Читать книгу Sun in Their Eyes - Monte Barrett - Страница 6

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In Virginia the knife was not a weapon employed among gentlemen. Clampit’s arm flexed and the blade was glittering in the air before Jonathan realized what had happened.

There was no outcry. Most of the company had been caught equally by surprise. They were tense with awareness of the situation but its deadly action was too swift for them. The flying blade was on its way before Teresa screamed.

But it was Clampit who groaned as the knife flew above their heads in a harmless are. His wrist was broken. Experienced in border warfare, Kemper had been the first to realize his intention. He was sitting nearest Jonathan’s assailant and, unable to reach him in time any other way, he had lashed out viciously with his foot, catching him on the wrist just before the deadly blade had been released. Kemper then felled Clampit with a sweep of his powerful fist.

“Murder.” His deep voice rumbled angrily. “Cold-blooded murder.” He shook the dazed gambler, as a terrier might worry a rabbit.

“You’ve broken my wrist,” muttered the gambler, nursing the injured member gingerly. He shook his head as if to clear it, as he glanced from Kemper to Jonathan and back again. “Why didn’t you stay out of this? It wasn’t your quarrel.”

“And see murder done? A fair fight is one thing and murder is another.”

Kemper appropriated the knife, the silver-mounted rifle and a pistol which he found in the gambler’s saddlebag. “You’ll get them back when we reach Natchez,” he promised. “In the meantime it will be safer this way. We want no more trouble.” He had made it clear that the quarrel was no longer entirely a personal one. “And moreover,” he added, “if I even hear of any knife play in the future, I’ll make it my personal business to settle accounts with you.”

Clampit made no reply. He rode in silence throughout the afternoon, his blank face giving no hint of his turbulent thoughts.

Jonathan, his initial surprise over, was angrily determined to challenge the man but was dissuaded by both Kemper and Magee.

“You can’t challenge a man who isn’t a gentleman,” the lieutenant reminded him.

“And there’s no such thing as a fair fight with his sort,” Kemper added. “Drop it, but keep your eyes open. The fellow’s full of mischief.”

As they approached Natchez there was less need for precaution and Jonathan, relieved of the necessity of riding in advance, hoped to enjoy Teresa’s company. But when he drew rein beside the coach it was to discover that Miguel Salazar had elected to ride there that afternoon. His taciturnity did not invite conversation. There was no opportunity for a word alone with her, no chance to arrange a future meeting. The gate to Concord, the great white hall looming indistinct behind it in the twilight shadows, was reached before he realized parting was so near. Don Bernardo Gutierrez again expressed his gratitude for their timely intervention in the battle with the bandits. Jonathan had dismounted but as he bent over the white hand extended from the coach he was uncomfortably conscious of Miguel’s dark, sardonic eyes fixed upon him.

“La del Pelo de Oro,” he murmured. There was no time for more. A whip cracked and he stepped hastily back as the great coach turned through the gate.

There was another brief leave-taking when they reached the town. Kitchens departed for his home after expressing hospitable hope of seeing his companions during their stay there. Clampit, his weapons restored to him with another warning from Kemper, rode away silently. Johnny Durst and Jonathan decided to stop at the Kentucky Tavern on Silver Street, just Under the Hill, with Kemper and Magee. The other three wanted a short rest before taking the trail again and Jonathan wanted time to make himself presentable before taking his letter to Colonel Sargent. There were the captured horses to think of, too. It was agreed that they should be sold and the proceeds divided among them.

The Kentucky Tavern faced the main road which led from the teeming river port up the bluff to the aristocratic town of the plantation owners. It was a large structure, the first story of brick, the second of cypress with projecting galleries overhanging the street. Jonathan was surprised both by its size and the quality of its accommodations, superior to anything he had encountered since leaving home. Between the tavern and the stables a second building, this one frame, was provided for servants. Here Gabe was housed, the stairs at the rear giving easy access to his master’s quarters. It was their first night under a roof in weeks and the common room seemed luxurious to the four travelers who met there for dinner. They saw Clampit, seated across the smoke-dimmed room with a group of his friends, tight-faced men like himself. He made no sign of recognition.

