Читать книгу The Arizona Clan - Zane Grey - Страница 3

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Every day’s ride added to Mercer’s liking for this new country. He had placed so many days between the horizon-wide cattle ranges of Kansas and this vast upheaved Arizona land that he had forgotten the number. But he was sure it ran into weeks. Already he had to rake his memory to recall the dimming past. That seemed just as well. He was not particularly ashamed of it; he could look any man straight in the eyes, as straight as he had been compelled to shoot these last few hard years on the plains out of Kansas; but all the same, as it had seemed wise for him to ride far away into strange and lonely lands, so it was best to forget. At the back of Mercer’s mind there had always been the belief that someday he would find the place meant for him, where his hazy dreams would come true. In his heart he knew he was not really the man the eastern ranges thought him.

All day his horse, Baldy, had jogged down a winding, rough road, seldom used, and where wheel tracks were dim. A heavy growth of pine had obstructed any extended view, although occasional rifts in the timber had permitted looking down into a magnificent blue-and-black valley beyond which loomed the jagged peaks of a mountain range. At length the pine failed for a growth of cedar and juniper, among which patches of manzanita gleamed red and stalks of mescal stood high out of the gray spiked plants. There were thickets of live oak and jack pine, and in the gullies sycamores and maples.

Above it had been a drowsy summer day; down here it was hot, and the blast of dry, fragrant air struck him as from a furnace. The forest was asleep. He saw more deer tracks than cattle tracks in the red dust along the road. Two days back a hunter had encountered him and told of the game down in this valley. What a change for Mercer to hunt deer and bear, instead of rustlers, instead of being hunted himself by drunken, notoriety-seeking range riders and cattle-town gunmen!

Baldy was tired and he limped, but he did not lag. Somewhere ahead there would be green grass and clear cold water. Mercer, too, was weary of the endless saddle seat during the day and saddle pillow all the long hours of the night. He was as hungry, too, as any grub-line rider who had ever ridden away from one cow camp toward another.

He was beginning to fear he would have to spend another night along the road. Somewhere down in this valley he ought soon to strike a ranch or a town or a sawmill, such as he had been informed was there. The road never ceased to wind, though it approached nearer a level. And presently, to his satisfaction, it turned to cross a wide rocky stream bed, in the middle of which a shallow rill of water ran. He was as keen to step into that clear water as was Baldy. He felt the cold through his hot boots. And he sprawled upon a hot, flat rock to drink his fill. What cold, wonderful, tasteless water! Baldy drank until Mercer was afraid he would burst. Then they waded out to the shade of the sycamores on the bank.

It was very pleasant here. The tinkle of the water was all the sound to disturb the forest serenity. Soon the sun would sink behind the mountain barrier in the west. Mercer wiped his sweaty face and thought of the hard biscuits and parched corn in his saddlebags.

Presently the silence broke to the click of an unshod hoof on stone. A man appeared around the turn of road leading a burro. As he drew near Mercer saw that he was a little old fellow, grizzled and stooped. The burro carried a water keg strapped on each side of a pack saddle. The man gave Mercer a sharp but not unfriendly look from narrow eyes.

“Howdy, stranger,” he said crisply.

“How do,” replied Mercer slowly.

“Hot an’ dry, ain’t it? This hyar country is shore burnin’ up. Never seen the crick so low.” And the old fellow proceeded to unstrap one of the kegs.

“My horse is frazzled out and so am I. Any place near where we can get lodging?”

“Wal, you’re welcome to my shack,” drawled the other. “But it ain’t much, an’ there’s a good tavern at Ryeson.”

“Thanks. I’ll go on to Ryeson if it’s not far.”

“Less’n two mile.”

“Good. I’m lucky today. What’s this place Ryeson? Town, sawmill, or cow camp?”

“Wal, Ryeson’s a tolerable big town. Fact is, it’s the only one in the Tonto. There’s two saloons besides the tavern. An’ Sam Walker’s store, an’ the Timms Brothers’ store, an’ Hadley’s blacksmith shop, an’ the church, town hall, an’ school all in one, an’ I reckon a dozen or so houses, an’—”

“Quite a place,” interrupted Mercer thoughtfully. “Any ranches?”

“Shore. Strung few an’ far between all down the valley.”

“That so? Surprises me. I wouldn’t take this for a cattle country.”

“Wal, cattle grow fat hyar when they’re skin an’ bones on the uplands. Water never fails, an’ if the grass fails, as it has this summer, there’s always browsin’!”

“You don’t say. Interesting. I sort of like this country. Where do the cattlemen drive stock?”

“Maricopa. It’s over the mountain range south, nigh two hundred miles.”

“Whew! This is a wild country. What’s here besides cattle?”

