Читать книгу A Son of his Father - Harold Bell Wright - Страница 6

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This man, Zobetser, first appeared in Arizona during those years when John Morgan, Max Drayton, Chester Solway, and their pioneer comrades were endeavoring to bring something like civilization to the territory. No one ever knew his history or from whence he came, which was not at all an uncommon ignorance in those unsettled and somewhat lawless times. But Zobetser was not long in finding his own place in the community, or—perhaps it would be better said—the community was not long in placing him. With undeniable genius of the most unprincipled sort, he had steadily grown in wealth and power. With but few exceptions he was disliked and hated by his fellow citizens, though many who had reason to fear him made pretense of admiration and friendship. By those who found themselves in his ruthless clutches he was obeyed. One saving virtue touched the chords of pity in the hearts of those who knew him best—his love and devotion to his wife. Their only child, he tolerated, but never failed to show his disappointment that she was not a boy. A year after his wife’s death he acquired a woman companion—ostensibly his secretary—whose history was as obscure as his own. When his daughter, unable to bear the humiliation of her position in the community, married against his wishes, Zobetser gave himself wholly to the bitter passion of his life—Power—a power that would enable him to compel the service and homage of the community that in its heart despised him.

Leaving the bank, Zobetser made his way, with characteristic ruthless disregard for other pedestrians on the streets, to his home in the older part of the city. The building was one of those ancient adobe structures with heavy walls, flat roof, and barred windows. The front door opened on the sidewalk of the street. In the rear was the usual patio. One of the rooms, with windows on the street, served as an office. The remaining apartments were living quarters for himself and two old Indian servants—a man and a woman.

Cora, the secretary, did not raise her eyes from her desk as he entered the office. In her youth, this woman must have been beautiful, but the years had written in her face a tale of mingled sorrow and recklessness that had developed into a tragedy of hopeless surrender to evils which her woman’s soul abhorred.

“Well,” demanded Zobetser loudly, “how is the baby—heh? You get a good nurse for him like I told you? Is he all right—the little one?”

The woman looked at the man as if she were seeing something in him that she had never recognized before. “Yes,” she said, “I found a nurse. The baby is asleep. Don’t make so much noise or you will waken him.”

Zobetser lowered his voice but spoke with vigor: “And that fellow Crafts—where is he?”

“He is sleeping too.”

“What—what do you say—asleep—him—at this time of the day! That will show you what he is good for. Look at me—do I sleep in the daytime, heh? No—no, I do not sleep—I work—work—work, and so I must pay even for the funeral of my girl because she would have this fellow who can do nothing but sleep!”

“Hush, I tell you,” said Cora, “or you will waken them with your fool raving.”

Zobetser closed the door leading to the other part of the house then coming back faced his companion. “Do you know who I met in the bank just now—where I went after the funeral to draw some money to give to that sleeper in there—heh? No? Well, it was that Big Boy Morgan. And what do you think he wanted to know—heh?” Zobetser laughed. “‘Where is Larry O’Shea?’ he asked that of me—‘where is Larry O’Shea?’” Again he laughed.

The woman watched for the effect of her words as she said coldly: “Sounds to me like Morgan was getting wise to things. If he ever sets himself to get you—good night!”

At this, the man let himself go, and as the words—often in broken and incomplete sentences—came tumbling from his lips, he moved about the room, with the angry restlessness of a caged wild beast, while his face was a snarling, scowling mask of passion. The woman watched and listened with a curious expression of mingled hatred, contempt, fascination and fear.

“He puts himself in my way—right before everybody he stands and looks at me—like I was a dirty worm under his feet what he don’t like even to step on with his boots. It is just like what his father was before him! When I offered to John Morgan a pardnership with me if he would join the two ranches into one, and he would help me to put over a little deal I had with the government what did he do—what did he do—I ask you that—heh?”

The woman prodded him maliciously with: “He did what young Morgan will do some day, I expect—kicked you out of the house.”

