Читать книгу Trail Smoke - Ernest Haycox - Страница 6

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This was night again and the crew was in the yard, waiting to go. A quick, cold wind flowed off the peaks; there was no moon. Torveen stood in the doorway of his office room, yellow light strongly shining against his roan cheeks. Posted at the foot of the porch, Surratt could make out the man's driving nervousness; there wasn't any fun in Torveen now and all his motions were swift and short. He drew a last long breath of smoke from his cigarette; he threw it out into the dust. His voice flattened.

"You got any questions, Buck?"

"That's all right," remarked Surratt very quietly.

"It may be—it may not be. But, God, you're cool about it! Well, let's go." Torveen jumped down from the porch and traveled over to his horse, Surratt following. The group whirled out of the yard, across the plank bridge and into the timber. At the main road Torveen turned eastward and led his men up the stiffening slope of the hills. They ran between the solid pines and through a covering blackness, with only a dim steel-blue strip of sky above. They crossed a covered bridge, booming deep echoes out into the night. They seemed to pass along the edge of a canyon, for Surratt could hear the rush of water down there, even above the steady flogging rhythm of pony hoofs. His horse was drawing for wind, but the pace kept on that way without break during the best part of half an hour; after that they walked a little way, surrounded by a dense blackness still—and presently broke into the long canter, again covering the miles.

They whirled suddenly out of the trees and pounded through a narrow gap. A steady, down-scouring wind met them in the face, with the chill of a higher elevation in it. There were a few short and stubby second-growth pines vaguely standing along this way, but these soon faded and they were riding across the face of a rocky slope, the black and abrupt bulk of one of the Gray Bull peaks running spirelike into the sky above them. Even without a moon the bare talus fields of this area reflected a tawny radium glow through the gloom. They plunged into a cold and damp mist cloud and rode sightlessly through its muffling substance. But somewhere along this stretch of road Surratt felt the grade level off and tip downward. He knew then they had crossed the pass.

Without warning, they were beyond the mist. Torveen spoke a slow order. Surratt piled into the rider ahead of him and reined up abruptly. The crew had stopped behind Torveen, whose body turned in the saddle, right and left. There was no talk, but the labored breathing of the horses reached out and disturbed the chilly dark. An opaque, triangular pattern just ahead seemed to mark the presence of a defile.

A voice came stolidly from the near-by rocks: "Torveen?"

"Yeah."

"Go ahead."

They passed into the defile and paced through it and emerged upon what seemed to be a meadow. Alert to all this, Surratt pulled up his chin and keened the night. And then he was relaxed and amused, and puzzled. His nostrils told him the mystery; and his ears told him. Another man walked vaguely into view, to challenge as the first man had done. A white, moving mass stirred along the earth, bleating up a confused, unmistakable sound. Here were sheep, the smell of them strong in the wind.

Torveen's voice came back, pitched to a high and driving restlessness. "You take the front, Nick. Rest of us scatter along the edges of this band. Stay on the road all the way back until we reach the turnoff to the upper meadow. Move along. Keep these woollies from straying. Push 'em, but not too fast. Come on."

Surratt went into the meadow, sheering off from the edge of the band. The sheep were already in motion, pressing through the defile into the road. Torveen had disappeared and the others had disappeared. Surratt turned and drifted. When he reached the road he flanked the sheep and sat loosely in his saddle. Torveen's voice came up from the rear. "Faster, Nick." Surratt saw the blurred white stream bulge and break from the road, just ahead; and he trotted that way and pressed the sheep back into the straggling column. His horse didn't like the work and shied away, but he squelched that with a few quick prods of his spur and went idle again, amused to the point of silent laughter. At twenty- five he had turned sheepherder, a job that all his cattle training had taught him to despise. There was humor in this situation for him, a kind of sardonic byplay on the swift turnings of his own life. Yet his quick mind reached beyond the humor of it and saw a reality that contained no reason for laughter. He knew then why Sam Torveen had wanted help and why Torveen had kept his silence until now.

