On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set - Coolidge Dane страница 58
Название: On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set
Автор: Coolidge Dane
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4064066383084
isbn:
He laid one hand appealingly upon his partner’s shoulder, but the little man squirmed out from under it impatiently.
“Who is it?” he asked doggedly. “Sallie Winship?”
“Aw, say,” protested Creede, “don’t throw it into a feller like that –– Sal went back on me years ago. You know who I mean –– Kitty Bonnair.”
“Kitty Bonnair!” Hardy had known it, but he had tried to keep her name unspoken. Battle as he would he could not endure to hear it, even from Jeff.
“What do you want to tell Miss Bonnair?” he inquired, schooling his voice to a cold quietness.
“Tell her?” echoed Creede ecstatically. “W’y, tell her I’m lonely as hell now she’s gone –– tell her –– well, there’s where I bog down, but I’d trade my best horse for another kiss like that one she give me, and throw in the saddle for pelon. Now, say, Rufe, don’t leave me in a hole like this. You’ve made your winnin’, and here’s your nice long letter to Miss Lucy. My hands are as stiff as a burnt rawhide and I can’t think out them nice things to say; but I love Kitty jest as much as you love Miss Lucy –– mebbe more –– and –– and I wanter tell her so!”
He ended abjectly, gazing with pleading eyes at the stubborn face of his partner whose lips were drawn tight.
“We –– every man has to –– no, I can’t do it, Jeff,” he stammered, choking. “I’d –– I’d help you if I could, Jeff –– but she’d know my style. Yes, that’s it. If I’d write the letter she’d know it was from me –– women are quick that way. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is –– every man has to fight out his own battle, in love.”
He paused and fumbled with his papers.
“Here’s a good pen,” he said, “and –– and here’s the paper.” He shoved out the fair sheet upon which he had intended to write and rose up dumbly from the table.
“I’m going to bed,” he said, and slipped quietly out of the room. As he lay in his blankets he could see the gleam of light from the barred window and hear Jeff scraping his boots uneasily on the floor. True indeed, his hands were like burnt rawhide from gripping at ropes and irons, his clothes were greasy and his boots smelled of the corral, and yet –– she had given him a kiss! He tried to picture it in his mind: Kitty smiling –– or startled, perhaps –– Jeff masterful, triumphant, laughing. Ah God, it was the same kiss she had offered him, and he had run away!
In the morning, there was a division between them, a barrier which could not be overcome. Creede lingered by the door a minute, awkwardly, and then rode away. Hardy scraped up the greasy dishes and washed them moodily. Then the great silence settled down upon Hidden Water and he sat alone in the shadow of the ramada, gazing away at the barren hills.
CHAPTER XIX
THE BIG DRUNK
The sun rose clear for the hundredth time over the shoulder of the Four Peaks; it mounted higher, glowing with a great light, and the smooth round tops of the bowlders shone like half-buried skulls along the creek-bed; it swung gloriously up to its zenith and the earth palpitated with a panting heat. Summer had come, and the long days when the lizards crawl deep into their crevices and the cattle follow the scanty shade of the box cañons or gather in standing-places where the wind draws over the ridges and mitigates the flies. In the pasture at Hidden Water the horses stood head and tail together, side by side, each thrashing the flies from the other’s face and dozing until hunger or thirst aroused them or perversity took them away. Against the cool face of the cliff the buzzards moped and stretched their dirty wings in squalid discomfort; the trim little sparrow-hawks gave over their hunting; and all the world lay tense and still. Only at the ranch house where Hardy kept a perfunctory watch was there any sign of motion or life.
For two weeks now he had been alone, ever since Jeff went down to Bender, and with the solitary’s dread of surprise he stepped out into the ramada regularly, scanning the western trail with eyes grown weary of the earth’s emptiness.
At last as the sun sank low, throwing its fiery glare in his eyes, he saw the familiar figure against the sky –– Creede, broad and bulky and topped by his enormous hat, and old Bat Wings, as raw-boned and ornery as ever. Never until that moment had Hardy realized how much his life was dependent upon this big, warm-hearted barbarian who clung to his native range as instinctively as a beef and yet possessed human attributes that would win him friends anywhere in the world. Often in that long two weeks he had reproached himself for abandoning Jeff in his love-making. What could be said for a love which made a man so pitiless? Was it worthy of any return? Was it, after all, a thing to be held so jealously to his heart, gnawing out his vitals and robbing him of his humanity? These and many other questions Hardy had had time to ask himself in his fortnight of introspection and as he stood by the doorway waiting he resolved to make amends. From a petty creature wrapped up in his own problems and prepossessions he would make himself over into a man worthy of the name of friend. Yet the consciousness of his fault lay heavy upon him and as Creede rode in he stood silent, waiting for him to speak. But Jeff for his part came on grimly, and there was a sombre glow in his eyes which told more than words.
“Hello, sport,” he said, smiling wantonly, “could you take a pore feller in over night?”
“Sure thing, I can,” responded Hardy gayly. “Where’ve you been all the time?”
And Creede chanted:
“Down to Bender,
On a bender,
Oh, I’m a spender,
You bet yer life!
“And I’m broke, too,” he added, sotto voce, dropping off his horse and sinking into a chair.
“Well, you don’t need to let that worry you,” said Hardy. “I’ve got plenty. Here!” He went down into his pocket and tossed a gold piece to him, but Creede dodged it listlessly.
“Nope,” he said, “money’s nothin’ to me.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Hardy anxiously. “Are you sick?”
“Yes,” answered Creede, nodding his head wearily, “sick and tired of it all.” He paused and regarded his partner solemnly. “I’m a miserable failure, Rufe,” he said. “I ain’t got nothin’ and I ain’t worth nothin’. I never done nothin’ –– and I ain’t got a friend in the world.”
He stopped and gazed at the barren land despondently, waiting to see if his partner would offer any protests.
“Rufe,” he said, at last, his voice tremulous with reproach, “if you’d only helped me out a little on that letter –– if you’d only told me a few things –– well, she might have let me down easy, and I could’ve took it. As it was, she soaked me.”
Then it was that Hardy realized the burden under which his partner was laboring, the grief that clutched at his heart, the fire that burned in his brain, and he could have СКАЧАТЬ