Читать книгу The Smiling Desperado - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 8

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The invitation to depart was not uttered by old Loftus in the easy tone of one who can be profitably smiled at. There was a ring that sent a shiver down the small of Cadigan’s back. Nevertheless, he did not depart—neither did he so much as turn around. He remained standing and confronting the hero of a past age.

“You hear me?” yelled Loftus.

“I hear you,” said Cadigan gently.

“Then, darn your eyes,” screamed Loftus, growing more and more excited as the conversation continued, “you know that you’re mighty close to gettin’ a slug through your head. Nothin’ but the head. I don’t shoot squirrels no other way!”

But Cadigan folded his arms and shook his head. “It ain’t goin’ to go,” he said. “It ain’t goin’ to work, Mr. Loftus,” said he.

“Why not? What ain’t goin to work?”

“This here bluff.”

“My heavens, young man,” cried Loftus, trembling with the strength of his fury. “Are you aimin’ to drive me plumb wild?”

“No, sir, but I know something about you, and I know that you ain’t the kind of a gent that’ll shoot down a man, in cold blood. You’ve had your killin’s and plenty of ’em, but you ain’t never killed except in a fair fight, and you’re too old to start in makin’ up bad habits now. Ain’t that right?”

“That’s kind of half true,” declared Uncle Joe. “I am gettin’ old. Otherwise I’d of blowed the head off a couple of you a long sight before I’d of stood here chatterin’. Well, young man, what did you say that your name was?”

“Cadigan.”

“Cadigan, doggone me if you ain’t as cool-faced a one as ever I see. You ain’t goin’ to fight and you ain’t goin’ to leave. Is that the way of it?”

“That’s the way of it.”

“Ain’t you got no shame, young man?”

“Not a bit,” said Cadigan.

“And you don’t aim to do nothin’ but hang around up here and spy on me and try to find out what I’m locatin’ in the line of that copper lead that—”

“Copper?” exclaimed Cadigan, as the truth broke in on him. “Is that the reason that you don’t want me around up here? On account of that copper mine? Why, Mr. Loftus, I ain’t interested in copper, none!”

“You ain’t?” sneeringly inquired the old fellow. “Money don’t make no difference to you, I guess. Maybe you’re a nephew of God, or something like that, that don’t need no coin. Is that the way of it?”

“Right now,” said Cadigan bluntly, “money don’t mean a thing.”

“Maybe you’ll gimme a hint,” said Loftus, dryly, “about what does make a difference to you?”

“Sure, I’ll let you know, right enough,” said Cadigan frankly. “Keepin’ alive is the main thing that I’m interested in now.”

A light broke upon the face of Uncle Joe. “Ah!” said he. “All you’re doin’ is to run away from something?”

“I dunno that I’m runnin’ away.”

“What might you call it, then?”

“Well, the main thing is that I seen I needed help, and so I come up here to you.”

Uncle Joe dropped the butt of his rifle to the ground and broke into a strange, cackling laugh. “Doggone if you ain’t got me beat,” said he. “You come up here to get me to help you?”

“That’s it.”

“Maybe you think that you can get me to go down and fight your fights for you?”

“No,” said Cadigan, “But you could teach me how to fight.”

This suggestion came to Uncle Joe Loftus in a different way.

“I see,” said he. “If they corner you, you want to be able to give some sort of an account of yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“How many is they of ’em?” asked the old man, showing a trifle more interest than before.

“They’s only one.”

“One! And you runnin’ away? The devil, young man, I change mind about you every two seconds. Doggoned if I don’t!”

“You see,” said Cadigan in his usual gentle voice, “I’ve used rifles and I’ve used revolvers, about as much as most folks. But I ain’t never done no fightin’, and I ain’t never done no practicin’ for fightin’. And this gent that I’ve met up with, he’s about as bad as ten men rolled into one.”

“Who might he be? They ain’t much chance that I’d know about him, though. They don’t breed the sort of men nowadays that a man would hear about livin’ up here the way I do, gettin’ a mite of news once a year!”

“His name is Lancaster.”

“Not Bill Lancaster, young man?”

“Have you heard tell about him?”

“Am I deaf? Am I dumb?” asked the other irately. “Have I heard tell about Bill Lancaster? I’ll tell a man that I’ve heard tell about him. Doggone my hide, are you mixed up with him?”

All the serious advice of Tom Kirby had not had the force which was put into the singular emphasis with which the old fellow uttered the two pronouns.

“I am,” said Cadigan.

“Then—God help your soul, young man. Why are you hangin’ around up here where Bill often camps out, you might say. Why ain’t you ridin’ hell-bent south, where he don’t never go, you might say. Why ain’t you across the Rio Grande?”

These were the very words of Tom Kirby, and Cadigan was doubly impressed. And yet, there was still no thought of flight in his mind. And, the more formidable the thought of the great Bill Lancaster grew, the more determined was Cadigan to remain and face the music.

“I’m not aimin’ to get away from him,” said Cadigan as quietly as ever.

“That ain’t why you want to learn some fancy tricks with guns?”

“No, sir.”

“Lemme hear why it is, then?”

“I want to hunt down Lancaster.”

