Читать книгу Man in the Saddle - Ernest Haycox - Страница 4

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She said, "Owen," and came into the landing, near enough to see him clearly, near enough to touch him. "Owen."

Certain things were in this girl, as he had learned them through long courtship. Pride and a strong will above all. Even in this dismal corner she showed these qualities to him, her head thrown back and her deep-copper hair showing its luster. And because they had been very close to each other for so long a time, he understood that she was near the weakness of tears. It was a feeling that came from her to him.

He said, no break in his voice, no lift and no urgence, "You're sure it's got to be this way, Sally?"

"Is that all you came to say?"

"It's enough to say, isn't it? We'll live a long time. I can do a lot of remembering in the next thirty years and so can you. I can remember I didn't play my hand right. Or I can remember I came up these stairs at the last minute and tried to get it straight."

"Owen," she said, "your voice is so hard. You've condemned me already."

He shook his head. He let the silence ride a moment, staring at her. "No," he answered at last. "No, I'm just keeping back a lot of things that I can't say—or won't. I won't beg, Sally. You're the one that made the choice, not me. All I want to know is if you're sure."

"Yes," she said. "I'm sure." Then she finished it out with a phrase that was quick and vehement and odd. "I've got to be sure, haven't I?"

She wore a russet gown that showed her arms and shoulders. She was, he decided, almost as tall as Isham, and that thought gave him an odd feeling, as though it were improper. She had a firm chin and a straight, swinging body and he remembered that her smile always changed the color of her eyes, placing a frank, invitational smoothness on her lips—for him. She wasn't smiling now. She touched him with her hand, and drew back with a startled swiftness; and immediately the memory of a good many things lay between them, hot and disturbing and compelling. She murmured, "Do you really understand, Owen?"

"I wish you luck," he said. "And so-long."

"Wait. You're coming to the wedding?"

"Why? I'd be the ghost at the banquet."

"It isn't like you to run away. From anything. From anything on earth."

"No," he said, flat and final. "I won't be there."

She said, "Then I want you to do one thing for me. When I leave the hotel to ride home I want you to be there. Wish me luck. Please. So that everybody sees you do it."

"To make the record complete," he said, dryness rustling his talk.

"Don't try to hurt me any more, Owen. It isn't that at all. I don't want anybody on the Piute to think you ran away from this. Not you."

"Thanks," he said. "Thanks for the interest."

She came a little nearer him, her lips remaining even and composed while she watched his face. When she spoke again her words were not as unerringly direct, not as certain. "Is it—is it so hard to believe—that I take an interest in you? That I'd still fight for you? Oh, Owen, you don't understand it yet."

"I guess we've talked that all out. Which was one of our troubles. We always talked too much. And did too little. You're an ambitious girl, Sally. You set your mind on certain things long ago. I couldn't break up that."

She said in almost a whisper, "Is that all? Do you really think that's all?"

"I lay no blame on you. None. You reasoned it out—the bargain and what it called for. You're getting something from Isham and from Skull. But you're an honest girl, Sally, and you'll give him more than he'll give you. And you'll stick with it, even if it gets bad."

She said, in a lower and lower tone, "Why should it ever be bad. Owen?"

"There's one thing you never found out. You're a stubborn girl and you always figured you could make your mind pull your heart along. Well, your heart ain't in this. You figure you can make it go with him. But you won't. You never will. That's why it will get bad."

She was somber and strained and still, listening to the run of his voice, listening to its repressed feelings and to all those others he could not quite keep back. She said at last, quick and broken, "Owen, why—"

He cut in with a voice on the ragged edge of anger. "We always talked too much. Nothing's any good but this." He looked at her, dismal hunger shining out of his blue eyes, the rashness of his temper having its way at last; and he seized the points of her bare shoulders and drew her against him. Her breath rushed out from the strength of his arms and a faint cry escaped her lips, and was shut off when he kissed her. She didn't breathe and she made no more protest. Helen Tague's voice came from the hall. "Sally—you've got to hurry."

Sally Bidwell drew away, with an emotion in her worse than sadness. It was like despair; it pulled her lips together until they were no longer pretty and it took the pride out of her slim, self-confident body. It was a reflex of all that which made her push at him, and sway back; afterward it was her own desire that sent her forward again. She dropped her head against his chest, struggling against a quiet, terrible crying.

