Читать книгу The Collected Works of Dane Coolidge - Coolidge Dane - Страница 22

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The sheep were on the run, drifting across Bronco Mesa as if the devil was after them, and Creede could hardly stay on his horse from laughing –– but when he drew near to Hidden Water his face changed. There was a fresh sheep trail in the cañon and it led away from the ranch. He spurred forward like the wind, his eyes upon the tracks, and when he came in sight of the house he threw down his hat and swore. Of all the God-forsaken places in Arizona, the Dos S Ranch was the worst. The earth lay bare and desolate before it; the woodpile had disappeared; the bucket was thrown down the well. Never had the flat, mud buildings seemed so deserted or Tommy so tragic in his welcome. The pasture gate was down and even that holy of holies, the branding corral, stunk of sheep. Only the padlocked house had been respected, and that perforce, since nothing short of a sledgehammer could break its welded chain.

Unfastening the battered door they entered the living-room which once had been all light and laughter. There lay the dishes all clean and orderly on the table, the floors swept, the beds made, some withered flowers on Hardy’s desk.

“Huh,” grunted Creede, looking it over coldly, “we’re on the bum, all right, all right, now. How long since they went away?”

“’Bout a year,” replied Hardy, and his partner did not contradict him.

They cooked a hasty meal and ate it, putting the scraps in the frying-pan for Tommy.

“Go to it, Tom,” said Creede, smiling wistfully as the cat lapped away at the grease. “He never could git used to them skirts rustlin’ round here, could he?” And then there was a long silence.

Tommy sat up and washed his face contentedly, peering about with intent yellow eyes and sniffing at the countless odors with which his world was filled –– then suddenly with a low whining growl he lashed across the room like a tiger and leapt up into his cat hole. This was a narrow tunnel, punched through the adobe wall near the door and boxed in with a projecting cribbing to keep out the snakes and skunks. Through it when his protectors were away he could escape the rush of pursuing coyotes, or sally forth with equal ferocity when sheep dogs were about. He peered out of his porthole for a moment, warily, then his stump tail began to twitch, he worked his hind claws into the wood, and leapt. A yelp of terror from the ramada heralded his success and Creede ran like a boy to look.

“He’s jumped one, by Joe!” he exclaimed. “What did I tell ye –– that cat is a holy terror on dogs!”

The dog in question –– a slinking, dispirited cur –– wagged its tail apologetically from a distance, shaking its bloody ears, while Tommy swelled and hissed viciously at him from his stronghold. It was a sheep dog, part collie, part shepherd, and the rest plain yellow –– a friendly little dog, too, and hungry. But the heart of Creede, ordinarily so tender, was hardened by his disasters.

“Git out of here!” he commanded roughly. “Git, you yap, or I’ll burn you up with a bullet!

“This is what comes of leavin’ your gun off,” he grumbled, as he unbound his bed and grabbed up his pistol. But as he stepped out into the open to shoot, his barbarity was checked by a clatter of hoofs and, looking up, he saw Jasper Swope on his big black mule, ambling truculently in across the open.

“Hyar!” he shouted, shaking his fist angrily, “don’t you shoot my dog, you –– or I’ll be the death of ye!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” responded Creede, bristling back at him. “Keep the blame pup away, then –– and keep that other dog away, too, or my cat’ll eat ’im up! Well, I notice you took the occasion to come down and sheep me out,” he observed, as Swope pulled up before the door.

“I did not,” retorted the sheepman promptly, but grinning nevertheless at the damage, “but I see some other feller has though, and saved me the trouble.” He ran his eye approvingly over the devastated homestead; and then, rising in his stirrups, he plunged suddenly into his set speech.

“I’ve took a lot off’n you, Jeff Creede,” he shouted, swinging his arms wildly, “but I’ve got a bellyful of this night work! And I come down to tell you that next time you shoot up one of my camps there’ll be trouble!”

