Читать книгу The Big Dry - George Garland - Страница 7

DARKNESS HAD SETTLED over the Valley when A-T riders caught and held Bonnie’s attention. They moved in muffled trot in every direction.

She stood on the porch, in the same place where her father and Sack came upon her at about ten minutes of nine. Having listened to Luke’s compromise plan, as related by her parent, and finding it practical enough to silence her, she had watched them enter the bunkhouse without any protest. Sack had a job to do, she admitted resentfully. But her silence was no indication of how she felt about it. In the dark the tight lines of her face didn’t show.

First, Luke had struck off for Queeny instead of standing by her while she disposed of an odd situation—if the robber came—in her own way. By scoffing at an impossibility, she thought he was ignoring her. Next, she was left alone with a growing fear that should the Kid materialize, the urge of a dozen men to shoot would find outlet in at least one of them.

Silence was by now a negative, light thing. Then it seemed packed with urgency, seemed to call upon her to do something, to accept what might come with total indifference. She thought of the robber and smiled. He would not come here. He had no reason to risk it, had every reason not to.

She had turned to go inside the house when a rider entered the yard.

“Who is it?” she said.

“Southworth, Percy Southworth. Quite new at the A-T Station, y’know, Miss Bonnie.”

“Station?” she asked as the cowboy rode up. Then she knew. He was the English cowboy just in from Australia. “You gave me a start,” she said. “But why aren’t you with the others?”

“We spread out, y’know. Well, a stranger just rode past me toward the horse paddock. When I said, ‘I say, who goes there?’ the chap introduces himself with a pistol and remarks in quite contained voice, as though he were inviting me to sit and boil a billy of tea, ‘Tell Bonnie McQueen to call the riders in. I’m coming to the house.’ ”

“Then—it’s the Sacaton Kid!”

“Quite accurate, Miss Bonnie. That’s what he said. I was put in a ludicrous state of fluster when I heard his name, I assure you. Shall I call in the others?”

“Go to Mr. Sack. Tell him I said to warn the men against any shooting. And I mean it!”

As the cowboy galloped off into the night, Bonnie stood still and tense. So he had come. She couldn’t understand it. And he had asked for the riders, all bandit chasers now, to return. It simply failed to make sense. Shaking it off with a toss of her head, she went inside and returned with a lantern. She had no sooner placed it on the porch hook than a voice out of the night caused her to whirl.

“Hello, Bonnie.”

He was walking into the yellow lantern light with the payroll sack. Placing it on the porch, he looked up at her, examining her as though he liked all he saw.

An uncalled-for silence gripped her. Words wouldn’t come, and she just stood there unable to believe he had come here. All the while she was seeing his face for the first time. The eyes she had seen, but not the long muscular mouth, now set in a humorous line, or the strong chin and jaws and straight nose. He was the color of bronze and well dressed. She sensed a clean strong pride in him. Maybe he wasn’t the robber. The sandy hair and the pair of eyes said he was.

She found her voice. “You’re a fool to come here,” she said. “I had no idea you’d do it.”

“What about that trap you set, Bonnie?”

Aware that no explanation would sound convincing, she said, “Why did you do it?”

“Because that was part of my plan before I robbed the stage.”

She stared incredulously and sized him up again. This time for a fool. But the memory of his calm of yesterday was poignantly fresh. He was a copy of it now. His chill eyes showed no sign of disturbance. He might be a poke on a chuck line or a notorious gambler, though she could not deny that the open West had stamped him with its brand of self-reliance and vigilance. He was baffling.

“Perhaps you don’t know what happens to stage robbers around here,” she said. “They hang. Why don’t you leave while you can?”

“Thanks. But that isn’t a part of my plan.” His intent look held. He was taken by her large eyes, the directness and challenge and fear for his safety in them. The timbre of her voice, rich and low, attracted and excited him now as much as it had in memory. He was thinking these things and his look told her as much.

Her glance slid away, out into the night where running horses came on at full gallop.

“Very well,” she said. “It’s your funeral.”

He put his back to her and hung his thumbs in belt as the tattoo of hoofs drew closer. She was looking from the A-T riders getting off their horses in the yard back to him with a growing uneasiness. Her father and Sack dismounted and walked toward the porch wary and poised. An electric air hung over the scene, a split second away from either peace or powder smoke. Nothing happened and McQueen and Sack, backed by the riders, stood a few yards away.

Still Young appeared as calm as a guest for dinner. Bonnie followed the direction of his steady gaze, upon her father, who studied the robber intently. She looked from one to the other as their glance held strong and unsettling, each digging deep into the other’s eyes.

Sack was saying: “Well, Kid, I’ve seen all kinds of men, but you take the cake. Didn’t think you’d do it, much less hang around for a reception committee.”