Zobetser shook his huge, fat fists in impotent rage. “That is what he did. Me—me—who was offering him a fortune—‘Please Mr. Morgan won’t you accept this half million as a little favor to me’—and he lifted up his foot and kicked me. ‘Get out,’ he says—like I was a dog—just like I was a dog. And then he told everybody that I was a crook, and made it so that the men I had fixed already did not dare to put through the deal, and I never did get the land. And now here is this son the same—like the old man. But he shall see, I am not a worm in the dirt that he can step on under his feet.”

“Oh, no,” jeered the woman. “You’re no worm. I suppose you stood up to Big Boy Morgan like a lion and told him where to head in—I can see you doing it.”

For a moment the enraged man glared at her as if he would tear her to pieces. But she only taunted him with a contemptuous smile.

“Some day,” he muttered, “you will make me forget.”

“Oh, no, you won’t, Jake Zobetser—you can’t forget. Neither can I.”

The effect of her words was instantaneous. With a shrug of his huge shoulders he said in a wheedling tone: “That is right, my dear. Jake Zobetser will not forget. You shall see what I will do for you, my Cora. When I have this Las Rosas ranch with my Black Canyon property all in one big grand empire, then will the people look up to us. And this fool Morgan, who thinks he could kick me, where will he be—heh? I ask you, where will he be? Now, everybody talks only of the Morgan ranch. They say nothing at all of Zobetser’s Black Canyon. When there is no more a Las Rosas but it is all Black Canyon, then they will no more talk of the great Morgan but will say only Zobetser.”

“Bah!” she retorted, “people will always hate you for what you are, just as John Morgan did; and people will always love Big Boy Morgan for what he is, no matter if you robbed him of everything he has in the world. Forget it, Jakie. Besides, as I have always told you, you will go on the rocks yourself if you keep on the way you are heading.”

“Heh! But it is you who are afraid. I am doing no more than everybody is doing. If somebody gets caught they call it grafting, stealing, or something else. When they do not get caught then it is just good business. The governments, the big corporations, and bankers—they are all great because they do as I do—because they get power to make men do what they say. No matter how they get power, they get it—that is why they are great. I, Zobetser, will get power—always more and more power—so I will be great, too. I am as good as the rest. They would take me now into the best of their society if I should say to them the word. They would not dare tell me ‘no.’ But I do not say the word—not yet. Heh? Do I not know these respectable ones? Do I not know the things they do when they think it is safe—heh? It is as I tell you—no matter what you do if you are successful in gaining the power. What do they know of me—nothing. What would they dare do if they did know—nothing.”

“But you know,” said the woman slowly, “and I know. It is what we know about ourselves that—”

She was interrupted by a cry from the baby.

Zobetser darted across the room and flung open the door. A moment later he had taken the crying child from its bed and was soothing it with the most extravagant terms of endearment. Between low murmured expressions of affection he cried out harsh instructions and commands to the nurse, Cora, and the old Indian woman. “Do something, fools, dummies. Is it that you want him to die? Why do you not know something to do? You do not care, that is it—heh?”

When the baby ceased his cries the man continued to fondle him with all manner of glittering promises. “Big Boy Morgan! Who is he—heh? But this is my Big Boy Zobetser that shall be rich and great when John Morgan’s big boy is in the dirt of the gutter. Look, Cora, look, how he is the image of his grandfather! His poor mother was never a true daughter, but no one can say that her son is not a Zobetser.” He tried to sing a lullaby and laughed uproariously when the baby struck his fat jowl with a tiny fist.

Then in the midst of his play with the baby he called harshly to the woman: “You phone George Simpkins and tell him I want him to come here right away quick. There, of course, he shall have grandpa’s watch if he wants it. See, the little dear, how smart he is already.”

The secretary stood hesitating in the doorway.

“Why don’t you do what I tell you, Cora? Bless his sweet little heart. Laugh for grandpa—laugh.”

The woman protested: “That Simpkins man isn’t safe, Jake, I wish you would find some one else.”

“Always you are squawking about him,” cried Zobetser. “I tell you again he is safe because he is afraid to be anything else. There is no loyalty like fear, my dear—as you should not need to be told. Did grandpa’s precious little man want to pull his grandpa’s nose—of course, he can—he can pull anybody’s nose he wants to.”

