Good Men and True; and, Hit the Line Hard/Hit the Line Hard/Chapter 1

EIGHBOR JONES gazed meditatively from his room in the Saragossa House: an unwelcome guest buzzed empty boastings in his ear. He saw, between narrowed lids, the dazzle of bright tracks, the Saragossa Station, the bright green of irrigated fields beyond, merged to a vague and half-sensed background. The object of his attentive consideration was nearer at hand, by the west-most track—a long, squat warehouse, battered and dingy red. And from this shabby beginning, while the bore droned endlessly on, Neighbor Jones wove romance for his private delight.

The warehouse was decked all about by a wide, high platform. A low-pitched roof reached far out beyond the building to over hang this platform, so that the whole bore a singular resemblance to Noah's Ark of happy memory. A forlorn and forgotten ark: the warped shingles, the peeling, blistered paint, the frayed and splintered planks, were eloquent of past prosperity and of change, neglect and decay.

The gable end was crowded with huge lettering of whitish gray. When those gray letters were white the sign had read:

Long ago the firm name had been painted out; but the old letters broke dim and ghostly through, persisted stubborn under the paint that would blot them, hid and haunted beyond the letters of a later name:

Bennett had been the Company.

Neighbor Jones sprawled largely in his tilted chair, smoking with vast and enviable enjoyment. One hand was pocketed. The other, big, strong, blunt-fingered, tapped on the window sill a brave tattoo of ringing hoofs—no finicky, mimimy tanbark trot, but steady and measured, a great horse breasting the wind and the rain. To this strong cadence Neighbor Jones trolled a merry stave from the amazing ballad of the Chisholm Trail:

In the lines of the long taper from broad shoulders to booted feet; in the massive broad-browed head; the tawny hair; the square, ruddy-brown face; the narrowed sleepy eyes—in every mold and motion of the man, balanced and poised, there was something lionlike; something one might do well to remark.

But his one companion, the Kansas City Kid, remarked none of those things. The Kansas City Kid was otherwise engrossed—with his own cleverness.

"Oh, I'll show you, all right! There's one born every minute," said the K. C. Kid crisply. "How many hands? Five? Five is right. Second hand for Jones; first hand is the winner. Watch me close!"

He shuffled the cards with a brisk and careless swing, cutting them once, twice, thrice, with flourish and slap; shuffled again, with a smooth ripple pleasant to the ear, and  shoved the deck across for a final cut.

"See anything wrong? No? Here we go! Watch!" He dealt five poker hands, face down. "Now then, look! You've got three tens and a pair of trays. First hand has jacks up, opens, stands a raise from you, draws one black jack." Illustrating, the Kid flipped the top card from the deck. It was the spade jack. "Then you bet your fool head off. He should worry. And that's the way they trimmed you—see?"

Neighbor Jones blinked a little and twisted his tawny-gold hair to a peak, retaining unshaded and unchanged his look of sleepy good nature.

"Smooth work!" he said approvingly.

"You're dead right, it's smooth work!" asserted the gratified artist. "Some class to that! Them guys that got yours couldn't do any such work—they was raw! I'm showing you what I got, so you can figure out the surprise party you and me can hand to 'em—see? Say, they pulled a lot of stunts the Old Ladies' Home is wise to back in my town—strippers, short cards, holdouts, cold decks—old stuff! Honest, they make me sick! I can steal the gold out of their teeth and they'll never miss it!"

Jones looked at the man with wonder and pity. The poor wretch was proud of his sorry accomplishment, displayed it with pleasure, thought himself envied for it. By this shameful skill he had come so far, in the pride and heyday of youth—to such dire shifts, such ebbs and shallows; to empty days, joyless, friendless, without hope of any better morrow. No dupe he had gulled but might grieve for him, cut off, clean aside from all purpose or meaning of life.

"Well?" said the Kid impatiently.

The contemplative gentleman roused himself.

