The White Hunter

by Gilbert, Morris

  Annie’s heart was beating fast. In the short time since they’d arrived in Clarence, she’d already had an adventure such as she had never had in her entire life. She kept stealing glances at John Winslow and thought, in spite of herself, He’s like some hero in a book. What would I have done if he hadn’t come along? As the buggy pulled out of town, all she knew was that John Winslow was the most striking man she’d ever seen. When he turned to face her, his light blue eyes smiling, she could barely answer for the tightness of her throat. She would not have described it as falling in love, but those who knew young people might have identified it as the beginning of some sort of attraction that could lead to infatuation. She was scarcely conscious of the words he spoke, for she was admiring his strong profile, the strength of his neck, and his capable brown hands. I’ve never seen anyone like him in my whole life, Annie thought fervently.

  “It’s only about five miles to the ranch. I would have brought the car, but we had a flat tire, and I didn’t have time to fix it.” John Winslow turned back over his shoulder and winked at Jeb. “Quite a welcome you got. Gettin’ into a fistfight with a skunk like Baxter.”

  “Is he really a bad man?”

  “No. He’s not bad. He just smells bad,” John laughed. “I been meaning to have a few words with him. He tried to steal my girl at the last dance and I let him get by with it.” He turned then to Annie and gave her a warm look. “Ma’s been talking about your coming for a long time. I hope you stay for a long visit.”

  “I hope so, too,” Annie whispered.

  “Well, you’ll have lots of company.”

  “Company?” Annie was startled. “What kind of company?”

  “Why, a pretty girl like you—every long-legged, no-account, trifling cowboy in the county will be filtering over our way.” He laughed at his own words and then winked at her. He also reached out and put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. “Don’t let them scare you now. They’ll find every excuse in the world to drop by the house.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Horse gone lame . . . brought by some butter from their mother to give to my ma. Oh, they’ll find excuses a plenty. And then at the dances you’ll have to fight them off with a stick.”

  Annie, who had never experienced a man’s attention in her life, found his words soothing. “I . . . I don’t think that’ll happen,” she faltered.

  John Winslow turned to look at his relative. “Well, you’re a mighty pretty girl, and there’s not many in the whole county. Lots of homely cowboys like me, though.”

  The buggy moved on and John continued to entertain his two passengers with intriguing stories. Once he looked over his shoulder and said, “I’ll make a real cowhand out of you, Jeb.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Winslow.”

  “Just John. I’m not old enough to be your grandpa yet. I’m only twenty-three. How old are you, Jeb?”

  “Nineteen.” Jeb couldn’t help but think that he seemed far younger than four years to John.

  “How about you, Annie?”

  “I’m fifteen.”

  “Well, all of us Winslows have to hang together.” Once again his hand fell lightly on Annie’s shoulder, and he added it, saying warmly, “I’m mighty glad you’ve come. You’ll put some much needed color in our lives. We need young folks around. My brothers Tom and Bill are gone to buy some cattle.”

  By the time they had come within sight of the ranch buildings, Annie was completely charmed by John Winslow. He paid her an attention that no young man ever had. Always, when he asked a question, he listened to her answer carefully. His smile was quick and friendly, and he paid her many compliments. True, he did the same for Jeb, who sat in the backseat of the buggy, but Annie felt that he was being completely honest. There was nothing flirty about his ways, and several times he said how glad he was they had come for a visit.

  Finally John announced, “Well, there’s the ranch, and there’s Ma and Pa out front waiting for you, and Phil, too. I’m surprised he took time out from his painting.”

  “He’s a painter?” Jeb said.

  “Not a house painter. A picture painter. Yep, he’s the arty one. Me, I’m just a roughneck.”

  The buggy pulled up in front of a long two-story house built of wood and painted white. It had two gables in the front, and a long verandah ran along the front. The three who had come down the steps stood there waiting and waving at them. When John pulled the wagon up to a stop, they all came and greeted them warmly. A tall man, obviously John’s brother, stepped forward and helped Annie down. He cocked one eyebrow and said, “Well, Annie Rogers, I’m your cousin Phil. The good-looking one. John there, he’s the ugly one.”

