Читать книгу Gun Shy - Les Savage Jr. - Страница 5

ROLAND BAYARD’S HOUSE was two miles across the basin from the Conners’ homestead. Gordon knew he would have headed that way even if his father hadn’t told him to. Bayard was the only one he could turn to in Table Rock.

The man had been a close friend of Bob Conners in the past. Gordon had been a baby, too young to remember, and his folks had never talked much about it. But when the family was in debt or sick or up against it in any way, it seemed to Gordon that his mother was always telling his father to “look up Roland, he’ll help you.”

Gordon’s father hadn’t done it till this year, only a few months ago, when things had turned so bad that they didn’t even have the fare to Table Rock, and had to walk the last hundred miles from Laramie. Bayard was division superintendent for the railroad in Table Rock. He had taken the day off to help, going with Conners to file on a homestead, obtaining credit for him at the store for the plough and stock and seed and supplies he would need. Bayard had come out to the homestead several times after that. Gordon had thought it was downright human for such an elegant man to sit in a dirt room and drink chicory coffee with his old friend. He had even invited the Conners family up to his place. It was a big house, whipsawed lumber shipped from a Laramie mill, tall hip roof to shed the Wyoming snow, a long gallery of smooth round stones cemented with grout.

Gordon would never know how he reached the place that night. He guessed he must have run all the way from the dugout. He stumbled in through the grove of poplars. A whiskey jack scolded him from the branches and the trees shed their feathery tufts on him like a snowfall. He dropped to his knees and sagged across the stone steps, so spent he couldn’t move. He ached all over. It hurt so much to breathe he thought he was going to cry.

The Bayards must have heard him from inside, sobbing for breath. The door was open and a yellow path of light fell across his dirty, bleeding figure sprawled on the steps.

He saw figures silhouetted in the doorway. Curiously enough it wasn’t Roland Bayard who first crossed the porch to him. It was a gaunt man in a cranberry-red fustian. Gordon had met him here once before. He was Adam Chaney, Bayard’s brother-in-law. Although he looked anything but a cattleman he ran a few cows west of town in the Double X iron. Gordon had gotten the impression he was some sort of family black sheep. His long face had a yellow tinge, the same ague-color Gordon had seen in so many bottomlanders along the Missouri.

“Pa” Gordon gasped. “Pa. Crazy Moon—out there. Saw ’em in the draw. He didn’t do it—”

Roland Bayard crossed the porch after Chaney, saying sharply, “Snap out of it, Gordon. Settle down. I never saw a kid so spooked.”

“Give him a chance, Roland,” Chaney said. He knelt beside Gordon, gripping his arm. He had a strange voice, almost like an echo. “Settle down now, Gordon. You’re with friends. You’re safe.”

“They shot,” Gordon gasped. “All that shooting—”

Bayard made an impatient sound. He was a big man, moleskin trousers the color of sassafras, a steel pen coat that must have cost a hundred dollars. Gordon was aware of Chaney shaking him gently, talking to him, until the fog of panic seemed to shred. Haltingly, in broken sentences, Gordon told them what had happened.

As he talked he saw Opal’s face appear above him. Vaguely, he wondered how she had gotten back from town so soon, and realized Adam Chaney must have brought her. She had lived here with her aunt and uncle ever since her parents’ death. Doorlight made a yellow fire in her hair and she couldn’t keep the shock from her face.

Her aunt stood beside her. Charlotte Bayard was a perfumed, bustled, crinolined creature, somewhere far outside Gordon’s world. She kept making squeaky sounds, and her soft hands fluttered like birds around her mouth.

“He’s bleeding on the porch,” she said. “Can’t you take him somewhere?”

“Aunt Charlotte,” Opal said sharply. It stopped the older woman, and Opal turned to Chaney. “Get him inside. I’ll put some water on to boil—there’s some arnica—”

She hurried back into the house. Chaney was still crouched beside Gordon, looking up at Bayard. Bayard frowned. Muscle made a spastic little tic in his florid jowl. Then he shook his head and bent to help Chaney lift Gordon onto his feet.

