Читать книгу Saddle and Ride: Western Classics - Boxed Set - Ernest Haycox - Страница 80

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Prairie Street emerged from Sundown and became the Ysabel Junction stage road winding south to the steel ribbon that made a dividing line between the rolling contours of Yellow Hill County and the open immensity of the lower prairies. Also in that direction, leagues ahead, was the state capital; Sundowners occasionally visited the capital and came back with the feeling they had been on a long journey, such being the isolation of the land. The stage road, already turning to powdered dust from the early spring sunshine, had not been fashioned by men who cared much for easy grades; it went straightaway up the slopes and coasted directly down into the numerous little valleys. Where so bold an attack was impossible, it zigzagged weirdly along cliff faces or shot around high rock points. But always it took the short way in preference to the easy one, a matter-of-fact reminder that here horses were cheaper than time.

Dr. Williamson knew his country very well after thirty years of practice in it. Sitting taciturnly in the buggy seat, coat tails flapping, he put the team to a stiff trot and covered the distance. About five miles from town he abandoned the stage road for a stock trail that wavered up along the backbone of a pine- studded ridge; this threatened to peter out presently, but the good doctor only took another morsel of tobacco and drove ahead. A windfall lay across the way; he looked sharply to either side for an alternative trail and, failing to find it, whipped the horses over the obstruction, buggy springing violently. Ahead was a steep climb. Without comment Denver spurred beside the rig, shook his loop over an angle iron on the dashboard, and towed the vehicle to the crest. From this eminence many small valleys and holes were to be seen puckered between the rising ridges. Cattle grazed along the lush areas, a line cabin stood here and there, and far below a patch of river surface flashed in the afternoon sun. There was no distinct trail downward, but the trees were thin and the ground open. Denver dropped back, rope still holding the buggy, to act as a drag, and the doctor drove down with a sort of reckless wisdom, choosing his openings on the run, vehicle teetering and hubs scraping against tree trunks. Presently a road shot around the hill, and the doctor took it. Denver cast off; the party set ahead on the run. Copperhead River and Copperhead Valley lay below, and in five more minutes of headlong driving Dr. Williamson drew up to the very margin of the water and stepped stiffly down. Across the river was a cabin, and out on the bank a man moved back and forth, wringing his hands. "It's Miz Jesson, all right," grunted the doctor. "I told her a month ago she ought to move into Sundown for this event."

"River's a little wild," said Denver dubiously.

"So the Fee man told me," observed Williamson. "But the detour's too long. I'd be too late. There's a baby bein' born yonder, and we got to cross."

"That's different," was Denver's laconic reply. He ran his eyes along the turbulent stream. Normally this particular spot was a safe and shallow ford with sloping sandy sides. Today the Copperhead, swollen by rain and melting snow, came charging out of its upper gorges and threw itself turbulently across what once had been a slack area. Even as they watched, the teeth of the current bit out vast chunks of the bank and swept them down. Jesson was apparently shouting at the top of his voice and making no impression against the sheering, crackling sound of the current.

"Damned if I see how it's any different," was Steve Steers's gloomy thought. "It ain't fordable."

Denver's attention stopped at a cottonwood beside him. "If we could tie a rope to one of the upper branches of that tree—and get the rope yonder—you might be able to slide to Jesson monkey fashion, Doc."

"Try it," said Williamson. "I carry fifty foot of rope in the buggy."

Steve Steers got that piece and joined it to his own rope. Denver made another tie with his. "That's about a hundred and fifty feet to operate on."

"Why anchor this end clear up the tree?" questioned Steve. "More solid down at the base."

"Got to keep it out of the water," said Denver. "Once the current catches the bight of this line it'll jerk the eye teeth out of the man that tries to hold it. Shin up."

