Читать книгу The Longhorn Feud - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 5

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They went out into the sunshine, Litton and Willow.

“Still like this port, Tom?” asked Litton.

“I never like it much, even when I first heard you speak of it,” said Willow. “I only said it was real. And you ain’t asked what part is real about this harbor.”

“Well, what part, then?”

“The reefs and the sunken rocks,” said Tom Willow. “They’re the real part of it, sir.”

“We’ll make it like home,” declared Blue Barry. “With a good navigator like me, Tom, and a good hand like you at the helm, we’ll be right at home. Where does the sheriff live, I wonder?”

“Sheriff?” exclaimed Willow. “What on earth do you want with a sheriff?”

“I want to see the steer he’s boarding,” said Litton.

“I knew it when I seen your face!” said Tom Willow. “When I seen you shining your eyes, I knew that you had ideas, and all of my bones, they begun to ache all at once—and all over.”

“Why, what’s the matter, Tom?” asked Litton.

“Aw, I dunno,” said Willow. “I guess I’m gettin’ old. Ridin’ fifty miles a day, that ain’t nothing. Crossin’ a few deserts is nothing but fun. A few sand storms—what are they to talk about? As for livin’ on what we can shoot, in the way of skinny rabbits and what not, I guess that kind of chuck is too good for an old tar like me. And as for a few slams on the jaw like I got from Jerry Deacon, who must have had sledgehammers tucked into his hands, why, they’re just enough to make the fun right. So I dunno why it was that I got sort of an ache all over when I seen that light in your eyes.—Only, I guess I’m gettin’ old. I’ve seen a lot of lightning in the sky, sir; but when I see yours, I always know that it’s gonna strike—and that it’s gonna strike right near me!”

He ended this speech with a sigh, and a shake of the head.

“He hit you pretty hard,” agreed Litton. “I’ve tried to teach you how to use your head for ducking and riding with punches, instead of using it like a wall for the other fellow to break his fists on. You’ve never learned the trick, though.”

“It’s this way,” said Tom Willow. “A fight is a fight, and I dunno that I ever minded a good, straight fight. But my idea of a scrap is where you slug and get slugged, and the one that slugs the hardest, he wins. But I never held by these here stampings and dancings, and all of that. They kind of upset me, and I ain’t at home with ’em. But if it was a fight where you rough-house, then I’m kind of easy, because that’s the way I was raised. It ain’t everybody that has a chunk of lead pipe on the end of a string, the way you have when you sock a gent on the chin, sir.”

The other shrugged his shoulders. “If you can’t remember anything else,” Barry said, “remember that crouch, and the long left. Anyway, Jerry Deacon got just a little more than he sent.”

“He was cock-eyed,” said Tom Willow, with a grin of delight. “He certainly was knocked for a loop.” He chuckled.

“About this town,” said the master. “I’m sorry you don’t like it. Because to me it looks like a bright place.”

“Yeah—and I knew you’d like it,” agreed Tom Willow. “A place where they even brand their cows with a death’s head. You couldn’t help liking that kind of a joint.”

Willow paused, and then added, “Trouble is the stuff for you to breathe, all right—except the kind that comes too far south.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Litton.

“South Seas,” said Tom Willow.

“Why,” said Litton, “that’s the cream of the world, Tom!”

“Ay,” nodded Willow, “but I’ve seen the cream turn sour. When you saw Stacey—”

He held the next words back by clicking his teeth together, and stared with frightened eyes at his companion. Blue Barry had halted in mid stride. Some of the color left his face. He looked straight before him, out of narrowed eyes, as though he was confronting a levelled gun.

“I’m sorry,” said Willow. “That damned name—it just sort of slipped out!”

“That’s all right,” said Litton, drawing a deep breath and walking on. “It’s a jolt when I hear—Well, let it go.”

They went on in silence, Tom Willow still watching his master with eyes of fear and awe.

Litton hailed a freckle-faced youngster who was passing, scuffing his feet for the sole purpose of raising a vast cloud of dust.

