Читать книгу The Painted Cliff - Alex Philip - Страница 7

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HE rush hour being over, the restaurant was nearly deserted. Seated at the counter were two flashily-dressed youths, and at a table in the corner a big man wearing a red mackinaw shirt, whose shoulders sagged with the unmistakable slump of intoxication, was dozily awaiting his order. The proprietor, a heavily-set Greek, with a tooth-pick in his mouth, stood by the open cash register counting the day’s receipts. From the rear came the high-pitched nasal tone of a Chinese song mixed with the clatter of dishes.

Shorty piloted them to seats at one of the tables. “Always afraid that one o’ them stools will bust under me,” he explained.

Peter turned eagerly toward the kitchen as he heard the sound of quick footsteps. Dorothy flushed as she met his glad smile of welcome.

“You’re looking better,” she said.

“Yes, thank you; I’m feeling much better.”

“Say,” bawled the man in the red mackinaw, “how much longer have I got to hang around this dump ’fore I git that order of boiled salt mackerel?”

With a few gentle words Dorothy soothed the impatient customer. She polished three plates until they shone, then placed them on the table. She removed a glass filled with paper napkins, and with a quick surreptitious motion flicked linen napkins from a drawer and placed them by their plates. All this extra service was wasted on Peter. His eyes were on her lovely face.

The waitress’ costume was wonderfully becoming to her, he thought. But, with an inward twinge, he noted that she looked very pale. The bright light overhead gave an added luster to her shining brown hair, and her blue eyes gained a softer brilliance because of her pale cheeks.

As she passed the end of the counter, one of the young men reached out and seized her arm. “New hasher, eh? You look good to me, kid,” he leered.

Dorothy broke away, smothering her embarrassment in a laugh; but her face flushed a deep crimson.

“Don’t you think that tallow-faced guy’s snoot is a bit too long, Peter,” observed Shorty. “Hadn’t I better spread it over his face a little?”

The two men turned.

“Oh, look who’s here!” one of them derided.

“When’s the minstrel show coming?” scoffed the other.

Shorty’s heavy square jaw shot forward; his eyes gleamed with a fearless ferocity, and for a moment he looked almost tigerish. It was the quickest and ugliest change in a man’s face that Peter had ever seen. With a celerity surprising in one of his size, Shorty shot from his chair, seized the astonished youths by their collars and yanked them to the floor. One of them aimed a vicious kick at the big man’s shins. With a wide sweep of muscular arms he brought their heads together with a thud that made their knees sag, then forced them to the door and pushed them outside.

A moment after Shorty had resumed his seat, Morlock joined the party. He was a well-built man with wide shoulders and a conscious power in his every movement. He had a strong, heavy jaw, full sensuous lips and a hooked nose. His hair was coal black, and the whiteness of his even teeth was accentuated by a short, thick moustache. His black eyes and dark skin suggested a trace of Indian blood. He was well dressed and wore a big diamond pin in his necktie. His face was handsome in a coarse way and he wore an air of arrogant good health.

To Peter, Morlock’s face was sinister and repellant; especially his eyes which were cold and shifty and recessed below heavy brows. Peter’s dislike for him heightened as he saw him staring at Dorothy.

Shorty introduced him, and Peter felt Morlock’s insolent eyes taking in every detail of his threadbare clothing.

“Set down,” invited Shorty. “We’ll eat first an’ wau-wau after. Bring me a clam chowder, a T-bone steak smothered in onions, an’ mushrooms, french-fried potatoes, a coupla eggs sunny side up, an’ then I’ll give you the rest o’ my order. I been a-livin’ on hog-boosum an’ beans so long that I’m goin’ to make up for lost time.”

While they were eating, Dorothy busied herself about the counter, lining up mustard jars and ketchup bottles, filling up salt and pepper shakers and wiping the tops of sugar bowls.

Morlock’s eyes rested on her at every opportunity, with a certain glow in their dark depths that made Peter’s blood hot.

“Well, what d’you say ’bout grubstakin’ us?” asked Shorty after the dishes were cleared away.

Morlock extracted a cigarette from a gold case, lighted it and leaned back in his chair. “Hadn’t we better talk this matter over in private?” he suggested.

Shorty looked about the deserted restaurant. “Private enough to suit me.”

