Читать книгу The Crimson West - Alex Philip - Страница 3

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Jangling his keys on their big ring, the sheriff led John McLean down several steps, then through a long, narrow hall to the rear of the jail. From a distant corridor came the sound of a raucous voice attempting to sing one of the popular ragtimes of the day.

“Some fellow’s still got a ‘hang-over,’ ” observed the sheriff as he paused before a cell, consulted a number, then searched for the key. As the door swung open a sleepy voice was raised in mock solemnity.

“What ho, varlet! Why dost thou open the dungeon door? Has the king granted a reprieve?” His eyes blinking, the inmate stepped into the bright light of the hall. A dull red suffused his pale face as he saw the tall figure behind the sheriff.

“Hello, Dad! Nice morning,” he smiled in a weak attempt at joviality, but the smile faded as he sensed a change in his father.

“My son arrested in a low gambling den!” the father said bitterly. “Donald, you have disgraced the family name. Your drinking carousals and gambling can have but one end. I have been too easy with you. For your own good I’m going to turn you loose. Until such time as you can return to me rid of your bad habits, and have proven yourself a man, you are not a son of mine. I—I’m done with you.”

Donald’s father turned abruptly on his heel and strode swiftly down the passage. It had been a tremendous test of his will power to make this short speech, and to resist the almost overmastering desire to take his boy in his arms.

The young man stood with mouth agape, a stupefied look in his eyes, and stared after the retreating form of his parent. The sheriff broke the silence. “We’ll go upstairs, Don!”

On the upper floor the desk sergeant handed the released prisoner his watch and money, taken from him, as is the custom, the night before. The sheriff motioned to a seat.

“Sit down. I want to talk with you.”

Donald listlessly obeyed.

“Sorry, boy, but I had to do it,” the sheriff said in a kindly voice.

“It’s all right, Jim. There’s no hard feelings.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Donald admitted dully.

“How much money have you got?”

Donald stood up and drew from his pocket a few crumpled bills and some loose change, then threw out his arms in an eloquent gesture. As he stood with the slanting rays of a late December sun shining on his black hair, he presented a wonderful specimen of man. Six feet in height, of a deceptive slenderness, his rather tight-fitting grey suit set off the graceful lines of a supple body. His shoulders were wide, with the gentle slope that denotes agility as well as strength. His fine white skin and long black lashes would have given his features an effeminate touch but for the manly mould of his face, with its square jaw, broad forehead, and deep, wide-set eyes.

The sheriff’s appraising eyes glowed with admiration as they rested on the young man. To the casual eye Donald appeared of slight build, but his old friend knew of the steel-like muscles of those arms and the strength of the long, straight legs.

The mind of the older man flashed back to a football game in Donald’s High School days, with the State championship at stake. Donald had been sent into the game at the eleventh hour, and with defeat staring the home team in the face he had torn through the opposing lines like a madman for agonizing gains until his dark head flashed across the line to victory.

Donald came embarrassedly to his feet.

“Well, I guess I’ll be moving.”

“Here, boy, take this,” the sheriff said awkwardly, thrusting a roll of bills into Donald’s hand.

The young man’s face flushed. “It’s awfully good of you, Jim, but I——”

“It’s all right, Don,” interrupted the older man, summoning a smile. “I’m just giving you a loan.”

Donald looked at him soberly. “I’ll pay you back when—I—I—earn it.”

His face very serious, the sheriff placed a hand on Donald’s shoulder.

“Now, listen, Don. Your father and I talked here in the office for an hour before he bailed you out, and we agreed that the best thing was to let you go on your own. No, I am not going to give you a lecture, for you are not wholly to blame. Having a rich father is not the best thing for a young fellow, but because you got fired out of college should not make a husky boy like you lose his grip. You just step out and buck the line like you do in football and you’ll sure make a touchdown.” He gripped Donald’s hand. “Good-bye and good luck, Donnie!” he added feelingly.

Donald crossed the street to the Hancock House and sank moodily to a chair in the corner of the lobby. His confinement in the jail and the preceding festivities had robbed him of a night’s rest, and he suddenly realized that he was very tired and sleepy. Forgetting the change in his circumstances, he engaged an expensive room on the first floor and immediately went to bed.

Upon awakening Donald switched on the light and lay for awhile trying to adjust himself to this new situation. Serious meditation, however, brought him no nearer a solution of his problem. A cold bath, followed by a brisk rub down and clean linen, removed all the remaining traces of his night of wild revelry.

The news of John McLean’s break with his son spread rapidly through the small New England city. On his way to the desk to order his baggage to be sent to the dock Donald was beset by several friends who were loud in voicing their sympathy. Extricating himself as quickly as possible, he made his way to the elevator. Quick steps sounded behind him, and, turning, he looked into the smiling face of his boxing instructor, Spike Ryan.

“Hello, Kid, how they comin’?” grinned Spike.

“Come upstairs with me, Spike.”

Once inside the room, Donald turned to his visitor. “If you start any of this sympathy stuff I’ll hand you that famous ‘one-two’ punch you taught me.”

