Читать книгу The Bells of San Juan - Alan Le May - Страница 3

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Davy Catlin never knew his mother; she died only a little while after he was born. He knew his father, though, as few boys ever know their fathers, for Tom Catlin gave to his little son all the love he had had for the woman he had lost.

By the time Davy was ten none of the things had happened to him that pessimists had said would happen. He rode the bed wagon, and slept in the same blanket roll with his dad. He had a wonderful time.

Then somewhere far to the north, in the flood waters of a nameless stream, Tom Catlin’s Big Red missed his footing in a swirling ford, and over horse and man rolled the resistless press of the plunging, half-swimming cattle. As long as he lived, Ethan, Tom’s brother, never forgot that instant’s desperate strike-pawing of the down pony, that awful, swift-pushing drift of hundreds of tons of floundering beef.

Ethan explained it to Davy himself, when he got back. Davy was a tall little boy by then, with brown eyes bigger than his face, and sandy hair that straggled straight down over his forehead. Ethan stood before him, as he would stand before a man, and did the best he could. It was mighty hard for Ethan; the sweat was standing out on his face before he was through. The little boy understood better than most would have. He’d seen a good deal, and knew what had happened all right. His uncle thought he took it right well.

But Davy went and hid himself. And as quietly as he could, but unrestrainedly, he sobbed his whole heart out.

Ethan Catlin was starting out again on the last drive of the year. He went and said good bye to Davy, and Davy pretended to say good bye. The boy waited until the cattle—a Circle Slash herd—were thrown out on the trail and well strung out. Then he went home and saddled and packed Blue Baldy. Blue Baldy had been his dad’s own cut horse once, but that was quite a piece of time back. Baldy was upward of twenty years old, and kind of pumpkin-shaped by now.

Davy and Blue Baldy overtook the herd one day out. When ordered to explain himself, he said that he guessed it was up to him to get to work and amount to something, now that his dad was gone. That was false, though. Davy didn’t want to tell his real reason. The truth was that in the bottom of his heart he couldn’t handle the idea that his dad was wholly gone, not in the world any more. He had to get up there to where his dad last was. As if he could somehow find some part of Tom Catlin there yet, in the wind, in the grass—Davy could not have explained it, even to himself. But he somehow just had to get up that northward trail to Dodge.

Ethan promised himself to take his brother’s place, as well as he could. Ethan, leather-faced and iron-eyed from his saddle years, was all right. He wasn’t Dad. Nobody could ever be Dad ....

Davy fitted in all right—pulled his weight. Without being told, he took over most of the day-wrangling.

So they got up the trail into cold, and rain, and early-closing winter, and once more the streams were unnaturally high, as in the spring before, and the cattle fought the crossings. All through the second month Davy was watching those crossings. He was a savvy kid, and he was pretty sure they wouldn’t show him the place where his dad went down. But he thought he would know it when they came to it. Somehow he would just know.

And then they came to the night of the fog stampede. That night was famous for a long time. Nobody that got through it ever forgot it.

There had been a fall of snow, unseasonably early, then a swift melt, with deep going underfoot, and higher crossings. Nobody had allowed for the heavy, dripping fog that came on them that night—a rare, nearly unheard-of thing for that country.

The three thousand head of Circle Slash steers got mighty superstitious over it; even before sundown they were going on the moan. The thick blanket that closed down with the dark was pretty weird, all right.

Ethan Catlin strengthened his night guard until two thirds of his boys rode at once. They circled the herd at a jog, singing, which sometimes keeps cattle from fretting too much over other things. The boys by the fire brought tight-cinched ponies right up to their bedrolls; some dozed with the reins in their hands.

The herd was fairly steady until about eleven o’clock, and then it went, without any extra warning. There was a general, swiftly building drift of movement all over the vast bedding ground, and a rising terrible rumble, through which laced the—“Yip-whoop!”—of the cowboys and the suddenly loosed rattle of their guns as they frantically tried a quick stop. It was the dreaded fog stampede.

Ethan Catlin shouted: “Hup, boys!” He vaulted into his saddle, and horses and men were swallowed instantly by the night and the rumbling plain. He didn’t need to holler; the others were up just as soon.

