Читать книгу Acres of Unrest - Max Brand - Страница 11

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"Can you swing an axe, too?" asked Ross Hale.

"Watch me!"

It was a novel sight to see Peter support himself, driving the iron end of his brace into the ground to anchor him, and then wielding the axe in both hands. From that tough wood the tool had been rebounding impotently while Ross Hale swung it. But now that Peter stood to the work, all was changed. The very first blow fleshed the axe by half the depth of its blade; the second brought out a chip as big as the joined hands of a man. And the ringing of every stroke echoed far off, like the rhythmic explosions of a long rifle.

Ross Hale, watching with wonder, looked up and down, following the flash of the axe, thinking: If this giant had not been maimed...

"Is that enough?" asked Peter.

The butt of the big log had been chopped into stove-wood sizes, and here was Peter, resting lightly on the haft of the axe and smiling. He looked at his father, but there was too much pride and pain combined in the features of Ross Hale. His son was compelled to stare past him.

Through the soft light of the dusk, a twelve-mule team plodded up the road, their heads nodding in a beautifully regular rhythm. Behind them a great wagon lumbered and creaked.

"The quarry wagon!" Peter cried. Suddenly he began to laugh with pleasure. "Don't tell me that that's the quarry wagon, Dad?"

"It's the same," said Ross Hale. "What about it?"

"Why, it's eleven years since I saw the last one. I'd almost forgotten that there was such a thing in the world as the quarries."

"Don't you forget it no more," said his father. "They're busier than they've ever been before. Only the difference now is that they're getting something better than rock out of them. A lot better. They've struck silver down there. And it's paying them pretty good."

"Silver!" cried Peter. "Up at the old quarries?"

"Aye, silver there. And that scoundrel Jarvin... "

"Old Mike Jarvin?"

"Yes."

"But Mike and his whiskey bottle... "

"Listen a minute!" called Ross Hale.

Through the evening, above the rumble of big wheels and the creaking of axle- trees, he heard the floating voice of a husky-throated singer who bellowed forth an ancient ditty to the effect that a blue-eyed girl was waiting for him in Mayo, and the oceans and the mountains could not keep him from her.

"It's Jarvin," murmured Peter, still smiling and shaking his head with delight. "I thought that the old villain had drunk himself to death long ago, for sure. But there he is, and he sounds as strong as ever."

"Stronger, because now he digs the money that he spends out of the ground. And he has the full charge of the quarry and the mine."

"He has it all?"

"Every bit."

"But what became of old Sam Debney?"

"That's what a lot of folk would be curious to know. But all that was ever seen of Debney was his body, smashed up among the rocks where he'd fallen. And a handy place up above from which he could of fallen... or been pushed."

"Murder," Peter Hale said sternly. "Murder, I say."

"The whole county says the same thing, but there was no proof. We know that old Debney was murdered by Mike Jarvin. But what difference does that make so long as we can't prove anything? Jarvin has all the mine. Makes more money every month. Has a bank pretty near filled with it, I suppose, and, he's got forty men and boys working for him."

"Forty!"

"Yes, sir, that's what I said. And he pays them off once a month. He's carting the payroll up with him now."

"A wonder that he isn't robbed."

"Who would do that?"

"Why, the Buttrick brothers or some of the other handy murderers and thieves in this county. We used to have plenty of them."

"We did"—his father nodded—"and none better than the ones that you named first. The Buttrick brothers are as mean and as shifty as any thugs that ever breathed, and the reason that old Mike Jarvin ain't been robbed, and won't be robbed, is that he's got Lefty Buttrick's Colts on the one side of him and Dan Buttrick's rifle on the other side of him. And he keeps on paying them so well that they can't afford to cut his throat. He hates them because he has to pay them so much, and they hate him because he don't pay them more. But he can't get rid of them... he's afraid to. And, they won't kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. Y'understand?"

"It's a very pretty picture," Peter Hale agreed.

"Ain't it, though? Once a month we hear the singing of that swine rolling up the road, carrying four or five thousand dollars in gold along with him, and the Buttricks, you can be sure, are right along with him, watching the pig sleep and keeping care of him."

Peter watched the tail light of the wagon wind out of view, although the rumbling of the wheels still echoed distinctly. Then he gathered up the wood that he had cut and swung himself with uncanny adroitness toward the kitchen steps. His father marveled, seeing him pass. It was plain to him that Peter, after the dreadful accident that had disabled him, must have bent his mind seriously and scientifically to repairing the damage that he had sustained by using the only substitutes that remained to him, namely, a good set of wits and his giant strength above the hips. He had used his athletic training to prepare himself, and he had used his trained brain to study the problems and the way to master them. Now he went with faultless accuracy up the kitchen steps, supporting a mountainous load of wood such as Ross Hale himself could never have managed.

Peter led the way into the darkening house and stood like a lame Colossus before the stove and cooked the dinner, while his father lurked in corners, trying to make cheerful conversation, only to discover, as other and more ingenious men have learned before him, that even to be able to lie well really requires a certain amount of genius.

Another thought came to Ross Hale, and the longer he observed his son, the more certain he was that Peter knew all the humiliation and disappointment that his homecoming had produced, and yet he refused to allow this knowledge to influence his actions. He remained as calmly aloof as ever—and as cheerful.

The tension increased every moment, until it seemed to Ross Hale that he could not endure it. Finally he decided to make his escape. The instant supper was ended—such as it was—he accepted Peter's offer to do the dishes and went out to walk up and down in the darkness of the night.

Behind him, in the kitchen of the house, he could hear Peter's voice raised in a song that boomed and echoed through the old house. But the father knew there was only a pretended cheer behind that singing. The soul of Peter, in reality, was burdened under a greater weight of sorrow than Ross Hale himself could feel.

The dishwashing and drying proceeded rapidly. When all was accomplished Peter took himself to his own consolation. He could hear the slight creaking as his father's heels ground the pebbles in the front of the house. He himself loved walking, and many an hour, striding back and forth, had once brought peace and good will back to his troubled brain. That pleasure, simple as it was, was now gone from him. He sat back in the big corner armchair in the kitchen, remembering when his grandfather had spent his hours in that same chair, and he took out an ancient black pipe, caked and crusted with tobacco. This he packed with care.

It seemed to Peter that smoking helped him to realize more dearly what his father had done for his sake. It had been a sort of crucifixion. Not only the body of Ross Hale had paid the penalty, but his soul had shrunk and wasted under the weight of his great effort. That task being accomplished, what a reward was this for the crucified man. He awakened and found himself in no heaven—only the father of a man who might never be self-supporting.

Peter, in his agony of mind, took his pipe from his teeth and closed his eyes and his hands. There was a sharp, cracking sound, a sting on the palm of his hand and the ball of his thumb. He had broken his favorite and only pipe into a thousand pieces. He did not curse, but, looking at the fuming little ruin that had fallen on the floor, he wondered what other man's hand could have crushed the stout brier root in that pipe as he had done with thumb and forefinger. Feeling a sudden need for the open air, he went toward the kitchen door. As he did so, he saw the glint of his father's revolvers, where Ross Hale had left them on the kitchen table. Peter stopped and picked them up. They were good guns. In the Hale family, the men had always been proud of their weapons. And these fitted neatly against the heel of Peter's palm. He slipped them into his coat and went on.