Читать книгу Riders West - Ernest Haycox - Страница 6

Table of Contents

The last clacking echo of the wagon died out in a coulee, and afterwards the deep silence of the country returned. Nan removed her hat and coat and sat on the edge of a trunk, all her impulses idle and indecisive for the while. Still heat pressed heavily through the house; the boards emitted a baked smell. Looking down at her fingertips, she thought again of the gracelessness of the place, then said quietly: "But I have no reason to ask anything more than plain shelter." The sense of defeat was almost overpowering.

There always had been in her a strain of lucid, self-examining honesty; and even now she was able to explain that feeling of being cast adrift. The Nan Avery who was important to herself and to others, who lived in the midstream of things, who was full of faith, no longer existed. Another Nan Avery sat on the trunk's edge and soberly looked back into ruin. There was nothing left. Yet the warning returned. "I must not go in for self-pity. I haven't the right." And after that the mutations of her drifting thoughts returned her to Dan Bellew. The oddness of it was that a few short weeks ago she would have liked him—but now never could—for in him were mirrored those qualities she no longer trusted—a man's obvious strength, a man's distinct, almost ruthless point of view. Her guard would always be against him; she couldn't soften her instinctive antagonism.

She got up, impatient with herself, forcing her mind back to the present and its necessities, wisely knowing that she had to drop the curtain on what was done. Going out through the kitchen, she surveyed the rear yard, the irregular line of fence, the sheds and the barn. Half interested, she primed the pump. When the water came spouting up she experienced a small feeling of encouragement. It was such a small thing—yet so certain. Water and food, sleeping and waking and the work of one's hands. "I have been living beyond myself," she said and observed that the house had been swept and that there was wood in the box beside the stove.

It was too hot to cook a meal, and so she made a lunch out of cheese and bread and water. She changed into more comfortable clothes and took up the job of unpacking. An ingrained feeling for neatness and order nagged at the supplies piled in the middle of the room, and she worked until her forehead was damp. Then, and there she stopped.

"Why should I hurry? There isn't anything here but time." She felt immeasurably better for having thought of it. Resting on a trunk, she tried to visualize what she could do with the barrenness of the house—how its unrelieved ugliness might be subdued. The bedroom, of course, was first. Refreshed, she swept the room thoroughly, knocked down the cobwebs, created one moderately clean spot in an area of dustiness. She dragged in the iron bedframe, which was part of Townsite's supplies, and put it up. She laid on the springs and the mattress. She arranged the trunks where they would take the place of chests and cupboards; from one of these trunks she got her sheets and quilts and made up the bed, a piece of a popular tune coming unbidden to her mind. It was, "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight," and it reminded her of Jamie Scarborough.

Out on the road a long column of men went by, headed into the pass. Nan got the sound rather than the sight of them, engrossed as she was with threading a wick into a new lamp. Nor could she help considering Townsite Jackson's thoughtfulness. He had seemed to forget nothing; had, in fact, remembered more items than she would have remembered. And his talk had been very kindly, very shrewd, strongly underscored with sympathy. Nan went out of the bedroom to locate the can of coal oil—labeled by a potato in its spout—and found Neel St. Cloud standing on the porch. Somewhat startled, she straightened to an alert motionlessness.

"Sorry," he said. "Should have given you more warning."

The low afternoon sun struck under his hat and sharpened his smooth, smiling face, He stood there with a sort of negligent ease, yet the slimness of his body and the taper of his shoulder points were such as to suggest a military attitude. For one long moment of doubt she recalled his easy, cynical manner and wondered if he meant to use it on her. It would be natural of him to presume too much. But she was mistaken. He took off his hat, and his yellow head made a slight, courteous bow. He said gently: "If I might step in—"

"If you wish."

He walked through, stood against the wall, surveying the quarters with a swift, estimating glance. "Had no desire to interrupt you," he went on. "Only wished to pay my respects to you as a new neighbor. My place is up beyond the pass—five miles."