Steve took an end of the combined rope, shinnied halfway up the cottonwood, and made it stoutly secure. Denver, meanwhile, had advanced to the water's edge and was coiling part of the free end for a throw. Jesson waved his hands and stepped a few feet into the river. Denver swung the loop mightily and let go. Jesson jumped, but the line fell short and was whipped downstream. Denver swore softly, wading farther from shore while Steve hauled the rope back and handed it out to his partner. The lash of the current curled around Denver's hips, and he rocked with the impact. Jesson had advanced as far as he dared. Once again Denver put his whole strength into the cast—and knew that he had failed. Jesson stumbled and clawed for dry ground, shaking his head like a crazy man. Steve hauled in the dripping rope and said nothing. Denver got back to shore and stared across to the cabin so near and still so unattainable. Misery lived in that cabin; life flickered while the iron claw of nature pressed destructively down. Once again Denver found himself fighting against the primal, brute forces of the land as he had been doing all the years, and once again the black temper of the man came whipping across his face, and his violet eyes flared with the morose desire to check and defeat that overwhelming, inevitable power under the shadow of which all men walked. Burning sun, blizzard, miring mud, snow-choked trails, thirst, starvation—he had fought these things doggedly, and now he found the same grim, impersonal enemy in front of him again, shaped as a swollen river.

He swung up to his saddle and reached for the coil of rope. "I'll try a little farther out," he told Steve.

"We're not gettin' much of anywhere. It's too long a toss."

A rider came loping down the road, followed a short cut, and advanced on the group. Steve muttered something under his breath, but Denver nodded gravely. The newcomer was slim, willowy; a black hat shaded a dark, triangular face—rather expressive face with sleepy, watchful eyes. Those eyes took in the scene, detail by detail. A pleasant voice drawled.

"Howdy, boys. What's the caper?"

"River to cross, Lou," said Denver and pushed his horse into the stream. The animal bunched and halted. Denver set his spurs and forced it on until the curling surface rose to the beast's belly. Jesson was posted again. Denver canted his body to get a long sweep into his throw, shot the rope high and swift, and felt his mount lose footing. There was nothing to do but let the animal have free head; it had been overbalanced by the current and, fighting for a hold on the slippery gravel, it swung and slowly slid down the stream. The current lifted it bodily, and then, in the space of a moment, man and horse were so much helpless drift in the angry flood.

"Easy now," muttered Denver and put a little pressure into one knee. The horse responded, pointing its head toward the sliding shore. Steve was racing abreast; the newcomer shot past, shaking out his rope. Denver lifted one arm as a target for that throw, but at the same instant a contrary boil of the river shunted his mount circularly toward the bank. Denver felt the pony strike bottom, slide, and get a surer grip. Cautiously he worked out of it and reached land. The newcomer shook his head.

"Bad situation."

"Listen," grunted Steve, "use yore head. Once yuh get beyond depth yuh might as well sing a hymn. We got to dope another way of crossin' this drink."

"I'd offer to take a throw," put in the newcomer, "but if you can't reach it I can't do any better."

"Comin' from you, Lou," remarked Denver, "that's handsome."

"Just so. I hate to admit any man's better than me."

Denver rode back to the cottonwood and signaled Jesson. By considerable wigwagging he conveyed the idea he wanted Jesson to saddle a horse and bring it to the river; Jesson nodded and ran back behind the cabin. Denver dismounted, removing his own saddle.

"Now what?" asked Steve.

"Got another idea. I almost made that throw. Another five feet and the thing's done."

"Yeah?" was Steve's skeptical reply. "Another five feet and yore sunk. Don't consider it."

Denver studied the river. "There's an offsetting current right above us. If a man rode into it he'd be carried out a considerable distance—close enough to make a sure toss of the rope."

Steve stared at his partner. The newcomer rode away to inspect the possibilities. Steve cleared his throat. "Tell you what, Dave. Yore throwin' arm is some weary. Supposin' I do the water- walkin' act yuh got in mind."

"You climb up in that cottonwood and keep an eye on the rope."

