Читать книгу Man in the Saddle - Ernest Haycox - Страница 6

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Fifteen miles east of The Wells the flat desert gave way before a hundred-foot rim which boxed in Skull River and its valley. A road cut down this rocky face, crossed a wooden bridge, and went along a double row of young poplars as far as a long, deep-porched house. All in the surrounding darkness lay the out-quarters, the barns and corrals and sheds of a really great ranch. Water in the near-by diversion ditches made a liquid rustle. Haystacks showed their square patterns along the adjacent meadows. Above the ranch, rising steadily away from the Skull's other border, lay the darkling peaks of the Bunchgrass Hills.

It was midnight when Sally Isham stepped inside her new home. The lamps were bright In the place and through the open door of the mess hall she saw the long tables set for the wedding supper. Isham carried her luggage up the stairs, following her into the bedroom. They could hear Skull's crew and all the following crowd coming cheerfully across the bridge; but they had a moment alone, and it was Isham who used it.

He looked at her steadily, not quite smiling. "No doubt it's been a long day for you and I think you're tired. But it is a little difficult not to take care of these folks. I hope you can manage to be cheerful."

"Will," she said immediately, "we're starting off wrong, if that's the way you feel."

He showed surprise. "I did not wish—"

"No, wait." She was cool and calm, she was almost blunt. "You don't need to treat me carefully. You want me to entertain them. Certainly I will. I'll make them feel pleased to be here. Or anyone else you bring to Skull. That's one of the reasons you married me, isn't it?"

He said quietly, "Yes. Did we speak of that?"

"No, but I knew it at any rate."

He said, "You know, Sally, you're a smart woman."

"I want to do the right thing. I don't want to cheat you."

He shook his head. He was puzzled and he was alert. "Is it altogether a bargain, Sally?"

The visitors were in the yard, loud and cheerful. They were in the front room below, calling for Will Isham, for Sally. She said, "Yes. But we can talk about that when they're gone."

"I'd like to," he said, dryness definitely in his voice, and went out. She waited a little while, altogether still in the middle of the room, listening to the robust racket below and yet paying no attention to it. Afterward she tidied herself and walked to a window and opened it to the wind rolling off the high hills. She stood with her hands on the sill, thinking—because she could not help it—of Owen Merritt and the way he had talked to her in the dark stairway at the hotel, the way he had held himself back, the way he had failed to hide himself completely from her. She was a cool-minded girl and an honest one with herself as with others, and she knew there had been a moment this night when Owen Merritt, had he wished, could have changed her mind by the least pressure of his hand. She had almost wanted it, and had been glad when he left her. It was that way with her. Hurt and worried by the memory, she went down to join the crowd.

They were all here, Mike Tague and Helen, and Swanee Vail and his daughter from the lower Skull, and the Nankervells, and Mark Medary, and the Spaughs who ran cattle near the Fremont, and half the families of the Piute. She knew why they came. Not so much for her sake as for Will, who was a power in the land. She came down the stairs, tall and sorrel-headed, and smiling in a way to accent the serene confidence so much a part of her character. There was one man here—Pay Lankershim—whom she was quite surprised to see. Pay was a neighbor who had a small place on the southern end of the hills, adjoining Skull. He was a thin and smart and stubborn old man, who bore Skull no love, but he came to her and took her hand, the weather wrinkles around his gray eyes deep-cut for a moment. She didn't know if he was smiling or not. She couldn't tell. But he said, quietly, "You're a good girl, Sally, a good girl," and went away.

Her father was drunk and had followed from The Wells, though she had asked him to stay behind. He had cornered Will and was speaking with a good deal of hand-waving. She watched this for a moment, observing the noncommittal expression on Will's face. Then she went over and said, "I want to see you, Dad," and drew him out to the porch. He was just sober enough to be angry at her. He said, "Ain't I good enough?"

"Get on your horse and go home."

He started to speak, but she cut in without regard for him. "It's a little bit early to start panhandling Will Isham. Get out of here and stay out till I tell you to come back."

He said, mumbling oddly, "Daughter, I—"

"No," she said, "go on. I'll never let you starve, but I don't want you here. Haven't you made people laugh at our name enough? Where's Starr?"

"Don't know."

"Tell him," she said, "to quit riding with Hugh Clagg. Tell him to quit stealing."