Those pointed feet slicing into the pastures of cattle land meant somebody's blood. It had always been so. Somewhere in these hills lay a boundary line; imaginary, yet as broad and visible as a painted stripe. Beyond that line sheep could not go in peace and men could not herd sheep and live secure. This was a law that stood on no statute book, but it was a law nevertheless, and one that cattlemen would fight for more bitterly than any other. Buck Surratt's life had been with cattle and with cattle people, and he knew the iron steadfastness of the rule.

Long afterwards—deep in the midnight hours—they reached the heavy timber and crept in scuffling confusion across the covered bridge. The wind ran steady and cool, ruffing up the spurious waterfall sound in the treetops. Sky's blackness thickened, and the bleating of the sheep band ran the silence in plaintive ways. The bell on the leading wether tinkled gently back. Surratt was thinking that the smell of this night's traffic would reach Morgantown before day came and that the invisible telegraph would carry it to the remotest corner of the hills; he was thinking that, solemnly reflective, when Penigo's voice reached him. "We turn."

Surratt remained at his station, but another of the crew galloped forward and began to curse in a slow, methodical fashion. The pale stream bent. It vanished from the road into the anonymous trees, going down some narrow trail. There was no room here for straying and so Surratt dropped back into the dusty rear, riding silently beside Torveen. Torveen said, wearily: "What's the time?"

Surratt pulled out his watch and struck a match. "Near one." The run of the hours surprised him.

"The longest night I'll ever put in," growled Torveen. In twenty minutes they were through the trees, into another meadow of those hills. The sheep faded across it and the crew came trotting back, to collect around Torveen. He said: "Where's the herders?"

A man roved up, afoot. "Here."

"There's a cabin across the way. That's your headquarters. Sleep there, but don't be in it or around it by daylight. Camp out in the woods then—and keep your rifles with you. I'll come by after breakfast."

It was one of the two herders brought along with the sheep. He said in an unemotional, faintly Irish-burred voice: "Indeed, Mr. Torveen," and slowly dissolved into the dark. Torveen breathed a weary order. "We can go home." He led the way straight down the meadow and plunged into the trees, in a little while arriving at the ranch. Surratt turned out his pony and carried his saddle to the bunkroom. But he didn't stay there; he walked back along the porch, hearing Torveen speaking to Perrigo in the office.

"I don't expect trouble tonight. But you'll ride the timber and listen for it."

Perrigo came out, flicking a quick, black look at Surratt. He went over the yard to the darkness of the corral and Surratt heard him swearing at the horses off there. Afterwards Surratt went into the office. Torveen sat in his chair, his body slack and his usual cheerfulness entirely gone. The strain of the night had broken up his roan face, it had scratched dangerously across his nerves. The color of his glance was a pale green.

He said: "Well, you know my hole card now."

Surratt said, "Yes," imperturbably and got out his pipe. He walked to the fireplace and tapped the bowl sharply against the stones, and filled it and fired up his smoke. He turned to find Torveen's glance narrowly set upon him.

"Maybe you'll want to know why I didn't give you a hint before now," said Torveen. "Well, it was the idea of sheep. You're no sheepman, anybody can see. And I figured you might ride off. I don't like the damn blatting woollies myself."

Surratt drew a gust of smoke into his lungs and expelled it. He said: "Ever been in a gunfight, Sam?"

"No."

"I've had some experience along that line," Surratt murmured. "You will have some, soon enough."

"You get the idea here?"

"Sure. You're bringing sheep into cattle country. There's only one answer to that. Hell's got no wrath like the wrath of a stockman who sees woollies creepin' across cow territory. I see what's happened tonight, and I see what's going to happen. What puzzles me a little is your particular reason for bringin' this grief onto yourself."

Torveen straightened. He was entirely serious, momentarily drawn away from his worries. "Well, I'm still young, and a young fellow has ideas—and some ambition. I've been a two-bit cattleman ever since I took over this place from my dad. I don't cut any great figure against the old-timers like Martin Head or Cameron or Kersom or Hank Peyrolles. They were born and raised with beef and they can't see anything else. They don't know what's goin' on outside of these hills. They don't care. But I know what's goin' on. Sheep's a crop that goes well with cattle, and sheep are comin' in all around here. Hell, these hills are swell for sheep. The way for a man to build himself a big ranch is to run both. And sheep is the easiest way for a young fellow to start."