And the little kid—Davy had Baldy all ready. He scrambled into the saddle and bolted after the others. He sat in behind Jess McBride, whom he knew by the glimpsed gray quarters of his pony as it left the fire circle.

There was a long, hard run then. Davy couldn’t see Jess, but Blue Baldy knew what he was doing. Baldy stretched everything to keep his nose to the tail of that gray. Jess got them out in front, in the end.

Both youngster and old horse were blowing hard by the time Davy knew they were in front. He could tell they were in the lead of the stampede now because, whenever Baldy slacked, the rumbling roar behind them closed up, but held even again when Baldy reached out hard and pulled. Davy yelled with everything he had, and rode, trying like the rest to turn the lead cattle, hopeless as it was.

Then presently he didn’t know where Jess was any more. He could still hear the thin long war-yells of the cowboys, but he couldn’t tell where, they were so smothered by that earth-shaking thunder behind.

Then pretty soon he couldn’t hear the others at all, but only that increasing rumble of the earth, and the snap of the clashing horns. Baldy was laboring now, and Davy knew he had done enough. He began to rein to the left, to get out of it. He was hoping with all his heart that he had done his part, that his dad would have been proud, if he could have known.

Then, as he reined to the left, the thunder was at the left of him, and he had to turn back, to try for the other side, although the other side was a long way off. Suddenly he knew he couldn’t do that, either. He knew this country, some. Up ahead, to the right especially, lay the Chickasaw Brakes, a tangle of square-cut washes, eight to twenty feet deep, lacing the flat ground. A trail-smart man might have got through there in front of a stampede by daylight. No man that lived could do it at night—not this blind night.

A sick terror swept the little kid. The herd was behind them, and at the sides, cupping them in, and the cruel brakes were ahead. In a few more minutes poor Baldy would be down in some God-forsaken wash, with cattle pouring in on top, broken and bawling, until the wash was full.

And they were all alone, terribly alone. Davy’s free hand went up to cover his open mouth, and the tears jumped from his eyes, as he would never have thought they would. After all, he was only a little boy. And he knew that he was gone.

He whimpered—“Oh, God ... oh, God....”—and closed his eyes against that evil blank blackness.

Then suddenly a horse rushed up beside Blue Baldy. Somehow, even in that great earth-growl, Davy could make out that hard new hammer of fast hoofs. There was a great, slamming stride to this horse that came up, for all the world like Big Red, the horse that went down with Dad in the crossing, and no other.

A voice spoke, clear and strong, close to him, and even through all that noise Davy could hear it very plain: “Steady, Davy ... steady, boy!”

It was his father’s voice, the first voice he could remember in his life, and the last he would ever forget. And, as he turned to look, Davy could see his father, a little better, much better, than he could see Blue Baldy. No mistaking that tall, solid frame, in any dark.

Davy cried out—“Dad!”—in a great agony of joy and relief, and he leaned out to touch his father. Only, the drift of the racing ponies carried them a little apart, so he couldn’t reach him.

His father said: “Swing left, Davy ... swing left hard! We need to outreach the herd’s left point!”

“Dad, they’re ahead of us there! Can Baldy make it?”

The answer came strong and deep: “Sure, Baldy can make it! Baldy’s got to make it! Best horse in the country. Give him steel!”

So Davy spurred Baldy, and the old horse picked up.

“Throw left here, quick!” his father told him. “It’s the bow of the first coulée.”

Davy couldn’t see how he knew—didn’t need to see. He swung sharp left. Immediately, to the right of them, there was a ghastly bawling, and the crash of broken carcasses, as some of the herd went over the drop, where Baldy would have dropped, too, if they hadn’t turned.

“Pick up Baldy’s head, light and smooth,” Dad said. “We can cross this arroyo here. Hold up his head and jump him in!”

Davy got hold of Baldy’s head, and down they went over a six-foot drop, but Baldy’s old knees held up, and they handled it.

“Now up!” And up and out they went with a bound and a scramble, and were running on.

“Now left again, and give him hell! That left horn of the herd ... we’ve got to take it now! Not much room left ... but just enough!”

“Yes, Dad!” He spurred, and Baldy tried, and pulled up a little. Not enough, though. A bit of froth whipped back and caught Davy in the mouth. He could taste blood in it. The old horse was almost done.

