Читать книгу Rim of the Desert - Ernest Haycox - Страница 6

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THIS hour of the morning—it was before five—contained a silence which picked up the crackling of the fire and magnified it into minor explosions; the clank of the stove lid rolled on and on across the valley. To either edge of the valley the pine ridges, Lost Man Ridge in the east and Skull Ridge to the west, stood purple-black in a sunless, glass-clear light. Night's thin chill clung to the earth. Jim Keene, she noticed, had camped a quarter mile up the creek. As soon as the coffee boiled she called to him.

He came up on his horse, his hair wet from a swim in the creek. He had a tremendous vitality. There was no morning sourness in him, no sleepy irritability. The swim had brightened the blood glow of his cheeks, the smell of coffee and bacon made him smile.

Perhaps it was the coffee and bacon; she wasn't entirely certain of that, for he watched her with the same awareness and approval she had noticed the previous day. She was attractive in his eyes. Those eyes made pictures of her which seemed to please him as he sat down to eat breakfast.

"You slept well?"

"When I realized you were not far away," she admitted, "I slept like a log. Today I'm going to town. Among other things, I'll get a gun."

"I'll be around," he pointed out.

"I can't always be depending on you." Then, because she was more curious and more hopeful than it was wise to be, she asked a point-blank question. "What keeps you here?"

He smiled. His eyes had a long-reaching expression in them; even as he studied her he was seeing things beyond her. His face was alert and a small swift air of excitement brushed fugitively across it. "What makes a man travel," he said in his soft voice, "what makes him stop?" He changed the subject. "I'll be around while you're gone. The boys might figure to burn the cabin."

"I'd build another one," she answered at once. "I'm going to stay. Do you see what I see here?"

"Nice valley and fine grass. It is better land than across the river. But that will help you none. You can't farm alone."

"Here's the road from Prairie City. There's the road running along the edge of the river from Wells to Argonaut. Everything meets here where they cross. That's the way towns are made."

"But nothing stops here," he pointed out. "The cattle outfits will see to that."

"Maybe," she murmured. "But they can't shoot a woman." She rose and washed the dishes. Afterwards she saddled her horse for a trip to town. Idle against the house corner, he noticed on her face a mild expression of stubbornness, as though she foresaw trouble and was prepared for it. It turned her into a cool self-contained woman who wanted her own way and meant to have it. Sunlight burst over Lost Man Ridge, changing valley grass from gray to amber gold in one dramatic transition; the coolness of night evaporated. He watched her pull up her shoulders, the way her body changed curves when she settled on the saddle. Her lips were red and when she looked down at him an expression formed on them and went away. Her lips, he had discovered, were the first to show her thought; and now they didn't match the resolution of her face. She was two different persons.

She started from the yard. Beyond the house she swung the horse to look back at him and in her glance then was a woman's inevitable contradiction—a worry for him and a pleased awareness of his presence. She said: "You shouldn't be here, Jim, but I'm glad you are."

She crossed the ford and let the horse have its morning run; thereafter she settled to an alternate run and walk through the streaming sunlight, through late fall's golden haze. The sagebrush flats ran on and on, broken by the dotted shapes of homestead houses. In the air was the dry, tickling pungence of cured grass and sage and the oncoming smell of winter. It was a morning that, like all desert mornings, held a tonic freshness, buoying her and making her believe anything was possible. At this precise moment she needed desperately to believe that.

Yet when she reached Prairie City and racked the horse in front of Worsham and Ross most of the confidence was gone. She faced the store's doorway, watching Worsham wait on a customer, and for a moment the purpose which had brought her here almost died. All that held it was the memory of those long years in which her father had run away from every decision and every showdown. She thought in half panic: "This can't be in me. I must never run, never give up. I've got to start now. I've got to go forward. I've got to." Worsham's customer came out of the store. Aurora went in.

It was easier to talk to him when he was alone and his pleasant manner helped. He said: "I heard about your dad. I'm sorry."

She said: "I wanted to talk to you."

