Part 19 (2/2)

And Roland Shrikesdale III, also known as Robert Smith, will figure prominently in these plans.

For there is such a thing as luck, Harwood thinks, though Father taught them to scorn such a belief as the reasoning of weak, puerile men. Luck exists, no doubt of it, and Harwood's luck has simply been bad.

If he wins at gambling (poker, dice are his specialties) he loses within a few days, more than he's won. When he was a salesman for Doctor Merton's All-Purpose Medical Elixir, though he sold a fair number of bottles of the stuff to sickly women, he was betrayed by his supplier in Kansas City, who'd neglected to tell him of the medical complications, including even death in some instances, following in the wake of such sales.

There was his experience at Camp Yankee Basin.

Harmon Liges hadn't been, strictly speaking, superintendent at the camp. In fact, he'd had little to do with the mining operations at all; his position was that of foreman's a.s.sistant at the mill; not a very well-paying job but less demeaning at least than millworker. (Though he lacks the air and training of a gentleman, Liges, the blood-son of Abraham Licht, retains the prejudices of a gentleman for whom manual labor is an insult.) Shortly after he arrived at Yankee Basin in the Medicine Bow Mountains, Liges realized that it was in refining mills, and not mines, that opportunities for theft are greatest: the detritus that sifts through the cracks of the machines and collects on their undersides is rich with gold dust, if one has but the patience to collect it and the sagacity not to be caught. So, as foreman's a.s.sistant, Liges recruited a team of a.s.sistants to help him after hours in packing tubs of sediment taken from beneath the ball mill, and sc.r.a.ping off the thin coating of amalgam on the copper plates, and stripping the copper plates themselves-the most painstaking and rewarding of all such tasks. To the untrained eye such matter may appear worthless: muck, dirt, fine black sand. Indeed, who but a man of imagination might guess that invisible treasure might be salvaged from it, that thousands of dollars might sift by magic into a man's pockets by way of such grubbing? Of course the enterprise was dangerous, for one could be caught; involved in clandestine activities, one could be punished. Yet wasn't the risk worth it? ”The revolt of slaves against masters, and a G.o.d-d.a.m.ned good thing,” Liges thought. Since his arrival in the West he'd heard wonderful tales of miners who'd made themselves rich by smuggling, day after day, small chunks of ”picture rock” out of the veins they worked, and selling it to fences; ”picture rock” being a rare ore encrusted and glinting with solid gold, too precious to be delivered meekly over to the mine owners. But his own enterprise came to an abrupt and humiliating end only a month after it began when his most trusted a.s.sistant ran off with most of what had been salvaged and another, having breathed in toxic vaporizing mercury while trying to condense some amalgam at Liges's instruction, went berserk believing that G.o.d was punis.h.i.+ng him and confessed all to the mill foreman. So Liges was forced to flee Yankee Basin on a sway-backed horse with nothing to show for his ingenuity except a leaking sack of black sand which, when refined in Mana.s.sa, yielded only $97 in gold, which he lost at poker that night.

Whether such a debacle is fate, or mere luck-”Somebody must pay.”

Harmon Liges and Robert Smith leave Denver on the morning of 15 April 1914, bound for Adventure. For Smith has shyly revealed that he has a substantial amount of money in traveler's checks, and the promise of more ”whenever and wherever I require it.”

It is Harmon Liges's general plan that they will travel by rail as far south as El Paso; perhaps, if all goes well, they will venture across the border into Mexico.

It is his plan that they travel as far north as the Bighorn area in southern Montana.

They will hike in the mountains, they will traverse Long's Glacier, they will explore unknown canyons along the Colorado River; they will visit a gold mine; they will visit one of the great ranches (there is the Flying S, east of Laramie, where, Liges says, he is always welcome); they will hunt, they will fish . . . for bear, elk, antelope, mountain lions! . . . for brook trout, black ba.s.s, pike! (Liges, not in the strictest sense a sportsman, is vague about the sort of equipment required for such activities, but fortunately his excited companion doesn't notice.) ”And we will camp out a great deal, too, won't we?-when it's warm enough,” Smith says.

”Certainly,” says Liges. ”We will camp out all the time.”

