Читать книгу Riders West (Musaicum Vintage Western) - Ernest Haycox - Страница 5

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Dan Bellew walked through the thickening crowd and across the square to Townsite's store, feeling his nerves loosen and grow ragged. It was, he realized distantly, the inevitable after-punishment a man took for throwing his past and future into one debatable moment of time. All the sounds and sensations of the fight remained with him, and the last scene—of Tom Addis lying on the earth like a vagrant shadow—was etched in his mind with an intaglio sharpness. Thinking of it, his eyes assumed a somber, smoky coloration. Townsite and Jubilee noticed that the moment they followed Dan into the store.

Townsite, older and wiser, said nothing; he began a little chore of whittling plug tobacco for his pipe. But Jubilee, whose thoughts always ran parallel to those of his partner, cast a keen glance at Dan and broke the spell.

"He was free, white, and twenty-one. He had his plain choice, and he chose to make the fight. Forget it: Might of been you, Dan."

"I'm sorry for him," said Dan, profoundly regretful.

Townsite drawled: "A man always goes through these scraps twice. Durin' the shootin' and after the shootin'. Second time is hardest."

"I should have moved into the play sooner," said Dan, reviewing each step of the way. "I caught him too late, after he was set. He was in no frame of mind to back up. I'm sorry for that. It wasn't his personal fight—it was the fight of the man that ordered him to Trail." His temper rose and rubbed the words. "There's something else to put on Neel St. Cloud's record."

"You sure?" questioned Jubilee.

"Not the slightest doubt of his part in this," answered Bellew. "He's not sure he can muster the votes to put his thugs in office. So he's going to the gun."

Townsite removed his pipe, bent over the counter. "We can't let him, boys. It'll be a taste of raw meat for him and his kind. Once the wild ones climb the saddle, this valley will be bloody ground, I'm telling you."

Jubilee squatted on a sugar sack, shook tobacco in a brown paper. He threw back his angular, sorrel head and surveyed the others slantwise. "Well, first shot has been fired."

"There will be more," observed Bellew, very quiet. "The break's been made. It can't be stopped—not short of a decisive defeat for one side or the other."

Townsite's bearded face waggled slowly from side to side. He muttered forebodingly: "I hate to think of the next ten days."

"Why just ten days?" asked Jubilee practically. "The election is only part of it. Doesn't matter who wins, the grief is going to go on."

There was a little silence. Heavy smoke folded across the yellow lamplight. Townsite's pipe wheezed. "I have lived here twenty-seven years. I put up the first cabin in this town. I helped drive in the first herd of Texas beef." Paused, Townsite stared at the others with a sudden angry energy. "I knew the fine men that made this range, and I'll be damned if I'll stand by and let the crooks make an outlaw strip of it!"

"I wish I could see what there was in it for St. Cloud," fretted Jubilee.

Bellew came to a stand. "Three years ago he had half a dozen cowhands up in Smoky Draw. Maybe three thousand head of stock. Today nobody knows how many riders are hiding back in that timber. I've checked twenty or better. As for the beef, it has grown out of all proportions to the natural increase."

"I know," agreed Jubilee. "But there's a limit to thievin'. What will political control of the county buy him?"

"I've told you before the man has a restless, fertile brain. He's got some plan."

"We're ruined if he does gain control," grumbled Townsite.

"Well—" began Jubilee.

Dan said "Careful," in a flat voice; and all three turned toward the doorway and toward the man framed in it. "Gasteen," muttered Dan, "you have a poor habit of eavesdropping."

Ruel Gasteen remained still. Beneath the shadowing brim of his hat lay features scarcely conforming with one another. A lantern jaw threw the lower lip beyond the upper and so created a plain impression of brutality. The man's skin was yery dark, tightly bound across broad blunt bones; his eyes were secretively inset and somehow suggested the predatory. Inordinately long arms hung straight and motionless beside him.

"What do you want?" challenged Townsite.

Gasteen shifted. "If I was sheriff, Bellew," said he in a strange softness, "you'd be in jail for that shootin'."

"We'll wait till you are," countered Bellew evenly.

Gasteen nodded. "It will be my first official act—to put you there."

"Thanks for the warning."