"And the easiest way to lose his ranch," suggested Surratt

"I used to have friends in this country," commented Torveen irritably. "Then I started talkin' sheep—and I've got no friends now. You saw how those boys in the jail office regarded me. Well, they knew I was stubborn and would follow my ideas. So they scared off my crew. What I've got now is a bunch of men I'm not proud of. But they're tough and I need that kind. Perrigo used to ride for Head until he killed a fellow up there and had to leave. The kid is a maverick I don't trust. He's wicked with the gun and he's got no morals. Chunk Osbrook was fired off Ab Cameron's place and came to me. You see the reputation I got? Ed's the only hand of my old outfit that stuck." Torveen got up and prowled the room with a surge of temper. "To hell with the old-timers. We've brought in our sheep and the game's started. We'll stand on our stack and play it strong."

Surratt studied this redhaired, electric man. He softly suggested something. "You've got a good reason for wanting to build up the ranch and swing your weight with the rest."

Torveen said impatiently: "There's no law against bein' ambitious, friend Buck. I'm too young a man to be satisfied with a two-bit spread." But he quit talking a moment, and the roan color of his face began to surge down his neck. "Sure. I want a big outfit and the money that goes with it and the pride of walkin' like a man into Morgantown's bank. Ab Cameron can write his check for six figures on a piece of butcher paper and cash it anywhere in this state. That's what I want."

"The reason is clear to me," drawled Surratt.

It stirred Torveen's strange and moody temper. He was recklessly angry. "You're too sharp with your eyes, Buck. You see too much you shouldn't see in people."

'"You object to that?" countered Surratt quietly.

Torveen said at once: "I did you a favor, but I won't hold you to it. You can ride any time."

Surratt removed his pipe. He laid it on the table and his tone prowled catlike across the room's quiet "We'll consider you didn't say that, Sam."

Torveen reared his head and his shoulders. A willful heat sparkled across his green eyes. He wasn't Surratt saw, a cool man; he was a fighter who could be baited into trouble. Yet even as he saw this and marked it for the future, he noticed Torveen's insistent sense of humor loosen the fighting streak along his mouth. Torveen grinned frankly. "Think of you and me talkin' like this! To hell with it Buck."

"Sure," said Surratt, and smiled again. "To hell with it. We've got a little game of poker coming up and it won't be mild. Maybe I can help out, for this is a game I've played before." Then he added softly: "It will be strange to you, until you learn. And when you learn you'll be a different man, with a wisdom you'll wish you never had."

Torveen shook his head. "You're a tough one. A lot of livin' has run over your shoulders. But it is queer to me you smile so little and sometimes look so regrettin'." He shrugged his shoulders and abruptly changed the subject. "You pounded the whey out of Chunk Osbrook, and he's the kind of a boy that will mind you and respect you for the poundin'. It is not the same with the kid or Nick Perrigo. Maybe I don't need to tell you this—keep your guard up with them."

Surratt nodded and left the office, strolling back to the bunkroom. Perrigo was out on patrol and Ed stirred somewhere in the yard. Osbrook had turned into bed; the kid sat at the table playing solitaire. Pulling off his boots, Surratt saw the kid's eyes reach him and show once more that sullen, sallow flash of hatred, as wild and consistent as it had been the previous night. Surratt pulled the blanket over him and shaded his eyes, considering what he had to do. The kid was like a dog reverted to wildness, cringing back from men but forever showing his teeth. He needed another slash of the whip. Surratt let his hand fall from his eyes. He rapped his order at the kid.

"Turn out that light, punk."

The kid put his elbows on the table and stared down, with a quick breath disturbing his narrow chest. Surratt slowly reared himself to an upright position; but he didn't have to speak again. The kid bent over the lamp and blew out the flame.

The sheep had entered the hills without trouble, but not without being observed. On a little bench near the pass, Judith Cameron stood in the dark and watched the pale blur of the herd fill the road and go bleating by. When they had disappeared she turned away and rode rapidly through the rugged folds of this upland country toward the Cameron ranch house. Lower down, near the covered bridge, another spectator held himself back in the brush and silently observed. And long after the sheep band had turned into the upper meadow Blackjack Smith remained in his covert and ruminated over its meaning, his big jaws biting into his tobacco chaw.