“I don’t like the look of that fellow,” Magee remarked. “You’ll do well to watch out for him as long as you’re here.”

“He won’t catch me napping again,” Jonathan promised, a little impatient of the continued warnings.

They had grown accustomed to life in the open and the combination of the heavy meal and the close, hot room made them drowsy. Their parting was brief.

In his room Jonathan found Gabe waiting. The old Negro was squatted on his haunches against the wall, a favorite pose, awaiting his master’s arrival. Jonathan eyed him in surprise. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“It’s dat gambler man, Mist’ Jonty,” he replied. Worry was written on his black face. “Gabe’ll jes’ res’ right hyar tonight whar he can keep his eyes on you.”

“Nonsense,” retorted his master. “You’ll do nothing of the kind. Go on to bed and get some sleep.”

The Negro shook his head. “What yore pappy and yore mammy goin’ say t’ Gabe if’n he come home ’thout’n thar boy?” he protested. “No suh, Mist’ Jonty, I’s goin’ sot right hyar.”

In Jonathan’s sleepy condition it was easier to accede than to argue, a procedure which he knew from experience would be endless where Gabe was involved.

Jonathan awoke to find the sun streaming through his windows and Gabe humming a song as he busied himself about the room. The stained trousers and muddy boots Jonathan had worn down the Trace had mysteriously vanished. Gabe had unpacked the trunks, and draped across a near-by chair was his best buff broadcloth coat with the green facings. A ruffled linen shirt was laid out on the chest, and a steaming kettle waited on the hearth where a fire already was crackling.

“What’s going on here, Gabe?” the boy asked.

“We’s back ’mong de gentry, Mist’ Jonty,” the old man explained. “You got to put yo’ bes’ foot foremos’ hyar.” He nodded toward a big envelope he had propped upon the mantel. “Yo’ mammy wouldn’t lak it if’n I didn’ spruce you up when you go callin’ on de Cunnel.”

However, Jonathan did not call on Colonel Sargent to deliver his letter that morning. Instead, conscious of the change for the better in his appearance now that he was arrayed in his best, he rode up the hill and explored the town with what patience he could summon while he awaited a more reasonable hour to call on Teresa. Natchez was a pleasant surprise to him. The row of brick buildings on the square might have been in Alexandria or Charlottesville. Both the Spanish and the French had left their mark here but the new buildings, and there were a number of them, were undoubtedly American in their architecture.

It was a bright blue morning; the spring sun was warm and dogwood still was white in the young green of the trees which pressed close around the town and invaded its streets, dappling its walks with friendly shadows. He turned his horse toward Concord and, halting under a spreading tree where he was secure from observation, he dismounted. Here, with the aid of a towel he had stuffed into his saddlebag for just such a purpose, he carefully flicked the dust from his coat and rubbed his shoes vigorously in final preparation for his call.

Concord, originally the home of Spanish governors, was a large manor house surrounded on all four sides by white porticoes. Its appearance from any direction would have been almost identical except for the sweeping curve of the entrance stairs, ascending to the second floor on either side of a wide door below. Jonathan had reined in for a better look when the lower doors were thrown open and, to his surprise, what at first glance appeared to be a cavalcade came trotting smartly right out of the house. As the procession unfolded, however, he discovered it was an outrider followed by a coach and four. He was dressed in yellow satin, in startling contrast to his ebony face. Even his silk stockings were yellow. He rode a light bay which matched perfectly the four horses that drew the coach. As he passed Jonathan he cried, “Make way, make way for the Yellow Duchess!”

The young Virginian edged his horse back to the border of the drive and watched in amazement as the coach swept past. There were two postilions astride the horses and two lackeys on the box behind, all dressed like the outrider in saffron livery. The coach was yellow with bronze mountings, even the buff harness matching the bizarre color scheme. As the vehicle rolled by he glimpsed its occupant, a woman in her middle years but still beautiful. She was clad in a dress of yellow and on her head was a small turban fringed in gold. The interior of the coach glowed with rich yellow upholstery.

As he turned to look after the extraordinary equipage he heard the groom crying again, “Make way, make way for the Yellow Duchess!”

