Читать книгу Texas Man - William MacLeod Raine - Страница 8

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A MAN called on Boone that evening at the Dallas House. He gave his name as Mack Riley. A youngish man, weather-beaten and tanned, his face had written on it marks of the Emerald Isle. He spoke as a Westerner does, with only a trace of accent.

“I come from Mr. Turley,” he explained. “He wants to see you. Reckon he feels some obligated to you.”

“Never heard of him,” Boone answered.

“He’s the fellow you kept Curt French from killin’ to-day. Curt got him in the leg, so he couldn’t come himself. He asked would you come to see him.”

“What’s he want?”

“I dunno. He’s kinda mysterious—lives under his own hat, as you might say. It’s not far. He stays in a shack back of the Buffalo Corral.”

“What was the trouble between him and this Curt French?”

“Something he put in the paper. He’s editor of the Gold Pocket. Say, young fellow, I saw the show you put on. You certainly were sailing. You been educated all round, up an’ down, over, under, an’ between. Either that or else you had nigger luck.”

“I expect I was lucky. Tell me about this Curt French, him an’ his friends, too.”

Across Riley’s map-of-Ireland face there flitted an expression that masked expression. His eyes went dead. It was as though he had put on a mask. “What about ’em?” he asked warily.

“Anything about ’em—or all about ’em. I didn’t quite sabe the game.”

“Meanin’ just what?” asked Riley cautiously.

“I got an impression—maybe there’s nothing to it—that this Curt an’ the man he called Whip an’ two-three others were kinda in cahoots.”

Riley said nothing, in a manner that implied he could say a great deal if he chose.

Boone continued, watching him: “When this Whip fellow told me to throw the bud into my leaders an’ keep travellin’, I reckoned he was talkin’ for his gang as well as for French.”

“Me, if I thought so, I’d sure take his advice,” Riley said in a voice studiously colourless.

“Why?” asked Boone bluntly. “Is this Whip a bad crowd?”

“You’ll never get me to say so, young fellow. I told you what I’d do. That’s enough.”

“You’ve said too much or too little, Mr. Riley.”

“I’ve said all I aim to say.”

“Those other blackbirds that had their guns out, who were they?”

“One was Russ Quinn, brother of Whip. The other was Sing Elder.”

“Kinda hang together, do they, them an’ this French fellow?” Sibley asked.

“You might say they were friends.”

“Got any business?”

“Right now I’m swampin’ for Dave Reynolds at the Buffalo.”

“I was speakin’ of these other gents—the Quinns an’ Elder an’ French.”

“Oh, them! Whip owns the Occidental. Biggest gambling house in town. Sing runs a game for him. They’re cousins. Russ is shotgun messenger for the express company.”

“An’ Mr. French?”

“Curt? Well, I dunno. He bucks the tiger consid’rable. Onct in a while he’s lookout at the Occidental.”

“A tinhorn?”

“I’m not using that word about him. Not none. An’ if I was you I wouldn’t either, stranger. You’re a likely young fellow, an’ you’re sure a jim-dandy with yore dukes. You’d do fine in Tucson likely. It’s a right lively town, an’ the road there is in first-class shape.”

“Tucson certainly gets good recommendations from you gentlemen in Tough Nut,” Boone said drily. “Any of you ever try that road yore own selves?”

Riley gave up, his patience exhausted. “All right. You’re the doctor. Maybe you know best. Maybe nobody is aimin’ anyhow to hang yore hide on the corral fence. I thought, you being only a kid, I’d see could I do anything for you. More fool me. You know yore own business, likely.”

“I’m much obliged, Mr. Riley,” the Texan said in his gentle voice. “But I reckon I’ll look around awhile before I move on.”

“Suit yoreself,” the Irishman said shortly. “What about Turley?”

“I’ll see him. Want I should come with you?”

“Better sift around after dark. It’s the ’dobe shack just west of the corral. You can’t miss it—a one-room house.”

Boone did not wait till after dark. He saw no reason why he should. For the present, at least, he meant to stay in Tough Nut. To move about furtively, after dark, avoiding trouble which might never materialize, was not consistent with his temperament. There was no reason why these men should make difficulties for him. The affair with French had been none of his seeking. He had acted instinctively to save the child’s life. Afterward he had apologized, had tried to placate the angry ruffian. His associates would probably talk him out of his resentment.

None the less, Boone went prepared for trouble. In a sling under his left arm he carried a Colt’s .45 sixshooter, one with a nine-inch barrel. Another, not so long, hung from his belt. He did not expect to have to use them. Still, he wanted to know that they were handy if needed. The point about trouble was that it usually jumped you suddenly when least expected.

The sun was in the west, setting in a crotch of the jagged porphyry mountains. It was still king of the desert, its rays streaming over the silvery sheen of the mesquite. Boone stood a few minutes to watch the spectacle, at the end of a street which stopped abruptly at the rock rim above the valley. The dust, finer than sand, gave colour to the landscape, an opaline mist that blurred and softened garish details. Already an imperial purple filled the pockets of the hills. Soon, now, that burning lake above, which fired the crags and sent streamers of pink and crimson and orange flaming across the sky, would fade slowly into the deep blue of approaching night.

