Part 2 (1/2)
Mike Saygar.
The sound of a woman's laughter striking across the quiet street took Joe Bonnyman's glance across there. He saw a man and a woman pa.s.s before the night-lighted window of a store almost opposite, and in a moment recognized Fred Vanover.
”Vanover married again?” he asked curiously.
”That's his daughter,” Blaze said, immediately thinking of something else and adding truculently: ”You've made a fine start at healin' up the old sore, friend.”
”His daughter?” Joe still peered across the wide street. ”You mean the kid that used to run around in short skirts and pigtails?”
Alongside, Clark Dunne's voice had an edge to it: ”What's so strange about a girl growing up?”
”Nothing, only . . .” Joe didn't finish what he'd started to say, which in essence was that Jean Vanover's voice had sounded exceedingly pleasant and womanly.
”How you goin' to make it up to Merrill?” Blaze was insistent on getting an answer to his worry. ”He's growed up, too. Casts a mighty wide shadow lately.”
”It won't need makin' up,” Joe told him. He decided not to mention Merrill's coupling of Clark's and Ruth's names. Anyway, it didn't matter. ”I'm headed out.”
”Out? Away from here?” Blaze was incredulous and added a ripe oath.
Joe nodded. ”In an hour, unless they've stopped runnin' that late freight.”
”But you can't drift again,” Blaze insisted. ”Take it from a man crowdin' middle age, mister. You'll never lick anything by runnin' from it.”
Clark saw the angry turn of Joe's head and knew at once that Blaze's remark had touched on a sore spot. ”Joe's not runnin',” he said quickly. ”But there's something to what you say. Joe, I've got an idea.”
”The answer's no,” Joe drawled.
He was abruptly sobered by the thought that these two old friends, really the only two he cared anything about, would now urge him to stay on. Their att.i.tude was natural; what sobered him was knowing that from now on he'd be living among strangers, not among men like this pair with whom he could forget the ingrained wariness and suspicion that were the unwanted fruits of his absence.
”Wait'll you hear what I have to say,” Clark insisted. ”I'm in this land company now and I need help. Vanover's to be trusted, but, after all, he works for Middle Arizona. So long as I'm goin' at this thing at all, it'll be whole hog. I'll need a man to help me with the saddle work. s.h.i.+ppin' time is close, and we could divide the county, you workin' the south half, me the north, keepin' check on the gather. That way we could . . .”
”I said no, Clark.”
”But listen, man. You get, say, twice the wages you can draw on a ridin' job. You're fifty miles from your old man, sixty from Merrill. What . . . ?”
”I told you I was leavin'!” Joe said sharply.
Clark thought he saw then how to carry his point. He wanted Joe to stay, wanted him badly enough to run the risk of his anger. ”Then what are your reasons?” he asked bluntly, not denying the inference Joe had put to his mention of Ed Merrill. ”Name me a good one.”
”I'm fed up with the whole mess. If Merrill doesn't try and knock the chip off my shoulder, someone else will.”
”Don't put one there to get knocked off,” advised Blaze. ”Stick it out here and make these jaspers admit you ain't the sidewinder they've pegged you for.”
”No.” Joe's refusal was as positive as it had been the first time.
And so it was an hour later, when Joe tossed war bag and saddle up onto the caboose platform of the freight. He gave his two friends a look that showed them none of his regret, no emotion whatsoever, as he drawled: ”Give Yace my apologies for bein' in too much of a hurry to say good bye.”
”Yeah, he'll be touched.” Blaze's blocky face was cracked by a set smile that didn't quite hide his disappointment.
”No use tryin' to argue you out of it?” Clark was serious, sober.
”No use.”
Far up beyond the station, by the water tank, the locomotive's whistle gave two sharp blasts to call in the brakeman. The waiting interval it took his lantern to crawl in along the tracks to the caboose was awkward for all three. But finally Joe was stepping up onto the platform after the brakeman and the conductor's lantern was arching the highball to the engineer. The long line of cars shuddered as slack went out of the couplings. The caboose finally lurched into motion. It was twenty yards down the track when Joe, lifting a hand in a gesture of farewell, turned and the orange-lighted caboose door swallowed his wide shape.
”Devil of a note,” Blaze growled.
Clark Dunne didn't speak until the two lights of the caboose had almost gone out of sight in the darkness. Then he gave a gusty sigh. ”Too bad,” he said.
They were silent as they went back up the street as far as the Mile High, where Blaze's horse was tied, each too engrossed in his thinking to bother with talk. As Blaze jerked the knot of his reins, Clark said: ”Sure you won't stay over? I can put you up.”
Blaze shook his head, stepping into the saddle. A bleak look touched his eyes as he glanced toward the saloon's window, now covered with a tarpaulin nailed to the outside facing.
”He sure was a wild man, eh?”
”You talk like we weren't going to see him again.”
”I got that feelin', friend.”
Clark could think of no argument to use against this reasoning, and, when he remained silent, Blaze lifted his reins and turned the Anchor-branded gelding out into the street with a-”Be seein' you.”
Clark watched him ride out of sight, feeling a strange and restless sense of unfulfillment. He was at a loose end, half angry without knowing why. The hour was late, yet he wasn't sleepy. His look went the way Blaze's had a moment ago, toward the Mile High's doors, and he regretfully ruled out the idea of going in there for a nightcap in the knowledge that Olander and his late customers would be talking about the fight and wanting his views on it. It occurred to him only then that neither he nor Blaze had asked Joe for any particulars on his argument with Ed Merrill. He wondered what had led to the fight. He had a hunch it had started over Ruth, over Ed's seeing Joe talking with her.
”Got a minute, Clark?”
The low-drawled words coming from beyond the walk startled Clark momentarily. He looked across to the head of the narrow alleyway running between the saloon and the adjoining building, and made out Neal Harper's indistinct shape. He glanced warily both ways along the walk before he stepped over there.
”You don't need to creep up on a man,” he said curtly. ”What is it?”
”Thought you'd like to know Vanover's lettin' us go.” Harper's drawl bore a faint edge of insolence, of demanding an answer.
Clark was nervous under the implication lying behind those words. When he made no immediate reply, Harper went on: ”We ain't exactly built a stake we could retire on.”
Here was a reminder of an old promise. Clark was edgy under that reminder and said dryly: ”Can I help it if they bury the hatchet?”
Harper's shoulders lifted meagerly. ”I'm only tellin' you what happened.”
”I'll see what I can do about it. When are you due to pull out?”
”Vanover didn't say exactly when.”
”Then keep in touch with me. Something may come up.”
”Such as?”
”How do I know?” Clark said sharply. He nodded back along the pa.s.sageway. ”Get goin'. Someone might spot me standin' here, and begin to wonder.”