Читать книгу The Son of his Father - Cullum Ridgwell - Страница 11

Gordon sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then one blood-stained hand went up to his head, and its fingers passed through his ruffled hair. It smoothed its way down one cheek, and finally dropped to the ground on which he was sitting.

Where was he?

Suddenly he became aware of the metal track in front of him, and—remembered. He glanced down the track. Far in the distance he could see the speeding train. Then his eyes came back to his immediate surroundings, and discovered that he was sitting on the boarded footway of a small country railroad depot.

How did he get there? How on earth did he get there?

As no answer to his mute inquiry was forthcoming he explored further. He discovered that his grip and overcoat were beside him, also his hat. And some distance away a number of loungers were idly watching him, with a smile of profound amusement on every face.

The latter discovery filled him with a swiftly rising resentment, and, grabbing his hat and thrusting it on his head, he leaped to his feet. He had no intention of permitting amusement at his expense.

"I guess you sure had some good time," said a deep, musical voice at his elbow.

Gordon swung about and stood confronting the man, One Eye, whom he had seen in the train. For a moment he had it in mind to make some furiously resentful retort. But the man's appearance held his curiosity and diverted his purpose. The patch had been removed from his second eye, which now beamed upon him in company with its fellow.

"Guess these are yours," the man went on, thrusting a roll of bills out towards him. "That 'sharp' dropped his wad during the scrap. I hated to think a grafting train boss was goin' to collect it. You see, I guessed how that scrap would end."

"Are they mine?" Gordon was not quite sure he wasn't dreaming.

"Mostly."

The stranger's reply was full of dry humor. Suddenly Gordon's eyes lit.

"Where is that 'sharp'? I haven't done with——"

The stranger pointed after the train.

"You'll need to hustle some."

The anger died out of Gordon's eyes and he began to laugh. With some diffidence he accepted the money.

"Say, it's—mighty decent of you," he cried cordially. Then, for want of better means of expression, "Mighty decent."

The two men stood steadily regarding each other. Tall and broad as Gordon was, the stranger was no less. But he added to his stature the massiveness of additional years.

Gordon's feelings were under perfect control now. His eyes began to brighten with their native humor. He was longing to solve the mystery of that eye-shade which had disappeared from his companion's face, but was constrained to check his curiosity.

"You said you guessed how the scrap would end?" he said. "There's a sort of blank in my—memory. I mean about the finish."

The big stranger began to rumble in his throat. To Gordon the sound was comforting in its wholesome enjoyment.

"It don't need a heap of guessing when a train 'sharp,' who's got the conductor grafted from his brassbound cap to the soles of his rotten feet, gets into a scrap how things are going to end. I'd sort of hoped you'd 'out' him before the crew come along. Guess you'd have done it if there'd been more room. That's the worst of scrappin' in a railroad car," he added regretfully. "That train boss got along with his crew and threw you out—on your head. They kept the 'sharp' aboard, being well grafted, and figgered to hold up your baggage. I guessed diff'rently. That all your baggage?" he inquired anxiously.

Gordon gazed down at the grip and coat.

"That's all," he said. Then he impulsively threw out a hand, and the stranger took it. "It's decent—mighty decent of you." Again his buoyant laugh rang out. "Say, I surely do seem to have had some good time."

The twinkling eyes of the stranger nearly closed up in a cordial grin.

"Seems to me you're fixed here till to-morrow, anyway. There ain't any sort of train west till then. You best come along over to the hotel. They call it 'hotel' hereabouts. I'm goin' that way."

Gordon agreed, gathered up his property, and fell in beside his companion.

They moved across the track, and as they went he caught some impression of the ragged little prairie town at which he had so inadvertently arrived. There seemed to him to be but a single, unpaved street, consisting of virgin prairie beaten bare and hard by local traffic. This was lined on one side by a fringe of wooden houses of every size and condition, with gaps here and there for roads, yet to be made, turning out of it. These houses were mostly of a commercial nature. Back of this he vaguely understood there to be a sparse dotting of other houses, but their purpose and arrangement remained a mystery to him. Still farther afield he beheld the green eminence of foothills, and still farther on, away in the distance, the snowy ramparts of the Rocky Mountains. The town seemed to occupy only one side of the track—the south side. The depot was beyond it, on the other.

They picked their way across the track and debouched upon the Main Street, the name of which Gordon discovered painted in indifferent characters upon a disreputable signboard. Then they turned westwards in the direction of an isolated building rather larger than anything else in the village.

After awhile, as his companion made no further effort at conversation, Gordon's interest and curiosity refused to permit the continued silence.

"What State are we in?" he inquired.

"Montana."

Gordon glanced quickly at his companion.