Читать книгу A Son of his Father - Harold Bell Wright - Страница 7

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If the famous author, who was Max Drayton’s guest that day at the Old Pueblo Club, had called at Big Boy Morgan’s ranch on the afternoon of the following day, he would have suffered still another shock. No scene could have been more peaceful. In the mile or more of low, gently rolling hills that lie between the main road and the ranch buildings there was no sign of life save the birds in the mesquite trees of the sandy washes and the small creatures that live in the grama grass, the native pasture grass of this section of the Southwest. At the edge of the pond that lies just under the hill north of the house a few gentle Hereford cattle stood knee-deep in the quiet water or lay contentedly in the shade. Near the big gate a mild-eyed milk cow was dreamily chewing her cud. Save for three old horses that stood under the shed with low-hanging heads and closed eyes, fast asleep, the corrals were empty. About the barn chickens clucked in lazy contentment or scratched occasionally as if more from an indolent desire to kill time than from any need, and in the wide yard between the gate and the house a turkey hen followed by her brood moved with slow matronly dignity.

As one approaches from the north, the long, low bunk house is on the left of the ranch house proper, with the space between shaded by pepper and umbrella trees. The buildings are adobe, plastered and whitewashed. On two sides of the ranch house there are deep verandas—one facing the barn, the corrals and the main entrance, and the other overlooking an old rose garden on the westward slope of the hill and the little valley beyond. To the north, the gentle grassy hills roll, ridge on ridge, to the rugged heights of the distant Serritas. To the east, the rippling sea of grass breaks some fifteen miles away against the rocky flanks of the Tumacacori range. To the south, the country is a jumble of sharp peaks, precipitous cliffs and irregular ridges. On the west, a well-watered valley of lush green meadows and groves of giant sycamore trees lies in the foreground with grass-covered hills rising to oak and cedar-clad mountains beyond and Yellow Jacket Peak standing boldly against the sky. The group of eight or ten adobe houses, one general store and post office, and the quarters of the army post which makes the town of Arivaca, is some three miles to the northwest but is hidden from the ranch house by the hills. From skyline to skyline it is a scene to make one gasp with delight at the sheer beauty of the landscape. From a ranchman’s point of view, El Rancho de Las Rosas is an empire of natural riches.

But the birthplace of Big Boy Morgan, set amid these surroundings of beauty and wealth, was pathetic in its appearance of having outlived the day of its glory. The place, while clearly inhabitable, was run down and neglected as though no one had the heart to give to it those touches of loving care which alone can keep the charm and beauty of a home. The rose garden, from which the ranch had its name, was overgrown with weeds. The bushes were untrimmed and parched. The vines that shaded the verandas were unkempt. There were pickets missing from the fence which separated the house and garden from the big yard in front. Everywhere there were the untidy marks of careless disregard.

But Las Rosas was not as deserted, that afternoon, as it would have at first appeared. In the cool shade of an umbrella tree between the end of the north veranda and the bunk house a gentleman lounged in an easy chair. He was a man about young Morgan’s age but in general presented a marked contrast to the stalwart, bronzed-faced ranchman. His slender body was clothed as one with proper regard for the conventions would dress at any of the better known summer places on the Eastern coast. His clean-shaven face, pale and thin with a broad, high forehead, was the face of a scholar. Unmindful of his surroundings he was absorbed in the pages of a heavy-looking book.

The screen door of the kitchen opened. An old-time Chinaman, carrying a glass of something on a tray, came out. The door swung shut with a bang. The student did not lift his eyes from his book. With a queer, shuffling gait the old Chinaman approached the gentleman in the easy chair. With his tray and glass he stood before the student patiently waiting. Presently the man glanced up but instantly went on with his reading as if he were too absorbed in his book to be more than vaguely conscious of the Chinaman’s presence.

The old servant’s yellow features wrinkled in a smile as he said cheerfully: “Tlime fo egg-nog, Miste Chollie.”

Charlie Gray, as if glad for this opportunity to voice his scorn of the author whose thought he was considering, read aloud: “‘Happiness is a mental state resulting from an attitude of mind toward the peculiar condition of life under which the individual is placed.’” He paused to gaze witheringly at the Chinaman as if he could find no words with which to express his contempt.

