But she did not wait for his reply. Hastily gathering up the tray of half-eaten food, she hurried out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
Street was puzzled by her behavior. He was puzzled and upset. Had he known that she was crying bitterly as she carried the tray to the kitchen, he would have been even more disturbed. For he might have understood then what she had been trying to tell him all along. That Verona today was not the Verona he had known two years ago. That Verona had changed. Not knowing, he simply thought, I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to leave and I’ve got to see her. The longer I stay in this country the harder it’s going to be.
Experimentally he swung his legs over the side of the bed. But he did not stand up. For dizziness claimed him and he knew that if he did, he would fall down. He lay back on the bed. Reflectively he rubbed his jaw, was surprised to find it clean-shaven, at least where there were no scabbed wounds. He thought, Why, good Lord, she’s even been shaving me. And suddenly the full weight of his obligation struck him. Except for this girl, for Chain, he would be dead. If he’d almost died with her care, he’d undoubtedly have died without it. Yet this obligation was one he would have to ignore. Because he knew that to pay it would be to lose Verona forever. Chain was at war with Gunhammer. Perhaps no shots had been fired as yet, but it was war all the same. Street, nominally owner of the Rawlins spread, stood in the middle. If he sold to Gunhammer, they would move in on Chain, would steal the major part of this fabulous kingdom of grass. If he did not sell to Gunhammer, he would have to fight. And if he fought, he would lose Verona, assuming of course that he had not already lost her.
Street closed his eyes. Impatience gnawed at him. But he was wise enough to know that he could not leave Chain yet. He also knew that the quickest way to regain strength, to heal, is to sleep and rest. He rested. But already he was planning, was yearning for the time when he could leave the haven of Chain and ride back to Escalante. We’ll go away together, he thought. We’ll get the fresh start we’ve both waited so long for.
It was fortunate, perhaps, that Street did not know Gunhammer had no intention of letting him leave. It was also fortunate that he did not know that Frank Jagger even now was heading toward Escalante, one thousand dollars in his poke and triumph in his heart.
* * * * *
The next morning, Rose permitted Street to get out of bed. She provided him with Levi’s, faded from many washings, and a plaid flannel shirt, which Street judged belonged to her father. She brought him his boots that had been cleaned and polished. She left the room while he got dressed, although Street realized with a sudden heat of embarrassment that he had no privacy left where Rose was concerned. She had cared for him three days and nights.
Afterward, feeling weak and dizzy and only partially recovered from his embarrassment, he made his way through the house and out to the veranda where Rose was waiting. More tired than he would have liked to admit, he sank gratefully into a wicker rocker. Perhaps the vast impatience he felt with his own weakness showed in his face, for Rose said, “Don’t be so intolerant with yourself. Even a strong body takes time to mend.”
Street gave her a meager smile. He said, “Two years of waiting make a man impatient. Hell, I’ve been here four days and I haven’t even talked to Verona yet.”
Rose stared at the horizon. Silence fell between them, silence that became increasingly awkward. Street wondered why Rose did not like Verona. The girl seemed above feminine jealousy, but what else could her dislike be? He fished automatically in his shirt pocket for tobacco, failing to find it. Rose got up wordlessly and went into the house, returning shortly with sack tobacco, papers, and matches. Street fashioned a cigarette and lit it.
He was painfully aware of this girl beside him, was also aware that she disapproved either of him, of Verona, or of both of them. It puzzled him until he thought, It’s the way I’ve lived that she disapproves. Yet with Rose he felt, in spite of that, a deep sense of companionship such as he had never known with Verona. His life with Verona had been tempestuous and full of fire, always. There had been no moments of peace and understanding. Moodily he stared out at the land that was Chain. Peace and understanding lay ahead, down the years. Youth was the time for fire. Yet why could not the two go hand in hand?
Perhaps Rose thought he was noticing Chain, for she said, “We put up no hay on Chain, as you’ve probably noticed. There is shelter in the timber over there for the cattle during winter storms. And grass aplenty when the storms are over. Cattle winter fat on Chain. They always have.” There was unconscious pride in her voice.
