Читать книгу The Heart of Thunder Mountain - Edfrid A. Bingham - Страница 9

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Marion looked at him curiously. He was the typical cow-puncher, in blue flannel shirt and leather chaps, with the inevitable revolver hanging loosely at his hip, and a long quirt suspended from his right wrist. The dust on his face was stained with blood that had flowed from a raw bruise on his temple, and Marion now noticed that his left arm hung limp at his side.

“You’re hurt!” she said softly.

The man turned, and stared at her blankly, and she saw that his face was distorted into a set expression of pain.

“Arm busted,” he said, after a moment, as if surprised by her question; and then renewed his watch.

“How did it happen?” she asked.

“Throwed me.”

“You don’t mean you tried to ride him!”

“Jerked me. Th’ man ain’t born’t c’n ride ’im.”

“You were leading him?”

“No, just thought I was,” he said grimly. “He drug me.”

“When was that?”

“This morning––about seven miles back.”

“Where did he come from?”

“San Luis.”

“Where is that, please?”

“Over yander,” he answered, nodding toward the western mountains.

Marion stared.

“You haven’t brought him over the mountains!”

“ ’Round by Pinto Pass, an’ up through the canyon.”

“I’ve never seen a horse like that before,” she said, after a brief silence.

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“Nor anybody else has,” he replied, with a note of pride.

“But he’s no cow pony––surely.”

“You ain’t never heard o’ Sunnysides?”

“No.”

He looked at her curiously.

“Of course not,” he said apologetically. “You’re f’m the city. East, maybe?”

“Yes, I’m from New York.”

“Then it’s natch’ral. Everybody in these parts has heard o’ Sunnysides, though it’s not many that’s seen him.”

“Please tell me about him.”

The man’s eyes brightened a little.

“He’s got some strange blood in him,” he began. “Nobody knows what it is, but th’ ain’t another one o’ that color, nor his devil spirit, in the whole bunch. The rest of ’em’s just ordinary wild horses runnin’ up an’ down the sandhills of the San Luis. There’s people’t say he’s a ghost horse. Fact! An’ they say’t he’ll never stay caught. I don’t know. It’s certain’t he’s been caught three times,––not countin’ the times cow-punchers an’ others has thought they’d caught him, but hadn’t. The first time he was caught actual he broke out o’ the strongest corral in the San Luis––at night––an’ nobody sees hide nor hair of ’im––not so much as a flicker o’ yellow in the moonlight. An’ back he was, headin’ the herd again.

“Nex’ time Thad Brinker ropes him. Thad’s the topnotch cow-puncher between the Black Hills an’ the Rio Grande, an’ he comes all the way f’m Dakoty when he hears the yarn about Sunnysides. Thad gits fourteen 23 men to help him round up the bunch, an’ then he ropes the gold feller after a fight that’s talked about yit in the San Luis. He ropes him. An’ then what does Brinker do?”

He looked at Marion as if he dared her to make as many guesses as she wished. She shook her head.

“You ain’t the only one that’d never hit it,” he went on with satisfaction. “Thad ropes him, an’ while they lay there restin’, Sunnysides all tied up so he can’t move, an’ Brinker rubbin’ some bumps he’d come by in the fracas, just then the red comes up onto Sangre de Cristo. Brinker sees it––Ever seen the sunset color on Sangre de Cristo? No? That’s a pity, Miss. Indeed, that’s a pity. But you’re f’m Noo York, you said.”

He paused again, and Marion began to realize the full degree of her provinciality and ignorance. She was from New York. What a pity!

“Well,” said the cowboy, as if resolved to do the best he could in the circumstances, “sometimes––maybe three or four times a year––it’s weird. It’s religious. The white peaks turn red as blood––that’s why they’re called Sangre de Cristo. It’s Spanish for Blood of Christ. It makes you feel queer-like”––He paused a moment thoughtfully, watching the golden horse as it stepped quietly, lightly, with head high, just ahead of them. “The red comes onto Sangre de Cristo, an’ Brinker sees it. He looks at the blood on the peaks, an’ then at the gold horse lyin’ there all torn an’ dirty, an’ this is what Brinker does, an’ maybe he couldn’t help it. He ups an’ cuts the ropes, an’ Sunnysides’s off to his waitin’ bunch, an’ they all go snortin’ down the valley.”

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There was a touch of awe in the man’s voice, and Marion felt a little of it too. She looked toward the serrated barrier of mountains, in the very middle of which stood old Thunder under his pall of cloud. Beyond lay San Luis––Sangre de Cristo––and what romance! Would she ever––Her eyes rested for a moment on the black pile that now, as always, fascinated and yet disturbed her.

“And you?” she said at length, turning to the cowboy.

“There wasn’t no red sunset this time,” the man answered, with a grim smile. “But we ain’t slep’ since,” he added, with a return of weariness.

“You caught him?” she asked admiringly.

“Us three.”

“But what are you doing with him here?”

“He’s sold, if we c’n find the man’t offered a thousand for him a year ago.”

“Who was he?”

But she knew already. Some swift flash of intuition told her there was but one man in Paradise Park who––

“His name’s Haig, an’ he’s––”

“Philip Haig!” she murmured.

“You know him?”

“Yes––no. That is, I’ve heard of him.”

It was on her lips,––the explanation that the men had passed the branch road leading to Haig’s ranch, that they were now riding away from it. But she hesitated. And why? She did not know then; but an hour later she would be reproaching herself bitterly for that moment’s indecision. The words were almost spoken, but something checked them; and before she could make 25 up her mind to follow her first natural impulse it was too late.

The leader of the party turned in his saddle, and called to the man at Marion’s side, who rode quickly forward and joined his companions. There was a conversation inaudible to her ears, and while she still pondered over her inexplicable hesitation the cowboys and the golden horse, followed by Marion, approached the group of squat, unpainted houses that bore without apology the name of Paradise.

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