IKE ANDERSON

Ike Anderson was drunk--calmly, magnificently, satisfactorily drunk.
It had taken time, but it was a fact accomplished. The actual state of
affairs was best known to Ike Anderson himself, and not obvious to the
passer-by. Ike Andersen's gaze might have been hard, but it was
direct. His walk was perfectly decorous and straight, his brain
perfectly clear, his hand perfectly steady. Only, somewhere deep down
in his mind there burned some little, still, blue flame of
devilishness, which left Ike Anderson not a human being, but a skilful,
logical, and murderous animal.

"This," said Ike Anderson to himself all the time, "this is little Ike
Anderson, a little boy, playing. I can see the green fields, the
pleasant meadows, the little brook that crossed them. I remember my
mother gave me bread and milk for my supper, always. My sister washed
my bare feet, when I was a little, little boy." He paused and leaned
one hand against a porch post, thinking. "A little, little boy," he
repeated to himself.

"No, it isn't," he thought. "It's Ike Anderson, growing up. He's
playing tag. The boy tripped him and laughed at him, and Ike Anderson
got out his knife." He cast a red eye about him.

"No, it isn't," he thought. "It's Ike Anderson, with the people
chasing him. And the shotgun. Ike's growing up faster, growing right
along. They all want him, but they don't get him. One, two, three,
five, nine, eight, seven--I could count them all once. Ike Anderson.
No mother. No sweetheart. No home. Moving, moving. But they never
scared him yet--Ike Anderson. . . . I never took any cattle!"

An impulse to walk seized him, and he did so, quietly, steadily, until
he met a stranger, a man whose clothing bespoke his residence in
another region.

"Good morning, gentle sir," said Ike.

"Good morning, friend," said the other, smiling.

"Gentle sir," said Ike, "just lemme look at your watch a minute, won't
you, please?"

Laughingly the stranger complied, suspecting only that his odd accoster
might have tarried too long over his cups. Ike took the watch in his
hand, looked at it gravely for a moment, then gave it a jerk that broke
the chain, and dropped it into his own pocket.

"I like it," said he simply, and passed on. The stranger followed,
about to use violence, but caught sight of a white-faced man, who
through a window vehemently beckoned him to pause.

Ike Anderson stepped into a saloon and took a