Читать книгу Mark Gilmore's Lucky Landing - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 6

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Two crude hangars and a small wooden shack stood back a few feet from the field and as Mark brought the Kent D-2 to a full stop he was impressed with the desolate aspect; desolate from a human standpoint, for but two rustic looking mechanics and the local manager, also a native Kentuckian, stared them a welcome.

Greeley itself, as Hammil pointed it out, was a complete disappointment. Though picturesque enough, snuggled against the green mountainside, it was nothing more nor less than a cross-roads settlement; a few crude buildings and a small stone structure that was used to dispense both religion and education.

Hammil chuckled. “Greeley’ll seem bigger when you get used to it. It’s ’count o’ the hills jest at fust glance that makes it seem so little, Brother Mark. Come ’long over ter the office. I got a spot o’ our Lizzie and there’s pap a-talkin’ ter Manager Rose.”

Mark took his eyes from the laurel-sheathed ridges surrounding the settlement and soon discovered the lean, lanky figure of Old Peter Hammil standing beside the shack. Except for his white hair and wrinkled weather-beaten face, he was just an older edition of the son—kindly, and welcoming them with his gray smiling eyes.

Mark liked him at once and during a pleasant talk with Manager Rose his former high spirits returned. While they neither encouraged nor discouraged his glowing hopes for the school, both agreed that “it’d be wuth tryin’ jest ter see haow folks talk ’bout it.” And so Mark had to be content with this native philosophy and let the future rest in the lap of the gods.

Buck Rose, as he was popularly known, advised Mark to be on hand the next day. “Folks come in fer su’plies termorrer, son, an’ not Monday,” he said. “Better be ’round hyur ter git ’em interested like an’ show ’em some o’ them fancy stunts what yer read ’bout some o’ them flyers a-doin’. Kin you do ’em?”

“Can he do ’em!” Peter Hammil interposed, chuckling. “Can a race hoss trot, Buck? Yer want to see Brother Mark a-climbin’ over the fuselage in mid-air when a ship’s in vertical—then yer won’t ask, can he do stunts!”

Buck Rose looked nonplussed at this unfamiliar jargon. He was merely a timekeeper and shipping clerk for the East Coast Airlines and knew no more about the air than did the rest of the folk in the Greeley district. However, he gave Mark the benefit of the doubt in deference to young Hammil’s enthusiastic recommendation and promised to boost the flying school and its young instructor to all who inquired and to the rest who did not.

So Mark climbed into the front seat of the flivver, content, and smiled gratefully at young Hammil beside him. Old Peter occupied the rear seat after having announced decisively that he drove the “rattlebox” only when he had to. The road to Horse Run, he informed them, was bad enough on a mule, but in the Ford it was wearing.

Mark soon found that this was no exaggeration on Old Peter’s part. The road was no more than a deep rut that billowed in places looking like an interminable stretch of dirty canvas ribbon. On either side, however, the thickets of laurel were enchanting, interspersed now and then with dense growths of cedar and balsam.

Their journey was uphill all the way and Mark found himself listening with interest to Old Peter who proudly gave a lengthy account of his son’s taking up “furrin ways an’ sech like.” “Yer see Peter’s mammy hain’t frum Horse Run,” he told his guest with sobered eyes. “She hails frum Greeley an’ she’s got a leetle more eddication than me. That was how she cum ter git it inter her head ter send Peter outer the’ hills an’ larn sumthin’. Wa’al, sir, he did! He drapped fust thing inter th’ army an’ told em he was eighteen when he wuzn’t but just shet o’ fourteen—that’s how big a boy he wuz. Then after a leetle he gits mixed up with the air bizness an’ afore we knowed it he writes hum that he got promoted fer bravery.”

Mark poked Hammil in the ribs playfully. “Hey,” he said admiringly, “you never told me a thing about all this! That how you came to capture the Lieutenant?”

“I got it after the war,” Hammil answered modestly. “I stayed in the army mos’ two years after. Then I came to the East Coast people.”

“’Stead o’ comin’ back home ter help his pappy raise mules,” Old Peter said softly. Mark saw that his gray eyes gleamed humorously. “Still I cain’t say I blame him fer wantin’ ter stay shet o’ the hills. Leastways that’s what his mammy got me ter thinkin’. She says thar is jest as good air in flyin’ as he gits ter hum an’ I guess she’s right.”

