Читать книгу Curly: A Tale of the Arizona Desert - Roger Pocock - Страница 9

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Editor's Note.—The walls of Holy Cross rise stark from the top of a hill on the naked desert; and in all the enormous length and breadth of this old fortress there is no door or window to invite attack. At each of the four corners stands a bastion tower to command the flanks, and in the north wall low towers defend the entrance, which is a tunnel through the buildings, barred by massive doors, and commanded by loopholes for riflemen. The house is built of sun-dried bricks, the ceilings of heavy beams supporting a flat roof of earth.

As one enters the first courtyard one sees that the buildings on the right are divided up into a number of little houses for the riders and their families; in front is the gate of the stable court, on the left are the chapel and the dining-hall, and in the middle of the square there is a well. Through the dining-hall on the left one enters the little court with its pool covered with water-lilies, shaded by palm trees, and surrounded by an arcade which is covered by creeping plants, ablaze with flowers. The private rooms open upon this cloister, big, cool, and dark, forming a little palace within the fortress walls. Such is the old Hacienda Santa Cruz which Lord Balshannon had bought from El Señor Don Luis Barrios.

From the beginning I saw no sign and smelt no whiff of danger either of Apaches or of Mr. Ryan. When Balshannon was able to ride I gave him Ryan's letter, watched him read it quietly, but got nary word from him. He looked up from the letter, smiling at my glum face.

"Chalkeye," said he, "couldn't we snare a rabbit for Jim to play with?" He and the kid and me used to play together like babies, and Jim was surely serious with us men for being too young.

In those days Balshannon took advice from Bryant, our nearest neighbour, whose ranche was only one day's ride from Holy Cross. Dick helped him to buy good cattle to stock our range, and two thoroughbred English bulls to improve the breed. Then he bought ponies, and hired Mexican riders. So I began to tell my boss and his little son about cows and ponies—the range-riding, driving, and holding of stock; the roping, branding, and cutting out; how to judge grass, to find water, to track, scout, and get meat for the camp. The boss was too old and set in his ways to learn new play, but Jim had his heart in the business from the first, growing up to cow-punching as though he were born on the range.

Besides that I had to learn them both the natural history of us cowboys, the which is surprising to strangers, and some prickly. Being thoroughbred stock, this British lord and his son didn't need to put on side, or make themselves out to be better than common folks like me.

After the first year, when things were settled down and the weather cool, Lady Balshannon came to Holy Cross, and lived in the garden court under the palm trees. She was a poor invalid lady, enjoying very bad health, specially when we had visitors or any noise in the house. She never could stand up straight against the heat of the desert. On the range I was teacher to Jim; but in the house this lady made the kid and me come to school for education. We used to race neck and neck over our sums and grammar of an evening. I guess I was the most willing, but the kid had much the best brains. He beat me anyways.

Sometimes I got restless, sniffing up wind for trouble, riding around crazy all night because I was too peaceful and dull to need any sleep. But then the boss wanted me in his business, the lady needed me for lessons and to do odd jobs, the kid needed me to play with and to teach him the life of the stock range; so when I got "Pacific Ocean fever" they all made such a howl that I had to stay. Stopping at Holy Cross grew from a taste into a habit, and you only know the strength of a habit when you try to kill it. That family had a string round my hind leg which ain't broken yet.

The boss made me foreman over his Mexican cowboys, and major-domo in charge of Holy Cross. In the house I was treated like a son, with my own quarters, servants, and horses, and my wages were paid to me in ponies until there were three hundred head marked with my private brand. Some people with bad hearts and forked tongues have claimed that I stole these horses over in Mexico. I treat such with dignified silence and make no comment except to remark that they are liars. Anyway, as the years rolled on, and the business grew, Mr. Chalkeye Davies became a big chief on the range in Arizona.

When the kid was fourteen years old he quit working cows with me, and went to college. Balshannon missed him some, for he took to straying then, and would go off in the fall of the year for a bear-hunt, in the winter to stay with friends, and the rest of the time would hang around Grave City. I reckon the desert air made him thirsty, because he drank more than was wise, and the need for excitement set him playing cards, so that he lost a pile of money bucking against the faro game and monte. He left me in charge of his business, to round up his calves for branding, and his beef for sale, to keep the accounts, to pay myself and my riders, and ride guard for his lady while she prayed for his soul, alone at Holy Cross. When Jim wanted money at college he wrote to me. In all that time we were not attacked by Indians, Ryans, or any other vermin.

Upon the level roof of Holy Cross there was space enough to handle cavalry, and a wide outlook across the desert. There we had lie-down chairs, rugs, and cushions; and after dinner, when the day's work was done, we would sit watching the sunset, the red afterglow, the rich of night come up in the east, the big stars wheeling slowly until it was sleep-time. But when the boy was at college, and the boss away from home, there was only Lady Balshannon and me to share the long evenings.

"Billy," she said once, for she never would call me Chalkeye, "Billy, do you know that I'm dying?"

"Yes, mum, and me too, but I don't reckon to swim a river till I reach the brink."

"My feet are in the waters, Billy, now."

"I wouldn't hurry, mum. It may be heaven beyond, or it may be—disappointing."

"You dear boy," she laughed; "I want to tell you a story."

I lit a cigarette, and lay down at the rugs at her feet. "I can bear it, mum."

She lay back in her chair, brushing off the warm with her fan.

"Did my husband ever tell you about a man named Ryan?"

"Not to me—no."