She saw the immediate change, the withdrawal of sympathy and the onset of reserve. A thousand requests from impoverished homesteaders had given him a protective intuition. She could see his mind reaching for the old, ready answer. "Been a hard year," he offered. "Times bad for all of us."

"I have moved over to the Garratt place, across the Silver Bow ford."

"I'd heard."

"So soon?"

His answer was dry. "That kind of news travels fast." His hand moved along the counter, the signal of his desire to be about his work. It was difficult for her to go on and his manner took all the conviction from her voice. "It is a long ride for the homesteaders into town for supplies. They'd be better customers if they had a store near them. I'd like to start one at the ford. I thought you might be interested in stocking it on credit for me. A fifty-fifty partnership."

He said: "Why move across the river to start it?"

She drew a cross on the table with her finger. "Here's the road up the valley. Here's the road running along the river. They meet at Garratt's cabin. All travelers meet there."

The skeptic dryness increased. "What travelers?"

"Not long from now," she said, "the valley will be lull of homesteads. People will be using those roads."

"Not while Broken Bit's there they won't."

"You're not interested?"

"No," said Worsham.

She went into the sunlight and moved along the walk without conscious direction. Her mouth was dry and she thought quickly back over the talk and remembered all the things she had forgotten to say. Her fear of failure increased and she was self-conscious enough in this new role to believe the town had its eyes on her. This, she realized, was why her father had always run away. He had been too sensitive to endure rebuff.

She arrived at the corner of the bank building and stopped and now found herself looking fixedly at the small bank window. Tim Sullivan, who ran the Cattleman's Palace, came from the bank with a canvas sack of silver coins; he tipped his hat and she said mechanically, "Good morning," and for a moment his bright eyes studied her. Then he went on.

She thought: "I must not be afraid," and went into the bank. She had met the banker only once during the year she had lived on the Silver Bow, and had been impressed by his kindness. He was kind now. He stood behind the counter and listened to her and she didn't see Worsham's cold, withdrawing expression on his face. He waited until she had said everything she wanted to say, but when she had finished she learned that men had many ways of listening and of saying no.

"You don't know business very well, Miss Brant," he told her. "Broken Bit is my big customer. What would it say if I loaned money to you?"

"Isn't there room for everybody on the desert?"

"If I helped you Grat DePard would be here before sundown." His voice was sympathetic; it cushioned his refusal. "What would be your security?"

"Nothing."

"You see? After all, it isn't my money—it's the depositors'." He smiled the sting away as he had learned to do long ago in his business. Then he added with a touch of fatherliness: "This is a lonesome country for a woman. There are a hundred good single men here—in town or on the desert. Have you thought of that?"

"No," she said, "but thank you," and left the bank at the same moment Jesse Morspeare came from Worsham's store and moved toward her. She knew, from his half-satisfied stare, that he had discovered her errand. He went by her into the bank, the weight of his body brushing slightly against her shoulder. Presently she heard him grumbling at the banker. She wasn't afraid any more but a kind of iron band closed around her head as she tried to think of other sources, other means; her mind kept circling and coming back, finding nothing. Dust puffed up from the traveling hoofs of a passing rider; a swamper slowly swept refuse through the saloon's doorway and even at this distance the stale smell of whisky and old tobacco smoke was a rank emanation. Above the saloon four windows showed half-drawn curtains. A woman looked from one of these, at Aurora, still-caught by her curiosity or her envy. Aurora lowered her eyes. Tim Sullivan stood in a patch of sunlight by the saloon wall, a cloud of cigar smoke covering his face. Aurora knew he was watching her. It was near noon and hunger turned her toward the hotel. Moving along the walk, she held her shoulders up, her chin up. She looked straight ahead and held her lips together. She went into the hotel's empty dining room.

She sat with both hands in her lap, remembering the banker's hint of marriage. There were few things a woman could do for herself in a man's world. She had heard that many times, but now she knew what it meant. She could marry, she could live on the bounty of relations or she could do as the woman above the saloon did. She moved the pewter caster around and around with the tip of her finger. Her eyes were gray against the inshining sunlight; she was outwardly composed but her mind kept pounding at the barriers and found no weak spot. The waitress brought on the meal, family style, and steps beat along the room. Looking up, she saw Tim Sullivan paused near her.

