlegged, thick-headed sap standing in the door of that dance hall.”

  “Tell me his name,” said Red, “and I’ll go and chase him out.”

  “He’s the sheriff,” Jingo answered.

  “He hit me on the seat of the pants with the workin’ end of a black snake, one night,” said Red. “I know my time would come.”

  “Where were you that night?” asked Jingo.

  “I happened to be in his hen house, studyin’ how nice the roosters looked in the moonlight,” answered Red.

  “Has the sheriff got a son?” Jingo asked.

  “Yeah. And I can lick him.”

  “Have you licked him already?”

  “I’m goin’ to do it again, too,” declared Red.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bobby. Which Bobby is a fool name, ain’t it?”

  “I never liked it,” said Jingo. “You’re going to run up to the door of the barn and tell the sheriff that something has happened to Bobby and he’s got to come home at once.”

  Red shook his head.

  “There ain’t nothing can happen to Bobby,” he answered. “He’s got measles, and his ma doesn’t do nothing but watch out for him all day long.”

  “All right,” Jingo said. “He’s got a relapse.”

  “What’s a relapse?”

  “It’s a worse kind of measles. Run around this block as fast as you can leg it, and then go up to the sheriff and make your eyes big, and tell him the doctor’s at his house, and his wife wants him, and Bobby has a relapse.”

  “I can tell him his house is on fire, too,” suggested Red.

  “You leave it the way I say.”

  “All right. That’s the way it’ll be.”

  “Wait a minute. Here’s that other five dollars.”

  He passed it over as Red gasped: “Jiminy!”

  “On your way,” Jingo commanded.

  The feet of Red made a whispering in the dust. His body, swaying with speed, dissolved into the blackness beneath the trees. And in a little while, a gasping, straining, desperate figure of Red dashed up to the barn entrance from the other side with wisps of dust whirling in the air behind him as he disappeared at the doorway.

  A moment later, he came out again, and the sheriff appeared at once, striding big, swinging his body a bit to get more length in his steps. Jingo disappeared behind a tree.

  When he stepped out again and went toward the entrance, he passed the small body and the red head of the boy as the youngster leaned against a tree.

  “Go get her, cowboy,” murmured Red.

  Jingo laughed as he went forward, for he took this as an omen of good fortune.

  When he came to the door, there was only the ticket taker to deal with. The ticket taker knew perfectly well that Jingo had been turned away once before, but he also knew what had happened to Wally Rankin in the back room of Slade’s saloon. He knew a great deal about guns and what they could do, because he was a hardware dealer, so, when Jingo looked him firmly in the eye, he accepted the ticket without a single word.

  Jingo walked through the doorway, saying: “Go take me over to Miss Tyrrel and tell her that the sheriff told you to introduce me to her. Understand? No loitering, either.”

  The hardware man blinked behind his glasses; his heart shrank small in his breast.

  “But the sheriff didn’t tell me to do that,” he mourned.

  “I’m telling you, and that’s enough,” Jingo said. “Come along.”

  The ticket taker obeyed, stepping on the edges of his feet as though he were afraid that he might make a noise, and yet the orchestra was doing its loudest best at the moment.

  Along the edge of t
he dance floor, sometimes pausing to avoid the whirling dance couples, they journeyed together, not unnoticed, for little hushed gasps came from various of the girls and little humming sounds of surprise from the men, and the name, Jingo, was more than once in the air.

  They all knew Jingo, it appeared. But then he was an expert in making himself known.

  He said to the ticket taker: “My name is Jim Oreville. You got that?”

  “Oreville. Oreville,” muttered the hardware man rapidly. “Yeah, I’ll remember.”

  The dance ended. The whirlpools of the dancers dissolved. Right toward a little bright cluster at one end of the room went Jingo and his wretched victim, who made moaning sounds deep in his throat.

  “Don’t act that way,” cautioned Jingo. “I don’t mind you sweating like a stuck pig, but I hate to hear you mourning like a cow with a calf that’s been turned into veal. Buck up, stiffen your back, and remember that it’ll soon be over. Here we are. Brace right up to her. Tell yourself that you’re her granduncle and that she’s got to be nice for fear you won’t leave her a slice of the chicken farm. Here we are. Now act up.”

  Now, up to this moment, everything was going exactly as the sheriff had arranged. Nobody except the very best people in the town of Tower Creek had been able to come close to Eugenia Tyrrel. The sons and the daughters of the biggest miners and cattlemen and lumber kings had been able to enter the gracious presence, but none of them stayed very long. The three cool, white exquisites who set off Eugenia made the youths feel that their hair was too long, their trousers not creased, and their clothes out of shape. The girls felt that to be seen once in the bright light of Eugenia was to be looked down upon forever.

  So there remained that bright, cool, pleasant grouping of white in the corner of the room with the darker eddies of the crowd withdrawn. Eugenia Tyrrel was having a chair placed for her by one of her attendants while another brought her a drink in a glass silvered over with cold, and a third occupied her almost royal ear with murmured conversation. And just at this moment the darkness of the crowd thrust a member right into the group, for there was the ticket taker, perspiring very freely and bowing with little jerks in front of Miss Tyrrel.