Читать книгу Trouble Shooter (Musaicum Vintage Western) - Ernest Haycox - Страница 6

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Peace left Fort Sanders early the next morning with Lieutenant Archie Millard and six troopers, bound south for the old Virginia Dale stage station, Overmile went along, but Morgan decided to wait for Peace in Laramie.

There was a sun shining and a soft wind running out of the west. All the Laramie plain was wet and fresh, with its occasional patches of forage grass turned brilliantly green. Northward and eastward the land rose into the rolling, broken contours of the Black Hills; off to the south lay the heavy peaks of the Medicine Bow range. Less than a mile ahead of them the stacks of the Union's construction engines funneled up a black smoke.

"Mormon Charley will be there all right," said Millard. "But I doubt if you'll get any help out of him. He doesn't like to see the road cross this country."

"Talked with him recently?" asked Peace.

Millard said: "I was down that way last week."

Overmile cast Peace a glance of amused understanding.

Millard caught that and flushed a little. He was an ideal figure, hale and robust and ruddy with the typical cavalryman's flair for the picturesque. Beneath a rakish hat the edges of his hair showed a tawny color and his long mustache was of the same shade, It was easy for him to blush, his complexion being as fair as a woman's; but he had a strong, sweeping chin. "Damn you, Leach," he muttered.

"Well," drawled Overmile, "how is the mountain beauty?"

"We're not discussing that," said Millard briefly.

They trotted brisklyalong the open plain, passing a solid stream of six-mule freighters lumbering from end of track toward Laramie and toward Salt Lake. The yellow embankment of the right of way was directly beside them, on which Casement's Irishmen were dropping ties methodically, They came to a small rise and stopped at Peace's command near the end of steel, For the space of a quarter mile here Casement's ambulating construction town littered the plain—his enormous portable warehouse, his collapsible shops, his great horse-and-mule compounds. The boarding train lay on a siding, the drying clothes of the Irish Paddies hanging out from bunk cars like so much festival bunting. A solid string of supply trains stood on the main line, waiting their turn to feed the endless line of freighting wagons bound away for the grading camps and bridge crews flung like a thin skirmish line fifty and a hundred miles ahead.

A thousand men worked at this immediate spot, the interplay of all that human traffic setting up a restless, ant-like scene of confusion under the sun. In the foreground end of track surged forward thirty feet at a time, like a dull brown inchworm.

Peace watched that operation with a full, satisfying interest. An engine pushed a load of rails forward, dumping them in an avalanche of sound. Men lifted these rails to a small iron truck pulled by a single white horse. The horse, disciplined in this business all the way from Fremont, heaved forward and came on at a dead gallop to the exact end of track. What followed was smooth and fast. The steel gang trotted to the truck, four men to each rail—lifted two rails and ran them forward. A foreman yelled, "Down!" and the steel clanged on the waiting ties. The gauger knelt, and jumped aside; the spikers swung their sledges with a battering rhythm and withdrew; the bolters bent over and bent back, and the white horse lunged on to the new end of track. In the interval the Union Pacific moved toward Laramie as fast as a man might comfortably walk.

"Pretty," said Lieutenant Millard.

The little column of men pushed forward, leaving behind the crack of all those sledges, the groaning of the freighters, the lash of men's strident voices, and the nervous chuffing of the engines. A trail led up the gentle grade in the direction of Sherman Summit, soon turning aside to enter a narrow pass pointing toward the peaks of the Medicine Bow. The last echo of the engines died behind and then there was only a long, riding calm, with the soft squeal of leather breaking the drone of a warming day. Millard's men sat relaxed in their saddles, all old troopers whose skins were as weathered as the leather gear beneath them. Their Spencer carbines lay tucked in saddle boots; their revolvers hung at their hips, and they kept watching the higher ground around them with a taciturn attention. Later in the morning they stopped to roll their coats and went on again in shirt sleeves.

Millard said: "We got a wire from Sidney this morning. A band of Dog soldiers of the Sioux tribe raided Elm Creek Station and killed five section hands."

"Bad year coming up," said Peace.

"How's Eileen?" asked Millard.

Peace said; "Good," and let it go like that.

Millard had known him too long not to understand the clipped finality of that single word. He appraised Peace carefully. "Seen Latimer lately?"

"Last night in Cheyenne."

Millard said, in a rather quick way: "He's smart. Seems to smell the grading jobs that won't make money for him. Twenty years from now when this Country settles up he'll have his interest in it—coal and cattle and land. Some men draw money to them. He's that kind."