His voice was extremely courteous. "My respects to you concernin' your father," but a moment later the waitress went back to the kitchen and then Sullivan's bright Irish eyes showed a worldly, amused wisdom. "You got no help."

"No."

"And the news is out, like news always is, and Grat will be havin' his private laugh."

"Is that the reason?"

"'Tis Grat's town, is it not, and his desert?"

"Sit down."

He showed a small surprise; his eyes sobered. "That was a kind heart speakin'. But I'll stand." He was a stubby man with soft hands, with an Irishman's rich complexion and a saloon man's thorough knowledge of the sins of men tucked in the knowing corners of his face. It was a politician's face. Behind its affability lay an opportunist's acceptance of the world as he found it. But in Sullivan, as in every Irishman, was one hot streak of ancient dissent which occasionally had its way. He said now, softly, for no other ears than Aurora Brant's: "Now I like to see spunk and it is born in me to love a fight and see a great man fall. You should not have asked Worsham, or the bank. Do you not know that money is a timid thing? Men who have it fear the world, and themselves even. Have you seen the week's paper?"

He had the paper folded in his pocket. He brought it out and placed it on the table before her, still folded. He said: "I should not open it, were I you, till you had the evenin' heavy on your hands at home."

She put her hand on it and knew its inner folds contained something. She saw the edge of greenbacks. She looked up at him in astonishment and found his eyes dancing with the pleasure of his own intrigue. She said: "I've nothing to give you."

"And did I ask it?" he retorted. "On my poker tables there is a little slot in the center, down which a man drops a white chip each deal. That is for the house. If a man plays long enough, no matter how much he may win, the house will have it all at last. I am comfortable. But comfort is poor diet for an Irishman. Didn't I tell you I love a fighter?"

She was so long silent that he at last said with some concern: "It comes from a saloon man. It is the money of appetite. But you'd not refuse it for that?"

"No," she said gently, "I am thinking of how long you may have to wait before I repay you."

"Ah, that," he said, and dropped his voice until the words only rubbed in his throat. "This will be our private affair. And do your buying not here but at Argonaut. Now you must find a man who will drive a wagon for you."

"I will find one."

"No," he said, "it will not be like that. By tomorrow Grat will have word around and 'twill be worth a man's life to touch a horse for your sake." He looked at the floor, taking her troubles to him and seeing things to worry about which she couldn't see. The waitress came out of the kitchen. Tim Sullivan spoke in his heartiest voice, "I knew you'd like to see a paper from your old hometown," and left the dining room.

She was no longer hungry but a sense of economy forced her to eat the meal. As soon as she had finished she returned to the street and went into Caples' hardware store, buying a secondhand Winchester and a box of cartridges. It was past one o'clock when she left Prairie.

Jesse Morspeare came up to the bar and faced Sullivan. "That girl's after money. Get any from you?" Sullivan laughed in his face. "Now what would a nice lady be doin' askin' favors from the notorious Sullivan?" He moved a bottle from the back bar, placed it before the big man, and suavely changed the thought in Jesse Morspeare's unwieldy mind. "You've got an imposin' bulk for a star, Jesse."

That part of Sullivan which was pure cynic despised the gratitude which the buttered compliment produced; the softer side of Sullivan pitied what he saw. "You think so?" asked Morspeare, hungry to hear more. "Yeah?"

"Sure," said Sullivan. "As sheriff you'll stand like a rock."

"I'll win," said Morspeare. "Grat's roundin' up the votes. I'll get the cattle bunch solid." He was a slow and dull-witted creature who had nothing but great physical strength; that and an abject respect for Grat DePard. When Jesse got to be sheriff, Sullivan reasoned, he would be Grat's faithful dog. He had smashed the homesteader Spackman to the dust not because he had any particular grudge against Spackman, but to demonstrate his loyalty to cattle; and never for a moment had he realized the brutality of that act. A clever man like Grat would hold him by the nose and lead him without difficulty. Without that guidance Jesse would be a loose and terrible animal.

