by Short, Luke;
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Ramrod
Luke Short
1
Dave Nash reined up and let the buggy pass ahead of him on the narrow road entering the switchbacks that finally let down into Signal’s street. He noted indifferently that the lamp in Bondurant’s store window below was the only light in town against the early dusk.
Riding behind the buggy in the thin acrid dust kicked up by the loafing team, he wondered briefly if the man and the girl in the buggy knew there was no turning back now. He thought Connie Dickason knew it, and he had a fleeting admiration for the silence she had kept.
Walt Shipley put the buggy into the downgrade, and after that Dave thought nothing, only watched. There would be signs, if a man could read them, and he picked up the first one when the buggy leveled off abruptly at the head of Signal’s main street. Two horses branded D Bar were tethered at the rack outside the blacksmith shop, the first building on the street. They shut off any retreat this way. That was enough; and Dave saw Connie Dickason turn her head and look obliquely at him, and he met her glance briefly, his sober face expressionless. She had seen too.
The buggy pulled up at the stone block in front of the hotel and Walt Shipley stepped down. He looked about him in the dusk almost covertly, his glance raking the line of empty chairs on the hotel’s veranda. Watching him, Dave thought, from a deep wisdom of these things, That’s not the way it’ll come, and he moved up, still mounted, and put a hand out to hold the head-stall of the near horse.
Shipley, in his unaccustomed black suit that made his movements self-conscious, handed Connie out of the buggy and looked over at Dave. In his dark, reckless face was an uncertainty, and his eyes sought Dave’s.
“Put ’em up at Lilly’s,” he said.
Dave nodded, and still Shipley looked at him, and Dave knew he was going to say something more and was trying to find words that would be casual enough.
“You’ll be around, won’t you?”
“Sure,” Dave said. “Sure.”
His glance shuttled again to Connie Dickason, and met hers briefly, and she looked away. She knows, Dave thought. From the time Walt picked her up today, she’s known it was wrong. And she thinks I’ll help. She was very small and very straight standing there beside the block, and Dave raised a finger to his hat brim, and led the team away.
He passed Bondurant’s store now, and ahead of him the lights of the Special saloon lay dimly across the row of saddle horses ranked at the rail. He saw another horse from D Bar, but none from Bell, and he speculated narrowly on that as he passed the saloon. Frank Ivey was waiting to tip his hand, as a man does who never brags.
The pattern was familiar, and as Dave pulled his team into the dark runway of Joe Lilly’s livery barn he had a brief, gray moment of premonition. There was nothing keeping him here except three weeks’ wages as an ordinary puncher and a kind of odd loyalty to a man who had helped him. He could turn this team over to Joe Lilly without a word and ride through the runway and out the alley to the cross street and make camp in the Federals tonight. He could put it behind him that easily.
Instead he pulled up the team beside the feed corral and dismounted, a tall, lean man in shabby range clothes with a young face more taciturn than its years warranted. There was a soberness about the straight mouth that was unbending, and there was a suggestion of weathered gauntness in his freshly shaven face. He lifted off his saddle and turned his horse into the corral, and by that time Joe Lilly had come through the runway.
“Your boss come in, after all,” Joe observed.
The deep-set eyes, curiously green and unreadable, looked at Lilly for an uncomfortable moment. “After all what?” Dave said quietly.
Joe didn’t look at him. He said, “Nothin’,” and went on to the team, and Dave turned into the runway.
“Say,” Joe called, and Dave stopped and turned. “You owe me a week’s feed bill.”
“I haven’t been paid yet.”
“That’s all right,” Joe said. He seemed sorry he had mentioned it, and Dave went on through the runway.
The street was almost dark now, and the smell of pine pitch from the Federals bulking blackly across the Bench to the west seemed to steal along the street, mingling with the odor of hot dust and the faint ammoniac reek of the stable.
Dave paused, and fashioned a cigarette, aware suddenly of the remoteness of this place, of the strangeness of these people, and he turned up the street.
He saw Jim Crew, the sheriff, leave his dark box of an office opposite the saloon and cut across the road, angling toward him, and he slackened his pace.
