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  “Yeah, really,” said Jingo, “The ‘J’ is for Jumbo. The ‘I’ is for Igarone, and the last name is ‘Ngo.’ ”

  She said nothing. She sat still, and her eyes were still, too, but the light in them was quivering.

  “Ngo,” said Jingo, “is African for ‘great chief’ or ‘king’; Igarone is a family name, and Jumbo is used something like ‘sir’ in English.” He grinned at her, and she grinned back. It was not a smile at all.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I’ve been out in British East Africa and picked up some of the lingo.”

  “So you know that ‘Ngo’ stands for king?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it may,” said the girl.

  They laughed together. Mr. Wheeler Bent cleared his throat and moved to a position from which he silently commanded the attention of Eugenia Tyrrel—and failed to get it.

  “What were you doing in Africa?” Jingo asked her. “Shooting?”

  “Yes. Lions.”

  “English lions?” asked Jingo.

  “No.” She chuckled. “African.”

  “Did you get any?”

  She held up one finger. “That’s what the headman said,” she explained. “But the lion didn’t drop till after he’d fired a second shot. You can make up your mind for yourself.”

  “I’ve made up my mind,” said Jingo, “that if I give some money to the trombone players, they’d let us hear the music of the strings, for the next dance.”

  “That’s the very best idea,” said Eugenia Tyrrel, “that I’ve heard this evening—bar one.”

  “What one is barred?” asked Jingo.

  “The one about Ngo,” said the girl.

  “One can always learn little things,” said Jingo. “Are we dancing the next dance?”

  She cast one fleeting glance at the polished tips of his boots, “I’d like to,” she told him.

  “Oh I say, Gene,” interrupted Wheeler Bent.

  “I thought he might have something to say,” said Jingo, in one of those voices which travel just far enough to be indiscreet.

  “Yes, Wheeler?” said the girl, with the first shadow of a frown.

  “Your next dance is taken,” said Wheeler Bent. “Terribly sorry.”

  “Is it taken?” she asked, looking very straight at her chief escort.

  “Yes,” he assured her.

  “Well,” murmured Eugenia Tyrrel, “later on, Mr. Ngo?”

  “Name any dance you please,” he said.

  “I’ll work over her program,” said Wheeler Bent. “It may take a little arranging. You know how things are. You have this one, I think, George.” George stepped gladly forward as the trombones made the air shudder with their wide-lipped blast.

  “Later!” said the girl, over the shoulder of George.

  “Later!” said Jingo.

  Then he saw a figure striding swiftly toward him, half wrecking dancing couples on the way. The figure was that of the sheriff.

  Suddenly Jingo was aware of a window open beside him and was taken with a desire for the cool of the outer night. He stepped through that window. The ground was a dozen feet below. But he hung an instant by the tips of his fingers, and landed as lightly beneath as any cat.

  CHAPTER 8

  Smiling Stars

  Jingo, as the sheriff made for him and he made for the window, was aware of one important object, and that was the enormous bulk of the Parson striding in the sheriff’s rear, and pointing his great arm over the sheriff’s shoulder. There was not the slightest doubt that the Parson intended to win the hundred-dollar bet even if he had to use means a little too rough, even if he had to lean his mighty elbow on the shoulder of the law.

  It was rather the coming of the Parson than the approach of the sheriff that had decided Jingo to seek the cool of the outer night.

  Now he sat on the stump of a tree in front of the barn where only the vaguest glimmerings of light reached through the shadows, but light half so strong would have been enough to set glowing the hair of the lad who now appeared before him.

  “I thought you’d be home in bed, by now, Red,” said Jingo.

  “I knew you’d be needing me again,” said Red. “Ain’t she a dandy?”

  “Who?” asked Jingo absently.

  “I climbed up to one of the windows and looked in and seen everything,” said Red. “Ain’t she a jim-dandy? It’s lucky that you’re rich, mister.”

  “Yeah, it’s lucky that I’m rich,” said Jingo, a little sourly.