"Watch me," broke in Overmile.

"What?"

"I know cows and I know grass. Been lookin' at this territory. When I'm through workin' for the railroad next year this is where I squat. I got an eye on a pretty spot across the hump there in the valley of the Little Laramie. Come back in twenty years and see my beef roamin' these hills with me under my fig tree."

They rode like this for a good while, each man contemplative and silent. They were young and the ferment of ambition was in them. But Archie Millard's face held a set, dismal expression. He said: "Twenty years? Well, men pray, but there are no answers. Twenty years is a black tunnel, Who knows if it's daylight at the other end?"

At noon they stopped for water and a long rest. The shape of the land here was all rolling, broken by buttes and small domes and outcrops of round, disintegrated rock. The stage trail led through a low pass, leaving the Medicine Bow peaks over against the west. Scrub trees and a few strands of the fragile-looking aspen grew along the way; the hills were as green as they would ever be. In the afternoon they came upon the Fort Collins road, struck a feeder of Cache Creek and around five o'clock arrived at the Virginia Dale stage station, pitching camp there.

Virginia Dale had the reputation of being the best station on the Overland stage route, its low log buildings and its corrals and barns sitting pleasantly beside a creek running down from the Medicine Bow range. The ruts of the stage road were still deep here, yet dimming perceptibly. The hurrying rails of the Union had done that, cutting out the stage line section by section, thistation which once was so lively with the traffic of those big coaches rolling up around the prow of the Black Hills set more or less idle now under the spring sun, kept alive only by the freighting trade between Denver and Cheyenne.

A lank man came out of the main house and walked over to the camp, showing them an interest which was neither friendly nor unfriendly. He said: "Hello, Archie," barely nodding at Peace and Overmile, He gave the troopers one careless look.

"Mormon Charley still here, Reese?"

"Out on a hunt right now. Back tonight."

Millard turned his fine big body half about. There was a girl looking at him across the yard. She stood in the doorway of a small cabin farther down the creek and Peace, sending his glance that way, saw merely a round, dusky face. Immediately afterward she retreated into the cabin. Millard said: "I'll see you later," and went over there in long strides.

"Mormon Charley's girl?" asked Peace.

Reese shaved himself a thin slice of plug tobacco, "Yeah—that's Cherry."

Overmile and Peace swapped glances. Reese saw that.

He snapped his knife shut and returned it to his pocket. "She's good enough for your damned lieutenant, boys. Half Injun or not."

Peace strolled over the little meadow, Overmile with him, and sat down on the porch of the stage house. Shadows crawled out from the Medicine Bow, turning this little valley blue. The troopers mess fire sent its fresh wood-smoke odor keenly across the air. Reese came up. He said: "Supper?"

"Yes," agreed Peace. "All three of us."

Reese shook his head. "Just two. Millard always eats with Mormon Charley and the girl."

"Know his ways pretty well, don't you?" asked Peace.

"Should," said Reese, "He's regular with his visitin'."

He went into the house and began to yell through it in an Indian tongue.

"Another squaw man," pointed out Overmile.

"Reese? Yes, I knew that." Peace scrubbed his shoulders against the back of the chair. Millard had gone into Mormon Charley's cabin. He was still in there, with a quick twilight laying its successive layers of powder-blue satin across the sky. A few men began to collect around the yard; a peaceful Ute and his woman came out of a ravine, bent over on their ponies, and made camp down by one of the corrals.

Peace said: "When did all this start, Leach?"

"Last November in Cheyenne. Mormon Charley came to Fort Russell to see General Stevenson. Brought the girl with him. Archie saw her. Her mother was an Arapahoe woman who died a good many years ago. Charley raised the kid, never takin' another squaw. Sent her to a school in St. Louis for a few years."

"Pretty?"

"Wait till you see her."

"No matter," grumbled Peace. "It isn't the point. Here's a man who graduated at the top of his class in West Point. Smart and cool—and the best soldier along the whole line of posts. His father was a general. So was his grandfather. In time Archie will be. Now look at it. We've got to stop this, Leach."

Overmile smiled softly "How do you do things like that, Frank?"

The supper bell rang. They went inside and sat up with half a dozen other men to antelope steak, fried trout and fresh biscuits served with wild honey. Soft darkness flowed around Virginia Dale. Reese's Ute woman circled the room, moccasins making no sound, and lighted the lamps. Outside, the troopers' fire was a pear-shaped shield of mellow light. They were singing "John Brown's Body." A little wind stirred the room.