So caught up is Smith in their plans for the next several months, so deeply involved in plotting their itinerary on a large map of the Western states, he might very well have forgotten to send off a telegram to his mother, had not Liges thoughtfully reminded him. ”Ah yes, thank you!-I should tell Mother not to worry if she doesn't hear from me for a while,” Smith says, pulling at his lip. ”For two weeks, at least, do you think, Harmon?-or three, or four?”

”Why don't you tell her five,” says Liges, ”-to set her mind at rest.”

SO THE TWO friends depart Denver on a spring day so brilliant with suns.h.i.+ne that Harmon Liges is required to wear snow gla.s.ses; and Robert Smith is excited as a small child. Already, he declares, he feels ”fully recovered from his illness.” Already, he declares, gripping his companion's arm tight, he feels ”one hundred percent a man.”

To which Liges replies with a broad smile, ”I should hope so, Robert.”

Though Smith has informed his mother that he and a friend are traveling south into New Mexico, Liges announces an abrupt change of plans: he's heard from an Indian guide that trout fis.h.i.+ng north of Boulder in the Medicine Bow Mountains is now ideal, and they'd be well advised to go into the mountains instead. Naturally, Smith agrees-”I'm entirely in your hands, Harmon. Anywhere you wis.h.!.+”

So Liges, with Smith's money, buys two train tickets to Boulder, and the men settle in companionably in their private car, or in the club car, gazing out the window at the scenery, or gazing at each other; and talking together, as men do. It is all very natural, their conversation-it is all very relaxed and casual. Smith confesses that he has never before had a friend with whom he could talk openly. ”This is all something of a revelation for me,” he says shyly. ”Not just the West, Harmon, but you as well. Especially, you know, you!”

Which outburst causes Liges to blush with a curious sort of half-angry pleasure.

ON ONE OR another train, in hackney cabs, in rented motorcars, dining together three, or even four, times each day-Liges and Smith become such intimate companions, there is hardly a particle of Smith's soul left unexamined, though the rich man's son is careful never to hint at his true ident.i.ty. Sometimes it is a task for Liges to detest him, as he knows he should; sometimes it is very easily done. For Smith chatters. For Smith eats in a vague nervous fas.h.i.+on, as if not tasting his food. For Smith perspires even more readily than does Liges; and often pants, after climbing a flight of stairs, or hurrying along the street. Smith's eyes are a clouded muddy brown (while Liges's are a hard stony gray), Smith's skin is pasty-pale, and then sunburnt (while Liges's has the appearance of stained wood). His voice is frequently too shrill and causes people to glance in his direction. He giggles rather than laughs; and giggles too frequently. (Liges must goad himself to laugh at all-for why do people laugh?-it's a mystery to him.) There is a fat mole near Smith's left eye that particularly annoys Liges, and he has come to notice that, like himself, Smith has a scattering of warts in his hands. Like himself Smith has p.r.o.nounced brows, tangled and dark (darker than his fair hair), and a habit of squinting. (Though Liges cannot recall whether this habit has always been his, or whether he has picked it up from Smith.) Odd, Liges thinks, that Smith has never once commented on their resemblance to each other. Is he too stupid?-has he never dared look fully into Liges's face?-doesn't he see?

Still, no one else seems to have noticed either; in public places, so far, the two men have attracted no unusual attention.

”How ugly he is!” Liges sometimes thinks, involuntarily scanning Smith's face. Then again, with a sensation of confused pity: ”But I suppose he can't help himself, any more than I can.”

”DO YOU KNOW, Harmon,” Smith says suddenly, one morning near the end of April, as Liges is driving them in a rented Pierce-Arrow touring car out of Fort Collins, Colorado, ”-I don't always wake up in the morning to G.o.d. To faith in G.o.d. That is, I know that G.o.d exists, but I cannot always believe it.”

To which Liges replies vaguely that he often has the same doubts.

”I'm afraid that I have sometimes sinned against the Holy Spirit,” Smith says in a quavering voice, staring sightlessly at the remarkable landscape. ”I mean-by falling into despair of being saved. And only the perfect love of Jesus Christ has brought me back to myself.”

To which Liges replies that it has often been likewise with him.

” . . . Except, out here in the West, in these extraordinary s.p.a.ces, it seems a very great distance for Christ to come,” Smith says. He fidgets in his seat, and glances at his companion, and, grown quite emotional, says, ”You see, Harmon, there is G.o.d-certainly. And there is Christ-of that I have no doubt. But sometimes, out here, so far away from everything, I cannot quite understand, you know, what they have to do with me.”