The old servant bobbed his head and with a cheerful grin offered his tray. “Tlake um egg-nog now, Miste Chollie.”

The student turned a page: “‘A determined purpose to be happy must result in a cheerful and wholesome attitude of mind toward one’s condition of life.’” With the air of one who demands “now what do you think of such rot as that” he again looked up at the Chinaman.

The old man nodded vigorously. “Me sabe, alle lighte, Miste Chollie, you catch um too much blook, make um sick—catch um egg-nog now, make um well,” he offered his tray persuasively.

With bitter derision the other returned: “The judge says ‘you are to be hanged by the neck until you are dead,’ you must shout with gladness, ‘ha ha, how delightful.’”

“Alle lighte, alle lighte.”

“The general says ‘you are to be shot at sunrise,’ you must answer, ‘bully for you, general! I thank you, sir, for this great happiness.’”

Puzzled but cheerful—glad to do anything if the young man would only take the egg-nog—the old Chinaman answered: “Alle lighte. Catch um happiness bly an bly, Miste Chollie.”

Charlie Gray rose to his feet and moved restlessly to and fro as he continued with indescribable bitterness: “The doctor tells me that I must give up everything and waste months of precious time here in Arizona—Arizona!” He gazed about him with a look of despair. “Blazing sun, empty skies, burning desert, barren mountains, lizards, rattlesnakes, bawling cattle, smelly corrals, crazy horses. My God! the emptiness of it all—the loneliness of the long days and longer nights!” Overcome with self pity he bowed his head.

The old servant, whose wrinkled yellow countenance was a picture of patient sympathy, was silently offering the consolation of his egg-nog when Gray with sudden energy angrily shook his book in the Chinaman’s face: “And this unspeakable ass tells me to shout with joy and be happy—happy!” He threw the book from him with all the violence he could muster.

The Chinaman, not in the least alarmed at this burst of temper, looked calmly after the book, then with renewed hope and expectant air offered his tray. “Alle lighte, make um shout, Miste Chollie, holla like hell but tlake um egg-nog now—make um well bly an bly.”

At this somewhat startling piece of advice Charlie Gray looked at the servant as if for the first time he actually saw him. Gravely he regarded the tray and glass as if to grasp the situation in its fullness. Then, the whimsical, lovable soul of the man broke through the mental shell of the student and he laughed away the bitterness and anger, while the old Chinaman grinned and nodded his delight at having so far achieved his purpose.

Taking the proffered glass and holding it in the manner of one about to offer a toast, the while he smiled affectionately upon the old Chinaman, Gray said: “Wing Foo, you are a dear, faithful old heathen and I am nothing but an intellectual ruin with too much university and a blank where my heart ought to be.” He lifted his glass high: “Here’s to you! The only satisfied and happy man on El Rancho de Las Rosas—the unhappiest corner of the unhappiest land in the unhappy universe, and may God have mercy on your soul!” He drained the glass while the Chinaman, watching, smiled his approval.

“That mo bette, Miste Chollie, egg-nog make um well—fat—stlong—alle samee Boss Big Bloy.”

“Ugh!” shrugged Gray with a grimace as he replaced the glass on the tray. “Boiled eggs for breakfast—omelet for dinner—fried eggs for supper—poached eggs for lunch—raw eggs for appetizers with egg-nog in between! Do you know, Wing, I dreamed last night that I was an incubator and woke myself up trying to cackle and crow at the same time.”

“Alle lighte, Miste Chollie, mebby so lay um egg bly an’ bly!” He placed his tray deftly on a rustic table which stood near and turned again to face the younger man who had resumed his seat in the easy chair. There was no smile on the wrinkled old face now as he said in a tone of sad inquiry: “Nobody catch um happness, Las Losas, Miste Chollie?”

“Not a soul, Wing.”

Wing shook his head mournfully. “Boss Big Bloy, him no come back flom Tucson let.”

“Something must have detained him, Wing,” said Gray soothingly.

But Wing Foo was not to be consoled. “No good fo’ Boss Big Bloy stay in Tucson, Miste Chollie!”