Jim Crew was fifty, and not tall, and dry as an autumn leaf. There was a wintry chill in his gray eyes that the darkness hid now. He was also a friendless man, and for that reason Dave liked him.
Crew came up beside him and said, “Hi, boy,” and looked up the street first before he faced Dave, who said “Hello.” Neither of them spoke for a few moments, and then Crew said, “How do you feel now?” in a friendly voice.
“It took about a week, but I’m all right.”
“That was a bat,” Crew observed, without censure.
“I’ll buy you a drink,” Dave said. He saw Crew’s head turn to look at him again, and he said, “No, I’m all right. A drunk like that once in a lifetime is enough. I just want to buy you a drink.”
“I’d like one,” Crew said.
Dave fell in beside him now, and they walked toward the Special in silence. He was thinking of the seven nights that Jim Crew had hauled him, stupid with liquor, from the Special to the small jail behind his office. Crew had never reproved him, never locked him in, only watched him, Dave remembered, with a deep and sober pity. Crew had sensed, without ever speaking of it, his need for oblivion that was almost necessary for life. On the eighth day Crew had come into his cell and roused him and said, “Can you ride?”
At Dave’s nod, Crew tilted his head toward the door. “Circle 66 needs a hand. You better go out there. I told Shipley about you. Rest up for a couple of days.” He had not once asked a question, and for that Dave was grateful. That was three weeks ago.
They turned in at the Special now, where a big poker game was going on at one of the rear tables. The bar to the left was deserted, with the bartender watching the game. They bellied up to the bar and Burch Nellis, seeing them, came over, wiping his hands on his dirty apron.
At sight of Dave, Burch looked at Crew as if to say, “Are we going through that again?” and Crew said, “All right, Burch. Whiskey.” He was a slight man in a baggy black suit, and yet he had never spoken without making a man feel his authority, as Nellis felt it now.
Dave bought a couple of cigars, and he and Crew stood side by side with their drinks. Bald Burch Nellis put his plump elbows on the back bar and regarded Dave with his soft sly eyes. “You look some better.”
“I feel better.”
“I bet you do,” Burch said agreeably. He grinned faintly and went back to observe the game.
Dave watched Crew in the back-bar mirror, noting the older man’s restlessness, and he knew it was the prospect of this trouble shaping up that made him so. For trouble would naturally bring memories to Jim Crew. His was a name that, a decade ago, had been known briefly to every man in the West. He had rammed law down the throats of a dozen railroad and mining towns, and tales of his cold courage still lingered in men’s minds. He was older now, burned out and tired and taciturn, and content with the oblivion of this remote sheriff’s office, and yet this trouble had the power to disturb him now. Dave saw it and wondered when he would speak.
It came on the second drink, when Jim Crew looked up and surprise
d Dave watching him in the mirror.
Crew grimaced, his chill eyes holding a fleeting humor for only a moment. “Why’d he bring Connie with him?”
“I wondered, too.”
“Can you get her out of town?”
Dave shook his head. “No. She wouldn’t go.”
Crew looked down at his drink, and he said softly, bitterly, “This is a stinking job.” He raised his glance again. “You stay out of it.”
“I work for him,” Dave said.
“Three weeks. What do you owe a fool like that? Your life?”
“Maybe.”
Crew sighed and said nothing.
Dave asked, “Ivey in town?”
“He don’t play it that way,” Crew said wearily. “Frank never bothered to scare a man.”
Crew drank his whiskey then and put the glass down. “There’s no chance of moving Connie out of town, you think?”
“Ask her.”
Crew shook his head and said good-by and moved out into the street.
It was building up, Dave thought idly. It was the old, old pattern of pride, and a man could never leave it. If you worked for a man you fought for him, too, no matter if you thought he was a fool and didn’t believe in him. Strangely, he was dead to the passion behind all this. He put a coin on the bar and went out into the night, and headed upstreet again.
At Bondurant’s corner store he went in, but instead of turning toward the hardware side, he sought the other, where the household and dress goods lay ranked on counters and back shelves.