Morlock inclined his head toward Peter.

“Oh, him? He’s our pardner.”

“Your partner?” echoed Morlock. He shot a narrow-lidded glance at Peter. It was evident that he had conceived an aversion for the sick boy. “I’ll tell you right now that I’m not endowing a sanitarium,” he averred.

Peter flushed, but ignored the inimical remark.

“I can’t see where it’s any skin off your neck,” returned Shorty heatedly. “You get half. What Slim an’ me do with our’n is our business.”

“Well, what can I do for you?” asked Morlock placatingly, his voice smooth and oily.

“We’re goin’ to hit her this time an’ the party that stakes us is goin’ to make a big haul an’—”

Morlock interrupted with a wave of his hand.

“I’ve heard that same story a thousand times. I’m from Missouri—you’ve got to show me.”

“Well, how’s that?” Shorty dropped the small sack of gold on the table with a thud.

Morlock rolled the poke between thick, soft fingers, untied the string and poured the contents on a sheet of newspaper. His eyes fairly glittered at the sight of raw gold. He breathed heavily. For a moment he sat quietly, fingering the gold. His eyes flicked to Shorty’s face with a quick glint of shrewdness.

Peter was beginning to distrust Morlock in earnest now. Morlock had schooled himself to carry a look of conscious virtue in his eyes, but under stress of excitement or when unobserved, this look faded to one of sly cunning, which was his natural expression.

He leaned towards Shorty.

“Where did this come from?” he asked in a low voice.

Among gold-seekers this question is a gross breach of prospectors’ ethics, but to the trustful Shorty every man was honest until proved otherwise.

“We got it just outside Injun Valley. Next time we’re goin’ in—”

“Shorty!” interposed Slim’s gentle voice.

Morlock turned to Slim, lowering blackly. The slender man’s steady gaze seemed to disconcert him; he laughed uneasily. “Didn’t mean anything,” he apologized. “Didn’t think what I was saying.”

“Morlock,” drawled Slim, “I don’t like you. I don’t like your face and I don’t like the way you talk. As far as I’m concerned I don’t want your money.”

Morlock’s white teeth bared in a vicious smile. “I’m not doing business with you; I’m talking to Shorty.”

Shorty’s eyes blazed dangerously. “You go to hell! Me an’ Slim are pardners.”

Slim thrust his lean face, hardened with a look that was almost a blow, close to Morlock’s. “Get up and get out,” he rasped. His hand dropped below the level of the table.

Peter had never heard Slim speak in such a tone. It startled him to discover that the gentle old voice could harden and sting like that. Again the tone seemed to bite. Morlock came to his feet as though the words acted directly on his muscles. His face pale and viciously sullen, he picked up his hat and coat, walked to the door, then turned. “Indian Valley, eh?” he snarled. “I need an outing so I’ll grubstake myself and save a thousand dollars. You’ll see me again.”

Shorty sprang to his feet. “If you do, come a-shootin’!” he bawled after him. He turned to his friends. “Well, boys, I guess we’re outa luck again.” He slumped to his chair dejectedly. “Should have smacked him on the nose for the way he talked to Slim,” he mumbled regretfully.

There was a damper on the spirits of the party, and for a few minutes they sat quietly, each busy with his thoughts. Peter again felt the old sense of depression; a feeling that the hand of fate was still against him.

Shorty’s keen eyes took note of Peter’s despondent air. “Never mind, ol’ Mascot,” he cried cheerily, “little ol’ Lady Luck may be waitin’ just ’round the corner.” He came to his feet, stretched and yawned prodigiously, then took a few limping steps. “Holy smoke!” he groaned, “these new shoes an’ walkin’ on the pavement have made my poor dogs sore. I’m goin’ up an’ lie down. What d’you say, Peter?”

“I’ll sit here a-while. I’ve had lots of sleep.”

Shorty winked knowingly. “All right, son. Come on, Slim, let’s hit the hay.” He flourished his hat to Dorothy. “Good-night, little girl.”

Dorothy brought Peter another cup of coffee, then sank to a chair opposite him. “I’m glad you didn’t take money from that man,” she said earnestly.

“So am I—in a way.”

“I don’t like him.” She looked apprehensively toward the street, then shuddered. Her eyes held more of fear than hate.

