Читать книгу Sundown Jim - Ernest Haycox - Страница 7

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THE ways of Majors' life had trained his senses to be critical and exacting; so now he stood here and gathered the impressions that came to him. She must have ridden to this isolated spot, yet her horse wasn't to be seen in the clearing, which meant that she had probably left it out of sight in the timber. On her face at first had been a faint touch of eagerness, as though she waited for someone. In its place now was a genuine fear which told him how dangerous she thought this situation was.

She was a moderately tall girl, with corn-yellow hair and features which reached out for light and showed the swift changes of her mind. Her shoulders unconsciously straightened opposing him, and her hands were tightly closed. Breathing disturbed her breasts and color ran freshly across her cheeks. He could stand there, mind thoroughly on guard, and yet appreciate the supple lines of her body. She was, he thought, in that first maturity which follows girlhood; and all this while he watched the fear fade from her glance, as though she had calculated him and had come to her own decision. She had a quickness of mind that he appreciated, and the ability to be cool under strain.

He said: "Sorry to disturb you."

Her answer was deliberately meant to show him no great interest. "The country is free for anybody to ride in, I suppose."

It made him smile. "Sure. Free for me and for you—and for the other man you expected."

He saw a part of her fear rise again. She said: "Which way did you come?"

He pointed eastward. "That way."

"I haven't seen you before."

"New here."

Her lips softened, which added to his information. Having identified himself, he presented no great danger to her. She was almost serene in her composure and her face lightened and grew prettier and she watched him with a more direct interest. She was a well-shaped girl, her features quick to express her thoughts; and laughter and the love of life seemed to lie impatiently behind her eyes and her lips, waiting for release.

He said, "I'm on the right trail to the Barrs?"

She said, "Yes," and her glance went beyond him into the still, bright meadow. She was poised as though listening, as though waiting. "Do you know them?"

"No." He reached for his pipe, black head bowing as he filled it, his lips making a long, brief-smiling line. She expected someone and the run of the moments began to trouble her.

He murmured: "Place looks pretty old. Didn't know this country was settled so long ago."

"The house? It was built in '60."

He was mildly surprised. "Don't see how it could get so run-down that soon."

She said: "Look at the window on your left. Below it, in the wall."

He had to step back to catch a view—observing that as he retreated from the doorway she followed until she was on the edge of the porch. The panes of the window had been broken out, the sash had been beaten in. He saw what she meant, then. Below the window the faded wall bore the punctured mark of gunfire.

She said: "You don't know about that?"

"As I said, I'm a stranger to the country." He lighted his pipe, a feeling running along his back that was too strong to disregard. These were the details which guided his life, obscure sounds in the stray wind, fugitive impressions upon the earth, the shift of men's voices and the dim currents of warning that traveled their invisible channels to touch his senses. He never quite understood why it should be this way with him, but he had learned long ago that, by obeying these impalpable signals he had survived the hard back years, and that when he disregarded them trouble came to him. He didn't immediately turn, yet he knew that somebody hidden in the depths of the pines watched him now. He said in the same slow, music-making voice:—

"Better be on the travel."

All this while she had been studying him, her lips thoughtfully joined. She came to some quick decision and said: "Wait. Are you riding for the Barrs?"

"No," he answered. "No."

"I wish you hadn't seen me here."

His admiration for this girl increased. It was the quickness of her judgment that appealed to him, the deliberate way she came to the point. He looked at her. "I haven't seen you here."

"All right. That's a favor. You might as well know my name, which is Edith Sultan. If you stay you'll find it out anyhow."

He lifted his hat and made a quick turn toward the sorrel near by. One swift sweep of the line of trees showed him nothing. But a signal continued to flow from that direction, touching his nerves and pressing against his muscles. He got quickly into the saddle and trotted toward the farther mouth of the hill trail, not looking back. The trees closed around him presently and the forest shade closed down; and in the still air lay the scent of dust. Studying the soft earth he observed the print of a rider recently come this way.

For an hour he rode the covert trail, up and down the rolling contours of the broken land, outwardly idle but inwardly alive. The feel of this land was odd to him. Somewhere was a line as definite as a chalk strip that separated the men of the country, affecting their judgment and their actions powerfully. He could pull certain scenes and incidents from his head to establish that point: as the fated Pete Riley spinning into the dust at the crash of Ben Maffitt's gun, the laconic talk of Buff Sultan in the hotel room, and Charley Chavis' poorly concealed irritability, and the bullet holes in the wall of the deserted house behind him. Above this—and the key to all the subtle actions of men—seemed to lie the pressure of something out of the past. Majors had dealt with the violent treacheries of men long enough to make a guess as to that key. It would be, he thought, a hatred begotten of some old quarrel that kept growing with the years.

So thinking, he came out of the timber around two o'clock of this bright fall afternoon, and found himself at the rim of a narrow valley lying north and south with the base of that rugged mountain range which hoisted itself, one rocky tier upon another, toward snow-pointed peaks distant in a bright blue sky. Ute Fork's south branch largely occupied this narrow valley, the sun catching up the froth of its occasional rocky shallows. A road skirted the river; and river and road disappeared around a bend in the farther south where hills seemed to squeeze the valley thin.

