Читать книгу The Earthbreakers - Ernest Haycox - Страница 13

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THE group at the fire had settled to the Gays, the Collingwoods, and Whitcomb and Lot White. John Gay said: "A lot of us have thrown in for Bear Creek. You decided?"

"I want a creek with a fall of water for a mill," said Burnett.

"Where'll that be?"

Burnett poured himself coffee from the pot on the fire. Katherine's face hung steady, watching him from beyond the flame. Whitcomb idly said: "Why spoil the liquor's comfort with coffee? The comfort's hard to come by.

"This was," agreed Burnett. "It set on slow and never went deep."

"Where'll you go?" insisted John Gay.

"With your outfit," said Burnett. "Hawn's going out in the morning. He can be guide for us."

John Gay turned to Whitcomb. "You going along?"

"I stay here." Whitcomb sat back on his heels; his turning glance touched Lucy Collingwood.

"I wish you were nearer," said John Gay.

"I'll ride the rounds," said Whitcomb. "I'll see you all many times." He made a gesture. "I don't like endings."

"Why, Ralph," said Mrs. Gay, "I had no notion you were sentimental."

"He ain't," said Lot White.

"You can go to hell for a foolish remark, Lot," said Whitcomb, and rose from the fire to leave the group.

Immediately afterwards Burnett finished his coffee and walked to his bedroll and soon settled inside it and lay for a short time with the flap thrown back, feeling occasional drops of rain come through the sheltering tree. His fire was black, the falls made a steady rumble in the night, wind ruffled the fir tops. Someone crossed the soft ground and made a shadow over him.

"Rice—you asleep?"

"No."

Katherine dropped beside him. "Feel better?"

"It was a waste of time."

She was silent. Presently he heard a small laugh come from her; she was appreciating some joke of her own. "Come to our wagon for breakfast. I'm glad you're going where we are. It makes me happy." Her voice went unhurriedly along. "I wish everybody'd go to the same place, stay together."

"What's up between Lucy and Whitcomb?"

"When did you notice that?"

"Tonight," he said.

"I think they're in love."

"I wonder what that is."

"What's got into you?"

"No, what is it?"

"If you've got to ask, then you've not got it."

"That's too easy. How would I know what it is?"

"You'll want a woman." She dropped nearer, catching a closer view of his face. She waited for his answer; her hand lay idle on his shoulder.

"I've wanted women without being in love," he said.

"That's different."

"Where's the difference?"

"That's being thirsty—that's just taking a drink of water wherever the water's fit to drink."

"My God," he said and sat up in the bedroll.

"You didn't think I could say a thing like that, did you? You think women just dream along. But you don't mean these funny things."

"I want to know."

She shoved him back against the bedroll. "You'd been married a long time ago if any woman would do."

"You didn't answer the question," he said.

"I said you'd know when it happened. That's enough. That's it."

"You said a hole in a doughnut is a hole in a doughnut. That's no answer. You don't know. Nobody knows."

"Crazy man." Her face hung over him, dark, serious, still. "Don't tell me about my business."

"My business, too."

"Funny man. No it's not—not so much. Never could be as much your business as mine."

"Why not?"

"Because...I want you to see that Mrs. Irish gets a good piece of land. All these men will be looking out for themselves. They'll have no time for her. They might even crowd her out of something if they wanted it. First thing we get to this place—you watch out for her. You hear me?"

"All right."

She went away.

A late-arriving wagon groaned through the darkness, a tired man cursing, a baby crying; little by little the camp settled and the halloo of playing children ceased, and fires died to gleaming red eyes on the earth.

Ralph Whitcomb, pacing the dark, looked toward the Collingwood wagon to visualize Lucy, strongly attracted to her and believing he had seen on her face some sign of a like interest. He wasn't certain of it and his habit of viewing his acts with sometimes a spectator's irony caused him to think now that he was deluding himself; that as a lonely man he looked upon a fair woman and saw in her eyes signals which weren't there. In such a state of mind he could only believe that this was the old thing which amused him when he observed it in others. Yet he was in revolt against the reasonableness which had kept his life in low key; he was at that stage when, struggling with morals and caution, he was about to throw these things over and let himself be governed by the unreasonable, wonderful dictates of his first wants. He would make the break when he thought he saw some favor in her, and either would be humiliated by her or would be encouraged. What would come of it, he had no notion. Probably nothing good, but he was past caring; he wanted her, he had to make his try. These wagon people didn't anticipate much, they didn't drag old worries behind them. They went ahead, rough and ready and a little callous spiritually, and cried or laughed, and did what they were impelled to do and took the consequences. They were a wonderful people.

Lucy Collingwood lay awake beside her sleeping husband, and thought of Whitcomb and imagined the touch of his hands upon her, and she stirred aside from Collingwood to let nothing foreign disturb the illusion. Kneeling before a tree on the edge of camp late this night Lot White called upon the Lord to make Ralph Whitcomb see the light; crouched over a dying fire Cal Lockyear listened to Whit Rinearson speak of a Hudson's Bay messenger who rode on schedule between Fort Vancouver and this town with his gold pouch; and Cal Lockyear stared long at Whit, and murmured, "That's something interesting, ain't it?" Side by side in bed John and Martha Gay quietly discussed the long winter to come, the food they had, the money remaining, the things they might do without, the things they had to have, and Martha said: "I don't see how we can make it," and John Gay said, "We'll make it somehow. These hands can do what's to be done." But he said nothing of the one hand which of late seemed half numb. Standing alone in the night, Roxy Kitchen doubled her fists and listened for the sound of steps to come along and stop near her—a man's steps, any man's steps; and restless in bed, Edna Lattimore pressed her hands hard against her thighs and tried to think of Rice Burnett; what kept breaking through this warm reverie was the challenging shape of Cal Lockyear. Billy Lord and his wife slept, both snoring. Mrs. Irish listened to the breathing of her son, remembering how worked down he was, and wondered how much more he could stand. She was both bitter and sad for the boyhood he had lost, and silently prayed: "Lord let me last till he's eighteen—then I'll not mind." Half listening to the quiet talk of her parents, Katherine Gay remembered Rice Burnett's question about love—"I wonder what it really is?" She could not believe, from that question, that he was in love with Edna. She remained long awake, thinking of him.

So the camp lay, a small world of wagons with a spurious quiet upon it; within the covering canvas all these people rested, but few were at rest and their cries, if spoken aloud, would have filled the night. Turning in his blanket roll, Rice Burnett felt the weight of Edna upon him. He loved her if love was an appetite, if it was warmth and explosion and rest, and wakening to hunger again. She was calmer than any living person he knew; and she knew him and laughed at him for his notions, and perhaps she was right. He turned again and listened into the night with an outdoor man's close perception of sound and smell, of small currents of noise twining through each other, each with a separate meaning. The rain fell in desultory fashion; the rank night odors lay heavy in the fog. All the stars were hidden beyond this low ceiling. He was lonely and not even the imagined nearness of Edna settled the loneliness. There were other things out there beyond his finger tips, beyond the next hill.

He had come to Oregon to get away from this search for things beyond sight; the search was done and it was time to settle and to accept what he saw, not what he imagined; but the yonder still haunted him; it would never let him alone.