Boone turned and walked with his long easy stride back to Boot Hill Street, then followed it as far as the Buffalo Corral. His eye picked up the adobe shack described to him by Riley, and two minutes later he was knocking at the door.

It was opened to him by Riley. There were in the cabin a bed, some plain furniture, and a great many books. On the bed lay the wounded man. Against the wall, chair tilted back and one run-down boot heel caught in a rung of it, lounged a curly-headed youth with the rich bloom of health in his cheeks. He was dressed as a cowboy.

Riley did the honours. “Meet Mr. Turley, Mr. Sibley. Shake hands with Mr. Rhodes.”

The cowpuncher unhooked his heel, dropped the front legs of the chair to the floor, and got to his feet, all with one swift, lithe motion.

“Known as Dusty Rhodes,” he added by way of further introduction. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sibley. You’re right famous already in our li’l’ burg.”

“News to me, sir,” Boone replied. He liked the appearance of this impetuous youth. An open face recommended him, and the promise of buoyant gaiety was prepossessing.

“You couldn’t expect to make Curt French look like a plugged nickel without having word of it spread like a prairie fire. He’s been the big wind pudding here for quite some time.”

“Meanin’ that he’s a false alarm?”

“No, sirree. He’s there both ways from the ace. In strict confidence, he’s a dirty flop-eared wolf, but I reckon he’ll back his own bluffs.”

The man on the bed spoke. “I have to thank you, Mr. Sibley, for saving my life to-day.” His voice held a clipped precise accent. He tugged nervously at his short, bristly moustache. Boone was to learn later that this was an habitual gesture with him. It arose from nervousness, from an inner conviction that he was quite unfitted to cope with the wild frontier life into which some malign fate had thrust him.

“That’s all right,” young Sibley said. The subject embarrassed him, though no sign of this showed in his immobile face. “Fact is, I was thinkin’ of the kid. Mothers hadn’t ought to let their babies go maverickin’ off alone.”

“Not much to you, perhaps, but a good deal to me,” the little editor replied, referring to what was in his mind rather than to what Boone had said. A muscular spasm of reminiscent fear contorted for a moment his face. “The ruffian meant to murder me, and, but for the grace of God and your bravery, I would now be a dead man,” he concluded solemnly.

“There’s a right few slips between what a feller figures an’ what he makes out to get done. Curt aimed to bump you off like I aimed onct to bring to my wickiup for keeps a li’l’ lady in the San Simon, only my plans got kinda disarranged when she eloped with a bald-headed old donker who had four kids an’ a cow ranch. You cain’t always sometimes most generally tell. Lady Luck is liable to be sittin’ into the game,” the cowboy suggested with philosophic flippancy.

“It wasn’t luck this time. It was God’s providence that I’m so little injured,” Turley corrected. “He held the hand of the slayer because my work is not yet done. It is about that I want to see you, Mr. Sibley.”

Boone said nothing. Evidently the editor had some proposition to make. The Texan had a capacity for silence. He could wait while another did the talking. It was an asset in the Southwest to be a man of few words, especially when those few were decisive.

“The Lord chose you as His instrument. I take it as a sign that we are to be associated.”

“How?” asked Boone.

He was not favourably impressed. Turley was not his kind of man. A feeling of distaste, almost of disgust, rose in him. He had seen the editor running for his life, in a panic of raw fear, the manhood in him dissolved in quick terror. Now he was talking religious cant like a preacher. In Boone’s code, inherited from his environment, the one essential virtue was courage. A man might be good. He might be bad. Without nerve he was negligible, not worth the powder to blow him up. Measured by this test, Turley failed to pass. It looked now as though he were a hypocrite, to boot.

Turley settled his shoulders nervously before he began to talk. “You are a stranger, Mr. Sibley. I do not know you, nor do you know me. What I have to say will be spoken by one who has the best interest of the community at heart. I am editor of the local newspaper, the Gold Pocket. That paper has a duty to perform to Cochise County. It must stand for law and order, for advancing civilization. Do you agree with me?”

“I’m listenin’,” Boone said. “You’re talkin’.”

“I take it that you have had a reasonable amount of schooling, Mr. Sibley, from the standpoint of the Southwest.”

“Correct, sir.”

“This community stands at the crossroads. It is infested by gunmen, gamblers, and criminals. These are largely outnumbered by honest citizens who stand aside and let the ruffians have their way. The Gold Pocket must be the organ of righteousness. It must be the centre around which can rally all those who believe in law enforcement. Mr. Sibley, I want to enlist you in that cause.”

The editor’s voice had become a little shrill, oratorical with excitement. Boone looked at him with a wooden face. Again he asked, “How?”

“As assistant to me in editing the paper.”

The Texan’s answer was immediate. “No, thank you.”

“Don’t make up your mind precipitately,” the editor urged. “Think it over.”

“Not necessary. Yore proposition doesn’t interest me.”

“At least leave it open. You do not have to say ‘No’ to-day.”

“I can’t leave open what never was open. I’m not a politician. I don’t care who is sheriff. Why come to me? I never was inside a newspaper office.”