  He lapsed into a long silence.

  When he looked up from it, a moment later, Red was still standing immobile before him. “Do I believe what I see or am I cockeyed?” said Jingo. “Are those people that are arriving just now wearing masks?”

  “I thought about it,” said Red. “But it ain’t no good. Every gent has to lift his mask for the sheriff to see him as he goes through the door.”

  “Are you sure?” insisted Jingo.

  “Dead certain. I went and looked and seen.”

  “The devil!” said Jingo.

  “Take a new hand,” said Red. “You ain’t beat while you got money.”

  “Here’s five dollars,” said Jingo.

  “What for?” asked Red, taking the money with a moist, swift hand.

  “To do some thinking for me. Start thinking, and think fast. This dance won’t last forever.”

  “Whatcha want?” asked the boy. “Her?”

  “Yes,” said Jingo.

  “Are you going to fetch her away on your hoss and marry her somewheres?” asked Red.

  “I want to dance one whole dance with her,” said Jingo.

  “Oh, is that all?” asked Red, with a note of deepest disappointment in his voice.

  “That’s all.”

  “Well, you’re Jingo, ain’t you? You got guns, ain’t you? Why don’t you go and shoot ’em up and dance all you wanta dance?” He added, in a greater disgust: “Dance? Huh!”

  “Listen, Red,” urged Jingo. “Brain work is what I want. Not abuse.”

  “All right,” said Red. He sat down on the other side of the stump.

  “She liked you,” pondered Red aloud. “You didn’t have long, but you made her shine.”

  “Did I?” asked Jingo sadly.

  “Sure you did. Clean from the window where I was, I seen. I pretty near tasted the wedding cake.”

  After a time Red said: “If you had on some of them white clothes, like yonder, they might help.”

  “White clothes? Where?”

  “See them white trousers walking, over there?”

  Jingo could see them. The low-sweeping branches covered the upper part of the silhouette, but Jingo could see white trousers walking beside a white skirt. Suddenly he stood up. “Red,” he said, “I knew you had a brain. Now show that you’ve got eyes that can see in the dark. Just scatter along over there. See if the fellow walking with that white skirt is wearing a little yellow mustache; and see if the girl is my girl, will you?”

  “What’ll you do? Sock him?” asked Red eagerly.

  “Go along and do what I say,” said Jingo.

  Red disappeared. Then, a moment later, a whisper came out of the darkness, and Red was before him, panting. “It’s your girl, and it’s the gent with the yaller mustache,” declared Red.

  Jingo bent back his head and looked at the bright stars in the sky. And every one of them smiled at him.

  “Now listen,” he said. “But first, hold out your hand.”

  “My thunder,” breathed Red. “Another?”

  “If I had a million, I’d give you half,” answered Jingo heartily. “You barge up to those two—Wait a minute.”

  “It’s hard to wait, but I’ll do it,” said Red.

  “What are those masks for?”

  “Everybody’s going to put on masks to jollify things up a little at twelve o’clock. It ain’t minus twelve more’n five minutes now. The grand noise is going to start,” declared Red.

  “It is,” sai
d Jingo gently. “The grand noise is about to start.” He went on: “Run up to them—tell them—call him Mr. Bent. Understand?”

  “I could understand anything, just now,” said Red. “All right. His name is Mr. Bent—and your name is Jingo.”

  “Leave my name out of it. Run up to him and say: ‘Mr. Bent, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. The buggy horses got into a ruction, and your near horse has been kicked and is down.’ Understand? Tell him to come quick!”

  “Suppose,” said Red, “that your girl goes along with him?”

  “That would be the devil! We’ve got to chance it. Wait here while you count sixty. Then start. You know where the horse sheds are?”

  “Sure I know where they are.”

  “Well, then, if you can get him away from the girl, whistle as you come along with him. If you can’t get him away from the girl, you’d better fade out into the dark.”

  “I will!” said Red. “I’ll do everything—and his name is Bent!”