"Someway I don't like this idea of being cheated pretty well." His voice was a mild and regretful drawl. "Never had much use for Beck; but I did think old Scanlon was a square old sport!"

"Square sport! Why, you poor simp, you never had a look in!" sneered the sharper. Then he wrinkled his brows in some perplexity. "What I don't see is why they didn't skin the Eastern chap too. They could 'a' had that gink's wad—that Drake; but they let him down easy. Oh, well, we should worry! It will leave all the more for us."

"For us?" echoed Neighbor, puzzled.

"Sure, Mike! You get hold of a good piece of money and we'll do a brother act. You and me, we ain't never been chummy— they won't tumble. We'll sit in with 'em and string along with 'em till the big money gets out in the open—just holding enough cards  to keep in the swim. When I give you the office, go get 'em! I'll slip big ones to Beck and the college Johnny—and the top hand to you, of course—and we'll split fifty-fifty."

Neighbor's mind groped back along the dusty years for a half-forgotten adage.

"If a dog bites you once," he said with halting speech, "shame on him; if you bite a dog—shame on you!"

"Huh? I don't get you."

"Besides," said Neighbor placidly, "you'll be going away now."

"Not me. Saragossa looks good to me."

"You'll be going away," repeated Neighbor patiently, "on the next train—any direction—and never coming back!"

"What?" The Kid jumped up, blazing wrath. "Why, you cheap skate—you quitter! Are you goin' to throw me down? You come-on! You piker"

"Boob?" suggested Neighbor kindly. "Mutt? Sucker?"

"You hick! You yellow hound"

"Sit down," advised Neighbor quietly.

"You ought to lose your money! For ten cents"

"Sit down," said Neighbor more quietly. The pocketed hand produced a dime and slid it across the table. "Go on with that ten-cent job you had on your mind, whatever it was," said Neighbor. "There's the money. Pick it up!"

Weight and inches, the two men evened up fairly well. Also, the ivory butt of a forty-four peeped from the Kid's waistband. But Neighbor's eye was convincing; here was a man who meant the thing he said. The younger man shifted his own eyes uneasily, checked, faltered and sat down.

"Pick up your dime!" said Neighbor. The Kid complied with a mumbling in his throat. "That's right," said Jones. "Now, don't you be too proud to take advice from a yellow hound. First, don't you bother your poor head about me losing my money. My money don't cost me anything," he explained—"I work for it. Next, about Beck—I'll sleep on this matter and look it over from all sides. No hurry. If I'm not just pleased with Beck for cheating me I'll adjust the matter with him—but I'll not cheat him. I never try to beat a man at his own game. Toddle along, now. I hear a train coming. By-by!"

"It's the freight. I'll go on the five-o'clock passenger—not before."

"Oh, yes you will!" said Jones confidently. "You've only accused Beck of cheating, but you've proved it on yourself. The boys won't like it. It is best to leave me thus, dear—best for you and best for me." His eyes wandered to the window and rested calculatingly on the Fowler cottonwood across the street. It was a historic tree; Joel Fowler had been hanged thereon by disapproving friends.

The Kid caught the glance and the unspoken allusion; sweat beaded his forehead.

"Aw, lemme wait for the passenger!" he protested. "I gotta go up to the Windsor to pay what I owe and get my suit case."

Neighbor rose.

"There, there! Don't you fret," he said, patting the other man's shoulder kindly. "Give me the money. I'll pay your bill and keep the suit case. You just run along."

"Good lord, man! Those clothes cost me"

"Now, now! Never mind—that's all right—everything's all right!" said Neighbor soothingly. "We're just about of a size." He nudged the Kid's ribs with a confidential elbow. "Sly old dog! You had some of my money too, didn't you? Yes; and I'll keep that cunning little gun of yours as a souvenir." The last remark came after—not before—Neighbor's acquisition of the cunning little gun. "Come on, my boy, we'll mosey along over to the station. Here's our hats, on the bed."

He linked his arm with the victim's: he sang with a joyous and martial note: