Читать книгу Rogue River Feud - Zane Grey - Страница 5

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The river called Keven. At night he lay awake listening to its low roar. In the darkness his memory seemed clearer. He longed to drift into the wilderness, into the mountain fastness which the Rogue penetrated. And that was the first longing he had felt for years—except to die. Pictures wavered before his wide eyes in the dark—Chair Riffle, with its glancing slide along the ledges under which the steelhead lurked; Whisky Creek, where the otter and the wild boars fought; Solitude, so sweet and wonderful in all that had given it name.

But obstacles arose. The sheriff arrested Garry Lord on a belated warrant. Fishing out of season was the charge, and it required no effort to trace it to the factor now dominant in river affairs. Keven had to raise money to get him out, as well as for the necessary equipment of market fishermen. His father at length found the means. So it came about that Keven had to remain at home, during which time occurred inevitable meetings with old acquaintances. And every one probed deeper into what had seemed a closed wound.

Girls he had been friends with, now grown into modern young women, eyed him in curiosity as if they had never known him. That, however, was a relief. It was the honest gladness and warmth of Minton, the tackle dealer, whom Keven had once fished with many a summer day, that hurt him. For here was faith and loyalty he had not expected. “To hell with all that rot!” Minton had exclaimed, when Keven had haltingly hinted of the calumny which had been heaped upon him. “Nobody believes it. Sure I don’t. Chuck that uniform, Kev, and forget the war. It was a dose of hell for all of us. Drop in at the store. I’ll show you some of the new tackle we’ve developed. Steelhead fishing has become a great booster for the old town. But there’s only a few of us to fight the canning hogs at Gold Beach. If we don’t unite and restrict them the grand fishing on the Rogue will soon be gone.”

He met Clarke and Dugan, likewise former fishing comrades, and old Jim Turner, and the Negro Sam Johnson—all of whom were cordial in their welcome. No reference to his army training—no hint of any change in him! They were glad. How significant that each associated him with the past and the river they loved!

Then he turned a corner to be confronted by a tall, blond, sweet-faced girl who appeared strangely familiar. He swerved.

“Kev Bell! You can’t dodge me,” she called in a high treble. “Don’t you know me?”

“I—I do and I don’t,” replied Keven confusedly, hastening to take her proffered hand.

“Guess,” she said archly. “I was one of your schoolgirl sweethearts.”

“Indeed. It’s good of you to remember that,” he responded, stirred by unfamiliar emotion. “Your face I know. But I—I can’t place you. ... I sustained an injury to my head. It affected my memory.”

“You fickle soldier! I am Emmeline Trapier,” she said reproachfully.

In a flash Keven linked the name with that pretty face and bygone associations. “Well, I know you now,” he replied heartily, and wrung her hand. “Lord, I’m glad you spoke to me, Em. I’ve been snubbed until I’m leary.”

“Have you seen Billy yet? Oh, of course you haven’t, or you would have known me. We heard you had come home. Billy is crazy to see you.”

“Billy who?” inquired Keven.

“Why, Billy Horn, your old chum.”

“Oh! ... No, I haven’t run into Billy yet,” replied Keven hesitatingly.

“You will soon, for he’ll hunt you up. Come, Kev, walk out home with me.”

“I’d like to. But it wouldn’t do for you to be seen talking to me.”

“I’ll risk it, Kev. We’re not all snobs. And you’ve friends still in Grant’s Pass. Mother will be glad to see you.... Did you know my brother Hal was killed in France?”

“Hal! No, I didn’t. I’ve heard so little.... My God, that’s terrible, Emmeline, I’m sorry.... I never got over there.”

They walked down the street toward the residence quarter.

“You were badly hurt, though, I heard,” she said solicitously.

“Yes. It’d been better if I’d gone west, too.”

“No. Don’t say that. Kev, you mustn’t be bitter. How silly of me! Yet I mean it. For your own sake.”

“Emmeline, it’s good of you. I thank you. It makes me feel there are a few people who understand a little. But there’s no place in the old life for me. I can’t delude myself.”

“Then you’ve seen Rosamond?” she asked gravely.

“Not to speak to. I called Sunday. She wasn’t home. And again last night. The maid took my name. But Rosamond was not at home—to me.... I saw her through the window. Seemed as though she suited that gaudy place.”

“Don’t take it to heart, Kev.”

“Well, it hurt so little I was surprised. Perhaps I can’t feel deeply any more. I only wanted to see her a moment.... Em, I wish you’d tell her I felt honor bound to release her—no, never mind. That’s ridiculous. I’ve fallen behind in these quick modern days. But I’m no jackass.”

“I don’t see Rosamond often,” rejoined the girl. “She belongs to the new set. While I—well, Kev—I’m engaged to Billy.”

“Fine!” ejaculated Keven, thrilled at the blush that flushed her cheek. “I congratulate you both. I wish you everything life can give, Em. There are two kinds of people: the destroyers and the builders. You belong to the latter.”

“Thanks, Kev,” she said, stopping at a gate. “Won’t you come in and speak to Mother? She’ll weep over you. But don’t mind. It’ll do her good to see you back alive.”

“Yes, I’ll come. It might do me good to have someone shed a tear over me.... But wait just a moment, Em. I want to ask you something. Was it Atwell who started this vile gossip here? I mean that scandal about a family named Carstone, who lived near our training camp. Five sisters who—But did you hear it?”

“Yes, Kev, I did, and I—we never believed it,” she returned warmly, her face scarlet. “It was Atwell who started that talk. Billy told me so. He heard him.”

“Emmeline, I swear it’s a lie,” returned Keven appealingly. “God knows I got tough enough in the Army. They wanted us—made us tough.... I wasn’t concerned in that Carstone affair. I thought I didn’t care what anyone believed. But, Em, meeting you again and remembering—well, I’m afraid I do care.”

“Kev, you needn’t have denied that,” she replied, with tears in her eyes. “Come in now.”

That visit with Emmeline and her mother was an ordeal Keven did not want to undergo twice. It apprised him of his unsuspected weakness. It left him raw. A dull and thick lethargy passed from his consciousness.

Turning once more into the main street, he strolled down, revolving in mind the need to get away from town, from home that was no longer home, from an awakening, brooding self he did not trust. And it was while thinking thus that he espied Rosamond Brandeth. She was driving a flashy car. Bareheaded, bare-armed she sat at the wheel. Keven stopped stock-still. It was a recognition that staggered him, wrenched his sore heart; yet her bobbed hair and her painted face had something to do with the pang. She saw him. She knew him. That he realized in the flash of her eyes. The sleek, handsome head went up. She drove on with no other sign and her gay laugh trilled back. Keven turned to see her companion was a man, young, and bareheaded, too.

“Well, that’s over and I’m glad,” muttered Keven, resuming his walk. But the meeting left no warmth in him. Love was dead. He could be tolerant towards anyone whom the war had changed, for better or worse. Did it change anyone for the better? Souls did not require war to be tried in fire. Yet he wished Rosamond had been big enough to regret his misfortune, if not to repudiate the ignominy cast upon him.

Keven went into Minton’s store and straightway forgot the episode. Here Keven had spent many an hour in the years gone by selecting and rejecting the varieties of fishing gear. He had stepped out of a void into the pleasant and sunny past, over which the river reigned.

“I’d bet you couldn’t keep long out of here,” laughed Minton, sure of his man. “Kev, you’ll have to get some to catch up. These four years have changed fishing tackle, same as the other and less important things. Lighter rods, smaller flies, fewer spoons. Oh, boy, the steelhead I hung last summer!”

“It’s nice to see you once more among your treasures,” replied Keven. “How I used to slave, beg, and borrow, almost steal money to spend here! ... I’d forgotten.... Joe, I—I guess I’ll never cast a fly again.”

“Ha! Ha! Listen to him! Once a fisherman always a fisherman, Kev. The old river will get you back. You were born on it. So was I. Do you imagine you can resist? Never, and don’t think you’re too weak or sick or bitter ever to fish again. That’s what you need. The Rogue will cure you, Kev. Give you back all you’ve lost!”

