Читать книгу A Son of his Father - Harold Bell Wright - Страница 4

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Everywhere in Arizona, the old and the new stand hand in hand—Past and Present are intimate. Side by side with all that is modern, one may see the mysterious ancient out of which the modern has come.

The builders of our concrete highways, through the greasewood and cacti of the desert, drive their giant tractors over the petrified trunks of forest monarchs that flourished here eons before the plans were drawn for the oldest pyramid in Egypt. Searchers for the materials demanded by manufacturers of our latest inventions find, embalmed by nature’s processes and hidden in their mountain tombs, monstrous creatures that lived remote ages before the beginning of life as we know it. Where get-rich-quick development artists build their pasteboard and plaster bungalows one may find traces of a people who builded here so many ages ago that no scientist is daring enough to name the century of their activities. No one knows when the old pueblo, which in the time of our pioneers became Tucson, was first established. We do know, however, that when the only settlement on Manhattan Island was a small group of bark covered huts—when the site of Philadelphia was an unmapped wilderness and the prairies of Chicago were an unexplored region—Tucson was a walled city.

The Tucson of to-day, in the heart of this old, old land, is a city of fathers and sons. The fathers, with their ox teams, stage coaches, and Indian wars, laid here the foundation upon which they hoped their sons would build a civilization worthy of the race. And the sons are building.

With feverish activity they are putting down pavements, putting up electric lights, putting down gas and water pipes, putting up real estate signs, putting down more city wells, and extending the city limits to include new additions of the surrounding desert. With a fine contempt for the past they have destroyed the ancient wall, demolished many of the picturesque adobe structures of history, renamed the century-old streets, converted the beautiful old Saint Augustine church into an unsightly garage, and erected dance halls where, within the shadow of a heroic past, their sons and daughters may have all the modern advantages of a thorough education in jazz. On the very spot where men died to save their wives and children from the knives of painted savages, and women fought and endured beside their men, the grandchildren of those courageous souls hold petting parties and are bold only in their indecencies.

It is not strange, when you think of it, that the fathers should sometimes speak of the old days with a note of regret. It is not to be wondered at if they sometimes view the trend of their sons’ improvements with dubious eyes.

In this land of the old and the new this girl from far across the sea found herself unexpectedly alone. She could scarcely grasp the truth that her brother Larry had failed to meet her. Every hour of the long voyage—every hour of the long days on the train, she had looked forward to that moment of her arrival in Tucson and to her meeting with the boy to whom she was, as she said, “both sister and mother.” Save for Larry there was no one in the world to whom she could go. Her devoted heart, aching with the grief of her mother’s death and burdened with the sadness of those last days in her old home, wanted the comfort of his love. When the careless indifference of her fellow travelers had magnified her loneliness, she had found strength in the joy of her anticipated companionship with him. When the strangeness of the new, wild land had oppressed her with a sense of fear, she had found courage in the thought that she was going to Larry, and that with him she could not be afraid.

She would not leave the station. Certainly, she could have found a hotel; but what if Larry should come for her and find her gone? No, no, she had written Larry to meet her at the train. She must wait right there until he came. Every moment she watched for him. Every moment she expected him. She saw the stars in the east grow dim as the sky back of the dark hills was lit with the coming dawn. She watched the shadowy bulk of the mountains taking form. The gray of the sky changed to gold and crimson and blue. The sun leaped above the hill tops. Purple shadows filled the canyons. The world was flooded with light and color.

The morning brought a stir of life about the station. Nora asked and learned that there would be another train from the East during the forenoon. Perhaps Larry had thought that would be her train. She had her breakfast at a little restaurant across the street, and ate with her eyes on the station entrance, lest Larry should come and not find her there. A crowd of people assembled. There was the usual train-time activity. The train arrived and went on its way. The crowd dispersed. There would be still another train from the East in the afternoon. She must wait.

