Читать книгу The Wild Bunch - Ernest Haycox - Страница 7

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HE said: "What's to be afraid of?"

Virginia looked over her shoulder to the door; and turned to it. She stepped into the yard, and stepped back, coming toward him again. The big lamp on the table threw its lush beam against her, staining the skin at her throat to a smooth butter yellow. Her lips lay softly together and light points danced in her eyes as they met his glance. She had smiled only once at him, and then faintly; distrust and reserve remained always with her. But below that he saw fullness waiting, and the fullness was a promise and a temptation to him, bringing on his smile, and when he smiled recklessness came quickly to his face.

She watched it and understood it and her expression grew smooth and tight and a disturbed breathing lifted her breasts; her glance held him and for a moment warmth ran between them, and the knowledge of a swift and common thought was between them. She dropped her glance. She murmured: "Who was the woman you were talking about?"

He had to remember her name. He bent his head to think of it; her kiss was a better memory than her name. Then he remembered. "Rosalia Lind."

Her glance was cool and distant. "Gallant of you. She's a friend of yours?"

"Just ran into her."

"As you ran into me," she murmured, and was displeased with him.

"What's the difference of all this?" he said. "The day comes and the day goes and you'll forget you ever saw me in another week."

The roughness of his talk brought a break of surprise to her face; it arrested her interest, and she watched him again with a close, wondering attention. "Are there no honest men left in this world?" she asked.

"Honesty is common enough. Is that what you're lookin' for?"

"More than that, perhaps. A man should be . . ." She shrugged the rest of it away.

He said: "You ride alone too much."

Surprise showed on her face again. "How do you know that?"

"The thinkin' that comes from ridin' alone takes you into a lot of queer places."

"Not queer," she murmured.

"Better not to think," he said. "Nothing's as good as we think."

"I'm disappointed in you," she said, and then corrected herself. "No, not disappointed. I hadn't expected much. All stray riders are the same."

He said: "What are you afraid of?"

"I think," she told him, "you know enough about Boston Bill to take care of yourself. He warned you. You probably know enough about any of these riding bums to watch them wherever you are. You've probably spent your life with them."

He said: "You can ease off with the spurs."

She had her own temper. He saw it come to her face and lips; he saw her eyes narrow and lose warmth. She said: "That is the only way to handle your kind. These hills are dangerous. I know that. I've had to carry a gun whenever I ride. Why should I take you for anything better? But it isn't what I wanted to tell you. You're on Sun Ranch. My father is hospitable in his own way, but I wouldn't want his hospitality to fool you. If he should ever become convinced that you came here to betray him or to betray any of the crew, he'd never give you a chance to explain. You would be shot without any warning. That has happened here."

He said: "I'll be gone from Sun Ranch after breakfast."

She said nothing at the moment. Turning, she went to the door again and stood there, facing the shadows. He watched her profile, he noticed the curve of her shoulders and the rich yellow gleaming of her hair. She had been angry with him, she was cool and suspicious now; even so, the shape of her lips and the lovely turnings of her body and the melody of her voice made a cover for the heat and the dreaming and the rich longings of a woman. She faced into the night, and spoke to him from that position.

"No," she said, "I want you to stay."

"Why? What's one saddle bum more or less?"

"Stay and find out," she said and turned back to him. "Unless the threat Boston Bill made is enough to send you away."

He smiled, and then he laughed and she watched him with her eyes half-closed. She was still prying into him for his worth and his real character. He said: "I wouldn't run because he wanted me to, and I wouldn't stay because you used him to get at my pride. But I'll stay for my own reasons."

She showed relief; and then relief faded and she grew brisk with him. "Never let your reasons out. The bunkhouse is just across the yard. Throw your horse into the small pasture behind the bunkhouse. What's your name?"

"Frank," he said. "That last man who left here—what's his name?"

"Mac," she told him. "Probably borrowed, like yours." She came over the room to him, looking up. She came near enough to be touched, and he wanted to touch her—for her nearness sharpened all his longfelt hungers and the sight of her struck through him—the fair things he saw and the warm things he felt in her. He held himself still, meeting her eyes. They were cool and speculative; they knew him and they were puzzled with him. She said, very softly: "Are Rosalia's lips as soft as other women's?"

He felt the quick heat in his face. She had thrown him off balance, as she had been trying to do since the meeting on the road. It turned him angry, but he held himself in. "I've wondered about yours," he said.

"You'll never find out," she said and suddenly swung from him. At the door she paused to say: "But it was nice of you not to speak of Rosalia. Some men do not even have that much decency." Then she left the dining room in a way that made him feel her spirits had lifted.

