The Blue Hotel – Part 1
The Palace Hotel at Fort Romper was painted
a light blue, a color of blue found on the
legs of a certain bird that makes it bright
in any surroundings.
The Palace Hotel, then, looked always loud
and screaming in a way that made the bright
winter scenes of Nebraska seem only a dull
gray.
It stood alone, and when the snow was falling,
the town two hundred yards away could not
be seen.
When a traveler came from the railroad station,
he was obliged to pass the Palace Hotel before
he came to the group of low houses which was
Fort Romper.
It was believed that no traveler could pass
the Palace Hotel without looking at it.
Pat Scully, the hotel owner, had proved himself
a master at choosing paints.
It is true that on clear days, when the long
lines of trains swept through Fort Romper,
passengers were surprised at the sight.
Those that knew the brown-reds, and the dark
greens of the eastern part of the country
laughingly expressed shame, pity, shock.
But to the citizens of this western town and
to the people who stopped there, Pat Scully
had performed a wonder.
As if the displayed delights of such a blue
hotel were not sufficiently inviting, Scully
went every morning and evening to meet the
trains that stopped at Romper.
He would express greetings and welcome to
anyone he might see hesitating.
One morning when a snow-covered engine dragged
its long string of cars to the station, Scully
performed the marvelous trick of catching
three men.
One was a shaky and quick-eyed Swede, with
a great, shining, cheap bag; one was a tall,
sun-browned cowboy, who was on his way to
a job near the Dakota border; one was a little
silent man from the east coast, who didn’t
look like it and didn’t announce it.
Scully practically made them prisoners.
He was so quick and merry and kindly that
each probably thought it would be cruel to
try to escape.
So they followed the eager little man.
He wore a heavy fur cap pulled tightly down
on his head.
It caused his two red ears to stand out stiffly,
as if they were made of tin.
At last, Scully grandly conducted them through
the door of the blue hotel.
The room which they entered was small.
It was occupied mostly by a huge stove in
the center, which was burning with great force.
At various points on its surface the iron
had become shiny and
glowed yellow from the heat.
Beside the stove, Scully’s son, Johnnie,
was playing a game of cards with a farmer.
They were quarreling.
With loud words Scully stopped their play,
and hurried his son upstairs with the bags
of the new guests.
He himself led them to three bowls of icy
water.
The cowboy and the Easterner washed themselves
in this water until they were as red as fire.
The Swede, however, merely placed his fingers
in the bowl.
It was noticeable throughout these proceedings
that the three travelers were made to feel
that Scully was very kind indeed.
He was giving out great favors.
Afterward they returned to the first room.
There, sitting about the stove, they listened
to Scully shouting at his daughters, who were
preparing the noon meal.
They employed the silence of experienced men
who move carefully among new people.
The Swede was especially silent.
He seemed to be occupied in making secret
judgments of each man in the room.
One might have thought that he had the sense
of foolish fear which accompanies guilt.
He looked like a badly frightened man.
Later, at dinner, he spoke a little, directing
his conversation entirely to Scully.
He said that he had come from New York, where
he had worked for ten years as a suit maker.
These facts seemed to interest Scully, and
afterward he told that he had lived at Romper
for fourteen years.
The Swede asked about the crops and the price
of labor.
He seemed hardly to listen to Scully’s lengthy
replies.
His eyes continued to wander from man to man.
Finally, with a laugh, he said that some of
these western towns were very dangerous; and
after this declaration he straightened his
legs under the table, nodded his head, and
laughed again, loudly.
It was plain that this had no meaning to the
others.
They looked at him, wondering and in silence.
After dinner, it was decided to play a game
of cards.
The cowboy offered to play with Johnnie, and
they all turned to ask the Swede to play with
the little Easterner.
The Swede asked some questions about the game.
Learning that it wore many names, and that
he had played it under another name,
he accepted the invitation.
He came toward the men nervously, as though
he expected to be attacked.
Finally, seated, he looked from face to face
and laughed sharply.
This laugh was so strange that the Easterner
looked up quickly, the cowboy sat with his
mouth open, and Johnnie paused, holding the
cards with still fingers.
Afterward there was a short silence.
Then Johnnie said, “Well, let’s begin.
Come on now!”
They pulled their chairs forward until their
knees touched under the table.
They began to play, and their interest in
the game caused the others to forget the strange
ways of the Swede.