At eight o'clock that night Mormon Charley walked into the room, a compact man with bright magpie eyes glittering out through an enormous mat of a beard. He wore a buckskin suit black from the swipe of many a greasy hunting knife across it; and his manner was the manner of all mountain men, blunt and a little wild. Even as he talked he seemed to be listening for other sounds. His eyes were never still.

"Back for another year, Frank?"

"Till the road's finished," said Peace, and shook Mormon Charley's hand cheerfully.

Mormon Charley shook his head. "Country's no damned good now. Buffler's gone, no price to be had for beaver skins. Wagon tracks all over tarnal creation and a thunder buggy snortin' through the hills like God's judgment, skeerin' game an' puttin' a bad smell in the air. I'm an old man. Jim Bridger's old, Bill Williams he's dead, Kit Carson's turned civilized and lives greaser style in Tows; Whar's the fun gone?"

"Let's make a little talk," said Peace.

Mormon Charley's restless, bead-bright eyes flickered around the room, touching everything, Reese stood in a corner, listening. A few other men were there, listening.

"You come to my lodge," said Mormon Charley and led the way out. "Reese," he grunted, "is more Injun than a real Injun is. Where's Archie?"

"At your place."

They crossed the meadow to Mormon Charley's small log cabin. A single lamp burned on a center table, its light not quite reaching the corners of the room.

Mormon Charley said, "How, Archie," in a swift, hearty way, and added, "Cherry, let's git some coffee boilin'."

But for a moment the scene in here was dull and quiet. Peace's glance ran over to a shadowed corner where Millard stood. Even in this dimness he saw how strained and desperate Millard's face was. It held no hope, yet a wild desire was there, too. Then he turned his curious attention to the girl who remained by the table. And received a definite shock.

This Cherry who was half white and half Arapahoe was a fairer Indian woman than he had ever seen, fresh and slim and on the edge of beauty. Her hands touched the table and her head was tipped down, avoiding the glance of these men out of modesty. Her cheeks were rather oval and her hair ran blackly and smoothly back on her head. She wore a plain dress and a plain waist; a small gold chain circled her neck, with a little gold locket lying against well-formed breasts that stirred to a sudden, disturbed breathing.

Overmile said: "Hello, Cherry," his drawling voice very gentle.

Her chin lifted, and Peace was further astonished at the even melody of her speech. She said, "I'm glad to see you, Leach." But it was to Peace her glance afterward came and for a long moment she explored his face, her eyes reading him with a sharp care.

Overmile said: "This is Frank Peace, Cherry. A friend of Archie's."

She murmured, "How do you do," carefully. Yet Peace saw her emotions change in that little interval. She had read him. She had felt his antagonism, and her own eyes hardened against him and dropped. She turned toward the stove.

"What's the railroad want now?" said Mormon Charley.

Peace took a chair. He got his pipe packed and nursed it a moment until the smoke was drawing. "It's the Indians, Charley."

Mormon Charley grunted. "Sure. Why wouldn't it be? Your dam' rails are headin' across the finest game land in the world. I've seen a thousand antelope in one band runnin' that plain. Injuns don't like to see their grounds busted up, no better than whites."

"We scrapped the Sioux and Cheyenne all last year, in Nebraska," went on Peace. "Well, that part of the road is done and we can defend it. Far as that goes, we can defend the rest of the way. But it slows us up—and we're due into Salt Lake twelve months from now."

"Tell the Injuns that," remarked Mormon Charley, and laughed shortly.

"What will they do?" said Peace.

Mormon Charley hoisted one foot over the arm of his chair, "The Shoshones won't hurt you. Washakie's friendly to you and he'll keep his people on their blankets. But that's all the help you'll get. The Arapahoes have moved from their proper grounds—just knockin' around this country and Iookin' for trouble. The Sioux don't properly belong this far south, but they're fightin' the Shoshones now'days, and they'll send parties down this year. That applies to the Crows, too. Injuns are all busted up. White men have pushed 'em from one place to another. They're stirrin', like hornets. You can expect trouble. Mebbe not open raids on your track. Last year taught 'em that a bullet won't go through an engine, and they got respect for your Irishmen. But when you get a hundred yards off from your right of way you're a-goin' to be in trouble."

"Charley," said Peace, "why don't you go talk to them?"

