Читать книгу Parade of the Empty Boots - Charles Alden Seltzer - Страница 11

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When Stoddard rode through the streets of Chandler the next morning he was conscious of the attention he attracted, of the stares that followed him as he rode to the livery stable, to be greeted by the liveryman who had conversed with him the night before. The water front was buzzing with activity. A river steamer was tied there, smoke curling lazily from its stacks, Negro stevedores loading merchandise into its bowels. Carts and drays were rattling over the cobblestone street that paralleled the docks; merchants were opening the doors of their stores and exposing their wares to the view of possible purchasers. The early-morning activity was confined to the water front. The larger business buildings, fronting upon streets that rose gradually from the water’s edge, were quiet, and the streets deserted. Beyond the business buildings Stoddard could see a large frame structure set deep behind trees and shrubbery, its terraced grounds overlooking the river. A sign across its front identified it as a hotel. The Planters’ House. Crowning a knoll and facing the square was the courthouse, a squarely built stone structure with an overhanging roof and wide porticos. Signs above doorways and in the windows of office buildings—all of them old and weather beaten—Stoddard read as he stood in the doorway of the livery stable thinking of the previous night’s experience. The sun was hot; mist from the river was sweeping in, its vapory streamers licking the streets and the buildings. Musty odors from bales of goods and casks on the water front mingled with an indescribable stench that rose from the wooden planks of the wharf and the cobblestones. The dwellings upon the high terraces back of town escaped the town’s odor and its heavy atmosphere. Serene in their isolation, they accentuated the vast gulf between business and aristocracy. Yet one supported the other.

Leaving the livery stable, where his horse was to be groomed and fed, Stoddard sought a barbershop and, afterward, a clothing store. After buying what he wanted he selected a traveling bag which seemed suitable, packed his purchases into it and went to the Planters’ House where he registered, calmly enduring the polite scrutiny of the clerk, and was assigned to a room, where he bathed and arrayed himself in his new clothing, which was practically the same as that which he discarded.

The change was a concession to necessity. Gun and cartridge belt were in their accustomed places, and he did not neglect to remove the rawhide thong at the bottom of his holster and tie it to the new trousers. His new garments did not appear new; when he stepped out upon the street in front of the Planters’ House he seemed merely clean and comfortable. He found the post office and stood at a desk in its lobby inditing a letter to Dollarbill McCarthy.

“I am in Chandler, Mississippi,” he wrote. “I have found Marie Villers, who wrote the letter to her uncle, Pierre Villers, which I showed you. I would not say that her reception of me was enthusiastic, but she’s an aristocrat and probably spoiled, so I don’t feel as bad as I might. She’s in trouble, though, and I’m intending to stay here for a while to see that nothing happens to her.

“Things are about as bad here as they are in the Neutral Strip, but the folks here don’t do as much about it as we do. I have met a Judge Marston, who is a friend of Marie Villers, also a young man of about my age, named Evan Weldon, who is still a friend of hers, although she jilted him. These two men want me to stay here to help them clean up the gang which is bothering her. Evan Weldon is organizing all the young men in this part of the country who have been robbed of their ancestral lands by the outlaws. The judge says the regular law is powerless to deal with them and that a new day will not dawn for the South until the people awaken to a sense of their responsibilities. The new organization will be called the ‘Riders.’ Evan Weldon will be the boss rider. He is a good man. Before they told me that they were getting ready to fight the outlaws I was of two minds about the situation. I want to stay here to help keep the women out of trouble—especially Marie Villers and another named Allie Tuttle—but maybe I wouldn’t have agreed to stay if Judge Marston and Evan Weldon hadn’t shown fight. Nothing has happened yet except that on the way here I had to kill a man because he was deviling a woman.

“I’ll write you again, later.” Signed “Stoddard.”

On the street again, he returned to the livery stable, to find his horse ready. He mounted and rode down the cobblestone street to a gravel road that presently undulated into the hills leading to the Villers’ home. He had left the money belt in his room at the Planters’ House and the three thousand dollars in double-eagle gold pieces was in his pockets. Riding around a corner which was occupied by one of the larger buildings, he saw a sign over a doorway: “Asa Calder”; and below it, “Attorney at Law”; and farther below, “Real Estate.” Calder, Weldon had told him, was suspected of participation in the profits of the lawless enterprises of Craftkin and Vauchain and Forbush. Vauchain was known as the “Leopard.”