The parlor was all Charlotte Bayard. Its scent of perfume and flowers and incense was so heavy it almost made Gordon sick. The furniture made him think of the stuffed, padded, draped, silken fancy women he had seen promenading down Main. There were lambrequins all over every mantel and lampshade and windowseat. Gordon didn’t see how any woman could knot together that much ecru twine in her whole life. Charlotte must have had some time left over, though, because there were about a hundred samplers. WELCOME. GOD BLESS THIS HAPPY HOME. The embroidered mottoes hung on every wall.

Chaney guided Gordon to a chair and Charlotte made a whimpering sound. “Adam—my good chair—”

Adam Chaney gave his sister a look. Gordon didn’t know if it was indulgence or disgust. The man took off his red fustian and spread it over the plush chair. He told Gordon to sit down.

Gordon put his head in his hands. He remembered how he’d been unable to feel anything at the dugout. He had thought something was wrong with him. The shock was wearing off now. There was feeling, a sickness, filling his whole body, worse than any ague he had ever known. He wondered how much of it was grief—how much was shame.

“They’re dead,” he said. “I run out on them. They’re both dead. I run out on them . . .”

“You couldn’t do anything else,” Chaney said. “What good to stay and fight? Getting killed wouldn’t bring them back.”

Opal came from the kitchen with a bottle of arnica and clean towels. Gordon had ripped his clothes on the bottomland brush and his body was covered with scratches and bruises. Opal began cleaning his wounds and the sting of arnica made him wince. Charlotte had taken a seat on a haircloth settee, as far across the room as she could get. She had a lace handkerchief to her face and was sniffling.

“Roland . . . my camomile pills—this has brought back my vapors.”

Her husband didn’t seem to hear her. He was pacing back and forth. The room was littered with fat pillows and he had to keep kicking them out of the way. He wheezed faintly as he moved. Roland Bayard must have been a powerful man once, but luxury had turned him heavy and soft. His handsome head was bowed, a mass of ink-black hair fading into distinguished gray sideburns.

“We need protection,” Charlotte said, trying again. “Sheriff Simms. Can’t you send for Sheriff Simms?”

“Charlotte, Charlotte,” Bayard said. He sounded as though he were speaking to a child. “If Simms couldn’t stop them in town he certainly couldn’t do anything now.”

“I can’t leave them,” Gordon said. “My folks—I got to go back. I got to bury them . . . do something.”

“Too dangerous,” Chaney said. “The good neighbors of mine—the cattlemen—have had their taste of blood now.” He sounded bitter. “A shooting—one of them killed. Your father was a rustler in their eyes, Gordon. Now he’s a killer . . . and you’re tarred with the same brush. To let one of the big ranchers see you in this basin—it would be worth your life.”

“We’ll hide him,” Bayard said.

“No, no,” Charlotte wailed. She half-rose from the settee, her face strained.

“Charlotte’s right,” Chaney said. “You can’t expose her and Opal to the same thing that happened to Conners. If the cattlemen connect you with Conners, find out you’re shielding a rustler—”

“That’s absurd,” Bayard said. “Gordon’s got to stay here.”

“Got to?” Chaney asked.

Bayard gaped at him. “Well, I— Bob Conners was my friend, I can’t let his son—”

“You’d be doing his son a favor to get him out of the country,” Chaney said. “I won’t let you put my sister in such danger, Roland.”

Bayard’s face flushed darkly. Gordon couldn’t tell whether Chaney was staring at the man, or at some point in the distance. It had a disconcerting effect. Bayard finally shook his head. It made a faint quiver run through his jowls.

