Читать книгу The Twins of Suffering Creek - Cullum Ridgwell - Страница 6

Wild Bill was gazing out across the camp dumps. His expression suggested the contemplation of a problem of life and death, and a personal one at that. Sandy Joyce, too, bore traces suggestive of the weightiest moments of his life. Toby Jenks stood chewing the dirty flesh of a stubby forefinger, while the inevitable smile on Sunny Oak’s face made one think of a bright spring morning under cover of a yellow fog.

“How am I to see to them pore kiddies?” the latter was complaining. “I’ve had to do with cattle, an’ mules, an’ even hogs in my time, but I sure don’t guess you ken set them bits o’ mites in a brandin’ corral, nor feed ’em oats an’ hay, nor even ladle ’em swill for supper, like hogs. Fer other things, I don’t guess I could bile a bean right without a lib’ry o’ cook-books, so how I’m to make ’em elegant pap for their suppers ’ud beat the Noo York p’lice force. An’ as fer fixin’ their clothes, an’ bathing ’em, why, it ’ud set me feelin’ that fulish you wouldn’t know me from a patient in a bug-house. It makes me real mad, folks is allus astin’ me to get busy doin’ things. I’m that sick, the sight of a ha’f-washened kid ’ud turn my stummick to bile, an’ set me cacklin’ like a hen with a brood o’ ducklings she can’t no ways account fer. You’se fellers are a happy lot o’ Jonahs to a man as needs rest.”

“You’re sure doing the cacklin’ now,” observed Bill contemptuously.

“Maybe he’s layin’ eggs,” murmured Toby vaguely.

The men were standing on the veranda, gathered round the bench on which Sunny Oak was still resting his indolent body. And the subject of their discourse was Scipio’s two children. The father had ridden off on his search for James, and the responsibility of his twins was weighing heavily on those left behind.

“Kind o’ handy ladlin’ it out to folks,” said Sunny, grinning lazily. “But, with all your brightness, I don’t guess any o’ you could mother them kiddies. No, it’s jest ’send Sunny along to see to ’em.’ That bein’ said, you’ll git right back to your poker with a righteous feelin’ which makes it come good to rob each other all you know. Psha! You ain’t no better’n them lousy birds as lays eggs sizes too big, an’ blames ’em on to some moultin’ sparrer that ain’t got feathers ’nuff to make it welcome at a scratchin’ bee.”

Sunny’s flow was a little overwhelming, and perhaps there was just enough truth in his remarks to make it unadvisable for the others to measure wits with him. Anyway, he received no reply. Bill continued to gaze out at Scipio’s hut in a way that suggested great absorption, while Toby had not yet lunched sufficiently off his tattered forefinger. Sandy was the only one of the three apparently alive to the true exigencies of the case, and Sunny addressed himself more exclusively to him.

“Say,” he went on, his good-humored eyes smiling cunningly up into the widower’s face, “I’ve heerd tell that you once did some pore unsuspicious female the dirty trick of marryin’ her. Mebbe you’ll sure hev’ notions ’bout kiddies an’ such things. Now, if Wild Bill had come along an’ pushed a shootin’-iron into your map, an’ said you’ll handle Zip’s kiddies–wal, I ask you, wot ’ud you ha’ done?”

“Told him to git his head cooled some,” retorted Sandy promptly.

“Ah, guess you bin saved a heap o’ trouble,” murmured Sunny. “But if you hadn’t said that–which you said you would ha’ said–an’ you’d got busy as he suggested–wal, what then?”

Sandy cleared his throat, and, in his sudden interest, Toby deferred the rest of his meal.

“Wal, I’d ha’ gone right up to the shack an’ looked into things.”

Sandy’s first effort seemed to please him, and, hitching his moleskin trousers up deliberately, he proceeded with some unction–

“Y’see, ther’ ain’t nothin’ like gettin’ a look around. Then you kind o’ know wher’ you are. You sure need to know wher’ you are ’fore you get busy proper. It’s most like everything else. If you get on the wrong trail at the start, it’s li’ble to lead you wher’ you don’t want to go. What I says is, hit the right trail at the start, then you got a chance o’ gettin’ thro’ right, which, I take it, is an elegant way o’ doin’ most things. Wal, havin’ located the right trail–”

“We’re talkin’ o’ Zip’s twins,” murmured Sunny gently.

“Sure, that’s where I’m gettin’ to–”

“By trail?” inquired Toby seriously.

“Say, you make me tired,” retorted Sandy angrily.

“Best quit the trail, then,” said Sunny.

“Go to blazes!” cried Sandy, and promptly relapsed into moody silence.

At that moment Bill turned from his contemplation of the house beyond the dumps and fixed his fierce eyes on Sunny’s grinning face.

“Here, you miser’ble hoboe,” he cried, “get right up out of that, and hump across to Zip’s shack. You’re doin’ enough gassin’ fer a female tattin’ bee. Your hot air makes me want to sweat. Now, them kiddies’ll need supper. You’ll jest ast Minky fer all you need, an’ I pay. An’ you’ll see things is fixed right for ’em.”

Sunny lurched reluctantly to his feet. He knew the gambler far too well to debate the point further. He had made his protest, which had been utterly ineffective, so there was nothing left him but to obey the fiercely uttered mandate.

But Sandy Joyce felt that somehow his first effort on behalf of the children had missed fire, and it was his duty not to allow himself to be ousted from the council. So he stayed the loafer with a word.

“Say, you’ll be knowin’ how to feed ’em?” he inquired gravely.

