Читать книгу Pillar Mountain - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 7

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When he looked back from the disappearance of the posse, he found the quizzical eye of his guard fixed upon him.

“Well, kid,” said he, “what you thinking of?”

“I was only wondering something,” said the boy. “I suppose Joe Dorman has done something wrong?”

“You suppose?” grinned the other. “I suppose so, too.”

“What has he done, then?”

“What is there to do?” said the guard. “He’s done everything there is. Gimme your guns, kid. I gotta walk you down to the town. Just hand ’em over right pronto,” he added in a stern voice.

For the boy had hesitated a little; but then he remembered the caution which Oliver Aytoun had given him—there must be no trouble when guns were in hand—and how narrowly, perhaps, had he escaped a tragic quarrel with yonder hunted man only a few minutes before!

So he passed over his rifle and then his revolver. The guard looked upon them approvingly.

“You know how to keep a gun, kid,” said he. “Who taught you?”

“My uncle,” said Philip.

“Where you from?”

“That way yonder.”

“But that’ll be Pillar Mountain.”

“Yes.”

“And nobody lives on Pillar Mountain.”

“Yes, I lived there.”

“Who’s your father?”

“I don’t know.”

The other frowned a little.

“I hope to find out, some day,” said Philip cheerfully.

At this, he thought that he detected the ghost of a twisted smile on the face of the other.

“We better start along for town,” said the rider not unkindly. “I better introduce myself. I’m Rivers. Mostly they call me Doc, which I ain’t one, though. Come along, kid!”

They went on down the valley. Rivers was both curious and kind, which made rather a singular and uncomfortable combination.

“You been to school, ever?” said the gentle Doc Rivers.

“No.”

Mr. Rivers whistled.

“That’s a hell of a shame,” he declared. “Wonderful what schooling does for you. It’s mean work and it’s slow work, but it helps a good deal. It brings you on. Amazin’ what it would do for you, if you was able to read or write.”

It came to the mind of Philip that he might undeceive his genial companion. Certainly he could read and write, and no doubt there had been some pain involved in the learning, for he could remember the long evenings of labor when Oliver Aytoun sat as tutor and corrected the tasks.

And yet he was held back, because he felt that it might embarrass Rivers to know that his prisoner had been compelled to read certain hours of each long winter day.

“You talk pretty good, though,” commented Rivers. “But then,” he explained to himself, “a gent can pick up a lingo.”

“I can read and write a little, too,” said Philip.

“The hell you can,” said the rider. He turned in his saddle and regarded his prisoner.

He went on: “You never heard of Joe Dorman?”

“No.”

“I guess you never read newspapers, then?”

“I never have read a newspaper,” said Philip.

The eyes of Doc Rivers expanded. He began to rub his chin.

“Think of that, now,” he said, more to himself than to his companion. “Never read no newspaper. Got no education. And raised right here in the old United States!”

Presently he asked: “D’you ever have any trouble with your head?”

“What sort of trouble?” asked Philip.

“Sort of a pain when you try to think?”

Philip examined the question frankly and earnestly: “Yes,” he admitted, “I do.”

Doc Rivers made a clucking sound. His sympathy was manifest.

“It’s all right,” said he. “It’s all right, kid. We got places in this here state for taking care of folks like you. Don’t you worry none. I’m gunna take a personal interest in pushing your case through. I know some folks—you wait and see! I’ll land you plumb comfortable!”

He was so filled with his own thoughts that for some time, as they journeyed on, he nodded and murmured to himself.

“Now,” he said at length, “what can you do for yourself?”

“I don’t know,” said Philip.

“You don’t even know that!” said Rivers sadly. “Might I ask, can you ride a horse?”

“I never tried,” said Philip.

“You never tried!” breathed Rivers.

“But I can ride a mule,” offered Philip.

“You can ride a mule!” said Rivers, who seemed so overwhelmed that he could merely repeat the words he heard. “And you can stay on the back of a mule?” he asked with a gentle sarcasm.

Philip thought back to the painful days when the youngest of the two mules had been brought up by Aytoun. It was a wiry young gray devil with a small eye as bright as polished glass and a fire behind it, shining redly through. For a whole month he had struggled with the devilish wiles of that creature; a thousand aches and pains shot through him as he recalled the struggles.

“If it’s a gentle mule I can ride it,” he admitted.

Mr. Rivers grinned. But he banished the smile at once, as though ashamed of it.

“These here guns,” he indicated the captured pair and added, “you’ll get ’em back, all right, don’t you worry. But these here guns, you was taught to clean ’em?”

“Yes,” said Philip.

“Did you ever shoot a bullet out of one of ’em?”

“Yes,” said Philip.

“Hit your mark?”