Suddenly the Swede spoke to Johnnie: “I
suppose there have been a good many men killed
in this room.”
The mouths of the others dropped open and
they looked at him.
“What are you talking about?” said Johnnie.
The Swede laughed again his loud laugh, full
of a kind of false courage.
“Oh, you know what I mean all right,”
he answered.
“I don’t!” Johnnie protested.
The card game stopped, and the men stared
at the Swede.
Johnnie evidently felt that as the son of
the hotel owner he should make a direct inquiry.
“Now, what are you trying to say?” he
asked.
The Swede’s fingers shook on the edge of
the table.
“Oh, maybe you think I haven’t been anywhere.
Maybe you think I don’t have any experience?”
“I don’t know anything about you,” answered 
Johnnie
“and I don’t care where you’ve been.
I just don’t know what you’re trying to
say.
Nobody has ever been killed in this room.”
The cowboy, who had been steadily gazing at
the Swede, then spoke:
“What’s wrong with you, fellow?”
Apparently it seemed to the Swede that he
was powerfully threatened.
He trembled, and turned pale near the comers
of his mouth.
He sent an appealing glance in the direction
of the little Easterner.
“They say they don’t know what I mean,”
he remarked bitterly to the Easterner.
The latter answered after long and careful
thought.
“I don’t understand you,” he said calmly.
The Swede made a movement then which announced
that he thought he had met attack from the
only place where he had expected sympathy,
if not help.
“I see that you are all against me.
I see—”
The cowboy felt as though he had lost his
senses.
“Say,” he cried, as he threw the cards
fiercely down upon the table, “say, what
are you trying to do?”
The Swede jumped up.
“I don’t want to fight!” he shouted.
“I don’t want to fight!”
The cowboy stretched his long legs slowly
and carefully.
His hands were in his pockets.
“Well, who thought you did?” he inquired.
The Swede moved rapidly back toward a corner
of the room.
His hands were out protectingly in front of
his chest, but he was making an apparent struggle
to control his fright.
"Gentlemen," he almost whispered, “I
suppose I am going to be killed before I can
leave this house!
I suppose I am going to be killed before I
can leave this house!”
A door opened, and Scully himself entered.
He paused in surprise as he noted the terror-filled
eyes of the Swede.
Then he said, “What’s the matter here?”
The Swede answered him quickly and eagerly:
“These men are going to kill me.”
“Kill you!” shouted Scully.
“Kill you!
What are you talking about?”
The Swede put out his hands helplessly.
Scully turned upon his son.
“What is this, Johnnie?”
The lad had become ill-tempered.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
He began to pick up the cards, gathering them
together angrily.
“He says a good many men have been killed
in this room, or something like that.
And he says he’s going to be killed here,
too.
I don’t know what’s wrong with him.
He’s probably crazy.”
Scully then looked for explanation to the
cowboy, but the cowboy simply shook his head.
“Kill you?” said Scully again to the Swede.
“Kill you?
Man, you’re crazy.”
“Oh, I know,” burst out the Swede.
“I know what will happen.
Yes, I’m crazy—yes.
Yes, of course, I’m crazy—yes.
But I know one thing—” There was suffering
and terror upon his face.
“I know I won’t get out of here alive.”
Scully turned suddenly and faced his son.
“You’ve been troubling this man!”
Johnnie’s voice was loud with its burden
of undeserved blame.
“Why, good God, I haven’t done anything
to him!”
The Swede broke in.
“Gentlemen, do not trouble yourselves.
I will leave this house.
I will go away, because—” he blamed them
with his glance— “because I do not want
to be killed.”
“You will not go away,” said Scully.
“You will not go away until I hear the reason
of this business.
If anybody has troubled you, I will take care
of him.
This is my house.
You are under my roof, and I will not allow
any peaceful man to be troubled here.”
He looked threateningly at Johnnie, the cowboy,
and the Easterner.
“Don’t, Mr. Scully, don’t.
I will go away.
I do not want to be killed.”
The Swede moved toward the door which opened
to the stairs.
It was evidently his intention to go at once
for his bag.
“No, no,” shouted Scully commandingly;
but the pale-faced man slipped by him and disappeared.
“Now,” Scully angrily to the others, “what
does this mean?”
Johnnie and the cowboy cried together: “Why,
we didn’t do anything to him!”
Scully’s eyes were cold.
“No,” he said, “you didn’t?”
Johnnie repeated his words.