She waited until he had gone from the porch, and drew a long breath, smoothing her face with an effort, and turned in. She saw Sheriff Medary and went over to him, gay for his benefit. He said, deeply flattered, "Lord, Will's lucky," and then she saw Will in a corner of the room. He was watching the way she handled herself, and her slow smile went over to him, making him smile back. Presently the crowd flowed into the mess hall. She sat at the foot of the table, with the sheriff to one side and old Mike Tague, whose cheeks were vermilion-bright, on the other. Outside, the crew had opened a steady gunfire. Clay Spaugh rose and proposed a toast. This was the way it went for an hour or more, the room growing warmer and the talk livelier and livelier, with Isham all the while looking on with a kind of reserve that nothing could thaw.

Afterward, in the living-room again, she joined the women, careful in the way she treated them. Will stood in another corner with Tague and Spaugh and Swanee Vail and Lankershim. Now and then her glance went his way. He was a smaller man than the rest, but it was odd to note how they listened to him and nodded when he spoke and were, all the while, faintly ill at ease with him.

Isham said to Spaugh, "You heard about the new brand law?"

Spaugh nodded, but Pay Lankershim said, "What law?" Isham said, "We got it through the Legislature this time. It's an offense for a rider to carry a running iron unless he's directly in the hire of some ranch. Too many stray riders in this country. They pack a straight iron and come in on the edges of our outfits. It's no trick to catch a cow and doctor a brand."

Pay Lankershim gave him a strong glance. "If I was a free rider and wanted to pack a runnin' iron I'd do it and to hell with you, Will."

Isham said in good nature, "All right, Pay, all right. But you don't suffer from stealing like I do. That is just one way of making it harder to rustle. A big outfit is always fair game for the little fellow."

Pay said, "Yeah? I always thought it was the other way around," and walked into the crowd. Isham looked at the man's high back, a remote show of irritation in his glance.

Sheriff Medary came up. He faced Isham, meanwhile bracing himself genially between Mike Tague and Clay Spaugh. He was well fed and content and said so. "But I got a couple of questions, Will. Been a couple of complaints about your fence riders. You throwin' lead at trespassers?"

Isham said, "Never heard anything about it, Mark. I'll find out from Dutcher. We try to keep riders off our range. You know. We've been having a lot of trouble like that. Maybe some of the boys wasted a few shots at the sky. Just for warning."

"Sure, sure," agreed Medary. Tague and Spaugh and Vail listened with a poker-cheeked disinterest. Isham's voice was soft, almost apologetic, and Mark Medary permitted no trace of skepticism to show on his face. "Sure. But just have Dutcher keep an eye on your riders. We don't want any shootings. Well, I'll be saying good night."

He walked over to pay his respects to Sally. Mike Tague's great body stirred with a suppressed laughter. He said to Isham, "And I thought only Irishmen spread the blarney!" Spaugh and Vail said nothing.

Isham added at once, with a degree of sharpness, "I've got to protect myself. And, so have you fellows. It's all right to be fair. But this country won't respect anything but strong medicine. I won't tolerate stealin'. It is getting worse. I—" He stopped on that, for Pay Lankershim had come up again.

Pay said, "I guess I know when plenty is enough. I'll make the deal."

Isham said, calmly, "All right, Pay." He put out his hand. But Pay didn't take it. The old man wasn't friendly. Isham said to the others, "So Skull goes south another five miles."

Mike Tague shook his head. "You grow too fast, Will," Will Isham said, "Life's pretty short and a man has to hurry. Pay, what made you change your mind?"

Pay looked at him through a sustained and unfriendly interval. "I never thought you was so tough, Will. But I made up my mind tonight that you can't be beat. If a man like Merritt won't fight for what belongs to him, I guess I'm too old to try."

Isham stared at Lankershim, and the touched temper showed. "What belonged to him, Pay?"

Pay looked at him with an old man's tight-mouthed secrecy. But everybody there knew what he meant. Tague and Spaugh and Vail remained still, vaguely embarrassed. Isham's cheeks colored.

"Pay," he said, "you're my guest and I will say nothing tonight. When you ride off Skull tonight, be sure you don't come back on my land."

Pay said, "I may and I may not. You been pressin' me a long time to sell out. You ain't very careful and you ain't very particular how you persuade a man. I ain't a fellow to forget, Isham, and I'm plumb too old to be charitable. There's a lot of people in this country who'd like to see you humble. It may come." This he considered sufficient, and stalked from the house.

The crowd had meanwhile started to break up, and Sally had moved to the door. Isham joined her there, accepting congratulations and shaking hands. Mrs. Nankervell fell on Sally's shoulders, wept a little, and strode into the night with her husband. There was a good deal of calling and hallooing through the night. The river bridge boomed from its traffic; then quiet returned to Skull, and the trickle of the irrigation ditches began to make a little melody in the overwhelming dark.