Owen Merritt stood still, holding her loosely with his arms and stirred by the fragrance rising from her copper hair; and his mind did cruel things to him then, reminding him of the sweetness and laughter and womanly softness she had once held for him. These were things gone by. He had suddenly a sense of loss that pumped him empty.

Helen Tague said again, "Sally."

Sally drew back. Her chin lifted, and he had this last look into her eyes, this one unguarded moment before she remembered where her loyalties lay. She said, brokenly, "Why—why didn't you—" and, leaving it unfinished, ran back to her room. Someone came up the stairs from the lobby at a heavy tread, and Helen Tague closed the door on the outer stairway, leaving Owen Merritt in the solid black.

He went down the stairs and let himself into the alley. He paused here, his breath springing from the bottom of his chest. So standing in the gloom, he heard a man stumbling around from the hotel's back side. This man went by him at a distance of two yards, walking fast, and reached the street. A light from Shannon's store touched the area, and by its glow Owen Merritt identified Hugh Clagg.

He waited until Clagg had turned the corner of Shannon's before following. People were still coming into The Wells and the faint breeze had turned colder and in the sky all the stars of the universe made a cloudy glitter, deepening the thorough blackness lying over this world. Troubled as he was, Owen Merritt paused by Shannon's to have his look at that sky. High-built and rangy, he tipped up his head and thus stood—absorbed in the sight and smell and sound of the night.

This was the way Nan Melotte saw him. Coming out of Shannon's, she passed within a yard of him, and threw him a quick, lively glance of curiosity. He wasn't, she saw, aware of her, or of anyone on the street; and after she had gotten by him, she turned to watch him, and remained that way until he moved on, toward the Palace.

People were moving toward the hotel for the wedding. Love Bidwell came by Owen Merritt, nursing a long cheroot between his lips. He slanted a quick glance toward Merritt, and his hand rose and touched his goatee, as though to hide the forming expression on his cheeks. Sally Bidwell's brother, Starr, followed indolently behind, taciturnly amused by all this and yet watching the town with the close and wary manner of one on risky ground. His eyes lifted on Owen Merritt and were at once reserved.

Owen Merritt strolled into the Palace, finding Bourke and Juke Slover established over a bottle of pale Kentucky moonshine at the bar. Bourke nodded to Owen. Liquor had stirred him up; he showed the room a small, rash grin: "Help yourself to a smile."

"Sure," murmured Owen. "Well, it's a historic occasion, Bourke. May you live to tell it to your grandsons."

Bourke said, idly, "Seems too long."

The four cavalrymen from Camp McDermitt stood along the far wall, their uniforms making a splash of color in the scene. But they were lonely in the crowd, for this was cattle land which had no particular liking for the military. All the poker tables were in full blast; the faro rig was surrounded. Owen Merritt hung over the glass of moonshine, both his elbows on the bar. He was turned away from the room and seemed to see nothing; yet the whole room was pictured before him in the long, back bar mirror, and certain things began to break through the heavy indifference of his mind. Hugh Clagg stood alone in a corner, which was a signal to catch Owen Merritt's rising attention. Clagg had his slender frame to the wall. His long arms hung motionless, and the smoke of a brown-paper cigarette made a vague shadow in front of his narrow-shaped face. He was a roan-headed man, deliberately withdrawn from others. Quickness was written into him, still- placed as he was, and the world he saw was a world colored and changed by the smiling malice of his eyes. He had a wide, resolute mouth. A scar gouged a white dimple out of the left cheek, and his fists were very broad and very heavy for one so otherwise lean-shaped. At this moment he seemed to be thoroughly idle and thoroughly off guard.

This was the thing that held Owen Merritt—this idleness. He knew this man too well to be fooled by it.

Bourke Prine spoke out his growing, dissatisfaction. "You were a sucker to take Isham's drink."

Pay Lankershim came out of the crowd. He put his thin-old shape against Merritt, speaking into Merritt's ear. "Son, you going to let Isham do it?"

"What?"

Pay stepped back. He turned to Bourke. "What's a follow to think? Ain't you talked to him, Bourke?"

Bourke said, "No use," and turned to the bottle.

Pay lifted a finger, catching Merritt's attention. He drew the finger sharply across his throat. "That's what it is—tonight. Dammit, Owen!" He pushed back through the crowd.