“Why, this is the wildest madman I ever
saw.
We didn’t do anything at all.
We were just sitting here playing cards, and
he—”
The father suddenly spoke to the Easterner.
“What have these boys been doing?”
The Easterner thought again.
“I didn’t see anything wrong at all,”
he said at last, slowly.
Scully began to shout.
“But what does it mean?”
He stared fiercely at his son.
“I ought to beat you for this, my boy.”
Johnnie was wild.
“Well, what have I done?” he screamed
at his father.
The Blue Hotel – Part 2
“I think you are tongue-tied,” said Scully
finally to his son, the cowboy, and the Easterner;
and at the end of this sentence he left the
room.
Upstairs the Swede was closing his bag.
His back was half-turned toward the door,
and hearing a noise there, he turned and jumped
up, uttering a loud cry.
Scully’s face was frightening in the light
of the small lamp he carried.
This yellow shine, streaming upward, left
his eyes in deep shadows.
He looked like a murderer.
“Man!
Man!” exclaimed Scully.
“Have you gone mad?”
“Oh, no!
Oh, no!” answered the other.
“There are people in this world who know
nearly as much as you do—understand?”
For a moment they stood gazing at each other.
Then Scully placed the light on the table
and sat himself on the edge of the bed.
He spoke slowly.
“I never heard of such a thing in my life.
It’s a complete mystery.
I can’t think how you ever got this idea
into your head.”
Then Scully lifted his eyes and asked,
“And
did you really think they were going to kill you?”
The Swede looked at the old man as if he wished
to see into his mind.
“I did,” he said at last.
He apparently thought that this answer might
cause an attack.
As he worked on his bag his whole arm shook,
the elbow trembling like a bit of paper.
Having finished with his bag, the Swede straightened
himself.
“Mr. Scully,” he said with sudden courage,
“how much do I owe you?”
“You don’t owe me anything,” said the
old man angrily.
“Yes, I do,” answered the Swede.
He took some money from his pocket and held
it out to Scully, but the latter moved his
hand away in firm refusal.
“I won’t take your money,” said Scully.
“Not after what’s been happening here.”
Then a plan seemed to come to him.
“Here,” he cried, picking up his lamp
and moving toward the door.
“Here!
Come with me a minute.”
“No,” said the Swede, in great alarm.
“Yes,” urged the old man.
“Come on!
I want you to come—just across the hall—in
my room.”
The Swede must have decided that the hour
of his death had come.
His mouth dropped open and his teeth showed
like a dead man’s.
He at last followed Scully across the hall,
but he had the step of one hung in chains.
“Now,” said the old man.
He dropped suddenly to the floor and put his
head beneath the bed.
The Swede could hear his dulled voice.
“I’d keep it under my pillow if it weren’t
for that boy Johnnie.
Where is it now?
I never put it twice in the same place.
There—now, come out!”
Finally he came out from under the bed, dragging
with him an old coat.
“I’ve got it,” he whispered.
Still on the floor on his knees, he unrolled
the coat and took from it a large, yellow-brown
whiskey bottle.
His first act was to hold the bottle up to
the light.
Satisfied, apparently, that nobody had touched
it, he pushed it with a generous movement
toward the Swede.
The weak-kneed Swede was about to eagerly
grasp this element of strength, but he suddenly
pulled his hand away and cast a look of terror
upon Scully.
“Drink,” said the old man in a friendly
tone.
He had risen to his feet, and now stood facing
the Swede.
There was a silence.
Then again Scully said, “Drink!”
The Swede laughed wildly.
He seized the bottle, put it to mouth.
And as his lips curled foolishly around the
opening and his throat worked, he kept his
glance, burning with hate, upon the old man’s
face.
After the departure of Scully, the three men,
still at the table, sat for a long moment
in surprised silence.
Then Johnnie said, “That’s the worst man
I ever saw.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the Easterner.
“Well, what do you think makes him act that
way?” asked the cowboy.
“He’s frightened.”
The Easterner knocked his pipe against the
stove.
“He’s frightened right out of his senses.”
“At what?” asked Johnnie and the cowboy
together.
“I don’t know, but it seems to me this
man has been reading cheap novels about the
West, and he thinks he’s in the middle of
it—the shooting and killing and all.”
“But,” said the cowboy, deeply shocked,
“this isn’t a wild place.
This is Nebraska.”