He cut down the rim, reached the road, and followed it around that bend. Cattle grazed the narrow meadows and the heavy pines descended in dark masses from the Silver Lode Range; the valley's walls, to either side, grew higher. The road went definitely upward until, at the end of a good hour's travel, he skirted one more bend and saw a house and its scattered sheds and corrals backed against the valley's end. White ribbons of quick water marked where the south branch of the Ute Fork tumbled out of the range.

It was a ranch walled in on three sides, facing the narrow valley. A bridge crossed the river, and fed a trail which faded into the climbing timber. A dog rushed at him, and he could see men stirring around the corrals; and one man rose from the house porch and waited for him to ride up. When he reached the yard and wheeled, waiting for an invitation to dismount, he recognized the narrow-shaped Pedee Barr.

Majors said: "Afternoon," and indicated his leisure by folding both hands over the horn.

Pedee Barr's eyes were black and altogether unfriendly. His lips made an old man's bloodless line above the white goatee and the muscles of his jaw showed a stubborn bunching. He was, Majors immediately understood, a Southerner with an ancient pride that ran up and down his back like a steel rod; hot-tempered and thoroughly intolerant when angered. But he had a courtesy that made him say, with a reluctant Southern drawl:—

"You are on my land, sir. I did not invite you here. But since you are here, step down and have a chair."

Majors said, "Thanks," and swung from the saddle, strolling to the porch. The open door presented him a vista all back to the rear yard. Women talked somewhere in the depths of the house and the sound of an ax rang out from the yonder corrals in flat-ringing echoes. He took his survey briefly, but he knew Pedee Barr's ink-dark eyes were observing that display of interest. The old man said: "Sit down."

Majors seated himself in a rocker. This box-sided valley unrolled before him a half-mile or so before bending from sight. A little breeze scoured through the open hallway, fanning the back of his neck. Pedee Barr took a seat, producing a cheroot which he rolled between his lips, without a light.

A man rode from the timber on the far side of the Ute Fork and came on across the narrow bridge, the footfalls of the horse rolling very clear through the afternoon's drowse.

Majors said: "Where would that trail lead?"

Pedee Barr drawled: "I could not say."

The rider crossed the yard, his head swung to study Majors. He was tall and sharp-faced and quite dark of skin, with enough of a resemblance to old Pedee Barr to be a son. The old man's cigar dipped between his lips and the young one passed around the corner of the house; there had been a signal between the two.

Majors was a loose shape in the rocker; he was idly smiling. "No settlement of any kind up that way?"

Pedee Barr stared directly at Majors. "I must tell you, sir, that you will find no answers to your questions here. If it is what you came for, you might as well return to Reservation."

That pressure of suspicion and hidden motive which had rubbed him since his first hour in the country grew greater, as though this spot was one of its sources. The sound of the ax stopped, and the talking of the women, and afterwards someone came through the hail with a light, quick step.

Pedee Barr got up promptly. Following suit, Jim Majors turned to find Katherine Barr pausing in the doorway.

Pedee Barr said: "I believe you have an apology to offer my daughter for the ungentlemanly character of your speech in Reservation last night."

Majors spoke directly to the girl, the half-smile remaining on his solid lips. "If you consider an apology in order, I freely make it."

Pedee Barr spoke with a cold, rising tone. "I hear no direct apology, sir. Either make it or tell me that you refuse to make it."

Katherine Barr said: "He has made it, Father."

She was in a gray dress that matched and deepened the gray of her eyes and turned her hair a more shining black. She stood idly against the doorsill, seeming tall to him again; it was an illusion made by the way she carried her head, by the way she held her shoulders. He noticed once more the ivory shading of her skin and the turn of her lips. She had a pride that, like her father's, could sweep her violently and set up its blaze in her eyes. There was, Majors thought, that tremendous capacity for emotion in this girl, though her expression was almost severe now. The lines of the dress cut an accurate outline upward from her hips, showing the half fullness of her breasts; and something in his glance at that moment freshened her color.

She said, to Pedee Barr: "Have you asked him to stay for supper?"

Pedee Barr murmured: "I have not asked him," in a thinly final way.

Katherine Barr looked back at Majors. There was a break in her expression, a minute embarrassment. These were the times, Majors thought, when the hidden color of the girl's personality broke through the repose of her face—these times when she was disturbed or angered.

He said: "It is not my desire to intrude."

Men came silently around the corner of the house, causing Majors to swing on his heels. They stopped at the steps, four of them, loosely grouped together.

Pedee Barr said: "This is my son Fay Barr and this is my son Ring. I regret my third son, Dan, is not here for you to meet. These others are Creed and Will Barr."

Majors could distinguish little difference between Fay and Ring Barr, except that Fay was the younger of the pair. They had the same lank build, the same dark narrowness of face, and their eyes held the same close distrust that was characteristic of their father. Pedee Barr was speaking again, to Jim Majors.

