“I'm not surprised,” his wife said shortly. “No time for anything but horseback riding, neither of them.”
“And target practice,” Wirt added.
Beulah blinked and looked puzzled.
“I'm putting it just the way Elec said,” Wirt told her. “He said he saw Nate and the boy there on the bank of the creek. They were shooting up just about everything in sight, according to Elec.”
His wife looked indignant at such a thought. “Why, Jefferson is just a child, not much more'n a baby! He can't shoot a gun!”
“What I'm trying to tell you,” Wirt went on, “is that his pa was teaching him how to shoot. They were having a regular drill, Elec said, with Nate showing the boy just how to aim and everything.”
Beulah was struck dumb at such a suggestion. Her mouth worked, but she made no sound. She sank slowly onto a chair across the table from her husband.
Wirt shook his head. “I know. I couldn't believe it, either. But Marshal Blasingame is not a lying man. He swore he saw Jeff firing Nate's revolver, and doing a better job at it than most men.”
Beulah Sewell's small round face was hard as concrete. “Wirt, we've got to do something.”
Only once before could Wirt remember seeing that bitter look of self-righteousness on his wife's face. That memory took him back ten years or more, and in his mind he could still see the stricken face of Widow Stover just before she'd been railroaded out of town. The “widow” had been known in Plainsville as a loose woman, though few, if any, could tell exactly how the epithet had been earned. She had worked a while at the Paradise eating house, where the rougher element congregated. On top of that, the widow's cheeks appeared unnaturally pink to some, and it was rumored that she painted them. Also, the widow had an exceptionally brassy voice and loved to laugh.
Wirt Sewell could not explain just why Widow Stover came to his mind at this moment, but he thought it had something to do with that set hardness in Beulah's face. That time so long ago she had looked at him in just the same way: iron-hard wrinkles around her small, pursed mouth, her pale eyes ablaze. “Wirt,” she had said that time, in just the same voice, “we've got to do something.” And the next day a delegation of Plainsville women had escorted Widow Stover to the stage office, where they purchased for her a one-way ticket out of the county.
What all this had to do with Nathan Blaine, Wirt was not sure, but his wife frightened him when she looked at him this way.
Wirt cleared his throat. “I was thinking,” he said uneasily, “maybe we ought to have a talk with Nate.”
“It's too late for talk,” his wife said stiffly.
“Now, Beulah,” he tried to soothe her. Let's don't look at this thing the wrong way. Nate's the boy's father; we can't forget that. It's only natural for a father to want his son to be proud of him. So we really can't blame Nate for showing off a little in front of the boy.”
“He's teaching his son to kill!”
“Now, Beulah,” Wirt said gently, “it ain't that at all. I guess guns are what Nate is best at. Now Mac Butler, the blacksmith, forges the best carving knives in the whole Southwest—that's what he's proud of, and that's what his son is proud of. It's the same with Nate, except Nate takes to guns instead of knives.”
“It ain't the same,” his wife said flatly.
Inwardly, Wirt knew that he was doing badly and would never get his point across the way he saw it. Still, something made him keep trying.
“I know it ain't the same, exactly,” he said, “but in a way it is. We ought to talk to Nate and make him see it ain't right for a boy Jeff's age to know so much about guns. We ought to get him to teach the boy something else, something he'll be able to use later in life.”
“You'd be wasting your time,” Beulah told him. “I know Nathan Blaine. He's a wild one and always has been. I warned Lilie against him, but she wouldn't listen to me. There's only one thing to do. We've got to separate Jefferson from his pa, and the sooner we get about it, the better!”
Her husband looked worried. “Beulah, what have you got in mind to do?”
“I don't know yet. Maybe we'll just have to wait for something. Meanwhile, we can be giving it some thought.”
She said no more. Her eyes burning a bit brighter, her back a bit stiffer, she went on about her work.
Chapter Five
JEFF BLAINE COULD hardly believe that six months ago he had been a barefoot boy that people never gave a second glance to. Now he was “young Blaine,” well past his thirteenth birthday and in his last year at the academy. When he crossed the street, people looked at him and said, “There goes young Blaine. Nate Blaine's boy.”
It was a strange feeling, waking up after twelve years and having people look at you for the first time. It was almost as though he had been invisible before.
Jeff liked the feeling that went with being visible. It gave * a person a sense of importance to see heads turn when you walked past. He liked to watch mouths moving and know that they were talking about him. It didn't make much difference what they said. The knowledge that they were talking about him was the important thing.
His life had become a bit more complicated than it had been before, but Jeff didn't mind. If the boys at the academy wanted to be jealous of him, let them. He didn't need them. And if parents told their boys to steer clear of Jeff Blaine, that was all right too.
There was just one thing that bothered him. That was Amy Wintworth....