Joe Loftus threw up both of his hands with a groan of amazement. “Hunt Lancaster!” he yelled.

“There was only one man in the world that could teach me enough to gimme a chance agin’ Lancaster. I knew that man was you. Even in his best day, they say that Lancaster wouldn’t of been no more’n a mouthful for Uncle Joe Loftus.”

“Oh,” said Uncle Joe without too much modesty, “I dunno about that. But do they still remember me down below?” He pointed, as though the inhabited world were an infinite distance beneath his place of abode.

“Every man of ’em knows about you, Mr. Loftus. Even me—I come from a mighty ways farther south. They’d all heard about you down there, too. That’s why I come up here to you to get help.”

“What sort of help, young man?” said Uncle Joe, greatly mollified.

“Teachin’ about how to handle a gun.”

“Here’s a rifle,” said Uncle Joe. “Shoot me that branch in two, yonder—that right-hand branch of that there little bush, over yonder.”

“I can never hit it,” said Cadigan to his soul, and he dropped upon one knee.

For a long five minutes he steadied his rifle upon the twig. For the light was dull, and the dusk was thickening. Finally he fired, and from the head of the slender shrub one side of the branches were cut away.

“That’s it,” said Joe Loftus. “You can shoot straight. You’d ought to make a name for yourself at one of these here target contests. You’d get all sorts of silver cups, I’d say!”

He turned and pointed in another direction. “Look at that tin can. Pull out your revolver and punch a hole through it, will you?”

Cadigan drew out his revolver. Something told him that he had not pleased the old fellow any too well with his first experiment as a marksman. He must do better this time. He certainly must not fail of his mark no matter what happened! So the heavy Colt balanced long in his hand. Then he fired and his heart leaped with happiness as he saw the can knocked whirling for a dozen yards across the mountain-side.

He put up his weapon and turned expectantly to Loftus, wondering what sort of praise the prospector would select for him. But instead, Uncle Joe Loftus leaned upon his rifle and stared for a long time at the ground.

“I dunno,” said he at the last. “I been hopin’. I been tryin’ to figure out some way, but I guess that they ain’t none. I guess that they ain’t any way that it can be done! I used to disbelieve ’em when they said that a good shot was born and not made. But I guess that they was tellin’ the truth.”

“Is they no hope for me, Uncle Joe?”

Uncle Joe sighed and shook his head. “I’ve seen bad shots and bad shots,” he said. “But doggone me if you ain’t the worst. Gimme a gent that can’t hit nothin’. I’d take a chance on doin’ somethin’ with him, I’d train him for speed like a lightin’ flash. But take a gent like you, that can hit anything, and they ain’t a hope for him. Look here, and I’ll tell you why. When I was in my prime, son, I couldn’t do no better for accuracy than you done just now. I couldn’t do no better then. I dunno that I could even do as good as you for shootin’ right now. Lemme see—”

He threw the heavy old rifle lightly into the hollow of his shoulder. He supported the barrel with a wobbling left hand, and the muzzle of the gun wavered crazily in a futuristic circle. Only for an instant—then the gun exploded and the other twig disappeared from the head of the brush. The rifle of Uncle Joe was hardly lowered before a revolver glided into his ancient hand and exploded instantly. The tomato can, which now lay double its original distance from the place from which Cadigan had hit it, was tossed into the air and fell with a great clatter at a slight distance.

Uncle Joe Loftus put up his revolver, taking no time to exult over his performance. One might have thought that this was nothing or less than nothing to the old man.

“Well,” he said, “it looks like I still could hit something! Just now and then.”

He went on: “But as I was sayin’, son, they ain’t no hope for a gent that’s slow—and hits the mark. Because he’s gunna keep aimin’. And a gent that keeps aimin’ is sure to make a bum fighter.”

“What do you mean?” murmured Cadigan, bewildered.

“What I say, son.”

“But don’t a man have to aim if he wants to hit anything?”

“Aim?” said the strange old man. “Aim? Why, it’s thirty year or more since I aimed a gun! Nope. Not in fightin’ you don’t take no aim.”

“What do you do, then?”

“What do you do? You up and shoot a man dead, and that’s all that they is to it!”

Cadigan shook his head. If this was the way of it, it was hopeless for him to even attempt to learn.

“How does a gent go about it?” asked Cadigan sadly.

“They ain’t no trick to it,” said the old prospector. “All you got to do is to start right in and practice a couple of hours a day and keep that up for a couple of years. And then, if you got it born in you anyways, you might make something of yourself, if you got any luck along with you. Because you need luck to get through your first couple of fights, no matter how doggone well trained you might be. That’s all that they is to it, young man.”

“Is they no hope for me?” asked Cadigan sadly.

“Nope. They ain’t no hope at all. This here Bill Lancaster, even the way folks used to figger men, he would of been a fighter in the old days, even. And you, son—darned if you wouldn’t of been slow even among the worst of the worst clodhoppers that ever I seen. Darned if you wouldn’t of been!”

And, with this, he turned and strode slowly back toward his shack. At the door he turned again toward the downcast figure of Cadigan.

“The Rio Grande, Cadigan. That’s the best thing for you!”