Читать книгу Trouble Shooter - Ernest Haycox - Страница 5

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They labored up the heavy grade, buried between the high shoulders of the Sherman Summit cuts. Engine smoke filtered in, turning the flickering lamplight a more impotent gray. Wilder wind boiled along the car sides and all the wheels howled on the curves, and the exhaust of the helper directly behind this coach ripped its lunging sound through the steady run of the weather.

Phil Morgan broke a long silence. "Last year Tom Durant got enough cash to keep construction going. But the Boston investors furnishing the money don't like his methods, so they told Oakes Ames to take charge and remove Durant from the vice-president's job on the road. Durant's been fighting back. He sent his consulting engineer, Seymour, out here and changed some locations Dodge had made. Then he came out himself. He's at Laramie now, promising the folks there that Laramie will get the division point over Cheyenne. That's why Dodge is on his way west. There'll be a hell of a blowup when those two meet. Durant knew very well, two years ago, he had to get Dodge as chief engineer if he expected government support—because Dodge has got the full confidence of Grant and Sherman, and they're pretty powerful. But now Durant figures he can do without Dodge and wants to get rid of him. The line-up is entirely clear to me. Dodge is building a straight road. Durant is more of a plunger and speculator. He wants personal power and all the subsidy he can get for the road from the government. It's going to be a battle when those two meet. He'd fire Dodge in a minute, but Ames won't stand for it. Ames is only one of the directors, but he's got the stockholders back of him, and he's thoroughly honest. It was Lincoln who asked him to come in and put his own fortune behind the road. We're going to have a showdown some day."

"I wonder," said Peace, "what her name is."

"Nan Normandy," put in Overmile promptly.

"Why is she here?"

"Don't know."

Phil Morgan opened his sleepy eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Peace's glance strayed down the aisle. She sat gently relaxed, her head resting on the back of the car seat and her eyes closed; a well-made girl, strong in a way that he could not clearly define, her presence in this car setting up an actual disturbance.

"A beauty," murmured Overmile.

"You know what happens to beauties up here," drawled Phil Morgan.

Peace said irritably: "Premature judgement, Phil."

"Then why is she with Campeaux?" Morgan was always like that, caustic and bitter in his estimates of women. All Phil's friends knew some old memory burned deeply in him. They had seen it occasionally squeeze him like a vise and press his lips thin.

"We might go find out," suggested Overmile, smiling in a soft, rash manner. Peace noticed then that the long Texan's attention could not leave the girl.

"And we might not," grunted Peace.

They ran on through the summit cuts. Construction fires played livid, wind-raveled splashes of light across the condensed black, shining on the dripping sides of the cut, shining on men crouched there. The engines were easing off now, checking a sudden downgrade speed. All this was fresh road, laid in a thawed uneasy mud. They circled away from the summit, crawled tentatively over the high, spider-legged Dale Creek trestle and swung northward into the Laramie plains. Wind ripped at them with a gustier temper; rain laid ragged silver splinters on the car windows.

Ed Tarrant said: "Sam Reed's been a white man to me, or I wouldn't be such a sucker. I took contract to make a two-mile cut near Medicine Bow River. I'm going to lose my shirt on it, even at the maximum three-fifty per yard. Nobody else would take it, not even Ben Latimer."

Overmile said: "She came all the way from Omaha with him, Frank?"

"Yes."

The train brakes were squalling against the grade. Construction shanties and long rows of piled ties and dumped steel rose out of the misty sleeze of the night. They paralleled a siding, running slowly by Casement's boarding train where a thousand men slept; they crawled beside Casement's enormous portable warehouse, clanging for right of way with a steady bell. This was the end of track—this dismal, disheveled clutter of men and material lying under the full blast of that high wind beating across Laramie Plain.

Overmile, always a restless man, was ready to rise but Peace held his place, watching the scene at the far end of the car with a downbearing interest. She sat erect now, the blue military coat buttoned to her chin; and she had covered her pale yellow hair with a man's broad-brimmed hat. At this moment she had her hands folded together in her lap and her head was thoughtfully tipped down. Campeaux waggled a finger at Mitch Dollarhide, who went down the aisle with the girl's bags. Campeaux rose then and spoke to her. She came to her feet, the sway of the train making her reach out for Campeaux for support. And then her glance touched Peace. It was like a faint far call that held some meaning he could not understand, turning all his impulses powerful and impatient. A moment afterward she passed on to the platform. The train had stopped.

"A beauty," murmured Overmile.

Peace reared out of the seat and left the car by the other door, stepping into a yellow clay soup two feet deep. Wind howled up from the south and the lights of the surrounding shanties sparkled through a thick, hard-driven rain. He stood there indifferently, watching the girl crawl along the edge of the train, Campeaux walked beside her and Mitch Dollarhide sloshed behind.

Overmile said: "Stand still and you'll sink out of sight. Come on."