"Me?" said Mormon Charley. He shook his head. "No. Was a time when I had a welcome in any lodge. But there's too many whites around here now, and I'm white, and the Injuns don't make any distinctions. The old days are gone. Used to be strong friends with the Arapahoes. Took a wife from the tribe. Week ago when I went huntin', I near lost my hair to a bunch of young Arapahoes. Shows you the change. I can't help the road, Frank. Ain't sure I'd want to, anyhow. You've spoiled my country."

Cherry slipped up to the table with cups and the coffeepot. She poured their drink enigmatically, never looking at them, and went back into the shadows. Millard came forward and took his cup, still standing. Mormon Charley raked the young officer with a keen, bright glance.

"Whar's the fun? Mountain days are gone, and the settlers comin' in ain't my style. I'm considerin' a move down to Navajo country. Settlers won't be thar for another hundred years, and mebbe I can potter around my melon patch till I'm rubbed out. I never was no good livin' white style, I can remember when this was a pretty land."

Archie Millard dropped his cup on the table, wheeling and leaving the cabin. Peace, intent on catching all this, saw Cherry's glance race across the room, round and vivid and alarmed. He finished his coffee and got up. Outside, he waited for Overmile and for Mormon Charley. They all went a little way into the meadow's shadowy stillness. Millard's shape vanished somewhere beyond the troopers' fire. Peace said abruptly: "Can't you stop this, Charley?"

Mormon Charley's talk wasn't pleased. "My girl's good enough for Archie, She's a woman with manners. I didn't raise her to be some Arapahoe's squaw."

Peace shook his head. "No," he said quietly, "it isn't that at all. Archie's on the edge of throwing up his commission. Then what will he do? He was educated to be a soldier. It's all he likes. Suppose he throws it over and marries your girl. It will be fine for a while. But he'll keep remembering what he might have been—and in time it will turn him bitter. No happiness there for either of them, Charley."

Mormon Charley said: "And why can't my girl be an army officer's wife? I told you she had learnin'."

Peace looked for a match and found it. Its exploding light raveled along the pipe bowl; it showed his cheeks to be hard and skeptical. The light went out. Overmile stirred on his feet, saying nothing.

"No," murmured Peace. "There are no officers with Indian wives."

Mormon, Charley cleared his throat. He had been brusque, he had been impatient. But he spoke now in a deeply regretting way. "I wondered about that. It's been a fine thought—that she'd be a white man's legal wife. She's my girl, Frank. I got to see her happy."

"It won't work," said Peace.

"No," agreed Mormon Charley, very soft with his words, "maybe not. I felt it was pushin' luck too far. But it is somethin' I can't tell Cherry. There's half of her with my blood, which is the half I can understand. The other half's Arapahoe. That's the part I've got no influence with."

He turned away from them, moccasined feet making no noise along the meadow. Peace and Overmile strolled toward the main house.

"You can be tough," murmured Overmile, "Where's your pity?"

"It won't work," repeated Peace doggedly, There was a shadow moving along a deeper part of the meadow. He saw it and paid no particular attention. Overmile swung toward the troopers' fire. "Think I'll sit in with the boys awhile."

Peace continued on toward the house porch. He was at the edge of it when a woman's voice said, "Mr. Peace." It turned him and pulled him along the side of the house, deeper into the darkness. Charley's girl stood there, straight and motionless; when he got closer he saw the oval surface of her face dimly showing him hatred.

"I'm sorry, Cherry."

She didn't lift her voice, yet in its huskiness was a passion capable of killing him. "Let us alone, Mr. Peace! Let us alone!" That was all. She whirled and ran back into the meadow's farther obscurity, leaving him with his unpleasant reflections.

The white blood in this girl cut her away frorn her own people, it made her dissatisfied with her lot. It put a ferment in her mind, a hope and an ambition. She was in love with Archie Millard, her white blood permitting her to believe that happiness was possible. She would be loyal to him with a stubborn, steadfast intensity. And yet it was the Indian strain in this girl that dominated all her actions and all her impulses—as in every blood mixture. In the end she would fall back to a primitiveness she could not escape; and beautiful as she was now, another ten years would see her a stolid Arapahoe squaw, pulled back to Indian habits and Indian reasoning. The tragedy of Cherry was a plain thing to Frank Peace. She was not responsible for that warfare in her own veins, and she could not escape it.

He went back to the porch and smoked out his pipe, and afterward rolled his blankets by the troopers' fire for the night. Millard hadn't returned.