Jonathan stared in new wonder at the house. He had never before seen one with a drive through what normally would be the front door. He caught a glimpse of brick paving before the doors swung shut again. He now thought he understood the circling stairs mounting to the second floor, and after securing his horse to the near-by rail he mounted them, and, with eager anticipation, sounded the heavy knocker.

The black servant to whom he explained his errand invited him into the white paneled hall, gleaming with polished mahogany. He might have been back in Virginia. Both in architecture and furnishings the place was reminiscent of the manor houses along the James. “Except,” Jonathan thought, “for that driveway through the house.”

The wait was long. Possibly his early call had found Teresa unprepared. He upbraided himself for his impatience as he conjured up a picture of the girl in delightful confusion scurrying about busy with last-minute preparations. There was a footfall in the hall. Jonathan leaped to his feet, facing the door, his heart thumping with expectation.

But it wasn’t Teresa. Instead the oily Luiz stood there, clad in livery now, bowing obsequiously. In this position his queue was upthrust like a pig’s tail above the fat folds of his neck.

“So sorry, señor.” Don Miguel Salazar’s servant straightened up. “So sorry, la señorita cannot see you.”

“She isn’t home?” Jonathan’s heart sank.

“Oh si, señor. She is home.” Luiz shrugged, his eyes rolling in his round face.

It was an experience new to the young man and he was slow to comprehend. “You mean it is too early,” he began, then checked himself, glancing sharply at Luiz. “Did she send a message?”

The servant bowed again. “Si, señor. There was a message.” Once more he shrugged. “I am to tell you she is not at home, not today, not any time the señor calls.”

The servant, who noted the slow clenching of the young man’s fists, stepped back toward the door warily. He had no cause for alarm. In that blurred moment Jonathan’s vision was entirely inward. Searching the sudden sharp pain of his consciousness for some explanation, he could recall nothing that might interpret the surprising situation unless it was his scene with Clampit. Possibly that was it and yet, as he turned to go, this answer did not satisfy him. He walked toward the door in a daze, brushing Luiz aside blindly. It was as though a part of him were numb. His reactions were purely mechanical and yet another part of him, watching in detachment, registered each detail with cruel clarity. It noted how the motes danced in the nimbus of sunlight streaming through the window and how a table gleamed red. It marked, too, the derision on Luiz’ face as he closed the door behind him. Afterward Jonathan was surprised that he could recall these details. At the time they had not pricked his consciousness.

Miguel Salazar watched the young man’s slow progress down the front steps from behind his curtained windows. When Luiz returned no word passed between servant and master, but Miguel’s teeth flashed in a brief smile. He flipped a coin across the room.

Dan Clampit’s appraisal of the newcomer had been shrewd. The man had seen better days. His mulberry coat laced at the cuffs, though faded and neatly mended, still marked him a gentleman. His face matched his coat. The weak mouth was shadowed by a bulbous red beak. His eyes were pale and watery with puffy sacs beneath. His thinning hair was brushed straight back and hung like a shaggy mane behind. Clampit recognized the symbols. Many derelicts journeyed down the Trace in hope of mending their fortunes on a new frontier. Usually there was gold in their belts realized from the sale of their remaining effects, cash to finance their new ventures all too meagerly.

“A nice day, sir.” Clampit’s smile, though rare, could be agreeable.

The stranger’s quick glance took in the gambler’s immaculate linen and the quality of his carefully brushed clothes. “A very nice day,” he replied.

“Are you going far or is Natchez your destination?” Clampit sounded very casual.

“You must be well acquainted around here if you can recognize all the strangers.” The man’s manner was a trifle guarded. “I’m just looking around at present. As a matter of fact I’m undecided whether to remain here or push on to New Orleans.”

“There are great opportunities here if you’re interested in land.” Clampit’s usual reserve had thawed into geniality. “As a matter of fact I am rather well acquainted here. It’s been seven years since I first came down the Trace and I still manage to visit Natchez several times a year.” He shrewdly appraised the fellow’s bloated nose. “A man can’t shut himself off from civilization forever, you know. A plantation is a wonderful place to make money but it can be lonesome. This is where I come to spend it.” He shrugged. “Oh, not in a big way, of course. The enjoyment of human companionship over a friendly glass is the important thing. That’s about all it amounts to.”