Jesse turned from the bar. "I got to tell Grat whut she's after." The swamper came through the doorway the same moment Jesse reached it. Jesse's elbow lifted slyly and caught the swamper in the stomach, slamming him against the doorsill. Jesse grinned at the swamper and went out. A dismal spasm ran across the swamper's face; he faced his hands over his belly and a sucking gust of air rushed into his wide-open mouth. He moved his head at Sullivan, pale and helpless. Sullivan's teeth bit into his cigar; he didn't speak until his voice could be soft. "Never mind, Tonk. That little trick will kill him one of these days."

Keene watched Aurora disappear beyond the opposite rim of the river bluff, attracted by the shape she made in the sun, in the golden haze of dust. These were the things, though he didn't know it, his senses forever awaited in eagerness—sounds and blends of fragrance and scenes which took fugitive shape and left their unforgettable impressions: the single moment when a campfire flame formed a perfect taper against the heart of night; the echo of one word spoken by a woman from the depths of her soul; the cold and immaculate deadliness of a diamond-back coiled at the instant of striking; the thread of some strange smell in the spring wind which, caught briefly and by accident, broke every old thread of a man's career and set him off on strange roads. These were the fragments of a greater mystery, the revealed pieces of an unrevealed puzzle whose answer he sought—yet knew not that he sought it. All the cold ashes of his campfires made an unerring line of search. Some duty, some labor, some love. Somewhere—

He took the ax and shovel from Aurora Brant's piled possessions and rode out upon Cloud Valley, aiming at Lost Man Ridge a mile east. He crossed a shallow sparkling oxbow bend of the creek, passed through knee-high meadow grass turned amber by the sun and softly furrowed by the wind. At the foot of the ridge he paused to scan the dark edge of timber above him. A crow flapped heavily from a treetop and Keene's glance whipped to that area in the timber, a never-dead suspicion clawing its way to the surface. But the crow fled without making its harsh warning cry and presently his alertness relaxed. The ridge carried him up a hundred feet so that he saw the long course of the valley and the figure of a single rider moving along the road in the direction of the ford.

In the timber he hunted up a few thin pines and cut and trimmed them. During the rest of the morning he dragged them to Aurora's cabin to furnish a temporary supply of wood. Meanwhile as he rode he decided upon the location of a cabin site for himself. His preference was for a small baylike recess in the ridge which made a shelter from the winds, but if it gave him shelter it was also a trap in time of trouble, permitting a marksman to come to the near edge of the pines and wait for a shot. Therefore he chose a spot by the oxbow bend of the creek in the middle of the valley, half a mile north of Aurora Brant's.

He cooked his coffee and fried his bacon and ate beside the creek. He marked out a small room on the ground—with an adjoining lean-to extension for his horse—and fell to cutting strips of sod two feet square. By the middle of the afternoon, working steadily along, he had the walls of the soddy begun. Riding had toughened him but this kind of labor pulled at muscles he seldom used and brought the fresh salt sweat to his cheeks. All his life he had handled horses and cattle, looking down upon a homesteader's endless chores with a horseman's disdain. Now here he was grubbing at the earth in the manner of the homesteader. He straightened and laughed outright and then he ceased to laugh. Why was he staying?

Maybe, he thought hopefully, it was natural for a man to grow weary of riding and to rest awhile. But he remembered Jesse Morspeare using his huge hands to club Spackman into the dust and he remembered Aurora Brant facing the cattle outfits alone—and he knew he was lying to himself. These homesteaders were humble people wishing for peace, knowing nothing about the ways of the gun. They were the lambs in the field to DePard and Morspeare and Red John. This was why he stayed.

He was again silently laughing at a man who, deliberately riding away from trouble, paused deliberately to invite other trouble. In his amusement was a regret at the passage of an illusion—the illusion that he could change himself; in it too were the relief and the certainty which come to one who, long idle, returns to his old and familiar trade.