Young made no reply.

McQueen said, “So this is the Sacaton Kid.” It was neither a question nor a statement, but an expression of his regard for outlaws in general. “All right, Sack. It’s up to you now.”

Bonnie said: “You’re wrong, father. He returned the payroll money, so we’re all square.”

“It’s not that easy, Bonnie. He broke the law, robbed, and shot. Just because he turned yellow and sneaked back here with it don’t mean he won’t try it again. A robber is a thief, same as a polecat is a skunk.”

The A-T foreman chuckled out loud. At his signal the punchers laughed.

Young broke the dead expression of his face and said, “That’s about what I expected of you, McQueen.”

His voice was conversationally low and controlled and his eyes were steady, too steady and icy, thought Sack, who took a step between the pair only to face Young’s gun as it came up with incredible speed.

“Don’t interfere now, Mr. Sack, “Young said, adding, “If you please. Nor any of the rest of you out there.”

Seconds later, he replaced his pistol and said: “You don’t know who I am, McQueen. It goes back a few years. That’s why I robbed you of your payroll and rode here to return it.”

McQueen was naturally puzzled. He could not guess at the robber’s identity.

“My name is Young West.”

“I never heard of you,” McQueen said.

“But you have heard of John Hammond West, haven’t you? He discovered the claim you’ve been working for several years. He was my father, McQueen.”

Surprise was written across McQueen’s face.

“So that’s it,” he said. “Well, young fellow, everybody around here knows what happened to West. Victorio’s Apaches got him.”

“Victorio and his Apaches were on San Carlos Reservation at the time,” Young said. “To further prove they didn’t get him, he wasn’t mutilated. And they didn’t take his rifle or horse.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Maybe you can explain it,” Young said.

McQueen stiffened. “Why should I explain anything to you?”

“You got rich off my father’s discovery. Now suppose you prove you got it fair and square.”

“Young man,” came the controlled reply, “why don’t you try and prove I didn’t?”

“I am,” Young said.

McQueen was angry. “You’ve got a gall,” he said, “coming to my place with that kind of talk. All I’ve got to do is lift a finger to turn my men loose on a stage robber.”

“I’m taking that chance,” came the quiet reply.

Sack stepped between them, saying: “Tighten rein, boys, and step off the powder keg. You’re both right and both wrong.”

Sack’s intervention did nothing to thin the air. Bonnie felt helpless under the weight of fresh discovery that the Kid who was Young West was almost accusing her father of murder and theft But Sack was talking:

“West, your old man prospected from the Organs to the High Sierras. He came out here, struck it rich. They found him dead, face down in the creek with an arrow in his back. If he had filed a claim, McQueen couldn’t legally work the Queeny diggin’s.”

“The first thing he would have done is file a claim, Mr. Sack. But there’s no record of it. However, we know that records have been tampered with before.”

“You’re talkin’ mighty strong, Kid,” Sack warned.

“That’s what I came here for,” Young said. “I’m looking for the murderer, and I’m giving McQueen a chance to help me find him if he’s innocent.”

Sack said: “And under threat. Sure. You’re born for vengeance. Alive today, dead tomorrow. That frame of mind won’t take you far, Kid. But let me get this straight—is that the reason you took McQueen’s payroll?”

“That’s right.”

“Why did you go at it that way, Kid?”

“To let him know I mean business.”

“Well, you took the wrong way,” Sack said. “And I ought to jail you for robbery, just to save you from your own blasted hot head. If I don’t, the folks around here may string up a robber.”

He looked at McQueen. “A. T., the Kid has proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the motive weren’t robbery. He brought in the payroll, so I’m advisin’ that, since no jury would convict him of robbery, you’d be smart not to press charges.”

“He’s square with us,” Bonnie said firmly.

“All right,” McQueen said. “But he’d better not cross my path again.

Charlie Wyatt spoke up. “Maybe he’d better put some distance between him and these parts.”

“I’m staying around until I find out who got my father,” Young said.

“Which ain’t smart,” Sack advised.

Young moved toward his horse. In the saddle, he looked at Bonnie. Her fixed gaze was upon him, strong with curiosity and bewilderment, and more. Somewhere in her face or behind it he saw and felt interest and challenge at work. He lingered a moment, just to return whatever it was she gave, then sent his horse toward the river at a slow trot.

Bonnie’s gaze followed Young until the night closed him off. When she looked for her father, he was nowhere about. Only Sack stood there, his face alerted as he watched Wyatt, who was talking in low tones among his men. Soon the riders walked their horses toward the corral and she walked up to Sack with extended hand.

“You handled it nicely,” she said. “I was looking for all sorts of trouble. Let’s hope there won’t be any.”