Many of the people, as she watched them come and go—Indians, Mexicans, Chinamen, Japanese—appeared strange, indeed, to this Irish girl who had never before been away from the place where she was born. The mountains that on every side lift blue peaks above canyon and foothill and desert—the feeling of vast space—the very quality of the atmosphere—impressed her with a sense of wonder and awe. The curious desert plants in the station grounds filled her with amazement. And, surely nothing could be more unlike her Irish home than this quaint, old-new city in a land which to her was all so strange. For Nora O’Shea, at least, Tucson was a place of mystery—a wonder-place of queer people who must, she imagined, do dark deeds and know strange delights. Beyond a doubt, danger lurked in these crooked streets, wild adventure waited. If only Larry would come!

While the Irish girl was waiting for her brother Larry through the lonely hours of that day, Max Drayton, one of the Tucson fathers, was entertaining a visitor at the Old Pueblo Club. Solid and substantial both in physique and character, Max, in his western way, is a philosopher—which is to say, he believes in men as a whole the while he watches individuals with studious care. His judgments are invariably based upon a broad human charity—his observations are pointed with a rare humor. Drayton’s guest was an author, making his first visit to Arizona. The two local papers agreed that he was famous, and implied, at least, that if the distinguished visitor were not already the dean of American letters he was in line for that honor.

The stranger looked about at the very modern and really excellent appointments of the Old Pueblo Club with a faintly concealed air of disappointment. “Really, you know, I am surprised.”

There was an understanding twinkle in Drayton’s shrewd eyes.

The writer continued: “This is all—well—it is not exactly what one expects to find in Arizona, you know.”

“It’s a pretty good little club.”

“And your hotels, too.”

“Hotels? What’s the matter with our hotels?”

“Matter with them? Nothing, nothing at all, I assure you. It is only that I was not looking for exactly this sort of thing—you understand.”

“Oh, I see. This is your first trip to Arizona, is it?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of the movies?”

The author, not being familiar with Drayton’s mental processes, waited a blank moment before answering: “The movies? Well, I can’t say that I consider the motion picture to have reached a very high state of development from the standpoint of pure art, as yet, but they certainly are very instructive. From an educational standpoint their value is tremendous.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Drayton’s guest continued: “I confess I never miss one of those wild western things.”

The man, who had lived so many wild western years, smiled, as one who finds his opinion justified.

Gazing across the table at his gray-haired host with an eagerness that was both flattering and sincere the author said: “I can’t tell you, Mr. Drayton, how happy I am to have this opportunity of talking with you. For a long time I have wanted to write a novel of the West—one of those stirring, red-blooded stories of real life, you know.”

“Is that so? And you’ve come to Tucson for your material, have you?”

“Frankly, I have. I find—” he waved his hand in a comprehensive gesture.

Max Drayton chuckled.

The writer smiled ruefully. “I confess: when I stepped off the train I expected to see cowboys standing around, wearing guns and big hats and high-heeled boots with spurs and those fringed legging things made of leather, you know. I’ve been here three days and haven’t seen but two people on horseback—a man and woman—and they wore English riding breeches and rode English saddles.”

Drayton laughed so at this that the university president, who was sitting at a neighboring table, smiled in sympathy.

“Seriously, Mr. Drayton,” said the author—evidently anxious for the red blood he had come so far to find—“where would one go to see the real West?”

“Right, here, of course,” came the proud and ready answer. “We’re just as far west as we ever were.”

“But surely, Tucson wasn’t always like this.”

“Like this! Well, I should say not. But, for that matter, neither was New York always like it is to-day. It’s still New York, though. If you don’t believe it, you just ask some old timer there and see how quick he’ll set you right.”

Max Drayton’s manner was, at times, a little gruff—verging even on the aggressive. The seeker for red blood murmured a “beg pardon” which Max did not even hear. “The fact of the matter is,” he was saying, “Arizona is just as much the real West as it was in the days you’re thinking about. You haven’t caught up with us, that’s all—you’re too slow. I am not so sure,” he added thoughtfully, “that Arizona has caught up with herself—yet.”

It was the Eastern man’s turn to smile.