“Yes,” added Johnnie, “and why doesn’t
he wait until he really gets out West?”
The traveled Easterner laughed.
“Things aren’t bad even there— not in
these days.
But he thinks he’s right in the middle of
hell.”
Johnnie and the cowboy thought for a long
while.
“It’s strange,” remarked Johnnie at
last.
“Yes,” said the cowboy.
“This is a queer game.
I hope we don’t get a lot of snow, because
then we’d have to have this man with us
all the time.
That wouldn’t be any good.”
Soon they heard a loud noise on the stairs,
accompanied by jokes in the voice of old Scully;
and laughter, evidently from the Swede.
The men around the stove stared in surprise
at each other.
The door swung open, and Scully and the Swede
came into the room.
Five chairs were now placed in a circle about
the stove.
The Swede began to talk, loudly and angrily.
Johnnie, the cowboy, and the Easterner remained
silent while old Scully appeared to be eager
and full of sympathy.
Finally the Swede announced that he wanted
a drink of water.
He moved in his chair, and said that he would
go and get some.
“I’ll get it for you,” said Scully at
once.
“No,” refused the Swede roughly.
“I’ll get it for myself.”
He got up and walked with the manner of an
owner into another part of the hotel.
As soon as the Swede was out of the room,
Scully jumped to his feet and whispered quickly
to the others: “Upstairs he thought I was
trying to poison him.”
“This makes me sick,” said Johnnie.
“Why don’t you throw him out in the snow?”
“He’s all right now,” declared Scully.
“He was from the East, and he thought this
was a rough place.
That’s all.
He’s all right now.”
The cowboy looked with admiration upon the
Easterner.
“You were right,” he said.
“Well,” said Johnnie to his father, “he
may be all right now,
but I don’t understand it.
Before, he was afraid, but now he’s too
brave.”
Scully now spoke to his son.
“What do I keep?
What do I keep?
What do I keep?” he demanded in a voice
like thunder.
He struck his knee sharply to indicate he
himself was going to make reply, and that
all should listen.
“I keep a hotel,” he shouted.
“A hotel, do you hear?
A guest under my roof has special privileges.
He is not to be threatened.
Not one word shall he hear that would make
him want to go away.
There’s no place in this town where they
can say they took in a guest of mine because
he was afraid to stay here.”
He turned suddenly upon the cowboy and the
Easterner.
“Am I right?”
“Yes, Mr. Scully,” said the cowboy, “I
think you’re right.”
“Yes, Mr. Scully,” said the Easterner,
“I think you’re right.”
At supper that evening, the Swede burned with
energy.
He sometimes seemed on the point of bursting
into loud song, and in all of his madness
he was encouraged by old Scully.
The Easterner was quiet; the cowboy sat in
wide-mouthed wonder, forgetting to eat, while
Johnnie angrily finished great plates of food.
The daughters of the house, when they were
obliged to bring more bread, approached as
carefully as rabbits.
Having succeeded in their purpose, they hurried
away with poorly hidden fear.
The Swede controlled the whole feast, and
he gave it the appearance of a cruel affair.
He seemed to have grown suddenly taller; he
gazed bitterly into every face.
His voice rang through the room.
After supper, as the men went toward the other
room, the Swede hit Scully hard on the shoulder.
“Well, old boy, that was a good meal.”
Johnnie looked hopefully at his father.
He knew that the old man’s shoulder was
still painful from an old hurt.
And indeed, it appeared for a moment as if
Scully were going to
flame out in anger about it.
But Scully only smiled a sickly smile and
remained silent.
The others understood that he was admitting
his responsibility for the Swede’s new attitude.
When they were gathered about the stove, the
Swede insisted on another game of cards.
In his voice there was always a great threat.
The cowboy and the Easterner both agreed,
without interest, to play.
Scully said that he would soon have to go
to meet the evening train, and so the Swede
turned to Johnnie.
For a moment their glances crossed like swords,
and then Johnnie smiled and said, “Yes,
I’ll play.”
They formed a square around the table.
The Easterner and the Swede again played together.
As the game continued, it was noticeable that
the cowboy was not playing as noisily as before.
Scully left to meet the train.
In spite of his care, an icy wind blew into
the room as he opened the door.
It scattered the cards and froze the players.
The Swede cursed frightfully.
When Scully returned, his icy entrance interrupted
a comfortable and friendly scene.