For his own part, the boy did not mind dust; as for others, the more he could annoy them, the more he admired the effects.

“Where’s the sheriff to be found, partner?” asked Litton.

The boy shrugged one shoulder. “Somewhere between here and a bad time for somebody or other,” said he. He walked on.

The long arm of Litton went out and collared him. The boy turned, a green light in his eyes.

“Leave me be!” he said.

“Where do I find the sheriff?” asked Litton.

“Leave me be!” said the boy, “or I’ll punch you in the stomach, you long-legged chunk of nothing-worth-while. Leave me go!”

“I told you it was a good town, Tom,” said Litton. “Even the boys have learned how to talk, eh?—Listen, partner,” he added to the boy, “I like to wring necks, but I don’t want to start on you unless I have to. Where does the sheriff live?”

“In his house,” said the lad.

“That’s news for me,” remarked Litton. “He lives in his house, an’ not in a hotel, eh?”

“There ain’t any hotel,” said the boy. “Leave me go, or I’ll break your shins!”

“You’ve told me everything that I want to know,” said Litton. “The sheriff lives in his house down the street.”

The eyes of the boy glinted again. “That’s right,” he said, “down the street.”

Litton turned him loose. “He lives up the street,” said Barry. “That’s all I can find out. I tell you what, Tom, this town gets better and better! This is the sort of a town that I call hard.”

“I could of told you that a long time ago,” said Willow.

They turned back up the street, and after walking some distance, Litton stopped in front of a house with a short, high veranda before it. A long-haired, gray-bearded man sat in a rocking chair on the porch, smoking a pipe with a curved stem.

“Morning,” said Litton. “Can you tell me where the sheriff’s house is?”

“What’s the trouble?” said the man with the pipe, speaking from a corner of his wide mouth.

“No trouble.—I just want to find the sheriff.”

“Nobody wants to find the sheriff,” said the gray-beard, “unless there’s trouble. What’s the matter with you?”

“It’s about the steer that the sheriff keeps.”

“Oh, is it?—And you mean to say that steer ain’t trouble?”

“It’s no trouble of yours,” broke in Tom Willow.

“What makes you think it ain’t?” asked the man on the porch. He now developed sufficient interest to cause him to remove the pipe from his mouth. When that was done, he looked calmly down on them. “That steer’s a whole pile of trouble to me, I can tell you.”

“Can you tell us where we can find it, then?”

“In the back yard.”

“What back yard?” asked Litton.

“The sheriff’s back yard.”

“That puts me back at the beginning,” said Litton. “I want to know where the sheriff lives.”

“What sort of trouble are you in?” repeated the gray-beard.

“Damn it all!” said Litton. “I’m not in trouble. Whose backyard is that steer in?”

“In the sheriff’s back yard, like I told you,” said the man on the porch.

They seemed to have reached a complete impasse. The man on the porch replaced his pipe between his teeth and looked calmly and vaguely across the roofs of the other houses, towards the blue mountains. It was plain that he considered the conversation at an end.

“Hold on,” said Litton, taking up a new thread. “How does it happen that that steer gives you trouble?”

“What steer?” mumbled the other.

“The Dead Man Steer.”

“Because I have to take care of it,” said the man on the front veranda.

“Oh, you work for the sheriff, do you?”

“No.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Myself,” said the veteran.

Litton began to chuckle. “You’ve got me puzzled,” said he.

“You ain’t the first,” said the other.

“Who are you?” said Litton.

“The oldest man in Holy Creek,” said the man on the porch.

“I believe it,” said Litton. “You’re the oldest man—and you’re the toughest.”

“Young feller,” said the man of the beard, “if you get fresh, I’ll come down there and put my hands on you.”

“All right,” said Litton. “I can’t find out who you are, and I can’t find out what you do, except that you take care of the steer, and that you don’t work for the sheriff.”

“That’s right,” said the other. “Now you boys trot along and leave me to my smoke.”