  “Will you stop your foolishness, Phil!” The woman who advanced to give Annie a hug had brilliant auburn hair. Middle age lay lightly upon her, and her sparkling green eyes seemed to laugh as she stepped back and exclaimed, “Look at you, Annie Rogers! I’m thrilled you could come, my dear. We’ve been so looking forward to your arrival.”

  “That’s right. She ain’t talked about nothin’ else.” A big man with strong, powerful shoulders, whose brown hair was streaked with gray, came forward at once. As he put his hand out, Annie noticed that the right forefinger indeed had been neatly removed, probably by a Confederate sharpshooter. “I’m glad to see you. Kindly introduce us to our other relative.”

  “This is Jeb Winslow,” Annie said.

  Jeb felt out of place, more or less, as Zach Winslow clapped him on the shoulder and pumped his hand with an iron grip.

  “I’m glad to see you. I met your father once. Fine man! Well, wife, are you going to keep ’em standing out here all day in the blistering sun?”

  “Well, devil fly off!” Bronwen Winslow responded, her green eyes sparkling. “You’re the one that’s babbling like an old hen!” She reached over and took Annie’s hand and said, “Come in the house, sweetheart. These men have no manners whatsoever.”

  “Watch out for her, Jeb,” Zach winked. “She’s a tartar. Come on now. Supper’s already on the table. Did you make the train on time, John?”

  “Nope. I didn’t,” he said, casting a look at Jeb.

  “He came just in time though, Mr. Winslow,” Jeb said. “There was a cowboy there that was—well, he was insulting Annie.”

  “Who was that?” Zach asked, straightening up with his eyes glittering.

  At that moment Jeb could believe that Zach Winslow had been a gunman.

  “Oh, it was that trifling Will Baxter,” John replied, shrugging his shoulders carelessly.

  “Did you shoot him?”

  “No, I didn’t have my gun along.”

  “He gave him a thrashing, though, Mr. Winslow,” Jeb said. “You should have seen it.”

  “I wish I could,” Zach said. “Break any of his bones, son?”

  “Don’t think so. May have loosened a few teeth.”

  “I should have been there,” Zach said. “I would have put the scoundrel in the hospital for a long time.”

  “I’m sure you would, Pa.” John smiled and winked at Phil. “But the younger generation’s got a more gentle spirit.”

  “Gentle, my foot!” Zach Winslow bellowed. He had, indeed, been a rough one in his youth, a soldier, a gold miner, and gunman of sorts. He had been considerably tamed by the firm but soft influence of Bronwen, yet the old fire would still rise up in him from time to time. Now, however, he looked with satisfaction at his two tall sons and said, “Well, come on in. Your mother’s a poor cook but she does the best she can.”

  Jeb found out soon that Zacharias Winslow’s words about Bronwen being a poor cook were said entirely in jest, for the supper that was set before them was outstanding. Huge platters of thick, juicy steaks were passed around, along with large bowls of mashed potatoes, corn casserole, green beans, homemade bread with sweet butter thickly spread on each slice, apple pie, large glasses of milk, and hot mugs of coffee.

  All during the meal Jeb sat quietly. Annie, he saw, could not take her eyes off of John
Winslow, and he thought with envy, She’s fallen for him. I don’t blame her much. I sure wasn’t any help defending her.

  Finally Bronwen prodded, “You men go on in the parlor and I’ll do the dishes.”

  “I’ll help you, Bronwen,” put in Annie.

  “Good for you! We’ll let the men do all their worthless talking, then we’ll go in and straighten them out.”

  Jeb found himself dwarfed by the three big men. They were all over six feet—John and Phil at least six two, their father a couple of inches shorter—but he felt weak and pale and washed out next to these bronzed westerners. He sat there listening, answering only when one of them remembered he was there and asked him questions. They were all friendly and wanted to know about his family, especially Aaron, and Jeb did his best to paint a good picture of his adopted father.

