Читать книгу Painted Ponies - Alan Le May - Страница 4

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APOINT of light came into view beyond the rise, a yellow light in the yellow dusk, like a tawny diamond in sand; and Slide Morgan reined his tired horse to a crawling walk. With an easy movement the rider lounged sideways in the saddle and looked back, leisurely examining the trail behind. The mouse-gray horse sagged to a stop and went into a systematic fit of blowing, a habit of his; the bellows-like heave of his ribs swayed the man in the saddle, and waved the loose flares of the rider’s chaps.

“Ain’t comin’,” the man muttered, as if to keep the horse informed of the situation in hand. “Move along, some.”

He heaved a sigh of relief, for the day had brought happenings which he neither liked nor understood; then he settled squarely into his stirrups again as the tired gray horse plodded on up the rise.

Flaky dried spume showed on the mouse-gray hide at the edges of the saddle blanket, before and behind; Morgan rubbed away some of it with slender-fingered hands. Below the saddle skirts the animal’s coat lay in tough spikes, where muddy water had dried into the harsh hair; cannons and fetlocks were patched with caking mud.

Morgan himself was not much more presentable. His worn blue shirt was wrinkled askew, the result of swimming the North Platte at a point not commonly chosen; and his chaps were heavy with the dust that had clung to them as they dried. Everything about the outfit looked tired and over-traveled—except, perhaps, the man’s face, which remained as pleasantly casual in expression as it might have been just after breakfast on a quiet morning.

It was a young face, happy-go-lucky in spite of its straight bony nose and prominent cheek bones; a face as friendly in expression as that of a six months’ pup. An ancient saying has it that a man’s eyes show what he was born with, while his mouth shows what he has done with it. Slide Morgan’s dark eyes were intelligent and comprehending; but his mouth was leisurely and easy-smiling, with no trace of any faculty of rigidity or compression.

From a pocket he dug a wet red ball of handkerchief, and rubbed the dust from his face and neck; and removing his broad sombrero, ran the soggy rag over his shock of limp black hair.

Other lights were now raised as they topped the rise, lights of open doorways, and windows only partially transparent. Below the man and horse lay Roaring River, a handful of a dozen careless buildings arranged on either side of a street space almost as broad as long.

Just beyond the little cluster of buildings a dark, twisting line of willows and sedges marked the course of Red Creek, a stagnant trickle of water that lay in flat pools, averaging perhaps six inches in depth; this was the stream that gave the town its name. South and to the left, five pistol shots away, swam the slow, majestic reach of the North Platte. Into the main street, then out onto the prairie again, wandered the rutted old Overland Trail to Salt Lake City, a wagon track deep in dust; this, more than any other thing, gave the tiny town its reason for life.

The dim yellow dusk was swiftly fading into a blanketing gray that would soon be black; and the golden lights of Roaring River gradually became more bright against the thickening dark. An intangible scarf of smoke hung over the hamlet, woven of the soft smoke-ribbons from half-a-dozen cooking fires.

Man and horse proceeded down the slope at a jog trot; and presently the shambling buildings took on detail as they entered the broad square of street. Almost without exception the dozen frame buildings boasted false fronts. Prominent among them was the only two-story building in town—a great square structure, sumptuously lighted, and announcing itself as the “Happy Chance Hotel & Bar.” Across from it stood “Harker’s General Store and N. Platte Bank,” and next to it was the “Post Office and Genl. Store.” A dim hovel was “Wilson’s Restaurant.”

There was one other open saloon; the rest of the frame buildings were closed, relics of the brief day of a hope that had died. Here and there a dim light showed in one or another of the old wrecks where some human derelict had taken possession, as unheeded as the haunting rats. Morgan noticed the great shapeless heaps of tin cans, slowly rusting into oblivion between the buildings.

That was Roaring River in the June of 1878.

At one time, a few years before, it had been believed that the railroad, striking westward over the plains, was going to come to Roaring River, following the old Overland Trail to the salt sea. By daylight there could still be seen sketchy outlines of decayed corrals, which enthusiasts had built in preparation for the day when Roaring River should be the gateway to all the west. But the day never came, for the railroad chose to follow the south fork of the Platte, instead.

To the north of it, in 1878, there still lay a vast Indian country, roughly bounded on the east by the Missouri River, on the west by the Great Divide, and extending northward to the limit of territory. Since the gold rush of 1876 numbers of miners had infiltrated the mountain regions of this country; the beginnings of Deadwood already stood in the Black Hills. But although between the Plattes the good cattle ranges were taken up, only a few of the boldest ranchers had pushed into the Indian country to the north of the Salt Lake Trail.

On the trail itself, on the very edge of the land of cattle, Roaring River clung precariously, a rendezvous for border cowmen, and a pausing place for the trains of covered wagons that now hardly ever came.

To-night the most conspicuous features of Roaring River were the huddled rows of horses, a score or more of stock-saddled mounts, tied along the hitch racks.

“Guess it’s pay day,” Morgan informed his horse.

He rode somewhat aimlessly down the south side of the street, and paused before the Happy Chance. The door was open to the warm night, and within, golden in the comparatively bright light, he could see careless figures, each comfortably slouching, glass in hand. A slender young woman leaned against the bar, endowed with the fictitious beauty that a distant glimpse conveys; Morgan caught a brief impression of a studied curl, resting on a shoulder that gleamed white in the yellow light.

Now that he was within hailing distance of people again, a swift wave of loneliness came upon Morgan, with a sense of vast unreal distances, and an odd tightening of the throat; and though he desired above all things to join the throng in the brightly lighted bar, something within him held him back. Dismounting, he tied the pony with slow hands; and wasted time over the gray’s cinchas before he jerked his hat aslant and sauntered toward the door.

As he reached the entrance a smother of hoofs sounded to his left; four riders had entered the street, coming in abreast at a jogging trot. The horse on the right was a pale gray—almost white. Morgan suppressed an uneasy desire to quicken his step, and turned to a stranger who lounged by the door.

“Whose fog horse?” he asked as casually as he could.

“Marve Conklin’s; constable,” was the reply.

A slight crawling sensation occurred under Slide Morgan’s hat. He did a little careful thinking, but without any notable result; and so, with an interesting feeling of uncertainty, he stepped into the big saloon.