Hammil was grinning at Mark’s serious expression. “I told yer yer had a lot ter learn, didn’t I, Brother Mark? Hill people think different ’bout most everythin’. Even ’bout their sons goin’ ’way from the hills. I jest happened ter have a maw that had courage enough ter help me break away. I’m away, too—fer good. It’s nice ter come back and visit, but that’s all.”

“An’ I guess it’s a case o’ yer havin’ ter stay ’way now, Peter,” said his father with a sudden change of voice. “Cum ter me through Buck Rose jest afore yer landed thet the Riggses is a-sayin’ how yer better not plan ter stay on fer good, bein’s yer so gosh-a’mighty falutin a’ready. Dilly Riggs says yore kind ain’t wanted ’round these hyur parts nohow.”

“Oh, yes?” Hammil said with darkened face. “If I wanted ter stay, I’d stay whether I’d be welcome or not an’ I’d like ter see the Riggs that could stop me!”

“Jes’ what I told Buck,” said the father proudly.

Mark glanced at Hammil and was lost in wonderment. Years of “furrin” associations had not obliterated this hereditary hatred of his family’s enemy one whit. In point of fact, as one looked at his lean, set jaw, it was plain that the spirit of the feud had never been conquered in his long absences from home. Hammil was the true Kentucky mountaineer whether in his native hills or out.

“Why should they take that attitude?” Mark asked curiously. “Hasn’t a fellow a right to leave the hills and follow a career wherever he wants?”

“Not at the risk of havin’ ’em think a feller’s high hat, like yer say up no’th,” Hammil replied. “They think it o’ me particular ’cause I went in th’ air service and stayed there. Plain fact is they’re jealous ’cause they hain’t got ambition ter do it themselves. That’s what Summers thinks ’bout it and that’s why he got up the notion ’bout the flyin’ school. Guess he thinks if he gets ’em interested, they’ll feel better ’bout me, but shucks, I don’t give a hoot what the Riggses feel ’bout me!”

This fact was soon borne out, for not five minutes afterward there appeared up the road a great hulk of a man sitting astride a mule. As they drew nearer, Mark heard both father and son whisper the name, Riggs.

Though the narrowness of the road would have forced Hammil to stop in any case, it was evident that it was not a Hammil custom to ignore their enemy nor even to pass him by with a curt nod. Old Pete’s salutation, however, could not be mistaken for other than it was—mere mountain courtesy.

“Howdy, Dake!” he drawled coldly, as the son drew the car up close to the thicket.

Dake Riggs pulled his mule clear of the car and nodded, frowning. “Howdy, Pete!” he mumbled, and gave his hat a defiant pull over his cold, blue eyes. Then his gaze slowly centered on the son. “So yer ter hum?” he asked.

Hammil smiled defiantly. “Yes, I am, Dake Riggs, and if it wasn’t that I liked flyin’ better, I’d think ’bout stayin’ on fer good. Anybody yer know got objections?”

The ghost of a smile flitted across Dake Riggs’ face, and was gone so quickly that Mark wondered if he had seen it at all.

“Wa’al, I wonder,” he replied enigmatically, and as his glance rested on Mark he nodded again, his iron-gray beetle brows contracted slightly. “Reckon yore th’ new flyin’ school teacher what I heerd ’bout,” he said laconically.

Mark bowed. “Yes sir. I’m Mark Gilmore and I hope to....”

Dake Riggs appeared not to be interested for he was again looking at Old Pete. “I heerd thet th’ new agent is a right tetchious* pusson,” he said softly.

Old Pete did not blink an eye. “I heerd frum Buck he hain’t standin’ on no nonsense ef thet’s what yer meanin Dake. Devlin his name is an’ Buck says he’s th’ devil fer blockaders. Wa’al, Peter son, reckon we better git on. Mammy’ll be hevin’ things ready.”

Hammil had already loosed his brake. Dake Riggs pulled his beast further over to the side unwilling to acknowledge the dismissal. Old Pete raised his big, bony hand and waved it.

“’By, Dake! See yer ter taown, come marnin.”

Dake simply nodded and let them go in icy silence. After they had passed safely the first billowy rut, Mark turned and saw that the man was still in the same spot looking after them.

Could it be sheer imagination or did he actually see in Dake Riggs’ cold blue eyes, sinister gleam?

*Fretful.