Sunny’s eyes twinkled.

“Wal, mebbe you ken give me pointers,” he retorted, with apparent sincerity.

“That’s how I was figgerin’,” said Sandy cordially. He felt better now about his first effort. “Y’see, Minky’s stock is limited some; ther’ ain’t a heap o’ variety, like. An’ kiddies do need variety. Y’see, they’re kind o’ delicate feeders, same as high-bred hosses, an’ dogs an’ things. Now, dogs need diff’rent meat every day, if you’re goin’ to bring ’em up right. A friend o’ mine sure once told me that meat, good meat, was the best feed fer prize dogs, an’ he was a feller that won a heap o’ prizes. He had one, Boston bull, I–”

“’ll I need to git dog-biscuit for them kiddies?” inquired Sunny sarcastically.

“Say, you make me sick,” cried Sandy, flushing angrily.

“Guess that’s how you’ll make them kiddies,” interposed Toby.

Sandy glanced viciously from one to the other. Then, assuming a superiority that scarcely hid his chagrin, he ignored the interruptions.

“You best ast Minky fer some dandy canned truck,” he said decisively, deliberately turning his back on Toby Jenks. “Mebbe a can o’ lobster an’ one o’ them elegant tongues stewed in jelly stuff, an’ set in a glass bowl. Y’see, they kids needs nourishin’, an’ that orter fix them ’bout right. I don’t know ’bout them new sides o’ sow-belly Minky’s jest had in. Seems to me they’ll likely need teeth eatin’ that. Seein’ you ain’t a heap at fixin’ beans right, we best cut that line right out–though I ’lows there’s elegant nourishin’ stuff in ’em for bosses. Best get a can o’ crackers an’ some cheese. I don’t guess they’ll need onions, nor pickles. But a bit o’ butter to grease the crackers with, an’ some molasses an’ fancy candy, an’ a pound o’ his best tea seems to me ’bout right. After that–”

“Some hoss physic,” broke in Toby, recommencing the chewing of his forefinger.

But Wild Bill’s fierce eyes were on Sandy, and the erstwhile married man felt their contempt boring into his very soul. He was held silent, in spite of his anger against the broad-shouldered Toby, and was possessed of a feeling that somehow his second effort had been no more successful than his first. And forthwith the impression received confirmation in a sudden explosion from Wild Bill.

“Jumpin’ mackinaw!” he cried, with a force calculated to crush entirely the remnants of Sandy’s conceit. “You’d sure shame a crazy sheep fer intellect.” Then he added, with withering sarcasm, “Say, don’t you never leave your mouth open more’n two seconds at a time, or you’ll get the flies in it, an’–they’ll start nestin’.”

Then without pause he turned on Sunny and delivered his ultimatum.

“Get busy,” he ordered in a tone there was no denying.

And somehow Sunny found himself stirring far more rapidly than suited his indolent disposition.

Having thoroughly disturbed the atmosphere to his liking, Bill left the veranda without another look in his companions’ direction, and his way took him to the barn at the back of the store.

The gambler was a man of so many and diverse peculiarities that it would be an impossibility to catalogue them with any degree of satisfactoriness. But, with the exception of his wholesale piratical methods at cards–indeed, at any kind of gambling–perhaps his most striking feature was his almost idolatrous worship for his horses. He simply lived for their well-being, and their evident affection for himself was something that he treasured far beyond the gold he so loved to take from his opponents in a gamble.

He possessed six of these horses, each in its way a jewel in the equine crown. Wherever the vagaries of his gambler’s life took him his horses bore him thither, harnessed to a light spring cart of the speediest type. Each animal had cost him a small fortune, as the price of horses goes, and for breed and capacity, both in harness and under saddle, it would have been difficult to find their match anywhere in the State of Montana. He had broken and trained them himself in everything, and, wherever he was, whatever other claims there might be upon him, morning, noon and evening he was at the service of his charges. He gloried in them. He reveled in their satin coats, their well-nourished, muscular bodies, in their affection for himself.

Now he sat on an oat-bin contemplating Gipsy’s empty stall, with a regret that took in him the form of fierce anger. It was the first time since she had come into his possession that she had been turned over to another, the first time another leg than his own had been thrown across her; and he mutely upbraided himself for his folly, and hated Scipio for having accepted her services. Why, he asked himself again and again, had he been such an unearthly fool? Then through his mind flashed a string of blasphemous invective against James, and with its coming his regret at having lent Gipsy lessened.

He sat for a long time steadily chewing his tobacco. And somehow he lost all desire to continue his poker game in the store. His whole mind had become absorbed by thoughts of this James, and though he, personally, had never suffered through the stage-robber’s depredations, he found himself resenting the man’s very existence. There were no ethical considerations in his mind. His inspiration was purely personal. And though he did not attempt to reduce his hatred to reason, nor to analyze it in any way, the truth of its existence lay in the fact of a deadly opposition to this sudden rise to notoriety of a man of strength, and force of character similar, in so many respects, to his own. Perhaps it was mere jealousy; perhaps, all unknown to himself, there was some deeper feeling underlying it. Whatever it was, he had a strong sympathy with Scipio, and an unconquerable desire to have a hand in the smoothing out of the little man’s troubles.

He did not leave the barn, and scarcely even took his eyes off Gipsy’s empty stall, until nearly sundown. Then, as he heard the voices of returning prospectors, he set to work on his evening task of grooming, feeding, watering and bedding down his children for the night.