“I never shot up your old camp,” growled Creede, “nor any other camp. I’m dam’ glad to hear that somebody else did though,” he added vindictively, “and I hope to God he fixed you good and proper. Now what can I do for you, Mr. Swope?” he inquired, thrusting out his chin. “I suppose you must be hurryin’ on, of course.”

“No!” cried Swope, slapping his saddle horn vehemently. “I come down here to git some satisfaction out of you! My sheep has been killed and my men has been intimidated on this here public range, and I want to tell you right now, Mr. Creede, that this funny business has got to stop!”

“Well, don’t choke!” said the cowman, fingering his gun coldly. “Go ahead and stop it, why don’t you?”

He paused, a set smile on his lips, and for a moment their eyes met in the baleful glare which rival wolves, the leaders of their packs, confer upon each other. Then Hardy stepped out into the open, holding up his hand for peace.

“You are mistaken, Mr. Swope,” he said quietly. “Jeff hasn’t shot up any camps –– he hasn’t even packed a gun for the last three days.”

“Oh, he hain’t, hey?” sneered the sheepman, showing his jagged teeth. “He seems to have one now.”

“You betcher neck I have,” cried Creede, flaring up at the implication, “and if you’re lookin’ for trouble, Jasp Swope, you can open up any time.”

“W’y what’s the matter with you?” protested Swope righteously. “You must have somethin’ on your mind, the way you act.”

Then without waiting for a reply to this innuendo he turned his attention to Hardy.

“He hain’t shot up any camps,” he repeated, “ner packed a gun for three days, hey? Now here’s where I prove you a liar, Mr. Smarty. I seen him with my own eyes take six shots at one of my herders this very mornin’ –– and you was there!”

He punctuated his speech by successive downward jabs of his grimy forefinger as if he were stabbing his adversary to the heart, and Hardy turned faint and sick with chagrin. Never had he hated a man as he hated this great, overbearing brute before him –– this man-beast, with his hairy chest and freckled hands that clutched at him like an ape’s. Something hidden, a demon primordial and violent, rose up in him against this crude barbarian with his bristling beard and gloating pig eyes, and he forgot everything but his own rage at being trapped.

“You lie!” he cried passionately; and then in his anger he added a word which he had never used, a word which goes deep under the skin and makes men fight.

For a moment the sheepman sat staring, astounded by his vehemence; but before he could move the sudden silence was split by the yelp of a dog –– a wild, gibbering yelp that made them jump and bristle like hounds that are assailed from behind –– and, mingling stridently with it, was the harsh snarl of a cat. There was a swift scramble in the dust by the door, an oath from the sheepman, and the yellow dog dashed away again, with Tommy at his heels.

Creede was the first man to regain his nerve and, seeing his pet triumphant, he let out a whoop of derisive laughter.

“Ah-hah-hah!” he hollered, pointing with his pistol hand, “look at that, will ye –– look at ’im –– yee-pah –– go after ’im, Tommy –– we’ll show the –– ”

The fighting blood of the sheepman sided in as quickly with his dog.

“I’ll kill that dam’ cat!” he yelled, swinging down from his saddle, “if you don’t let up! Hey, Nip! Sick ’im!” He turned and motioned to his other dog, which had been standing dumbly by, and instantly he joined in the chase. “Sick ’em, boy, sick ’em!” he bellowed, urging him on, and before Creede could get his face straight the long, rangy brindle had dashed up from behind and seized Tommy by the back.

“Git out o’ that!” thundered the cowman; and then, without waiting on words, he threw his gun down on the dog and fired.

“Here –– none of that, now!” shouted Swope, whipping out his own pistol, and as he leapt forward he held it out before him like a sabre, pointed straight for the cowman’s ribs. His intentions may have been of the best, but Hardy did not wait to see. The brindle dog let out a surprised yelp and dropped. Before Creede could turn to meet his enemy his partner leapt in between them and with a swift blow from the shoulder, struck the sheepman to the ground.