Zobetser was still playing with his grandson when Cora came to tell him that the man he had summoned was in the office. Bidding the woman stay and amuse the baby, Jake went into his place of business.

George Simpkins was a merchant. He stood before Zobetser with the manner of one who wishes with all his heart he could be anywhere else but who, for certain reasons, endeavors to conceal his desire under a manner of friendliness.

“Sit down,” said Zobetser gruffly.

Simpkins seated himself, nervously fingering his hat.

Zobetser’s small, deep-set eyes studied the man’s face as he said: “I have the word that to-night the soldiers will be between Sasabe and Pozo Verde. I have sent a messenger to say the stuff will be moved. You will make everything ready, heh?”

The merchant’s face paled. “Look here, Jake,” he said, “I wish you would let me out of this.”

The answer was a growl: “Why?”

“Why! My God, man, think of what it would mean to me if—if anything went wrong—my wife, my children, my standing in the town.”

“Better you should think what will happen to you if you do not do what I want, heh?”

The man buried his face in his hands. Zobetser continued, never taking his eyes from his victim: “You are one of the respectables—heh? And I, Zobetser—everybody knows what I am, yes? But everybody does not know about some of the goods that are shipped to your respectable store.” He laughed. “And everybody does not know about certain little card parties, and certain little pieces of paper you give to my man, Willie—heh? Everybody does not know what Zobetser could do to the respectable and prosperous merchant—nobody but you and me know that. Well, I will tell you something: you shall help me a little more, then I will also become respectable and we will forget—heh?”

The merchant started to his feet. “Do you mean that, Jake—do you?”

“Sure, why not? Now listen—I tell you once again—do what I say for you to do and you are all safe. If you do not—then you will see what I will do.”

“All right—all right,” returned the other, wiping the beads of perspiration from his forehead. “It will be to-night, then?”

“Yes, and there is something else—Big Boy Morgan is in town.”

“Yes, I know it.”

“Well?”

“Well?”

“Big Boy Morgan must stay in town to-night.”

“But what if I can’t keep him?”

“You will keep him, my friend. He is in the mood for one of those nice little card parties that you and some others have with him. You must arrange it.”

“What difference does it make whether Big Boy is in town or at home?”

“There are two reasons. One is that the machines must go to-night by the Nogales road and the Sopori—that is the way he would be going home. The other reason is my business. It is your business to fix up the little party at Willie’s place and to see that our Big Boy friend forgets his troubles—heh?”

As Simpkins left the office, Cora entered from the other room. Closing the door behind her, she stood with her back against it, looking at Zobetser.

The man saw instantly that his secretary was disturbed. “What is the matter?” he cried. “Is it something has happened to my baby, heh? Why don’t you say it? Is the little one not well?” He heaved himself out of his chair while he was speaking and started for the door.

But the woman checked him: “Don’t be so fast. The kid is all right. Sit down.”

“Well,” he growled, sinking back into his seat, “what is it then, that you look so scared?”

“Crafts is awake. He came in just as you left.”

“Well, what? It is time that sleeper was waked up.”

“Somebody else had better be waking up, too, I’m thinking,” returned the woman. “Listen, Jake: Larry O’Shea’s sister is right here in Tucson, and she’ll be looking for him.”

Zobetser glared at her—his pig eyes shining under his scowling brows like two points of light. “And where has Larry O’Shea’s sister come from, heh?”

“From Ireland—straight here from Ireland. And she’s come to live with her brother. She was expecting him to meet her at the depot.”

“Well, and am I to help it if her brother was not there to meet her, heh?” he laughed.

“But she’ll be trying to find him—can’t you see it?”

“Well, nobody needs to try very hard to find Larry O’Shea, is it? This sister of his from Ireland—she can find him if she wants, heh?”

“Yes, oh yes, but when she does find him she is going to find out a lot of other things, too. And from what I got out of Crafts’ story, Larry O’Shea’s sister is not the kind of a young woman that would do us a bit of good. It seems she’s had to mother this boy from the time he was a baby—practically raised him. She’s no lip-stick, cigarette-sucking, necking, fool of a girl. Nora O’Shea is a real woman with ideas of life and decency that don’t fit in a little bit with yours. And the quicker you get hold of that, Jakie, the safer you’ll be. You should hear Crafts tell about what she did for him and the baby on the train.”