He turned down the lamp and went into the yard, seeing Overman and his daughter on the porch. Dust still lay in the air, stirred up by the departure of Boston Bill and his partners; starlight was a cloudy glow all down the heavens' slopes to the horizons. He took his horse to the small pasture, unsaddled and carried his gear back to the bunkhouse; when he stepped inside he saw Theo McSween sitting at the table, his hands idle on a deck of cards. McSween faced the door watchfully. Three other men lay on the bunks, awake and interested. One of them was Carruth, one was Slab, the fellow with the pock-marked face who had been bait in the Sherman City fight, and one was new to him. There had been still another in the dining room, lined up with these. He had gone.

Goodnight pegged his gear and found a bunk. He sat on the bunk, crouched over while he rolled a smoke, feeling the eyes of the others lying steadily against him. They were all the same kind of fugitive men, and they feared him or distrusted him. When he lighted the cigarette he saw McSween's steady, light-colored stare. McSween's arms were idle on the table and he had pulled himself back in the chair, slightly away from the table, He had dark hair turned white at the edges and he had the kind of face that would catch a woman's interest and perhaps the kind of tongue that could softly play on a woman's weaknesses.

McSween said—and his voice was slow and weighted with curiosity: "You ever around Tempe, Arizona?"

"No."

"Maybe," said McSween, "it was up in the Horse Heaven country."

"No."

McSween caught at his tobacco pouch in his pockets and began to build a smoke. His fingers were small for a riding man; his clothes were clean and he kept his hair cut and his face well- shaved; he was a fancy Dan. He put a match to his smoke and drew in a long breath of smoke. But he was still disturbed and now said: "Maybe over in Harney County, Oregon."

"You never saw me there," said Goodnight.

"Well, by God, I've seen you somewhere."

"You're a damned fool for talk," said Goodnight.

McSween blew out a gust of smoke behind which his light-blue eyes showed a sparkling resentment. He had small-cut lips, he wore his sideburns long and his dark hair had a heavy wave. Goodnight stared at him steadily, remembering his sister, his sister's voice and his sister's impulsive love of things that were light and gay and human. She had been a clean girl, and this man had dragged her through mud. This man had charmed her as he had no doubt charmed many another girl; he had done it as coolly as he would have set about breaking a horse.

He never took his eyes from McSween as he thought of it. His sister must have known the truth about this man before the end. Somewhere along the dismal trail, sleeping in sheep camps, drifting through rain, the dream in her must have died by the time they reached the Nevada town. When it died, her pride and her hope and her desire to live had likewise died. The doctor had been kind enough to call it pneumonia. Goodnight rubbed his big hands together, made hollow by the torture of his thinking; and the fury and the need of vengeance which had burned away so much of his youth during these last weeks of pursuit now came up to his face. The destruction of McSween was the only object he now had, the only thing he wanted out of life. Here the man stood, yet as much as he wanted to destroy McSween he knew so swift an ending would leave him unsatisfied. This man had to suffer and squirm and sweat and cry before he died. He faced Goodnight as a man whose evils had never left a mark on him, careless and arrogant and without remorse. That had to be beaten out of him until he was a cringing shape filled with fear, until he flinched at the sound of a voice and begged like a dog for food and water and the very right to live. This thinking took a hungry, cruel shape on Goodnight's mouth. McSween saw it and rose and kicked back his chair. He gave Goodnight a strange stare.

"What you lookin' at me like that for?"

"Ask me any more fool questions and I'll slap out your teeth," said Goodnight.

He stood up from the bunk; he took a step nearer the table, watching McSween's face grow firmer and show a decision. McSween even grinned. "Boy," he said, "you're talkin' to the wrong man. If you want trouble with me you can get it."

He was ready to fight, but he was puzzled and so stood still. Goodnight took another step, suddenly seized the edge of the table and tipped it against McSween. McSween dropped his hands to knock the table aside. Goodnight circled swiftly, hit McSween a great blow on the side of the jaw and knocked him to the floor. He saw McSween roll and turn and grab at his gun; he had expected it and now he stepped on McSween's wrist and bore his full weight down, the sharp boot heel grinding into McSween's skin. McSween gave out a yell and rolled against Goodnight's knee. Goodnight dropped his knees straight down on McSween's ribs, seized the gun and rose back, waiting.

He looked around him at the other three men solemnly watching all this from their bunks. They were wild ones and they wouldn't interfere; they were the kind who had long ago learned not to mix in another man's business. They were probably enjoying the fight. He watched McSween rise from the floor. McSween said, "You like rough stuff, boy? Here's some . . ."