The Swede cursed again, but soon they were
once more giving attention to their game,
their heads bent forward and their hands moving
fast.
Scully took up a newspaper, and as he slowly
turned from page to page
it made a comfortable sound.
Then suddenly he heard three awful words:
“You are cheating!”
The little room was now filled with terror.
After the three words, the first sound in
the room was made by Scully’s paper as it
fell forgotten to his feet.
His eyeglasses had fallen from his nose, but
by a grasp he had caught them.
He stared at the card-players.
Probably the silence was only an instant long.
Then, if the floor had been suddenly pulled
out from under the men, they could not have
moved more quickly.
The five had thrown themselves at a single
point.
Johnnie, as he rose to throw himself upon
the Swede, almost fell.
The loss of the moment allowed time for the
arrival of Scully.
It also gave the cowboy time to give the Swede
a good push which sent him backwards.
The men found voices together, and shouts
of anger, appeal, or fear
burst from every throat.
The cowboy pushed and pulled feverishly at
the Swede, and the Easterner and Scully held
wildly to Johnnie.
But through the smoky air, above the straining
bodies of the peace-compellers, the eyes of
the enemies steadily warned each other.
Scully’s voice was loudest.
“Stop now!
Stop, I say!
Stop, now—” Johnnie, as he struggled to
break away from Scully and the Easterner,
was crying, “Well, he says I cheated!
He says I cheated!
I won’t allow any man to say I cheated!
If he says I cheated him, he’s a—!”
The cowboy was telling the Swede, “Stop
now!
Do you hear?”
The screams of the Swede never ceased: “He
did cheat!
I saw him!
I saw him!”
As for the Easterner, he was begging in a
voice that was not heard: “Wait a moment,
can’t you?
Oh, wait a moment.
What’s the use of fighting over a game of
cards?
Wait a moment.”
In-this noisy quarrel, no complete sentence
was clear.
“Cheat”— “Stop”—”He says”—these
pieces cut the screaming and rang out sharply.
It was remarkable that Scully, who undoubtedly
made the most noise, was the least heard.
Then suddenly there was a great stillness.
It was as if each man had paused for breath.
Although the room still filled with the anger
of men, it could be seen there was no danger
of immediate fighting.
At once Johnnie pushed forward.
“Why did you say I cheated?
Why did you say I cheated.
I don’t cheat, and I won’t let any man
say I do!”
The Swede said, “I saw you!
I saw you!”
“Well,” cried Johnnie, “I’ll fight
any man who says I cheat!”
“No, you won’t,” said the cowboy.
“Not here.”
Johnnie spoke to the Swede again.
“Did you say I cheated?”
The Swede showed his teeth.
“Yes.”
“Then,” said Johnnie, “we must fight.”
“Yes, fight,” roared the Swede.
He was like a mad devil.
“Yes, fight!
I’ll show you what kind of a man I am!
I’ll show you who you want to fight!
Maybe you think I can’t fight!
Maybe you think I can’t!
I’ll show you, you criminal!
Yes, you cheated!
You cheated!
You cheated!”
“Well, let’s start, then, fellow,” said
Johnnie coolly.
The cowboy turned in despair to Scully.
“What are you going to do now?”
A change had come over the old man.
He now seemed all eagerness; his eyes glowed.
“We’ll let them fight,” he answered
bravely.
“I can’t watch this any longer.
I’ve endured this cursed Swede till I’m
sick.
We’ll let them fight.”
The Blue Hotel – Part 3
The men prepared to go out.
The Easterner was so nervous that he had great
difficulty putting on his new leather coat.
As the cowboy pulled his fur cap down over
his ears, his hands trembled.
In fact, Johnnie and old Scully were the only
ones who displayed no emotion.
No words were spoken during these proceedings.
Scully threw open the door.
Instantly a wild wind caused the flame of
the lamp to struggle for its life.
The men lowered their heads and pushed out
into the cold.
No snow was falling, but great clouds of it,
swept up from the ground by the fierce winds,
were streaming all around.
The covered land was a deep blue, and there
was no other color except one light shining
from the low, black railroad station.
It looked like a tiny jewel.
The Swede was calling out something.
Scully went to him, put a hand on his shoulder,
and indicated an ear.
“What did you say?”
“I said,” screamed the Swede again, “I
won’t have a chance against this crowd.
I know you’ll all jump on me.”
“No, no, man—” called Scully.
But the wind tore the words from his lips
and scattered them far.