“You people in the East,” Drayton continued, “are still thinking of us here in the West as we used to be in the old days when every man wore a gun just as natural as he wore his pants. But you don’t think of Ohio and Kentucky and Pennsylvania that way. And yet, when the pioneers first went into those states guns were just as common to them as they ever were to us out here. Talk about being wild and woolly! Why, I don’t reckon there ever was a place that was wilder than Massachusetts was about the time the Pilgrim Fathers were packing their shooting irons to church and prayer meeting. The only real difference between the East and the West is that we, out here, are living a little closer to the pioneers. We haven’t got so far from where we started as you folks have, that’s all. But we’re travelin’, my friend—we’re sure travelin’. The thing that’s interesting a lot of us old timers who helped to make this country is this: While we’re sheddin’ our wild and woolly ways, and getting shut of our guns and all that, are we throwing away a lot of things with ’em that we ought to hang on to?”

“Just what do you mean, Mr. Drayton?”

“I mean, that in those days when we were pulling all that motion picture stuff that you call the real West, and that you’re planning to make your story out of, we had a lot of ideas that would be mighty good for us to have right now.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. You take even our gamblers—the old time professionals, I mean—they had mighty well set standards of honor and decency and fair play that they lived up to and sometimes died for. The old-time, wide-open, gambling days are gone—and we’re all glad of it—but I’m telling you, sir, it wouldn’t do us a bit of harm if a lot of our young business men of these days had some of the old-style gambling standards of honor and decency and fair play, and had ’em strong enough to die for ’em—if it was necessary.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Sure! And you take the spirit of brotherliness and neighborliness now: Why in the old days we were just like one big family. By Ned! we had to be. Some black sheep, of course, like every family has; but if anybody was in trouble of any kind everybody was right there ready to help. Now, we’re all so split up into clubs and circles and cliques and clans that you dassn’t say “good morning” to your next door neighbor, unless you’ve got the right password. I tell you, sir, a man could starve to death right here in Tucson before these young organizers could untangle enough red tape to find out what was the matter with him.”

The author—he was really an understanding writer—silently nodded assent. Drayton continued: “There’s another thing; men used to be more certain—whether they were good or bad, friends or enemies, you knew where to find ’em; and you could gamble on finding ’em right there all the time. To-day, nobody knows where anybody stands on anything; and, mostly, by the time you find out where a man is, he ain’t there at all. Do you see what I mean?”

“Indeed, I do.” Then the author harked back on his trail for blood: “But, Mr. Drayton, is there not, here and there in Arizona, a good bit of the—the old color left?”

“Sure—that’s what I say; we’re still so close to the pioneer days we haven’t shed quite all of it yet. There’s plenty right here in Tucson.”

“Here?”

Max’ eyes twinkled. “Sure, right here.”

“Could I—would you—”

Max looked around. Through the wide arch of the club dining-room entrance they could see the lounging-room with the library and reading-room beyond. “Do you see that man over there by the window?”

“The portly old gentleman—reading?”

“That’s the one—that’s Colonel Brandonwell. Brand was a scout during the Civil War—up in Colorado and Wyoming. He came to Arizona along in the seventies and was Deputy United States Marshal in Tombstone. Brand has fought Indians and outlaws all over this Southwest.”

The author, gazing at the gray-haired, well rounded, perfectly groomed, benevolent-looking gentleman in the easy chair, murmured a polite something and Max continued: “Take a look at the pair with their heads together over in the corner.”

“You mean the small man and the professor-looking gentleman?”

Max laughed. “They’re the ones—the smaller is Ned Hale—the professor gentleman, as you call him, is Charlie Baylong. They are both the sort you read about and see in the movies—went all through the Indian troubles when Geronimo was staging his red-blood stunts. They were in the cast, too, when the Apache Kid was putting on his famous motion-picture raids. Charlie, he’s vice-president of one of our banks now, and a pillar in the Presbyterian church. And look—that’s Fred Herrington just coming in. He is another of our wild and woolly ones.”