Gasteen stepped backwards, out of sight, as discreetly as he had entered. The three presently heard his pony drumming down the street, northward.

"Gone to report the bad luck to St. Cloud," growled Townsite.

Bellew said, "Just so."

Townsite thought of something else. "By the way, that Eastern girl came to see me. Name's Nan Avery. She wanted me to get her a homestead somewhere beyond town."

Bellew displayed a quick interest. "You told her that was impossible, didn't you?"

"It did me no good," chuckled Townsite. "I talked to her like a beloved uncle. When I got through she went right on as if she hadn't heard. That girl has been accustomed to giving orders."

"You should have mentioned the danger of a woman living alone on the prairie."

"She waved that aside, too. The girl's got courage, Dan. And I think she's been in trouble. Anyhow, she was so downright about it I had to give in. As much as told me she'd go ahead anyhow if I didn't see fit to do the dickering for her."

"And she would," mused Bellew.

"Well," Townsite wanted to know, "where'll we put her?"

After a moment Dan said: "Tanner's old cabin."

Townsite was dubious. "Too close to St. Cloud's wild boys."

"I know. But Henry Mitchell's only half a mile from it, and I'm just west of the coulees a couple miles."

"All right," said Townsite. "Now I've got to arrange everything tonight. Guess she never heard about the values of procrastinatin'. Who'll show her up there?"

"It's on my way," said Dan. "I'm going home in the morning."

Both men looked oddly at him. Jubilee's question was faintly ironic: "After she gives you a lacin'?"

"She didn't understand," said Dan gently.

Townsite repeated his conviction: "She's been in trouble."

Dan nodded indifferently and left the place, obviously thinking of other things. He took his horse to the stable and afterwards headed for the Golden Bull, there locating Solano. "Go on home tonight," he told Solano. "Early in the morning take a broom and a hammer over to the Tanner cabin and clean it up."

Back in the store Townsite said: "The shootin' hurt him pretty hard."

Jubilee morosely assented. "A lot of things hurt him. What worries me is the future. You realize that Dan will sure be the chief target in this fight? You'll never organize the respectable ranchers under anybody else. St. Cloud knows it, too. His aim will be to get Dan out of the way."

When Nan came from the hotel next morning early, she had for a moment the sensation of definitely beginning another existence. A hard, bright sunlight washed the unlovely walls of Trail to create crisp black and white contrasts. All the buildings stood before her with a gaunt angularity. In another hour it would be hot, but there was yet a coolness to the air and a kind of winelike vigor that woke in her some little sense of buoyancy. Surprisingly, the night and its terrible, scene absorbed less of her imagination than she had thought possible. Crossing the yellow dust of the square, she found a flat-bed wagon and team waiting there, loaded with supplies. Tethered behind was a pair of saddled horses.

Townsite came out of the store.

"I have a cashier's check," she said and held it out to him, "Please settle the account and let the balance stand in your bank."

Townsite grinned openly. "I don't believe," he drawled, "I ever run up against anybody like you. But I got everything fixed."

"What are the saddle horses for?"

"One's yours. Hereabouts you need a horse worse than you need shoes. It's the little strawberry there—very gentle. Other one belongs to the man that's taking you out. Mama, come out here."

A gray, quick-moving little woman appeared from the store. She had, Nan realized, been watching. Townsite said: "This is Miss Avery, Mama."

Mrs. Townsite had snapping, inquisitive eyes; but a kindly mouth and a ready smile. "If you'd just stay over a day," she offered, "I'd like to introduce you to the women of the town."

"Thank you—I'm afraid not."

"Here's your teamster for the trip," drawled Townsite. "Dan Bellew—owner of the Broken Stirrup."

Nan turned quickly, saw Bellew strolling over the dust; and for a moment most of her self-possession deserted her. It was a situation she didn't know how to meet. Half angered, she felt color come to her cheeks. Townsite was speaking: "Dan's ranch ain't far from your cabin, Miss Avery. He's goin' home and agreed to take care of you."

There was no use of pretending, she thought, and met Bellew's glance directly. "I believe you understand how little I like to put you to this trouble."

The challenge was there, as she meant it to be. But once again she was left helpless in front of his manner. He only nodded, the same remote amusement in his eyes—they were a darker hazel than she had first imagined—and went directly to the wagon. Obviously he waited for her, and so she followed, accepting his hand-up. He went around, climbed to the seat, and took the reins.