Sally left the door, crossing the long room. Will Isham's voice came over, turning her around.

"You have a way with people. You can handle them, make them feel good. I was very pleased."

She said, "That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said, "yes, it is. The ranch is pretty big. It has plenty of enemies. Size always brings parasites. I can make friends, but a man's wife can do a good deal—as you did with Medary. It has been a rather lonely house. I'd like people to drop in—and feel welcome. That's what you can do. The bigger the place gets the more I'd like people to come in."

"Is it going to be a bigger place, Will?"

"Much bigger," he said. "It grew ten thousand acres tonight. Pay Lankershim sold out to me. I've been after the man a long while."

The distance of the room lay between them, and the odd constraint lay between them, hard to fathom and yet quite definite. He crossed over until he stood before her, not altogether as composed as he seemed to be. She was a shapely, beautiful girl, she had a dignity that placed her apart from all the women he knew. It was a quality he had noticed long before; it was the thing that had drawn him so strongly to her. Standing against the room's side-lamps her shoulders showed him a lifted silhouette. Her hair was deeply and richly auburn and her features—so smooth and gently colored—were very grave. He was thinking that a man and a woman at a time like this should be compelled to warmer words, that an intimacy and a gladness ought to be touching them now. But he could not seem to break through that strange, quiet distance.

He said, as near impulsiveness as was possible to him, "I watched you tonight. You belong here, Sally. You belong in the best of surroundings. You've got a manner. You can handle anybody. I think I'm pretty lucky. I want you to know that."

"You're very ambitious, aren't you?"

"Why, yes," he said, really surprised. "I didn't think you knew me that well."

She drew a long breath. She turned, more squarely facing him. "Maybe you don't know me very well, Will. I'm ambitious, too. Perhaps that's why I see it in you."

He considered it, and spoke with a dry restraint. "What is it you want?"

She answered quickly, as though he had misunderstood. "Nothing more than I'm getting now. We've got to be honest, Will. You know my family. You know what my father and brother are. That's what I come from and that's what I'm getting away from. I'm grateful to you. I really am. I won't let down on my part of the bargain, not ever. Remember that—I'll play the part you want me to play."

A small tone of regret lay in his words. "Is it nothing more than a bargain with you, Sally? Nothing else?"

Silence came. She continued grave and serene; she was a slim, erect shape against the light, and as he watched her, hoping for an answer he knew he wouldn't get, he recalled the scene at the buggy and the way she had turned and placed her hand on Owen Merritt. The memory dug into him, it threw him out of his calm, and the narrows of his eyes showed her a flicker of distrust and anger. She saw that, but she said evenly, "It's a bargain, Will. Did I ever give you another impression?"

"No," he told her, short and hard. "No, you never did. I'll give you credit."

"Sometimes," she went on, gentler than before, "ambition can be bad for people. It can hurt them so much. Sometimes it makes them pretty hard." Then she thought of something else. "My father won't trouble you again very soon."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I'll put up with him. That's part of the bargain, too, isn't it?" He brought a cigar from his coat and held it in an open palm, looking at it a long time, meanwhile trying to find the words he wanted. Presently he looked up to her and she saw him then as few people ever saw him—openly disturbed and embarrassed by the things he felt. "Sally, I had hoped for more. I'll still hope for it, as time goes on."

She gave him a small smile and turned to the stairs. But afterward she swung around, waiting for him to come to her if he wished it that way. He recognized the gesture and said, "Good night," and didn't move.

She went on up to the room and crossed to the window again. The thin quiet of the desert lay about Skull, and the stars were all aglitter in a thorough-black sky. This was the end of the wedding, and weariness was real in her, made heavier by an uncertainty like fear. Will Isham was steel-strong in so many things and she knew he expected much of her. It would be hard, sometimes, to know what he wanted, and it would be hard to change her ways to meet his will, though she would do it. In one thing lay danger. The memory of Owen Merritt unsettled him, and would always bring that quick distrust into his eyes. She had to watch for that. These were the things of which she thought now, these and so many others. And always, as a picture that would never leave, the shape of Owen Merritt was before her, his turned-down face hungry and hurt and reckless.

Isham poured himself a drink and settled before the empty fireplace, nursing his cigar with a keen relish. He was like this when Fay Dutcher came in from the yard, deep-eyed from want of sleep and a steely stubble blackening his square face. Isham said, "Thought you'd be in the blankets."