The Swede shouted a curse, but the storm also
seized the remainder of the sentence.
The men turned their backs upon the wind,
and walked to the sheltered side of the hotel.
Here a V-shaped piece of icy grass had not
been covered by the snow.
When they reached the spot, it was heard that
the Swede was still screaming.
“Oh, I know what kind of a thing this is!
I know you’ll jump on me.
I can’t beat you all!”
Scully turned on him angrily.
“You won’t have to beat all of us.
You’ll have to beat my son Johnnie.
And the man that troubles you during that
time will have to deal with me.”
The arrangements were quickly made.
The two men faced each other, obeying the
short commands of Scully.
The Easterner was already cold and he was
jumping up and down.
The cowboy stood rock-like.
The fighters had not removed any clothing.
Their hands were ready, and they eyed each
other in a calm way that had the elements
of fierce cruelty in it.
“Now!” said Scully.
The two leaped forward and struck together
like oxen.
There was heard the dull sound of blows,
and
of a curse pressed out between the tight teeth of one.
As for the watchers, the Easterner’s held-in
breath burst from him in relief, pure relief
after the anxious waiting.
The cowboy leaped into the air with a scream.
Scully stood unmoving, as if in complete surprise
and fear at the fierceness of the fight which
he himself had permitted and arranged.
For a time the fight in the darkness was such
a scene of flying arms that it showed no more
detail than a moving wheel.
Sometimes a face would shine out, frightful
and marked with pink spots.
A moment later, the men would be only shadows.
Suddenly the cowboy was caught by warlike
desires, and he leaped forward with the speed
of a wild horse.
“Hit him, Johnnie!
Hit him!
Kill him!
Kill him!”
“Keep still,” said Scully, icily.
Then there was a sudden loud sound, dull,
incomplete, cut short.
Johnnie’s body fell away from the Swede,
with sickening heaviness to the grass.
The cowboy hardly had time to prevent the
mad Swede
from throwing himself upon the fallen body.
Scully was at his son’s side.
“Johnnie!
Johnnie, my boy!”
His voice had a quality of sad tenderness.
“Johnnie!
Can you fight some more?”
He looked anxiously down into the bloody,
beaten face of his son.
There was a moment of silence.
And then Johnnie answered in his ordinary
voice, “Yes—I—it—yes.”
Helped by his father, he struggled to his
feet.
“Wait a minute now till you get your breath,”
said the old man.
A few steps away, the cowboy was telling the
Swede, “No you don’t.
Wait a second.”
The Easterner was pulling at Scully’s arm.
“Oh, this is enough!” he begged.
“This is enough!
Let it go as it is.
This is enough!”
“Bill,” said Scully, “get out of the
way.”
The cowboy stepped aside.
“Now.”
The fighters advanced toward each other.
Then the Swede aimed a lightning blow that
carried with it his entire weight.
Johnnie, though faint from weakness, luckily
stepped aside, and the unbalanced Swede fell
to the ground.
The cowboy, Scully, and the Easterner cheered,
but before its finish the Swede was up and
attacking his enemy madly.
There were more wildly moving arms and Johnnie’s
body again fell away, like a stone.
The Swede quickly struggled to a little tree
and leaned upon it, breathing hard, while
his fierce and flame-lit eyes wandered from
face to face as the men bent over Johnnie.
“Can you still fight, Johnnie?” asked
Scully in a voice of despair.
After a moment, the son answered, “No—I—can’t
fight—any— more.”
Then, from shame and bodily ill, he began
to weep, the tears pouring down through the
blood on his face.
“He was too—too—too heavy for me.”
Scully straightened and spoke to the waiting
figure.
“Stranger,” he said calmly, “we’re
finished.”
Then his voice changed into that deep and
quiet tone which is the tone of the most simple
and deadly announcements.
“Johnnie is beaten.”
Without replying, the winner moved away to
the door of the hotel.
The others raised Johnnie from the ground,
and, as soon as he was on his feet, he refused
all attempts at help.
When the group came around the corner they
were almost blinded by the blowing snow.
It burned their faces like fire.
The cowboy carried Johnnie through the piles
of snow to the door.
Inside they were greeted by a warm stove and
women who took Johnnie to the kitchen.
The three others sat around the heat, and
the sad quiet was broken only by the sounds
overhead when the Swede moved about in his
room.
Soon they heard him on the stairs.