It was a fearful blow, such as men deal in anger without measuring their strength or the cost, and it landed on his jaw. Creede had seen men slugged before, in saloon rows and the rough fights that take place around a town, but never had he seen a single blow suffice –– the man’s head go back, his knees weaken, and his whole body collapse as if he had been shot. If he had been felled like a bull in the shambles that goes down in spite of his great strength, Jasper Swope could not have been more completely stunned. He lay sprawling, his legs turned under him, and the hand that grasped the six-shooter relaxed slowly and tumbled it into the dust.

For a minute the two partners stood staring at each other, the one still planted firmly on his feet like a boxer, the other with his smoking pistol in his hand.

“By Joe, boy,” said Creede slowly, “you was just in time that trip.” He stepped forward and laid the fallen man out on his back, passing his gun up to Hardy as he did so.

“I wonder if you killed him,” he muttered, feeling Jasp’s bull neck; and then, as Hardy ran for some water, he remembered Tommy. But there was no Tommy –– only a little heap of fur lying very still out in the open.

“My God!” he cried, and leaving the man he ran out and knelt down beside it.

“Pussy!” he whispered, feeling hopelessly for his heart; and then, gathering the forlorn little wisp of fur in his arms, he hurried into the house without a word.

He was still in hiding when Jasper Swope came to and sat up, his hair drenched with water and matted with dirt. Staring doubtfully at the set face of Hardy he staggered to his feet; then the memory of the fight came back to him and he glared at him with a drunkard’s insolence.

“Where’s my gun?” he demanded, suddenly clapping his hand upon the empty holster.

“I’ll take care of that for you,” answered Hardy pointedly. “Now you pile onto that mule of yours and pull your freight, will you?” He led the black mule up close and boosted its master into the saddle, but Swope was not content.

“Where’s that dastard, Jeff Creede?” he demanded. “Well, I wanter see him, that’s all. And say, Mr. Smart Alec, I want that gun, too, see?”

“Well, you won’t get it,” said Hardy.

“I will that,” declared Swope, “’nd I’ll git you, too, Willie, before I git through with you. I’ve had enough of this monkey business. Now gimme that gun, I tell ye, or I’ll come back with more of ’em and take it!”

He raised his voice to a roar, muffled to a beast-like hoarseness by his swollen jaws, and the ramada reverberated like a cavern as he bellowed out his challenge. Then the door was snatched violently open and Jefferson Creede stepped forth, looking black as hell itself. In one hand he held the sheepman’s pistol and in the other his own.

“Here!” he said, and striding forward he thrust Swope’s gun into his hand. “It’s loaded, too,” he added. “Now, you –– if you’ve got any shootin’ to do, go to it!”

He stepped back quickly and stood ready, his masterful eyes bent upon his enemy in a scowl of unquenchable hate. Once before they had faced each other, waiting for that mysterious psychic prompting without which neither man nor beast can begin a fight, and Jim had stepped in between –– but Hardy stood aside without a word. It was a show-down and, bulldog fighter though he was, Jasper Swope weakened. The anger of his enemy overcame his hostile spirit without a blow, and he turned his pistol away.

“That’s all I wanted,” he said, shoving the gun sullenly into its holster. “They’s two of you, and –– ”

“And you’re afraid,” put in Creede promptly. He stood gazing at the downcast sheepman, his lip curling contemptuously.

“I’ve never seen a sheepman yet,” he said, “that would fight. You’ve listened to that blat until it’s a part of ye; you’ve run with them Mexicans until you’re kin to ’em; you’re a coward, Jasp Swope, and I always knowed it.” He paused again, his eyes glowing with the hatred that had overmastered his being. “My God,” he said, “if I could only git you to fight to-day I’d give everything I’ve got left!”

The sheepman’s gaze was becoming furtive as he watched them. He glanced sidewise, edging away from the door; then, pricking his mule with his spurs, he galloped madly away, ducking his head at every jump as if he feared a shot.