There was a momentary gleam in the stranger’s eye. “Naturally,” he observed.

“If it’s land you’re looking for, perhaps I may be of some assistance,” Clampit then suggested.

“I wouldn’t want to impose on you, sir.” The man was cautious.

The gambler shrugged. “I was just recalling my own experience when I first came,” he said. “It would have been a big help had I known someone to show me around. It’s possible I could be of considerable service to you. If so, don’t hesitate to call upon me.”

“You’re very kind.” The stranger hesitated.

“Not at all,” Clampit assured him. “I’m looking for congenial companionship. If, in return, I can render you some little service I will be only too happy. How about a drink, sir? A friendly glass serves as an excellent introduction. I am Dan Clampit.”

“And I am Benjamin Marsten.” He bowed in acknowledgment. “I’d enjoy your company, sir, but—”

“Oh, come, come, Mr. Marsten,” the gambler protested. “You won’t deprive me of the privilege. After all I’ve had no one to talk to for months out on the plantation.”

Still Marsten hesitated. “We-ell.” He glanced about uneasily. The gleam had returned to his eye. “One slight libation never harmed a man. But only one, mind you. I have—ahem—affairs awaiting my attention. But one glass.” He took his new-found companion by the arm and headed for the tavern door. “One glass, pro salute animae.”

Jonathan was not in the mood for companionship when he met Magee. He was returning morosely to his room when encountered by his friend.

“I was just looking for you,” declared the lieutenant. “I’m bound for Concord to visit Don Bernardo Gutierrez and I thought you might like to accompany me. If I’m not mistaken you like the rustle of a certain petticoat out there.”

“No thanks.” Jonathan was tempted to push by his friend without further explanation but his pride prevented that. He didn’t want Magee to suspect the true reason for his refusal.

The lieutenant grinned. “You have the makings of a cavalryman,” he said. “Kiss at a gallop and skittish of a halter. Well, I can’t say I’m sorry to see you shying off. Play the field, that’s my motto. The good races aren’t won in a single heat.”

Jonathan muttered as an excuse something about his letter to Colonel Sargent. “Business before pleasure,” he added. “I never was much of a hand with the ladies anyway.”

In spite of his effort to conceal his true state of mind there was a hint of bitterness in his tone which did not escape the lieutenant. Magee had the good sense to drop the subject after a quick glance. “Oh well,” he remarked, “I’m early for my appointment yet. How about some refreshment?”

Together they entered the common room. It was a large brick-paved room, spreading the width of the tavern, with a great fireplace yawning across one end. Opposite, stairs ascended to the upper level and beneath these a small bar was located. It was latticed in with a wooden screen, and through its small wicket the tankards were thrust. Tables crowded the space, but they were practically deserted at this hour. The only light filtered feebly through windows high in the front wall. After the outdoor sunlight it took a few minutes before their eyes were adjusted to the gloom and they did not observe Dan Clampit and his new friend. The gambler frowned at their appearance. A word from either of these new arrivals, neither of whom bore him friendship, might easily spoil his play at a stage when the game was as good as won. His intended victim was already fuzzy with drink and not apt to leave of his own accord. Feeling secure in this, the gambler chose discretion as his best course and slipped quietly from the room. Any attempt to take Marsten with him in his present condition would attract too much attention. He was confident that the interruption would be brief.

Benjamin Marsten was in mellow mood. Finding himself alone, he peered around for companionship. His watery eyes fell upon the only other table which was occupied. His capacity was greater than Clampit had guessed, for his progress across the room was accomplished with some dignity. Halting before the two young men, he achieved a bow of noble proportions.

“Absit invidia.” He rolled the phrase over his tongue caressingly. “Benjamin Marsten, gentlemen, at your service.” Aside from his manner of exaggerated courtliness, he gave no hint of his condition. “It is my indubitable loss that I have not had the honor of your previous acquaintance. I have come to repair this egregious error.”

Puzzled, Magee arose, returned the bow and gave his name and Jonathan’s. Both of the young men remained standing, uncertain of their visitor’s errand.