Jeff still remembered that birthday party of hers that should have been such a success, and wasn't. The party had been pretty much like a dozen others that Jeff had attended, with hand-turned ice cream, and cake, and paper napkins. No matter how hard Amy and Mrs. Wintworth tried to mix them up, the boys soon separated from the girls, starting their own strictly male game of one-and-over.
For the first time in his life Jeff felt out of place and uncomfortable. He felt superior to one-and-over, so he stood apart from the others, trying to be cool and aloof.
“This is terrible!” Amy told him. “Jeff, can't you get the boys to mix with the girls?”
And he had thrown back his head, exactly like Nathan Blaine. “I can't stop them from being kids all their lives, if that's what they want.”
“Well, won't you come over and talk to us?”
He had been outraged at this suggestion. “No, I can't,” he said, drawing himself up. And so he had cut himself away from the others and was left standing, one small island, between the two groups. He was lonely and angry in his chosen position of isolation, but he lounged against one of the clothesline posts, yawning with elaborate casual-ness to hide his feelings.
“Stuck up!” he heard Lela Costain hiss acidly.
And several of the girls gathered in a small cluster and Jeff knew they were talking about him. Amy and Mrs. Wintworth had still tried to draw the two groups together, but by then the girls were as interested in their sharp, pointed gossip as the boys were in their one-and-over. Amy pointedly ignored Jeff, and he knew that she was angry.
Well, he thought, she'd get over it. Just the same she had never been prettier than she was that night, and Jeff kept glancing at her when he thought she wasn't looking.
He wished that she would come over and talk to him again, but she was too proud for that.
Probably every party reaches a point where it seems to be falling to pieces, and that was the way it was then, on Amy's eleventh birthday. But you'd never know it to look at Amy. She carried herself straight and proud, and her bright smile seemed as permanent as a steel etching. Nothing could erase it.
And yet the smile vanished when she approached the group of girls. A grimness appeared at the corners of her mouth when she heard what they were saying. Her chin jutted with determination.
“That's enough,” Amy said quietly. There was a brittleness in her voice, an urgency, that made the girls look around.
“I was just saying—” Lela Costain started. “I heard!” Amy replied coldly.
The Wintworth back
yard became suddenly quiet. The boys stopped their one-and-over and began moving forward to see what was wrong.
Lela Costain, a stocky, square-built girl, shot glances around the small circle, smiling when she saw that everyone was eagerly awaiting her next word. “Well,” she said primly, smoothing down her blue ruffled dress, “it's the truth. Everybody knows about Nate Blaine.”
“Lela Costain, I don't want to hear another word!” Amy said sharply, and the look of self-satisfaction dropped from Lela's face. She looked flustered and ready to cry, and suddenly she turned and ran from the back yard. That was the last they saw of Lela Costain that night. That was all there was to it, but the entire character of the party was changed. The rowdy boys now shuffled uneasily, the girls were strangely mute. The party was as good as dead.
In Jeff's ears the sound of his father's name was still ringing. Lela had said something bad about his pa—that much was clear. He hated the thought of having a girl take up a fight that was rightly his, and yet he was proud of Amy for doing it. He couldn't very well fight a girl himself.
Within a matter of minutes the Wintworth back yard was empty. Reasons were suddenly thought of for going home early that night, and soon only Jeff and Amy were left.
“I guess,” Amy said, “the party is over.”
“It sure looks like it,” he said awkwardly. “Well, J guess I'd better be going.” But he stopped before reaching the gate. “I'm proud of you, Amy. I guess Lela Costain won't be telling lies about people after this.”
“Proud of me!” He hadn't expected her sudden anger. “What happened was your fault, Jeff Blaine, not Lela's!”
“My fault?”
“How do you think the others felt, with you standing off to yourself, thinking that you were too good to mix with the rest of us? You can't do that and not get talked about!”
Jeff had never seen a girl as hard to make out as Amy. One minute she was on your side, and the next minute she was blaming him for everything. Now the fire of anger was in her eyes; he could almost feel the sparks fly as she glared at him. He felt that he had better leave as quietly as possible.
“Jeff!” He had just reached the gate when she called. Another girl would have cried her eyes out because her party had been ruined, but not Amy Wintworth. She came toward him, walking very straight. “I guess I didn't mean all the things I said, Jeff. It wasn't really your fault.”
He felt awkward, and did not know what to say.
“I'll make it up with Lela tomorrow,” she said. “Everything will be all right.”
He knew that it had been largely his fault and he wanted to tell her so. But the words would not come. He could only stand there looking at her, and the longer he looked the prettier she seemed to get. “Well—” he said, clearing his throat— “I guess I'd better go.”
For a long while that night, after going to bed, he thought over what had happened. Amy had nerve—and he had learned to appreciate nerve from his pa. Remembering how she had stepped in to take his part gave him a warm and pleasant feeling. Perhaps for the first time he actually thought of Amy Wintworth as his girl.
This thought so occupied his mind that it did not occur to him to wonder what Lela Costain had been saying about his pa. Probably he would have passed it off as nothing if it hadn't been for something that happened shortly after, at school.