"I have my own ideas why you came here. I want you to remember these boys. It is entirely your business what you do, but if you set yourself against us, expect no charity from me or from them. I want you to understand that. There will never be another warning. Now, if you have nothing else to detain you..."

Majors clapped on his hat and went out to the sorrel, climbing up. He had his look at this group, at the metal-darkness of their faces, at old Pedee standing so still and domineering above them, and at Katherine Barr, who looked his way as though trying to read what he thought. He lifted his hat to her and his sudden grin appeared, long and ironic. He pointed at the trail leading across the bridge into the heights of the ranges.

"If Ben Maffitt comes out of the Pocket in the next day or so, you might say I'd like a word with him."

There was no change in Pedee's features.

Majors swung away, and had reached the gate when the girl's voice stopped him.

"Wait!"

He pulled around. Pedee Barr said, "Come back, Katherine," but the girl ran on, stopping by Majors' horse.

She looked up. "Tell Tony I'd like to do something for her. Tell her that." Then her voice dropped. "I want to talk to you, sometime. But don't come into this valley again."

"The road's free," pointed out Majors.

She gave him a direct look. "It may be. But you've already talked to Buff Sultan. We know that."

Pedee Barr called her name more imperiously and she turned away. Majors put his horse to a trot and presently passed around the bend. Sunlight held the sky, but it had gone from the valley and the bite of winter lay in the shadows. At the next bend he saw a rider slide off the rim at the same point at which he had earlier entered this little valley, and come galloping forward.

A hundred yards away the rider drew in to a walk; and thus they came abreast. It was, Majors guessed, the third son, Dan Barr. The family resemblance was on the youngster's face, though he had a broader spread between his eyes and less sultriness in them. Abreast Majors, Dan Barr said, "Howdy," and after Majors had answered the youngster flung his pony into a gallop and went by.

At one point in the valley Majors took note of a well-used trail shooting off from the road to the river, crossing at a gravel ford and angling instantly into the high timber. He made note of it, meanwhile considering the Barr family with a practical interest; and so came to Reservation at supper-time's dusk.

Instead of going directly to the stable he dropped off in front of the print shop and went in.

It was a single room with a counter, behind which stood the cases and hand press and accumulated junk of a printer's business; a man, prematurely gray and sallowed by his trade, turned reluctantly from the cases. After he got closer to the lamplight Majors discovered he was younger than the shadows made him out. He presented Majors with a thoroughly weary, disillusioned expression.

Majors reached into his pocket and took out a single folded sheet of paper. He said: "I'll wait while you print this up."

The man said, "I was about to close shop."

"Won't take a minute," Majors suggested, and turned behind the counter. The printer lifted his shoulders and let them fall; he walked to the case. Majors handed him the paper and stood back, watching the printer's expression slowly change. The man's glance slanted angularly at him, bright and wise and old.

"That lets the cat out. You sure you want it printed?"

"Go ahead," ordered Majors. He fished for his pipe and packed it, and stood there smoking while the printer's hand moved swiftly along the case. Riders trotted past the office and a supper-triangle began to bang. The printer locked up the type and ran an ink roller over it and pressed out a copy, handing it to Majors.

"How many you want?"

"One's enough."

"More than enough," agreed the printer dryly.

"What's the cost?"

"I guess that's all right," said the printer. "I'm sorry for you."

Majors left the office, riding to the stable; afterwards he crossed to the jail. He met Charley Chavis at the doorway and waved him back. "Talk to you a minute," he said.

Chavis turned into the room.

"Listen," he said "I don't want any part of your business. I just found out you talked to Buff Sultan last night."

"News spreads."

"You dam' right," said Charley Chavis with unusual vehemence.

"How fast you figure this will spread?" asked Majors, and handed the marshal the printed sheet.

The marshal's glance hit the printing and bounced back to Majors. He stepped away from Majors, shaking his head. He moved his hands nervously. He said: "No, not me. What the hell you come here for? That's what I thought this morning." Anger got into his talk, vehement and complaining. "You got no business shovin' into this place. Who the hell asked you to come here? I didn't. Nobody in the town did. Well, why then?"

There was an election picture of Charley Chavis on the office wall. Majors went over and took out the tacks that held it, then pulled the printed sheet from Chavis' loose fingers and went to the street. He thumbed the notice onto a bulletin board beside the door, called back to Chavis, "I'll use your office now and then, Charley," and strolled down the street. When he got to the hotel corner he looked behind him to see Charley Chavis standing before the notice, reading it. A man came out of the saloon, walking rapidly that way.

The notice had on it this information:—

REWARD

>

The United States Government will pay $500 for information concerning any of the undersigned men, all of whom are wanted for bank robbery, train robbery, mail stage holdups or for violation of other Federal statutes. These men last known to be in the Pocket country of the Silver Lode Range:—

ED DALE

THORPE CAROW,

alias SALT RIVER TOD WILLY LEE BREEN YANCEY STOWBRICK HARRY M'GILLIVRY

Communicate with U.S. Marshal Jeff D. White at Territorial Capitol, or to the undersigned, in Reservation.

J.J. Majors, Deputy United States Marshal