“Pray be seated, gentlemen.” Marsten might have been inviting them to share his own table. “The prospect of congenial company is solace to a weary traveler whose soul is parched for it. Such an auspicious occasion, in fact, should be memorialized suitably, with the flowing bowl. Dum vivimus, vivamus. While we live, let us live.” Drawing a chair up to the table, he thumped the board peremptorily, to attract the waiter.

The lieutenant glanced at Jonathan, his eyes dancing with amusement. Their visitor’s state was no longer a mystery to him.

“I regret exceedingly—” his bow matched Marsten’s for courtliness—“that I cannot remain and enjoy such company, but I have an engagement. However, I leave you in the best of hands. Mr. Kirk, here, is noted for his conviviality.”

Jonathan’s black mood was anything but expansive. He had met Magee’s conversational attempts with cryptic monosyllables. Now the lieutenant was exacting a harmless revenge by abandoning him to the fellowship of the garrulous stranger. “There’s just one trouble with him,” the young officer went on, chuckling: “he’s too talkative. You won’t have a chance to get a word in edgeways.”

Jonathan grinned wryly and stared at his self-invited guest. Disappointment was so keen in him, there was no corner of his mind left free for speculation. Nor was the stranger’s good opinion of any concern. He felt only indifference.

Benjamin Marsten solemnly focused rheumy eyes on his remaining companion and waited with an air of profound attention. Nothing happened. “Your friend—” he finally broke the lengthening silence—“must have spoken in jest. Your conversational qualifications are either greatly overrated, sir, or—” and here he again pounded the table for service—“your tongue wants oiling. I have the same unhappy failing,” he confessed. “Aqua vitae! That’s what’s needed. Spirits! Even a frog can’t croak with a parched throat.”

In spite of his morose mood, Jonathan discovered a growing interest in this stranger. The shadows of the room were friendly to the ravaged face, softening the lines that revealed too much. Here he looked more the man he might have been. Too, his magniloquence, so liberally interlarded with Latin phrases, was entertaining. The youth fell to wondering about the author of such bombast and, in doing so, forgot, at least for the moment, his own bitterness of spirit. By what devious path had Marsten arrived at this sorry stage? His speech betrayed a happier past.

“But you aren’t drinking, Mr. Kirk,” Marsten protested. “Come. My favorite toast: Dum vivimus, vivamus.” He drained his glass and rapped for more before again turning a sympathetic eye on his companion. “My years are rich with experience—” his voice rolled sonorously—“experience that is at the service of my friends. Alter ipse amicus. You grasp my meaning, I trust?”

Jonathan confessed that he didn’t.

“A friend is another self,” Marsten translated and paused to drain his glass before continuing. “I have long since discovered that I take recourse to the Latin when giving expression to the verities of life. And so, my friend, where were we?”

“The verities of life,” murmured the youth, not quite sure himself.

The older man stared at him solemnly. “It was your sober condishun that brought forth this discoursh. An’ in my superior experience, I have discovered that money ... money is the root of all unhappinesh.” He fumbled under his coat and, to Jonathan’s astonishment, produced a money belt which he dropped upon the table before him. “An’ so, my boy, if I can be of any assishtance—”

Jonathan thrust the belt back into the man’s hands. “I’m not in need of any help, Mr. Marsten,” he assured him hastily. “You’d better put that money away. It isn’t wise to show it publicly.”

But Marsten was too fuddled to understand. “Assishtance,” he muttered thickly.

The Virginian glanced hastily about the room. Several tables now were occupied. Some distance away he recognized Clampit, whom he had not noticed before, sitting alone.

“This is a pretty pickle,” the boy thought. “If I leave him here like this, he’ll wake up without any money, as sure as shooting, and I’ve no idea where he belongs.”

In order not to attract undue attention, he slid the money belt from the table into his side pocket. It was bulky, but not very heavy. Evidently the poor fellow hadn’t much to lose but that was all the more indication that he could ill afford the loss. Impatient of the situation but feeling its responsibility, Jonathan left his now drowsy companion to make inquiry concerning him at the tavern. No man by such a name was known to the proprietor. He returned to the common room with the rather hopeless feeling that Marsten himself, who was in no condition to do so, was the only one who could supply the information.

