Читать книгу Saddle and Ride: Western Classics - Boxed Set - Ernest Haycox - Страница 18

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It was yet starlight when Old Mose, drumming his knuckles against a wash pan, sang out reveille. "Arise, yo' sons o' sin! Mo'nin' comes, the sun will shine, an' the little dogies am ready fo' to go! Rise to beans an' biscuits!"

One by one the Circle G riders shook out their blankets, rolled bedding, and helped themselves to breakfast. Fog hung low over the ground; the damp sage rendered up its pungent smell. Already the cattle were stirring and the nighthawk was in with the cavvy. It was no time for lagging, no time for talk. Men drank their coffee in morose silence and went to the improvised rope corral for their ponies. Sharp profanity crackled in the cold air, loops whistled, dust rose; saddle gear jingled and squeaked, the horses crowhopped under their riders—and the day's work began.

Tom found his old saddle in the supply wagon and lugged it to the corral, shaking out his rope. Major Bob, already mounted, came up. "I brought an extra string for you, Tom. Catfish, there—Slit Ears—the Lawyer—the buckskin with the straight belly—that leggy roan. We had no time to do more than to break 'em rough. They'll carry you if you haven't forgotten how to ride."

Tom picked the buckskin with the straight belly, roped him and led him aside. The crew had scattered, but Tom, tightening his cinches, saw them covertly watching, and he grinned wryly. He stepped a foot in one stirrup, flipped over the reins, and was in the saddle. The buckskin's muscles quivered, snapped together. Tom felt the pony's back hump; and as the animal's head dropped forward he was swept by the old emotion of wild, half-savage joy. "Pitch, you crowbait, pitch, or I'll rake hide!"

He was carried fifty yards in a series of weaving, necksnapping jumps. Dust obscured him, the earth disappeared, leaving him high and lonesome in his seat. He weaved like a drunken man, hearing himself yell. That yell came back to him—it was Quagmire's bullfrog croak. The buckskin wound itself into a last wicked bundle of knots, lurching sidewise, always sidewise to loosen and throw the rider off balance. Trip hammers pounded on Tom's skull, the pit of his stomach was a ball of fire. Then it was over and the buckskin swept across the prairie like the wind. Tom shook himself together and assembled his grin. "What a man learns, he never forgets. You old sidewinder, you're going to be a spunky horse. Swing around now."

When he got back to the chuck wagon Major Bob had only a silent nod for him. Tom spoke laconically, unconsciously falling into the old way of speech with its slurring softness. "Reckon he'll be tole'ble."

Lispenard had switched into more appropriate clothes—bought in Dodge—and stood watching Quagmire saddling another horse. The aftermath of his celebration in town was a fretful humour. He shook his shoulders, grumbling, "Here I am, dressed like Simon Legree. Now I suppose I'll have to board that vicious rack of bones and get my neck shook off."

Major Bob looked sharply at Lispenard, yet spoke with unusual courtesy—always a sign that he struggled with his temper. "You are a guest of the outfit, sir. Be assured. Quagmire is saddling the gentlest beast. If you were a rider, like my son, you would have to take your chances. In this country we don't break horses for other men. I will permit no hazing with you."

Lispenard walked slowly toward Quagmire. "I'd feel better about it if I had a drink. It's a hell of an animal to be called gentle."

The pony was an undersized brute, coloured like grandmother's blanket. It turned a scrawny neck and looked at Lispenard from two expressionless glass-green eyes, dropping one ear. The man rubbed his hands along his pants. "Never think a horse has no brain. That creature is openly sneering at me."

Quagmire cast a glance back at the Gillettes. As he gave over the reins he whispered sibilantly, "Don't like the way he holds his ears. Plumb bad sign. If he starts groanin' like a los' soul, you pile off hell bent fo' election. It means he's des'prit."

