American fiction -- 20th century; Short stories, American; West (U.S.) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
Over night Calliope had hung out signals of approaching low spirits. He
had kicked his own dog on the porch of the Occidental Hotel, and
refused to apologise. He had become capricious and fault-finding in
conversation. While strolling about he reached often for twigs of
mesquite and chewed the leaves fiercely. That was always an ominous
act. Another symptom alarming to those who were familiar with the
different stages of his doldrums was his increasing politeness and a
tendency to use formal phrases. A husky softness succeeded the usual
penetrating drawl in his tones. A dangerous courtesy marked his
manners. Later, his smile became crooked, the left side of his mouth
slanting upward, and Quicksand got ready to stand from under.
At this stage Calliope generally began to drink. Finally, about
midnight, he was seen going homeward, saluting those whom he met with
exaggerated but inoffensive courtesy. Not yet was Calliope’s melancholy
at the danger point. He would seat himself at the window of the room he
occupied over Silvester’s tonsorial parlours and there chant lugubrious
and tuneless ballads until morning, accompanying the noises by
appropriate maltreatment of a jangling guitar. More magnanimous than
Nero, he would thus give musical warning of the forthcoming municipal
upheaval that Quicksand was scheduled to endure.
A quiet, amiable man was Calliope Catesby at other times—quiet to
indolence, and amiable to worthlessness. At best he was a loafer and a
nuisance; at worst he was the Terror of Quicksand. His ostensible
occupation was something subordinate in the real estate line; he drove
the beguiled Easterner in buckboards out to look over lots and ranch
property. Originally he came from one of the Gulf States, his lank six
feet, slurring rhythm of speech, and sectional idioms giving evidence
of his birthplace.
And yet, after taking on Western adjustments, this languid pine-box
whittler, cracker barrel hugger, shady corner lounger of the cotton
fields and sumac hills of the South became famed as a bad man among men
who had made a life-long study of the art of truculence.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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