Читать книгу The Painted Cliff - Alex Philip - Страница 5

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The singing ceased as the door opened to admit a most fantastic, wild and altogether extraordinary character.

Peter saw a durable, big-barreled block of a man with enormous shoulders and massive chest, but whose legs were very short and slightly bowed. His face was deeply bronzed where it didn’t wear a lusty overgrowth of beard. His whiskers were partly shot with gray and so was his hair which was as untrimmed as the virgin forests, and hung nearly to his shoulders; but the rich complexion of this wild-looking specimen of man was clear, his gray eyes were bright with health and he had the appearance of one who had communed long and profitably with the great outdoors.

As to his costume it was altogether grotesque, consisting of a frayed and torn buckskin shirt without a collar, a pair of “tin pants” so covered with patches that little was left of the original material. Well-worn moccasins, red socks pulled over trouser legs and a wide shapeless hat set at an angle on his big head, completed an ensemble that would have fitted in nicely with forest and mountain for a background, but appeared strangely incongruous in a hotel bedroom.

The big man’s lips parted in a wide smile that flashed teeth of notable whiteness. He removed his hat with a wide sweep of his arm and bowed low to Dorothy.

“Klahowya, little girl.” He turned to Peter. “Klahowya, tillikum. How’s my mascot stackin’ up? I’m Shorty McCrae,” the booming voice went on, “an’ here’s my side-kick, Slim Chandler. Me an’ him has been tillikums for a hyiu long time.”

Slim was the direct antithesis of his partner. Of average height, slender and dark-eyed, and, in comparison to Shorty, a veritable Beau Brummel. He was clean-shaved save for a drooping moustache that partly hid a sensitive mouth. He wore a red and black mackinaw shirt hanging coat-like outside his trousers, high logger’s boots, and wide Stetson hat topped coarse black hair only slightly tinged with gray at the temples. His mahogany-coloured face was deeply creased, and about his eyes there was a network of sun wrinkles. Although he appeared well past fifty, he moved with a certain lithe suppleness of a man half that age. He acknowledged the introduction with a slight inclination of his head.

Dorothy moved to the door. “I have to go now.” She turned to nod to Peter and was gone.

“Some little skirt,” commented Shorty as he threw his big hat to the floor, walked to the bed and stood looking down at Peter. “Me an’ Slim,” he grinned, “bin a’quenchin’ a year’s drought. Sufferin’ cats, but this rum nowadays is sure firewater!” He made a wry face. “Every time I take a shot I hear somethin’ explode inside me an’ I have to use both hands to push my eyes back into place.” He studied the sick man carefully.

“Gas?” he inquired gently.

The young man nodded. Shorty’s kindly eyes continued their inventory. He reached forth a big hand and turned back the lapel of the sick boy’s coat disclosing the service button.

He grunted. “I’ll bet you’re an Englishman.”

“Yes.”

“Knew it! Hyiu tum-tum. You don’t savvy Chinook? Well, you guys got the guts!”

Another spasm of coughing shook Peter’s wasted figure. Shorty patted the boy’s shoulder awkwardly. “Never mind, son, we’ll take you out in the mountins where there is hyiu mowitsh, grouse and fish. To hell with cities where there’s plenty, but fellers are starvin’. Me an’ Slim will look after you, boy. Won’t we, Slim?”

Slim nodded vigorously.

The heart of the sick man warmed. The expressions of this man were crude but his tone was sympathetic. It had been a long time since he had heard such a kindly voice. Sick men avoid company.

“You are very good, Mr. McCrae, but—”

“Sufferin’ cats!” exploded Shorty, “ ‘mister’, hell! My name’s ‘Shorty’. If you an’ me are goin’ to hit her off without murder bein’ committed in the party, don’t ‘mister’ me. Ain’t that right, Slim?”

The figure sitting by the window nodded a silent affirmative. Except for thin smoke issuing from his nostrils from time to time, he might have been mummified.

Shorty chuckled. “I do all the talkin’ for this outfit. Slim don’t say much, but when he does open his trap he says a mouthful. Slim’s a high-brow, an’ I’m a rough-neck. Ain’t that right, Slim?” Shorty looked at the silent one, admiration glowing in his eyes. “Slim can ride a cayuse like a Sioux Indian,” he went on boastfully. “An’ with a six-gun he can stand you sideways an’ shoot a cigarette out o’ your mouth—providin’ you stand still. He can do more things with a rope than a man-o’-war’s-man, an’ handles an axe like a New Brunswick logger. Give him a pack o’ cards an’ a silver dollar an’ he’ll clean out any poker joint in this burg. Oh, yes! That pal o’ mine is crazy—just like a fox. Ain’t that right, Slim?”

Slim removed his pipe. “Shut up!” he said with a soft drawl.

“Oh, Slim!” protested the big man deprecatingly. “An’ I’d just told the boy that you talk sense.”

He settled himself in a wicker chair that bulged and creaked under his weight, then rolled a cigarette with a deft movement of one hand. He transferred about one-quarter of his cigarette to the depths of his husky lungs by the suction in one deep breath.

