The Desire of the Moth; and The Come On | Page 7

enjoy having people tellin' how you run away to keep from
meeting Dick Marr?" said Applegate incredulously.
"Why shouldn't they say it? It will be exactly true," responded Foy
quietly, "and you're authorized to say so. I'm learning some sense now;
I'm getting to own quite a mess of property; I'm going to be married
soon; and I don't want to fight anyone. Besides, quite apart from my
own interests, other men will be drawn into it if I shoot it out with Marr.
No knowing where it will stop. No, sir; I'll go punch cows till Marr
quiets down. Maybe it's just the whisky talking. Dick isn't such a bad
fellow when he's not fighting booze. Or maybe he'll go away. He hasn't
much to keep him here."
"Say, I could get a job offered to him out in San Simon," said
Applegate, brightening.
His eye rested on the clock over the long mirror. He stepped over to the
show case, clipped the end from a cigar and obtained a light from a
shapely bronze lady with a torch. When he came back he fell in on
Foy's left; at Foy's right Creagan leaned his elbows on the bar.
"Well, I'm obliged to you, boys," said Foy. "This one's on me. Come on,
Joe--have a hoot."
"Thanks, no," said Espalin. "I not dreenkin' none thees times. Eef I
dreenk some I get full, and loose my job maybe."
"Vichy," said Foy. "Take something yourself, Max."

As Mr. Max poured the drinks an odd experience befell Mr. José
Espalin. His tilted chair leaned against the casing of the billiard-room
door. As Max filled the first glass Espalin became suddenly aware of
something round and hard and cold pressed against his right temple. Mr.
Espalin felt some curiosity, but he sat perfectly still. The object shifted
a few inches; Mr. Espalin perceived from the tail of his eye the large,
unfeeling muzzle of a sixshooter; beyond it, a glimpse of the forgotten
elderly stranger, Mr. Pringle.
Only Mr. Pringle's fighting face appeared, and that but for a moment;
he laid a finger to lip and crouched, hidden by the partition and by
Espalin's body. Mr. Espalin gathered that Pringle desired no outcry and
shunned observation; he sat motionless accordingly; he felt a hand at
his belt, which removed his gun.
"Happy days!" said Foy, and raised his glass to his lips.
Creagan seized the uplifted wrist with both hands, Applegate pounced
on the other arm. Pringle leaped through the doorway. But something
happened swifter than Pringle's swift rush. Foy's knee shot up to
Applegate's stomach. Applegate fell, sprawling. Foy hurled himself on
Creagan and bore him crashing to the floor. Foy whirled over; he rose
on one hand and knee, gun drawn, visibly annoyed; also considerably
astonished at the unexpected advent of Mr. Pringle. Applegate lay
groaning on the floor. Pringle kicked his gun from the holster and set
foot upon it; one of his own guns covered the bartender and the other
kept watch on Espalin, silent on his still-tilted chair.
"Who're you!" challenged Foy.
"Friend with the countersign. Don't shoot! Don't shoot me, anyhow."
Foy rose from hand and knee to knee and foot. This rescuer, so
opportunely arrived from nowhere, seemed to be an ally. But to avoid
mistakes, Foy's gun followed Pringle's motions, at the same time
willing and able to blow out Creagan's brains if advisable. He also
acquired Creagan's gun quite subconsciously.

"Let me introduce myself, gentlemen," said Pringle. "I'm
Jack-in-a-Pinch, Little Friend of the Under Dog--see Who's This? page
two-thirteen. My German friend, come out from behind that bar--hands
up--step lively! Spot yourself! My Mexican friend, join Mr. Max.
Move, you poisonous little spider--jump! That's better! Gentlemen--be
seated! Right there--smack, slapdab on the floor. Sit down and think.
Say! I'm serious. Am I going to have to kill some few of you just
because you don't know who I am? I'll count three! One! two!--That's it.
Very good--hold that--register anticipation! I am a worldly man," said
Pringle with emotion, "but this spectacle touches me--it does indeed!"
"I'll get square with you!" gurgled Applegate, as fiercely as his
breathless condition would permit.
"George--may I call you George? I don't know your name. You may
get square with me, George--but you'll never be square with anyone.
You are a rhomboidinaltitudinous isosohedronal catawampus, George!"
George raved unprintably. He made a motion to rise, but reconsidered it
as he noted the tension of Pringle's trigger finger.
"Don't be an old fuss-budget, George," said Pringle reprovingly.
"Because I forgot to tell you--I've got my gun now--and yours. You
won't need to arrest me, though, for I'm hitting the trail in fifteen
minutes. But if I wasn't going--and if you had your gun--you couldn't
arrest one side of me. You couldn't arrest