“Surely not that distinguished-looking gentleman,” protested the author. “Why, he looks like one of our prominent Philadelphia lawyers!”

“Is that so? Well, don’t make any mistakes—Fred is a lawyer all right but he’s one of the old timers too. Ask our club secretary, George Crider, that kindly, even spoken, gentleman you met when we came in—he’s another who has lived through more red-blood stories than ever you’ll write. And there’s a lot more about town, too. But most of them have passed on—Bob Leatherwood—Cap Burgess—Bill Cody and—”

“Buffalo Bill?”

“Sure—he was a member of the Old Pueblo Club. They’re going fast, though—these last two or three years.” Drayton’s voice dropped and for the moment he seemed to lose himself in the memories awakened by his guest’s interest in the men of the West.

“But—but, Mr. Drayton—these men that you point out are all retired.”

“Is that so? Huh! Maybe we’re in the process of being retired, but there’s quite a bunch of us sticking around yet—watchin’ for what’s likely to happen to the boys that have just climbed into their saddles. You see, all of us old timers know mighty well what Arizona was—but God Almighty only knows what Arizona is going to be when this generation gets through with it.”

The author was distinctly conscious of a thrill. He was disappointed in not finding the exact shade of crimson he sought, but still—still—there seemed to be something—“I suppose—” he began, and paused. Max was gazing intently at a young man who at that moment entered the club, and the writer noticed on his host’s kindly face an expression of peculiar interest. Turning his head, he also looked at the man who was greeted by nearly every one in the room.

In years, he was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, but with a decidedly boyish look on his smooth, deeply tanned face. Standing well over six feet, his back was straight, his shoulders broad, and he bore himself with that air of strength and confidence best described by the good and familiar “ready for either a fight or a frolic.” It was not at all difficult to guess that he was a great favorite among his fellows.

The author looked again at his host’s face and saw the fondness and pride which the philosopher was at no pains to hide. But back of the fondness—or, perhaps, because of it—there seemed to be a troubled question.

The old pioneer spoke slowly: “You say you want to see a real, live, honest-to-goodness cowman? Well, there he is.”

“What! Where? You don’t mean the big chap in the good-looking gray clothes—why, he looks more like a college athlete.”

Drayton chuckled. “Well, as a matter of fact, he is—but don’t fool yourself, he’s a cowman too. I’ve seen him ride broncs that had piled the best of them, and as for roping—even the Mexican vaqueros have had to hand it to him more than once.”

The author caught his breath. “Broncs”—“Ropes”—“Vaqueros”—the color—the precious color! For the moment he saw that university-looking young man through a—to put it mildly—pink haze. Then he spoke in an awed whisper: “Who is he?”

Drayton, whose mind seemed, now, somewhat preoccupied and disturbed, answered mechanically: “Jack Morgan—Big Boy Morgan, we all call him.”

“And do you mean it—is he a real cowboy, or are you spoofing me?”

Max returned to his guest and to his duty. “Real? I’ll say he’s real. He’s not exactly a cowboy, though. But as for that, there’s not a puncher in the Southwest that can show him anything. He is the owner of Las Rosas, one of the biggest ranches in Arizona.”

At this, the author was excited indeed. Who could say—there might still be a chance to save his novel of Arizona life from the wreck of things. With admirable self-control he managed to ask: “Is this ranch near Tucson?”

“About sixty miles south and west, on the other side of the Serritas, in the Arivaca country, down near the Mexican line.”

The author breathed a long sigh of relief. This certainly was more like it. “You can’t imagine how interesting this is, Mr. Drayton. Do you mind telling me more?”

“About Big Boy Morgan, do you mean?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

Drayton looked thoughtfully toward Morgan who was the center of a little group of men. “There is not much to tell,” he said slowly, then he added as an afterthought: “yet.”

“He was born here in Arizona, was he?” prompted the author.

“Oh, sure—born right there at Las Rosas, and went to school and the university here in Tucson. He’s never been out of the state, so far as I know, except a few trips to California, and one visit back East last year to Philadelphia.”

