Читать книгу The Painted Cliff - Alex Philip - Страница 8

CHAPTER V.

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FLOCK of Japanese starlings testing their shrill voices under his window awoke Peter. He lay listening to the growing sounds of the slowly arousing streets. A trolley car swung around a corner with a nerve-racking scream of wheels, a bullying motor-horn blared its warning. The shuffling steps of early workers and the raucous cries of newsboys drifted through the window. Another day in the busy marts of trade was being ushered in with the usual clamour.

Peter sighed happily. He was leaving the rush of madly competitive centres behind him; where men lived in airless rooms; where tired city faces threw off a casual glance as a steel plate casts back a bullet; where all was din and confusion, and where men strove desperately for money and power.

He would soon be in the wilderness, in happy, beautiful quietude; his eye delighted by a leafy luxuriance, by brilliant colours of land and water; his ear soothed by the song of birds, by the flow of gurgling streams or the rush of boisterous mountain torrents. He sprang from bed filled with a joyous exaltation he had not felt for years.

Slim, shaving by the window, turned to smile a greeting. “Mornin’, ol’ hoss,” cried Shorty gaily.

The big man sat on the edge of his bed mending the rent in his trousers with fingers that, though thick and heavy, were surprisingly deft and sure. As he wielded the needle he discoursed freely.

“Well, boys, we got to buy a few things an’ then we’re on our way. Peter, you’ll have to get a whole rig-out. Can you handle a six-gun?”

“I was considered a fair shot in the army.”

Shorty nodded vigourously. “Good! The days when you had to protect yourself with a gun are pretty well gone, but in this case we may run up agin a snag or two where bein’ quick on the draw may save our hides.” He chuckled happily as he tested the mended seam. “An elephant couldn’t bust them britches now. An’ the way things look right now, I’ll have somebody to mend for me before long.”

“Now, me an’ Slim was a-thinkin’,” he continued, “that we’ll go easy on that little girl’s dough. It would be different if it was ol’ J.B.’s chicamin, ’cause he’s gots barrels o’ money; but that little girl slingin’ hash in that place for a livin’ can’t afford to lose any. Now, there’s two ways to get into Injun Valley. We can go out on the C.P.R. an’ then take an auto for ’bout two hundred miles, and then hosses for forty more to Foghorn’s Camp, where we outfit with grub. This way it will cost a lot o’ money. Me an’ Slim got a trail blazed from Siwash Point—up the Coast—right in to Foghorn’s place. We can take the boat this evenin’ an’ be on the trail to-morrer mornin’, an’ our fare will be almost nothin’. It will be a hyas klattawa but we can travel light an’ take our time.” He looked at Peter dubiously. “Do you think you can make her?”

“I’m sure I can.”

“That’s the way to talk,” approved Shorty.

He moved to the mirror, adjusted his flamboyant tie and set his hat at a cocky angle. “I’m goin’ to turn the rest o’ our dust into cash the first thing, then we’ll do our buyin’ an’ then I’m goin’ to take my girl out for an auto ride.”

Suddenly Slim raised his head, lifted his hand in a warning for silence, tiptoed to the door and flung it open with a quick jerk. Peter heard the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall. Shorty sprang to the corridor.

“That damned skunk of a Morlock’s tryin’ to find out somethin’; got a stool-pigeon on us,” he blazed. “Did you see him, Slim? What’d he look like?”

“Half-breed. Black moustache.”

For a full minute Shorty raved. He possessed the largest collection of vitriolic adjectives in captivity. His vocabulary, when aroused to anger, was a succession of expressive and passionate explosions. His imprecations were for the greater part of his own invention, and although extremely caustic, were never vile or sacrilegious.

“If I ever get my hands on that cultus skunk of a mealy-mouthed son-of-a-gun, ...... , I’ll break him in two an’ feed him for crow bait! Come on, let’s go and eat.”

Later, when they had finished making their purchases, Shorty left them to keep his engagement with his new-found lady friend. A pink in the lapel of his coat, his homely face alight with enthusiasm, he waved them a careless adieu.

“Sorry I can’t take you along,” he grinned.

Slim stood gazing after his partner, a soft smile playing about his lips.

“Shorty has always been the same. His big heart has cost him all he ever made.” He shook his head. “ ‘No fool like an old fool’,” he quoted tritely.

At noon Shorty joined them at the room. He burst through the door, radiantly boisterous.

“Say, boys, I’ve had some time! We rode ’round Stanley Park an’ we sure did wau-way. Her name’s Maude, but she told me I could call her Cutie, as that’s her pet name. When I got a good look at her in the sunlight I seen that she wasn’t as young an’ pretty as I thought last night. I ain’t robbin’ the cradle, but she’s a peach just the same. She told me all about herself an’ said that I’d been the nicest to her o’ any man she ever met. Her mother’s sick an’ they’re havin’ a hard time of it. She made me feel right sorry for her, too. Said she had to borrow some money from somewhere to pay the doctor. She had tears in her eyes when she told me, an’ she looked so little and sad that I shoved her fifty bucks, an’ she broke right down an’ cried. I’m goin’ to take her out to a show this afternoon,” he finished happily.

“Shorty, hand me your roll,” demanded Slim.

“Aw, Slim,” objected the big man. “I only loaned it to her. I ain’t spendin’ it foolishly.” But he produced the money forthwith.

Slim peeled off one bill which he passed to Shorty, and put the remainder in his pocket.

