Читать книгу The Sheriff Rides - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 7

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He found the streets of Monument broad and fairly clean, though deeply rutted by the wheels of the great wagons which constantly were jolting and jarring through them, in all weathers of the years. The scheme of the town was pleasant enough, the upper stories of the buildings projecting out well above the lower, and being supported on strong pillars of adobe or brick or wood which rose from the outer edge of the sidewalks. In the shade of the arcades thus made, the citizens of Monument walked to and fro, sometimes almost lost in the shadow, but at the street corners emerging suddenly into the brightness of the sunlight, so that the boy was amazed by such types of clothes and people as he never had seen. Looking down from the height of his saddle, he stared at the headgear in particular and observed derbies, high silk hats most absurdly out of place, common felts of gray and brown, and the sloppy, wide-brimmed black felt which was so common all through the West, turning green with age and much sunshine; there were caps, and the peaked straw hats of Mexicans, and the flatter straw hats of others; there were sun helmets, and there were the towering, massive sombreros, sometimes flecked with metal work of varying kinds.

He had many glimpses of the faces which flowed along, making those hats bob up and down, and he saw peons and high-blooded Mexicans, and half breeds, and full-blooded Indians from both the north and the south of the Rio Grande; and he saw Negroes, and all the shades of the black man up to the octoroon whose blood was betrayed only by the smoke in the whites of his eyes, and perhaps by a certain frightened look. For the rest, there were all the nationalities of white man, and all the grades, and all the classes, from the laborer to the affected gentility of the professional gambler; from the dour-faced gunman to the youngster from England, in riding boots and breeches, unconcerned by the glances of amusement cast after him.

John Signal was so amazed and delighted by this stream of life that he felt that he could have gazed at it during the rest of his days. But here he came to a great sign:

“Jenkins’ Employment Agency!”

And suddenly he remembered that he had to work in order to live. He had exactly eight dollars in his pocket, and he gathered that eight dollars would not lead him far in such a community as this. He halted the roan horse with a sigh and tethered it at the hitching rack, where already there were half a dozen other horses tied, all of them lump-headed mustangs. Then, resigning himself to the curse of Adam, he passed into the employment agency.

It was one small room, and there was not a soul in it except a single fat fellow, with one arm, who leaned at the center table upon his single hand and seemed to sleep. Young Signal touched his shoulder and was rewarded by a grunt, a start, a whirl of the little man, and a big Colt jabbed into his stomach.

But the other instantly realized that he had made a mistake, and he backed away, grinning shamefacedly.

“I was havin’ a dream!” he said.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” said Signal, good-natured. “You almost put me to sleep for good and all.”

“Not me! Not me!” said the other. “But what d’you want with me, son?”

His hand gestured toward his bosom, and the big Colt disappeared.

“I want to talk to the employment agent.”

“That’s me.”

“Are you Jenkins?”

“Thank God I ain’t. The dirty crook beat me out of my money. All I got is his business. And you see how thick that is!”

“Are there a lot of other agencies in the town?”

“There ain’t another one.”

It was again time for the boy to gape in bewilderment.

“How can you keep everybody in jobs?” he asked.

“How can’t I? Who wants to work in Monument? Do you?”

He looked in open wonder at the boy.

“I do.”

“What can you handle? A drill and a single-jack? Know how to break ground long? There’s a place for practiced hands at that, but they collect more blisters than dollars, and bust their backs, besides!”

“I can ride a little and use a rope.”

“Are you handy with a rope?”

“I can daub it on a cow, now and then.”

“You’ll find plenty of bulls in this here town, but not so many cows,” chuckled the fat man. “But now and then I get a call for a puncher on one of the places near here. Shall I write you down?”

“Yes—no,” hesitated Signal.

He had not yet decided upon a name which he could assume.

“John is my name,” said he.

“John what?” asked the fat man, leaning over a large book which he had opened.

“John what? John nothing.”

“You only got one name?”

“That’s all.”

“There’s a million Johns,” protested the owner of the business. “Why, if you want something short and snappy, don’t you call yourself ‘Red-eye,’ or ‘Whisky John,’ or something like that? People could remember you, then.”

It appeared to the boy that he had made a ridiculous mistake. He should, of course, have thought of something else to go with his own real name. But all that could pop into his mind at the moment was “Jones” or “Smith,” and it seemed to him that the combination would smack too much of an obvious alias.

“Red-eye John, alias Whisky John. I like the name of that, old son,” went on the employment agent.

There was a rushing of hoofs, a confused bawling as a herd of cattle poured down the street, casting up clouds of dust which boiled against the door of the agency, and sifted in through the screen.

“I can do without the alias,” said Signal shortly.

“Hold on!” cried the fat man. “I gotta name for you. I gotta beaut. And it stands by itself. There ain’t any other like it. John Alias! How’s that!”

He rejoiced in the name with a loud laughter, smiting his paunch with his open hand, until it resounded.

“It’s all right,” answered Signal, casting his dignity aside, and chuckling in turn. “Call me John Alias, if you want to.”

“Alias what?” roared the agent. “They’ll always say that. It’ll start conversation. You’ll never have a dull time—not around this part of the world!”

He laughed again, and there was something other than good nature blended with his mirth, which the boy could hear in the laughter but could not exactly analyze.

“John Alias,” said the employment agent, “wants a job punching cows. Got his own hoss?”

“Yes.”

“A good one? That counts.”

“A cutting horse.”

“Got a cutting hoss, too. That’ll land you a job inside of a week. So long, John Alias!”

And, still laughing, he followed Signal to the door of the place.

Inside of a week! And how to lodge and board on eight dollars for a week? That was the problem.

He leaned against a pillar outside the agency and rolled a cigarette, frowning in thought, but as he lighted the smoke, he noticed with amazement that the roan horse was gone!

He looked wildly about him, certain that he must have mistaken the hitching rack, but stare as he would, he could not spot Grundy.

This, indeed, was the rack. He could not be mistaken. Yonder with the mustang which had neighbored Grundy on the right, with a tuft of dirty white forelock thrusting out under the brow band.

He turned to a pair of idlers standing near by. One was a short, broad man; the other tall, pale, handsome dressed in a frock coat and a tall hat.

“I had a roan horse here!” exclaimed the boy. “Did you see anyone take him—by mistake?”

They looked at him with a curious intentness. Then they looked at one another.

“Have you got any friends here in Monument?” asked the broad fellow.

“No. No one. I’ve just ridden into town.”

“It’s a bad town to ride into,” said the tall man, and turned deliberately away.

The blood of John Signal was just a little slower to take fire than a train of oil and powder commingled; he wondered if this attitude on the part of the stranger were not enough to justify him in taking offense. As he paused, he noticed a Negro in a leathern apron, sitting cross-legged at the entrance to a small shop with a “First Class Boot Repairing” sign above the door, and in the eye of the Negro, who was looking straight at him, there was a certain message, though the black man looked down again in haste.

So he stepped to the door of the shop.

“Morning, Uncle George.”

“Mawnin’, son, mawnin’!” And a broad grin, lined with shining white!

“I had a roan horse hitched out here. Did you see anybody take it?”

“There’s two kinds of takin’, son. There’s takin’, and there’s stealin’.”

“I have no friends here. Nobody was authorized to take that roan!”

“That remembers me of a story about a kid from Denver that rode in last week. Sullivan was borrowin’ his hoss and gettin’ into the saddle when the kid runs out of a saloon.

“ ‘Git off that hoss,’ says he. ‘You thief!’

“Sullivan shot him through the head.

“ ‘Borrowin’ ain’t robbery,’ says Sullivan, and the sheriff seemed to agree.”