Street followed the direction of her gesture with his glance. Chain, the whole length of it, lay nestled like a lover against the plateau rim and was sheltered by it. There was a strip of hilly, timbered country between the foot of the rim and the open grassland. Street’s eyes wandered across the bench to the other side where the grass ended abruptly at the cañon drop off.
Rose murmured, “Chain is a cowman’s dream, Mister Street … fenced by nature with the rim on one side, with the cañon on the other. Except at roundup time in the fall and branding in the spring, we don’t even need a crew. All the cattle need is to be let alone, for there’s grass and water everywhere.”
Street said, “No wonder Gunhammer wants it. Will they leave you anything at all?”
Rose Healy made a small, bitter laugh. “Oh, yes. They’re being very generous. They won’t bother our home, because it stands on patented land. The Laceys own Sheriff Coe, but they’re terrified of doing anything that would bring in a US marshal. So they won’t bother our patented land.”
“How about graze?”
“They’ll take all of that. They have offered to let us run three hundred head of cattle on a pool arrangement. I won’t even have to hire riders. Gunhammer will do my branding, my roundup work, my shipping.” Rose’s lovely face was bitter.
“Just like a pension … or a handout. Take what they give you and be grateful.” Street was angry. He asked, “What are you going to do about it?”
She made a pathetic shrug. “What can we do? My father is an invalid, confined to his bed or to a wheelchair. For a while Will Rawlins stood between Gunhammer and Chain, but he only did it in hope of profit. He was asking Gunhammer ten thousand dollars for that little hundred and sixty acres down there. So you see, he was only using our misfortune as a lever to pry money out of Gunhammer.”
“What happened to him?”
Again Rose shrugged helplessly. “Some things you know but cannot prove. He was found dead in Escalante’s shack town, a knife in his back. There was a bottle beside him and signs that a woman had been with him. And likely Max Bauer wielded the knife.”
“So now nothing stands between Gunhammer and you. Nothing but a man who doesn’t even own the name he carries.” Street had a dark suspicion, which was that Rose had brought him here and cared for him in the hope of using him as a buffer. It must have been a great shock to her to discover he was Street and not Rawlins.
Rose looked at him steadily. “I know what you’re thinking. It isn’t true, though I can’t ask you to believe it. It does look bad, doesn’t it, bringing you here and caring for you, and you a total stranger?”
Street smiled wryly. “I’ve considered the possibility that you wanted my help.”
Rose flushed. She said, “We’re beyond the help of any one man. And you’re not to let it worry you. We’ll continue to live, even after Gunhammer takes over. It’s not your problem at all. You’ve troubles enough of your own, which are worse because of us.”
“Ever think of fighting for Chain?” Street asked dryly.
“Of course we’ve thought of it. But we have also realized that we cannot win. Gunhammer is too big, and they’re ruthless, which we could never be. The only thing we might gain by fighting would be delay, and the cost would be too great. Men would be killed. Children would be orphaned, women widowed. Is a lit
tle delay worth that?”
Street’s admiration for this girl grew. He suddenly wanted to pitch in and help her himself. Then he thought of Verona again and remained silent.
IX
He rocked, feeling strength returning and staring moodily out across the land of Chain. A feeble voice raised inside the house and Rose excused herself. Street heard her talking within the house, patient, tender. After a while she returned, pushing a wheelchair. Street got up and helped her through the door with it.
Sean Healy, he saw at once, had been a big man. The story was there in his massive bones, in the wide spread of his shoulders, now so wasted and thin. Sean’s face was hollow, gaunt, shrunken, yet its color told a story of exposure to sun and weather; its seamed good humor told of a lifetime of work and lusty living. The body was wasted, but the eyes were bright and lively. Sean smiled up at Street and asked wryly, “Another victim of Gunhammer, Mister Street?”