Martin Bondurant came toward him, his eyes polite and curious, and, because he sold clothes and had never found that they made the man, he spoke courteously to this shabbily dressed puncher. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I work for Walt Shipley, and I haven’t drawn my wages. Is my credit good?”
“Certainly.” Bondurant inclined his head.
“I want enough silk for a lady’s dress,” Dave said calmly.
Bondurant went behind the counter and pulled several bolts of goods down. Dave picked a blue silk that he did not know was moire, and watched Bondurant measure it. He accepted the wrapped package with a faint, pleased smile on his straight lips, and did not even look at the receipt Bondurant gave him.
On the street again, he retraced his steps, passing the Special and the livery and the weed-grown vacant lot beyond. It was full dark now, and he was almost at the end of Signal’s business section, which covered an exact two blocks almost at the head of Signal Canyon.
There was a lone building ahead of him with a lamp burning by a window in the rear. Dave slowed his pace now and halted at the front door, which was flush with the boardwalk. He yanked the bellpull and heard its jangle in the rear. Idly now, he looked at the woman’s hat on its lone stand in the window below the letters crossing the upper panes: Dresses & Millinery Made To Order.
Presently he saw the light approaching from a passageway in the rear of the small front room, and then it became steady, as if a lamp had been set on a table, and then the door opened.
“Evening, Rose,” Dave said, and took off his Stetson.
“Dave Nash!” the girl exclaimed softly, pleased. Then she laughed, softly too, and said, “Come in.”
Dave stepped inside and Rose Leland closed the door behind him. She turned to face him then, and smiled in friendly welcome. She was a girl of medium height, full bosomed, with pale hair so thick it was almost untidy. She was wearing an apron now over her house dress, and her sleeves were half rolled. Her mouth was full, friendly, and there was a humor in her brown eyes now as she regarded Dave, hands on hips.
“This is the female part of my house, Dave. Come on back where we can sit down.” She went ahead of him, lifting the lamp from the table. Dave glanced briefly around the room, which had always made him uncomfortable. It smelled of dress goods, and was littered with remnants of them. Besides a long cutting table and a sewing machine, there were a couple of dressmaker’s dummies, some chairs, a stack of hatboxes and nothing else in the room.
At the far end of the passageway, on one side of which lay a tiny bedroom, was the kitchen-living room, and this room was the house. It reminded Dave of a hundred ranch kitchens he had known—the big wood stove sharing the back wall with the sink and the pump, the big dining table with its scattering of chairs, the worn sofa and table against the opposite wall. Only the dark rug underfoot and the bright curtains at the windows were different.
Rose put the lamp on the dining table, and Dave saw he had interrupted her supper.
“Have you eaten, Dave?” she asked.
When Dave lied and said he had, Rose went over to the cupboard, saying, “Not so much you can’t hold another cup of coffee.”
She poured the coffee at the stove and set it on the table, and Dave sat down. Rose sank into her chair across from him and looked levelly at him. “How’s the new job?”
“Better than the one I had drinking the Special dry,” Dave answered.
Rose smiled faintly. “You didn’t do a bad job of that.”
“Where’s Bill?” Dave asked. He poured cream from a can into his coffee and stirred it, watching Rose.
She shrugged. “You know Bill. He’ll hang around town for a week drinking and playing poker and camping in my lap with some friend, and all of a sudden he’s gone.”
“Fiddlefooted,” Dave murmured.
Rose looked thoughtfully at Dave. “Where’d he pick you up, Dave? He never said.”
“I bought him a drink at the Special one morning. We both had the same idea about taking care of some whiskey, so we stuck together.”
“The only difference being,” Rose said slowly, “that Bill Schell likes to drink and you don’t.”
“Not much,” Dave agreed.
“You weren’t having any fun,” Rose said. “You worried me.”
“No,” Dave said tonelessly. He was silent a moment, looking around the room. “I remember Bill and I almost lived in this room for a week, Rose. Why didn’t you throw us out?”
“Where would you have spent your time?”
“The Special. Anywhere. We wouldn’t have been camping on you, anyway.”
