Читать книгу Parade of the Empty Boots - Charles Alden Seltzer - Страница 8

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Day by day as Brent Stoddard had followed the downward trend of the land there had stolen over him a consciousness of gradual change. The dry and light air of the high desert country, the iron surface of the Neutral Strip and the Panhandle seemed to belong to another planet. Blankets of ever-deepening green were the vistas that unfolded before him as he descended into a woodland world which owed its freshness and it languorous atmosphere to water.

Now, riding in the dusk upon a gumbo road that paralleled the mighty Mississippi, occasionally glimpsing lights that flickered from the windows of the town of Chandler, where he expected to find Marie Villers, he reflected upon the solemn beauty of the river at dusk. Later, when an early moon gleamed upon the smooth surface of the water, disclosing bends and bayous fringed by giant cypress trees laced with ghostly Spanish moss, he thought of other days, only a few years gone, when the river had rocked with the thunder of the guns of Confederate forts and Union gunboats.

Once, approaching Chandler, he had a clear view of the town in the moonlight. There was a wharf, fringed by some wooden buildings, probably warehouses; behind the wharf, a level thickly strewn with buildings, now dark, with streets dividing them; a square where some tall trees grew; then a high level, like a terrace, where there seemed to be dwellings; then an upland stretch where there were other dwellings, farther apart than those below; then timbered hills around which wound a road—white gravel, he thought—which gleamed like a ribbon in the moonlight.

He watered the horse from a trough in front of a saloon and restaurant at the edge of the town near the wharf. A group of loungers at the hitching rack made room for him as he tied the animal. The men accorded him a suspicious or a curious silence. They were Negroes and swarthy whites. Laborers and habitués of the water front, he supposed. They preserved their silence until he entered the door of the restaurant; then they chattered.

Inside, he sought a washroom from which he emerged, freshly scrubbed and combed, to drink and dine. From the bartender in the saloon he elicited the information that the Villers’ house was in the high country behind town. You followed the gleaming road up there around the hills until at last you came to a lane at your left which took you straight to the Villers’ homestead. And if you were looking for Judge Lew Marston’s house you would continue on the gleaming road for another mile. It was a big house, and you couldn’t miss it.

Before Stoddard set out to find Marie Villers he rode to a livery stable and sat on a bench in front of the place while the liveryman fed the horse and groomed him. Later, before he mounted, Stoddard groomed himself, knocking the dust off his clothing and shining his boots while the liveryman appraised him.

“Stranger, I reckon,” said the liveryman. “And totin’ artillery. Lookin’ for anyone special?”

“Any special people here?” said Stoddard.

“Well, yes. Depends on what special kind you’re lookin’ for. If it’s the law, there’s Judge Marston. If it’s beauty, there’s Marie Villers. If it’s trouble”—his eyes gleamed—“you can find that ’most anywhere. There’s Vauchain’s gang and Craftkin’s. And then there’s Slade Forbush. Only, if you won’t want your trouble unadulterated, don’t monkey with Forbush. He’s killed more men than Grant killed at Vicksburg. Lady-killer. Slick. Fine-lookin’ cuss, and knows it. If you got a good-lookin’ wife you’d best keep her away from Forbush. If he wants her he’ll challenge you to a duel, kill you and take her.”

“Friend of yours?” asked Stoddard.

The liveryman reflected, meeting Stoddard’s gaze steadily.

“Hell,” he said, “you wasn’t born yesterday, was you? Tell you this though. You’re either a friend of Forbush, or you’re makin’ believe you are, or you ain’t here any more.”

After a quarter of an hour spent in slyly interrogating Stoddard, the liveryman stood at his stirrup grinning at him after Stoddard mounted.

“You spend a hell of a lot of your time keeping your mouth shut, don’t you?” he said. “And I’ll swear you don’t use that there gun for an ornament either.”

Well, he was learning something about Slade Forbush, and he was hearing about Vauchain and Craftkin, enough to convince him that, between them, the three rascals had succeeded in terrorizing those who knew them. He wasn’t impressed by what he had heard. Every community had its bad men. The Neutral Strip had its share, and usually when you got them into a tight corner they weren’t nearly as bad as they might be. Their exploits were exaggerated; the legends that surrounded them were colored by repetition.

At the crest of the rise above town he came upon the lane that had been described to him and he followed it between two rows of arching trees—magnolias—which, judging by their size, had been there for half a century. The bright moonlight disclosed broad acres of cultivated land, orderly gardens, patches of timber, a gray stone house with gravel walks around it; several stone outbuildings and in the distance other buildings—no doubt the Negro quarter of another day. The Villers, he perceived, had been planters.

Well, here he was. Soon he would be face to face with the original of the photograph, and now a doubt of the wisdom of his quixotic mission assailed him. A photograph. Merely a photograph. Hm, a photograph. In many cases photographs flattered the originals. After all, what was facial beauty compared to beauty of character? His romantic impulse had brought him this far, and of course he’d see her and turn over to her her uncle’s belongings. What he would do afterward depended upon—upon any foolish whim that might strike him. He reached a turn of the lane that brought him to a rear veranda and a lighted window, and he became aware of a Negro—evidently a servant—standing in an open doorway, watching him.

