Читать книгу The Complete Novels of Ernest Haycox - Ernest Haycox - Страница 32

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San Saba was no fool; he had all of an animal's perceptions, he almost instinctively knew when to avoid danger and when to crowd his luck. In no other way could the man have survived so long his doubtful and shaded existence. Sometimes those perceptions prompted him to do queer things; more than once, when in the full tide of fortune, he had quietly taken to his horse and left the scene of his victories behind him, apparently impelled by no other motive than that of plain cowardice. And there had also been occasions when San Saba stuck to his course when every indication would have warned an even less cautious man. The ex-foreman was full of seeming contradictions. He had absolutely no scruples, and it must be said of him that he had an abundance of a certain kind of courage; for all of that he was no firebrand, and he seldom took an open course when a secret one served him as well. What made so dangerous a figure was that uncanny ability to sense the thoughts of others and to feel and to interpret the cross-currents sweeping around him.

Thus he knew that Lispenard harboured some secret design. It took no great amount of perception to fathom this sullen and changeable figure, but it did augur uncommon wisdom that San Saba forbore forcing the issue. He waited as the days passed along and Lispenard grew more and more restless and more and more given over to fitful periods of brooding. The man rode out into the hills a great deal and always came back with a smouldering fire in his eyes, and after these excursions he always affected a casualness that only the more plainly warned San Saba. Still the ex-foreman bided his time. Then one morning Lispenard saddled his horse earlier than usual and started away without comment, San Saba's small eyes narrowed, and he called after the man.

"We got a chore with Hazel to-night. Don't forget it."

Lispenard turned fretfully. "To hell with Hazel. What's he done for us? Oh, I'll be around when the time comes."

San Saba squatted on the ground, listening to the horse's hoofs crunch across the fallen twigs. The sound scarcely had died out before he was up and over to his own mount in one swift dive; and as he started in pursuit of the Blond Giant his arm dropped toward the gun at his belt. Every feature grew cramped and bleak, the tell-tale film of crimson spread around the white of his eyes. "The dawg—the rotten-livered houn'! He ain't fitten to know what he does know—he's too rotten to live. Gillette's up there—he's traffickin' with the man. Sho'. He can't play that game with me."

He quickened his pace, then stopped as he saw Lispenard crossing a distant alley of the forest; then he went on again with all the stealthy intentness of a cat.

As for Lispenard, he had no caution about him this day; he was ridden by a solitary desire, and the farther he advanced the greater it became. Earlier, when he first discovered Lorena, he had been at some pains to conceal the nature of his expeditions, to double back and watch for pursuit. But San Saba had never followed, and in time Lispenard grew careless in this maze of trickery. He suspected Gillette's presence in the cabin, and he lay cached day after day among the bushes until he saw the man step uncertainly out into the sunlight. At that point he had a fair target. He could have killed Gillette from ambush, or he could have set San Saba afresh on the trail, neither of which acts was he above doing. Instead, he kept his own counsel and waited.

Before he got within sight of the cabin he heard Gillette calling back to the girl, and later he saw both Gillette and Quagmire swing down toward Deadwood. This was the situation for which he had long waited; directly they were out of sight he slipped off his horse, crept around on the blind side of the cabin, and circled until he stood by the door. She was singing to herself, crossing and recrossing the room. He marked her step until it came quite near the door, then he slid up to the entrance, traversed it at a stride and came face to face with her.

She drew back, she started to turn. His arms caught her like a trap, and all the pent-up sullen rage broke across the few flimsy barriers left of his decency. He struck her with his closed fist, and when she cried out and the echo of that cry trembled through the still, hot air he struck her again and shook her with all his strength.

"Shut up—you spitfire! I won't be bilked any more. By Godfrey, you'll pay your bill to me and you'll pay it in a neat lump sum!"

Her gun lay on the bunk, only a yard removed; and as she saw the taint in his bold eyes and the swollen flabbiness of his face every fibre in her revolted, every ounce of strength went into a great effort at freedom. He was a little off guard, and she wrenched an arm free and struck him across the mouth; her nails tore twin furrows in his slack lips, laid open the skin about his eyes. He let go of her then, and she sprang back; the table was between her and the bunk, and before she could circle around he came raging over the interval. She tried to make the table serve as a bulwark. His thick arms took it up and smashed it against the room wall as if it were only a toy. After that, and for all her courage, everything seemed to grow dim. She felt herself throwing things at him, she felt her back near to breaking as he caught her. His fist dropped on her shoulder with all the effect of a sledge; and when she next knew anything clearly she was in front of him, on his horse, going swiftly up the hillside and deeper into the trees.