“Wal, there’s Injuns, an’ any amount of bars, cougars, turkeys, deer.”

“I reckon I’ll stop. But I meant what kind of work for a fellow besides riding?”

“Shucks of work, if you ain’t pertickler aboot wages. Any handy man can get a job. Trouble hyar is none of the young bucks want work. Lots of bizness goin’ on around Ryeson but little money movin’.”

“Tell me where to get a job. I’d rather be far out of town.”

“Wal, only the other day I heahed Rock Lilley roarin’ aboot not havin’ anyone to cut his sorghum.”

“Sorghum? What’s that?”

“Say, you never heahed of sorghum?” inquired the old fellow, with a bright gleam in his eyes.

“No, sir, I never did.”

“Humph. An’ I reckon then you never heahed of white mule, neither?”

“I got kicked by one once. You mean just an ordinary white mule?”

“Nope. This white mule ain’t ordinary atall. He can kick like hell.... Wal, as I was sayin’, Rock Lilley was roarin’ cause none of his boys would stay home an’ cut the sorghum. Rock’s got six strappin’ boys an’ I don’t know how many girls. They’re shore a real old Texas family.”

“What’s Rock’s business? Ranching?”

“Shore, he’s got some cattle runnin’ wild. Seldom drives to Maricopa. Kills a beef now an’ then, or makes a trade. Hunts bar most of the time.”

“How does he make a living then, let alone paying wages to a rider?”

“Haw! Haw! Thet’s a stumper. I jest cain’t tell you, stranger. Rock an’ his family air pore, but they git along somehow. Jest had a purty dotter come home from some aunt or suthin’ in Texas. I seen her an’ wisht I was young once more.”

“Damn! I’d better dodge that Lilley outfit!” exclaimed Mercer, discouraged. “How about some other cattleman?”

“Wal, you might try Simpson, across the valley from Lilley.”

“What’s he?”

“Same as Lilley. Only he ain’t pore.”

“Then he’d be the better man to hit for a job.”

“Shore. But Simpson never hired no rider since I been hyar, ten years an’ more.”

“Ahuh. Big family same as Lilley?”

“Most as big.”

“Reckon I was wrong about this being my lucky day,” observed Mercer, as he arose. “Much obliged, old-timer. I’ll be on my way.”

He started off leading Baldy, meaning to walk for a while.

“Wal, so long, young fellar,” called the old man. “Take keer you don’t git kicked by thet thar white mule.”

“Funny old geezer,” soliloquized Mercer. “Wonder what that white mule is. Kind of a gag, I reckon.”

The road followed the brook and wound under picturesque old sycamores and here and there a pine. Mercer peered through the trees trying to locate the old man’s cabin, but was not successful. Trails straggled up from the brook to vanish in the forest.

While Mercer tramped along, the sun set and twilight descended magically. The air cooled perceptibly. He liked the mountain feel of it. And already the sweet, dry odor of the valley had intrigued him.

It was almost dark when the road led out into the open and he discovered that he had arrived at the village. Dark-colored houses, some with lights, lined each side of a wide square. He went on until he saw a group of people in front of what appeared to be a store. It had a high board front with undecipherable lettering. Horses stood in the dusk. He saw a buckboard and a wagon. The sound of low voices broke upon his keen ear.

Mercer was quick to sense the atmosphere. Well he knew frontier towns in the cool of a summer evening when the tranquillity seemed charged. He approached a boy on the outskirts of the crowd.

“Johnny, how about feed an’ bed for my horse an’ some for myself?”

“Yas, sir. I’ll take you ’cross to the inn. Lemme lead yore hoss, sir,” replied the youth eagerly.

“What’s happened, boy?”

“Nuthin’ much. Only Sim Perkins looked his last on white mule, so my pop says,” replied the youngster, as he led Mercer across the wide square.

“His last look, huh? Must have got kicked pretty serious?”

“He’s daid, mister. Thar was a game goin’ on in Ryan’s saloon, an’ they got to shootin’. Some say Buck Hathaway did it. But Buck shore says he didn’t.”

“Little gunplay, eh? Is that common in these parts?”

“Enough to keep the population down, my pop says,” replied the boy, with a laugh.

“Where’s your sheriff?”

“Thar ain’t none short of Maricopa. An’ I never seen him, mister.”

“Your Ryeson strikes me as an interesting town, Johnny. What’s this white mule, anyway?”

“Wal, mister, if you don’t know, I’m not tellin’ you. Hyar’s my pop’s place. You go right in. Supper’s ready, ’cause Ma rang the bell long ago. I’ll look after yore hoss.”

Mercer mounted a rickety porch and entered a dark hall at the back of which appeared to be a dimly lighted room. He went in slowly. Two men were eating at a long table. A woman entered from another door.