“Yas suh,” responded the Negro in reply to his question, “dis yere am whar Missy Villers lives. But she ain’t hyah now, suh; she’s gwine to a pahty down to Judge Marston’s house. Ah don’ ’spaict she’ll be home much afore midnight. Judge Marston’s house is right down the road, suh—to yo’ left, suh, aftah yo’ go out of the lane. Yo’ won’t miss it. If yo’ll listen yo’ kin hyah ’em.”

At the junction of the road and the lane Stoddard halted the horse and sat listening. A big party, judging from the laughter. A party. Bad news would spoil it for her, yet he had no right to withhold it from her.

Once again, this time where the drive leading to the Marston house intersected the white gravel, he halted, reluctant. He decided he would not interrupt the party, for his news wasn’t that important. He would get as close to her as possible, though, without making himself conspicuous, for he wanted to see her tonight, if only from a distance. Tomorrow he would get the interview he sought; would be able to talk to her, to bring his dream to reality. Now, no longer reluctant, he rode down the driveway, past flanking rows of carriages and horses, to a row of hitching posts where many horses were tethered.

The house was one that harmonized with Judge Marston’s profession. Dignity, simplicity and a tranquil atmosphere in spite of the party. An old colonial mansion with an overhanging roof, supported by tall columns, forming a great veranda. All painted in spotless white which glowed in the bright moonlight. Wide stone steps, with a runner of velvety carpet covering them, joining the carpet on the floor of the veranda. Perhaps a score of guests were there. Three great swinging lamps, suspended from the ceiling, made the veranda light as day, and the brightly animated faces were sharply scrutinized by Stoddard as he stood motionless beside his horse at the hitching post while he searched for the girl of the photograph. He saw her presently. She was facing him, seeming to look straight at him. Surrounded by beautifully gowned women and well-groomed men, she made a picture that stirred in him a sudden breathless longing—a longing that shamed him, that made him conscious of his drooping vest, his woolen shirt, his somewhat threadbare corduroy trousers, his scuffed boots, the spurs at his heels, his unshaved face. He might have had himself shaved in Chandler had he not been so eager to meet his lady. He was a capable and efficient town marshal, a rider of broad experience, a fighting man who had never known fear, and yet at this moment a wave of trepidation swept over him, a stealthy embarrassment, a dread of having all these people watching him—as they would—had he held to his original determination to appear before her. He congratulated himself.

But already he had attracted attention. Several men, grouped upon the lawn at the edge of the veranda near the steps, were looking at him, were discussing him. They were perturbed over his appearance among them, yet, being gentlemen, they were reluctant to appear inquisitive.

And now occurred a curious phenomenon—the always strange spectacle of a crowd staring at a common object of interest. A few of the guests on the veranda had observed that the group on the lawn were staring concertedly in a certain direction and, themselves becoming curious, they also stared. Presently all the guests were looking at Stoddard.

This was unexpected, and Stoddard, caught, refused to make himself more ridiculous by retreating. He stood there, slowly drawing himself erect, enduring a silence which had fallen like a stroke. He felt the absurdity of the situation—the utter and complete absurdity of it—yet, now that it had occurred, he was determined to see it through. Always master of himself in a crisis, he met the concentrated gaze of the guests with outward calmness, an unsmiling and dignified calmness which should have won him the respect of the assembled company.

Instead, a ripple of laughter greeted him. Polite laughter. Of all laughter the most biting. Expressing the insolence of indifference, searing its victim with the bitter stigma of social inferiority.

Stoddard, coldly determined to see the situation through, was keenly observant. Not all the guests laughed. There were some among them whose lips tightened as they watched Stoddard, and who frowned with disapprobation. The group of men on the lawn in front of the veranda had not changed position, though all were looking at Stoddard. One, a tall young man, broad of shoulder, slender, built like an athlete, with a stern and manly face, was faintly scowling, as if he deprecated this manifestation of ill manners. Stoddard caught the flashing light of his eyes and smiled at him. Then he looked again at Marie Villers. She wasn’t tall, not as tall as he had thought she would be. Her head would just about reach his shoulder.

A queen. Her royal diadem a wealth of golden-brown hair framing a white placid brow. Her eyes, seeming to gaze into his inquiringly, held in real life the mischievous glint he had detected in the photograph. Yet they were proud eyes, thoughtful eyes, with depth and clarity and wisdom. She was leaning forward a very little, slightly resentful, he thought, over this unexpected disturbance, for her lips were pressed tightly together and her head was disdainfully raised, revealing the white smooth column of her throat. The silence became a hush.

