Bruce of the Circle A. Titus Harold

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СКАЧАТЬ watching from the shadows, lips pressed together, heart on a rampage from a fear that was at once groundless and natural, saw his fine profile against the lamp, as he laughed good-naturedly at the man he had jibed. His head was flung back boyishly, but about its poise, its lines, the way it was set on his sturdy neck, was an indication of superb strength, a fine mettle. His hair fell backward from the brow. It tended toward waviness and was dry and light in texture as well as in color, for the rays of the light were scattered and diffused as they shot through it. He was incredibly tall in his high-heeled riding boots, but his breadth was in proportion. The movements of his long arms, his finely moulded shoulders, his whole lithe torso were well measured, splendidly balanced, of that natural grace and assurance which marks the inherent leadership born in individuals. His voice went well with the rest of him, for it was smooth and deep and filled with capabilities of expression.

      "Well, if you think all us drunkards are such buzzard fodder, what are you packin' this around with you for?" Clary asked, after the laughter had subsided.

      The cowman looked down thoughtfully a moment and his face grew serious. He shook his head soberly.

      "This fellow's a cripple, boys; that's all. Just a cripple," he explained.

      "Cripple! He's about th' liveliest, most cantankerous, trouble-maker this country has had to watch since Bill Williams named his mountain!" a man in the group scoffed.

      "Yes, I know. His legs ain't broke or deformed; he can use both arms; his fool tongue has made us all pretty hot since we've knowed him. But he ain't right up here, in his head, boys. He's crippled there. There ain't no reason for a human bein' gettin' to be so nasty as he's got to be. It ain't natural. It's th' booze, Tommy, th' booze that's crippled him. He ought to be kept away from it until he's had a chance, but nobody's took enough interest in him or th' good of th' town to tend to that. We've just locked him up when he got too drunk an' turned him loose to hell some more when he was halfway sober. He ain't had nobody to look out for him, when he's needed it more 'n anything else.

      "I ain't blamin' nobody. Don't know as I'd looked out for him myself, if he hadn't looked so helpless, there 'n th' ditch, Gosh, any one of you'd take in a dog with a busted leg an' try to fix him up; if he bit at you an' scratched and tried to fight, you'd only feel sorrier for him. This feller ... he's kind of a dog, too. Maybe it'd be a good investment for us to look after him a little an' see if we can't set him on his feet. We've tried makin' an example of him; now let's try to treat him like any of you'd treat me, if I was down an' out."

      He looked down upon the figure on the porch; in his voice had been a fine humane quality that set the muscles of the listening woman's throat contracting.

      "Say, Bruce, he's bleedin'!"

      On the man's announced discovery the group outside again became compact about the unconscious man and the tall cowboy squatted beside him quickly.

      "Get back out of th' light, boys," he said, quietly, and the curious men moved. "Hum ... I'm a sheepherder, if somebody ain't nicked him in th' arm, boys! I'll be—

      "Say, he must of laid on that arm an' stopped th' blood. It's clotted.... Oh, damn! It's bleedin' worse. Say, I'll have to get him inside where we can have him fixed up before that breaks open again. Wonder how much he's bled—"

      He rose and moved to the door, pulled open the screen quickly. He made one step across the threshold and then paused between strides, for before him in the darkness of the hallway a woman's face stood out like a cameo. It was white, made whiter by the few feeble rays of the light outside that struggled into the entry; the eyes were great, dark splotches, the lips were parted; one hand was at the chin and about the whole suggested posture of her body was a tensity, an anxiety, a helplessness that startled the man ... that, and her beauty. For a moment they stood so, face to face, the one in silhouette, the other in black and white; the one surprised, only, but the other shrinking in terror.

      "I ... he ..."

      Then, giving no articulate coherence to the idea that was in his mind, Bruce Bayard stepped through the doorway to his left and entered the office, as though he had not seen the woman at all. He looked about, returned to the hallway, gazed almost absently at the stairway where he had seen that troubled countenance and which was now a blank, hesitated a moment and stepped out to join the others.

      "I heard somebody shoot, when we was comin' up from th' depot," someone was saying when Bayard broke in:

      "Nobody here. Anybody seen Charley?"

      "Here's his dad," Clary said, as a fat, wheezing man made his way importantly into the group.

      "Uncle, I want to get a room," Bayard said, "to take this here man to so I can wash him up an' look after his arm. He's been shot. I passed Doc on th' road goin' out when I come in, so I'll just try my hand as a veterinary myself. Can you fix me up?"

      "All right! Right here! Bring him in. I've got a room; a nice dollar room," the man wheezed as he stumped into the building. "No disturbance, mind, but I've got a room ... dollar room ..."—and the screen door slapped shut behind him.

      "He won't die on you, Bruce," the man with a moustache said, straightening, after inspecting the ragged, dirt-filled wound, and laughing lightly. "It just stung him a little. There's a lot of disorderly conduct left in him yet, an' it's a wonder he ain't been ventilated before."

      "Yeah.... Well, we'll take him up and look him over," Bayard said, his face serious, and stooped to gather the burden in his arms.

      "Want any help, Bruce?" Tommy asked.

      "Not on this trip, thanks. A good sleep and a stiff cussin' out'll help a little I guess. Mebbe he's learnt a lesson an' he may go back home an' behave himself."

      He shouldered open the screen door and, led by the wheezing landlord who carried a lamp at a reckless angle in his trembling hand, started clumping up the resounding stairway, while the group that had been about the lamp-post drifted off into the darkness. Only the sorrel horse, Abe, remained, bridle-reins down, one hip slumped, great, intelligent eyes watching occasional figures that passed, ears moving to catch the scattered sounds that went up toward the Arizona stars.

CHAPTER III

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THE LODGER NEXT DOOR

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      "Now, this is fine, Uncle," Bayard said, as he stood erect and surveyed the lax body he had deposited on the bed.

      His great height made the low, tiny room seem lower, smaller, and in the pale lamplight the fat hotel proprietor peered up into his face with little greedy green eyes, chewing briskly with his front teeth, scratching the fringe of red whiskers speculatively.

      "Well, Bayard, you're all right," he blurted out, huskily, as if he had reached that decision only after lengthy debate. "Th' room's a dollar, but I'll wait till mornin' as a favor to you. I wouldn't trust most cowboys, but your reputation's gild-edged, fine!"

      "Thanks! Seein' nobody's around to overhear, I'll take a chance an' return th' compliment."

      And as the other, turning in the doorway, looked back to determine, if СКАЧАТЬ