"You're carryin' a sack of flour for Henry Mitchell," called Townsite.

Bellew kicked off the brake, leaned down to Townsite. "If anything comes up suddenly," he murmured, "get the news to me." Then the team moved away.

Townsite chuckled at the departing pair. "She's mad enough at him to chew nails, Mama."

Mrs. Townsite said firmly:

"Jackson, she's got a past—you mark my word. I'll bet she's a remittance girl."

Townsite went stoutly to Nan's defense: "I like her."

Mrs. Townsite flashed a humorously understanding glance at her husband. "You'd like anything that was helpless. She won't last out here, Jackson."

"I wouldn't bet on that," said Townsite. "She's a fighter."

The road climbed a gentle grade and presently tipped into a valley; and it was, Nan thought, like putting away from shore. To right and left—perhaps eight miles in either direction—were low enclosing ridges now being slowly blurred by the haze of summer. Northward at a greater distance lay a high and black pile of hills toward which the tawny-grassed flooring ran in long, slow undulations. The road pointed that way straight as a chalk line. A red sun climbed into a sky that was very blue; one gleaming cloud pillar stood alone. Morning's breeze died, and she felt at once the day's sultriness closing in. Cattle lay scattered and apparently motionless all about the flats. Two miles or more onward she looked back to see the whole distance to town marked by a risen banner of dust that clung cloudily to the air.

Dan Bellew had so far said nothing. From the corner of her vision she saw him loosely straight on the seat, his bronzed face soberly composed. Now and then his head described a long arc, as if he regularly searched the horizons, and he appeared to be oblivious of her presence. Presumably he had felt her attitude of resentment and meant to respect it. Yet, the situation promised to grow intolerable, even ludicrous; two people could not ride together by the hour and ignore each other. That calm of his was monumental, she thought irritably; yet another reflection, and a fairer one, told her she had set the precedent and so had to make the first overture. Her voice seemed to her to be ridiculously stiff:

"How far is this place?"

"About fourteen miles from Trail."

He had returned the same exact measure of words.

She told herself, "He's either trying to discipline me or ignore me," and decided to remain silent all the rest of the way. A long time afterward she was a little surprised to hear him talking impersonally:

"This is plain cattle country, nothing else. Off to the left rear—where you see a slight break in the ridge—is Simon LeBoeuf's ranch. His range comes over as far as this road. Look to the right now and you'll see Gunderson's quarters." His long arm pointed, and she discovered the outlines of grouped houses against the foot of that rightward ridge. "LeBoeuf and Gunderson control all the lower half of the valley. The upper half, which is narrower, is my range. Broken Stirrup. There's maybe a dozen small outfits here and there, in addition. That's all."

She had begun to observe that upper narrowing of the flats. Those left and right ridges were gradually closing in. She asked about it, more to avoid embarrassing silence than anything else.

"Yes," said Dan. "They meet up yonder by those dark peaks to form Smoky Pass. Your place is there." A lighter and more indolent manner came to him. "The Indians have a legend about those two ridges. Seems like there once was a maid and a man who quarreled. So the gods turned 'em into hills. That eastern one is Buck ridge; the western one, Squaw ridge. But the maid got sorry, and even stones couldn't keep her away from the man. So there's the result." His arm traced the far-off bending of Squaw ridge. "She went back to the man. Squaw and Buck ridges join at the pass."

"The man," said Nan, coolly, "made no move to meet the maid?"

"Men are stubborn, I guess."

"It is easy to see that a man created the myth," was Nan's brief retort.

"I was waiting for that," drawled Dan. For the first time their glances locked. Nan saw the humor lying quietly in his eyes. It only increased her defensive aggravation. "You seem sure of my reactions, Mr. Bellew."

"I have a couple previous ones to judge from. As for the man, maybe he thought the maid had him all wrong—and waited till she changed her mind."

"Quite probably he would think himself the injured one."

"I suppose so," agreed Dan. "But right or wrong, about all the buck could do was wait. If he was right he had an apology coming. If he was wrong he'd naturally suppose the woman was through with him." Then he added idly: "Another strictly man's idea, of course."