Alex Jorgenson was fourteen, a straw-haired, red-faced boy who outweighed Jeff by twenty pounds. Jeff never liked him, never had much to do with him until that day when he came into the cluster of boys at the rear of the schoolhouse. Alex was talking, and the others were listening intently.
“It's a fact,” Alex was saying. “My pa told me, and he says it's the gospel truth.”
Jeff stood back a little from the group, assuming an attitude of cool disinterest. He wore new jeans that his pa had bought him, and his fine black boots, and he had a belt with a genuine Mexican silver buckle. A person dressed in such fine clothes could hardly afford to mix with barefoot urchins. He kept his distance.
“What did your old man say?” one of the boys asked Alex Jorgenson.
“Well, he got it straight from the traveler,” Alex said. “This traveler'd been up in New Mexico Territory, so he knew what he was talking about.”
“What was the story?” someone asked impatiently.
“Hold your horses, will you?” Alex said, loving the attention, wanting to draw it out as long as possible. “I'm tellin' you about the traveler so you'll know the story's straight and I'm not making it up. This traveler's horse'd thrown a shoe, and he'd stopped at Butler's to get it fixed up—that's where my pa works.”
“We know your pa works for Mac Butler,” Todd Wintworth said. “But what has it got to do with Blaine?”
Jeff felt his scalp tingle at the mention of his father's name. He was afraid that they were going to look around and see him standing there—but they didn't.
“This is the way it happened,” Alex said confidentially, dropping his voice so that Jeff could barely hear him. “This traveler claimed he'd been in this town, a place called Limerock, up in the New Mexican country. When the name of Nate Blaine turned up in the talk, my pa said this stranger turned green around the gills and said he wouldn't stay overnight in a town where Nathan Blaine lived.”
“Why not?” Todd Wintworth put in again.
“Because Blaine killed a man in Limerock!” Alex said, pausing a moment for dramatic effect. “The traveler swore it was the gospel truth; he was there. Shot this man dead, Nate Blaine did, in a poker game. The stranger said they were still looking for him over New Mexico way.”
For one long moment Jeff stood still as stone.
“I've heard that story before,” one of the boys said.
“But not from a man that was actually there!” another one said.
“That's what I'm telling you!” Alex said importantly. “This is the truth; you've got to believe it.” Then he drew himself up, scowling. “Unless somebody wants to call me a liar.”
Alex was a good deal bigger than the others. “Wait a minute, Alex. Nobody said you was a liar.”
“Well, they better not!”
Jeff spoke. “And what if they do?”
All heads snapped in Jeff's direction. They saw him then for the first time, and some of them looked worried.
Jeff hardly recognized the voice that came from his throat. He stood so stiff and straight that his back began to ache. A cold fury raged within him.
He said, “I call you a liar, Alex. I call you a double damn liar.”
Alex Jorgenson looked startled.
“Do you admit you're a liar?” Jeff demanded.
Alex sneered. He was heavier and older, but he wasn't sure that he liked what he saw in Jeff's eyes.
“Admit it!” Jeff said hoarsely.
“Are you crazy?” Alex tried to laugh.
“You admit it, or you'll be sorry.”
Alex tried to blow himself up. He glanced at the others, drew in a deep breath and swaggered forward. “Just what do you think you're going to do about it? You want to fight, that's fine with me!”
“Gentlemen don't fight with their fists.”
The words surprised Jeff almost as much as they did Alex and the others. Then he remembered that he had heard his father say it several times in describing men like Longley and Hardin.
The shadow of worry vanished from Alex Jorgenson's eyes. He laughed. “You're yellow, Jeff Blaine! You're afraid to fight.”
“You admit you're a liar,” Jeff repeated grimly.
“And what if I don't?”
“I'll kill you.”
Alex did not hear the danger in the words. He laughed once more. “You're yellow!” he said again, and then he lunged at Jeff, hitting him solidly in the face with his big right fist.
Jeff reeled back under the impact, stumbled and fell to the ground. Anger was hot within him. He lost sight of Alex's advantage in age and weight. He was ready to shove himself up and fly into the grinning red face
that leered down at him. Then, in his mind, he heard his father saying: “Gentlemen don't fight with their fists.” He stayed down.
Alex Jorgenson was pleased and surprised with his easy victory. He looked at the others, grinning.
“What did I tell you? He's yellow!”
Todd Wintworth was the only one among them to see the danger. He stepped forward, shoving at Alex. “Get away from here, fast! Before somebody gets hurt!”
Alex pushed him away. He strutted now, savoring the situation. “Nobody's going to get hurt,” he bragged. “Jeff Blaine's too yellow to get up and take his beating.”
Jeff spoke hoarsely from the ground. “We'll see who's yellow, Alex! I'll meet you at the cottonwood grove on Crowder's Creek when school gets out. And you'd better bring a gun!”
Gambling Man Page 5