They found a walk cutting across the mud and took to it single file. "I got the horses over there in that shed," Overmile grunted.

Peace stopped so suddenly that they all banged together; Phil Morgan fell off the walk, the mud reaching up to his knees. He said, "Good God, Frank!" But Peace didn't hear. The girl stood now on the track in front of the engine, its headlight playing on her. Campeaux and Dollarhide had gone.

Peace said: "Bring the horses over there, Leach," and wallowed deliberately through the mud toward her. The wind was a strong rush in his ears; he had to lift his voice.

"Listen—"

The glare of the engine's light made her drop her head. She had her hands tucked into the pockets of the military coat, and water dripped steadily off her hat.

She said: "How far is it to Laramie?"

"Four miles." He thought about that for a minute. "I'm going to Fort Sanders—that's only two miles. You can put up there."

"Mr. Campeaux has a rig waiting for us here."

He said; "All right."

Her head rose quickly. "I wouldn't judge too soon, if I were you."

He kept his tone civil; he kept his temper down. "My mistake."

"You've been trying to make up your mind about me all the way from Omaha, Is it necessary?"

Two horses struggled across the mire, pulling Campeaux and Mitch Dollarhide in a covered rig. Mitch Dollarhide jumped down and slumped forward, his feet catching and throwing up the semi-liquid. His shoulders were thrust forward, he swung his fists as he ran. Peace turned to keep a strict eye on this man. He said to the girl: "Good luck."

But she touched rhis arm. "Did you ever hear of a Jim Normandy out here?"

"No."

Dollarhide reached the track's gravel. He stopped two yards from Peace, expelling a heavy breathing. "We had enough trouble from you, Bully. Get the hell away from us."

"Shut up, Mitch."

Mitch Dollarhide swayed, a savage and uncertain expression licking across his mouth, Big Sid Campeaux tooled his team through the rain-bubbled mud and stopped beside the track. He stood up in the seat and threw a solid yell back behind him. "Al!"

There was a man riding forward from that darkness on a high gray horse. He sloshed around the buggy, wheeling before Frank Peace. Rain glistened all down his yellow slicker; it roped off his hat. He tipped up the brim of the hat a little to show a face entirely smooth and thin and unemotional.

He said: "Hello, Frank."

Peace murmered, "How are you, Brett?"

Mitch boosted his heavy complaint back over one shoulder, never letting his eyes lose Peace. "I don't need any help to handle Bucko."

Nan Normandy looked from Campeaux to Al Brett to Mitch Dollarhide. All these three were taciturnly established in their places, attentions narrowed on Peace. It was a scene, and it was clear to her. Her words reached Peace calmly: "Don't make an issue of it—not for me."

Al Brett said: "Trouble here, Campeaux?"

Campeaux said: "Ask Peace if he's lookin' for it."

"You standin' in the way, Bucko?" questioned Al Brett, gentle with his talk.

Peace showed a hard and instant grin. It fired up his face, swinging it immediately reckless. "You don't have to go with these men, Miss Normandy."

Campeaux hurled his warning against an increasing wind. The rain whirled rashly down from the ruptured clouds overhead, each fat drop glittering diamond-bright in the headlight's glare.

"Don't interfere with me this year, Peace! Keep out of my way—and keep your hands off my business! Mitch—help Miss Normandy over to the buggy!"

Peace repeated himself. "You don't have to go with Sid, Miss Normandy."

Al Brett unhooked the front of his slicker, the wind instantly ripping it back from his wire-thin body. He put his right hand casually on a holster there. He was remotely smiling.

"I wouldn't be proud, Bucko," he called.

The engine's bell started up a steady ringing. Campeaux yelled at Dollarhide; he swore at Dollarhide. "Lend Miss Normandy your arm!"

A pair of Irishmen from the train stumbled forward into the light, both carrying rifles; and at that moment Overmile and Morgan and Ed Tarrant came up from the turbid blackness at a slashing gait. They rode onto the track. Overmile got down; he took his station near Peace.

"Mother," he drawled, "I'm about to be queen of the May. You want a party, Al?"

"Anytime you say," called Al Brett and sat still. Mitch Dollarhide shifted doggedly toward the girl. Water collected at the corner of his stringy mustache and dripped down. He froze in his position, dull and stubborn.

One of the Irishmen near the engine called out: "You want help, Mr. Peace?"

Campeaux said: "What are you going to do, Miss Normandy?"

The girl swept the scene with a long glance. There was no give to any of these men. An old hatred seemed to have brought them together in this wild, bleak night; an old hatred kept them here. She saw no fear and no softness. Their tempers were beds of tinder waiting for a careless spark. Overmile's lazy, unmoved face revealed a faint rashness. Al Brett continued his still attitude, one hand touching the gun butt, a remote smile at the corners of his lips. Campeaux was a shadow in the buggy. Dollarhide a dull presence beside her. Frank Peace didn't speak again. He had his head tipped toward her, and she clearly observed the long riot of his temper. On the train she had guessed he was like this and her guess was confirmed now. Not one of them would retreat; the idle quietness they displayed was a lie.