“Look at the cowardly dastard!” sneered Creede bitterly. “D’ye know what he would do if that was me? He’d shoot me in the back. Ah, God A’mighty, and that dog of his got Tommy before I could pull a gun! Rufe, I could kill every sheepman in the Four Peaks for this –– every dam’ one of ’em –– and the first dog that comes in sight of this ranch will stop a thirty-thirty.” He stopped and turned away, cursing and muttering to himself.

“God A’mighty,” he moaned, “I can’t keep nothin’!” And stumbling back into the house he slammed the door behind him.

A gloom settled down over the place, a gloom that lasted for days. The cowboys came back from driving the town herd and, going up on the mesa, they gathered a few head more. Then the heat set in before its time and the work stopped short. For the steer that is roped and busted in the hot weather dies suddenly at the water; the flies buzz about the ears of the new-marked calves and poison them, and the mother cows grow gaunt and thin from overheating. Not until the long Summer had passed could the riding continue; the steers must be left to feed down the sheeped-out range; the little calves must run for sleepers until the fall rodéo. Sheep and the drought had come together, and the round-up was a failure. Likewise the cowmen were broke.

As they gathered about the fire on that last night it was a silent company –– the rodéo boss the gloomiest of them all. Not since the death of Tommy had his eyes twinkled with the old mischief; he had no bets to offer, no news to volunteer; a dull, sombre abstraction lay upon him like a pall. Only when Bill Lightfoot spoke did he look up, and then with a set sneer, growing daily more saturnine. The world was dark to Creede and Bill’s fresh remarks jarred on him –– but Bill himself was happy. He was of the kind that runs by opposites, taking their troubles with hilarity under the impression that they are philosophers. His pretext for this present happiness was a professed interview with Kitty Bonnair on the evening that the town herd pulled into Moreno’s. What had happened at this interview was a secret, of course, but it made Bill happy; and the more morose and ugly Jeff became about it the more it pleased Lightfoot to be gay. He sat on a box that night and sang risqué ditties, his enormous Colt’s revolver dangling bravely at his hip; and at last, casting his weather eye upon Creede, he began a certain song.

“Oh, my little girl, she lives in the town –– ”

And then he stopped.

“Bill,” said the rodéo boss feelingly, “you make me tired.”

“Lay down an’ you’ll git rested, then,” suggested Lightfoot.

“A toodle link, a toodle link, a too-oodle a day.”

“I’ll lay you down in a minute, if you don’t shut up,” remarked Creede, throwing away his cigarette.

“The hell you say,” commented Lightfoot airily.

“And last time I seen her she ast me to come down.”

At this raw bit of improvisation the boss rose slowly to his feet and stalked away from temptation.

“And if anybody sees her you’ll know her by this sign,”

chanted the cowboy, switching to an out-and-out bad one; and then, swaying his body on his cracker box, he plunged unctuously into the chorus.

“She’s got a dark and rolling eye, boys; She’s got a dark and rolling eye.”

He stopped there and leapt to his feet anxiously. The mighty bulk of the rodéo boss came plunging back at him through the darkness; his bruising fist shot out and the frontier troubadour went sprawling among the pack saddles.

It was the first time Creede had ever struck one of his own kind, –– men with guns were considered dangerous, –– but this time he laid on unmercifully.

“You’ve had that comin’ to you for quite a while, Bill Lightfoot,” he said, striking Bill’s ineffectual gun aside, “and more too. Now maybe you’ll keep shut about ‘your girl’!”

He turned on his heel after administering this rebuke and went to the house, leaving his enemy prostrate in the dirt.

“The big, hulkin’ brute,” blubbered Lightfoot, sitting up and aggrievedly feeling of his front teeth, “jumpin’ on a little feller like me –– an’ he never give me no warnin’, neither. You jest wait, I’ll –– ”

“Aw, shut up!” growled Old Man Reavis, whose soul had long been harrowed by Lightfoot’s festive ways. “He give you plenty of warnin’, if you’d only listen. Some people have to swallow a few front teeth before they kin learn anythin’.”