“He’ll be along presently. I wouldn’t worry,” returned Gray, touched by the old Chinaman’s trouble.

“Mebby so—no can tell. When Boss Big Bloy, him little blaby, likee so,” he measured with his hands, “him catch um happness plenty—laugh, laugh alle tlime—clow likee chicken. When him little big bloy, so,” he indicated the height of a child, “him happy alle tlime—play with ol Wing Foo alle day. Steal um pie flom Chinaman klitchen, you sabe, Miste Chollie, you steal um pie, too.”

“By George, don’t I remember though!”

Wing Foo continued: “Bly an bly little Boss him glow up,” he held his hand high above his head to indicate a tall man, “catch um school. Bly an bly no more school. Wolk on lanch, lide, hunt, sing, laugh, alle tlime catch um happness.” Suddenly his voice sank to a mournful key: “Then ol Boss Molgan, him die. Ol Missee, she die too. Bly an bly Boss Big Bloy, him go way—Philadelph—come home, no eat, no sleep, no sing, no laugh—alle tlime close, kickee—kickee evly litte thing—alle tlime laise hell for evlybody. Boss Big Bloy, him no catch um happness Philadelph, Miste Chollie.”

“I fear something happened in Philadelphia, Wing,” said Gray thoughtfully.

“You sabe whatee mattee my Boss Big Bloy, Miste Chollie?” the old Chinaman asked plaintively.

“I haven’t the least idea, Wing.”

“Boss Big Bloy come back from Philadelph, bling Ilish man, Lally Shea—what fo, Miste Chollie?”

“Oh, just to give him work, I suppose. Really, I don’t know.” Gray accompanied his words with a shrug of his shoulders as if to signify that really he did not care.

Wing nodded with energy. “Ilish man, him alle gone, now. What fo Lally Shea make skippee Las Losas, Miste Chollie?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

The old Chinaman looked cautiously around and drawing a step nearer lowered his voice. “Miste Chollie, what fo Miste Jim Holdblook stay Las Losas?”

“Mr. Holdbrook is Mr. Morgan’s guest, Wing, the same as I am,” Gray answered doubtfully.

Wing shook his head with an expression of deep disgust: “Ah-h Holdblook man, him no fliend my Boss Big Bloy.”

“No?”

“No, Holdblook, him alle tlime go Alivaca, eat with soldee man. Soldee man no come eat Las Losas any mo. Ol tlime come—catch um good tlime—eat, sing, laugh—no come now, Holdblook go Alivaca.”

Gray, feeling perhaps that such gossip with a servant, even a servant of Wing Foo’s long and faithful years, was not exactly the thing, made no reply.

But Wing persisted: “Yo fatha an my Boss Big Bloy fatha, they long tlime good fliends, Miste Chollie—you fatha, he come stay Las Losas, two, thlee, fo tlime. You come one tlime too. Ol Boss Molgan, him tell ‘tlake good care my fliend, Miste Glay, Wing, tlake care little bloy Chollie, too.’ Ol Wing Foo, him sabe fliends, Miste Chollie. Boss Big Bloy an you fliends, alle lighte.”

“Very true, Wing.”

“Holdblook man, that mo difflent?”

“I have noticed it myself,” returned Gray dryly, with a faint smile.

“My Boss Big Bloy, him no likee Holdblook man, samee him likee you.”

“No?”

The old Chinaman, smiling, shook his head, then he asked anxiously: “Holdblook man, him yo fliend, Miste Chollie?”

“Well, not exactly, Wing.”

“Holdblook, him come flom Philadelph, too, alle samee Lally Shea—alle samee you?”

“Yes.”

“You know Holdblook man in Philadelph, Miste Chollie?”

“Oh, I know who the Holdbrooks are.” Gray’s tone was as if he had said: “I know what the Holdbrooks are.”

“You know Ilish man, Lally, in Philadelph?”

“No, never heard of him until Mr. Morgan picked him up.”

With another cautious look about, the Chinaman said in a voice but little above a whisper: “Miste Chollie—Ilish man, Lally Shea an Holdblook man, they good fliends.”

“The deuce, you say!” ejaculated Gray, startled out of his indifference.