He threw the door open and walked straight
to the middle of the room.
No one looked at him.
“Well,” he said loudly to Scully,
“I suppose you’ll tell me now how much I owe you?”
The old man, with a dull expression, remained
calm.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Mr. Scully,” called the Swede again,
“how much do I owe you?”
He was dressed to go, and he had his bag in
his hand.
“You don’t owe me anything,” repeated
Scully in the same unmoved way.
“I guess you’re right.
I guess the truth would be that you would
owe me something.
That’s what I guess.”
He turned to the cowboy.
“Kill him!
Kill him!
Kill him!” he repeated, in the tone the
cowboy had used.
Then he laughed.
But he might have been laughing at the dead.
The three men did not move or speak—just
stared with glassy eyes at the stove.
The Swede opened the door and passed into
the storm, giving one last glance at the still group.
The Blue Hotel – Part 4
The Swede’s face, fresh from Johnnie’s
blows, felt more pleasure than pain in the
wind and the whipping snow.
A number of square shapes appeared before
him
and he recognized them as the houses of the town.
He traveled along a street until he found
a saloon.
He pushed open the door and entered.
At the end of the room four men sat drinking
at a table.
The Swede dropped his bag upon the floor and,
smiling at the saloon-keeper, said, “Give
me some whiskey, will you?”
The man placed a bottle, a whiskey glass,
and a glass of ice-filled water upon a table.
The Swede poured himself an extra-large amount
of whiskey and drank it down.
“Bad night,” remarked the saloon-keeper,
without interest.
He was acting as though he were not noticing
the man, but it could have been seen that
he was secretly studying the remains of blood
on the Swede’s face.
“Bad night,” he said again.
“Oh, it’s good enough for me,”
replied the Swede, as he poured himself some more whiskey.
“No,” continued the Swede, “this isn’t
too bad weather.
It’s good enough for me.”
The large drinks of whiskey made the Swede’s
eyes watery, and he breathed a little heavier.
“Well, I guess I’ll take another drink,”
said the Swede after a while.
“Would you like something?”
“No, thanks; I’m not drinking.
How did you hurt your face?”
The Swede immediately began to talk loudly.
“Oh, in a fight.
I beat the soul out of a man at Scully’s
hotel.”
This caught the interest of the four men at
the table.
“Who was it?” asked one.
“Johnnie Scully, son of the man who owns
the hotel.
He will be nearly dead for some weeks, I can
tell you, I beat him well, I did.
He couldn’t get up.
They had to carry him into the house.
Have a drink?”
Instantly the men in a quiet way surrounded
themselves in privacy.
“No, thanks,” said one.
It was a strange group.
Two were well-known local businessmen; one
was a lawyer; and one was a gambler.
But a close look at the group would not have
enabled an observer to pick the gambler from
the other men.
He was, in fact, so delicate in manner and
so careful with whom he gambled that the men
of the town completely trusted and admired
him.
His business was regarded with fear and lack
of respect.
That is why, without doubt, his quiet dignity
shone brightly above the quiet dignity of
men who might be merely hat-makers, or builders
or salesmen.
Beyond an occasional unwise traveler who came
by rail, this gambler supposedly cheated only
careless farmers who, when rich with good
crops, drove into town full of foolish pride.
Hearing at times of such a farmer, the important
men of Romper usually laughed at his losses.
And if they thought of the gambler at all,
it was with a kind of pride of knowing he
would never dare to attack their wisdom and
courage.
Besides, it was known that this gambler had
a wife and two children in a nice little house,
where he led a perfect home life.
And when anyone even suggested that there
was a fault in his character, the men immediately
described the virtues of his family life.
And one must not forget to declare the bare
fact of his entire position in Romper.
It is true that in all affairs other than
his business, this card-player was so generous,
so fair, so good, that he could be considered
to have a higher moral sense than nine-tenths
of the citizens of Romper.
And so it happened that he was seated in this
saloon
with two local businessmen and the lawyer.
The Swede continued to drink whiskey and to
try to make the saloon-keeper drink with him.
“Come on.
Have a drink.
Come on.
No?
Well, have a little one, then.
By God, I’ve beaten a man tonight, and I
beat him good, too!
Gentlemen,” the Swede cried to the men at
the table, “have a drink?”
“Ssh!
Quiet!” said the saloon-keeper.
The group at the table, although really interested,
had been trying to appear busy in talk.