  Finally Bronwen and Annie came in, and Bronwen said, “See here, we got this new piano, and I’m just learning to play the thing. Do you know how, Annie?”

  “No, I don’t.” She turned suddenly and said, “But you do, don’t you, Jeb?”

  Jeb flushed. “A little,” he admitted.

  “Well, come on, Jeb,” Zach persuaded. “Let’s have a tune.”

  Reluctantly Jeb got up and went to the piano. He had been playing for a long time, mostly hymns in his church in Virginia, but he had a natural gift for music. “What would you like to hear?”

  “Anything, as long as it’s good,” John said, smiling.

  Jeb put his fingers on the keys and began playing. The others fell silent, for the playing was not like the usual amateurish performances they were accustomed to. Jeb, as always, lost himself in the music and soon forgot his audience. He loved music, especially piano, and he began to play the popular songs of the day, like “Wait Till the Sun Shines, Nellie,” and “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” but then moved into playing all the favorite hymns he loved to play in the church. He added to them some improvisations that he was so good at until finally his gifted playing filled the room and, indeed, the whole house with deep and profound melody.

  Finally Jeb shrugged his shoulders and blinked his eyes somewhat in shock. He looked up and saw everyone staring at him. “I didn’t mean to—” He broke off, for they all started applauding. Bronwen came over, stood behind him, threw her arms around him, and squeezed him hard. “I never heard such playing in all my days,” she said.

  “Why, you could get a job in a music hall,” John grinned and winked at Jeb.

  “Music hall, indeed!” Bronwen sniffed. “The very idea!”

  Phil came over and leaned on the piano. “I wish I could paint as good as you can play the piano,” he murmured.

  Jeb felt better at that moment than he had since he had left Virginia. He looked over at Annie, who smiled at him and nodded, then said, “Well, it’s good I can do something. I sure can’t ride a horse.”

  “Lots of galoots can ride horses,” Zach snorted, “but none I know can play like that.”

  They insisted on more songs, and soon they were all standing around the piano and singing. It was a pleasant hour, and eventually Annie found herself sitting beside John. He suddenly noticed her and, looking down into her eyes, said, “Well, cousin, I’m glad you’re here. I told you you’d put some life in the place, and Jeb can put in some music.”

  At that moment Phil came over and reached down and put his hand under her chin. He tilted her head up, looked into her eyes, and stared into her face. “Oh no! Look out, Annie!” John warned with a broad grin.

  “What’s wrong?” Annie said with anxiety.

  “I know that look,” John Winslow went on. “He’s going to paint your picture.”

  “I wouldn’t mind, Annie,” Phil said. “You’ve got lovely bone structure.”

  “Bone structure!” Bronwen snorted. “What a thing to say, talking about . . . a young woman’s bones!”

  “How about it, Annie? I need a model. Will you pose for me?”

  Annie felt their approval and said, “Yes, I will. I’ve never had my picture painted.”

  Soon after that Bronwen said, “Now, these young people have had a long and hard day of travel. It’s time to go to bed. Come along, Annie. I’ll show you your room. John, you take Jeb up to his.”

  Soon Annie was lying in a soft bed with fresh coverlets about her. The window was open, and she could hear the wind whispering softly outside. A crescent moon grinned in at her, and a bit of wispy cloud drifted across its face for just a moment. Annie lay there thinking about her adventures. I’m glad Jeb can play like that. He needs to do something well. But her mind was on John Winslow. Even as she closed her eyes in sleep, she was thinking of how he had come to her rescue and how he had put his hand on her shoulder in the wagon coming home and smiled down at her.

  “I’ve never met anyone so wonderful,” she whispered just before drifting off to sleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Portrait

  Time seemed to flow differently for Annie Rogers and Jeb Winslow as the days of their visit in Montana passed. For Annie they seemed to fly by quickly, while time seemed to be frozen for Jeb—he thought the visit would never end. Every day Annie was up at dawn and in the saddle, riding with John Winslow. She was accustomed to such long hours, having grown up on a ranch herself, and John found her company enjoyable. More than once he said, “Annie, you ought to pay more attention to these young fellows who come foggin’ in here. You don’t want to spend all your days with an old, worn-out bachelor like me.”