“But the sheriff has to take care of the steer,” said Litton.

“Never said he didn’t,” replied the other.

“Then you’re the sheriff?” asked Litton.

“You can make up your mind for yourself,” said the other.

“Why, now I come to look again,” said Litton, “I’ve seen pictures of you.”

“It’s the long hair that makes them take pictures of me,” said the other. “Every damn fool who sees my long hair says that he’s seeing the real wild and woolly West, and he gets out his camera. I’ve busted twenty-thirty cameras in my time. I hope I’ll last to break twenty or thirty more.”

“You’re the famous sheriff,” said Litton. “You’re Sheriff Dick Wilson.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” said the other.

Litton walked up the steps and shook hands.

“I’m Barry Litton,” said he.

“Never heard of you,” answered the gruff sheriff.

“No,” said Litton, “but you’re going to.”

At this, Dick Wilson took his pipe from between his teeth and looked the visitor up and down. “What do you want around here?” he asked.

“I want the steer,” said Litton.

“What you want it for?”

“Because I haven’t had any pets for a long time,” said Litton. “I need something to play around the room and lie down on my feet to keep ’em warm of a cold evening. I need something with an eye that will brighten when it hears my footfall. I need something on which I can lavish the love, Sheriff Wilson, which is man’s inherent gift from the Creator, and which man must give again, sir—be it on high or low—else the spirit which—”

“Why,” interrupted the sheriff, “doggone my hide if you don’t talk like one of these here damned sky-pilots!”

“Thank you very much,” said Litton.

“I didn’t mean it for a compliment, neither,” said the sheriff.

“Oh, I know,” said Litton, “you’re one of those diamonds in the rough—one of the hearts of gold under a rude exterior—one of God’s Gentlemen—”

“Hey, quit that, will you?” said the sheriff, in haste.

“I’m just trying to be agreeable,” remarked Litton.

“You ain’t, though,” said the sheriff. “I don’t agree with nothing that you say!—I’d like to know something, though. Where’d you come from?”

“From right over there,” answered Litton, with a wave of his hand that included half of the points of the compass.

“I thought you did,” replied the sheriff. “The big wind come from the same place, too. Don’t give you no pain to keep on talkin’ the way you do?”

“Not if I can get the Dead Man Steer,” said Litton.

“What would you do with it—aside from makin’ a parlor pet out of that longhorn?”

“Why,” said Litton, “I’d simply teach it to do a few tricks, and then I’d put it in a pen and charge five cents a head for a look.”

“You wouldn’t make much money,” said the sheriff, “because there ain’t many people in this town, an’ most of ’em has seen the steer, one time or another.”

“The boys would come in from the range to look.”

The sheriff arose with a sigh. “I wouldn’t wanta try to talk you down,” he said, “because I see that you thrive on talk. If you want that damn’ steer, you know what you’ll do?”

“Yes, I’ll keep it behind a fence.”

“Until the Chaneys or the Morgans decide to come down and take it away from you. Come on and see the damn’ thing, though.”

He led the way to the rear of the house; and there, in a small corral close to the barn, stood a big longhorn. It was fat and strong, with sleepy eyes; it chewed its cud. In the full blaze of the sun, it was a yellow-gray in color, with a yellow spot over one eye and a black spot over the other, which gave it an odd effect of looking in two directions at the same time.

“That’s the steer,” said the sheriff. “I gotta hold it till the lawsuit’s settled. But law ain’t ever gonna settle that. Blood’s the only thing that’ll ever lay the dust.”

“Well,” said Barry, “I’ll take that steer off your hands, and I’ll produce it when you want it.”

“Take it then,” answered the sheriff. “That fool steer can eat up five dollars’ worth of hay in a week—unless you put green glasses on it and feed it sawdust for grass.”

“Hey, Dick!” called a raucous voice from the other side of the high board fence of the corral.

“Yeah?” asked the sheriff. “Whacha want, eh?”