A rider emerged from the timber on the western ridge, quartering into the valley. Keene moved over to the corner of the soddy and belted on his gun, and returned to his shovel; presently he saw it was a girl riding with that rhythm which comes only to those born and weaned on a saddle. She rounded before him and spoke in bluntest manner. "This year you dig out the grass and next year it will be weeds."

He propped himself against the shovel. Sweat ran down his cheek hollows; his cotton shirt clung to his long chest and when he smiled at her wrinkles cut a fine-netted pattern around the edge of his eyes. She appraised him in a single, surprised inspection.

"You're no homesteader. That shovel looks as funny in your hands as a woman's bonnet would on your head."

He said: "Now that's speaking straight out."

"You're a rider. Stick with your own kind. If you want a job come up to my father's ranch. The Crews outfit—Rafter T. Stop making a fool of yourself with a shovel. Don't you know a cowhand is a miserable man off a horse? I'm Portia Crews. You want the job?"

"No," he said.

Her eyelids crept nearer. She looked down with a slanting, inquisitive glance and broke the horse from its impatient fiddling with one competent twist of the reins. She had yellow hair and an oval face on which sunlight pleasantly fell. There was a faint high-handedness in her manner, a freedom and an authority. Yet she was an attractive girl who could change her temper whenever she wished; having come here to give him hell, she recognized one of her own kind and was full of interest and friendly motive.

"I heard you were a little bit tough," she reflected. "Thought I'd find out. Red John told me. You're the fellow who tossed Snap in Red John's lap last night. Red John didn't care for that. He's a bad man to make an enemy of."

"So I gathered."

She listened to him with her head aside. Her eyes were hazel. They opened fully on him to let out a woman's centered personal interest. "I guess you would gather that. You're one of these quick ones. You do a lot of figuring. You're figuring me now. What's your name?"

"Jim Keene."

"Jim," she said, "what's all this—a bet you made when you were drunk? You know this is no good. Every time you dig up a shovel of that ground you feel silly. Can you feature yourself milking a cow or walking peg-legged behind a plow? No, you can't."

He said, idly: "I'm saddle-sore and I'm tired of the sight of my shadow."

"Ah," she said. "Then you haven't been drunk lately. Maybe it's what you need. I know your kind." Her voice dropped softly on him. "Running off from something. From trouble." Her question was light and quick and insistent. "A woman?"

He shook his head.

"You're probably a smooth liar," she observed, holding his attention with her glance. She hadn't smiled at him yet but her eyes lightened as she read him; color ran across her face and her hands moved on the saddle-horn. She had a firm-rounded body filled with a vitality that produced its physical reaction in him. There was an unconscious daring to her personality, a frank aliveness. When she spoke again he had the impression she had made her judgment of him and would never change it. "You can't stay here. Grat will kill you."

"The gentleman has horns? Fur on his knees?"

Listening to his voice, Portia Crews liked the music it made and the little edge of irony it held. For the first time during the meeting she took her eyes from him. She thought: He's no fool. He's used his gun. He knows about those things. He's dangerous—he's kind. Which is he the most of? How does he like his women—what does he do with them?

She had her glance on the cabin down the creek and then she remembered something and brought her attention back to Keene.

"I hear that homestead girl has moved to the cabin."

"Last night."

Portia Crews murmured, "So," in a long, speculating breath and searched his face for a sign. She saw only a poker expression which told her nothing, and reined her horse about. But she turned to add as a casual afterthought: "If you ride up our way the door's open."

"Thanks," he said, and watched her fade across the grassland at a steady run. Everything she did was done without delay. He rolled a smoke and found himself weary of piling sod. He abandoned the job and rode over to the trees to cut a ridgepole and rafters. It was four o'clock then and Aurora Brant had not yet returned. When he reached the top of the ridge he saw a single rider advancing across the Silver Bow flats toward the ford, and believed it to be her. Sunlight, low in the west, threw long reddening waves of light across the sagelands. All the horizons were filled with a powder haze.