“You may think I’m a kind o’ nut,” he began sheepishly, “an’ I’ll admit that I’m a superstitious guy. When I walked up the dock after gettin’ off the boat this mornin’, a horse threw a shoe an’ it fell right in front o’ me. Then I picked you up right in front o’ this hotel an’ the name’s ‘The Horseshoe’. Do you want any better hunch that we are goin’ to hit her next time? I should say no!” He slapped his thigh a resounding thump, his face beaming. He rolled another cigarette and sat for a time smoking contemplatively.

“Bein’ a cheechako, I s’pose you never heard o’ Injun Valley,” he ran on. “In this valley there’s a band o’ Injuns that claim to have descended straight from the oldest tribe in the country, an’ they’re just as bloodthirsty as their forefathers. I ain’t never bin right into the valley, but there has bin quite a few white men go in that ain’t never come back. They say that their chief is a wrinkled ol’ patriarch ’bout a hundred years old, an’ that he came out a long time ago an’ got an eddication an’ a white wife, then went back to his tribe with the idea that the white race hadn’t treated the red-men right, an’ set his village to livin’ the way the Injuns used to live hundreds o’ years ago. They dress in skins an’ use bows an’ arrers an’ keep up all the ancient customs. I’ve heard that the ol’ tyee is as crazy as a loon an’ that he says he’ll kill any white man that comes into his valley.

“Now, me an’ Slim hit dust in a small creek bed that runs down from the mountains that are ’round the valley, but from the lay o’ the land we’re sure that a larger stream that empties into the valley will be lousy with nuggets.” He tugged a dirty buckskin sack from his hip pocket, untied a string, then held the sack toward Peter. “Look what we panned out o’ a stream that wasn’t any wider than my foot.” Peter saw that the pouch was full of gold dust and nuggets, some of the latter as large as peas. Shorty’s eyes were shining as he tucked the gold safely away.

“Me an’ Slim are goin’ into Injun Valley in spite of all the Siwashes in B.C.; an’ just as soon as we can see J. B. an’ get another grubstake.”

“Who is ‘J.B.’?” questioned Peter.

“Never heard of ‘J.B.’ ” cried Shorty in astonishment. “J. B. Smith is the high-muck-a-muck, the tyee of the mining business of British Columbia. He’s got more dough than a farmer’s got oats. He’s bin puttin’ up for me an’ Slim for twenty years an’ we ain’t made him a cent yet. But by the holy moses, we’ll hit her this time!” he exclaimed as he came to his feet and paced the room excitedly.

All prospectors have the hunch that the “next time” they will find the elusive gold. They keep going back to the wilderness until they are grey and old, their hands gnarled with toil and their eyes become bleared and nearly blind.

Shorty sank into the chair again.

“Now here’s the proposition, son. We’ll take you along with us as our workin’ pardner. As good pals, as me an’ Slim is, it is always better to have a third party along to keep us from gettin’ grouchy; an’ besides, we will have more time to work. We’ll give you fifty bucks a month an’ everythin’ found, includin’ your outfit. An’ if my hunch that you’re goin’ to bring us good luck turns out right, we’ll give you a third. What d’you say?”

The young man’s face flushed with pleasure. He gave an eager affirmative. “But I am afraid I won’t be of much use to you, Mr. McCrae.”

“What?” roared the big man.

“Er—Shorty, I mean.”

“When you’ve bin in them hills a month you won’t know yourself,” Shorty assured him.

He moved to the mirror and surveyed himself. “Wow!” he yelped, “what a bunch o’ bulrushes! I’ll have to get a landscape gardener with a scythe to work on me.” He ran speculative fingers through his beard. “If I only had the nerve,” he mused, “I’d go to one o’ them lady barbers. Well, Slim, let’s go.” At the door Shorty turned. “We’ll be back in time for muck-a-muck, an’ if you feel equal to it we’ll go down stairs an’ eat together.”

Peter lay for some time revolving in his mind the many wonderful happenings of the day that had brought such a remarkable change in his fortune. The last few hours had given him a new lease on life; a chance to regain his health and to lead a life in the open, for which he had long craved.

He fell asleep to dream of wide open spaces, Indians in beaded buckskin, mountains, forests, singing birds—and always in the foreground a pair of sea-blue eyes in a pale and beautiful face; eyes that gazed into his with a tender softness.

On leaving the room Dorothy hastened to the restaurant below, and for five minutes talked earnestly with the Greek proprietor.

The look of bovine stupidity on the man’s face gave place to one of quick comprehension as a bill of large denomination changed hands. Bowing and scraping he escorted her to the door and with bewildered eyes watched her until she disappeared from view.

An hour later, with a tray in her hand, Dorothy rapped at Peter’s door. Receiving no answer, she pushed the door open and entered. Peter lay with his head pillowed on his arm. Blessed sleep had given his tortured body surcease from pain, his face was tranquil and extremely boyish. The girl placed the tray on a table and stood looking down on the unconscious man.

A slow smile wreathed Peter’s lips.

“Blue-eyed angel,” he mumbled.

Dorothy drew in her breath sharply, tiptoed outside, and gently closed the door.