“The baby—she did something for my baby, did she?”

“Did she? I’ll say she did!”

Zobetser looked at his watch. “The train for Crafts to go back to where he belongs will come in an hour and a half. He is not guessing anything about Larry O’Shea, heh?”

“Not a whisper. He thinks the boy is with Morgan, and that he met his sister at the depot all right and regular.”

Zobetser laughed. “That is good. Now I will have some talk with this fellow, about the baby, heh? He shall tell me this story of the wonderful young woman from Ireland who is looking for her brother, heh?”

“Oh, you can laugh!” retorted the woman. “But you’ll change your mind by the time you have heard Crafts, or else you’re a bigger fool even than I think you are. When this Nora O’Shea finds her brother Larry, your troubles will darned soon come to a head.”

“Well, then—and if she should never find him, heh? If she should go away off somewhere—suppose away down into Mexico, where she could not even talk the language—then who would have troubles, heh?”

The woman shrugged her shoulders. “We’ve sure got to do something—and do it darned quick.”

“It will be easy enough,” returned Zobetser, “we will go now to the baby and to this fellow, Crafts, who is so much of the time asleep. Then I will see what we will do with this woman who comes so far from her home in Ireland to find her brother. It will be easy.”

It was late in the afternoon when, in the throng of people who had gathered to meet an east-bound train, Nora O’Shea caught sight of a face that she knew. With a little cry, she ran to him. “Mr. Crafts—Mr. Crafts—please, sir, is it you? All this day long I’ve been here, waitin’ for Larry boy—and—and—he—” she burst into tears.

Consternation was on the miner’s honest face as he looked from Nora to Zobetser’s secretary, who was with him, and back to the Irish girl. “Well, what do you know about that?” he muttered when his slow mind had grasped the situation. “Ain’t that too bad, now?”

Through her tears Nora forced a pitiful little laugh. “’Tis a good joke on me, a thinking all the way that I was to find him here waiting for me. And ’tis a good one on Larry boy, too, with him a thinking me safe home in Ireland when all the time here I am, right here with him in Arizona.”

Zobetser’s secretary spoke with a kindly smile for the girl: “Is this the young lady you told us about, Mr. Crafts—the one who was so good to the baby?”

“Sure,” returned Crafts, “this is her. She was expectin’ her brother to meet her, like I said, and somehow or other he ain’t showed up.” To Nora, he added awkwardly: “This here lady works for Jake Zobetser, miss—my baby’s granddad, you know. She just happened to come down to the depot to see me off on this train that I’m takin’ back home.”

Nora acknowledged the introduction with a little bow and a smile.

The woman put her arm around the Irish girl’s shoulder. “You dear child, Mr. Zobetser is so grateful for all that you did for the baby. He told me he would certainly see you at the earliest possible moment to thank you for your kindness. I’m sure it is only a mistake of some sort that has prevented your brother from being here to meet you, and you mustn’t worry about it another minute. I shall take you straight to Mr. Zobetser. He will be delighted to do anything in the world for you. Mr. Zobetser is so devoted to his grandson.”

Nora O’Shea looked at Crafts doubtfully.

“I’d say that was the thing for you to do, miss,” he said hopefully. “Zobetser was sure pleased over what I told him about you and baby, and you can’t do no good stayin’ here. Looks like you’d have to go somewhere.”

Nora turned to the woman: “’Tis not that I’m wanting in gratitude to you and Mr. Zobetser, ma’am, but—but I’m that worried and anxious to see Larry.”

“Never you mind, dearie—you shall see your brother presently. You just come home with me now and everything will be all right.”

“Do you know Larry—maybe?”

“I’ve seen him—and a fine boy he is, too. Why, dearie, his not meeting you like you expected is just some silly little mistake—that s all. There can’t anything have happened to your brother or we would have heard about it—don’t you see?”

Crafts, carrying the Irish girl’s bundle, went with them to a taxicab. “At any rate, miss,” he said wistfully, as the driver started the engine, “you’ll get to see the baby again.”