“Evening, ma’am. I’d like lodging for myself and horse.”

“Jest git in, mister?” she asked sharply, and the searching look fitted her voice.

“This minute. Your boy met me.”

“Set right down,” she replied, more civilly. “I’ll fetch yore supper.”

Mercer took a seat opposite the men, whom he gave what might have been taken for a casual glance. The lamp cast a yellow glow on two hard faces that did not belong to cattlemen. They noticed where and how Mercer packed his gun before they looked at his face.

“Evening, men,” said Mercer, as he sat down leisurely.

“Howdy, stranger,” replied the older of the two.

Mercer felt a calculating curiosity but no particular antagonism in these individuals, and gathered from the meeting that strangers were not uncommon in Ryeson. The landlady brought his supper, and it was so hot and good that he would not have taken time to talk even if these men had been communicative, which they were not. They finished presently and stamped out. While Mercer was eating the boy returned, carrying his saddlebags and coat.

“I fetched yore things, mister,” he said. “I’ll put them in hyar.” And he pushed open a door in the middle of the room.

“How’s my horse Baldy?” queried Mercer, when the boy came out.

“I’ll bet it’s long since he felt his oats. Fine hoss, mister. I looked after him good.”

“Tom, whar’s yore father?” called the woman from the kitchen.

“He’s acrost the road.”

“Wal, you run tell him to come git his supper, shootin’ or no shootin’.”

The youngster winked a bright eye at Mercer and thudded out into the dark hall. Mercer finished his meal, and rising went into the room for his coat. He thought he would wait until the boy’s father came in. But as that event did not occur he went out to stand on the porch. There was more light along the square and more noise than before supper. Horses and people were moving. Some men passed and they were talking about the dry spell. He heard a woman laugh. Across the square he could see a number of people in a store that was brightly lighted.

He strolled over to make some purchases that his long ride had made necessary. The store was not like any other he had ever seen, although he could not at the moment define how or why. Still, it was a typical country store of general merchandise. While waiting to be served he studied the customers. His gaze encountered curious glances and at last the bold eyes of a handsome, audacious girl who entered with a companion. They giggled and talked of a dance, evidently to be held that night. Mercer had turned his back on many things, and one he hoped to dodge was trouble. Back on the Kansas and Panhandle ranges he had never been able to avoid it, though he had eternally tried, and had even earned the sobriquet “Dodge.” He returned the buxom beauty’s challenging gaze with one of sad appreciation and looked at her no more.

Finally he was waited on and carried his numerous parcels back to his room. A lamp had been placed at his disposal. Its wan light showed a bare room with a bed, a bench, and a washbasin, which, poor as they appeared, would be luxuries for him.

Mercer went out again and this time entered the nearest saloon. It at least possessed familiar attributes in the bar running full length, the gaudy mirror painted with suggestive figures, the haze of tobacco smoke, the smell of rum, the sound and sight of rough men. It had unusual merit for Mercer inasmuch as no one appeared to notice him. This was a relief, a comfort, an unfamiliar experience.

His intention was to purchase a good stiff drink, but the bar was crowded six deep by uncouth and grizzled men whom Mercer did not care to shove aside. Finding a box in a corner, he sat down to absorb the scene. There were long, lean, rangy riders present, bowlegged and red-faced and narrow-eyed. Their height struck Mercer, and they reminded him of Texas cowhands. This Arizona breed was certainly tall. But they might be Texans at that, for he had been told how much of the sparse population had come from the Lone Star State.

For the most part, however, the occupants of Ryan’s saloon bore the earmarks of backwoodsmen. Some wore buckskin. Many of them were of mountaineer build, superb, full-chested, big-limbed, lacking wholly the characteristics of the range rider. Money did not appear to be lacking. There were several gambling games going on, one of poker, another of faro, and a third that was new to Mercer.

He forgot about his drink in his interest. The saloons of Hays City, Abilene, and Dodge, the notorious cattle towns he had frequented, lost by comparison with this one. They presented a stream of humanity drawn from every quarter—the parasites of the border and the cowhands they preyed upon. Here in Ryeson there was a much smaller, less noisy and wild, and apparently decent crowd. How easy to attribute much of that to the absence of the female hangers-on! Nevertheless, this Ryeson crowd seemed to possess the temper of flint, needing only the steel to draw fire.

Mercer watched and studied, got up to stand in the ring around the gamblers, and listened with all his ears, the upshot of which was a fund of thought-provoking perceptions and a store of mountain talk that fascinated and puzzled him. He left the saloon without having talked with anyone, and in doubt whether or not he wanted to linger in the valley town of Ryeson.