“Mint, you were always a great salesman,” said Keven admiringly.

“Sure! But, you darned fool, I’m just glad to see you home. I don’t want your money.”

“I haven’t any,” replied Keven. “Just got Garry Lord out of jail. Dad’s going to raise enough to buy us a net. I’ve decided to try the market-fishing game with Garry.”

“Deuce you have! That’s not a bad idea, Kev. You two ought to clean up. Garry is the best salmon fisherman on the river. If you can keep him sober!”

“Mint, I may need some keeping myself,” laughed Keven.

“Oh, say, Kev, you didn’t learn to hit the booze?”

“Afraid I did, Mint.”

“Then you gotta quit. I hate a drinking fisherman. That old gag about fishermen going out in the morning to return smelling of rum, with the truth not in them—that always gets my goat. It’s not true.”

“Mint, I got in the habit of drinking because it relieved my pain,” replied Keven sadly. “I don’t know which is worse now.”

“You take to fishing again, Kev Bell,” said Minton with earnest bluntness. “It’s your best bet. There’s a living in it. And more—for you. Jobs are hard to get in this valley, and there’s none for crippled soldiers. Market-fish for a few years—save your money—and put it in an apple farm. Oregon apples! Fortune in them, Kev. I’m raising an orchard now.”

“Apple farm? Well, not so bad, Mint. I’d like it, and if I can save some money! ... You make me feel sort of hopeful.”

“That’s the fisherman of it, Kev. Always anticipating, always hopeful. Every bend of the river beckons—every pool may bring better luck. Life should be like that. Then the joy of fishing! The fun, the peace, the sport! Who would ever tire of the music and the beauty of a running river? Especially the Rogue! It’s the best in the world, Kev.”

“You make me wish I had the dough to buy a lot of tackle,” replied Keven dejectedly.

“Say, you don’t need any dough,” retorted Minton. “Buy what you like and pay me when you can. I don’t care if you never pay, far as I’m concerned. I owe you something.”

Keven was powerless to resist this offer, and straightway plunged into the old delight of choosing a rod and suitable outfit to go with it.

“No more,” he vowed, finally, waving back the generous and enthusiastic dealer.

“Well, when you bust that come in for more,” declared Minton. “Say, the steelhead ran big last year. Late in the season, though. Funny about that. We used to get some twelve-pounders in the first run.”

“Twelve pounds! And you’ve sold me a six-ounce rod?” ejaculated Keven, awakening to the old argument over heavy versus light tackle.

“You bet. Wait till you hang a big one on that rig,” replied Minton. “And now listen to your Uncle Dudley. This talk is looking to the future and it’s serious. Keep it under your hat. Find a likely flat or bench down the river. And locate it. File a mining claim. Do your assessment work faithfully. Someday it’ll be valuable property, even if you don’t strike gold.”

“Gold! What are you driving at, Mint?”

“Have you forgotten the Rogue has given up its millions to miners?” went on Minton earnestly. “There’s gold down the river. Gold in sand bars, gold in quartz ledges. Fall in with one of those old prospectors and learn from him. Whitehall is one of them. He has a claim at Whisky Creek. If you’re going to run the Rogue cultivate him. Make friends with the half-breeds. Most of them are good fellows. Get acquainted with the trail packers, too.”

“Thanks for the tip, Minton,” said Keven gratefully. “You make me feel like a regular fellow.”

“Now one last word, Kev,” went on the dealer, with lowered voice. “There’s a nigger in the woodpile down at the mouth of the river. Every year fewer salmon and fewer steelhead come up! Find out why. This partner of yours, Garry Lord, is keen as a bloodhound. Tough runt, yes, but if I don’t miss my guess he has a heart big as a hill. Anyway he’s a riverman. There’s none better. Get him on the job. We fishermen up here fear Brandeth will ruin the river. He’ll hog the fish and kill the runs—if he isn’t stopped. Don’t get the idea only us few anglers are interested. The people all along the river, from Galice to Prospect, are complaining. Fish used to be easy to catch. They are no more. There’re a hundred thousand people, more or less, who are vitally concerned. The netting at the mouth ought to be stopped. Or if not that, restricted. One man particularly and a few more getting rich at the expense of the people of Oregon. It’s an outrage.”