As he spoke the concluding words of his summary, Drayton’s voice was unconsciously lowered and his speech slowed down while his eyes turned once more toward the subject of his remarks.

The author murmured suggestively: “Philadelphia?”

Max Drayton looked straight into the eyes of his guest with a directness that was, to the other, a little disconcerting.

“My home is in Philadelphia, you know,” the writer said apologetically.

“Is that so?” But still the man of Arizona held him with that steady gaze. “Do you know the Grays, there?”

The eyebrows of the writer went up. “The Charles Lighton Grays?”

“Yes.”

“I know of them, certainly—one of our finest and most exclusive old families.”

“Morgan’s father and old man Gray were great friends. There is a son, Charlie, about Morgan’s age. Big Boy was visiting them.”

Again the author’s brain was in a whirl. This Arizona cowboy a guest of the Philadelphia Grays! He ventured another lead: “That must have been an interesting experience for your friend, Morgan.”

Max Drayton drew a little back from the table, and the author felt as though the western man had gently but firmly closed a door, marked “private,” in his face. “Big Boy’s father, John Morgan, came out here the same year I did,” said Max, in the manner of one relating a bit of authentic history. “We were both kids then, and we grew up together, along with two or three others who are still living here in Tucson. When John married—she was an Arizona girl, Molly Grayham, from over in the Fort Grant country—he located at Arivaca and started Las Rosas.

“Running a cow ranch in those days wasn’t exactly play, as you can imagine. With the Apaches out you never knew when, raiders from south of the border, rustlers from everywhere, and all kinds of outlaws happening around between times, it took men like John Morgan to live through it. And it took women like Molly to keep up the woman’s end, too. But they pulled it through somehow—she right there on the job with him every minute. Lord, I wonder what some of our jazzing, petting, painted, frizzled, and bare-legged girls, nowadays, would think of Molly. Why, one time when the Apaches had them corraled in the ranch house and was fixin’ to wipe out the whole outfit, Molly sneaked out in the night, found a horse, and rode clean to Tucson for help. And, believe me, we made mighty good Indians out of what John and his cowboys had left of the bunch before we finished with ’em, that trip, too.

“Well, things got quieted down after a while and it wasn’t so bad. And after their baby, Big Boy, was born, John and Molly settled down to developing Las Rosas in earnest. John didn’t give all of himself to his own business either. There wasn’t a big constructive problem in the territory that he didn’t have a hand in working out. We’d ’a’ made him governor when the territory was admitted to statehood if he’d ’a’ let us.

“Take him all ’round, John Morgan was the whitest, squarest, biggest-hearted, bravest man I have ever known—and I’ve known a few good ones in my time, at that. Some said there was a streak of recklessness in his make-up that made him unsafe, and I guess maybe they were right about the reckless part. He’d take a chance quicker than any human being I ever saw, and you could see he loved it. But, by Ned! he just naturally had to be that way or he never could ’a’ done what he did. For that matter, we were all of us taking chances all the time in those days—all Arizona was a chance. If this country was ever to amount to anything somebody had to be reckless. As for John Morgan being unsafe that depends—he was the unsafest man in the world, for some people.

“When John died, Molly followed him about a month later. They left everything to Big Boy.”

Once more the pioneer’s gaze was turned thoughtfully toward the young master of Las Rosas.

The author, watching his host’s face, asked the natural question: “Is the son like his father?”

Max Drayton’s eyes were still fixed upon Big Boy Morgan as he answered slowly: “Yes, sir, he is—he’s like his dad in everything—looks and all.” He hesitated, then: “Even to that streak of recklessness. But—” he finished with sudden energy, “I’m here to tell you, sir, that these times are a lot different.”

