The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ want me to ride alone any more. I've got a couple of dressed hens here for you. I—"

      She was framed in the doorway, startled to silence by the sight of Charterhouse; a tall, lazy-eyed girl with a mass of copper red hair rebelliously trying to escape a scarlet turban. She was in riding breeches and boots and her sturdy shoulders unconsciously straightened before him; a flare of interest came to her slim face. The rounding lips seemed about to quirk into a smile and then pursed together as if forbidding it. Charterhouse took off his hat and nothing on earth could have forbidden his frank, glimmering humor.

      "Henry," he drawled, "you're a lucky man, even without the gift of those hens."

      She considered this with perfect gravity. He felt himself being weighed and tallied by the long, level glance that ended with a sedate murmur to Bowlus. "I see you're running your restaurant for strayed pilgrims again."

      Charterhouse chuckled. "Shot plumb through the heart by an off-hand bullet."

      She walked to the table and placed a basket on it, by chance touching the dollar Charterhouse had laid there. That brought her eyes quickly back to him with an expression slightly puzzled and more friendly. Bowlus, still at the door, tranquilly made explanation.

      "This is the fellow that had his horse stole in Angels, Sherry."

      "The name," said Clint, "is Charterhouse."

      She sat on the edge of the bunk and tapped the floor with one boot heel. "So you're that man? Do you know you are being talked about? My dad doubts you, Seastrom thinks you are about it, good or bad, and Buck Manners respects you for doing what nobody else ever did to him before."

      "Accident," mused Charterhouse, marking the melody of her voice.

      "Hardly that. Nobody wins from Buck by accident. They earn their victories."

      "Reckon you know him better than I do," agreed Charterhouse. "Right now I'm most interested in finding out what your own opinion is."

      He found she had a grave manner of considering his words in lengthening silence. A flicker of impish delight appeared in the gray eyes, followed by a deliberate answer.

      "I ought to know about Buck, being engaged to him."

      He failed to put on his poker face quickly enough. She saw his features settle and cloud. For some reason she dropped her eyes, flushing.

      "My apologies," said he gently, "for asking fool questions."

      "I didn't consider it foolish," said she, and drew all the sting out of his new knowledge with a warming smile. "I hear you are looking for work. Buck Manners could use good hands any time."

      "I've sort of been discouraged."

      "Don't let anything my father says bother you. He...he has had many worries."

      "Where's he now, home?" broke in Bowlus.

      "Started to Angels on business after I pulled out," said the girl.

      Charterhouse looked at his watch. "Time for me to be on my way. I'm inside the Box M deadline, which Mister Haggerty doesn't like."

      "Haggerty's a fool sometimes," retorted the girl energetically. "He doesn't use his head and his tongue's too bitter."

      "I observe," said Charterhouse. He turned to Bowlus. "No objections to my bringing down the pony for a drink?"

      "Help yourself."

      The girl had risen, still looking at Charterhouse. "If you are bound out of this country, good luck." There was a small wistfulness about the words that drew him around and roused some latent recklessness.

      "Supposing I'm staying around here for a while—what then?"

      Her answer was long in coming. "Still—good luck," said she and met his eyes squarely.

      He bowed and went out, climbing the slope for his horse and returning to the well by the cabin. She was in the doorway and as he lifted a full bucket and turned the pony to it, he heard her speak with a sudden change of tone. He looked up to find cold suspicion on her face. "You've got a horse with Shander's brand on it!"

      "Yeah," he drawled. "I had to borrow it under pressing circumstances. I—"

      "Then I can wish you no luck at all," cried Sherry Nickum angrily. "I hate Shander. I hate any man who works for Shander, accepts Shander's help, or even speaks to Shander! I wish you no luck—and get off Nickum range!"

      The pony drank to the bottom of the bucket. Charter-house, never moving a muscle of his countenance, swung to the saddle and pulled about to face the girl's straight and rigid figure in the doorway. He caught something of old John Nickum's unbending, fighting spirit in her at that moment; a flash of the same imperious temper. And though the picture she made brought back his own vision of all that was fine and desirable in a woman, he was stung badly by the scornful fire of her eyes and the sudden bitter distrust. Nor did it help him to know that she belonged rightfully to another man, a man of power and influence far above his own. So he bowed with stiff courtesy and gathered the pony.

      "When wishes change so soon, Sherry Nickum, it is better not to have them at all. Since you do not mean to be friendly, I will forget your first friendly words." He rode into the timber, never looking back.

      The farther Clint traveled the more the injury smarted. "Slapped again," he muttered. "Seems to me I'm taking an undue amount of punishment. What's the matter with the looks of my face? Or has everybody gone crazy of a sudden?" His own clear sight told him that the threat of range war was responsible for all this touchiness and hard suspicion. But even so, it was a distinct blow to his pride to know that others failed to see the prevailing honesty of his impulses. Was the dividing line in Casabella so thin that people refused to trust all outward appearances? "Saint Peter," he grumbled, "would get run out of Casabella for being suspected of sheepherding. I never saw such a state of affairs."

      For quite a long length of time Clint Charterhouse forgot the nature of his business. Not until he arrived at the top of the ridge and came upon a small glade flooded with the golden morning's light did he think much about his reasons for returning this way. The main trail leading north and south kept to the high ground; that trail he had followed out of Angels the day before. Upon it were many hoofprints but none fresh enough to have been made that morning. Old John Nickum had not yet passed down, if indeed the cattleman meant to come this way at all. Considering the problem, Charterhouse wondered why Shan-der was so very sure Nickum would keep to the trail. There was something queer about that, something that did not meet the eye. Yet he had no time at present to dig into the mystery; Nickum was on the way and possibly would soon pass by. Another half mile would bring the bluff old baron to the edge of timber and up against the rim of Red Draw. At some place along that draw the trap was set. Shander had said so and there was no doubting the man's grim, ruthless sincerity on that point.

      "What of it?" Charterhouse asked himself. "Slapped three times and here I stand asking for more. A bigger damn fool never came out of the shell. Nobody's asked me to butt into this business. So why don't I roll my hoop?"

      The drumming of a woodpecker shot through the trees with a startling clarity, rousing him from all this tedious thinking. No matter how little license he had for intruding on the quarrel, he had, nevertheless, lived too long with his own code to throw it over now. His reason told him that Nickum and Nickum's adherents were in the right; Shander was certainly on the opposite side of the fence—and СКАЧАТЬ