Читать книгу Santa Fé's Partner - Thomas A. Janvier - Страница 6

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The Hen blew in one day on Hill’s coach, coming from Santa Fé, setting up on the box with him––Hill run his coach all the time the track was stuck at Palomitas, it being quicker for Santa Fé folks going up that way to Pueblo and Denver and Leadville than taking the Atchison out to El Moro and changing to the Narrow Gauge––and she was so all over dust that Wood sung out to him: “Where’d you get your Sage-Brush Hen from?” And the name stuck.

More folks in Palomitas had names that had tumbled to ’em like that than the kind that had come regular. And even when they sounded regular they likely wasn’t. Regular 16 names pretty often got lost coming across the Plains in them days––more’n a few finding it better, about as they got to the Missouri, to leave behind what they’d been called by back East and draw something new from the pack. Making some sort of a change was apt to be wholesomer and often saved talk.

Hill said the Hen was more fun coming across from Santa Fé than anything he’d ever got up against; and she was all the funnier, he said, because when he picked her up at the Fonda she looked like as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and started in with her monkey-shines so sort of quiet and demure. Along with her, waiting at the Fonda, was an old gent with spectacles who turned out to be a mine sharp––one of them fellows the Government sends out to the Territory to write up serious in books all the fool stories prospectors and such unload on ’em: the kind that needs to be led, and ’ll eat out of your hand. The Hen and the old gent and Hill had the box-seat, the Hen in between; and she was that particular about her skirts climbing up, and about making 17 room after she got there, that Hill said he sized her up himself for an officer’s wife going East.

Except to say thank you, and talk polite that way, she didn’t open her head till they’d got clear of the town and begun to go slow in that first bit of bad road among the sandhills; and it was the old gent speaking to her––telling her it was a fine day, and he hoped she liked it––that set her stamps to working a little then. She allowed the weather was about what it ought to be, and said she was much obliged and it suited her; and then she got her tongue in behind her teeth again as if she meant to keep it there––till the old gent took a fresh start by asking her if she’d been in the Territory long. She said polite she hadn’t, and was quiet for a minute. Then she got out her pocket-handkerchief and put it up to her eyes and said she’d been in it longer’n she wanted, and was glad she was going away. Hill said her talking that way made him feel kind of curious himself; but he didn’t have no need to ask questions––the old gent saving him 18 that trouble by going for her sort of fatherly and pumping away at her till he got the whole thing.

It come out scrappy, like as might be expected, Hill said; and so natural-sounding he thought he must be asleep and dreaming––he knowing pretty well what was going on in the Territory, and she telling about doings that was news to him and the kind he’d a-been sure to hear a lot of if they’d ever really come off. Hill said he wished he could tell it all as she did––speaking low, and ketching her breath in the worst parts, and mopping at her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief––but he couldn’t; and all he could say about it was it was better’n any theatre show he’d ever seen. The nubs of it was, he said, that she said her husband had taken out a troop from Fort Wingate against the Apaches (Hill knew blame well up there in the Navajo country was no place to look for Apaches) and the troop had been ambushed in a cañon in the Zuñi Mountains (which made the story still tougher) and every man of ’em, along with her “dear Captain” as she 19 called him, had lost his hair. “His loved remains are where those fierce creatures left them,” she said. “I have not even the sad solace of properly burying his precious bones!” And she cried.

The old gent was quite broke up, Hill said, and took a-hold of her hand fatherly––she was a powerful fine-looking woman––and said she had his sympathy; and when she eased up on her crying so she could talk she said she was much obliged––and felt it all the more, she said, because he looked like a young uncle of hers who’d brought her up, her father being dead, till she was married East to her dear Captain and had come out to the Territory with him to his dreadful doom.

Hill said it all went so smooth he took it down himself at first––but he got his wind while she was crying, and he asked her what her Captain’s name was, and what was his regiment; telling her he hadn’t heard of any trouble up around Wingate, and it was news to him Apaches was in them parts. She give him a dig in the ribs with her elbow––as much as to tell him he wasn’t to ask no 20 such questions––and said back to him her dear husband was Captain Chiswick of the Twelfth Cavalry; and it had been a big come down for him, she said, when he got his commission in the Regulars, after he’d been a Volunteer brigadier-general in the war.