The newcomer rode back. "It'll carry you down the river pretty fast, Dave."

"I suppose so."

"Well, I'll ride along the bank with a loop shook out."

"Obliged, Lou," said Denver and rode bareback to the spot he intended embarking from. Steve paid out the line to him, and then both he and the newcomer placed themselves in a position to hold it from the water. Jesson rode hurriedly down from the cabin. Denver signaled his purpose, and Jesson pantomimed his understanding. He made his horse breast into the current and turned it broadside to Denver, lifting both hands above his head.

Denver built his loop, at the same time holding the shore end as high as he could. Steve and the newcomer watched him with fixed attention; Williamson's leather cheeks were gravely clamped around a section of tobacco. Denver eased the horse into the water and made it go straight forward until its belly touched. Immediately the pressure of the current shot the beast beyond footing and Denver, gripping with his knees, began to swing the loop. The far shore shot past with queer rapidity, the pony began to roll, and the man knew that when he made his last throw he would be too far off balance ever to recover. Jesson's upraised arm came abreast, the loop went like a bullet; Denver, plunging into the stream to keep from dragging against the bight, saw Jesson catch and snub the loop in frenzied haste. Then Denver went down like a rock with a roar and a rumble in his ears.

When he came up, strangling out water, he saw his horse's head bobbing in the distance. He saw, too, a blurred and panoramic strip of shore and Lou Redmain spurring along it. After that some resurgent wave slapped him in the face, upset his coolness, and sent him down; and all he knew was that his arms and feet were struggling aimlessly against the smother of the river. He broke the surface a second time and fought to maintain himself, no longer finding the shore. White spearheads reared jaggedly, his breath was shut off. Something struck him on the temple; instinctively he hooked an arm above his head, feeling a counter current pressing him back. He thought Redmain had missed, and he made the attempt to clear his head and at least coast on the surface; but the same counter current that had stopped him now rolled him over, and he descended into the queer night of drowning. And it was with a very dim consciousness that he felt a tightening around his body and a stiff pressure. Purely by reflex he wound his arms about the rope; and so was hauled ashore.

He was not out, but Williamson had him straddled and was pressing the water of the Copperhead from his lungs. Presently the hunger for air left, and he drew a full breath. Williamson stood up. "All right, Dave. You did your job, now I'll do mine."

"Think you can wangle acrost on that rope, Doc?" Steve Steers wanted to know.

"I'm seventy years old," stated Williamson, "and I've done everything but the tight-rope act. I guess I'm not too old to do that. But I'm damned if I'll come back the same way. I'll ride one of Jesson's horses around by the bridge. Dave, you take my team and buggy to your place, and I'll pick it up later."

While talking he had somehow lashed his pill bag to his chest. Getting on his feet, Denver looked across the river. Jesson had backed his horse from the water and, by paying out the rope, had swung to a higher section of the shore. Thus, if the tension was maintained, Williamson could cross dry. The doctor climbed in front of Lou Redmain; the latter rode out into the river underneath the rope. Williamson stood up, grasped the rope and swung clear, feet and arms wrapped around it.

"I bet," said Steve Steers nervously, "he wishes he was closer to his monkey ancestors."

Williamson, swinging beneath the rope, moved rapidly and by degrees reached midstream. At this point the line let him down until his pendant coat tails skipped on the surface of the racing Copperhead. Jesson, keeping the far end snubbed around his saddle horn, apparently did not dare to place too great a strain on the rope; and he seemed to have some little trouble in holding his horse steady. Williamson halted, advanced a few feet beyond the middle point, and seemed to tire. So he stopped again while the three watchers on the west shore stood profoundly silent. Then the doctor crawled on, foot at a time, passed the most dangerous spot and elected to drop down in the shallow edge of the river rather than haul himself all the way to the high bank. He waded ashore and without stopping ran into the cabin.