Stoddard expected to meet Asa Calder. But not now. There would be no point in his meeting the man until he learned the details of the quarrel which had resulted in the killing of Marie Villers’ father. He did not know how he felt about meeting Marie. Two forces were at work in him—reluctance and eagerness. He wondered how she would receive him, wondered whether, if she rebuffed him again, he would tell her some of the things he had been thinking. Her mocking laugh had penetrated deeper than he had thought, but when, after a period of waiting on the broad front veranda of the Villers’ house, Marie Villers appeared in the doorway, he had no thoughts at all. The bow he gave her was involuntary, a tribute.

He had made no mistake about her height. Her head reached a little above his chin. She was slender, with splendid shoulders and a perfect figure. Her hair was almost dark, and the gold in it was dusky, though there was no suspicion of red. When she turned her head from him to dismiss the Negro servant her eyes were thoughtful. Perhaps she was thinking that he was a fool for seeking her out after his rebuff of the evening before. Whatever she thought, he was aware that his heart thumped heavily and he clenched his teeth to keep it from jumping out of his mouth. She was sweetly beautiful when you looked straight at her, but her profile! Delicate as roses, patrician, perfect, completely pure, even to the lovely, stubborn chin.

“So you came again?” she said, her tone implying that she had expected him.

Well, she had recognized him, at any rate, in spite of the several days’ growth of beard he had worn.

“Yes,” he answered. “I’m here again.”

“Your business with me is important, I presume. It must be, since you have appeared twice without being invited.” Her chin was tilted proudly; her gaze roved over him and back again to his eyes, into which she looked steadily.

“That depends upon how much you thought of your uncle, Pierre Villers.” She was a thoroughbred, he thought. She was curious, startled, yet quietly attentive.

“How can that possibly interest you, Mr ...”

“Brent Stoddard,” he supplied.

“Mr Stoddard,” she finished.

“Of the Neutral Strip,” he added.

“Very interesting, Mr Stoddard.”

Judge Marston had been mistaken, thought Stoddard. In fact, when the judge had told him that Marie Villers had been thrilled at sight of him and had laughed to conceal her emotion, he had mentally disagreed with him. The judge had been mistaken, just as he himself had been mistaken in women many times. The only thing you knew about them was that they knew about you—what you were thinking, what your feelings were. You didn’t even know when they were really angry, or whether their proud disdain was a subterfuge adopted to hide another emotion which they didn’t want you to see.

“Yes,” he said. “I have been wanting to tell you that your uncle, Pierre Villers, was murdered in the Neutral Strip.”

Brutal, he thought vindictively. But she deserved it. It would shake her out of that studied arrogance. She’d cry out now, she’d show some emotion, and then he could talk to her.

She didn’t cry out, she made no sound at all, but stood watching him. She had gone a little pale, and there was a fleeting shadow in her eyes to show that the news had hurt her. Otherwise she was calm.

“How do you know?” she asked.

Now her lips had tightened a little, which made her more beautiful than ever, and Stoddard regretted his vindictiveness.

“I saw him afterward. My men captured his murderer.”

“Oh!” The exclamation was almost a cry of pain, and Stoddard’s face whitened. You don’t want to hurt a woman, especially a brave one. Even if she has treated you contemptuously.

“Who was the murderer?”

“A man named Simon Gorty.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed again.

“You know him, eh?”

She nodded. Her face had grown whiter.

“Someone from around here?”

She nodded again.

So the murder had not been a casual one, reflected Stoddard. The murderer had known about the money belt.

There was no hint of arrogance in Marie Villers’ manner now. She was merely a beautiful woman overcome by tragedy, helpless, mutely enduring.

“One of Craftkin’s men or Vauchain’s?”

“No,” she said. “Asa Calder’s.”

She was staring at him now, a question in her eyes.

“How do you know about Craftkin and Vauchain? You are a stranger here.”

“I found your letter to Pierre Villers in the killer’s pockets. I read it because it was my duty to do so, and because I didn’t know what to do with the three thousand in gold that I found in a money belt around Pierre Villers’ waist.”

He began to empty his pockets of the gold pieces, stacking them carefully into little columns upon a rustic table near him; she watching him in silence, shrinking a little, her face whiter than ever. This indeed was proof that the terrible news was true.

After stacking the gold pieces, Stoddard took Pierre Villers’ papers and documents from his vest pocket, together with Marie’s letter, and placed them upon the table beside the gold. The photograph was not with the papers. He’d keep that. In later days, perhaps, he’d compare it with his memory of the original.

She had stepped back a little as Stoddard had been stacking the gold coins, and she now stood against one of the jambs of the big doorway, her hands folded in front of her, her head bowed a little, as if crushed and somewhat bewildered. Stoddard stood silently looking at her.