Rose smiled faintly. “But I liked it. You see, I have seven brothers, Dave. I like them—and I miss them. Men like you and Bill Schell hit town and you want a drink and a woman’s company. Well, I like men, and I like them around. I like to feed them and I like their talk.” She laughed shortly. “They make me forget that for weeks on end all I do is talk to women about dresses and hats. That’s a fair exchange, isn’t it?”
“Fair enough,” Dave agreed. He reached for the package he had laid on the table and pushed it toward Rose, who looked inquiringly at him. “A present to a very good friend,” he said.
Rose unwrapped the package. When she saw the thick silk, like some rich metal under the lamplight, she gave a wordless exclamation of delight and slowly lifted her gaze to Dave. “It’s lovely, Dave—lovely!”
Dave felt the swift stab of memory that was like a pain, and Rose went on, “I’ve seen it at Bondurant’s, and I wanted it so badly I dreamed about it.” The rapture in her face abruptly vanished, and her eyes widened like a child’s who has just remembered something unwanted. “But I can’t take it.”
The faint pleasure in Dave’s green eyes died too, and Rose saw it. She leaned back in her chair and sighed.
“It’s sweet of you, Dave, but I can’t. Signal is just too small, and I’ve a reputation of sorts to keep.” She smiled wryly. “Already, Martin Bondurant has told his wife about the expensive silk some puncher bought. When I come out with a dress of the same silk, what will she say? And tell?”
“I never thought of that,” Dave said in a troubled voice.
Rose laughed then. “Bless you, I know you didn’t. It would take a woman to think of it.”
Dave grinned at her and shook his head, and they were silent a moment. Rose fingered the silk wistfully, her eyes upon it and yet not seeing it.
She said quietly, without looking at him, “You’re a good man, Dave. Because you are, may I say something?”
Dave looked closely at her and nodded.
Rose said, “You’re miserable. I would like to help you if I could.”
Dave was silent, and his face grew hard under the weight of his thoughts, and when Rose saw it she shook her head swiftly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Dave’s eyes, soft and bitterly musing, focused on her now and regarded her a brief moment, and his straight mouth softened imperceptibly. “You’re right, Rose. But it’s all right now.”
Rose smiled and looked at the silk again, stroking it. Then Dave began to speak, and she looked up at him as he said in a low voice, “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t know,” and he looked gravely at her. “I lost my wife years ago, Rose. We had a son. He was six last month.” His voice turned hard now, with an edge of stubbornness that was the measure of the task of telling this. “I was buyin’ cattle in a small way, and I had to travel most of the time, so I left him with some people in town. While I was gone, their house burned. He was in it, sleeping, and they both died too, tryin’ to get him out.”
Rose didn’t say anything. There was pity and understanding and a deep sadness in her eyes. She sat motionless, watching Dave. He reached in his shirt pocket and drew out his sack of tobacco and fashioned a cigarette and put it in his mouth. He fumbled for matches, which he could not find, and Rose came to her feet and crossed to the stove and brought back the big box of kitchen matches and laid them beside him.
Dave looked up at her, standing beside him. “That’s why I wanted to thank you, Rose. The liquor wouldn’t kill it, and Bill Schell’s talk couldn’t wipe it out. I think it was you, putting up with us, laughing and taking Bill’s teasing and his talk and not asking me questions that did it. It’s all right now.”
Rose smiled sadly and went back to her chair. “I think, Dave, if you don’t mind, I’d like the silk,” she said softly. “Thank you for telling me.”
Dave’s glance raised to the clock atop the cupboard, and he noted the time with brief, somber attentiveness. Afterward he drank his coffee, listening pleasurably to Rose’s talk. It took him back, this friendly low-pitched voice of Rose’s, to a time that was dead for him, to the first months after his marriage with Ruth. He had managed a loan from the bank and had got his land and had built his shack, and Ruth was carrying his child. He would come in only when darkness drove him, bone-weary and wolf hungry, and when supper was finished he would sit thus, watching her, half-listening to her chatter of what she had done that day. At the time it was only pleasant, a man rightfully in his home; since Ruth’s death, however, he had shut those memories from his mind with an iron will. And tonight, listening to Rose, he let himself remember, and strangely found no pain.