Lou Redmain reached for his cigarette papers, casting a short, bright glance at Denver. "Doc," he muttered, "is all right."

"They ought to name the kid after him," stated Steve solemnly.

Denver chuckled. "Half the kids in Yellow Hill are named after him already."

"What is his first name, anyhow?" asked Steve.

"Stephen Burt Williamson."

"What?" exclaimed Steve. "Hell, them names is my names!"

"Sure," agreed Denver. "And the doc brought you into this vale of tears, likewise."

"I be damned!"

Jesson cast off the rope, and it snaked into the current. Steve hauled it in. Jesson was pointing toward the south, on his own side of the river, and Denver, looking in that direction, found his horse grazing a half mile down. Jesson made some more Indian talk and rode after the pony. "I'd figured it was fifty- fifty with that brute," mused Denver. Lou Redmain idled, giving Denver an opportunity to drawl his thanks. "I'm obliged. When your loop hit me I'd took in about all the liquid I was able to stand."

"Always glad to give you a hand," said Redmain politely. "Or Williamson."

Steve wandered off to the buggy. Denver watched Redmain's face when he put his sudden question. "Not toyin' to pry into your affairs, Lou, but Stinger Dann's in Sundown this afternoon."

"Perhaps," replied Redmain enigmatically, "I sent him there. Or perhaps he went of his own accord."

"He seems to be nursin' a grudge," went on Denver.

"I never knew him to be without one," said Redmain, lip curling.

"I was just wondering," drawled Denver, "if he happened to be pointed my way."

"I haven't put him on your trail," Redmain was quick to answer.

"That's all I wanted to know."

But Redmain pressed the point. "I've got no reason or desire to cause you trouble, Dave. And if that damned fool is figurin' to get on the prod I'll yank him back into the bushes."

"Let him have his fun," said Denver soberly. "He always has considered me to be his brand of poison, and it'd be just as well to let him try his hand. I don't like to watch men circle around me."

"He'll make no play against you," stated Redmain flatly. "In the first place, he's got to do what I tell him. In the second place, he's useful to me and I don't want him shot up."

"Yeah," mused Denver, "I always felt you regarded him as a right bower."

Redmain gathered his reins. "Got to be traveling. By the way, is that opera outfit in town?"

"Lola's there," said Denver quietly, "which is what you wanted to know."

For a moment a dark, wild flash of emotion flamed in Redmain's eyes, and the narrow face became taut and pale around the nostrils: here was a killer, a man without compassion or conscience emerging swiftly from a deceptive shell of manners. But with equal swiftness Redmain recovered himself and stared inscrutably down at Denver. Then he whirled and raced away from the river, pony hoofs making a rapid tattoo over the ground. Steve had mounted. Denver threw his saddle into the buggy, took the seat, and started off. Together the partners angled into the higher land. Purple crusted shadows folded about the ridges; the team's clatter rang far along the still ravines. Night settled down, bringing with it the pervading loneliness and mystery of a country yet untamed.

This was a busy season of the year, but Denver earlier in the day had given the crew leave to hit Sundown for the show and its pursuant revelry. So when he drew into the long avenue of poplars and came by the bunkhouse he found a strangely unnatural stillness pervading home quarters. The crew had eaten beforehand and departed, leaving behind only those recluse spirits who seemed to enjoy solitude. One of these stopped his fiddle in the dead center of a weird harmony and came out to take over the team. Lights winked from the main-house, water bubbled melodiously from a spring pipe, and the spiced scent of the hills swirled across the yard. Denver left an order with the hand.

"My saddle's back of the buggy. Slap it on that gray gelding, Shad."

Going to the house, Denver and Steve ate a quick snack; then Steve stretched himself in a front-room chair while Denver shaved and changed clothes. Rather facetiously the sandy-haired puncher hailed the transformation.

"Doggone it, Dave, yore beginnin' to drift out of my class. When a man barbecues his whiskers every day he ain't common folks no more."