Lispenard scanned Quagmire's face. Nothing but solicitude and benevolence appeared on the puncher's warped features. The Blond Giant said, "Oh, well, here goes," and stepped gingerly into the saddle, holding the reins with one hand and clutching the horn with the other. Quagmire backed hurriedly off as if expecting trouble. The glass-eyed calico stood with his eyes to the earth like a bemused philosopher for a moment, then gave vent to a long, dreary sigh. His rider clawed at the saddle horn and struck the ground on all fours. The horse turned a puzzled face, moving not an inch.

Quagmire's countenance was as bland as a summer sky. In the distance one of the crew bent over, seemingly having trouble with his stomach. Major Bob spoke in a silken voice. "Quagmire, get out of here! Mister Lispenard, that horse stopped pitching twelve years back."

Lispenard muttered something and mounted again. Riding past Quagmire he gave the man a cold look. "Dam' funny, wasn't it?"

But Quagmire only shook his head. "Nev' trust a hoss—nev' trust a stranger's word," was his answer. And he rode away.

Tom galloped toward the herd with the Blond Giant in pursuit. The Circle G riders had spread out, making a long line on either side of the herd; the wagons were moving on. Major Bob, far to one flank, raised his hat and dipped it. Swing and drag riders pressed against the fringes of the herd. It moved, imperceptibly at first but with gaining momentum, stretching into a long, irregular, formless mass. The drive was on.

Tom stood aside until the tail end of the procession passed, then fell in with the drag—those riders who ranged to the rear and kept the slower or more stubborn animals from straying. The sun rose out of the east all in splendour, the prairie stood forth in the clear morning's light, rolling league after league to the horizons. Dust curled against the sky, dust choked the drag. Bandanas were raised over faces; the day grew warm.

"Now watch, Blondy," said Tom. "Watch all this. It's a sight you never saw the like of before. By Godfrey, it's a picture."

"I wish I had a drink," replied Lispenard fretfully.

It was a picture—a picture flung prodigally across a sweeping canvas. Twenty-five hundred Texas cattle stretched in a long, sinuous line, dipping and rising with the ground, flowing onward at a steady yet apparently aimless pace; gaunt kine with big eyes and enormous horns that clacked tip to tip as they collided; here and there pausing to find a clump of grass; now and then bunching up and widening until the swing men closed in and pinched the line narrow again. Moving thus onward across a Kansas prairie green with grass newly born of the warm April rains and the warm April sun, across a prairie seemingly as boundless, as vast as the sea.

Quagmire sidled up, nothing showing above the bandana but his shrewd eyes. "They was spooky brutes when we lef Menard. Tell a man. We walked 'em plum' hard till they got out o' the idee. Now ain't they trail-broke?"

Tom pointed to a brick-red steer that travelled as far out on the flank as it could get, tossing enormous horns into the air at every step. "There's a trouble maker."

"It's Jedge Lynch," said Quagmire. "He ain't got but one eye, so he keeps out where he can see the rest o' the herd. Shore he's a trouble maker. Spooky to boot. He'll raise hell sometime. Ort to be shot." Then, spacing his words farther apart and looking directly into Tom's eyes, he added, "You'll find more'n one trouble maker on this drive." He swung about and dropped to the rear, leaving Tom thoughtful. Quagmire was an old head, a wise head. And after the custom of the country he often cloaked shrewd sentiments in seemingly guileless words.

"Funny face," grunted Lispenard. "He's certainly got a stale sense of humour."

Tom pointed his pony out of the dust and motioned to the Blond Giant. Together they rode past the swing men and galloped toward the head of the column which was now dipping from view. In the remote distance squatted a sod shanty; elsewhere the land seemed tenantless, left to the wild creatures that crawled or ran. The smiling sun struck the earth with the first hot rays of the season, the sky was azure, and afar to the left a string of hills stood clearly silhouetted.

"So this is the country you've bragged about for five years," muttered Lispenard. "Well, if I had to live in it I'd go crazy."

"Not unless you were crazy to begin with," said Tom. "Buck up, amigo. You'll feel better when the headache wears away. Didn't I tell you Western whiskey was poison for the uninitiated?"

"Mean to tell me," demanded Lispenard, "you actually like this desolation?"