"Night's gone—it's three-thirty. I'm on my way up to Corral Flats. The boys will be starting out for Winnemucca in another hour."

"Help yourself to the whisky."

Dutcher found himself a glass and poured a good drink into it. He jiggled the glass at Isham and said, "How," and downed the whisky at a swallow, afterward standing before Isham with his lips well drawn back, braced against the liquor's jolt.

Isham said, "We'll talk this over, Fay," and considered his foreman more carefully than before. This man was huge and surly and had his weaknesses, all on the side of violence. But whatever his faults, he was loyal. Skull was Fay Dutcher's passion. He was jealous of it before the country, he would stand no abuse of it, and he had taught all Skull's hands to be the same way.

Dutcher said, "About this Love Bidwell. He came to me and said he wanted a horse. What do I say to that fellow?" He didn't like Bidwell and took no pains to conceal it, which made Isham smile slightly.

"Give him the horse."

"If you do he'll be around here moochin' all the time."

"That's all right, Fay."

"Damn bum."

Isham slid a hand through the air, which was a signal Dutcher knew. It meant the subject was closed. "Fay," said Isham, "Pay Lankershim's sold out. So our south side extends to the head of Christmas Creek now."

Dutcher nodded. "Pressure got a little strong for him, I guess. He was a stubborn son-of-a-gun." He watched Isham carefully, and Isham looked at him with that characteristic quietness which meant so much. The short silence which followed contained its own understanding, for these two knew each other very well. Isham was not a man to change his ideas. Once fixed they stayed fixed, and the foreman never was at loss to know what his own duties were.

Isham said, "Mark Medary made a complaint tonight about our shootin' at trespassers. Who's been on our land lately?"

"Couple of homesteaders."

"Use your judgment, Fay."

The foreman considered this. "We didn't hit 'em—just scared 'em. But you want I should ease off on them fellows?"

"No. You keep right on being rough. I want everybody to know it's a damned dangerous business coming across Skull's fences. People always figure a big outfit is fair game. They figure that what Skull loses it won't miss. So we got to throw the fear of God into these easy riders. Skull keeps what it owns, and never mind how the little outfits or the homesteaders yell. Only, use your head. Be sure you've got a good reason for everything you do. I can handle Medary, so long as you furnish me with a decent reason every time you rough up a trespasser."

"I'll rough 'em up," stated Dutcher, and showed a surly pleasure in his eyes. He moved around the room, turned back. "Well, that puts our line up against Owen Merritt."

"Yes," said Isham.

And silence came again, very thoughtful, until Dutcher murmured, "Maybe we put the pressure against him now, huh?"

"There's a horse of another kind, Fay."

Dutcher pulled himself together, touched by Isham's caution. "Listen, I never saw the man I couldn't handle."

"Be careful."

"You tellin' me to go ahead with him, or to leave him alone?"

"I only said," repeated Isham evenly, "to be careful."

Dutcher put down the glass. "I never thought much of Owen Merritt and never will."

"Why?"

Dutcher shook his shoulders together. There was weight to them, a latent crushing power. His broad hands moved idly before him. He spoke with a remembering darkness. "The man's a little too brash. Well, I'll be going."

He went into the yard, changed his saddle to a fresh horse, and swung aboard. But instead of immediately lining out for the hills he came back to the front of the big house and stopped there, and laid his hands on the horn, watching Isham through a window. He saw Isham march up and down the room, and turn and settle into a. chair. Thereafter Dutcher raised his glance to the house's second floor, to the window of Sally Isham's room. He hated this woman with a sultry, secret thoroughness; he hated her for her intrusion, for the extra problem she created. Loyal to Skull, he felt she was a trespasser, and he knew at once, from the one brief glance she had given him during the night, that she distrusted him. But there was more to his resentment than that; there was a reason deeper and more personal for his instant antagonism. She was on Skull now; she was one of Skull's owners and its inheritor if Isham died. He thought of that quite carefully, his heavy mind weighing the fact against his own inner ambitions. Isham, he told himself, was a fool in this regard.

The light in Sally's room died, whereupon Dutcher wheeled away from the yard and turned to the hills.

Isham meanwhile listened to the delayed run of Dutcher's horse. He lighted his cigar and settled into a chair. There was no sound in the house. Chill came into it and daylight, long after, grayly stained the windows and his cigar burned out. But he continued to sit before the fireplace, small and half rigid, and he kept thinking of Owen Merritt because his mind would not leave the big man alone.