All her instincts summoned her to keep up the struggle. Yet when she tried to pull away and drop to the ground she found herself pitifully weak, and all she succeeded in doing was to arouse his unbalanced anger so much more. His circling arm cut into her waist.

"Now stop it—stop it! I'm done with using words on you, my dear. Quite unmannerly of a gentleman to strike a lady. But I'm no gentleman and you're no lady. And you've had this coming to you for a long, long time. You laid open my scalp with that sharp tongue of yours more than once. I suppose you think your sex protects you. Well, it doesn't. Stop that moving about or I'll squeeze you purple."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Don't you wish you knew?" was his mocking retort. "You will never see Deadwood again, you will never see your charming hero again. My great regret is that I had to watch him day after day and couldn't shoot."

"Put me down!"

"You had better save your breath. There is one great lesson in my life, my dear girl, I wish to impress upon you. Never judge a man by appearances. I may have looked simple..."

The horse carried them upward and on. Once Lispenard dragged harshly at the reins and set the horse on its haunches. The man was muttering to himself and staring around at the trees. "Where's that rustling?" Then he went on, sinking his spurs deep into the animal's flesh. They fell over a rise and started down a pocket. The courage was out of the girl, she felt cold, pulseless; somewhere, deep down, hope was dying and all her fine dreams shrivelled and scattered. There was no good in this man—not an honest impulse, not a single saving grace. He represented the most debased point to which a human being could fall, he was the most brutal and degenerate specimen upon the earth—a man trained to be civilized, reared in the graces and knowing right from wrong, yet deliberately throwing all this overboard and reverting to the jungle. There was no element in Lispenard to which she could appeal, she was utterly defenseless. Even the animals had a code of a kind; this creature with the wild, bulging eyes, racked by passion and swayed by sullen anger and petty spites and raging thirsts, had no code.

They swept out of the depression and smashed through the brush, Lispenard never ceasing his mutter of talk and his weaving inspection of the forest around him. Something was on his mind, and the farther they travelled the harder he gripped her and the more he punished his horse, raking his spurs all along the animal's flanks, sawing at the reins. As badly as she herself was placed she felt sorry for the beast; the man was killing it with his temper. And presently she began to feel ashamed of her own lack of spirit.

"Let me down! You can't go on with this. You'll be caught sooner or later."

"Ha—you think so? Well, I'm not the tender Easterner any more, girl. I've studied under good heads. D'you think your blessed Tom Gillette will ever catch up? He can't do more than sit in a saddle. By Godfrey, I wish he would follow! There's a debt I'd like to pay. Oh, but I'll pay it! I'll leave him in torment the rest of his life!"

"Let me down!"

"Stop that screeching, or I'll give you something to cry about!"

"You'll never get away, you swine!"

"Don't believe all you read in the story books," he jeered. "I've got a nice little retreat picked up here. And you'll wash and mend and cook for me while they search till the very pit freezes over. You'll see 'em within hand's reach, too, but I'll have you whipped then! You won't have enough spirit to raise your head!"

They swept into another small depression, ringed around by the pines. The horse swerved, and Lispenard sat back in his saddle to curb the animal, his grip on the girl relaxing. She had been watching for such a moment; her whole body gathered into one last effort, she wrenched the encircling arm free and flung herself outward and down, landing asprawl on the uneven ground. Lispenard's cry of rage broke like a bomb in the glade, the horse came to a swirling halt, and the man sprang from the saddle. Lorena rose and ran. If she only could reach the shelter of the trees and just for a moment put him off the trail...She heard his heavy body pounding in pursuit, she heard his laboured breathing nearer and nearer; she knew she had no right to look around, but the fear she had of him was stronger than her reason. So she turned her head just as his great arm came swinging outward. It struck her on the temple and she collapsed, crying like a child with a broken heart.

Lispenard stood over her, watching her face. But for the moment she was done, she had no tricks left in her. The brush rattled behind him, and he whirled about, yanking the gun from his belt and challenging.

"Who's that?"

There was no answer. Lispenard's rolling eyes passed around the circle; a patch of sun came through the aperture of the trees and sparkled along his sweat-beaded face. In the hard light he seemed more gross, more frenzied than before; the great muscles of his neck stood out sharply, and his immense chest rose and fell to his laboured breathing. Presently he became aware that he made a fair target, and the thought sent him tramping around the edge of the glade, knees springing at each step and his gun veering from side to side. Down went his yellow head, like that of an enraged and trapped bull. Near the girl he stopped.