Hill knowed right enough there wasn’t no Twelfth Cavalry nowhere, and that the boys at Wingate was A and F troops of the Fourth; but he ketched on to the way she was giving it to the old gent––and so he give her a dig in the ribs, and said he’d knowed Captain Chiswick intimate, and he was as good a fellow as ever was, and it was a blame pity he was killed. She give him a dig back again, at that––and was less particular about making room on his side.

The old gent took it all in, just as it come along; and after she’d finished up about the Apaches killing her dear Captain he wanted to know where she was heading for––because if she was going home East, he said, he was going East himself and could give her a father’s care.

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She said back to him, pleasant like, that a young man like him couldn’t well be fathering an old lady like her, though it was obliging of him to offer; but, anyway, she wasn’t going straight back East, because she had to wait awhile at Palomitas for a remittance she was expecting to pay her way through––and she wasn’t any too sure about it, she said, whether she’d get her remittance; or, if she did get it, when it would come. Everything bad always got down on you at once, she said; and just as the cruel savages had slain her dear Captain along come the news the bank East he’d put his money in had broke the worst kind. Her financial difficulties wasn’t a patch on the trouble her sorrowing heart was giving her, she said; but she allowed they added what she called pangs of bitterness to her deeper pain.

The old gent––he wasn’t a fool clean through––asked her what was the matter with her Government transportation; she having a right to transportation, being an officer’s widow going home. Hill said he give her a nudge at that, as much as to 22 say the old gent had her. She didn’t faze a bit, though. It was her Government transportation she was waiting for, she cracked back to him smooth and natural; but such things had to go all the way to Washington to be settled, she said, and then come West again––Hill said he ’most snickered out at that––and she’d known cases when red-tape had got in the way and transportation hadn’t been allowed at all. Then she sighed terrible, and said it might be a long, long while before she could get home again to her little boy––who was all there was left her in the world. Her little Willy was being took care of by his grandmother, she said, and he was just his father’s own handsome self over again––and she got out her pocket-handkerchief and jammed it up to her eyes.

“HER LEFT HAND WAS LAYING IN HER LAP,

AND THE OLD GENT GOT A-HOLD OF IT”

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Her left hand was laying in her lap, sort of casual, and the old gent got a-hold of it and said he didn’t know how to tell her how sorry he was for her. Talking from behind her pocket-handkerchief, she said such sympathy was precious; and then she went on, kind of pitiful, saying she s’posed her little Willy’d have forgot all about her before she’d get back to him––and she cried some more. Hill said she done it so well he was half took in himself for a minute, and felt so bad he went to licking and swearing at his mules.

After a while she took a brace––getting down her pocket-handkerchief, and calling in the hand the old gent was a-holding––and said she must be brave, like her dear Captain’d always been, so he’d see when he was a-looking at her from heaven she was doing the square thing. And as to having to wait around before she went East, she said, in one way it didn’t make any matter––seeing she’d be well cared for and comfortable at Palomitas staying in the house of the Baptist minister, who’d married her aunt.

Hill said when she went to talking about Baptist ministers and aunts in Palomitas he shook so laughing inside he most fell off the box. Except the Mexican padre who belonged there––the one I’ve spoke of that made a record, and Bishop Lamy had to bounce––and sometimes the French ones 24 from San Juan and the Cañada, who was straight as strings, there wasn’t a fire-escape ever showed himself in Palomitas; and as to the ladies of the town––well, the ladies wasn’t just what you’d call the aunt kind. It’s a cold fact that Palomitas, that year when the end of the track stuck there, was the cussedest town, same as I’ve said it was, in the whole Territory––and so it was no more’n natural Hill should pretty near bust himself trying to hold in his laughing when the Hen took to talking so off-hand about Palomitas and Baptist ministers and aunts. She felt how he was shaking, and jammed him hard with her elbow to keep him from letting his laugh out and giving her away.

Hill said they’d got along to Pojuaque by the time the Hen had finished telling about herself, and the fix she was in because she had to wait along with her aunt in Palomitas till her transportation come from Washington––and she just sick to get East and grab her little Willy in her arms. And the old gent 25 was that interested in it all, Hill said, it was a sight to see how he went on.

