Читать книгу Speedy - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 11

Table of Contents

The house of Art Steyn was not a beautiful one. It was just a sprawling shack of a ranch house, with three rooms in it. In one room, the punchers ate with the family, which consisted of Mary, the adopted daughter, and Steyn himself. Mrs. Steyn, who had taken the waif in, those years ago, had long since died.

Neither was the situation of the house charming. It was simply backed against a bald, brown hill. There were no trees near it. Even the water had to be carried a hundred feet from the corral troughs. And the sunburned grasses that covered the rolling country for leagues around wore into well-defined trails near the place—though there was no real road—until finally the ground was beaten bare by many hoofs all about the immediate vicinity of the shack.

And yet, every Sunday morning, cow punchers from distant parts of the range were sure to come trooping. What attracted them? Perhaps it was the music which Mary pounded out on a rattling piano that stood in a corner of the long dining room. Perhaps it was Mary’s lively tongue. Perhaps it was Mary’s brown, pretty face. At any rate, they came like bees to honey. And Art Steyn used to sit behind the veil of his seventy years and smile dimly at “the boys.”

Those Sunday meetings served more purposes than merely to see and hear Mary, or to eat the liberal cold lunch which, with beer, was regularly served to all guests, and no questions asked. In addition, the place was a sort of no-man’s land, where weapons were never drawn since the day when poor Jay Minter was shot to death by the outlaw, Sam Willys. Mary Steyn was only fifteen, then, but she was already a cause for war among men, and after the death of Minter, an unwritten law declared that no man should either wear or use artificial weapons at the Steyn house. When a rider arrived, he hung up his belt and guns on a peg on the dining room wall. That was his first act; afterwards, he spoke to those present.

And, because of this good custom, it came about that sometimes deadly enemies met under that roof and regarded one another coldly, but without either violent words or violent actions following.

That was not all. Hatred is generally based on ignorance of the other man. And many a hatred softened and mellowed into actual friendship in the good-natured atmosphere of the Steyn house.

On this Sunday, for instance, Rudy Stern, when he came through the doorway, stopped with a shock, for he saw the face of a puncher who had recently come off a more northerly range. It was Alf Barton, big, powerful, solemn of speech, a fighting man. He was not sure death, like Rudy Stern, but he had been man enough to stand up to Rudy in a memorable battle, long ago. And Rudy had been looking for him ever since the two of them were discharged, on different days, from the same hospital.

The story was well known, and when the pair eyed one another, a silence swept in a wave across the room. The girl who was rattling the piano, noticed it, and spun about on the stool.

She saw the cause at once, and did something about it.

She went to Rudy Stern and took him by the elbow.

“You come along with me, Rudy,” said she. “Hey, Alf!”

Barton turned, lumberingly, and glared at the girl’s companion. However, slowly, step by step, he went to meet them. The two men eyed one another as though they were hunting for places to strike.

Said the girl, as she halted Rudy close to the larger man: “What’s the matter with you two fellows? You shot each other up once. Isn’t that enough? Now, you quit it! You’re throwing a chill into the whole party. Rudy, Alf Barton’s a man, and a real man, and you ought to know it. Alf, you know that Rudy has an edge on you in a gunplay. You may be brave enough to die, but why die today? Rudy, you’re a bully by nature, but you’re not going to start your tricks in this house! Look here, the pair of you. A pair of better punchers never forked a horse. Now, you either get out of here, or else shake hands, now!”

Alf Barton stood rigid and formidable, even then. For it was true that Rudy was the better gunman of the two, and Barton for that very reason would not give way. But Rudy, perhaps a little conscious that his great reputation made it possible for him to bend from his high position, suddenly thrust out his hand, with a smile.

He said: “Alf, old boy, you certainly socked me in Miller’s place. But Mary’s right. This is no place for us to wrangle. Besides, for my part, I’m glad to forget all about that. I’ve got nothing against you except that day; and the only thing that I’ve got against you on that day is that you shot too damn straight. Let’s shake and call it quits!”

Barton colored a little. But he took the hand of Rudy in a great, honest grasp.

“I’m a mighty happy man to forget everything, Rudy,” he said. Then he admitted, in his straightforward way: “I’m gunna stop payin’ life insurance, now!”