Wing bobbed his head vigorously, and there was a knowing look in the yellow old eyes that peered sharply through their narrowed, slanting lids. “Holdblook man, him good fliends Injun Pete an Dololes gal. You sabe Injun Pete an Dololes gal, Miste Chollie?”

“No, can’t say that I do.”

“Injun Pete, him no Injun, him squaw man—boss Black Canyon Lanch—you sabe Black Canyon?”

“Oh, yes, I remember Black Canyon a bad lot.”

“Dololes gal, she bad lot, too—all Black Canyon bad lot—Injun Pete, him steal Las Losas cows. Boss Big Bloy, Long Jo and cowbloys catch um bly an bly, hang um bly neck.”

“That ought to contribute something toward the happiness of all parties concerned,” said Gray, rising and going to retrieve his book. With the recovered volume he again settled himself in his chair and began turning the pages.

The Chinaman, accepting the hint, shuffled to the table and picking up his tray and glass started for the kitchen. At the kitchen door, as if unable to forego a last word of warning, he turned: “You mind ol Wing Foo, Miste Chollie, Injun Pete him bad. Holdblook fliends Dololes gal, no good. Ilish man Lally, fliends Holdblook, no good. You watchee, Miste Chollie—you good fliend my Boss Big Bloy alle samee you fatha an him fatha. Damn Injun Pete, steal Las Losas cows.”

The screen door closed with a bang. Charlie Gray once more was alone with his book. But the student could not take up again the thought of his author where he had dropped it. Mechanically he turned the pages but his mind balked. Nor could he now give himself to the contemplation of his own unhappiness—a mental habit in which he too often found a sad satisfaction. Wing Foo had lifted him bodily, as it were, from his immersion in the slough of his own ills and, after giving him a vigorous shake or two, had plunged him head over heels into the woes of his friend, Morgan. The truth of the matter was, Charlie Gray did not wish to consider the troubles of any one. He had somehow convinced himself that his own troubles were quite sufficient and with no pains to find a reason, had denied the intrusion of any interest that might divert him from his own miserable self pity. He was angry with the “unspeakable ass” who had reached him through a book. He was provoked that the old Chinaman should have accomplished, in a way so different, the same thing. It was in this mood that he observed a horseman approaching the big gate. “And there,” said he to himself, “is another! And my doctor sent me out here for a complete rest and mental relaxation!”

The horseman dismounted to open the gate, thereby testifying to the fact that he, too, was not of Arizona. Leading his horse to the corral he turned the animal into the enclosure without troubling himself to remove saddle or bridle. As he walked toward the house, Gray watched him with a speculative eye.

The man was dressed, not in the garb of a western rider, but in that costume which prevails where horsemen of fashion trot sedately along the bridle paths of city parks. He was about Gray’s height but heavier; his age this side of thirty; but there was that in his tanned face and in his dark eyes which told of a worldly knowledge beyond his years.

Coming through the gate in the picket fence with the air of one entirely at home he brought a chair from the porch to the shade of the umbrella tree and seating himself proceeded to light a cigarette. “Morgan home yet?” he asked.

“No,” returned Gray. “Evidently he found some business to detain him.”

The other laughed. “Business—yes.”

Ignoring the man’s manner, Gray asked casually: “And how did you find everything in the metropolis of Arivaca to-day?”

The man indicated his disgust: “As lively as usual. How these Arizona natives manage to exist is more than I can understand. You seem to be doing fairly well though,” he looked Gray over in a manner which was at once both deferential and contemptuous.

Gray managed a wan smile.

“Feeling any better?”

The other answered wearily: “I hardly know—a little perhaps, thank you.”

“I should think it would be good for you to stir around more. To sit here day after day, as you do, with your nose in a book would make a well man sick. Why don’t you get out—do something—go somewhere?”

“Do something—go somewhere!” the student returned with petulant heat. “Good Lord, Holdbrook, what is one to do? Where is one to go?”

Jim Holdbrook laughed. “Our distinguished scholar, Charles Madison Gray, is not exactly enjoying life at Las Rosas, I take it.”

Two spots of color appeared in the pale cheeks of the man in the easy chair. “And are you so happy here?” he retorted. “You must find this life quite different, I fancy, from the life to which you have—ah—been accustomed.”