Peter’s face hardened. “Does he bother you?”

“I never saw him before, but it’s the way he looks at me; his eyes are terrible.” She saw the quick glow of sympathy in Peter’s face and changed the subject abruptly. “Do you think the prospectors will be able to raise the money?”

“I don’t know,” he responded dully. “Shorty says that it is becoming harder every year to raise a grubstake, and that they may have to go to work in a logging camp for a few months; and I can’t do hard work,” he finished bitterly.

Dorothy rested her elbows on the table, her chin resting in cupped hands. “I’d love to help them,” she said, her eyes shining. “I’ve always wanted to grubstake a prospector. Do you think they’ll let me?”

Peter looked at her in astonishment. “But they need a thousand dollars!”

“I have enough,” she said quietly.

Peter’s mouth flew open, he stared at her incredulously. At this moment the proprietor emerged from the kitchen and snapped off a row of lights behind the counter. Dorothy arose and unfastened her apron. “We are closing now. If you will wait for me outside, I will be back in half an hour with the money.” She was rosy with excitement as she hurried from the restaurant.

In a daze from the sudden change in their fortune, Peter passed to the street. Feeling the need of exercise he walked along Cordova Street, then turned onto Hastings. The night was clear, with a full moon that bathed the city in its cool light. Crowds of pleasure seekers thronged the streets, and outside picture shows stood long queues of waiting patrons. Peter stopped in a doorway and viewed the animated scene about him.

Parked against the curb of a dimly-lighted side street, was a huge limousine. On the sidewalk in the shadow of the building, a man paced nervously back and forth, and at every second turn he would glance impatiently at his watch. He stepped forward eagerly, as a girl approached from the darkness of the side street, and assisted her into the car. Peter heard his voice raised in protesting tone as he tucked a robe about her. The powerful car set up a deep throbbing hum, and as it rolled under a bright arc light, Peter fairly gasped with astonishment—for it was Dorothy’s pale face, pale and smiling, that looked up at the driver. Peter’s eyes remained glued to the car until the tail light disappeared around the corner, a bemused look on his face.

“What next!” he muttered. He retraced his steps, to Cordova Street, his head bowed, a puzzled look in his eyes. For twenty minutes Peter paced the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, mulling over in his mind this singular occurrence, so engrossed with his thoughts that he was not aware of Dorothy’s presence until she touched his arm.

She smiled up at him. “I haven’t been long, have I?” She placed a package in his hand. “Here it is, Mascot,” she laughed. “And good luck to you. Good-night.”

“Can—can’t I see you safely home?” stammered Peter.

She gave him a startled glance. “No, no!” she replied hastily. “I’ll see you to-morrow.” A moment later her slender figure was lost in the crowd.

In his eagerness to get the glad tidings to his friends, Peter momentarily forgot his weakness. He bounded up the stairs two steps at a stride. Breathing heavily, he burst into the room. “Shorty! Slim! We’ve got the money! We—” Seized with an attack of coughing he thrust the package into Shorty’s hands, the string broke and bills fluttered to the floor.

Shorty’s eyes bulged out. “Holy jumpin’ jehosophat,” he yelped. “What you bin doin’, boy? Robbin’ a bank?”

His breath recovered, Peter told them of Dorothy’s partnership in their enterprise.

“Do you mean to tell me that the little girl put up a thousand bones for us rough-necks to gamble with?” enquired Shorty skeptically.

Peter nodded.

Shorty sank to the edge of the bed. “By the holy mackinaw, if we don’t hit her, I ain’t goin’ to see that kid lose a cent, if I have to work my fingers to the bone to get it! Ain’t that right, Slim?” To which Slim gave the usual affirmative.

“Say, maybe our mascot ain’t workin’, huh? Come on, boys, let’s have a shot.” He filled the glasses with beer. “Here’s to the little girl that trusts us. Here’s hopin’ that we bring home the bacon.” Shorty was filled with a great enthusiasm. “I’ll see my little barber girl to-morrer, an’ then back to the hills.” He seized the accordion, sprang to the center of the room, and his short legs attempted the intricate steps of a hornpipe. There was a quick tearing sound. The music ceased. Shorty clapped his hand to his nether garment.

“Hell!” he sighed dolefully, “there goes my new britches.”