The whole room laughed at this sally, and the laughter swept away the last iota of bad feeling between the two. They marched up to the piano, arm in arm, and bellowed loudly in discord in the next chorus that Mary played. The whole room was singing.

Under cover of that song, a grizzly veteran of the range entered, hung up his guns, and went to a corner, where he sat down and smoked a pipe. And presently another of the same type came in, and followed suit. He even drifted into the same corner where the first one had gone.

And it was he who said, half an hour later, lighting a second pipe: “Listen, Jack. I wanta talk to you.”

Said Jack, “Damn your ornery hide, that’s the only reason that I’m here—is to listen!”

“If you talk like that, Jack, I’m gunna take you outside and slam you!”

“Shut yer fool face, or the girl’ll hear you.”

“Ay, I forgot about her.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that steer. It’s a lie that I picked it off your range. That runnin’ iron brand must of been the work of—”

“Hold on. I ain’t here to argue. I ain’t been close enough to you, since that day, to ask you face to face. It ain’t been safe to get within rifle shot of you. But now here I set and I ask you, man to man, is it the truth that you’re telling me?”

The other stared at him out of keen eyes.

Slowly, bitterly, he said: “No, it ain’t the truth. I’ve lied to you, partner.”

“Lie or no lie,” said the other, with a sudden heartiness. “It shows the man you are to admit it. Son, we’ll fix that matter up peaceable. And the load off my shoulders will be worth the price of twenty steers.”

Said the other: “It wasn’t the price of the damn steer. It was just that I wasn’t gunna be outsmarted by you. Partner, you’ll see I’m square. I’ll settle it right here and now!”

This small conversation meant much, but it passed almost unnoticed. There was hardly a Sunday when two or three old enemies did not meet in this extra legal court and settle difficulties. And if a very moot point arose, old, faintly smiling Arthur Steyn would be called in to act as the judge. Quietly, in five minutes of talk, he was generally able to straighten out everything.

Now, it was when the merriment was in full swing, and at least twenty men or more were in the room that from outside the house came the sound of a guitar, and a ringing, clear baritone voice which accompanied the piano and the singers inside, a voice that cut through the others by the purity of its rounded tone in spite of the distance of the singer.

“Hello!” cried Mary, as the piece ended. “There’s a real musician floating around here! Wait till I get him. This is going to be a party!”

She ran to the door.

And there she saw the player of the guitar standing.

She stopped with a frown.

“Only a tramp—a lowdown hobo!” she exclaimed with a cruel loudness.

For the boy before her was dressed in rags; his toes thrust out at the ends of his shoes; his necktie was askew; a tattered hat was on his head. The sling which supported the guitar from around his neck proved, as it were, that he was a professional mendicant, singing for his living. Now, in an equally professional manner, he lifted his almost brimless hat and bowed to her, and then straightened with a smile on his brown, handsome face.

“Miss Steyn,” said he, “I’ve come a long way to see you. I hope there’s something to eat in your kitchen!”

“Look here,” said the girl, sternly. “We don’t like hoboes, around here. One of your kind burned down the barn, a couple of years back. We want no more of you. Get off the place! Or if you really are just down on your luck, you’ll find a woodpile around there behind the house. Go on and tackle it, and we’ll feed you when you’ve earned your meal.”

He kept his hat in his hand. The wind waved his tousled hair. His smile did not grow dim.

“Nothing that I’d like to do,” said he, “better than to chop some of that wood and get the good hard exercise. But I’ve a vow that keeps me from it.”

“You have a vow?” she asked, disdainfully. “What sort of a vow have you made?”

“Never to raise a callus, ma’am. You know that when a musician wants to keep his touch—”

“Musician? You low hobo, I’ll give you five minutes to get off the place!”

And she turned abruptly back to the piano and played the next piece which was being clamored for.

She had scarcely ended when the mellow voice of the tramp broke in upon her, singing:

“Julia, you are peculiar,

Julia,

You are queer.

Truly,

You are unruly

As a wild western steer.

Sweetheart, when we marry,

Dear one, you and I,

Julia,

You little mule you,

I’m gunna rule you,

Or die!”

There was laughter from the crowd, laughter from the girl, also, but she said: “He sings pretty well, but he’s a hobo. I gave him five minutes to get off the place. Say, Fat, you go and throw him off, will you?”