"Get up!"

He saw her tremble; it seemed only to rouse the last vile dregs of his temper. "Get up, you spitfire! Don't sham with me! I've got you and I'll keep you! Next time you try that I'll break bones! Get up!"

The brush stirred behind him; he swung on his heels, every flabby muscle of his face cutting a seam across the white flesh. Lorena rose to her knees and turned her head. Across, on the opposite side from Lispenard, San Saba stood framed between two small pines; the ex-foreman's little red eyes were affixed to Lispenard's back and his thin features were set and drained of emotion. Even as she looked, his arms dropped and rose, and there was a gun levelled in his palm.

"Turn aroun', yella-belly."

Lispenard revolved, the breath blasting out of his mouth. "By Godfrey!"

"Drop that gun."

Lispenard appeared rooted; his eyes rolled and flashed. "No by a..."

"Drop it or yo' die this minute."

The gun fell. San Saba stood straighter, and there was an imperceptible flickering of emotion across his gray lips. "Yo' been deceivin' me right along, man," said he, droning out the words. "Yo' knew Gillette was in that cabin. Yo' tricked me to he'p yo' own plans."

"Well," snapped Lispenard, "he's still there. Go back and get him if you want him. Don't interfere with me."

"Trash. Yo' jest trash. I don't traffic with women, and I got no use fo' a man as does."

"Don't be pious! Get out of my affairs!"

"No, suh. I'm a dam' rascal, like I once told you. But I don't sleep with snakes. Well, yo' had yo' minute of grace. I'm wipin' yo' out now."

Lispenard saw death across the interval and his whole face twisted into lines of agony. "Here—let me get my gun. You tricked me out of it. Fair fight."

"I don't fight fair," said San Saba, each word falling sharp and rhythmically across the space, "unless I've got to."

The girl averted her head from the ex-foreman. She felt the movement of Lispenard's body; there was a single smashing echo, and the Blond Giant was on the ground, threshing his life away. She had never heard a cry wrung out of any creature half so shrill or so despairing; San Saba's boots advanced, quite slowly, each slap and squeal of leather cutting a deeper furrow into her nerves. He passed behind her, he stopped. The fallen man's breath came in tremendous gulps. There was one more shot, and then utter silence descended upon the glade, and the girl sat on her knees, hands over her face as if she was praying. Out of that silence, as long as a century, came San Saba's brittle words.

"Yo' have nothin' to fear from me, ma'm. I don't traffic in women."

She thought she heard a shuttering sound away down the slope. San Saba spoke a little more quickly. "Ma'm, yo' got nothin' to fear. Stand up. Did the dawg do an—?"

There was a break to the sentence. She looked up to see the man facing north, slightly bent, and his little eyes running back and forth over the trees. The drumming became plainer, more insistent, brush broke and crackled. San Saba shook his head at her. "Keep still. No sound from yo'." He retreated and presently was in the thicket. Lorena got to her feet, meaning to run over and meet the oncoming horsemen; before she could move Gillette swept into the clearing, hatless, and a streak of crimson fresh on his face. Lorena flung up her arms, crying, "Tom—look out—watch the bushes!"

She saw him sway. A shot blasted the glade. Gillette was pat against his saddle, gun speaking along the far side of his horse. There was a rumbling yell, and Quagmire spurred on across the opening. More shots ran into each other, and a swift exchange of words rumbled and died out there beyond sight. The brush smashed, Quagmire sounded again, farther off; at this Tom slipped from his saddle and gathered the girl toward him, saying not a word.

Quagmire returned, wrath simmering on his morose face. "San Saba. Pullin' consid'ble leather. Waitin' to take a bite at yo', Tom. Looks like he got a stray skunk befo' he lit out, though. Durnedest fella ever I met. One shot an' run. Shucks, I couldn't ketch him with this hay burner."

"Let's turn back," said Gillette. He stepped around the girl, shielding her from the sight of the dead Lispenard; he put her into his own saddle and took the dead man's horse. The three of them rode down the slope single file.

"One chore done, another to do," murmured Quagmire. "Allus a little bit o' scandal left over. It ain't creation's pu'pose ever to let mortal man get a square deal. All we do from cradle to grave is play a rigged game. Ain't it foolish?"