Owen Merritt considered the room more carefully, which was a thing he had so far failed to do. It was a little odd to see Hugh Clagg inside four walls with a Skull outfit. The politics of it wasn't right. Searching the crowd, via the back bar's mirror, he saw four others who had come out of the Broken Buttes country with Hugh Clagg this night. Ray Neale stood by the faro rig, not playing. Pete Mariels, the half-breed, remained nearest the shadows of the back end, as he always liked to do; and Tempe Killeen and Lee Repp were at one end of the bar. Will Isham had bought the house, and here Hugh Clagg's riders were drinking Skull whisky. It was a little odd.

"Unless," he said, "there's been a change."

"What?" said Bourke Prine instantly. Juke Slover looked up from his glass.

"The charity of Skull extends all the way to the Broken Buttes tonight."

"So finally you're awake," grumbled Bourke Prine.

Fay Dutcher came into the Palace and called out, "All right, boys," Skull's men immediately milled toward the door, bound for the wedding. Mike Tague, who owned most of the Wagon Rim country outright, rose from one of the poker tables, his Irish cheeks a flame-red. He came by Owen. He called, "Large night—large night," and followed the crowd outward. There remained a few homesteaders and a few riders who had no direct interest in the wedding. And Hugh Clagg and his four riding companions. Owen Merritt poured another drink into the glass and laid full weight on his elbows, looking into the oily shine of the liquor. For a little while he forgot Hugh Clagg and remembered other things. There was a growing silence in The Wells. Everybody would be up at the hotel, listening to the Methodist missionary bishop.

Bourke said, "You goin' or stayin'?"

Lee Repp made a turn away from his partner, Tempe Killeen. He had to support himself on the bar. Tempe Killeen called, "Come back here, Lee." But Repp moved up to Owen Merritt. His long lips squashed a smile into crookedness. Killeen said again, "Repp." Something as definite as the stir of wind crossed the saloon, and Bourke Prine, always alert to trouble, made a half-turn away from the bar, watching Hugh Clagg, Juke Slover, quick to follow the gesture, wheeled to keep an eye on Pete Mariels.

Repp looked up at the tall Merritt. He was unsteady on his feet; unsteady and full of some kind of secret amusement that had to come out. He said, "Listen. I guess Sally's brother won't have anything to worry about now, will he? I guess Starr's going to feel a lot safer now, ain't he? Well, it's one way. It sure is one way."

Tempe Killeen stepped forward, but it was too late to help Repp then. Owen Merritt raised one arm and hit Repp fully in the soft flesh below his ear. Repp wheeled gently around and fell with his mouth wide open. The sound of it made a racket in the still saloon; and afterward Repp lay on his belly and kicked his legs against the floor.

"If I hear it again from you," Merritt said, "I'll rub you out."

The saloonman, Tom Croker, spoke half in apology and half as a protest. "Well, he was drunk, Owen."

"It is something I didn't care to hear," said Owen Merritt. "Even from a drunk. But maybe there's a sober man in the place that wants to repeat it."

Temple Killeen came up and looked down at Repp, not showing any concern. "Repp," he said, "get off the floor."

Repp rolled over, pushing himself to his knees, his head lobbing down. A round red blotch showed where Merritt had hit him. He called weakly, "Give me a hand, Tempe. Give me—"

But Tempe wasn't watching him now, and nobody else in the saloon paid any attention. The people in the saloon were riders who knew the Piute and the ancient grudges of the Piute thoroughly. Lee Repp's foolish talk, meaning nothing in itself, had led into something else. Repp was one of Hugh Clagg's men and the play was up to Clagg. So the crowd watched Hugh Clagg and Owen Merritt, knowing the old, old enmity between those two.

Repp got to his feet at last and put a hand on Tempe Killeen's shoulder for support. He said to Owen Merritt uncertainly, "What the hell? I didn't—"

"Go on," said Merritt. "Go on."

Repp hesitated and at that moment Hugh Clagg broke his long silence. He called across the room, even-voiced, "Get out of town, Repp."

The wedding was over, for men's returning boots drummed on the outside walk. Repp reached the Palace doorway, turned a moment to look behind him, at Killeen and at Merritt, and at Hugh Clagg for a longer length of time—and left the saloon.

Hugh Clagg said, not changing the tone of his voice, "I'll let that ride, Merritt. He had it comin' for the remark." He was a high shape against the far wall, holding himself aloof, careful to keep his talk level in the quiet of the place.

Merritt said, "Sure," and turned to nod at Bourke Prine and Juke Slover. The three of them left the Palace just as the returning crowd reached its door. Standing aside from that thirsty current, Owen Merritt said, "I guess I've had enough of this."