“They’s been a rumpus down at Pudge Oliver’s place.”

“Anybody dead?”

“No, but a limber lookin’ gent come to town and got arguin’ with Jerry Deacon. Knocked Jerry cold.”

“Nobody is knockin’ Jerry Deacon cold,” said the sheriff, “except with the butt of a gun, or a club.”

“This gent done it with his fist. I seen him. He’s got a bow-legged sailor along with him that started the fight; but the young bird was the one that finished it—whango! You better come along down and be on deck, because the whole doggone Morgan clan is pretty sure to come pilin’ into town lookin’ for that man.”

“Go back and tell the boys that the stranger is by name of Litton, and that I’ve hired him to keep the murder steer for me. That’ll cheer things up around this town, a pretty good deal.”

There was a yell of surprise from the man beyond the fence, and then a scurry of retreating footfalls.

The sheriff grinned broadly. “Looks to me,” he said, “like this town was gonna open both its eyes, pretty soon. Looks to me like I feel younger than I did a while back.”

“Good,” said Litton. “Willow, bring a rope, and we’ll take that little steer away to his new home.”

Willow brought the rope. The yellow steer, trained by much handling in the course of his life, came on the lead as readily as a dog. With his eyes half closed, and still chewing his cud, he ambled down the street behind Willow.

“Which way?” said Willow.

“The hotel,” said his master. He screened his eyes, for he was looking against the sun. He stared fixedly at the great brand which had been drawn with a running iron on the flank of the steer. Whoever had made it was an artist, for it was an excellent representation of a human skull and a pair of crossed bones. As the skin of the steer’s flank stretched and puckered with the steps he was making, the skull seemed to grin and scowl.

“How does it look to you?” asked the sheriff.

“It looks like a lot of fun for me,” said the other. “So long, sheriff.”

“Hold on,” said the sheriff. “I got a brand of whisky in the house that needs to be tasted. Come along in and try a swig of it.”

They entered the house, where the sheriff did honor to his roof by pushing his hat on the back of his head. The stranger removed his entirely.

Now the sheriff indicated a great ten-gallon jug that stood in a corner. “Here’s a glass,” he said, giving one to Litton. “Now just help yourself, Mr. Litton. Go just as far as you like.”

Litton did not hesitate. It was a ponderous stone jug, and it was brimming with liquid. Yet he did not put the glass on the table and use both hands to manipulate the great container, for he understood perfectly that the sheriff was quietly attempting to discover what amount of muscle was stored in the arm that had knocked down Jerry Deacon. Sheer effort would hardly manage the thing, and he knew that, also. Any human wrist would snap under the strain of lifting the great jug and turning it sidewise. But Barry Litton picked up the jug, gave it an easy, pendulous swing, and then quickly shifted it so that the bulky jug lay within the crook of his arm. He drew the cork.

The hardest effort of all had to be made in order to pour the liquid out into the glass in a steady stream. His whole arm and his shoulder ached with suppressed shudders as he strained to accomplish this. But he managed it. Without a tremor, a small amber stream poured out until two fingers of liquor lay in the glass.

Still he persisted in keeping the jug under his arm. “Have some yourself?” he asked.

“Sure,” said the sheriff, his eyes glistening. He held out his glass and into it fell the same slender, steady stream.

The test was not over, however. The sheriff’s glass was given back to him, and after that young Mr. Litton had to swing the jug down from his arm without breaking his wrist—and place it on the floor without a jolt. He accomplished that trick.

Last of all, he had to hold the glass in his strained right hand, and drink it without letting a tremor show. This he could not do. Speed would have to cover that weakness; and so saying, “Here’s in your eye, sheriff,” he nodded to his host, scooped his own glass from the edge of the table with a swift gesture, tossed off the liquor, and immediately replaced an empty glass on the table.

The sheriff looked on with greater pleasure than ever. “Muscle—and brains,” he said. “Good luck to you and the Dead Man Steer, brother!” Then he drank his own portion of the dregs.