"Fellow ought to show a clean face at the opera house, shouldn't he? You going?"

"Well, I'm driftin' back to Sundown," opined Steve, "but I ain't goin' to the show. Not by a jugful. Debbie would raise a ruckus if she heard."

Denver chuckled over a cigarette. "For an engaged man you sure take life serious. Why not wait until you get married before assumin' this pallbearin' atmosphere?"

Steve's lazy, quizzical features were puckered solemnly. "You don't know nothin' about it. When a man's married he knows where he stands. The judge has thrown the book at him, the knot's tied, and there ain't any question about it. Which I mean when a fellow's married he's plumb arrived somewhere. But this engagement business, what is it, anyhow? You ain't one thing and you ain't another. One minute yore hot as hell, and the next minute yore cold all over. You dunno what to say, what to do, or how to act. Dave, it's awful."

"When's the ceremony going to be?"

"Hah!" snorted the perplexed Steve. "There's another item. How in hell do I know? Listen, you got a great experience Comin' to yuh, Dave. Before you pop the question yore high card. Nothin's too good. You sit in the best parlor chair, the old man hands out his best cigars, and the lady leans on yore arm as if she couldn't do without yore big, handsome carcass. But afterward—then what? All of a sudden you ain't nothin' but a future husband. The girl gets a far-off cast to her eyes and considers clothes and etiquette and such stuff; the old man considers the expenses and don't pass out no more cigars. The parlor chair's sent back to the attic, and nobody's got time to talk to yuh atall. I don't know nothin' about it. I suppose I'll get a notice some day to appear at such and such a church for the event—and otherwise I'm just hangin' out on a limb waitin' to be sawed down."

Denver spoke rather gently at his partner. "I wouldn't want you to think I was casting any cold water on matrimony, and I think Debbie Lunt's a fine girl. But I recall when you and I used to ride fifty miles to a dance and have a pretty sizable time. Also I recall the occasion when you and I switched all the teams at Fee's barn raisin'. You seem to have lost some starch lately, Steve."

"I ain't had an idea of my own since I proposed," reflected Steve, weltering in gloom. "I thought that was sure a bright idea at the time. I ain't so sure any more."

"Then why get married?" grunted Denver.

"Well, I figgers it out this way. How will life be thirty years from now with Debbie? Terrible—awful. I shudders to think of it. A bath every week, no smokin' in the house, no liquor, no poker, no roamin'. No nothin'. It'll be, come here, Steve, and go there, Steve, and, Steve, mind the mud on yore shoes. Likewise, Steve, put a muffler on yore neck against the cold and, Steve, dear, I will take care of yore month's pay, so shell it over and don't bat them eyes on me like that. Oh, my Gawd!"

"If that's the way you feel," stated Denver, "why not bunch the proposition?"

"Well," sighed Steve, "I figgers that thisaway. How will life be thirty years from now if I ain't got her? Hell, Dave, there ain't any other woman who wants me. I'd be a single galoot. Batchin' in a shanty full of holes. Mendin' my own socks and cookin' my own beans. Nobody to talk to and nobody who gives a damn what happens to me. Bein' old and useless without a fambly is shore a sorrowful thing. So I considers. I shudders to think of bein' married to Debbie and I shudders to consider I'll lose her. Upon mature reflection I calculate I shudder hardest when I think of losin' her. Therefore, marriage is the ticket."

"Ought to be glad you got it fought to a standstill," offered Denver dryly.

"Yeah," muttered Steve and stared across the room. There was an enormous lack of enthusiasm in his answer, a kind of mortal weariness. "Oh, yeah. Uhuh."

"Let's go," said Denver, leading out. They got their horses and turned back on the trail. Beyond the poplars Denver stopped. "Listen, I sort of want to get a little information for my own personal use. Let's split here. You take the short way into town. I'll go round by the toe of Starlight."

Steve Steers was alert. "Lookin' for anybody in particular?"