“Well, what call did he have to jump on me like that?” protested Lightfoot. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”

“No, nothin’ but singin’ bawdy songs about his girl,” sneered Reavis sarcastically.

“His girl, rats!” retorted the cowboy, vainglorious even in defeat, “she’s my girl, if she’s anybody’s!”

“Well, about your girl then, you dirty brute!” snarled the old man, suddenly assuming a high moral plane for his utter annihilation. “You’re a disgrace to the outfit, Bill Lightfoot,” he added, with conviction. “I’m ashamed of ye.”

“That’s right,” chimed in the Clark boys, whose sensibilities had likewise been harassed; and with all the world against him Bill Lightfoot retired in a huff to his blankets. So the rodéo ended as it had begun, in disaster, bickering, and bad blood, and no man rightly knew from whence their misfortune came. Perhaps the planets in their spheres had cast a malign influence upon them, or maybe the bell mare had cast a shoe. Anyhow they had started off the wrong foot and, whatever the cause, the times were certainly not auspicious for matters of importance, love-making, or the bringing together of the estranged. Let whatsoever high-priced astrologer cast his horoscope for good, Saturn was swinging low above the earth and dealing especial misery to the Four Peaks; and on top of it all the word came that old Bill Johnson, after shooting up the sheep camps, had gone crazy and taken to the hills.

For a week, Creede and Hardy dawdled about the place, patching up the gates and fences and cursing the very name of sheep. A spirit of unrest hovered over the place, a brooding silence which spoke only of Tommy and those who were gone, and the two partners eyed each other furtively, each deep in his own thoughts. At last when he could stand it no longer Creede went over to the corner, and dug up his money.

“I’m goin’ to town,” he said briefly.

“All right,” responded Hardy; and then, after meditating a while, he added: “I’ll send down some letters by you.”

Late that evening, after he had written a long letter to Lucy and a short one to his father, he sat at the desk where he had found their letters, and his thoughts turned back to Kitty. There lay the little book which had held their letters, just as he had thrust it aside. He picked it up, idly, and glanced at the title-page: “Sonnets from the Portuguese.” How dim and far away it all seemed now, this world of the poets in which he had once lived and dreamed, where sweetness and beauty were enshrined as twin goddesses of light, and gentleness brooded over all her children. What a world that had been, with its graceful, smiling women, its refinements of thought and speech, its aspirations and sympathies –– and Kitty! He opened the book slowly, wondering from whence it had come, and from the deckled leaves a pressed forget-me-not fell into his hand. That was all –– there was no mark, no word, no sign but this, and as he gazed his numbed mind groped through the past for a forget-me-not. Ah yes, he remembered! But how far away it seemed now, the bright morning when he had met his love on the mountain peak and the flowers had fallen from her hair –– and what an inferno of strife and turmoil had followed since! He opened to the place where the imprint of the dainty flower lay and read reverently:

“If thou must love me, let it be for nought

Except for love’s sake only. Do not say

‘I love her for her smile –– her look –– her way

Of speaking gently –– for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day’ ––

For these things in themselves, Belovéd, may

Be changed, or change for thee –– and love, so wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheek dry ––

A creature might forget to weep, who bore

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

But love me for love’s sake, that evermore

Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.”

The spell of the words laid hold upon as he read and he turned page after page, following the cycle of that other woman’s love –– a love which waited for years to be claimed by the master hand, never faltering to the end. Then impulsively he reached for a fair sheet of paper to begin a letter to Kitty, a letter which should breathe the old gentleness and love, yet “for love’s sake only.” But while he sat dreaming, thinking with what words to begin, his partner lounged in, and Hardy put aside his pen and waited, while the big man hung around and fidgeted.

“Well, I’ll be in town to-morrer,” he said, drearily.

“Aha,” assented Hardy.

“What ye got there?” inquired Creede, after a long silence. He picked up the book, griming the dainty pages as he turned them with his rough fingers, glancing at the headings.