At this moment, Morgan, who had seen his father’s old friend, broke away from the group of men with whom he had been laughing and talking, and, responding to Drayton’s signal, came over to Max and the distinguished author. No greeting could have been more hearty than his: “Hello, Uncle Max!” while the words were accompanied by a smile as warm as his hand clasp was strong and sincere. His friends had already informed him as to Drayton’s guest, and when he was introduced to the stranger, he was courteous but rather more reserved than was necessary.

“How is everything in town, Uncle Max?”

“Fine, son—far as I know. The organizers are now organizing an organization of the organizations, which I guess is a good thing—if it works. At any rate, it keeps everybody busy. Sit down and help me give this man some color for a wild-west novel.” He signaled to a waiter.

Big Boy dropped into a chair, smiled cordially at the author, and said to the man in the white jacket: “Just a sandwich and a cup of coffee, Taylor.”

“You must be in a hurry,” commented Drayton, regarding the young man with fatherly interest.

“I am.”

“What’s doing at Las Rosas these days?”

“We’re mighty busy right now, Uncle Max—have been, in fact, for the past two months.” Then he added lightly but as one who feels compelled to tell something of which he is reluctant to speak: “I’m tallying cattle.”

For a long moment the gray-haired pioneer said nothing. The author felt something beneath the surface of his host’s manner and, with uncommon good sense, did not break the silence. Then Drayton spoke gently: “What’s the big idea in tallying your cattle, Jack?”

“Oh, just sort of curious to know where I really stand, that’s all.”

The author could not miss the opportunity: “May I ask what you mean by tallying cattle, Mr. Morgan?”

“Counting them,” the ranchman answered briefly and turned back to Drayton. “I’m working short-handed at that.”

The author tried again: “How many cows have you to count?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” answered Morgan kindly. And again to Max: “On top of everything else—right when I needed him the most—one of my cowboys, Larry O’Shea, quit me cold—disappeared without a word. That’s what brought me to town—to get a line on him if I can.”

Drayton did not appear to be much interested in the whereabouts of Larry O’Shea. “Everything looking pretty good to you, Jack?”

“All right, I guess. There’s about an average calf crop this year—the ranch is in fairly good condition. I guess Las Rosas can manage to get by. That’s about all anybody is doing.” There was a note of discouragement, discontent, indifference, or something in Big Boy Morgan’s words that was clearly not in harmony with his personality.

The author ventured again: “Mr. Drayton has been telling me some very interesting things about Arizona pioneers. I suppose even you find life on the ranch quite different from what it was in your boyhood?”

“Yes,” returned Morgan dryly with a quick glance at Drayton, “the range is fenced now.” He rose as the other western man laughed. “Really, I must go—I want to scout around town for Larry O’Shea and get back to the ranch.”

Drayton, looking up at him, asked: “How much longer is this tallying going to take?”

Morgan hesitated, and the author saw, or fancied that he saw, a shade of annoyance in the young man’s face as though for some reason he resented the question. He answered shortly: “About a month,” then: “Good-by, sir. Adios, Uncle Max.”

Drayton and the author watched him as he walked away. Several men beckoned to him, but with a wave of his hand and a smiling negative shake of his head he passed on out of the big room.

“Your friend is rather quiet, isn’t he?” said the writer.

Drayton’s answer was almost an explosion: “Quiet!” Then he added as if in apology: “Well, yes, he is at times—when he has something on his mind. His father was that way, too.”

“I’m afraid I don’t just understand about this tallying cattle?” said the author inquiringly.

“I’m afraid I don’t either,” his host returned grimly.

“But don’t they always know how many cattle they have on a ranch?”

“No, not exactly,” Max explained patiently. “You see, the range takes in a good many miles—the country is pretty rough in the mountain sections, and the cattle are scattered. A cowman knows in a general way how many head ought to be carrying his brand, of course, but he only makes a careful count when there’s some special reason for knowing as close as possible.”

“Oh, I understand—and so you think young Morgan is—”

Max was looking at his watch. “I am sorry, sir, but I have an important engagement in about ten minutes. I have enjoyed our little visit. I’ll introduce you to Ned Hale and Charlie Baylong—they can tell you all about the cattle business.”