"Yes, I've been told that."

His smile broadened. "I supposed you would. I am"—and he paused over the wording of his sentence—"a rather established character. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Nothing, I think," said Nan. Inwardly she was saying: "How like Jamie in his surface manners."

He made a deprecatory gesture with one arm. "I don't want to sound grandfatherly, Miss Avery, but if I were you I'd not worry about things around here. To a stranger a great many ways of ours appear odd. Maybe they are. One thing is pretty definite, though. You can always have the help you need by asking for it. Range people are that way."

"I am afraid," said Nan deliberately, "those people will find me rather unsocial."

St. Cloud's eyes were momentarily keen and exploring. It was, she thought, a reversion to his normal man's curiosity concerning her. But he recovered himself quickly. "Solitude? You'll have no trouble getting that. The valley is full of it. What I wanted to say was that I go up and down this road three or four times a week. Should you ever want anything from town, hail me. Please do."

"Thank you. There seems nothing now."

"There will be," St. Cloud said casually. "You'll always be out of matches, or sugar, or nails. The stores, you know, are not just around the corner—as they are in your town."

"How would you know anything about my town?" asked the girl.

"You haven't the earmarks of this country," said St. Cloud.

She listened for the upswing in his voice that would convey the question. But his politeness covered even that; he had not the air of prying for information. He spoke in a matter-of-fact way. She allowed the silence to settle, and St. Cloud—she thought again that his manners were very alert—put on his hat and moved to the door. "I can promise you," he said, "perfect peace and shelter from my quarter, which is anything lying beyond the notch."

"That," replied Nan, "is about all I ask."

"You will, of course, be unable to escape hearing a great deal of gossip. You'll soon enough know all about us. My suggestion is you strain the information through the fine screen of your own good sense."

He was, she understood, asking that discount for himself. "I have my own scale of values," she told him soberly.

He nodded, showing again a touch of speculation. "Some day, when you are caught up, I might persuade you to visit my place? Smoky Draw is almost a town. Other women are there, you understand."

"Possibly," said Nan.

He let it lie as spoken and went to his horse. Watching him to westward in the direction Dan Bellew previously had gone, she suddenly wondered what his inner reaction to that "possibly" had been. Rather regretfully she wished she had not said it. The man was obviously educated, and his kind read too many meanings into plain speech. Dissatisfied with herself, she filled the lamp and sought out the more immediately needed groceries. Sunset was not far away; the valley was a-riot with a plunging, golden light. Going out the back door to fill her brand-new water bucket, she saw Henry Mitchell swinging up the slopes on his horse, followed by the boy Lorrie on a bareback pony. Mitchell arrived in the yard, put a leg over his saddle.

"Thought I'd drop in and see if I could help."

But his eyes passed through the house and around it; and she knew he looked for Neel St. Cloud. It was apparent he had come here out of a sense of responsibility. Remotely she thought she ought to be grateful, yet an uncontrollable irritability grew stronger. She had traveled three thousand miles to escape such an oppressive, surveillance; she could stand no more of it. Her eyes went sharply to him.

"Did Dan Bellew tell you to watch this house?"

"Why should he?" countered Mitchell.

"Please understand this: I am quite able to take care of myself. All these offers of help are very kind. But I don't need help."

"Sure, sure," said Henry Mitchell soothingly. He refused to be offended; he was like all other men, discounting her clear desires and clinging to the inevitable male assumption that she was a woman and therefore to be watched, to be shielded. Nan felt anger warming her cheeks. Nothing, it appeared, could shake a man's urge to be protective. She meant to say something more definite, but old Henry Mitchell spoke before her:

"A lot of little annoyin' things may come up. Your horse might stray. You might have to lift somethin' heavy. Anything at all in that line. Me or Lorrie will be on tap. Just call us. Lorrie, he's nine and as good as a man."