At Pojuaque the coach always made a noon stop, and the team was changed and the passengers got dinner at old man Bouquet’s. He was a Frenchman, old man Bouquet was; but he’d been in the Territory from ’way back, and he’d got a nice garden behind his house and things fixed up French style. His strongest hold was his wine-making. He made a first-class drink, as drinks of that sort go; and, for its kind, it was pretty strong. As his cooking was first-class too, Hill’s passengers––and the other folks that stopped for grub there––always wanted to make a good long halt.

Hill said it turned out the old gent knowed how to talk French, and that made old man Bouquet extra obliging––and he set up a rattling good dinner and fetched out some of the wine he said he was in the habit of keeping for his own drinking, seeing he’d got somebody in the house for once who really could tell the difference between good and bad. He fixed up a table out in the garden––aside 26 of that queer tree, all growed together, he thought so much of––and set down with ’em himself; and Hill said it was one of the pleasantest parties he’d ever been at in all his born days.

The Hen and the old gent got friendlier and friendlier––she being more cheerful when she’d been setting at table a while, and getting to talking so comical she kept ’em all on a full laugh. Now and then, though, she’d pull up sudden and kind of back away––making out she didn’t want it to show so much––and get her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes and snuffle; and then she’d pull herself together sort of conspicuous, and say she didn’t want to spoil the party, but she couldn’t help thinking how long it was likely to be before she’d see her little boy. And then the old gent would say that such tender motherliness did her credit, and hers was a sweet nature, and he’d hold her hand till she took it away.

Hill said the time passed so pleasant he forgot how it was going, and when he happened to think to look at his watch he found 27 he’d have to everlastingly hustle his mules to get over to Palomitas in time to ketch the Denver train. He went off in a tearing hurry to hitch up, and old man Bouquet went along to help him––the old gent saying he guessed he and Mrs. Chiswick would stay setting where they was, it being cool and comfortable in the garden, till the team was put to. They set so solid, Hill said, they didn’t hear him when he sung out to ’em he was ready; and he said he let his mouth go wide open and yelled like hell. (Hill always talked that careless way. He didn’t mean no harm by it. He said it was just a habit he’d got into driving mules.) They not coming, he went to hurry ’em, he said––and as he come up behind ’em the Hen was stuffing something into her frock, and the old gent was saying: “I want you to get quickly to your dear infant, my daughter. You can return at your convenience my trifling loan. And now I will give you a fatherly kiss––”

But he didn’t, Hill said––because the Hen heard Hill’s boots on the gravel and faced round so quick she spoiled his chance. He 28 seemed a little jolted, Hill said; but the Hen was so cool, and talked so pleasant and natural about what a nice dinner they’d been having, and what a fine afternoon it was, he braced up and got to talking easy too.

Then they all broke for the coach, and got away across the Tesuque River and on through the sandhills––with Hill cutting away at his mules and using words to ’em fit to blister their hides off––and when they fetched the Cañada they’d about ketched up again to schedule time. After the Mexican who kept the Santa Cruz post-office had made the mess he always did with the mail matter, and had got the cussing he always got from Hill for doing it, they started off again––coming slow through that bit of extra heavy road along by the Rio Grande, but getting to the deepo at Palomitas all serene to ketch the Denver train.

All the way over from Pojuaque, Hill said, he could see out of the corner of his eye the old gent was nudging up to the Hen with his shoulder, friendly and sociable; and he said he noticed the Hen was a good deal less particular 29 about making room. The old gent flushed up and got into a regular temper, Hill said, when Wood sung out as they pulled in to the deepo platform: “Where’d you get your Sage-Brush Hen from?”––and that way give her what stuck fast for her name.

As it turned out, they might a-kept on a-hashing as long as they’d a mind to at Pojuaque; and Hill might a-let his mules take it easy, without tiring himself swearing at ’em, on a dead walk––there being a wash-out in the Comanche Cañon, up above the Embudo, that held the train. It wasn’t much of a wash-out, the conductor said; but he said he guessed all hands likely’d be more comfortable waiting at Palomitas, where there was things doing, than they would be setting still in the cañon while the track-gang finished their job––and he said he reckoned the train wouldn’t start for about three hours.