“Sympathy be damned,” chuckled Spike. “Dis is your lucky day. I come here to congratulate you, to give you de glad hand.”

“Why all the joy? Most of my friends seem to think it is my funeral.”

“Say, Donnie,” Spike said earnestly, “I bin watchin’ ya pretty close for de past year, an’ ya sure bin ridin’ for a fall. Another year of de way ya bin hittin’ her up an’ y’d have taken de count of ten an’ be sittin’ wid de stew-bums. Ya bin fightin’ an exhibition wid life wid soft twelve-ounce gloves, an’ de both of ya fightin’ under wraps an’ pullin’ y’r punches. From now on de fight will be on de square an’ to a finish wid bare knuckles. De guy in de other corner will hand ya some awful jolts, an’ y’ll have to do some pretty fast work wid y’r dukes an’ pins to keep away from de slumber swat. But, Donnie, ya got de goods in ya. Nearly four years in an engineerin’ course in de college gives ya a better start than most of us guys. I’m backin’ ya to win.”

He seized Donald’s hand, and his battered face filled with tenderness as he looked up at his friend. “Good luck, boy. Keep a stiff upper lip, an’ don’t forget that old John Barleycorn’s a bum second.” At the door he turned: “How ya fixed for kale, Donnie?”

“You get out!” smiled Donald.

Spike grinned as though pleased at the rebuff, and closed the door.

For some time after Spike’s departure Donald sat lost in meditation. The philosophy of the ex-pugilist, presented in the vernacular of the prize-ring, had affected him deeply. “Ya bin fightin’ an exhibition wid life, but from now on de fight is on de square,” Spike had said. True enough, he thought, life had been soft and easy with him. But now it was going to be “on de square.” His strong mouth set in a straight line, and involuntarily he squared his shoulders.

Donald left the hotel by the side door to avoid meeting several friends who had gathered in the lobby. He had an hour to wait for the sailing of the boat for Bangor. Unconsciously he walked towards the hill. An overwhelming sense of loneliness swept over him as he stood before his home, looming huge and white in the bright starlight of the winter night.

At the first sound of his master’s step on the pavement a big collie dog rushed forth and flung itself bodily on the young man, whimpering in sheer joy. Standing on hindlegs with paws on his chest, he tried to lick Donald’s face. The noise was apparently heard within the house, for a shade was raised and Donald’s mother peered out into the night. Silencing the dog’s joyous whines as best he could, Donald crouched low behind the hedge until the blind was lowered.

“Good-bye, old pal,” Donald whispered, his arms about the collie’s shaggy neck. The dog turned slowly and unwillingly toward the house.

In the meantime, within the house, John McLean and his wife were discussing the possible result of the father’s seeming severity.

“Donald is a great trial to us now, John,” said the mother, “but we must not forget the happiness he has brought us in the past.” She gazed long and lovingly at a photograph of her son as a child; then, with head bowed, her lips moved in silent prayer.

Upon his arrival at the wharf Donald found his baggage, destroyed the pass he had been in the habit of using, as his father was owner of the steamboat line, and bought a ticket to Bangor.

Reaching Bangor, he chose less expensive quarters than was his custom, locating at the Penobscot, on Exchange Street. In no mood for sleep, he decided to take a stroll. Outside an all-night restaurant was a long string of cars, and from within came the sound of happy laughter.

A feeling of loneliness, coupled with a slight hunger induced him to enter. A big man sitting at the counter, attacking vigorously a T-bone steak, was the centre of interest, as evidenced by the cluster of taxi-drivers and other night-lunchers about him. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, high leather boots, corduroy trousers, a blue flannel shirt, and a red-mackinaw coat hung on the wall behind him. Blond, sun-washed hair stood up from his head aggressively, and his steely blue eyes were set in a face tanned a brick red.

“Yes, sir,” spoke the blond giant between mouthfuls, “she’s a he-man’s country, she is. None of your bum chow that I used to git here in these Eastern loggin’ camps, sow-belly and beans three times a day, and workin’ for forty dollars a month from daylight until dark. No, siree! Me for the Coast with its four bucks a day. And talk about grub! Say, there ain’t any hotel that puts up better scoffins than we git in the loggin’ camps in good old B.C.”

He looked around at his audience and, convinced that they were interested, he continued: “Yes, sir! British Columbia for mine. Say! What’d you think of three fir logs that makes a carload? Of cedars ten feet through? Of alders that you can’t git your arms round? Some different than them toothpicks you got out there,” jerking his thumb contemptuously toward the Penobscot River. “And minerals,” he went on, “the mountains are filled with ’em—miles and miles that ain’t never bin prospected. Prospectors comin’ in every day with new strikes. And talk about fish! I seen the fish so thick they choked the rivers; you could darn near walk on their backs. That’s the country, fellers. That’s the place for men with git-up-and-git.” He finished his repast with a gulp of coffee, fished a sack of tobacco and brown paper from his pocket, and rolled a cigarette. “A brand new country,” he ran on, his eyes shining with enthusiasm, “that ain’t half explored yet, and richer’n a pail of cream. How much do I owe you, boy?” he asked as he drew out a wad of bank-notes, peeled a bill from the outside of the fat roll and threw it carelessly on the counter.