Philip thought of a jack rabbit, dodging like lightning among rocks.

“Sometimes I hit,” said he.

“And sometimes you don’t,” grinned Rivers.

“Sometimes I don’t,” said Philip, and turned his big, frank eyes upon his companion.

“You never used a rope, none?” asked Rivers. “You don’t know how to use a rope none?”

“Oh, yes,” said Philip, “I can use a rope to tie a mule to a manger.”

“You can use a rope—to tie a mule—to a manger,” echoed Rivers, in the voice of one in pain. “Sweet—sufferin’—mama!”

Then he added: “Can’t do nothin’—can’t use a rope—can’t ride a hoss—I dunno what’s gunna become of you, kid! But the state’ll take care of you,” he said firmly and righteously. “Oh, yes, the state’ll take care of you, or I’ll make a scandal out of it. I’ll put it in the papers!”

Philip considered; but he hardly knew how the state was to take care of him, or what being put in the papers might mean. He felt, however, that he was face to face with some sort of a catastrophe.

“Can’t even shoot!” said Rivers.

“But I can—a little,” protested Philip.

“All right,” said Doc Rivers. “Here’s your own rifle, all nice and clean. There’s a stump over yonder, nice and handy. I give you three shots at that!”

Philip accepted the rifle.

“I don’t like to try,” said he.

“Does it seem pretty far?” asked the kind Rivers.

“It’s standing still, you see,” explained Philip.

Mr. Rivers opened his eyes very wide. A light of real terror was in them as he croaked: “So it is; it’s standing still. Mostly in your part of the world, does the trees run around a good deal?”

“What I mean to say,” began Philip.

And then he broke off short, for a quail launched from beneath a bush near by and whirred down the valley with wings grown invisible with rapid motion.

At that, the rifle of Philip leaped to his shoulder. He followed the flight of the bird for half an instant with wavering muzzle, and then fired. The quail veered, a few feathers fluttered in the air, and it was gone into a clump of shrubbery.

“I’m very sorry,” said Philip. “It rather surprised me. I mean—jumping up that way right at my feet!”

Doc Rivers hurried on with a preoccupied look, and leaned from his horse to examine the spot where the feathers had drifted to the ground.

“That’s a hundred yards if it’s a quarter of an inch,” he observed to himself.

“I’m sorry,” repeated Philip. “But often I hit them, you know!”

Doc Rivers merely responded: “Sweet—sufferin’—mama!”

His thoughts had drifted far off; suddenly he demanded harshly: “Gimme back that gun!”

Philip, hurt at the tone, returned the gun, and watched Rivers examine it with the greatest attention.

“There ain’t nothing funny about it,” said Doc Rivers. “It ain’t nothing but a damned old Winchester. It ain’t no different from my own gun.”

He puckered his lips, as though his thought had left a sour thought in his mind. “I used to think that I could shoot a bit, myself,” he observed.

“No doubt you can,” said Philip, anxious to be pleasant. “No doubt you are really a great expert, Mr. Rivers. My Uncle always let me know that I had a great deal to learn.”

“Who is your uncle? God?” asked Doc Rivers. “Maybe with a revolver you ain’t very good, neither? Maybe you can only roll a small stone along the ground, or a tin can?”

“Yes,” said Philip humbly. “That’s about the hardest thing that I can do.”

“You can do it, can you?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s your Colt. You got no trigger on it, I see. Does that mean that you fan it, kid?”

“Oh, yes,” said Philip. “My uncle said that was the proper way to use a revolver. My uncle—”

“Oh, damn your uncle,” said Doc Rivers. “Lemme see you roll that little ol’ stone, will you?”

Philip looked askance at his companion. He felt that, although he did not wish to quarrel with any soul in this wide world, and though Doc Rivers had been the height of kindness up to this point, yet a slighting remark concerning the good, the wise, the kind, the gentle man who lived on Pillar Mountain was not to be tolerated.

However, he determined to do as he was bid and make no more disturbance about it.

The stone indicated was a rounded white pebble a couple of inches in diameter. He looked carefully at it, then he whipped the gun suddenly into play from the hip and the stone leaped wildly like a frantic living thing, striving to escape. Five shots made it leap five times, but the sixth shot missed the ground behind it.

“I’m sorry,” said Philip, apologizing again. “But,” he explained, “my uncle never was satisfied with the way I used a revolver. I haven’t the patience to practice long enough; and ammunition costs such a great deal of money, you know!”

Doc Rivers, in silence, was dismounting from his horse. He picked up the small white stone, wrapped it in a spare bandanna, and placed it carefully in his pocket.

“Is it a rare specimen?” asked Philip politely.

“Is it a rare specimen?” echoed Rivers. “Sufferin’—sweet—mama—I’ll tell a man it is!”