“Well, you see,” laughed the other with sneering insolence, “being a simple soul and not so dependent as yourself upon the higher culture, I am able to find an occasional bright spot—even in the deadly monotony of this arid waste.”

Gray, remembering what Wing Foo had said of Holdbrook’s friendships, felt himself again prodded out of his self-interest to an interest in this man from whom, up to this moment, he had resolutely held himself aloof. “Seriously, Holdbrook, do you enjoy this ranch life? You have been here some time now, I understand.”

Holdbrook replied in the manner of one who counts his days: “July first—five weeks from to-day—I will have been here exactly one year.” He threw his cigarette from him with a gesture of violent anger. “Do I like it? My friend, if I had to choose again between Las Rosas and hell, I’d go to hell with bells on.”

“Well, if you feel that way about it,” began Gray.

But the other interrupted him with: “I don’t wonder that Morgan turns himself loose occasionally. He has funny ideas of what’s decent though, leaving his guests to cool their heels in this dreary hole while he treats himself to a gay time in town. Sample of the famous Western hospitality, I suppose.”

Hiding his disgust at this criticism of their host, Gray replied: “Jack is really worried about Larry O’Shea.”

“Oh, yes, Larry O’Shea,” laughed the other, and Gray felt, somehow, that the laughter this time was aimed, not at himself but at Morgan. Holdbrook continued: “And do you actually think it was because of that missing Irishman that Morgan stayed in town last night?”

“I don’t think I care to discuss Morgan’s affairs,” returned Gray coldly.

“Oh, you don’t. Well, let me tell you, there are a lot of people discussing your friend, Morgan, just the same. If you had been here as long as I have you wouldn’t be so darned finicky about it. Hasn’t it struck you as strange that the fellows from the post at Arivaca never come near the house any more?”

“Really,” murmured Gray protestingly.

“Yes, really,” mocked Holdbrook. “The fact is, they have all dropped him flat. There is a limit, you know, even for men who may indulge in an occasional fling themselves. Morgan has gone away beyond that limit. In plain English, he is going to the devil, and he’s going fast.”

Charlie Gray was far from thinking of himself now. Holdbrook’s animosity was too evident. A mind less keen than Gray’s, even, would have detected the sinister purpose that lay beneath the surface of what might otherwise have been mere idle gossip. But why, if this was the fellow’s feeling toward Morgan, was he a guest at Las Rosas? It was his loyalty to his friend that prompted Gray to say dryly: “I have noticed that you spend considerable time with the officers at the post.”

“I do—they’re fine fellows. I really don’t know how I should have managed without their friendship. You should know them.”

“Perhaps I may have that pleasure,” returned Gray smoothly. “You seem to be more fortunate than Morgan in the matter of friendship.”

Holdbrook acknowledged the hit with a shrug of indifference. Gray watched him light another cigarette then said casually: “Let me see, you met Morgan at the time of his visit to my home, I believe?”

“But not at your home,” said Holdbrook grimly.

Gray smiled as he returned in a tone of mild agreement: “Oh, no, certainly not at my home.”

The other, as if somewhat peeved, said sharply: “And let me tell you something else, Gray, your friend Morgan enjoyed a number of adventures while in Philadelphia that you and your father never dreamed of.”

“It appears that he did,” came the gentle retort. “But really, Holdbrook,” he added with more firmness, “we are passing the bounds of good taste, don’t you think? Let’s drop it.”

The other moved restlessly to and fro. “I know I had no business to say what I did,” he jerked out, “but devil take it, Gray, I hate everything in this God-forsaken country so, that I have even come to hate myself. You can’t imagine what a hell it has been for me away out here at this end of nowhere.”

“I can easily understand that,” said the other kindly, smiling at the thought that he, a Gray, could hold anything in common with a Holdbrook. “But why—pardon me—why, if you are so miserable here, do you stay?”

Holdbrook paused to stand before him aggressively. “Well, if you hate it so, what are you doing here?”

“I am under doctor’s orders, you know,” murmured the man in the chair.

Holdbrook grinned maliciously. “Perhaps I am too.” And with that he turned abruptly and went into the house.