It came as something of a shock to Street to hear his name used. He was getting accustomed already to being called Rawlins. He inclined his head with unconscious respect. He grinned with genuine liking. “No one likes to be considered a victim. The word implies complete helplessness.”
“And aren’t we helpless?” Vast bitterness was reflected in the old man’s face.
Street’s grin faded. He said, “If we admit it, we are. I haven’t admitted it yet.”
“And I have?”
Street’s glance was an apology, a protest, but the old man waved it aside, smiling gently. “Do you blame me, Mister Street? Can a man fight from a wheelchair?”
“Others have. There are men who fight for money. Have you thought of them? Fighting men have been directed from a wheelchair before. They will be again.”
“Not on Chain they won’t. Because it is a battle that cannot be won without heavy casualties. Seguro has been on Chain as long as I, and he has nine children. He would fight with the others and he might be killed. I couldn’t have that. Neither could I have Chain turned into a fortress, liable to attack and burning at any time. No, Mister Street, I will keep part of what is mine at least. I will keep it so that I can pass it on to Rose when I die. Perhaps someday a man will come along, a man with the strength to fight Gunhammer, who will marry Rose and recover what rightfully is hers.”
Rose exclaimed, “Father!”
Sean glanced at her and grinned. “All right. I’ll be still. But you see how I feel, Mister Street?”
Street nodded. “I do. And I had no business criticizing. After all, I’m not fighting, either.”
Rose argued stoutly, “It’s not your fight.”
Street shrugged. “Tell Bauer that.” The subject died, but Street had the feeling it was still alive in all their minds. Rose had said that it was not his fight, but Rose was wrong. Gunhammer had made it his fight when they beat him up. Rose had made it his fight when she’d taken him in and nursed him back to life. Only he couldn’t pick up this fight. Because to do so would cost him what he had come here for. Instead, he would take Verona and leave the country to its own solution of the problem. This realization made him feel vaguely guilty.
Rose excused herself and Street sat on the veranda and talked with old Sean until dinner was ready. Sean, in his cracked voice, went back in time to the beginning, to his coming here with his wife, his small daughter, and Seguro Martinez, to found Chain.
Just before noon, Seguro, an aging, wizened Mexican, came riding in and dismounted before the porch. He bowed to Sean, then took Street’s hand. “You are better, Señor Street. Seguro. Seguro.”
Sean laughed gently. “You see why we call him Seguro? He keeps saying … ‘Sure, sure,’ … in Spanish.”
Seguro reported briefly to Sean on the results of his morning’s ride. His face was dark, wrinkled like a shriveling apple, but his eyes were young and full of humor. When he had finished, he crossed the yard to the log tenant house where he lived with his family.
Sean said, “Seguro’s nine kids attend school down in the cañon. His wife helps Rose in the house.”
“And he is your only ’puncher?”
“Yes. Except for spring and fall we need no more. Soon we will need none at all.”
“And Seguro?”
“We will keep him, of course. As long as there is anything at all, this is Seguro’s home, and his family’s home.”
As long as there is anything at all. The phrase lingered in Street’s thoughts, repeating itself. Then, in his heart, Sean believed what Street believed. That there was no compromising with Gunhammer—that Gunhammer would eventually take it all. Right now, all Gunhammer wanted was the grass. But their greed could have no end. When they had Chain’s grass, they would discover they needed the buildings as well, and the campaign would begin. Not a warring campaign, perhaps, only a campaign to make existence at Chain intolerable for Sean, his daughter, and the family of Seguro Martinez. Then an offer. Give ground to greed once and there is never an end to it.
Rose came to the door announcing dinner, and Seguro came and wheeled old Sean Healy inside. Seguro and his wife sat down at the table with them, but Mrs. Martinez was up often, replenishing the food on the table. Street ate, not tasting the food, and feeling increasingly guilty. Conversation ran to generalities, the weather, the state of the grass, to the wolf-killed calf Seguro had found this morning. It was interrupted by the barking of dogs in the yard, by the drum of hoofs on hard-packed ground.
Rose hurried to the kitchen door and looked out, her face mirroring the uneasy terror that must live with her continually these days.