"Well, the Ryans were tenant farmers on the Balshannon Estate, at home in Ireland. They were well-to-do yeomen, almost gentlefolk, and George Ryan and my husband were at school together. They might have been friends to-day, but for the terrible Land League troubles, which set the tenants against their landlords. It was a sort of smouldering war between the poor folk and our unhappy Irish gentry. It's not for me to judge; both sides were more or less in the wrong; both suffered, the landlords ruined, the tenants driven into exile. It's all too sad to talk about.

"My husband's regiment was in India then; my son was born there. Rex used to get letters from poor Lord Balshannon, his father, who was all alone at Balshannon, reduced to dreadful poverty, trying to do his duty as a magistrate, while the wretched peasants had to be driven from their homes. His barns were burnt, twice the house was set on fire, his cattle and horses were mutilated in the fields, and he never went out without expecting to be shot from behind a hedge. He needed help, and at last my husband couldn't bear it any longer. He sent in his papers, left the profession he loved, and went back to Ireland. He was so impatient to see all his old friends that he wired Mr. George Ryan to meet the train at Blandon, and drive with him up to Balshannon House for dinner. Nobody else was told that Colonel du Chesnay was coming. Would you believe it, Billy, those Land Leaguers tore up the track near Blandon Station, pointing the broken rails out over the river! Mr. Ryan was their leader, who knew that my husband was in the train. Nobody else knew. No, mercifully the train wasn't wrecked. The driver pulled up just in time, and my husband left the train then, and walked up through Balshannon Park to the house. He found his father ill in bed; something wrong with the heart, and sat nursing him until nearly midnight, when the old man fell asleep. After that he crept down very quietly to the dining-room. He found cheese and biscuits, and went off in search of some ale. When he came back he found Mr. Ryan in the dining-room.

"The man was drenched to the skin, and scratched from breaking through hedges. He said that the police were after him with a warrant on the charge of attempted train-wrecking. He swore that he was innocent, that he had come to appeal to Lord Balshannon against what he described as a police conspiracy. Rex told him that the old man was too ill to be disturbed, that the least shock might be fatal. 'Surrender to me,' said Rex, 'and if the police have been guilty of foul play, I'll see that you get full justice.'

"At that moment they heard footsteps outside on the gravel, and peeping out through the window, Mr. Ryan found that the police had surrounded the building. He charged Rex with setting a trap to catch him: he pointed a pistol in my husband's face. 'Don't fire!' said Rex, 'my father is upstairs very ill, and if you fire the shock may be fatal. Don't fire!'

"Mr. Ryan fired.

"The bullet grazed my husband's head, and knocked him senseless. When he recovered he found that Ryan had escaped—nobody knows how, and a sergeant of the Royal Irish Constabulary told him that the police were in hot pursuit. He heard shots fired in the distance, and that made him frightened for his father. He rushed out of the room, and half-way up the staircase found the old may lying dead. The shock had killed him."

"Lady," I said, "if I were the boss, I'd shoot up that Ryan man into small scraps."

"Billy, you've got to save my husband from being a murderer."

"Ryan," said I, "ain't eligible for the grave until he meets up with Balshannon's gun."

"Promise me to save my husband from this crime."

"But I cayn't promise to shoot up this Ryan myself. He's Balshannon's meat, not mine."

"You must dissuade my husband."

"I'll dissuade none between a man and his kill."

"Oh, what shall I do!" she cried.

"Is your son safe," I asked, "while Ryan lives?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Didn't your man drive all the people off the Balshannon range, and make it a desert?"

"Alas! may he be forgiven!"

"Will Ryan forgive? Is your son safe?"

I sat dead quiet while the lady cried. When a woman stampedes that way you can't point her off her course, or she'd mill round into hysterics; you can't head her back, for she'd dry up hostile; so it's best to let her have her head and run. When she's tired running she'll quit peaceful.

I lit a cigarette and began to round up all the facts in sight, then to cut the ones I wanted, and let the rest of the herd adrift.

When our Balshannon outfit first camped down in Holy Cross, this Ryan began to accumulate with his family in the nearest city—this being Grave City—one hundred miles west. Grave City was new then; a yearling of a city, but built on silver, and undercut with mines. Ryan took Chance by the tail and held on, starting a livery stable, then a big hotel, while he dealt in mines and helped poor prospectors to find wealth. So Ryan bogged down in riches, the leading man at Grave City, with daughters in society, and two sons at college. Only this Ryan was shy of meeting up with Lord Balshannon, and I took notice year after year that when my boss went to the city Mr. Ryan happened away on business. Someone was warning Ryan.

"Lady," said I, so sudden that she forgot to go on crying. "You've warned Ryan again and again."

"How do you know that, Billy?"

"It's a hundred-mile ride to Grave City, but it's only sixty to Lordsburgh on the railroad. Every time the boss goes to Grave City you send off a rider swift to Lordsburgh. He telegraphs from there to Grave City."

"Messages to my husband."

"And warnings to Ryan!"

She was struck silent.

"You're saving up Ryan until he gets the chance—to strike."

"Oh, how can you say such things! Besides, Mr. Ryan's afraid, that's why he runs away."

"Ryan ain't playing no common bluff with guns. The game he plays ain't killing. He wants you—all alive—like a cat wants mice; I don't know how, I don't know when—but here are the words he nailed on to the door of this house before Lord Balshannon came:—

"'The time will come when, driven from your home, without a roof to cover you or a crust to eat, your wife and boy turned out to die in the desert, you——'"

"Stop! Stop!" she screamed.

"Promise me, lady, that you'll send no more messages to Ryan."

"It's murder!"

"No, lady, this is a man's game, called war!"

"I promise," she whispered, "I'll send no more warnings."