"Don't you suppose the woman may have thought the same way?"

"Don't lay that trap for me," countered Bellew. "How do I know what a woman thinks?"

"She may have thought this man unjust and blind—and still have gone to him because she couldn't help it."

"She wouldn't be finished with him?"

"No," said Nan, suddenly feeling the conversation out of control. "Not if she loved him. That—that's a weakness. I'm not applauding the woman for it."

"I believe," murmured Bellew, "I would."

"Of course," retorted Nan.

He looked obliquely at her, then turned his attention across the flats to sudden bomblike clouds of dust. The road made a swinging circle toward the eastern ridge and gradually ran a parallel course beside it. The dust cloud rolled nearer, and presently Nan recognized a compact body of horsemen advancing at a set gallop. Dan. Bellew was quite silent, and she looked curiously at him, feeling a strange stiffening of his attitude. The direct glance was pinned on the cavalcade; his face had gone quite smooth. Something about him sent a small current of excitement through her. The group arrived within a few hundred yards, broke out of the gallop to a slower pace. Two men spurred abreast the leader—and so the team and wagon came upon them. Bellew said "Who-oa" expressionlessly and halted. "Hello, St. Cloud."

"Hello, Dan."

The name registered instantly with Nan, but for a moment her attention strayed to the two other flanking riders. One—this was Ruel Gasteen, though she didn't know it—she had seen for a moment during the previous night and had remarked the excessive lower jaw and the tight leather skin. The other was very short and very broad, with a face quite unrelieved by intelligence or humanity. His wide mouth was indescribably bitter, his eyes intensely glowing; a broad cowlick of hair covered a half of his forehead and hung just above one eye, to give him a sullen, dull-witted appearance. One leg, she saw, was short and deformed. Then her glance passed to the center man and found a quick contrast. This Neel St. Cloud, whose name seemed to be a password of trouble, was a slim, cavalry-figured person as tall as Bellew. He had yellow hair, a sharp, mobile face, a cream-ruddy complexion. And he was, she instantly guessed, rather educated. That air was about him. But the dominating impression he left with her was of a lurking, restless laughter; of a cynical nonchalant cheerfulness at once keying his character. He was obviously sure of himself, almost disdainfully sure, and he made so great a contrast to the more animal types beside him that Nan found herself absorbed. She was, consequently, half startled at the swift answering interest this Neel St. Cloud passed to her. She looked quickly away.

"Trust you had a nice train trip," said St. Cloud to Bellew.

"Been informed, I see," replied Bellew.

"Sure."

"Any objections?"

St. Cloud's ironic smile grew more pronounced. "None, my friend. None at all."

"I don't suppose one man more or less counts much with you," agreed Bellew.

"It is not the checkers that count, Dan. It's the game."

"I judge so."

The antagonism of these two reached out and touched Nan. It was something distinct and embodied. It inflected each of those soft, courteously spoken words. She observed something else about St. Cloud, too. Careless as he was, apparently reckless as he was, his attention remained on Bellew as a sharp, constant thing. There could be, she reflected, no pair so opposed. Bellew was solidity itself, slow and even-tempered, his energies stored away. By contrast, St. Cloud was mercurial, his mobile face reflecting the lightness and darkness of his thoughts. Bellew said abruptly:

"—I'd like to see you soon, St. Cloud. For a talk."

"On my way back from town I'll drop over," promised St. Cloud and reined his pony around the wagon. In passing he lifted his hat to Nan and smiled directly at her. Then the whole cavalcade went storming by, Bellew put his team in motion.

"He is a rancher?" asked Nan.

"Has a ranch. Beyond the pass, in Smoky Draw."

"Those were his men?"

"Yes."

The reticence of the answers warned her. She thought quietly, "He hates the man, but won't speak." Thereafter silence covered the dusty miles one by one. Heat waves made quivering layers against the earth, and the dry grasses sent up a scorched smell. She could see now the jointure of Squaw and Buck ridges, the little notch of the pass, and the darkly rising peaks beyond. The road took an upward direction, wound along the irregular footing of the slopes. Turning a point of rock, Bellew drew up in front of a small, paintless house. A man walked from behind it—loose of frame and gaunt. He was rather old, she saw, but he had that weathered vigor of an out-of-doors hand worker. "This," said Bellew cheerfully, "is Henry Mitchell: Henry, you'll have a neighbor. Miss Avery here is going to live in Tanner's place."