“Um-huh,” he grunted, “‘Sonnets from the Portegees,’ eh? I never thought them Dagos could write –– what I’ve seen of ’em was mostly drivin’ fish-wagons or swampin’ around some slaughterhouse. How does she go, now,” he continued, as his schooling came back to him, “see if I can make sense out of it.” He bent down and mumbled over the first sonnet, spelling out the long words doubtfully.

“I thought once how The-o-crite-us had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

And as I mused it in his an –– ”

“Well say, what’s he drivin’ at, anyway?” demanded the rugged cowboy. “Is that Dago talk, or is he jest mixed in his mind? Perfectly clear, eh? Well, maybe so, but I fail to see it. Wish I could git aholt of some good po’try.” He paused, waiting for Hardy to respond.

“Say,” he said, at last, “do me a favor, will ye, Rufe?”

The tone of his voice, now soft and diffident, startled Hardy out of his dream.

“Why sure, Jeff,” he said, “if I can.”

“No, no ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ about it!” persisted Creede. “A lucky feller like you with everythin’ comin’ his way ought to be able to say ‘Yes’ once in a while without hangin’ a pull-back on it.”

“Huh,” grunted Hardy suspiciously, “you better tell me first what you want.”

“Well, I want you to write me a letter,” blurted out Creede. “I can keep a tally book and order up the grub from Bender; but, durn the luck, when it comes to makin’ love on paper I’d rather wrastle a bear. Course you know who it is, and you savvy how them things is done. Throw in a little po’try, will you, and –– and –– say, Rufe, for God’s sake, help me out on this!”

He laid one hand appealingly upon his partner’s shoulder, but the little man squirmed out from under it impatiently.

“Who is it?” he asked doggedly. “Sallie Winship?”

“Aw, say,” protested Creede, “don’t throw it into a feller like that –– Sal went back on me years ago. You know who I mean –– Kitty Bonnair.”

“Kitty Bonnair!” Hardy had known it, but he had tried to keep her name unspoken. Battle as he would he could not endure to hear it, even from Jeff.

“What do you want to tell Miss Bonnair?” he inquired, schooling his voice to a cold quietness.

“Tell her?” echoed Creede ecstatically. “W’y, tell her I’m lonely as hell now she’s gone –– tell her –– well, there’s where I bog down, but I’d trade my best horse for another kiss like that one she give me, and throw in the saddle for pelon. Now, say, Rufe, don’t leave me in a hole like this. You’ve made your winnin’, and here’s your nice long letter to Miss Lucy. My hands are as stiff as a burnt rawhide and I can’t think out them nice things to say; but I love Kitty jest as much as you love Miss Lucy –– mebbe more –– and –– and I wanter tell her so!”

He ended abjectly, gazing with pleading eyes at the stubborn face of his partner whose lips were drawn tight.

“We –– every man has to –– no, I can’t do it, Jeff,” he stammered, choking. “I’d –– I’d help you if I could, Jeff –– but she’d know my style. Yes, that’s it. If I’d write the letter she’d know it was from me –– women are quick that way. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is –– every man has to fight out his own battle, in love.”

He paused and fumbled with his papers.

“Here’s a good pen,” he said, “and –– and here’s the paper.” He shoved out the fair sheet upon which he had intended to write and rose up dumbly from the table.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, and slipped quietly out of the room. As he lay in his blankets he could see the gleam of light from the barred window and hear Jeff scraping his boots uneasily on the floor. True indeed, his hands were like burnt rawhide from gripping at ropes and irons, his clothes were greasy and his boots smelled of the corral, and yet –– she had given him a kiss! He tried to picture it in his mind: Kitty smiling –– or startled, perhaps –– Jeff masterful, triumphant, laughing. Ah God, it was the same kiss she had offered him, and he had run away!

In the morning, there was a division between them, a barrier which could not be overcome. Creede lingered by the door a minute, awkwardly, and then rode away. Hardy scraped up the greasy dishes and washed them moodily. Then the great silence settled down upon Hidden Water and he sat alone in the shadow of the ramada, gazing away at the barren hills.