Lorrie had flattened himself on the broad back of his pony and was watching her with intent, lucent eyes. His face was round and darkened by the sun. All he wore was a cotton shirt and a pair of overalls which hung loosely to his too thin frame; and suddenly her anger went away and left her so certain of this boy's needs. Something very wistful and very shy lay mirrored in his wandering glance.

"He don't see so much of women," said Henry Mitchell, slowly. "Kind of interested in you. No, he don't see near enough of women." The man's voice was softened by a slight regret. "Some things a man ain't much good at."

"You're—"

"His granddad."

"Where is his mother?"

Henry Mitchell met the question with a quick blankness of expression. "His daddy is dead."

The girl felt pushed away from something unfortunate. She said softly, "I'm sorry," and walked toward Lorrie. For a moment she thought he meant to bring his horse about and retreat; he straightened, and one hand dug into the pony's mane.

"Lorrie," said Nan, "we're going to be pretty good friends, aren't we?"

"Sure," said Lorrie dubiously.

She wanted to reach up and smooth the tangled black hair, but she knew better. "Sometime," she went on gently, "you might ride over and show me the trails through the timber. I'd like that."

He was watching her very closely, and it occurred to Nan then that his attitude of reserved and suspended judgment was the same thing she had noticed in Dan Bellew. It seemed to be a frame of mind men here were born with a slowness of decision that had to be eventually sure beyond suspicion. Presently he said in a warmer voice: "All right."

Nan, wondering why she should be so eager about it, smiled and turned. Henry Mitchell's glance was abruptly grateful. "Any time, Miss Avery, you want us two men, just call. Come on, Lorrie, and don't sit on that horse like a squaw."

She watched them descend the slopes, the tall, raw-boned man and the slender lad side by side. She said to herself. "They are great friends, those two," and a quick recognition of the pathos there came to her. All at once the harsh brightness of the earth vanished, and a still twilight settled across the ridge. Pale blue shadows filtered through the trees; the air began to take on a brief transparency, and she saw the valley sweep away and melt into the southern horizon. A faint breeze rose.

Immobile, watching the tremendous change, she thought: "It will not be as hard to live with myself as I thought."

Neel St. Cloud cut due west from Nan's place, up and down the rolling ravines. Not quite two miles onward he came into a small flat bay of land that butted against the side of Squaw ridge. There—at the junction of valley and high ground—set Dan Bellew's Broken Stirrup, its face to the open south and its rear darkened by the rising pine slope. Poplars made a pleasant circle about the place; unseen water fell down a gentle drop and sent its music across the dry, motionless air. Passing through the front gateway, St. Cloud's face went smooth and noncommittal, the sharpened cast of expression that comes to a man on unsure soil. Dan Bellew sat in the shade of the porch, but he rose at St. Cloud's approach and stood waiting till the latter had circled and dismounted. St. Cloud took a seat on the steps, reached for his tobacco. In the back angles of the place a blacksmith's hammer suddenly ceased to ring; Bellew sat down again.

St. Cloud, absorbed with the making of his smoke, said, "Dry summer," Indolently.

But Bellew brushed the invitation of preliminary talk aside. Both big fists lay along the arms of his chair, his head tipped soberly toward St. Cloud, "Neel," he said abruptly, "we might as well get this straight. You and I are headed far the same crossing. We stand a chance of collidin'."

"You've just discovered that?" asked St. Cloud, obviously ironic.

"I've known it a long time."

"Of course you have," said St. Cloud. "You're no fool, Dan. If you were, I wouldn't bother with you."

"I had to draw and kill a man last night," mused Bellew. "He wasn't hunting me. He was after Jubilee Hawk. He had no particular reason to bear grudge against Jubilee. He was doing a job because he had his orders. Your orders."

"You sure?" drawled St. Cloud.

"There ain't any other answer."

St. Cloud shrugged his shoulders. "Let it ride like that, then."