“The romal, Davy. The romal! Pour the leather to him!”

That big, beloved ringing voice seemed to lift old Baldy better than the lash, as Davy hit Baldy. Baldy laid into it with everything he had.

“Hard, Davy boy! Cut him in two!”

The little kid was whipping the pony as hard as he could. But a lurch was coming into Baldy’s stride; he slacked and faltered. Davy saw he wasn’t going to make it through. “Dad! He can’t make it! Dad ... Dad! Pick me up! Baldy’s gone!”

At that, just for that one moment, uncertainty came into his father’s voice. It was almost the only time Davy ever heard it there. “Why, Son ... why, Son ....” Then once more his father’s voice rose powerful and clear: “You, Baldy!” Davy saw his father’s quirt stripe Baldy’s rump, and there was the flicker of blue lightning in the lash. But it was the voice that lifted the pony, more than the quirt—the voice that the pony must have remembered from long ago: “You, Baldy!” That great, vibrant voice could have lifted any horse, anywhere; it could have lifted a hill, or a tree.

And Blue Baldy answered; he answered as no horse should be able to answer, even if he were young and fresh. They pulled ahead hard, fast, wind screaming in Davy’s ears and the fog rime wetting his face.

“Cut through, now! Cut fast through the leaders! Quick! It’s the rim!”

“Daddy ... I can’t see!”

“Never mind ... I’ve got him ....”

Big Red jumped ahead, and Baldy turned short as Davy’s father got him by the bit, leading him through. For a minute, invisible thundering shapes were all around them; a horn ripped through Davy’s jeans at the knee, but didn’t hurt him much.

Then at last they were out of it, clean and clear, and they pulled the ponies down, letting them walk. Davy felt himself crying again, but this time he didn’t care. Partly he was crying from fatigue, and partly from relief, but mostly it was from pure happiness that his father was near him again, as he could never have expected him to be. He turned to look at his father; he couldn’t see him quite so clearly now, perhaps because of the tears.

His father spoke to him once more, and now his voice was soft and low: “Good ride, fella.” His voice was dimmed, too—farther away. But in it was all the love that one man’s heart can hold. It flowed into the little kid, into his heart, filling him with warmth, all over. “Good ride, boy ... you made me mighty proud ....”

It was early morning when Davy got back to the fire again. Most of the riders were in by then, those that were ever coming in. Jess McBride was missing, done for in the Chickasaw Brakes, and there were more.

Ethan Catlin was nearly busted up to see Davy come in. They’d given him up, long ago. As Baldy came into the firelight, and stood head down and lip dangling, Davy tumbled out of the saddle, mighty stiff and done up. They stood him by the fire, and got blankets around him, and gave him hell out of sheer relief.

Ethan kept swearing to himself, over and over. “Damnedest thing I ever heard tell. Look at that horn rip in his pants!”

“Look at the rode-out horse,” said another. “He sure fitted that old pony to a ride.”

“Gosh!” Ethan said. “When I think of that little kid out there all alone ....”

Davy said: “I wasn’t alone. My father was there. My father was there, on Big Red.”

That silenced them, and they looked at him very oddly. “What was that you said?”

“My father came up and rode with me,” Davy told them again. “He showed me the way as we came through the brakes. He made my ride for me. It was him that forced Baldy on, when Baldy was played out and done for. And he led Baldy by the cheek strap, right through the leaders of the herd.”

They said nothing, only exchanged glances.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Davy said. “You’re thinking that my father is dead. But I know now that he isn’t dead. Oh, I know he was killed, and all ... I savvy that all right. But I mean not really dead. He isn’t really dead at all.”

There was quiet again. Ethan said: “Sonny, I don’t scarcely believe you know what you mean.”

Davy said: “I reckon I don’t need to know what I mean. Only, I know now I don’t ever need to be afeared of nothing no more. Because I know now my father is still a-goin’ to side-ride me, when I need him bad. Right when I need him most.”

He stood with the blankets over his shoulders, looking into the fire, a tall little boy with brown eyes bigger than his face, and sandy hair uncombed and straggly. And his face was proud, and happy, in the light of the flames.

“I wasn’t alone, tonight,” Davy said. “I wasn’t alone because he was there. And I know he’ll always be there when I need him most. Always ... always ....”