“Minton, I certainly agree with you, if that’s the condition,” rejoined Keven earnestly. “Comes as a surprise to me. But it’s in line with everything—since the war.... How does this Gus Atwell stack up to you?”

“Not very high, Kev,” replied Minton. “He was a slacker. He rolls in money now. Rolls a Rolls-Royce around. Yet it’s like squeezing juice out of a rock to get him to pay his bills—so the town gossip goes about him. He’s against the upriver market fishermen. And for that matter all kinds of fishermen. During the canning season he drives a car between Gold Beach and here. But he sticks there pretty close.”

“Garry told me as much,” replied Keven meditatively. “Somebody ought to put a crimp in Atwell.”

“I’ll tell the world,” agreed Minton. “Kev, he lined you from soda to hock when he came home, ‘invalided’ from training service.”

“You don’t say?” inquired Keven, with affected mild surprise.

“He stood right there, in this store, and told some of the boys you had been mainly responsible for the ruin of five sisters. Ghastly story! Of course we got hardened to the doings of soldiers. But that was the limit!”

“It is pretty bad, even for soldiers,” admitted Keven. “Did everybody believe that particular yarn?”

“No, not everybody. I remember Bill Hall, who was one of the fellows in here when Atwell gabbed so loud—he called him sarcastic enough. And I cursed him. Never speaks to me now. But, Kev, that yarn hurt you with the women.”

“I suppose Atwell swaggered around in a uniform and dazzled the ladies.”

“He did. And made us fellows sick.”

“Well, I might tell a yarn about him if I’d happen to get sore.”

The thing rankled in Keven and gradually clouded the better mood inspired by Emmeline and Minton. The resentment thus engendered rather augmented than otherwise. Even work with Garry over fishing nets and boat equipment did not suffice to soften it. They planned to pack camp duffle and provisions on Saturday, preparatory to their departure early on Sunday.

If Keven had not had anything to drink on Saturday night he would have gotten away from town without giving the gossips more to wag their tongues over. But out of deference to his father he had left the bottle severely alone, and not until he had left home to stay at Garry’s camp to facilitate an early start next day had he transgressed.

Still he was sober that Saturday night when he encountered Atwell in the crowded lobby of the principal hotel. Liquor seldom made Keven drunk. But it found a hidden devil in his depths.

“Hello, Major, I’ve been looking for you,” he said, confronting the well-groomed and well-fed Atwell.

“Sorry I can’t return the compliment,” replied Atwell, in cold contempt, his dark, rather handsome face flushing with annoyance. He turned his back.

A tiger leaped up inside Keven Bell. His swift outflung hand spun Atwell around.

“You lied about me, you—skunk!” exclaimed Keven, in ringing voice. “I’m going to call you to your face. It was you who was mixed up in that Carstone outrage. Not I.... Why didn’t you tell Grant’s Pass that the soldiers burned you in effigy? Why didn’t you tell them your company could have gone to France if you hadn’t been a coward? ... For that’s the truth and I can prove it.”

Atwell’s face grew livid. “You filthy soldier bum! Everyone knows that crack you got made you weak in the head. But take care—”

Keven struck him, causing him to stagger along the rail of the stairway to the wall. The blow brought blood. It was not violent, but it unleashed a devil in Keven.

“What I said goes,” he shouted, in scathing passion. “Invalided home! Yes, you white-livered cur. But the soldiers know. Let your friends ask any soldier in your company.... And as for the dirty lie you spread—if you accuse me again of that Carstone muck, I’ll kill you!”

Fiercely Keven grasped a vase from a table and swung it on Atwell’s head. With a sharp crack it flew into bits. But it knocked Atwell flat to the floor, where he lay stunned or unconscious.

No one made any move to interfere, and Keven walked out into the night.