Of all the people there, Marie Villers seemed least interested in the intruder. He was a stranger, uninvited, unwelcome. His calm self-possession she tried to interpret as impudence but failed because deep in her consciousness lurked a disturbing conviction that the man was merely master of himself. The disdain she felt, and which the guests and Stoddard saw, was for herself—that she should be aware of an inward start upon meeting the stranger’s gaze, that she had felt her pulses quicken at sight of him. Against the dark green background of the foliage, with the moonlight gleaming upon him, he was formidable and romantic. Yet because he had startled her so, she must humiliate him. She laughed also, a rippling, mocking, lilting laugh directed at Stoddard but expressing contempt for her own disturbed emotions.

Many of the guests laughed with her. The tall stern-faced young man in the group of gentlemen on the lawn did not laugh. Instead, his dark eyes flashed, and he stood rigid, watching Stoddard. He stepped forward, stood in front of him.

“Can I help you, sir?” he said. “You see,” he added apologetically, “so few of the people here have ever seen a cowboy.”

“You’ve made me feel better,” smiled Stoddard. Not even now would he retreat, though he could do so without enduring further embarrassment. Nor—even though he was grateful to the stern-faced young man—would he explain that he had not intended to interrupt the party. He permitted the tall young man to glimpse the badge pinned to his vest inside.

“Official duty, sir?” asked the tall young man.

“A message to Marie Villers. Perhaps not important enough to justify this sudden appearance, but one she ought to get.”

“Certainly, sir. I’ll take you to her.” He urged Stoddard ahead of him, across the lawn to the steps, past the group of men who were still watching him, with greater interest now—a patriarchal gentleman with the profile of a patrician smiling at him—and up the steps to the veranda—ladies and gentlemen making way for him; and across the veranda to where Marie Villers stood erect, her eyes flashing. Stoddard was calm and steady, though now acutely conscious of his shabby garments, even aware of a slight odor that accompanied him—the odor of horses and saddle sweat—to the lady of the photograph, whose proud eyes were swimming with disdain.

The stern-faced young man bowed gravely, with a hand upon Stoddard’s arm.

“A messenger in boots, milady,” he said.

The lady’s gaze roved up and down Stoddard, from dusty boots and spurs, over faded corduroy trousers, broad leather belt—studded with cartridges; upon the huge gun in its black worn holster; over his worn woolen shirt, his open vest, the scarf at his throat, to his virile brown hair, short and tousled, glistening with moisture from the heat of the lamps and the humid atmosphere, and from his racing, tingling blood, which had never been as warm as now. When at last, in the hush which had fallen, she looked into his eyes, there were many there who observed that she seemed to catch her breath with a slight gasp. But Stoddard, returning her gaze with all the steadiness he could summon, could see only cold disdain in her.

“A messenger,” she said finally, repeating the words of the stern-faced young man; “A messenger in boots, to disturb my party. Would not your message keep until morning, sir?”

“It would,” confessed Stoddard. “Yet I thought——”

“If you were a thinking man you would not have come here tonight, sir!” she said scornfully. She drew herself up, haughtily arrogant. “Begone, sir,” she ordered. “And if your message is of any importance you may bring it tomorrow.”

Stoddard stood very still, looking at her. He saw none of the others. So that was the kind of girl she was, he thought. Well, then, that was the kind she was. That was settled. She was still looking at him, and the guests were laughing and talking, watching him with sidelong glances, enjoying what they thought was the putting of an uncouth intruder into his place. But Stoddard accepted the girl’s rebuke gallantly. Still standing rigid, he swept his broad-brimmed felt hat around, held it over his heart, and then bowed gracefully to her. For an instant, as he straightened, he saw the stern-faced young man smile approvingly. Stoddard’s spurs jingled musically in the sudden silence as he walked across the veranda and down the steps to the hitching post where he had left his horse. He stood there reflecting.

Aristocratic women are hardest to understand. The least human. The more primitive the woman, the easier you get along with her. Drag a primitive woman out of a pool and she wants to marry you. Try to perform a service for a well-bred woman and she rebukes you, unheard. To hell with women! Well, he’d ride back to Chandler, stop at a hotel overnight, and in the morning he’d send Pierre Villers’ personal belongings to the girl. He’d keep her photograph, though, for no other reason than that looking at it would help him to keep his self-esteem in hand.

He had untied his horse and was stroking the animal’s head when he became aware that the tall stern-faced young man was standing near him, watching him.

“Pardon me, sir, I’d like to shake hands with you,” said the young man. “Damme, that was as fine an exhibition of gentlemanly self-restraint as I have ever seen! My name is Evan Weldon. I hope you will not have a poor opinion of our hospitality because of this incident. You will find the men less whimsical than the ladies.”

“I hadn’t planned to stay long enough to inquire into that. But thank you for your sympathy, sir. My name is Brent Stoddard, and I’m glad to know you.” They shook hands.

“I’m here as Judge Lew Marston’s emissary, Mr Stoddard. The judge witnessed your—er—ah—unfortunate encounter with Miss Villers, and begs the honor of a meeting with you in his den—where there will be no ladies. You won’t refuse, sir; the judge is greatly interested in you and declares you would not have appeared here without good reasons.”