He stopped in the door. Dan Clampit had moved to his vacated chair and was attempting to engage the now thoroughly befuddled man in talk. It was not a situation to Jonathan’s liking but the money belt was bulky in his pocket and the man himself an obligation he had reluctantly accepted.

As he approached the table, Clampit looked up, his face as expressionless as ever. Jonathan waited. Their parting had not been friendly.

“Marsten’s a little the worse for his liquor.” The gambler spoke first.

“Oh, you know him?”

“We’re old friends.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me where he lives,” suggested Jonathan. “I’ve been inquiring, but no one here at the tavern seems to know.”

“Why don’t you leave that to me?” Clampit replied. “I’ll take care of him.”

The youth hesitated. He had lost what small taste he’d had for the chore with the knowledge that Marsten was a friend of the gambler’s. Hadn’t Clampit called him by name? On the other hand, what about the money belt? He couldn’t very well turn that over to anyone else.

“No,” he decided, aloud. “I’ll take care of him. Thanks just the same.”

Clampit started to protest but thought better of it. If there were a hue and cry later, it would be better if the man were seen to leave here in the young Virginian’s company.

Jonathan had some difficulty in getting Marsten to his feet, but once started, their progress wasn’t too bad. To overcome his charge’s unsteadiness, he gripped him firmly by the elbow in such a way that he could act both as guide and support. He was hopeful that once out in the fresh air, Marsten would at least partially revive.

Their uncertain course down Silver Street was halted before they had covered fifty yards. An extremely angry girl blocked their path. Hands on hips, brows knit over stormy blue eyes, she watched their erratic approach.

“Well?”

Jonathan was uncomfortably conscious of her critical inspection which swept him from head to toe.

“My dear,” mumbled the old man, trying to straighten up, without much success.

“I suppose you’ve no better way to occupy your time than to tempt helpless old men.” Her voice dripped scorn. “I suppose it was all very gay and very funny, at his expense. You must feel very proud of your work.”

“As a matter of fact, ma’am ...” Jonathan was staring unhappily into the blue eyes which he discovered were perilously close to tears. “As a matter of fact ...” Again he groped for words.

The girl might have been considered pretty if she weren’t so angry, he thought, although there were freckles sprinkled across her nose and he didn’t care for freckles on a girl. Her hair was nice, though, brown, and curling softly around her face in funny little tendrils. “As a matter of fact ...” he began again.

“You do him an injustice, Cissy,” mumbled Marsten. “This is my friend. It is my honor to preshent—” here he essayed a bow and would have fallen had not Jonathan caught him—“my daughter Cissy.”

“Oh, he’s your father!” exclaimed Jonathan.

“Let me have him.” Her tone was icy. She took the old man’s arm.

“But I want to help you,” the youth protested.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” she cried indignantly. “Don’t touch him.”

“Are you sure you can handle him alone?”

“And don’t speak to me.” She ignored his offer. “Just let us alone. That’s all I ask. Let us alone.” She lashed the words at him in her fury.

Rid of his unwelcome burden, Jonathan watched them go. She was talking to her father now, and her anger seemed to have melted. He could hear her voice, low-pitched, soothing, addressing him as if he were a child, as she supported him in his shambling way. Marsten, spurred by her encouragement, was making a feeble effort to straighten his stride.

Well, it served him right for trying to play the Good Samaritan, Jonathan thought. He should have turned the fellow over to Clampit. Confound him! If he hadn’t left his money belt on the table, this wouldn’t have happened.

At thought of the money belt, he grabbed at his pocket, where it still bulged, bulkily.

“Miss Marsten!” he called. The girl gave no sign of hearing. “Miss Marsten,” he called again, and hurried in pursuit when it became apparent that she had no intention of stopping.

But she had to wait when he halted in front of her.

“I told you not to speak to me,” she reminded him bitterly. “Can’t you go away and let us alone? Can’t you tell when you’re unwelcome?”

He thrust the money belt into her hand. “Your father’s,” he said. “Don’t worry. I won’t bother you again.”

As he walked rapidly away, Cissy Marsten turned puzzled eyes from the money belt in her hand to look after him.