  It was only a part of a minute after this that strange things began to happen to Wheeler Bent. As he walked up and down with Eugenia Tyrrel on his arm, a little red-headed boy rushed up to them out of the shadows, calling: “Mr. Bent? Mr. Bent?”

  “Here, my lad,” said Wheeler Bent.

  The boy danced on one foot, pointing away. “Back yonder—the hosses been in a ruction. Your near hoss was knocked flat. They want you to come along quick to see—”

  “I’ll go with you!” said the girl, swaying forward, ready to run.

  That was the trouble with her. Even if she were Mrs. Wheeler Bent, she would still be ready to pick up her skirts and run like a boy. She would still be ready to climb a tree. And this beautiful, gay, rash, reckless thing was intrusted chiefly to his guardianship to-night. It might be that he would be tempted to extend his authority over her to a greater time and on a stronger basis.

  He said: “Stay here, Gene. Go right back into the dance room, please. You don’t want to be mixed up with a lot of sweating, kicking, dusty horses. Go back, please.”

  She went back. She only gave to him one rather vague glance that drifted away and was lost among the shadows or the stars. Wheeler Bent could not tell which. As soon as he saw her safely started toward the wedge of bright light that seemed to flow in from the dusty night, instead of issuing from the interior of the barn, Bent went after the boy.

  He did not run. He was a powerful fellow, was Wheeler Bent, and every inch of his trim body was layered and lined with strings of muscle, such as constant athletics give to a man. He was as good a runner as one could have found in a country, but he had a very nice sense of the fitness of things and he was not one to run on account of a carriage horse. For a thoroughbred? Well, perhaps. But Wheeler Bent believed that there should be a decent proportion between the needs of life and the actions that serve them. So he merely went forward at a good, brisk walking gait with the branches of the big trees moving back above his head until he was in a thickness of gloom.

  Then he saw a man who appeared suddenly, as though he had just stepped from behind a tree trunk. “Mr. Bent?” said the stranger.

  “Well?” said Bent curtly. Then he recognized Jingo and instantly realized his scheme. “You!” And in a swift flare of anger he aimed a hasty, incalculated punch at Jingo.

  “Well enough,” said Jingo, dodging, and then he hit Wheeler Bent right on the point of the chin. The shock, of course, seemed to fall on the base of Wheeler Bent’s brain. His knees and all his body sagged forward to meet the twin brother of that first punch that turned the dark of the night into one great flower of red, then all light ceased in the brain of Wheeler Bent.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Evil Tribe

  When Wheeler Bent recovered, he way lying in the dust in his fine linen underwear. Even his shoes and his socks were gone. His hands were tied behind his back, and the same rope passed around the trunk of a tree. Furthermore, there was a tightly twisted roll of cloth in his mouth that served to gag him, so that he could only make a dull, moaning sound.

  He sat up. The shadows spun around and around. Finally he was able to rise, though the pull of the rope kept him bowed low. Figures, now and then, moved in the near distance, and he strove to attract attention by making gestures with his feet and by uttering the highest-pitched moan of which he was capable.

  But while the people trooped calmly back toward the lighted entrance, not far away, and while the strains of the dance music began with unusual gentleness—for the trombones were altogether silent!—it seemed to Wheeler Bent that he was going to be allowed to strangle unheeded in the darkness of the night. It was not the gag but the fact that he was unheeded that was strangling Wheeler Bent.

  Then there appeared, close to him, a strolling group of the barefooted urchins of the town. They were started, at first, by the queer sounds he made, and by the whiteness of his form in the night. But when they had had a chance to examine him more closely, they began to yell with delight.

  Boys have the souls of red Indians with a sense of humor added, and it seemed to that cluster that here was a victim of a practical joke given into their hands.

  They untied one end of the rope from around the tree, but they kept the other end hitched to the wrists of Wheeler Bent. When he tried to break away, half a dozen of the youngsters attached themselves to the rope and hauled him back. When he tried to charge in at them, they threw clever little loops of the rope that caught him by the feet.