He came at Goodnight from a low, bent-over crouch, springing suddenly at his hips with his reached-out arms. Goodnight let him close in, took one step nearer as McSween's arms seized him and then, before McSween came out of his crouch, brought his knee full up into McSween's lowered face. The crack of that knee on McSween's mouth was sharp in the room. McSween's arms fell away and he dropped on his hands and knees. He never fully collapsed. He held himself painfully off the floor and some memory of other fights made him hunch himself together to protect his vital spots while half-unconscious. He shook his head and lifted it and cautiously searched the room with his glance. When he located Goodnight near the door he caught hold of the nearest bunk and pulled himself upright.

Goodnight's knee had smashed his lips into his teeth, drawing blood, and Goodnight's boot heel had badly sprung his wrist. He stood uncertainly erect, drawing heavily for wind, shaking his head free of dizziness. He rubbed the back of a hand over his mouth and stared at the blood drawn away. He spoke without much feeling, tired but still not beaten.

"I'd like to know where I've seen you before. Then I'd know what all this was."

"Stick around and you'll find out, maybe."

McSween gave him a tough glance. "You don't think I'm goin' to run from you?"

"You'll try to run," said Goodnight.

"The hell I will," grunted McSween. "I'll stay long enough to crack your skull." He sat down on the edge of his bunk and started to pull off his boots.

Goodnight pointed a finger at him. "Find yourself another bunk. I'm sleepin' in that one."

McSween dropped his feet to the floor. Half humped over, he threw a malign stare at Goodnight; he hadn't been humbled, he hadn't been made afraid. He still wanted to get at Goodnight, but knew he couldn't. He drew back his broken lips, like a dog growling. He pulled himself together and got up and moved to the other end of the room. He stopped at a wall mirror and saw his face. It shocked him. He touched his lips with a point of a finger; he turned on Goodnight. "Damn you, you've scarred me."

"Tough," said Goodnight. "Be harder for you to attract the ladies."

McSween stood silent, thinking of that. The words stirred something and he straightened and looked at Goodnight with a sharper attention, still seeking to identify him. Recognition didn't come and, turning around, he crawled into another bunk and lay face upward, gently groaning. The three other men, Goodnight observed, were watching the door; swinging around, Goodnight observed Virginia Overman looking in from the yard.

"A bunkhouse," said Goodnight, "is no place for a woman. You know that."

She had been watching part of the fight; the expression of dislike was in her eyes as she looked at him. Then she turned into the night.

Goodnight wheeled to Bob Carruth. "No hard feelings about that crack over the head?"

"We'll wait and see," said Carruth.

"Where's the other man—the other one that stood by you in the dinin' room?"

"He left," said Carruth.

"Your boss," said Goodnight, "came to town with a big outfit. Where's the rest of the crew now?"

"You're lookin' at all the crew he's got," said Carruth. "The little party in Sherman City was too warm for the others. They just faded over the hill this mornin'."

"Ide outguessed you. Or maybe your intentions leaked out."

"So we discovered," said Bob Carruth. "Sure strange how news gets around."

Goodnight removed his boots and his pants. He hung his gun at the corner of the bunk and he rested back. He said: "Mac, go blow out the light." He waited and heard nothing. He let the silence pile up, and spoke softly, "Better mind."

McSween dragged himself off his bunk and stood in the room's center, looking down at Goodnight. For the present, his vitality was gone and he had nothing particular on his face. It was blank, as though he had wakened from a hard sleep. He said nothing, but turned and extinguished the lamp by sweeping his cupped hand across the chimney. Goodnight heard him roll back into his bunk, and in the darkness, never trusting McSween, he reached to his holster and lifted his gun and put it under the straw.

Virginia Overman crossed the yard to the main house and found her father sitting in a corner chair, plunged in his odd thoughts. He had his hands on his lap, palms upward; his chin lay dropped on his breast and she stood silent and watched him for a full minute and realized he was unaware of her presence.

"Dad," she said, calling him back from the distance. "That man may stay."

He lifted his head. "He would be useful."

"Any man would be useful," she said. "Bob and Tap and Slab and Mac are not enough. We might have kept the other five a long while if you hadn't tried to raid Sherman City."

"I will always fight evil," said Overman.

"Nothing good came of it. One of our boys was killed and four more ran away, fearing what Ide might do to us."

"They ran out of weakness. Let them run."

"It leaves us stripped."

"We have friends."

"Don't trust Bill too far."

"Why do you think this new man will stay?"

She walked a slow circle around the room, tall and calm and confident. She had gray eyes, after her father. She stopped near the doorway of her bedroom. She said: "I think I know how to make him stay."