Indeed, murmurs Liges.

” . . . Yet,” says Smith, almost aggressively, as if rousing himself, ”I must always remember that even if we lose our human faith, that does not affect G.o.d. For He continues to exist, you know, Harmon, even if we do not.”

”Does He!” Liges softly exclaims.

TWO AND A half days in Boulder . . . a day in Estes Park . . . by touring car up through Pa.s.saway, and Black Hawk, and Flint, and Azure . . . to Fort Collins . . . to Brophy Mills . . . to Red Feather Lakes and the Medicine Bow Mountains and the very trout stream that Liges has fished before, he says, many times before, and which has yet to disappoint him.

”What is the name of the stream, Harmon?” Smith asks.

”Oh-it has no name,” Liges says.

”What is it near, then? Perhaps I can find it on the map,” Smith says.

”You cannot find it on the map,” Liges says, rather abruptly. ”Such things are not marked on a map . . . .When I see it, I will recognize it. Never fear!”

So they make their way up through the foothills, up into the mountains, Liges at the wheel of the smart black touring car, Smith staring out the window. As a consequence of his days in the sun, Smith is no longer quite so pallid; and, in honor of their expedition, he has even begun to grow a beard-at the present time, rather spa.r.s.e and sickly a beard. (”Perhaps I will never shave again,” he says with a wild little laugh. ”No matter how Mother begs.”) Of late, Smith is given to uncharacteristic periods of silence; as if brooding, or regretful, or apprehensive. It is very lonely, away from the bustle of the city. It is very strangely lonely. The mountains after all are so very high, the sky so piercing a cobalt-blue-a man's soul is dwarfed. And it is cold. Though nearly May, it is bone-chilling cold. Back home in Philadelphia, Smith says wistfully, the spring flowers must be blooming.

”And what is that to us?” Liges asks.

SHORTLY PAST NOON of 28 April-a brilliantly bright windy day-they come to the very trout stream Liges has been seeking. It is twenty-odd miles beyond Red Feather Lakes, in a wild region of small mountains, steep sandstone canyons, narrow tumbling brooks whose rocks are edged, still, with ice. At this point the dirt road Liges has been following is little more than a trail; in the canyon sides, enormous scars have been cut in the very rock, by snowslides and avalanches. Here, it is very lonely indeed.

Smith climbs dazed out of the car and stands with his hands on his hips in a pose of supreme satisfaction. His breath steams, his eyes begin to water, his lips move silently. So this is it.

He shouts his awkward approval over his shoulder, to Liges, who is impa.s.sively preparing their fis.h.i.+ng poles, and doesn't seem to hear.

(In Fort Collins the men equipped themselves with fis.h.i.+ng gear of the highest quality, at the most expensive sporting goods store in town: twin rods and reels, tough resilient line, a stainless steel gutting knife, a collection of exquisite feathered flies, rubber hip boots, rubberized gloves, hand nets, etc. ”All this paraphernalia merely to catch a fis.h.!.+” Smith marveled; then hastily emended, ”But of course it's worth every penny.”) There's a small problem securing the reels to the rods, and looping the lines out clearly; a problem adjusting the thigh-high rubber boots; but by 12:10 P.M., by Liges's watch, the men wade out into the bracing, icy stream, moving with extreme caution, and cast out their lines.

And minutes pa.s.s.

And, swiftly, a half hour.

A chill wind whistles down thinly from above. The mountain stream splashes white, and very cold. Liges finds himself regarding Smith with a brotherly sort of compa.s.sion. Now, at last, they are here, and peaceful; he's in no hurry; for it's always undignified to be made to hurry, or to act in intemperate haste-snapping that woman's neck between his hands, for instance. Though she would have had to be killed in any case. As he matures, Liges, who is Harwood Licht his father's son, sees the logic of Abraham's philosophy in which crime is dissolved in complicity and much is meditated before the simplest move is played. He knows he's been clumsy in the past but he's learning, and one day soon, perhaps by next Christmas, he will make his tyrant of a father blink in awe of him; and Thurston, and Elisha, and even the spoiled b.i.t.c.h Millicent, will be forgotten.

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