Читать книгу Parade of the Empty Boots - Charles Alden Seltzer - Страница 7

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It wasn’t a thing that could be laughed off or carelessly evaded. Desperately, Allie Tuttle was striving to avoid shame and humiliation. When a girl offers herself to you, you don’t just calmly tell her that you don’t want her. You tell the truth, I suppose, he thought.

“It’s mighty embarrassing,” he said. “I like you. I think you’re a fine girl, and I’m greatly flattered that you’d select me as your man even at a time like this. But it happens that there is another girl. We’ve got to be loyal, don’t we?” he added gently.

“Shuah,” she agreed.

She was seeking protection, he thought, as, now thoroughly dry, he got up, walked to where he had thrown his gun and gun belt and his vest. He donned the vest, buckled the cartridge belt around his waist and stood looking at the girl.

There was an expression of despair on her face, of hopelessness. She’d be in the pool in another moment.

“Which way did your father and mother go?” he asked.

“Down the river, toward Chandler.”

“We’ll find them,” he said. “I’ll get my horse. He’s back in the swale. You can ride behind me.”

He strode away through some heavy undergrowth and then into some timber to a lowland, where he found his horse. He had left the animal there while seeking a place where he might swim and bathe, and now he mounted and rode back the way he had come. But before reaching the edge of the undergrowth he halted the horse, slipping cautiously out of the saddle, trailing the reins over the animal’s head, to part the heavy foliage and peer at Allie Tuttle.

She was no longer alone. Beside her, one arm around her waist, the other gripping a long rifle, stood a tall rough-looking fellow. One of Forbush’s men, evidently, and he must have thought she was alone, for he was wrestling with her, trying to force her down upon the rock on which she had been waiting, talking to her, gloating over her, while she fought him silently, tearing at his face.

“Thought you’d get away, eh?” he said. “Well, Forbush is gone, and damme if I don’t ...”

He was standing over Allie when Stoddard’s bullet hit him. He slewed around, dropped his rifle, faced Stoddard, clawed for an instant at his chest near the left armpit where Stoddard’s bullet had entered, then slumped forward and pitched down the steep bank into the pool, his rifle clattering after him.

Allie Tuttle had not uttered a sound, nor did she say anything when she looked at Stoddard, who was slipping a fresh cartridge into the cylinder of the huge 45 Colt with which he had killed the girl’s assailant.

She ran toward Stoddard. She was trembling; her eyes were wide with shock and apprehension.

“Thet was Joe Fowler!” she gasped. “One of Slade Forbush’s men. They’ll skin yo’ alive fer killin’ him!”

“Maybe not,” he said.

She was holding tightly to him; she seemed to be quivering all over, and he held her, trying to calm her. He wasn’t looking at her but was watching the near-by brush and timber, and a ravine that came down from the higher country to meet the river. There had been three of the men, including Slade Forbush. With Forbush away and another of the men dead in the pool, there would be only one left, and he thought the third might have been near Fowler or had heard the thundering report of the 45.

When after an interval no one appeared he mounted the waiting horse, pulled Allie Tuttle up behind him and rode down the narrow dusty road toward Chandler.

Things had a way of happening. Situations had a way of coming, uninvited, to complicate life, to make life amusing or tragic, according to the whims of chance. This situation moved Stoddard to ironic humor. Because he had been in a certain place at a certain time he had killed a man and was carrying a half-naked girl through the wilderness—a girl who wanted his protection. Suppose Dollarbill were to see him now, and the rest of his hard-bitten riders. For that matter, suppose anyone should see him. Fortunately the narrow road was deserted, and although it wound aimlessly through timber and swamp, he passed no habitations containing people who might conjecture about his motives.

Allie seemed to be satisfied but curious.

“Yo’re a fightin’ man,” she said. Lingeringly she touched his shoulders, his neck. “Yo’ ain’t takin’ the killin’ o’ Joe Fowler to heart. Yo’ don’t act sceered o’ whut’s goin’ to happen to yo’ when Slade Forbush finds out who killed Fowler.”

“How will Forbush find out?” he said.

“Thet’s right,” she answered. “I’ll never tell him.”

Later she pointed to wagon tracks in the road. The tracks turned off into a clearing.

“Thet’s whar Pap and Maw camped last night,” she said. “They ain’t fer off now, ’cause the tracks are fresh.”

Shortly after noon, in some timber near the river, they came upon the wagon and its two homeless occupants. They had built a small fire and were frying bacon over it, “Maw” doing the cooking while “Pap” worked with a team of crowbait horses tethered near by.

“Allie!” screamed Mrs Tuttle when she caught sight of her daughter.

“Lordy!” ejaculated Mr Tuttle.

From the saddle Stoddard witnessed the reunion, pitying them in their misfortune. For him the score was even. He had saved a life and had taken one. He would not share their meager supply of food, despite their cordial importunities, for in a breath Allie had related what had happened to her, and they were deeply grateful to Stoddard. Allie had omitted mentioning Joe Fowler. As he rode away Stoddard looked once more at Allie. She was standing near the wagon and she smiled at him, though he noted that her lips were quivering. He wondered a little.