The Hen and the old gent was standing on the deepo platform, where they’d landed 30 from the coach; and Hill said as he was taking his mails across to the express-car he heard him asking her once more if she hadn’t better come right along East to her lonely babe; and promising to take a father’s care of her all the way. The Hen seemed to be in two minds about it for a minute, Hill said, and then she thanked him, sweet as sugar, for his goodness to her in her time of trouble; and told him it would be a real comfort to go East with such a kind escort to take care of her––but she said it wouldn’t work, because she was expected in Palomitas, and not stopping there would be disappointing to her dear uncle and aunt.

It was after sundown and getting duskish, while they was talking; and she said she must be getting along. The old gent said he’d go with her; but she said he mustn’t think of it, as it was only a step to the parsonage and she knew the way. While he was keeping on telling her she really must let him see her safe with her relatives, up come Santa Fé Charley––and Charley sung out: “Hello, old girl. So you’ve got here! 31 I was looking for you on the coach, and I thought you hadn’t come.”

Hill said he begun to shake all over with laughing; being sure––for all Charley in his black clothes and white tie looked so toney––it would be a dead give away for her. But he said she only give a little jump when Santa Fé sung out to her, and didn’t turn a hair.

“Dear Uncle Charley, I am so glad to see you!” she said easy and pleasant; and then round she come to the old gent, and said as smooth as butter to him: “This is my uncle, the Baptist minister, sir, come to take me to the parsonage to my dear aunt. It’s almost funny to have so young an uncle! Aunt’s young too––you see, grandfather married a second time. We’re more like sister and brother––being so near of an age; and he always will talk to me free and easy, like he always did––though I tell him now he’s a minister it don’t sound well.” And then she whipped round to Charley, so quick he hadn’t time to get a word in edgeways, and said to him: “I hope Aunt Jane’s well, and didn’t 32 have to go up to Denver––as she said she might in her last letter––to look after Cousin Mary. And I do hope you’ve finished the painting she said was going on at the parsonage––so you can take me in there till my transportation comes and I can start East. This kind gentleman, who’s going up on to-night’s train, has been offering––and it’s just as good of him, even if I can’t go––to escort me home to my dear baby; and he’s been giving me in the sweetest way his sympathy over my dear husband Captain Chiswick’s loss.”

Hill said he never knowed anybody take cards as quick as Santa Fé took the cards the Hen was giving him. “I’m very happy to meet you, sir,” he said to the old gent; “and most grateful to you for your kindness to my poor niece Rachel in her distress. We have been sorrowing over her during Captain Chiswick’s long and painful illness––”

“My dear Captain had been sick for three months, and got up out of his bed to go and be killed with his men by those dreadful Apaches,” the Hen cut in.

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“––and when the news came of the massacre,” Charley went right on, as cool as an iced drink, “our hearts almost broke for her. Captain Chiswick was a splendid gentleman, sir; one of the finest officers ever sent out to this Territory. His loss is a bad thing for the service; but it is a worse thing for my poor niece––left forsaken along with her sweet babes. They are noble children, sir; worthy of their noble sire!”

“Oh, Uncle Charley!” said the Hen. “Didn’t you get my letter telling you my little Jane died of croup? I’ve only my little Willy, now!” And she kind of gagged.

“My poor child. My poor child!” said Santa Fé. “I did not know that death had winged a double dart at you like that––your letter never came.” And then he said to the old gent: “The mail service in this Territory, sir, is a disgrace to the country. The Government ought to be ashamed!”

Hill said while they was giving it and taking it that way he most choked––particular as the old gent just gulped it all down whole.

Hill said the three of ’em was sort of quiet 34 and sorrowful for a minute, and then Santa Fé said: “It is too bad, Rachel, but your Aunt Jane did have to go up to Denver yesterday––a despatch came saying Cousin Mary’s taken worse. And the parsonage is in such a mess still with the painters that I’ve moved over to the Forest Queen Hotel. But you can come there too––it’s kept by an officer’s widow, you know, and is most quiet and respectable––and you’ll be almost as comfortable waiting there till your transportation comes along as you would be if I could take you home.”

Hill said hearing the Forest Queen talked about as quiet and respectable, and Santa Fé’s so sort of off-hand making an officer’s widow out of old Tenderfoot Sal, set him to shaking at such a rate he had to get to where there was a keg of railroad spikes and set down on it and hold his sides with both hands.

Santa Fé turned to the old gent, Hill said––talking as polite as a Pullman conductor––and told him since he’d been so kind to his unhappy niece he hoped he’d come along 35 with ’em to the hotel too––where he’d be more comfortable, Santa Fé said, getting something to eat and drink than he would be kicking around the deepo waiting till they’d filled in the wash-out and the train could start.