A harsh voice demanded from the yard, “I want to see Ben Rawlins.”
“Why?” There was fear, undisguised, in Rose’s voice.
Seguro had risen. He left the room and returned with a rifle. He jacked a shell into it and crossed silently to the window.
Street was touched. But he was also angered because Bauer had come. He knew a sudden, trapped feeling because he could neither let these people defend him nor take another beating at Bauer’s hands. He knew he would kill before he would let Gunhammer touch him again. He got up, but Rose spoke sharply over her shoulder, “Sit still! You are not well enough. Don’t come to the door!”
Street ignored her. He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, gently moving her aside. Bauer had not bothered to dismount. He sat with his right side to the door, and his hand rested lightly on the pommel of his saddle, within instant reach of the cross-draw gun.
Street scowled, thinking, There was a time when I’d have made you show your speed, but he said nothing.
Bauer was arrogant, riding the crest of what he believed to be Street’s fear of him, He said, “Rawlins, we won’t touch you while you’re here. But you can’t stay forever. When you leave …” He smiled cruelly, showing his white, even teeth. He was shaved today but his jaw still showed the bluish cast of his beard. His hair was as wildly unruly as ever. His eyes were oddly hot as they gazed at Street as he said, “I don’t quite know why, but I feel something personal in this. I don’t like you, mister.”
Street’s voice was dry. “That makes us even.” He could feel something rising in him, something that had been unknown to him for more than two years, something that might have been the tense excitement that always preceded a gunfight. He made himself think of Verona. “You didn’t ride ’way up here to tell me that.”
“No. We need Chain’s summer graze. We’ve two thousand head of cattle on the trail, coming here from Texas. Brandt Lacey says to double the offer. A thousand dollars. Forty a head for your stock.”
Street said, “Tell Brandt Lacey to go to hell.”
“Nobody tells Brandt Lacey that.” Bauer’s expression showed little change, just a slight narrowing of the eyes, and Street knew he had been prepared for this answer. Bauer said to Street, tightening up the reins preparatory to leaving, “There was something more Brandt Lace
y said to tell you. Seems Bruce noticed the way you and Verona couldn’t keep your eyes off each other. Brandt says to tell you Verona’s got Gunhammer’s brand on her. She’s been living with Bruce for a good long time now.”
Street lunged out of the door, his face suddenly chalky. But Bauer, seeing he was unarmed, only laughed tauntingly, and reined away. Street stood in the yard, stunned, watching Bauer ride away. He turned, looked at Rose, and saw in her face the devastating admission that what Bauer had said was true. He began now to remember the way Rose looked whenever Verona’s name came into the conversation. So this was what he had waited two long years for? This was why he had avoided trouble, demeaning himself, torturing himself. Blood rushed to his face. With it came a terrible rage, a fury such as he had never before known.
He asked, “Rose, why didn’t you tell me? Didn’t you know it would make me fight them?”
Her voice was scarcely audible. “Do you think I wanted you to fight on those terms? I’d rather have lost Chain than to have been the one to tell you.”
Street stalked into the house. He found his hat and coat, and put them on. Outside again, he said, “Loan me a horse?”
Rose opened her mouth to protest, but she must have seen how useless it would have been. She nodded. “Take your pick out of the corral.”
They were her last words to him. She watched him catch and saddle a horse, watched him mount, and did not miss the way he swayed for an instant in his saddle. Then he raised a hand to her, and rode away.
Tears dimmed her last view of him. He would be killed, of course. No man could buck Gunhammer and live—not even a man such as this. For an instant, Rose envied Verona. It must be a wonderful thing to have this man fighting over you, a glorious, wonderful thing.
Rose whirled and ran into the house. She fled to her room and flung herself face downward on the bed. For a while she lay still, trembling. And then, all at once, more tears came, and with them a cruel despair. She knew now what she would not have admitted before. She was in love with Street. She was in love with a man who would be dead before the day was out.
Lawless Town Page 6