"No, but I'd like to know if the population of Yellow Hill County is shiftin' across the Copperhead tonight. Stinger Dann has sort of put a bug in my bonnet."

"It's an idea," mused Steve, "and might bear fruit."

"Said fruit, if any, is for our own nourishment exclusively," warned Dave.

"I heard yuh the first time," stated Steve. "Let's slope. And better hurry, or yuh won't get to show that shave."

He spurred on down the trail. Denver cut around his ranch quarters, ascended a stiff pathway, and plunged into the sudden gloom of a pine belt. The lights from D Slash winked and were cut off; the pines spread away before an upland meadow swimming with fog, and this tilted into a narrow ravine that struck straight for leveler land to the south. Denver, with a comparatively free trail in front, urged a more rapid pace.

As he traveled he reviewed the affair at Copperhead crossing. Ever since that remote boyhood day when he became conscious for the first time that the placid world held a thousand threats he had been fighting savagely against the dominant elements. His whole life had been fashioned and tempered by these struggles and so now in manhood David Denver looked on the wild forces of nature as a pagan would, endowing these forces almost with living personalities. He had been fighting them too long to regard them any other way. Thus he felt a grim sort of satisfaction in knowing that he had whipped the river and won another engagement in that everlasting skirmish with the earth. Yet when he considered that but for the swift accuracy of Lou Redmain's lariat he would now be nothing more than a bit of senseless rubbish rolling along the turbid stream, all the rebellious instincts in him rose up, and he scowled at the night.

"No man can survive a thousand chances," he thought to himself, "and I've taken a great many already. Some day this country will get me. Like it got my dad. Like it's got others. I reckon I'll always be battling, and one of these times my foot is going to slip. When that happens I'm gone."

But he knew he would never quit, never fail to throw his strength into the contest.

He galloped down the incline with a slumbering shoulder of Starlight Canyon on his left. The stage road came sweeping past, and he turned into it, the gray gelding stretching out to a long free gallop. Below and beyond the prairie lay like a calm ocean, surface overlain with the misting fog. There was a moon somewhere above, but its pale light refracting against the heaving banks of atmosphere made only a shimmering corona that revealed nothing. The thick air cut through his shirt, and all the dampened incense of the countryside slid sluggishly across the highway. A coyote barked, and away below the road the bell of some homesteader's milk cow tinkled. Unconsciously Dave Denver's mood softened under the spell of a world fermenting with new life.

He crossed an open bridge, the boom of his pony's shod hoofs echoing away. Down a long and level grade he traveled, and up another rise. At the throat of some dim gully he stopped, dismounted, and applied a match to the wet side trail. But it was blank of riding signs, and he went on; past Dead Axle Hill, along the hairpin descent into Sundown Valley, and beside the foreboding wall of Shoshone Dome. Somewhere in the distance he caught the tremor of hasting riders; instantly he left the road and paused in a black crevice of the dome. The sound swelled out of the western side of the valley and suddenly dropped off.

"Comin' through the soft meadow stretch," he decided.

Presently the party achieved the sharper underfooting of the road and swept forward. Denver leaned over and placed his hand across the gelding's muzzle. Shadow and shadow flashed by, a bare twenty feet removed; silent shadows riding two abreast and swaying with the speed of their passage. Fire glinted from a flailing hoof, and then these nocturnal birds of passage had melted into the distance, and the reverberation was absorbed by the vast night. Denver regained the road.

"They started from the Wells," he reflected, "not from Sundown. And they're hell-bent for somewhere, as they usually are. My guess was wrong. Redmain's already pulled them out of the Sky Peak country. As always, when lightnin' strikes he's miles away. A wise man if not a good one." So plunged in thought, he let the gelding go and in a half hour picked up the lights of Sundown. Music came from the opera house; the show already had begun. He racked his horse in front of Grogan's and entered to find Steve at the bar.