  To fall without hands to save one is not pleasant, and after a time Wheeler Bent stopped charging so furiously. Those lads kept him like a live bear on the end of that rope and swept around him in circles. Their ringleader, their inspiring genius, was a red-headed youngster half the size and twice the devilishness of his companions. It was he who pointed out the glimmering, golden mustache, of Wheeler Bent—and straightaway tarnished the mustache with dust. They went on and tarnished all of Mr. Bent with dust.

  He was sweating profusely; his outraged spirit was literally breaking out through the pores of his skin; and therefore the dust clung and turned him from a cool, white form to an almost black one. The more outrageous his appearance became, the more those lads yelled with delight and whirled about like the vortex of a tornado.

  He was on the point of choking with rage when, luckily, he managed to spit the gag out of his mouth. He took one deep breath, and then he let out a yell that whistled through his teeth and tore at his vocal cords. He kept right on yelling. He threatened to have the lot of them in a reform school before morning.

  He yelled so loudly that worse things began to happen to him. The last event that the sheriff wanted was the attendance of any drunken loiterers who might make a disturbance outside in the barn while the dance was in progress. In order that Tower Creek might continue to put forward its best foot without annoyance, the sheriff posted his most-trusted deputy, Steve Matthews, outside the barn. Steve was a man small of speech and large of hand. When he heard the furious whoop of Wheeler Bent, he went straight for the scene of action. He saw the wheeling circles of the boys. He saw the rope. He saw the man in underwear. And Steve Matthews blushed not with shame but with anger. Suppose that the eyes of some of the ladies had fallen on this grotesque?

  He was glad he had gloves on his hands when he went in and took the rope out of the hands of the boys. They scattered with yells of fresh pleasure when they saw the law taking up where they had left off.

  Wheeler Bent yelled: “Arrest those little ruffians—arrest those young hyenas—those—”

  The gloved hand of Steve Matthews was clapped over the mouth of his victim. It was a good, thick buckskin glove, and yet he was somewhat afraid that the fellow might bite through the leather into his flesh.

  “You fool of a drunk half-wit,” said the deputy, “shut up your mug and march along with me.”

  “I’m Wheeler Bent!” shouted the captive.

  “You’ll be a plumb broke wheel if you don’t shut up,” declared the deputy. “I gotta mind
to sock you!”

  “He’s Wheeler Bent! He’s Wheeler Bent!” chanted the red-headed boy, and all the rest of the evil little tribe took up the cry, exploding with laughter.

  And Wheeler Bent, assuring himself that he was going mad, found himself dragged down the street behind his tall captor.

  They came to a little squat building with the fatal bars across the window. The door was opened. They passed in. A Negro came carrying a big bunch of keys. A cell was opened, and Wheeler Bent actually found himself in jail.

  “Disturbin’ the peace is the charge agin’ you,” said the deputy calmly. “And if you don’t get three months, I’m a sucker, and the judge is a worse one. What you been drinkin’? I didn’t get it on your breath.”

  A hoarse, trembling voice came out of the throat of Wheeler Bent. He said: “You’re going to be smashed for this. If Judge Tyrrel has any influence in this part of the country, you’re going to be smashed flat! Robbery and assault right in the middle of the town!”

  There was only one thing in this speech that meant anything to the deputy, and that was the name of Judge Tyrrel. It was true that the judge resided, when in the West, in Blue Water, but his hand was strong even farther away than Tower Creek.

  Steve Matthews, therefore, narrowed his eyes and considered his prisoner a little more closely. “Hey, George,” he said to the Negro, “go fetch a bucket and sluice off this gent. We’ll have a look at him.”

  The water was brought, a three-gallon pail full of it, and it was doused suddenly over the head and the entire body of Wheeler Bent.

  To him, this was the greatest outrage of all. It left him rigid with rage, like molten steel when it is suddenly cooled. And he wished that death might suddenly sweep the town of Tower Creek.