She said to Peace: "Please," and took hold of Mitch Dollarhide's arm. She went across the track and climbed up the hub wheel to the seat, beside Campeaux, Dollarhide went around, crawling in behind the buggy. Al Brett was broadly grinning now.

"No luck tonight, boys."

"Not tonight," said Overmile, only indolent.

Al Brett lifted his reins. Campeaux turned the horses around, driving them straight through the mud toward the trackless grade beyond. Fires far off to the north laid fitful beacon lights along the way. Brett said coolly: "Don't worry, Leach. I'll blow a hole through your guts before the summer's done." He had one more look at Frank Peace—a long, smileless look. "See you in Laramie, Bucko," he said, and rode away.

Overmile had left Peace's horse beyond the track. Peace slogged through the mud and swung into a thoroughly wet saddle. He came back, following the rails until they suddenly quit. Loose ties lay scattered ahead, indicating where the steel would march tomorrow. He paralleled the ties, his partners riding behind him, and came at last to the pure dirt grade running north, Leach Overmile forged abreast; Tarrant and Morgan made a pair behind. The engine's headlight died out and they traveled beneath the uneasy, leaking sky, the western wind slapping strongly on them. Deep rain pools were forming, water channeled all the ruts, and yonder they saw Campeaux's rig appear abreast another grader's fire and sink then into the murk.

"If it keeps rainin'," said Overmile, "you'll want pontoons on your trains."

Due ahead, the lights of Fort Sanders blinked intermittently; farther on was the stronger glitter of Laramie Town waiting restlessly for its hour to come. They passed the last fire on the grade and found a harder footing. The way was gently downward toward a creek that hit them on their boots when they forded. Laralnie River, directly on the left, sent its swollen racket through the black. Beyond, the high, rolling ridges ran westward toward Fort Steele on the Platte; still beyond lay the flatness of the Red Desert, bleak by winter and summer. Far over was the Green River crossing and farther still the Wasatch range waited. It was five hundred miles to Salt Lake. Somewhere out on the Nevada desert this same brawling night the bonfires of the Central were burning their crimson holes through the night, beside an end of track pointed east.

Overmile said: "What in hell is she doin' with Campeaux?"

Peace bowed his head against the drive of the rain. The wind's chilliness isolated him, it sharpened his thinking. Eileen's dress had been a soft gray and tight around her waist. She brought tranquility with her, whatever she was. The softness and the calm of that room remained with him, not to soothe him now but to bring vividly back the heavy emotion of touching something that he could not hold, of possessing something that he would lose. Her voice, he thought, had been uncertain in the hallway's darkness. She had relented, to kiss him; it was as near surrender as she could ever come. His life ran a different way, his days were full of heat and trouble. He could not order them otherwise and he would not order them otherwise; yet the controlling desire of his life lay back in Cheyenne. He saw no solution, he could think of none, and his mind grew weary with the struggle.

They turned into the Fort Sanders road. A low line of buildings sat in scattered shape, marked only by faint lights hurning. A sentry wheeled from the darkness, palms slapping curtly on his gun. "Halt! Who's there?"

"Frank Peace—and party."

"Halt, Frank Peace and party. Sergeant of the guard—post number one!"

A lantern bobbed out of the guardhouse hard by, drawing the slanted rain against it. The sergeant came on and lifted the lantern above his head, revealing his own long, heavy-boned jaw. Above a still mustache a pair of old soldier's eyes showed a sad, surly gleam.

"Hello, Malloy. We're putting up."

"Come right ahead, Mr. Peace. You'll want Lieutenant Millard."

"Not till morning, Malloy."

They splashed beyond the guardhouse and got down, Malloy called back: "Egan, take the hawrrses. You'll go to the same house, Mister Peace. That one to left of General Gibbon's."

Egan came. But Overmile was restless and he had changed his mind. He got into the saddle again. He said to Peace, "I'll be back after a while."

"Laramie?"

"Yeah," said Overmile, and turned away.

The others walked down the dark line of buildings, skirted a picket fence and entered a house beyond, Sergeant Malloy had followed them; he lighted a lamp and went out again. Phil Morgan said: "Overmile's a fool."

"He's twenty-four years old," grunted Peace.

Within five minutes they were bunked down, Rain drummed along the house. A sentry called from a distant corner of the post, and that echo came in relays all the way to the guard post. Peace dragged a hand across his face. He stared toward a ceiling he couldn't see, remembering Eileen as she held to him on the dark stairway, landing.

Overmile's voice woke him, Overmile was standing beside the bed, vague in the chilly pitch-dark. "Frank. She's at the hotel in Laramie. Damn Morgan for thinkin' different."