Tom turned, vehement phrases forming on his tongue. But he could not express them. This man, once his bosom friend, was becoming strange to him. The barriers were up. So he contented himself with saying, "I'm just beginning to live," and put his horse to a faster pace. A jack shot out of their path as they fell over a roll of land and came upon Major Bob and San Saba riding side by side. Point men were ahead, not directly in front of the herd, but flanking it. Thus being unknowingly guided, the bovine vanguard ambled along. At the fore was an ancient and scarred steer with a broken horn who seemed to understand he led the parade. Major Bob pointed him out to Tom.

"Roman Nose. He took charge of this drive the third day out. That steer is as valuable to us as three top hands."

Tom fell in with his father. San Saba dropped back a little and thus paired with Lispenard. By daylight the foreman seemed even more taciturn and ill-proportioned; Tom was again struck with the incongruity of so small a head on so tall a body. It reminded him of a ball set atop a flagpole. Looking back, he met San Saba's eyes and nodded. But there was no response other than a short, impassive glance from those little red-rimmed eyes. No more than that, and the foreman had turned, ignoring him. Tom heard the man's dry voice questioning Lispenard beside him.

"Hope, suh, yo' are findin' it pleasant?"

"Me?" grunted Lispenard. "I feel like an empty wine vat. When did prohibition hit Kansas?"

Again the foreman's laconic drawl. "Don't let the boys fool yo' with their antics. Any time I can he'p yo', let me know."

It was apparent that San Saba made an effort to be friendly. Tom thought about it awhile, then turned to a more important matter.

"Any particular spot in Dakota we are heading for? Or is it just a matter of discovery?"

The Major shook his head. "Last year news reached us that some territory around the headwaters of the Little Missouri was opening. I may say I got first word of it and immediately sent San Saba and Big Ruddy up to locate suitable range. Owing to our promptness, we have got the best of the ground. San Saba came back, leaving Big Ruddy to hold it. Since then other outfits have likewise sent scouts out and are driving north. But ours is the choice of the picking."

San Saba, hearing his name mentioned, swept the pair of Gillettes with a quick, wry glance.

"Can Big Ruddy hold it?" questioned Tom.

"Squatter's right," answered the Major. "It's free grass, but I shall file on the water. Meanwhile Big Ruddy has ample cartridges and a good gun. I have faith no one will try to jump the claim on him. However, I started early to avoid trouble in the matter. I believe we are the first outfit north this season."

Satisfied, Tom reined about and walked his horse down the line. Lispenard was talking to San Saba and didn't follow.

Onward they travelled. North, always north. Sunrise and sunset. Beans and coffee in the starlight. Night after night with the infinite heavens for a canopy and the yellow firelight playing upon Quagmire's twisted, solemn visage. Twenty-five hundred cattle trampling a broad trail across the lush earth, Roman Nose plodding to the fore, wise with years. Hot sun beating down; swift spring rains pouring out of the sky, flooding the coulees and vanishing as quickly as they came. And again the hot sun playing on the wet prairie and the steam rising up. Five miles a day, eight miles a day, sometimes fifteen miles a day. They crossed the ford of the Smoky Hill, they crossed the Saline and the Solomon. Kansas was behind, and the plains of Nebraska beckoned them north—level, limitless.

Lispenard settled into the life with a kind of resignation. Riding pulled some of the flesh off him, the dust and hot winds erased his ruddiness. And since shaving in alkali water was no less than torture he let the stubble flourish on his face. When well kept he was nothing short of handsome; now he seemed all at once slack and untidy. The long hours in the saddle, the short sleep, the never-ending monotony of the food bore heavily on his spirit. Now and again a flash of his humour bubbled up, but rubbing elbows day by day with the tight-lipped stoics of the Circle G frayed his nerves and left him grumbling. He had not learned to lock his lips as others did.

"How long is it going to take us to reach Dakota?" he asked, one night.

Tom spread his palms upward. "Twenty days—forty days—sixty days."