"No. I'm afraid not. You're determined to win. But you're not too sure about it. So you figured to make it a little easier by erasing Jubilee."

"If you think so, I'll not contradict."

"What's there in it for you?" challenged Bellew. "Supposin' you place your men in office. What of it?"

"You don't see it?" queried St. Cloud. He flashed a sardonic smile at Bellew. "You can't guess my hole card? Of course you can't. But it is there. Make no mistake about that."

Bellew said evenly, definitely: "In the first place, you won't win the election."

St. Cloud squared himself about. Into his deliberate stare crept a harder, yellower flame of emotion. "Don't lay any bets on it, Dan. I'll win. Nine days from now my sheriff will carry the star."

"What for?"

St. Cloud got up, threw his cigarette into the dust.

"Listen. There's too much law and order in the country. You ought to know I've got no regard for it. You do know it—damned well. Law and order kicked my father out of the valley fifteen years ago, A bunch of pious hypocrites did it. Your old man was one of the bunch that helped drive the St. Clouds back into Smoky Draw."

"That's ancient history," cut in Bellew curtly. "Has nothing to do with the present. The valley drove the St. Clouds out because it couldn't afford to keep 'em."

"It has paid the St. Clouds ever since," said St. Cloud arrogantly.

Bellew nodded. "The rustling has never stopped. You're a clever man, Neel, but you'll be caught some day."

St. Cloud's mind was still on the fact of banishment.

All at once he was bitter, defiant: "Well, you've got rid of the old man. But I'm still alive. I've lived back there in those damned dreary hills most of my life—an outcast, by God! Your kind has forced me to prowl that country, like same outlawed hungry wolf skirtin' the edges of civilized territory! I've got the right to fight back, Bellew—and that is what I'm doing! I'll win this election, hands down!"

"One way or another," qualified Bellew. "Legitimately or with the gun."

"I make no bones about it."

Bellew struck one fist heavily against the chair. But his voice remained casual: "Two can play at that game, Neel. If you're layin' down the challenge I'll pick it up."

"You've got to," answered St. Cloud abruptly. "I know who I have to lick. It's you—no question of it. You carry the sentiment of this valley around in your watch pocket. I don't know why, but you do. I can cut off the people in Trail whenever I want to. LeBoeuf's afraid of his shadow. Gunderson would rather make a compromise than fight me. As for the nesters, they don't count. You're the one that'll get these people organized against me, You see I've got it figured. You're"—and St. Cloud's voice was thin and resenting—"the fair-haired boy."

Bellew remained still a long while. Then he said, "All right, Neel. I'll have to declare myself in."

"Don't guess wrong on that election," warned St. Cloud. "I'm going to win it. It's been a long ambition of my life. When I do—"

"Go on," prompted Bellew.

St. Cloud's grin was malicious and secretive; and all the reckless, restless nature of the man appeared on his sharp face. "No, I've said enough. But when I win, there will be a further surprise for the valley."

"I'll fight fire with fire," stated Bellew. "Remember that."

"I guess we understand each other," was St. Cloud's even answer. "You're the man I've got to lick. And will lick. So long, Dan."

He turned to his horse and in another moment swept away at a dead gallop toward the hills. It was a signal for the curious ranch crew. The Chinese cook appeared in the front door. Solano, prematurely old and shriveled, walked from a hidden corner with the intent air of having been listening. Link Medders, the foreman, came over from the barn—youthful, but showing the soberness of an early responsibility. He had a gray, smooth face and gave the suggestion of unhurried competence.

"What did that lad want?" he asked Dan.

"Just explainin' himself."

"Not in ten minutes," objected Link Medders. "It'd take him a month."

One last figure—Mike Shannon—sauntered up with a blacksmith's hammer in his hand. Honest sweat dripped off a currycomb mustache, and his solid Irish cheeks were red from heat. Seldom-speaking, he only listened now.

"He's got something up his sleeve," muttered Bellew. "And it's dynamite."