Bourke said, "Repp wasn't drunk. No drunk man's eyes pull down small like his did when he walked at you. So, one of that crowd forgot somethin'."

Owen said irritably, "How'd you get spooked up?"

"I know enough to pay for my own whisky, son."

Part of Skull's riders were up in the saddle and waiting. Will Isham came out of the hotel and went over toward Nankervell's shop for his buggy, whereupon Owen Merritt remembered something. He said, "Wait for me," and walked toward the hotel. Short of the hotel's porch, in the shadows of Shannon's store, he stopped and waited a moment for Isham to wheel the buggy around to the porch. He laid his hand on the store wall, thus supporting his long shape; and in this concealing darkness his expression let go for a moment and an impulse almost sent him hack to the saloon. Sally came out of the hotel door and stepped into the rig. People were standing all about the porch, and she was smiling in answer to their laughter; but her glance came around, as though she were looking for him. Seeing that, he went to the porch.

The people nearest the buggy gave way for him. She had stopped smiling; and Isham, now in the buggy, turned with a swift motion of his shoulders, his smooth manners unable to hold back his quick displeasure. But Merritt had removed his hat and he had bent a little toward her. Before all these eyes he was a cheerful man with no care at all on his face, with no regret on it. He said, "Well, I wish you all the luck."

She was trying to smile. Her hand touched his hand and he felt its momentary pressure. She said, just above a murmur, "Owen—"

Isham bent nearer, speaking only for the two of them. "I think that's enough." Anger unsteadied those soft words. "I wouldn't overdo it." The next moment the rig was in motion, with a dozen Skull riders trotting behind. Rice flailed the air.

Mrs. Nankervell turned against Merritt, crying openly—as she cried on any and all occasions requiring sentiment. He turned away and had gotten to the edge of the porch when Helen Tague said, "Owen," and stopped him.

He removed his hat for this tall, calm daughter of Mike Tague's. Usually she was a cheerful girl, frank and blunt as a man, and since she practically lived on a horse she usually wore a man's overalls and shirt. Tonight she had been Sally Isham's bridesmaid and the reflection of that excitement was in her eyes, softening them, making them gently shine. He couldn't recall when she had looked prettier, and told her so. "Don't know when I saw you last in a dress. Ought to try wearin' 'em regularly."

"For whom, Owen?"

"Country's full of young men."

"Full of gophers and rabbits, too. I'm choosy."

"Any preferences?"

"Sure," she said and looked at him soberly, sweetly. "What am I offered?" Then she said, lowering her voice, "Don't make a fool out of yourself, Owen."

He laid out a cigarette between his fingers and quickly rolled it. When his glance lifted again she saw something that made her say swiftly, "Oh, Owen! Don't. It's over. I like you both, but there isn't any woman in the world worth your tearing yourself apart. I know you, you big bruiser, And you did a dangerous thing tonight. You and Sally. I don't think it was quite square."

"What's square, Helen?"

"Yes," she said, "I know. I guess I can understand."

Wagons were moving out of town, and horsemen cantered into the farther darkness, bound across the long darkness of the Piute. A small, slow wind turned the night cold. Alice Langdell stopped by and said, on the verge of resentment, "I wish you'd ask Juke to come out of the saloon for a minute. He was supposed to meet me here. Seems to be one of those bottle babies that never got weaned."

"Sure," said Merritt and went on down the street. He met Slover and Bourke by the side of the Palace. "Juke," he said, "you got a call up the street."

"Yeah—well."

Fay Dutcher strolled from the hotel to join the remnant of Skull in front of the saloon. Love Bidwell came across the street, meeting him. Love was drunk enough to walk with a precise straightness, and the glow of his cigar showed the red, thin tip of his nose. His flat and annoying voice bore against Skull's foreman.

"Dutcher," he said, "I'll be over to see my daughter in a few days. Ain't got a very good saddle horse any more and the travelin' will take it down. I want you should pick me a good one from Skull's remuda."

Fay Dutcher answered in a cool, colorless way, "Mr. Isham say anything about that?".

"The man's my son-in-law," retorted Love Bidwell, taking quick offense. "Of co'se it'll be all right. Dammit, Dutcher, I'm tellin' you what to do."

"I hear," drawled Dutcher.

"Well, then," growled Bidwell, and marched into the saloon. When he spoke to the saloonman his voice carried back to the street. "Tom, there was a time when you called my credit into question. I reckon it ought to be all right now, ain't it?"