"And not a drop to drink," murmured Lispenard. He scanned the circle with gloomy eyes. "I begin to understand what makes you fellows look like mummies. A drop of liquid would bloat the whole crew."

Quagmire stirred the fire. "Once was a fella down on the Brazos by name of Dode Leener who bragged he nev' had tasted water. Nothin' but whisky. One o' the boys goes out, ketches a rattlesnake, an' squirts a little venom into a cup, mixin' it with a thimbleful o' water. Takes it to Dode an' says it's the purest water in the state. Dode, he drinks it. By'n'by he sorter perks up. 'Men,' says he, 'if that's water I shore been missin' somethin' good all these years.' Nex' day he happens to ride acrost the Brazos, an' rememberin' what a treat he'd had the day before he squats down an' drinks his stummick full. Plain water."

Silence pervaded the circle. Quagmire continued to prod the ashes with his twig.

"Well," demanded Lispenard impatiently, "what happened then?"

"He died," said Quagmire, voice breaking.

Lispenard threw up his head. Grave faces looked back at him. San Saba stood on the edge of darkness, and San Saba's head jerked a trifle. Lispenard waited a little while before rising and going into the shadows. The assembled punchers sank back into the blankets one by one. Presently he came back, a transformed man. He was smiling broadly and his eyes rolled. Nobody paid him attention as he went to the chuck wagon and drew the gun from a suspended holster there. Of a sudden his voice yipped across the silence, the gun crashed twice.

"All dam' lies! Anyhow, I know Kansas ain't dry yet! Whoooopeeee!"

Tom sprang to his feet and knocked the gun out of Lispenard's hand. Blankets flew through the air as every cowpuncher raced for his horse. Out of the distance came an ominous rustle, a sound of horns clicking and feet stamping. Major Bob ran into the light, words lashing them all.

"Who drew that gun?"

"Well, I did," grumbled Lispenard, quickly sobered. "Wass trouble?"

A steady stream of profanity droned and sputtered beyond the fire. But a clear call stopped the feverish saddling. "All right—all right. It's God's mercy they ain't spooky to- night. Somebody give that gent a fire-cracker to play with."

Major Bob said never another word, but his glance went through and through Lispenard. He swung on his heel and disappeared.

"It only takes the snap of a finger to stampede a herd when they're restless," explained Tom briefly.

The crew returned. Lispenard went over and dropped the gun in its holster. Tom, watching him, saw his arms wobble and knew then what had caused the trouble. He raised his eyes to find San Saba peering through the darkness, taciturn, unwinking, and at that moment a chill shot down Tom Gillette's back and he felt the hackles rise. San Saba disappeared.

It was on the following morning that Tom, high on a ridge, saw a small herd of buffalo feeding quietly in the plain. Turning, he raced down upon the outfit.

"Fresh meat," he called. "Buffalo boudins."

Major Bob slackened pace. "San Saba—Quagmire, go along. Tom, better take Mr. Lispenard for the excitement."

The quartette assembled and galloped back up the ridge. "Hold on," said Tom. "The wind's quartering away from us. We'll swing into that ravine."

Doubling back, they crossed the ridge farther down and got below the surface of the plain. Rifles came out of their boots. Lispenard's eyes snapped. "What now?"

"Stick with me," adjured Tom. "We could bring down meat by squatting here and taking a long shot. But it's your party, so we'll ride among 'em. Stick with me. Pick a bull and follow him down. Ready?"

The cavalcade gathered reins and shot out of the depression. Three hundred yards off the buffalo grazed peacefully. But as the hunters came to view their heads came up and immediately they raced away. Quagmire's horse forged ahead. San Saba veered slightly and lost some ground. Tom and Lispenard pounded on, gathering up the interval. Quagmire was riding like an Indian, and his pony flung itself directly into a breach of the herd. The puncher's bull-frog voice roared across the prairie, and his lithe body bent far in the saddle.