She liked Henry Mitchell at once, just from the way he lifted and dropped his beaten hat; his eyes were faded, very honest. All, he said was, "Fine, fine." But it was deeply encouraging.

"Sack of flour for you," said Bellew.

Henry Mitchell went to the tailgate, found his flour and dragged it out. Bellew sat idle a moment. "What's news?"

"Lorrie," drawled Mitchell, full of pride, "shot a deer all by himself."

Bellew chuckled. "The kid's a regular Sioux," he mused, looking around the yard.

"You won't find him," said Mitchell. "He saw you comin'. Ducked out when he observed the lady. He's shy, ma'm. By the way, Dan, I got some advice this mornin'."

Dan looked more closely at Mitchell. "Who from?"

"The doctor," said Mitchell enigmatically. "It was his reckonin' I ought not to travel too much. Specially up in the hills."

They were, Nan knew, speaking in code. Dan's face settled to a thoughtful severity. After a while he said: "Better be careful, then, Henry. You've Lorrie to look after."

"Yeah," observed Henry Mitchell. "Wait a minute," he added and walked behind the house. A little later he returned with a can of water which he placed securely in the wagon. Dan nodded, urging the horses on again. A hundred yards away Nan saw a boyish form rush from one high boulder and disappear behind another. Head and eyes came cautiously around it; a shrill whoop sailed along the windless air.

Bellew grinned. "That's Lorrie," he said and let the team set its own pace up and around a steeper grade. Trees thickened on the ridge's side, and the ground buckled into several parallel, coulees. Looking behind, she saw the valley sweep away from her to a misty horizon; and when she again straightened frontward, she found the end of the journey. Another house—no different from Mitchell's—set a few rods off the road, without shelter, without grace. Bellew drove abreast a small porch, kicked on the brake, and got down. Rather stiffly Nan followed suit—uncertain, once more feeling a let-down of spirit.

She had expected little, nor was this any better than her expectations. Crossing the porch, she entered the place and stood aside while Bellew packed her belongings through. There were three rooms—front room, bedroom, kitchen—and these only separated by the scantiest sort of rough-board partitioning which somebody had started to cover with old newspapers. The outer walls were warped, none too windproof; and looking up to an unsealed attic, she saw points of light stabbing through the shingles. A few pieces of improvised furniture remained, an old pair of overalls hung on a nail, the kitchen held a small stove. It was, she thought, nothing better than a primitive shelter—and she unsuccessfully tried to imagine the kind of people who had previously lived in it. Comfort, apparently, was a luxury here. What were the necessities?

Bellew stood before her, his hat off and the black hair aglisten with sweat. "You're moved in," he told her. "That can of water is sitting beside the pump. It's to prime with. Never let yourself get entirely out of water. Your horse is in the barn. Piece of a fenced pasture you can run him in. He won't drift away, and he'll stand on dropped reins. Ever saddle a horse?"

"Yes—I've ridden before."

He loitered, looking down with that old air of judging her. "At night you'll hear a lot of noises. Don't worry. Country's full of packrats. Pay no attention. But as a matter of habit, lock your doors."

"Against what?"

He shrugged his big shoulders. "Against possibilities. There's a new .38 in that mess of supplies. Don't ride anywhere without it. Don't go walking through sage without boots on. If you put your bedding out to air, shake it before you bring it in again. That's for ticks which we have in summer and fall. Should you hear travel on the road after dark, don't display too much curiosity." Paused, he showed a faint puzzlement. Nan, knowing he wondered about her luck in such surroundings, was quick to speak up:

"I can take care of myself."

"One thing more," said Dan. "Don't ride beyond the pass. Not at any time."

"Otherwise," asked Nan, deceptively calm, "I may do as I please?"

"Perhaps I have offered too much advice," said Bellew quietly and went out. Presently going to the door, she saw him driving away with the empty wagon—not down the road but straight west over a roll of land. He was soon out of sight, leaving her with the uncomfortable thought that she had made no effort to thank him. As before, he had relieved her of the need of doing something she didn't wish to do.