“Keep the change,” he said with a lordly air, then swaggered through the door. Several of the taxi-drivers followed, loudly importuning him to ride.

Donald finished his lunch and sat for a time smoking.

“That guy was a nut to flash his poke in front of that gang,” observed the waiter. “Guess he’s big enough to take care of himself,” he added.

As Donald stepped out of the restaurant he saw the big man across the street with four of his former audience. From the shadow of a doorway he saw the party enter a ramshackle building, after hearing one of them promise to get the Westerner a drink in spite of prohibition. Donald decided to walk by the place, and was startled by the sound of crashing glass and indications of a struggle.

“You will, will you?” he heard the unmistakable voice of the big Westerner.

With a bound Donald was at the door. He found the Westerner badly battered, but holding three men at bay. The fourth lay in a crumpled heap in the corner.

Only one of the men noticed Donald’s entrance. He was a big, burly brute, with the swarthy features of the Southern European, and he came straight for the intruder, crouching low. Donald’s left hand caught him on the eye, and as his head flew back Donald crossed viciously with his right. The blow landed with an impact that sounded like a cleaver sinking into a meat block, and the man dropped as though shot.

A rat-faced man, standing near a side door with a bottle in his hand, shouted a warning as Donald sprang to the Westerner’s assistance. Both men turned their heads. The ham-like fist of the big blond giant struck the larger of the two men such a terrific blow on the side of the head that the recipient whirled completely around and sank dazedly to the floor.

“Duck!” yelled Donald, as he saw the little man’s arm go back. The Westerner dropped, and not a second too soon. The bottle whizzed over his head, bringing a shower of plaster from the wall where it struck. With a curse the big man turned, but the bottle-thrower had disappeared through the side door. The remaining thug, a tall, cadaverous looking youth, took one wild look around, then bolted through the front door.

The Westerner, gasping and rather pale, seized Donald’s hand in his huge paw. “Pardner, you saved me from a hell of a lickin’! ’Bout two minutes more and....”

“Grab your coat and hat and we’ll get out of here before the police come,” interrupted Donald.

They went through the alley to Hammond Street, then down Exchange Street.

“Better come up to my room and have those cuts attended to,” suggested Donald.

The Westerner touched gingerly the rapidly swelling lump over his ear. “You know,” he observed, “those fellers never intended to start a rough-house. The little dip was pretty slick, but I caught him with his hand in my pocket, and when they saw that they had a fight on their hands, they tried to lay me out with a billy. Should have seen the funny look on that little rat’s face when he lammed me with that loaded stick and I didn’t go down. Guess this old bean of mine must run pretty heavy to bone,” he finished with a chuckle. He looked at Donald curiously. “You sure handed it to that big dago quick. How did you horn in on the row anyway?”

Donald told of being in the lunch-room when he had displayed his money, and of the waiter’s subsequent remarks.

“Huh!” snorted the big man disgustedly, “guess I need a guardeen.”

With the assistance of the obliging night-clerk, who furnished antiseptic and court-plaster, they patched the hurts of the much-bruised Westerner.

When the clerk left the room the big man turned to Donald. “My name’s Jack Gillis. What’s yours?”

“Donald McLean.”

“Damn good name,” he averred, looking Donald over critically.

“I bin visitin’ my old home in Nova Scotia,” he ran on. “Come down here to visit my sister. I’m gittin’ homesick for the Pacific Slope, and I’m goin’ to hit for B.C. to-morrow mornin’.”

“I’m on my way to Vancouver,” said Donald.

The effect of this statement on Gillis was electric. “Do you belong in B.C.?” he questioned excitedly.

Donald told him how his glowing description of that land of promise had induced him to go West, and that this would be his first visit to the Coast.

“Well,” observed Gillis, “if I’ve been the means of addin’ a man like you to the population of B.C., then Jack Gillis has done some good.”

“That’s a real compliment,” smiled Donald.

“I’m goin’ on the mornin’ train,” remarked Gillis. “I’d like to have you travel with me.”

Donald nodded.

Gillis rose with an embarrassed air. “Here I am talkin’ ’bout you and I travellin’ together. I guess you’re one of them tourist fellers, and I don’t suppose you want to go along with a roughneck like me.”

Donald liked this big, bluff Westerner, with his honest face and simple manner. He reached in his pocket and took out the money the sheriff had given him.

“You see that? Well, before this money is gone I’ll have to find a job. And it’s borrowed money, too.”

Gillis studied him carefully. “Well, you got my goat in a way, but there is one thing I do know, and that is that you ain’t no slicker. I’m ’bout twice your age, and I knows a good face when I sees it. I’ll meet you to-morrow mornin’ at the station. I’m goin’ to start callin’ you Donald right now. And what’s more, Jack Gillis is your friend from now until hell freezes over. Good-night, Donald.”