Lispenard seemed to find a road for himself, and Tom, aiming at a piece of open ground, shot alongside a shaggy bull. He was, of a sudden, in the midst of confusion, dust all about him. A rifle cracked at his side, and he heard Quagmire yelling again. Giving his pony loose rein, he brought up his gun and took a fleeting aim. But he never pulled the trigger. Another shot sang through the pounding, bellowing melee; his horse stumbled, went down, heels over head. Tom, wrenching himself clear, fell ten yards away. The herd roared by, sand sprayed in his face, and though the wind was out of him, he tried to find his gun. In a moment it was all over. Crawling to his feet, he saw the herd galloping westward, Lispenard still in pursuit and losing ground. Quagmire was coming back; San Saba had already dismounted and was using his knife on a carcass.

"Gopher hole?" asked Quagmire, dropping from the saddle.

Tom stood by the dead horse. Blood welled out of a bullet hole just above the shoulder, and Quagmire studied it with an absolutely impassive countenance. After a time his shrewd eyes rose, and it seemed to Tom that the heat of some internal fire warmed them.

"Call it a stray shot," said Tom briefly. "The dust was high."

"Yeah—call it that," agreed Quagmire. In a lower tone he added, "I allus did say that one-eyed steer ort to be killed. They's trouble makers enough in this outfit without him." And he turned to skin his game. San Saba had nothing to say. Silently they packed the choice meat in the hides and rode back to camp, Tom doubling up behind Quagmire.

Five days later the Circle G lay on the north side of the South Platte, camped outside of Ogallala. They were seventeen days from Dodge, they had suffered no disaster, and now the lights of a far-famed rendezvous beckoned. Half of the crew rode in to see the sights, and foremost went San Saba and Lispenard. Friendship of a kind had sprung up between them, and straight to the first saloon they aimed. The Blond Giant, seizing the bottle from the barkeep with swift eagerness, poured, saluting San Saba.

"Now, my lad, do you remember the way to camp?"

San Saba nodded. "Reckon."

"Then don't forget it. When I finish here you'll have to carry me back. Happy days! I'm blotting out two weeks of dry misery!"

San Saba drank slowly, rolling the liquor around his tongue. And with each subsequent glass his gravity increased and the red pall in his eyes grew the more pronounced. He threw his shoulders back, went through every motion with preciseness. As for Lispenard, he was lost to these niceties. He swallowed the whisky, pony after pony; his fist pounded the bar, his eyes rolled and flashed wildly. San Saba studied him like a judge. After a long interval he leaned forward, speaking impressively.

"My mammy was a Kentucky belle. My pappy was a Virginny kunnel."

"Let their bones rest," said the Blond Giant.

"Suh," proceeded San Saba, "I am the son of quality. And I know quality when I see it. Yo' are like me, damnably like me."

"We will christen that statement. San Saba, I see the devil hidin' in your eyes. You're an unregenerate piece of humanity. I'll bet you're the man that drank rattlesnake juice and liked it."

San Saba's face relaxed and he smiled, a sparing smile that never reached his eyes nor parted his thin lips. "I see yo' got a little more intelligence than ordinary." And when he saw Lispenard's head droop in weakness he said something more. "It takes a dam' rascal to know another dam' rascal."

"Wha' that?"

San Saba shrugged his narrow shoulders, seeming to weigh his partner. Casually, he looked about the room. Almost immediately his attention was affixed to a far corner where a paunchy, middle-aged man with dead white hair happened to be standing. Their eyes met; the elderly man nodded his head, and San Saba, glancing around to see if he was observed, returned the nod and walked out of the saloon. At the next alley he paused, retreating into the shadows. Presently the elder man marched out and followed. San Saba's arm reached out and arrested him.

"Where's yo' camp, Kunnel Wyatt?"

"West three miles. San Saba, why the devil are you here? I thought you agreed to keep Gillette back on the trail."

"Time enough yet. Go on, suh. My boys are in town. Don' want any to see me with yo'. I'll follow yo' to camp."

They separated. San Saba returned to the saloon door. Lispenard was in a poker game, in the process of being professionally trimmed. San Saba went to his horse and, keeping to the shadows, rode out of Ogallala westward.