But now a man lifted his eyes toward the Swede
and said shortly, “Thanks.
We don’t want any more.”
At this reply, the Swede straightened.
“Well,” he shouted, “it seems I can’t
get anybody to drink with me.
I want someone to drink with me now.
Now!
Do you understand?”
He struck the table with his hand.
Years of experience had hardened the saloon-keeper.
He merely answered, “I hear you.”
“Well,” cried the Swede, “listen then.
See those men over there?
Well, they’re going to drink with me, and
don’t you forget it.
Now you watch.”
“Stop that!” shouted the saloon-keeper.
“Why should I?”
demanded the Swede.
He walked to the men’s table, and by chance
laid his hand on the shoulder of the gambler.
“What about it?” he asked angrily.
“I asked you to drink with me.”
The gambler simply turned his head and spoke
over his shoulder.
“My friend, I don’t know you.”
“Never mind!” answered the Swede.
“Come and have a drink.”
“Now, my boy,” advised the gambler kindly,
“take your hand off my shoulder and go away.”
He was a little, thin man and it seemed strange
to hear him use this tone to the big Swede.
The other men at the table said nothing.
“What!
You won’t drink with me, you little fool?
I’ll make you then!
I’ll make you!”
The Swede had grasped the gambler fiercely
at the throat,
and was dragging him from his chair.
The other men jumped up.
The saloon-keeper ran toward the table.
There was a great scene of shouts and movements,
and then a long knife appeared in the hand
of the gambler.
It shot forward, and a human body was cut
as easily as if it had been a piece of fruit.
The Swede fell with a cry of greatest surprise.
The businessmen and the lawyer must have rushed
out of the place backward.
The saloon-keeper found himself hanging weakly
to the arm of a chair and gazing into the
eyes of a murderer.
“Henry,” said the latter, “you tell
them where to find me.
I’ll be home waiting.”
Then he left.
A moment afterward the saloon-keeper was in
the street racing through the storm for help
and, more important, companionship.
Months later, the cowboy was cooking meat
on the stove of a small cattle farm near the
Dakota border when there was the sound of
a horse stopping outside.
The Easterner entered with mail and newspapers.
“Well,” said the Easterner at once, “the
fellow who killed the Swede will spend three
years in prison.
That’s not much, is it?”
“He will?
Three years!”
The cowboy turned the meat in the pan.
“Three years.
That isn’t much.”
“No,” replied the Easterner.
“There was a lot of sympathy for him in
Romper.”
“If the saloon-keeper had been any good,”
said cowboy thoughtfully, “he would have
gone in and hit that Swede on the head with
a bottle in the beginning of it.
That would have stopped all this murdering.”
“Yes, a thousand things might have happened,”
said the Easterner sharply.
The cowboy moved his pan of meat on the fire,
continued with his philosophy.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?
If he hadn’t said Johnnie was cheating,
he’d be alive this minute.
He was an awful fool.
I believe he was crazy.”
“I feel sorry for that gambler,” said
the Easterner.
“So do I,” said the cowboy.
“He doesn’t deserve three years in prison
for killing that fellow.”
“The Swede might not have been killed if
everything had been honest.”
“Might not have been killed?”
exclaimed the cowboy.
“Everything honest?
When he said that Johnnie was cheating and
acted so crazy?
And then in the saloon he practically asked
to get hurt?”
With these arguments the cowboy made the Easterner
angry.
“You’re a fool!” cried the Easterner
fiercely.
“You’re a bigger fool than that Swede.
Now let me tell you one thing.
Let me tell you one thing.
Listen!
Johnnie was cheating!”
“Johnnie,” said the cowboy, blankly.
There was a minute of silence, and then he
said strongly, “Oh, no.
The game was only for fun.”
“Fun or not,” said the Easterner, “Johnnie
was cheating.
I saw him.
I know it.
I saw him.
And I refused to stand up and be a man.
I let the Swede fight alone.
And you—you were simply jumping around the
place and wanting to fight.
And old Scully too.
We are all in it!
This poor gambler just got pulled into it.
Every sin is the result of shared effort.
We, five of us, have shared in the murder
of this Swede.
You, I, Johnnie, old Scully; and that fool
of an unfortunate gambler came merely at the
end of a human movement, and gets all the
punishment.”
The cowboy, hurt and angry, cried out blindly
into this mystery of thought:
“Well, I didn’t do anything, did I?”