“That doesn’t matter.” The editor sat up, his black eyes shining. “This is a fight, Mr. Sibley. I have put my hand to the plough. I can’t turn back. What I need is a fearless man to back me up in my fight for good.”

“Maybe it’s yore fight. It’s not mine.”

“It is yours as much as mine. It is every honest decent citizen’s business to stand up for what is right.”

“Dusty Rhodes to bat,” announced the owner of the name genially. “What’s eatin’ Mr. Turley is that the bridle’s off this burg an’ she’s kickin’ up her heels every jump of the road. He gets all het up about it. Give us time, I say. Tough Nut is only a kid yet.” He rose from the chair, stretched himself, and announced that he was going to waltz up town to the Can-Can for grub. “It’s a good two-bit restaurant, Mr. Sibley. Better come along an’ feed yore face.”

“Reckon I will,” assented the Texan.

“What I object to,” the editor said by way of correction, “is cold-blooded murder on our city streets, and robbery under arms, and intimidation of justice, and corruption of officials. As an American citizen——”

“As an American citizen,” interrupted Riley, “you are entitled to squawk, an’ you’ve done right considerable of it. If you had any horse sense, carryin’ that pill in yore leg, you’d know when to quit. If I was you I’d sure turn my back on that plough you was so eloquentious about. I tell you straight you ain’t got a lick of sense if you don’t shut yore trap. I don’t want to be listenin’ to nice words from the preacher about you. Now I’ve said all I’m gonna say, to you an’ this young fellow both. I aim to live long in the land myself, an’ I onct knew a fellow got to be ’most a hundred by mindin’ his own business.”

“Amen!” agreed young Rhodes in his best mourners’-bench voice. “Meanwhile, it’s me for the Can-Can to eat one of Charlie’s steaks smothered in onions.”

The two young men walked up town together.

“So you reckon you don’t want to be an editor,” Rhodes said, by way of getting his companion’s opinion.

“Funniest proposition ever put up to me,” Boone responded. “How come he to figure I might throw in with him? What’s his game, anyhow?”

“Well, sir, that’s right queer. He ain’t got any game, except he thinks it’s his duty to bawl out the Quinn outfit an’ any others ridin’ crooked trails. Course, they’ll bump him off one of these days. He knows it, too. Scared to death, the li’l’ prune is, but stickin’ right to the saddle.”

“Why? What’s the use?” asked Boone, puzzled.

Dusty looked at him, grinning slightly. “Leavin’ our beautiful city to-night, Mr. Sibley?”

“No, I reckon not.”

“Soon?”

“Thought I’d look around awhile. Were you aimin’ to tell me that Tucson is a right lively town where I’d probably do well?”

“No, sir. But you got yore answer. You cain’t see why old man Turley stays here, but you’re aimin’ to stay yore own self.”

“Not the same. First off, I haven’t been objecting to the bridle being off the town.”

“No,” agreed the cowboy drily, “you jest jumped Curt French when he hadn’t done a thing to you, an’ that ain’t supposed to be safer than throwin’ a match into a keg of powder.”

“An’ second, if this Curt French is sore at me—well, I expect I’ll be present when the band begins to play. But Turley he’ll wilt right off the earth.”

“Sure he will.”

“He’s got no more nerve than a brush rabbit.”

“That’s whatever. He’s plumb scared stiff half the time.”

“Then why don’t he light out—cut dirt for Boston, or wherever he comes from?”

“Because he’s got sand in his craw—guts.”

“You just said——”

“I said the goose quills run up an’ down his spine every time he sees a bad man. Now I say he’s the gamest bird I ever raised. You an’ me—he’s got us backed off the map for sand. If I was half as scared as he is, I’d be in New Mexico by now an’ still travellin’. No, sir. I take off my hat to him.”

“I didn’t cotton to him much myself.”

“You wouldn’t—not at first. He don’t know sic’ ’em about this border country. Came out for his health. Got all sorts of funny notions. He aims to gentle us an’ get us saddle broke to nice ladylike ways. Yet I’ll be doggoned if I don’t like the li’l’ cuss—an’ respect him. He’s gonna play out his hand to a finish.”

“Why don’t he get you to back his play?” Boone asked.

Dusty suspected sarcasm in the question, but he grinned cheerfully. “Me? Why, I ain’t bought any chips in this game. I’m one of these here innocent bystanders. Come to that, I do a li’l’ hellin’ around my own self, onct in a while.”

Boone nodded. He could believe that.

The cowboy added another reason.

“An’ I don’t aim to take up a residence in Boot Hill if I can help it. I don’t claim everything’s right in this town. It ain’t. But nobody elected me to read the riot act to the bad actors.”

“Meanin’ the Quinn gang?”

“I’m naming no names. Here’s Charlie’s place. We’ll sashay in an’ feed us at his chuck wagon.” He hung on the threshold a moment to add a word to what he had said. “But Whip an’ Russ ain’t a bad crowd, stranger. There’s a heap worse than them in this man’s town.”

“An’ French—have you got a gilt-edged testimonial framed up for him, too?” Boone asked.

The cowboy grinned. “S-sh! Hush yore fool mouth.”