“I can have a hell o’ a time on a ten-spot!” lamented Shorty. “Let’s go an’ eat.”

Dorothy led them to a table and drew out their chairs. Shorty made an exaggerated bow in acknowledgment of this service. “Little girl,” he boasted grandiloquently, “when I come back I’m a-goin’ to throw a sack o’ pil chicamin on this table that’ll bust its legs; an’ then you can give up presidin’ in this hash emporium an’ have half a dozen slant-eyed Orientals to wait on you in a big house, an’ a French shoffer in leggins to drive you ’round Stanley Park in a big red limoosine.”

Dorothy laughed heartily at this glowing picture of future opulence.

“When are you leaving?”

“This evenin’s boat. An’ as you are our pardner we’ll expect you to come down to see us off.”

“I’ll be glad to,” she smiled.

It was the rush hour; every seat was taken. Peter watched her as she flew about the tables, carrying loaded trays that appeared far too heavy for her slender arms. A wonderful girl, he marvelled.

Then he fell to wondering about last night’s occurrence. What relation was the man in the big car to her? He recalled with a peculiar twinge the affectionate look she had bestowed upon her escort. Who was this man upon whom she had lavished tender smiles? But what had he, Peter Welton to do with all this? Why shouldn’t she have a man friend—or even a sweetheart? He shook his head. What was this odd feeling that crept over him? Let him meet it frankly—was it love for Dorothy? No, not that, he decided. It was a peculiar sense of possession, of guardianship, an impulse of protection for this refined girl who was forced to work in such coarse surroundings.

“Damned if I don’t feel like a highway robber for takin’ that kid’s money,” growled Shorty as he speared a potato. “She looks kind of pindlin’ to me,” he went on in a troubled tone. “She ought to get out in the country.”

“You fellers go along,” said Shorty after they had finished. “I got a little business to talk over with our silent pardner.”

He sat quietly enjoying a smoke until Dorothy came to clear away the dishes.

“Why don’t you get a job out in the country where you could get some roses in your cheeks an’ not have to breathe rotten air?” he asked her.

“I would love to. I have never had an opportunity.”

“I think I can get you a job at Foghorn Jack’s place. He keeps a girl in the summer to wait on these high-falutin’ sports that goes fishin’ an’ huntin’. Do you think you’d like it?”

“Yes! yes!” responded Dorothy eagerly. “It would be wonderful! Is it near Indian Valley?”

“It’s the last point we hit before we take to the woods. I’ll write to you as soon as we get there. And don’t say anythin’ to Peter—I want to surprise him,” he finished with a chuckle.

At the mention of Peter’s name, Dorothy’s pale cheeks flushed.

“Oh, that’s all right; you needn’t get so flabbergasted. I know a thing or two,” Shorty smiled presciently.

It was a crestfallen Shorty who crept into the room an hour before the time set for their departure. He glanced sheepishly at his friends, sank despondently to a chair and rolled a cigarette. Slim looked meaningly at Peter.

“Gimme a drink, Slim.”

Slim produced a bottle of beer.

“Hell!” snorted Shorty disgustedly. “I need somethin’ with a wallop—none o’ that belly wash.”

He reached for a bottle of rum, took a long shuddering drink of the potent liquor, then for an interval sat in quiet meditation. “Somethin’ wrong somewhere, Slim,” he finally blurted.

Save for a slight lifting of his brows, Slim gave no sign that he had heard.

“Don’t know what to make of it,” Shorty continued querulously. “I waited at the corner where she told me for an hour, but she didn’t show up. I went over to the barber shop an’ I asks for her. ‘Are you referrin’ to my erstwhile employee, Cutie?’ asks the dame with the cold lamps, as she gives me a kind o’ mockin’ smile that made me mad. ‘That quick brain o’ yours kinda misrepresents your appearance, madam; we are referrin’ to one an’ the same. That got her goat. ‘Cutie got staked by some boob an’ she got too proud to work,’ she snaps. ‘She’s on her way to give Seattle a treat with her presence. Hats is cheaper down there’.”

Shorty’s face wore a puzzled frown. “Now what does all that mean, Slim?”

Slim evaded the question. “You’d better be getting ready to hit the trail, Shorty,” he said gently.

Shorty removed his new clothing, folded them carefully and rolled them into a bundle. “Don’t believe I’ll ever wear them again. Guess I better stay in the woods where a rough-neck like me belongs.” He donned his picturesque woodsman’s garb, took another drink, slumped to a seat, his face shrouded in gloom. “Damned if I can believe that she ain’t on the square,” he burst out. “She’s got too good an eye. Somethin’s wrong.”

To Peter the situation was no longer humourous, for he saw that his simple, trusting friend was deeply hurt. He reached out impulsively and patted Shorty’s shoulder. At this display of affection Shorty’s face brightened.

“ ‘The saddest words o’ tongue or pen,

The saddest o’ these, it might have bin.’ ”

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He smiled rather gloomily as he finished this quotation, then reached for his accordion and began to sing a soft accompaniment. It was a wandering, formless fragment of a Chinook song, rising and falling aimlessly like the whispering of a gentle breeze along the seashore.

He placed the instrument carefully in its case, tied it securely to the top of his pack, squared his big shoulders, drew in a couple of lungfuls of his cigarette and let them out in a long smoky sigh.

“Oh, hell! Such is life. Come on! Let’s go!”