Tom Croker's answer was civil, nothing more. "Sure, it's all right."

"Damn right," replied Love Bidwell. "You know who's back of me now. I'll take rye. The same kind of rye you drink, Croker. The bottle below the bar."

Merritt remained on the edge of the shadows and watched Skull's foreman with a considering interest. There was a time when Fay Dutcher would have answered Love Bidwell with a harsh brevity; but now he had to mind his manners toward Skull's new father-in-law. His black head dropped a little; his lips rolled together, displaying surliness. But this lasted for only a moment. He whipped up his chin and caught Owen Merritt's stare, and at once pulled all expression off his cheeks. He turned back toward the hotel.

"Juke," murmured Bourke, "I see Alice up there—"

"Yeah," said Juke Slover. "Yeah, well, so-long," and went away slowly.

Bourke and Owen Merritt turned on to the face of the stable without additional talk, stepped into the leather, and wheeled out of town at a pitching canter. Wagons, bound homeward toward the Kitchen Meadows, raised a high dust on the street, and lighted lanterns jiggled fitfully at reach-ends, and here and there along the land's farther flatness ran the drowsy "Good night" of neighbors and the diminishing run of horsemen and the faint, irritable wail of some child kept too long awake. Gradually these lights and this sound faded away into the vastness of the desert, sinking into it without trace, until nothing was left but the everlasting shine of the remote stars and the cold, slow wind roiling up the smell of sage and summer- cured grasses. It was as though all these people, saying a last farewell, had ridden at once into oblivion. The darkness was that solid, the illusion of a huge and empty world was that strong.

So Owen Merritt left The Wells behind him, too deeply engaged in his own thoughts to look back. Therefore he did not notice the particular attention of two people. The first of these, Nan Melotte, stood near Nankervell's, about to step up to the saddle of her own pony. She stood still, one hand holding to a stirrup, and followed Merritt with her glance until his shape sank into the Piute's darkness; breathing stirred and reformed the round swell of her breasts and her eyes were dark and controlled by a dreaming, distant speculation.

Meanwhile, Fay Dutcher paused in the black mouth of the alley near Shannon's store, watching Merritt and Bourke Prine with a strict attention. As soon as the partners left town he returned to the saloon, halting in the doorway and calling out to the rest of Skull's crew, "All right—all right. Time to ride." Hugh Clagg stood idle in a corner. Clagg looked over the room at Skull's foreman, and looked away. Dutcher backed into the street, waiting for his men. When they came out, turned surly and unwilling by their drinking, he watched them go on their waiting ponies, his mere presence subduing their grumbling protest. The last settlers from Kitchen Meadows were leaving The Wells. The hotel lights winked out one by one, and some of the stores were closing up. Hugh Clagg strolled from the saloon and stood on the walk to try a fresh match to his cigarette. He was within arm's reach of Fay Dutcher and for this minute nobody else was near. Fay Dutcher said in a low, dissatisfied rumble, "What's the matter, Hugh? What's the matter?" Then he wheeled to his own horse, calling up the stragglers in the crew. "Come on—come on!" In a moment he led Skull out of The Wells at a ripping gallop, throwing the dust high behind.

Ray Neale and Mariels came from the Palace, joining Clagg. Afterward Tempe Killeen came out. These four stood together, not speaking until Clagg broke the silence. "What was wrong with you, Ray?"

Ray Neale was waiting for it, and his answer, irritably pitched, jumped back at Clagg. "Slover was watchin' me. And Prine stood there, cocked like a gun. They smelled somethin', What'd you want me to do? No—not then. Where's Merritt now?"

"Started across the Piute."

They stood still. Mark Medary came from Shannon's and advanced on the saloon. He threw them a quick glance and passed into the saloon without speaking. A few of the town's citizens straggled over the street for a ceremonial nightcap. Afterward Clagg said, "All right." He threw away his cigarette. His words had a sudden lift, as though he had made up his mind. The four of them went to their horses down by the stable, and left town, following Merritt and Prine.

Quiet came to The Wells. The four cavalrymen departed for McDermitt, sixty miles away. The lights continued to die and presently there was nothing left but a lone glow from the saloon where Medary and Croker and a few others kept up a last watch at one of the poker tables. The street showed no life, and in the overwhelming darkness of the desert the square fronts of the buildings made a ragged outline. The street's dust cast a faded, phosphorescent glow against the dark.