  The last time he had said this, Annie had looked up from the roan mare she was riding into the face of the tall rider beside her. The sun had mellowed his skin to a golden tan, smooth and even, and only the white at the V shirt opening revealed his true coloration. She could not help thinking that she had never seen anyone so young and vigorous as John Winslow. “I like being with you, John,” she said breathlessly.

  “Well, I guess you just like old folks then.”

  “You’re not old. You’re only twenty-three.”

  “Only twenty-three,” John chuckled softly. “Seems mighty old to me. Seems like I’ve been stuck on this ranch for a millennium at least.”

  “Don’t you like the ranch?”

  “Oh sure,” Winslow said carelessly, “but there’s a big world out there, Annie. I want to see some of it. All I see now is a bunch of heifers. Someday I’m going to leave here and get on a ship and sail until it gets out of sight of land and just goes on and on and on until it makes port someplace where they never heard of a saddle or a cow.”

  The two were riding alongside a river that twisted sinuously across the plain. From time to time it was punctuated by willow trees along the banks. Finally they drew up under one of these to water their horses. Annie had thought deeply about what John said. “I want to do that, too,” she said as she watched the river flow along.

  “I guess everybody wants to spread their wings a little before they get old. You take Pa. He got to fight in a war, and he went to hunt for gold up north. Ma, she came from Wales. But I’ve never done anything but nurse these cows.”

  The two stood there enjoying the cool breeze, and finally they mounted again. “I guess we’d better get back. It’s about time for Phil to paint some more on that picture of yours. You going to give it to me when he’s finished with it?”

  “Do you want it, John?”

  Winslow turned to give her a surprised look. “Well . . . sure I’d like to have a picture of a pretty girl, but your folks would like to have it.”

  “You can have it if you want it,” she said demurely.

  “You’re generous, Annie,” he said, “but you hang on to that picture. Your future husband will want a picture to see what you looked like when you were just the age you are now.”

  Annie did not answer but determined at that moment that she would give the picture to John when it was finished.

  When they arrived back at the ranch, John slipped to the ground and took the lines of her horse. “I’ll unsad
dle. You get on in and let Phil get something done on that picture.” He hesitated and his face grew sober. “You know, I think Ma and Pa are in for a shock.”

  “How’s that, John?”

  “Well, I’ve talked about leaving, and so has Phil. I think he’s planning on going to England or Spain or somewhere and learn more about how to paint. He doesn’t say much about it, but that’s all he thinks about. I know him pretty well.”

  “Your folks would be lonely here, wouldn’t they?”

  “I guess they would.” Winslow ran the lines of the horse through his strong hands and shook his head. “Life’s like that. We get something we like, and then it’s snatched away from us.”

  Annie looked up quickly. “What do you mean by that, John?”

  “Why, nothing special.” John seemed surprised by her question, but then laughed slightly. “Guess I’m getting philosophical. Run on in, Annie. Let the great artist get started.”

  At that moment Jeb was standing at the window looking outside at the pair. Behind him, seated on a chair beside the kitchen table, Bronwen Winslow was peeling potatoes. She studied the young man carefully, for she had become quite fond of him during their short time together. She always had a heart for boys, and this one seemed to be in need of approval. He had come to open his heart to her in a way that would have surprised some who knew Jeb, but then she was an easy woman to talk to. She had the gift of silence and a face that invited confidences, and now she knew that something was troubling Jeb Winslow.

  “Is that John and Annie come back?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jeb turned, took a seat, picked up a knife, and began to peel a potato. He worked meticulously, shaving the potato almost to a transparent peeling.

  “You peel potatoes better than my boys did. When they got through, there wasn’t anything left. More potato on the peelings than there was in the middle!”