He took her hand and said nothing. He blew out his cheeks, which was his way of restraining a bellowing voice and advice he wanted to cram into her head: “Hell, girl, that’s foolish hopin’! It’s like the ’Pache trouble, just begun!”

Then he turned toward the house.

Alone, Bonnie looked toward the river. She was soon in the saddle riding down the road to Bacon. Ahead, a lone horseman drew up and listened. She rode on.

Young put his gun away when he recognized her. She drew up alongside him where they waited out a tense silence. She broke it, saying:

“I’ve been thinking about your reason for coming here. It might be better if you were a stage robber.”

He said nothing.

“I followed you because I don’t want any more trouble,” she said. “You and father got off to a bad start. I’m sure he’ll help you find the guilty person when he cools off. And you weren’t exactly friendly, coming here as you did.”

“I wanted your father to know I was dead serious. I still am. And if he can’t see it my way, next time I’ll——”

“There won’t be a next time, Young West.”

Taken unexpectedly, he stared at her. Then he was measuring the recklessness and command in her firm reply. With her so near, he saw these things and courage too behind her composed expression; even in the dim light of night he saw them rise up with speculation and judgment and eagerness in her; as though she felt duty bound to fashion the fabric of his destiny. He didn’t like the idea of a McQueen’s interference, though he did like her directness. He could not help that.

“Just what are you going to do?” she said.

“Haven’t had time to think about it.”

“Take time,” she demanded.

Something about her went through him like a drink of strong wine. He fought the clamor of his pulses and clung fast to the things he could think of clearly.

“I’m going to find out who shot my father.”

“You should have done that first. Now just what else are you going at backwards?”

“Suppose your father had a hand in it?”

“You’re mighty sure of that,” she said.

“What would you think if you were in my place, Bonnie?”

She looked up at the summer stars as if they had overtaken her, trapped her into a state of incertitude. Her voice was less calm when she said, “I’m sure father had no part in it.” When she spoke next there was a sharp edge to her low voice. “And I’ll fight against you. Young West, as hard as I’ve fought for you, if you want it that way—until you prove he did.”

“Then we’ll leave it that way,” he said, nudging his horse forward.

A burning anger flowed in him, made worse by the knowledge that it wasn’t entirely justified. But she wasn’t at all wise in thinking she could dominate him on the strength of her desire for peace.

They rode on to the edge of the river and let the horses drink. This was the parting place. She knew it and he knew it, and she realized that the ruse was thin when she said her saddle was loose. But she was thinking that he must cool off and look at trouble as something to avoid. What she felt was different, a personal indignation of neglect and a tremble of hurt, then a rush of anger to her brain. Against feuds and the men who refused to meet peace halfway. But these were all mere advance emotions to the one she was trying to suppress.

He was standing by her saddle with a hand on the horn. A vast sense of weakness in her was followed by a warm surge of blood that beat life into her pulses. She was drawn to him, fighting back, trying her utmost to restrain the hand that was falling to his.

She managed to draw her hand away, though he was not of the same mind. The touch of her fingers went through him like fire, and he grasped her hand, looked up into her face, searching for all that it gave and all that it withheld. He saw a pair of eyes gazing into his, unguardedly. Excitement stirred in them, vaguely in the pale mask of evening, but enough for expression. She was talking to him without spoiling what she said with inadequate words, telling him how she felt, asking if he could feel it as well.

He could not remember afterward how he drew her out of the saddle, whether she came or whether he lifted her bodily to the earth. But she was standing before him and his arms were drawing her closer to him. Her head went back and she stared into his face with trust and entreaty in her shining glance.

Her mouth was soft when he touched it. Warm and alive and like the hot winds that formed and whirled about him and through him, possessing him completely. And she returned all that he gave with clinging eagerness and little contented sighs. With the break, he seemed to know, as she did, that they were fused into one spiritual being. No matter what might follow this night, trouble or pain or broken ties, or open enmity between them, what had been done could never be undone.

She stepped back from him. He stood stock still looking at her, wondering what she had done to him, if he would ever again be the same. Everything seemed swept aside, as in a desert flood in which arroyos run rampant with water for a few hours today and look up dusty at the sun tomorrow. Then he was saying things he had no intention of saying:

“So you’d fight against me, Bonnie. I could take that payroll sack and hole up in some canyon and tell you where. You’d do nothing against me. Not you, Bonnie McQueen.”

The next thing he knew he was standing with thumbs in belt, frowning as though suddenly awake and aware of what he had said.

He got into the saddle and sat there for a few seconds. Then he said, “So long, Bonnie.”

She watched him go, heard the splashing in the shallows until it suddenly ceased. A muted shuffle of hoofs, a casual gait, and all sound died. He was gone. Still she stood there, motionless, knowing that nothing must happen to him.