“Of course . . . I wasn’t thinking. Why don’t you go down to the barn and saddle a horse for him, Adam? We’ll get some things together here, some decent clothes for him.” Chaney nodded and went out. Bayard turned to Opal. “See what food there is. Anything cold—biscuits, some of that roast. There are saddlebags on the back porch.”

Opal left immediately and Bayard looked at his wife. “My sack coat and brown pants, upstairs.”

Charlotte’s stays creaked faintly. “Roland, —

“Dear,” he said. “Please.”

She made a helpless little sound and went upstairs, dabbing at her eyes. Bayard frowned thoughtfully. He and Gordon were alone in the room.

“Gordon,” Bayard said, “did your father give you anything?”

Gordon looked up numbly. “What?”

“I mean—there must have been a few minutes—when you saw them coming, when Bob knew what might happen. Did he tell you anything?”

“He told me to come to you.”

“I don’t mean that. Wasn’t there something else? Didn’t he give you anything?”

Gordon remembered the wallet. “He gave me his money.’

“Money?” Bayard’s voice was sharp. “I didn’t know he had any.”

“He must’ve had something. Maybe, like you say, he figured what was going to happen—”

“And nothing else. He gave you nothing else.”

Gordon shook his head. “Mr. Bayard . . . no—nothing else.”

Bayard put his hands on the arms of the chair, leaning close to Gordon. He smelled of pomade and tobacco and fine Cordovan leather. His eyes were brilliant and black.

“Gordon, he must have given you—”

Opal came into the room, stuffing a package into a pair of saddlebags. “There wasn’t much,” she said anxiously. “It might last him a couple of days, if he’s careful.”

Bayard straightened sharply. He took the saddlebags from her and said, “Go upstairs and stay with your aunt. She’s been upset enough for one night.”

“Uncle Roland, I—”

“Do as I say, Opal. Tell her I’ll come up after the clothes myself.”

Opal bit her lip. She glanced at Gordon, then turned and started upstairs. She was halfway up when Gordon heard the sound of horses approaching. A moment later Chaney came in.

“I brought the horse you rode from town,” he told Bayard. “You’d left the saddle on. No time to lose, Roland. A lot of riders coming up the creek road.”

Charlotte appeared on the landing with the coat and pants. Opal hurried up to take them from her. Bayard studied Gordon, his swarthy cheeks puffed out thoughtfully. Then he slung the saddlebags over Gordon’s shoulder. Chaney unstrapped his gunbelt and held the whole harness out to Gordon. The big single-action Colt in the holster had stag grips and its metalwork was tarnished.

“No,” Gordon said. “I mean, no, I don’t want to—”

“Take it,” Chaney urged. “You won’t stand a chance without one. You’ll have to use it to eat on before you’re through.”

He thrust it into Gordon’s hand and turned away toward the door before Gordon could protest. Numbly, recoiling from the sinister weight of the gun hanging against his hands, he buckled the belt on. Opal had hurried downstairs with the clothes and she crossed the room and gave them to Gordon. Her hand remained on his arm. She moistened her lips, and there was something in her eyes.

“Gordon—”

She trailed off. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t feel like he was standing up in front of a school-marm any longer. He wanted to tell her that, but he thought it would just sound jugheaded. If he could only stay around a while, maybe he could explain it to her. He realized this was probably the last time he would ever see her.

Bayard put a hand on his shoulder. “Gordon, let me know where you are. If you need any more help, money or anything—well, let me know.”

“Thanks,” Gordon said. “I wish pa knew what good friends you really are.”

“Gordon,” Chaney called from the door. “Hurry up.”

He went outside and saw Chaney holding a horse. Bayard kept the best animals in Table Rock. It was a Morgan, with a coat like satin. Gordon dropped the saddlebags behind the cantle and stepped aboard. The poplar grove still shielded him but he could already feel the ground trembling beneath the approaching riders.

He touched heels to the Morgan and it broke into a nervous canter. The last Gordon saw of Opal she was standing in the open door with the backlight turning her hair to a yellow nimbus.