Hill said the Hen give Santa Fé a queer sort of look at that, as much as to ask him if he was dead sure he had the cards for that lead. Santa Fé give her a look back again, as much as to say he knew what was and what wasn’t on the table; and then he went on to the old gent, speaking pleasant, telling him likely it might be a little bit noisy over at the hotel––doing her best, he said, Mrs. Major Rogers couldn’t help having noise sometimes, things being so rough and tumble out there on the frontier; but he had a private room for his study, where he wrote his sermons, he said, and got into it by a side door––and so he guessed things wouldn’t be too bad.

That seemed to make the Hen easy, Hill said; and away the three of ’em went together to the Forest Queen. Hill knowed it 36 was straight enough about the private room and the side door––Santa Fé had it to do business in for himself, on the quiet, when he didn’t have to deal; and Hill’d known of a good many folks who’d gone in that private room by that side door and hadn’t come out again till Santa Fé’d scooped their pile. But it wasn’t no business of his, he said; and he said he was glad to get shut of ’em so he might have a chance to let out the laughing that fairly was hurting his insides.

As they was going away from the deepo, Hill said, he heard Santa Fé telling the old gent he was sorry it was getting so dark––as he’d like to take him round so he could see the parsonage, and the new church they’d just finished building and was going to put an organ in as soon as they’d raised more funds; but it wasn’t worth while going out of their way, he said, because they wouldn’t show to no sort of advantage with the light so bad. As the only church in Palomitas was the Mexican mud one about two hundred years old, and as the nearest thing to a parsonage was the Padre’s house that Denver 37 Jones had rented and had his faro-bank in, Hill said he guessed Charley acted sensible in not trying to show the old gent around that part of the town.

Hill said after he’d got his supper he thought he’d come down to the deepo and sort of wait around there; on the chance he’d ketch on––when the old gent come over to the train––to what Santa Fé and the Hen’d been putting up on him. Sure enough, he did.

Along about ten o’clock a starting-order come down––the track-gang by that time having the wash-out so near fixed it would be fit by the time the train got there to go across; and Wood––he was the agent, Wood was––sent word over to the Forest Queen to the old gent, who was the only Pullman passenger, he’d better be coming along.

In five minutes or so he showed up. He wasn’t in the best shape, Hill said, and Santa Fé and the Hen each of ’em was giving him an arm; though what he seemed to need more’n arms, Hill said, was legs––the 38 ones he had, judging from the way he couldn’t manage ’em, not being in first-class order and working bad. But he didn’t make no exhibition of himself, and talked right enough––only he spoke sort of short and scrappy––and the three of ’em was as friendly together as friendly could be. Hill said he didn’t think it was any hurt to listen, things being the way they was, and he edged up close to ’em––while they stood waiting for the porter to light up the Pullman––and though he couldn’t quite make sense of all they was saying he did get on to enough of it to size up pretty close how they’d put the old gent through.

“Although it is for my struggling church, a weak blade of grass in the desert,” Santa Fé was saying when Hill got the range of ’em, “I cannot but regret having taken from you your splendid contribution to our parish fund in so unusual, I might almost say in so unseemly, a way. That I have returned to you a sufficient sum to enable you to prosecute your journey to its conclusion places you under no obligation to me. Indeed, I 39 could not have done less––considering the very liberal loan that you have made to my poor niece to enable her to return quickly to her helpless babe. As I hardly need tell you, that loan will be returned promptly––as soon as Mrs. Captain Chiswick gets East and is able to disentangle her affairs.”

“Indeed it will,” the Hen put in. “My generous benefactor shall be squared with if I have to sell my clothes!”

“Mustn’t think of such a thing. Catch cold,” the old gent said. “Pleasure’s all mine to assist such noble a woman in her unmerited distress. And now I shall have happiness, and same time sorrow, to give her fatherly kiss for farewell.”

The Hen edged away a little, Hill said, and Santa Fé shortened his grip a little on the old gent’s arm––so his fatherly kissing missed fire. But he didn’t seem to notice, and said to Santa Fé: “Never knew a minister know cards like you. Wonderful! And wonderful luck what you held. Played cards a good deal myself. Never could play like you!”